Incest Not just a Mother Anymore - Tale

[nivithenaughty]

Hi Naughties,

This is my second story for this website and also in my life from the learnings of my previous story i'm writing this story hope u guys like it. 

I will be writing both stories in parallel based on the readers interest and comments i will prioritize which one to focus more. 

Read My Other Story : Nivetha (Nivi) - Power and Submissions of working wife 

Hope you guys support both of my stories stories.


--------------------------------------------------

Disclaimer: 
As u read the title of the story this story involves strong incest theme. This story will be a slow burn erotica dont expect sex scenes early. but i will make sure this feels erotic as much as possible. 

--------------------------------------------------

Not just a Mother Anymore 

The bedroom was the only room with air-conditioning, a small mercy Rajan had installed two years ago when his promotion came through. 


The unit hummed steadily above the wardrobe, keeping the temperature just low enough that the night didn't feel like punishment. 


Two double beds were pushed together in the centre, covered by a single thin cotton bedsheet that everyone fought over in their sleep. 


Indhu lay on her back in a modest, full-sleeved, ankle-length nightie of soft peach cotton. 


It had small pink flowers printed along the border and a high neckline, exactly the kind Rajan approved of. 


The sleeves ended at her wrists, the hem brushed her ankles even when she stretched, and there was no danger of anything showing that shouldn't. 


She had bought six of them in different pastel shades the day he told her, “Wear decent ones at home also, Indhu. 


People talk.” She had smiled, nodded, and worn them ever since. 


Still, the fabric was the thinnest cotton she could find, almost weightless, and in the cool air from the AC it clung softly to the curve of her waist, the gentle rise of her breasts, the long line of her thighs. 


Rajan never noticed the difference. 


He only saw sleeves and length. 


Karthik slept facing her, one arm dbangd across her stomach exactly the way he had done since childhood. 


The weight of his forearm was heavier now, muscle and bone instead of little-boy softness, but the gesture was the same. 


Indhu never moved it away. 


She liked the innocent way he still searched for her in his sleep. 


On Karthik's far side, Rajan breathed slow and even. 


He had come home at eight-forty, greeted the neighbours politely, helped an old lady carry her provisions to the lift, then sat with the children and asked about their day in his calm, courteous voice. 


Outside these walls he was still the same Rajan everyone respected: responsible, soft-spoken, quick to help. 


Only inside this bedroom, when the lights went out, did the quiet fear show itself. 


He had tried to pull her close earlier, a hesitant hand on her shoulder, a murmured “Indhu…”. 


She had shifted away without anger, and he had let it go with the small, wounded silence she now knew by heart. 


Age had stolen his confidence between the sheets, and the loss had slowly turned into suspicion: Why did she take such care of her skin? Why did the new nighties, however modest, fit her so well? Indhu understood. 


She no longer fought it. 


She simply wore what he allowed and kept the small rebellions no one could see: the trimmed hair beneath the cotton, the faint jasmine oil she rubbed into her skin after every bath, the secret pride when the mirror showed her a woman who still turned heads at thirty-six. 


Leka slept curled on the far edge, facing the wall, her own full-length nightie twisted slightly at the waist. 


She and Karthik had bickered again over dinner: something trivial, something loud. 


Indhu had scolded them both, told them to behave like adults, and they had fallen into sulky silence. 


The AC clicked softly, blowing cool air across Indhu's covered arms. 


Karthik moved closer in his sleep, forehead brushing the high neckline of her nightie, breath warm against the hollow of her throat. 


The contact was familiar, innocent, comforting. 


Tomorrow morning Rajan would leave for Madurai: three nights, possibly four. 


One less body in the bed. 


One less pair of eyes watching what she wore, how she moved, how carefully she smiled. 


Indhu let her eyes drift shut. 


The room stayed quiet except for the steady hum of the AC and the soft, even breathing of the son who still held her like she was the safest place in the world. 


Just another June night. 


Nothing, yet, felt different.

[nivithenaughty]

The auto's horn faded down the street and the house settled into a sudden, delicious quiet.



Indhu locked the bathroom door, reached to the back of the top shelf, and pulled out the hidden cover. Coffee-brown satin slid over her skin like cool water: knee-length, tiny cap sleeves, neckline dipping just enough to show the soft beginning of her breasts. She turned once in front of the foggy mirror, watched the fabric catch the light on her hips and thighs, and felt something flutter low in her stomach that had nothing to do with breakfast.


When she stepped into the kitchen the smell of dosa batter was already rising.


Leka shuffled in first, rubbing sleep from her eyes, and stopped like she had walked into a wall.


“Amma… what is that?”


Indhu kept her voice calm, turning the dosa with the steel spatula. “New nightie only.”


“It's satin! And so short!” Leka's eyes were wide, half envy, half accusation. “When did you even buy this?”


“Last week. Varsha took me to Express Avenue. She said I should wear something nice when your father is not home.” Indhu's tone was light, almost playful.


“That's not fair,” Leka hissed. “You and Appa force me to wear those full-length churidars with dupatta pinned up to my neck every single day. My college has no dress code! My friends wear jeans, crop tops, whatever they want. But if I try to leave without dupatta you both shout at me like I'm going to bring boys home!”


Indhu sighed. “Leka, we have told you why. Last time you were talking to that auto driver boy at midnight—”


“That was two years ago! I'm nineteen now!”


Before Indhu could answer, Karthik appeared in the doorway wearing only his boxer shorts, hair wild from sleep. He blinked twice at his mother, and his mouth actually opened a little.


“Amma…” The word came out softer than he meant. His eyes traced the satin clinging to her waist, the smooth bare knees, the soft skin of her lower thighs he had never seen so much of before. Heat rushed to his face. “You look… really beautiful.”


Leka spun toward him. “Of course you take her side! Mummy's little prince!”


Karthik recovered, grinning. “I'm just saying the truth. Amma looks like a film heroine. And you look like you're going to plus-two tuition.”


“Shut up!” Leka's voice cracked. “At least I'm not a twelfth-standard kid who still cuddles his mother all night!”


Indhu brought the steel tumbler down on the counter with a sharp clang. “Both of you, stop it right now. Karthik, go bathe. You'll miss the college van. Leka, if you want shorter kurtis we'll talk when your father is back and calm. Until then, wear what makes the house peaceful.”


Karthik stole one last look (the way the satin moved when his mother reached up to the shelf, the soft outline of her body beneath it) then disappeared toward the bathroom.


Leka stormed off muttering, “Always the same rules for me, never for anyone else.”


Indhu turned back to the stove, lips curving into a small, secret smile as the cool satin brushed her thighs with every movement.


Three nights.


The house already felt wider, cooler, and just a little bit dangerous.

------------------


Indhu finished the last dosa, stacked them on a steel plate, and wiped her hands on the kitchen towel. The satin nightie still felt foreign in the best way: cool, slippery, forbidden. She caught her reflection in the stainless-steel tiffin box: the soft curve of her breasts under the thin fabric, the way the hem fluttered high on her thighs when she moved. A small, guilty smile tugged at her lips.


“Leka! Come eat!” she called.


No answer. Only a muffled sniff from the bedroom.


Indhu sighed and walked in. Leka was face-down on the bed, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs.


“Dei, what happened now?” Indhu sat on the edge, placed a gentle hand on her daughter's back.


Leka turned, eyes red. “My friends keep teasing me, Amma. ‘Why you dress like a college ma'am?' ‘Are you from convent?' I feel so small. I'm nineteen and I still look like a child because of these rules.”


Indhu's heart softened. She pulled Leka into her arms, rocking her the way she used to when she was little. “I know, kanna. I know how it feels to be locked up. I was younger than you when I got married. I never got to choose anything.”


Leka cried harder against her shoulder.


Indhu lowered her voice to almost a whisper. “Listen. When your father is not home, you can wear whatever you want: leggings, short kurtis, anything decent. But you have to promise me complete honesty. Every day you come home, you tell me everything: who you spoke to, where you went, everything. No secrets. Can you promise that?”


Leka pulled back, eyes wide. “Really, Amma?”


Indhu nodded. “And one more thing. You and I have the same body. These curves attract attention very fast. Be careful. Dress modern, but dress smart. No silly risks. Promise?”


“I promise! I promise!” Leka threw her arms around Indhu's neck, laughing through the tears.


“Go take bath in the other bathroom. Wear my new black leggings and that peach kurti I keep aside. It'll fit you perfectly.”


Leka practically flew out of the room.


Indhu stood alone for a moment, looked down at her satin nightie, and decided to keep it on a little longer.


Half an hour later Leka walked into the dining area looking like a different girl: black leggings hugging her legs, peach kurti ending mid-thigh, hair left loose and shining. She spun once, beaming.


Karthik was already at the table finishing his third dosa. He looked up and his spoon stopped halfway to his mouth.


“Wow, Leka… you look…” He swallowed. “Good.”


Leka stuck her tongue out. “Better than your boring college uniform, right?”


Indhu joined them, pulling a chair. Karthik turned to her, curious. “Amma, why sudden permission? Yesterday only you were scolding her about dupatta.”


Indhu served herself a dosa, thoughtful. “If we keep restricting more and more, people start hiding things. Your father doesn't understand that. When a woman gets a little freedom, she becomes bold, not spoiled. She learns to protect herself instead of sneaking around.”


She paused, the words spilling out before she could stop them. “Both of us have been caged too long in this house. A little air won't kill us.”


Silence fell like a soft blanket. Leka stared at her plate. Karthik's eyes flicked to his mother's face, then down to the satin stretching across her chest when she breathed.


Indhu realised what she had just admitted out loud. Heat rose to her cheeks. She busied herself with the chutney.


Karthik cleared his throat, stood up quickly. “Okay, I'm late.” He grabbed his bag, ruffled Leka's hair on the way out (she swatted at him and missed), then paused at his mother. For a second his gaze lingered on the soft skin of her neck above the satin neckline. “Bye, Amma. You… you look really nice today.”


He left before she could answer.


Leka finished her breakfast, grabbed her bag, and hugged Indhu tight at the door. “Thank you, Amma. I love you.”


Indhu kissed her forehead. “Be careful with the boys, okay? Those leggings show everything. Walk like you own the world, but keep your eyes open.”


Leka grinned, waved, and stepped out into the bright June sunlight looking taller, freer, happier.


Indhu closed the door, leaned back against it, and let out a long, shaky breath. The house was empty. The satin nightie slid coolly against her skin. For the first time in years, the silence didn't feel heavy.


It felt like possibility.




--------------------


The house was finally still.


Indhu moved through her chores on quiet feet: sweeping the hall, folding yesterday's dried clothes, wiping down the kitchen counter until it gleamed. The satin nightie swished softly around her thighs with every bend and stretch, a secret luxury she still couldn't quite believe she was allowing herself. When she reached up to the top shelf for the detergent, the hem rose dangerously high; cool air kissed the backs of her thighs and she shivered, half guilt, half pleasure.


The phone rang at eleven-thirty. Her mother's name flashed on the screen.


“Indhu, how is the heat there? Here in the village it's killing us,” her mother launched straight into gossip without greeting: who was getting married, whose son failed engineering, whose daughter ran away with a city boy. Indhu made the right sounds (shock, sympathy, laughter) while her eyes drifted to her reflection in the balcony door. The satin caught the light like spilled coffee and cream. She looked young. She felt young.


After twenty minutes she gently ended the call, promising to visit soon, and dialled Varsha.


“Tell me, how does it feel?” Varsha's voice was pure mischief the moment she picked up.


Indhu laughed, low and surprised at herself. “Like silk on my skin. Cool. Light. I keep forgetting I'm wearing anything at all.”


“That's the whole point, da. You're thirty-six, not sixty. Wear it, enjoy it. Rajan is not there to security officer you for four days.”


They talked the way old friends do: children, prices, husbands who don't understand anything, new parlour discounts. When Varsha asked if she planned to buy more, Indhu's answer came out before she could think: “Maybe one in black. And one in wine red.” She bit her lip, shocked at her own boldness, and Varsha whooped in delight.


Lunch was simple: curd rice with mango pickle eaten straight from the steel tin, standing at the counter because sitting felt like wasting the quiet. The satin slid against the edge of the counter when she leaned over to rinse the plate, and she caught herself smiling at nothing.


Across the city, in a stuffy twelfth-standard classroom, Karthik stared at the blackboard without seeing it.


The teacher was explaining vectors, but the words floated past him like smoke. All he could hear was his mother's quiet, bitter confession at the breakfast table.


Both of us have been caged too long in this house.


He had never thought of it that way before. To him, Amma was the centre of everything: warm, smiling, always there with food and hugs and scoldings wrapped in love. He had never noticed the tightness around her eyes when Appa spoke, the way her shoulders dropped the moment the door closed behind his father.


And that nightie. God, that nightie. The memory of coffee-brown satin clinging to her body kept flashing behind his eyelids: the soft shape of her breasts when she breathed, the smooth length of her thighs he had never properly seen before, the way she had looked… free. Radiant. Like someone he suddenly wanted to protect from the whole world, especially from the man who was supposed to love her.


The bell rang for lunch break. His friends shouted for him to join them under the tree, but he stayed at his desk, forehead pressed to his folded arms.


What could an eighteen-year-old boy do? He had no money, no power. But the thought of his mother feeling trapped in the same house where he felt safest made something ache inside his chest, fierce and helpless.


He pulled out his phone under the desk and opened a new chat with the only person he wanted to talk to right now.


Karthik (12:47 pm):

Amma, you okay?


The message showed delivered. Three dots appeared almost instantly.


Amma ❤️ (12:48 pm):

I'm good, kanna. Why? Everything alright in college?


Karthik (12:48 pm):

Just miss you.


He hesitated, thumbs hovering.


Karthik (12:49 pm):

You looked really happy this morning. I like it when you're happy.


The dots appeared, vanished, appeared again.


Amma ❤️ (12:51 pm):

You're making me blush in the kitchen, dei ❤️


Study well. Come home soon.


He stared at the heart she sent until the screen went dark, then pressed the phone to his chest like it could hold the feeling a second longer.


In the quiet house, Indhu read the messages twice, felt warmth bloom under the satin, and set the phone down with trembling fingers.


The afternoon stretched ahead, empty and golden and theirs alone.

[readersp]

Amazingly well written!!! Keep going!!!

[Rocky@handsome]

Nice Start!!
❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

[xfirefox]

nice, really Nice!
loved the narration and delivery, everything to the point, nothing absurd and over the top, so far.

[xfirefox]

looking forward to how it all unfolds, take your time, maintain the pace with slow buildup, but no compromise on quality of the content.
good work!

[Mom.ridhima]

Nice story pls post the next update soon and build the mom son relationship strong and I think son should be incest and cuck

[nivithenaughty]

After lunch Indhu drew the curtains, dimmed the bedroom lights, and lay down on the big bed that suddenly felt too wide with only her in it. The satin nightie slid coolly against the sheet. She reached for the small steel bowl on the side table: fresh curd mixed with a spoon of turmeric and a little besan. She spread the pale paste over her face and throat, careful around the eyes, then rubbed the last bit down her arms and the tops of her breasts where the neckline allowed. The cool mixture tightened gently on her skin. She set the alarm for four, closed her eyes, and let the quiet take her under.



She woke to the soft chime, the curd mask now dry and flaky. In the bathroom she splashed cool water, watching the yellow streaks swirl away, revealing skin that looked brighter, softer, almost glowing. She smoothed fresh aloe gel from the plant on the balcony across her cheeks and collarbones, then ran her fingers through her loose hair. The mirror gave her back a woman who looked twenty-eight instead of thirty-six. She smiled at the reflection and felt the smile stay.


In the kitchen she made Karthik's favourite: soft murukku from the new batch of rice flour and a tall glass of rose milk. The clock showed 4:25. She was spooning the pink liquid into a steel tumbler when the front door rattled.


“Amma!” His voice carried all the way from the gate.


She hurried to open it, barefoot, the satin hem brushing her knees. Karthik's face lit up the moment he saw her, college bag sliding off his shoulder as he stepped in.


“Missed you,” he said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. He dropped the bag and followed her straight to the kitchen like a magnet.


The murukku disappeared in handfuls while he talked between bites: cricket scores, the new physics sir who shouted too much, how Vignesh got caught with a phone again. Indhu listened with the usual half-smile until she noticed the phone-shaped bulge in his pocket.


“Karthik,” she said gently, “you know the college rule. Phones only for emergency. If they catch you once more they'll call your father.”


He went quiet instantly, cheeks colouring.


“I… I couldn't concentrate after this morning,” he mumbled, staring at the plate. “What you said at breakfast… that you feel caged here… I never saw it before. I feel so stupid.” His voice cracked. “I'm sorry, Amma.”


The tears came sudden and hot. He tried to blink them away and failed.


Indhu's heart twisted. She rounded the counter in two quick steps and pulled him into her arms without thinking. He was taller than her now; she had to reach up, but he bent instantly, burying his face in her shoulder the way he used to when he was six and the world was too big.


“Shh, kanna, no sorry,” she whispered, kissing his damp cheek, wiping the tears from the corners of his eyes with her thumbs. “I didn't say it to hurt you. I'm happy you understand. That's all I ever wanted.”


His arms tightened around her waist, strong and careful at the same time. The satin was thin; she felt every inch of his chest against hers, the heat of his skin, the slight tremble in his breathing. Something shifted inside her chest, warm and unfamiliar. This was her little boy, yet the shoulders under her palms were a man's, the arms holding her were steady and sure. For the first time in her life a man was choosing to stand between her and the hurt, and that man was the one she had carried inside her body.


Karthik felt it too: the way her body fitted against his, softer than he remembered, the satin sliding under his forearms, the faint scent of curd and aloe and something that was only Amma. His heart pounded so hard he was sure she could feel it.


They stayed like that longer than either expected.


Finally Indhu loosened her hold, cupped his wet face. “Go freshen up. Uniform smells of sweat.”


He nodded, still dazed, and walked toward the bedroom. At the doorway he turned back. “I meant it, Amma. If Appa says anything again, I'm on your side. Always.”


She believed him completely.


When the bathroom door closed, Indhu leaned against the counter, hands pressed to her chest as if to quiet the sudden wild beat beneath the satin. Calm, happiness, and something deeper, something she had no name for yet, washed over her in slow waves.


She made a fresh batch of murukku for Leka, carried the plate to the hall, and switched on the TV just for the sound of other voices. Sunlight slanted gold across the room. The house felt different: lighter, fuller, humming with a promise neither of them had spoken aloud.


Outside, the June evening waited, thick and sweet.



The front door clicked at 6:47 p.m. Leka's college bag hit the floor with a dramatic thud.


“Amma, I'm home!”


Indhu was curled on the three-seater sofa, legs tucked under her, remote in hand. Karthik sat on the floor in front, leaning back against the sofa edge, close enough that his head occasionally brushed his mother's knee. Some old Vijay movie was playing; neither was really watching.


Indhu's face lit up. “Come, kanna. Murukku and rose milk still there. Heat it two minutes if you want.”


Leka bounced in, still in the peach kurti and black leggings, hair loose and a little frizzy from the bus ride. She looked brighter than she had in months.


“Amma, you won't believe today!” She dropped beside Indhu, stole a piece of murukku from Karthik's plate, and spoke with her mouth half-full. “Everyone noticed! My friends screamed the moment I got down from the bus. ‘Leka, finally you look like a college girl!' Even the seniors were staring.”


Indhu raised an eyebrow, half amused, half cautious. “Boys also stared?”


Leka rolled her eyes but couldn't hide the smile. “A lot. Like I suddenly became Miss Chennai. But I didn't talk to anyone extra. I just walked straight, head up, like you told me. Felt… powerful.”


Indhu reached over and squeezed her daughter's hand. “That's my girl. You looked beautiful this morning. Today you felt beautiful too, right?”


Leka nodded hard. “If only I could dress like this every day…”


“Soon,” Indhu said softly. “We'll make your father understand. Slowly. Today Karthik understood how we feel. One day Appa will also see.”


Leka turned to her brother, eyes narrowed in surprise. “You understood?”


Karthik shrugged, a little shy. “I heard Amma this morning. She's right. We've been blind. I'm with both of you. Whatever happens.”


Leka studied him for a second, then gave a small, genuine smile. “We'll see, thambi. Let's see.”




Dinner was simple: leftover sambar, rice, and potato fry. They ate at the small dining table, talking about nothing and everything. Leka described every compliment she got; Karthik teased her about the boys; Indhu laughed more than she had in weeks.




Dinner ended with the usual clatter of steel plates. The three of them moved around the small kitchen in easy rhythm, Leka washing, Karthik drying, Indhu putting away. No one spoke about tomorrow or about rules; they didn't need to. The air itself felt looser.


By nine-thirty the lights were dimmed.


Indhu slipped into the second bedroom (the one filled with stacked clothes and old suitcases), locked the door, and began her quiet night ritual.


She lifted the satin nightie over her head and folded it carefully on the stool; it was still the only modern one she owned, the single secret piece in a wardrobe full of high-neck, full-sleeve, ankle-length cotton nighties. The rest were pastel florals and tiny checks Rajan had approved years ago.


Standing in just her simple beige cotton bra and panty, she sat on the low wooden stool in front of the small mirror. First the cleanser, then rose toner on a cotton pad. After that she took the precious bottle Varsha had given her: the vitamin-C body lotion for friction-darkened skin.


She poured a thick ribbon into her palm and started the slow, familiar circuit. Calves, backs of knees, the faint dark patches on her shins from years of tight petticoats. Higher: the sensitive inner thighs that had turned almost black in places from constant rubbing, the sides of her hips and buttocks where elastic marks used to dig in. She worked the lotion in gentle circles, watching the skin drink it up. One month of this every night and the difference was real: the darkness was fading, the texture turning silky, the old marks softening like someone was erasing years of neglect.


When she finished she slipped the same bra and panty back on (they were the only set she wore under the satin; everything else felt too matronly), then let the coffee-brown nightie fall over her body again. It settled against the freshly lotioned skin like it belonged there.


In the bedroom Leka was already under the sheet in one of her usual long, modest nighties (pale yellow with tiny roses). Karthik lay on the far edge in his boxer shorts, scrolling on Indhu's phone because his own was charging.


Indhu slid into the middle, the sheet cool against her calves. She propped the phone against a pillow and opened YouTube: old Vadivelu comedy clips, the ones that never failed.


Leka shifted closer on the left, resting her head lightly on Indhu's upper arm. Karthik mirrored on the right, shoulder brushing his mother's, the satin cool under his bare skin. They laughed at the same moments, the sound soft and sleepy in the air-conditioned room.


One by one the giggles slowed. Leka's breathing deepened first, her hand curled loosely near Indhu's waist. Karthik held out longest, but eventually the phone slipped from his fingers and his head settled on the pillow facing his mother, one arm flung across the sheet in unconscious habit.


Indhu killed the screen, plunged the room into darkness, and lay very still for a moment, feeling the gentle weight of both children against her sides.


The AC hummed. The satin whispered when she breathed.


For the first time in years, the big bed did not feel like a cage.


It felt like home.





The first pale gold of dawn slipped through the gap in the curtains and painted thin stripes across the bed. The AC had clicked off sometime after four; the room was cool but not cold. Leka breathed softly on the far left, one arm flung over her face. Karthik woke with a full bladder and the fuzzy confusion of deep sleep.


He sat up slowly, rubbed his eyes, and turned to slide off the bed. That was when he saw her.


Indhu lay on her back, head turned toward him, lips slightly parted. The satin nightie (her only one) had twisted and ridden high in the night. The hem was bunched almost at her hips. The soft coffee-brown fabric framed a triangle of simple beige cotton panty and miles of smooth, lotioned thigh that caught the early light like warm marble. The skin there was flawless now, the dark friction patches faded to a faint memory. One knee was bent outward; the gentle curve where thigh met hip glowed golden in the half-dark.


Karthik froze.


He had seen his mother's legs before, of course, always hidden under long nighties or sarees. Never like this. Never bare, glowing, impossibly soft-looking. The sight punched the air out of his lungs. For three full heartbeats he simply stared, throat dry, a sudden hot pulse low in his stomach that felt both thrilling and wrong.


Then reality slammed into him.


It's Amma.


Guilt flooded in behind the excitement like ice water. He forced his eyes up to her sleeping face: messy hair across the pillow, the faint smile that lingered even in sleep, the tiny mole just above her upper lip he had kissed a thousand times as a child. Beautiful. His mother. His safe place.


He wanted to pull the sheet over her, fix the nightie, protect her from anyone seeing her like this, especially himself. But if he touched the fabric and she woke…? What would she think? That her son was some pervert staring at her in the dark?


He swallowed hard, stood up on shaky legs, and padded silently to the attached bathroom. The click of the latch sounded deafening.


The soft sound woke Indhu instantly.


She opened her eyes to the pale room and felt cool air on skin that should have been covered. Her hand flew down. Satin bunched high, panty on display, thighs completely exposed. Her heart stopped.


Karthik's side of the bed was empty.


He saw. Oh God, he saw me like this.


Shame burned through her so fast she felt dizzy. One stupid nightie, one moment of selfish vanity, and now her own son had seen her half-naked while she slept. What kind of mother was she? She should have changed back into a proper nightie before sleeping. She should have known the fabric would ride up. She sat up quickly, yanked the nightie down to her knees, and pressed both hands to her flaming cheeks.


The toilet flushed. Footsteps. She couldn't face him yet.


She slipped out of bed, hurried to the main door on silent feet, brought in the milk packets from the delivery box, and went straight to the kitchen. Routine. Normal. Pretend nothing happened. She put water to boil, measured tea leaves with trembling fingers, added extra elaichi because Karthik liked it that way.


By the time the tea was ready she had calmed her breathing, but her stomach still twisted.


She carried two steel glasses back to the bedroom. Karthik was sitting on the edge of the bed, pretending to check his phone, face carefully blank.


“Tea,” she said, voice a little too bright.


He looked up, cheeks pink. “Thank you, Amma.”


They sipped in complete silence. The air between them felt thick, charged, both terrified the other would mention what had just happened. Neither did.


Leka stirred, yawned, sat up. “Tea for me also?”


Indhu handed her the second glass with relief. Normal morning sounds filled the room: Leka complaining about college, Karthik reminding her to take the assignment printout, the usual bickering.


Indhu escaped to the bathroom the moment she finished her tea. She showered fast, scrubbed away the last of the lotion scent, and changed into one of her regular boring nighties (long sleeves, tiny blue checks, hem brushing her ankles). Safe. Respectable. The satin nightie went to the bottom of the pile, buried under old sarees.


Leka chose another set from Indhu's small secret collection: dark grey leggings and a modest maroon kurti that still felt like freedom. She twirled once in front of the mirror, kissed Indhu's cheek, and left for the college bus.


Karthik shouldered his bag at the door. He hesitated, then stepped close and hugged his mother quickly, carefully, the way he always did. But his arms lingered half a second longer, his cheek brushed her hair.


“Bye, Amma,” he mumbled into her shoulder.


“Study well,” she answered, voice steady only because she forced it.


The door closed behind him.


Indhu stood alone in the quiet house, hand pressed to her chest, feeling the wild beat slow to something almost peaceful.


Nothing had been said.


Everything had changed.

[xfirefox]

sweet and calm update, well articulated and no rushing .. thank god.

[Rocky@handsome]

Commendable!!❤️❤️
Keep Coming!! Loving every moment!!❤️❤️

[nivithenaughty]

The weeks had settled into a careful new rhythm, but the satin nightie never saw daylight again.


Friday morning Rajan was home, freshly showered and dressed for the day in his usual office wear: light-blue half-sleeve shirt neatly tucked into grey trousers, company ID dangling from the lanyard, car keys already in his hand. He sat at the dining table with his coffee, scrolling through the day's schedule on his phone.


Leka stepped out of the bedroom in her standard modest churidar, dupatta pinned high, but her chin was up. She had clearly rehearsed this.


“Appa, can I buy a few kurtis and leggings of my own? Just normal ones. Everyone in college wears them. I look… old.”


Rajan's thumb stopped mid-scroll. The familiar tightness crept into his jaw. “We have spoken about this before—”


Karthik walked in from the kitchen, college bag slung over one shoulder, and jumped in without hesitation. “Appa, even my friends tease her. They call her ‘aunty' behind her back. She's nineteen. Let her dress like other college girls, please.”


Indhu placed the steel tiffin box on the table and spoke quietly but firmly. “Rajan, too much restriction is only making her unhappy. You can see it. It will start affecting her studies again. She tells me everything—who she talks to, where she goes. I keep an eye on her every day. Nothing will go wrong.”


Rajan looked up slowly. Three pairs of eyes waited: Leka hopeful, Karthik protective, Indhu calm and unyielding. For once the entire house stood together.


He exhaled through his nose, the sound sharp in the quiet room.


“You all seem to have forgotten what happened two years ago,” he said, voice low. “Late-night calls, marks falling, that auto boy—”


“That was two years ago,” Indhu cut in gently. “She has grown up. She is honest with me now. I promise you, I will watch her.”


Silence stretched. Rajan glanced at his watch, then at the three faces that refused to back down.


“Do whatever you want,” he said finally, standing up. “Everyone in this house has already decided without me.”


He picked up his laptop bag, walked out, and the company-allotted Indigo started a moment later. Only when it was a long trip did he ever take the bus; for Trichy today the car would do. The gate clanged shut behind him.


Leka let out a small, disbelieving squeak and threw her arms around Indhu.


“Shopping tomorrow?” she whispered, eyes shining.


“Tomorrow morning,” Indhu laughed, the sound light and startled out of her. “T Nagar. Early train. Karthik, no excuses—you're coming too.”


Karthik grinned wide, fist-bumping Leka. “Finally my sister will stop looking like my class teacher.”


Leka swatted him, laughing, and for a moment the house felt bright and wide open.


Saturday suddenly looked like freedom wrapped in new fabric.


--------------------------------------------



The last bell hadn't even finished ringing when Karthik slipped out to the college ground, found his usual spot under the neem tree, and sat alone with a stupid grin he couldn't wipe off. He had stood up to his father this morning. For Amma. For Leka. For all three of them. The pride felt warm in his chest, better than scoring a century in gully cricket.


A shadow fell across the grass.


“Someone's shining brighter than the sun today,” Anu said, dropping beside him with her lunch bag. She was in the same class, his closest friend since sixth standard—short hair, sharp eyes, and a crush on him so obvious that even the teachers teased her. Karthik never encouraged it, but he never pushed her away either.


“What happened? You look like you won a lottery,” she asked, nudging his shoulder.


He told her everything in a rush—how the three of them had finally faced Appa, how they were going shopping tomorrow, how he had never seen Amma smile like that.


Anu listened, eyes wide. “Karthik, that's… actually really sweet. You're a good son. And brother.”


He shrugged, embarrassed but pleased.


She bit her lip. “Tomorrow you're going shopping with your mom and sister, right? Do you even know what's in trend for women these days?”


He laughed. “Zero idea. I just know Amma looks beautiful in everything.”


Anu's eyes sparkled. “Give me your phone. Quick.”


He hesitated only a second—phones were banned, but Anu was careful. She dbangd her shawl over both their shoulders like they were sharing a textbook, opened Chrome incognito, and started scrolling.


“Look—these are the new shimmer leggings. Super comfortable and they catch light when you walk.” She zoomed in on a pair in rose-gold. “Your sister would look fire in these.”


Karthik's eyes widened. He tried to picture Leka, then—unintentionally—his mother's long legs in that soft shine. His throat went dry.


Anu kept going, voice low and excited. “A-line floral dresses are huge now. This one has a square neck and flared hem—perfect for Chennai heat. Or these co-ord sets with crop jackets…”


Images flashed: soft cotton, pastel colours, subtle shimmer, cuts that followed curves without clinging too much. Karthik's brain overloaded. He wasn't listening to the names anymore; he was seeing Amma twirling in the hall, the fabric brushing her knees, the neckline showing the delicate line of her collarbone, the way she would smile when she realised she looked young and free.


“Karthik… Karthik!” Anu snapped her fingers. “Earth to hero. Did you understand anything or are you just staring?”


He blinked, cheeks burning. “Too much at once. But… thank you. Really.”


She smiled, softer this time. “Anytime you have doubts, message me, okay? Day or night.” She handed the phone back, fingers brushing his for a second longer than necessary, then stood up as the bell rang.


The rest of the day was a blur. Teachers spoke; Karthik nodded without hearing. Between classes he kept opening the browser in secret, searching “best kurtis for moms”, “shimmer leggings online”, “A-line dresses for Indian women”. Every thumbnail sent the same jolt through him: Amma in soft rose, in midnight blue, in that coffee-brown satin that still haunted his dreams.


By the time the final bell rang, his head was spinning with fabric names and cuts and colours he had never cared about before.


Walking home under the fierce July sun, bag heavy on one shoulder, he finally asked himself the question that had been hovering all day.


Why am I doing this?


For Amma, obviously.


But why does my heart race when I imagine her in these clothes?


Why does the thought of her feeling beautiful because of something I helped choose make me feel… hot inside?


The answers didn't come. Only more pictures in his head: his mother laughing in a new dress, twirling for him alone, thanking him with that soft smile.


He reached the gate, took a deep breath, and pushed it open.


Tomorrow they would buy new clothes.


Tomorrow everything would feel a little more possible.


And somewhere inside him, something new had already begun to burn.




-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


The evening light turned orange-gold across the small hall as the three of them sat around the low teak table, plates of onion pakoda still steaming between them. Leka had taken over Indhu's phone and was swiping through shopping apps with the speed of someone who had waited years for permission.


“Amma, look at this lavender kurti with mirror work! And this black legging has a little shimmer on the sides, not too much, just enough to catch light when I walk.” Her voice was bright, almost breathless. “And for you, this soft peach co-ord set, the jacket is cropped but not too short, promise!”


Indhu leaned over, eyes widening at the prices, then laughing softly. “Dei, slow down. We have to see the material first. And nothing sleeveless for me, okay? Your father will have a heart attack.”


Leka pouted, then immediately brightened. “Fine, three-quarter sleeves. But we are getting at least five sets each, right?”


Karthik sat cross-legged on the floor, pretending to scroll through his physics textbook while secretly watching his mother's face. Every time a new picture appeared, her eyes lit up in a way he had never seen before: unguarded, almost girlish. The sight made something warm and fierce bloom in his chest. He said nothing. He wanted tomorrow to be a complete surprise.


Rajan walked in at nine-thirty sharp, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, company lanyard still around his neck. The moment he stepped inside, the lightness in the room dimmed by a degree.


“I have to leave tonight itself,” he announced, dropping his laptop bag on the sofa. “Trichy site visit at seven tomorrow. Driver is coming at eleven-thirty. I'll be back Wednesday or Thursday.”


Indhu nodded from the kitchen doorway. “Food is ready. Come eat first.”


They ate in near silence: rice, sambar, potato roast. Rajan asked Leka about college attendance, asked Karthik about his unit test marks. The answers were polite, short, careful. When the plates were cleared, Rajan disappeared into the bedroom to pack.


Karthik's mind was already racing ahead to tomorrow. Money. Amma had whispered earlier, while folding clothes, “I have only seven thousand saved in my purse, kanna. I was planning to ask your father in the morning, but now…” Her voice had trailed off, worried. Karthik had seen the fear in her eyes: the fear of another fight, another lecture about “wasting money on vanity.”


He couldn't let that happen.


He waited until Rajan was zipping the suitcase, shirts folded with office precision.


“Appa,” Karthik said quietly, stepping into the bedroom, “can I take your credit card tomorrow? Just for the shopping. I checked everything online. We won't cross twelve thousand, I swear. I'll show you every single bill when you come back.”


Rajan paused, one hand on the suitcase flap. “Twelve thousand? For clothes?”


“Trust me, Appa. Good brands, but not crazy. Leka needs college wear. Amma also hasn't bought anything new in two years.”


Rajan looked at his son: tall, earnest, eyes steady. The boy had never asked for pocket money, never failed a subject, never given him tension. He exhaled through his nose, reached into his wallet, and pulled out the card.


“Limit is high, but don't cross fifteen. Message me the total tomorrow night. Understood?”


Karthik's fingers closed around the card like it was made of fire and gold. “Thank you, Appa. Promise.”


Rajan ruffled his hair once, awkward but genuine, then wheeled the suitcase out. The company car's headlights swept across the front wall at eleven twenty-eight. The gate clanged. Silence rushed back in.


Karthik stood in the dark hallway for a moment, heart hammering. Twelve–fifteen thousand on the card: enough for good everyday kurtis, leggings, a few co-ord sets Rajan would see and grudgingly approve.


But the special things: the ones he had bookmarked at 2 a.m. when the house was asleep, the ones that made his breath catch when he pictured his mother in them, those would come from money Rajan would never know about.


He stepped onto the balcony, cool July night air brushing his face, and dialled his grandmother in Coimbatore.


“Paatti…” he whispered the moment she picked up.


“Dei Karthik, why so late? Everything alright?”


“I need help, Paatti. A surprise for Amma. Can you send ten thousand to her account right now? Please? I can't explain, but it's important.”


His grandmother laughed softly, the sound warm and indulgent. “For my first grandson? Already sending. Tell your mother I said she deserves the world.”


Less than two minutes later Indhu's phone buzzed on the dining table: ₹10,000 credited. Karthik darted in, heart in his throat, opened the notification shade, deleted the message, cleared the history, and slid the phone back under her pillow exactly where it had been.


Lights out at twelve-fifteen.


The big bed felt different tonight: charged, expectant.


Leka climbed in first, already half-dreaming, wearing her usual long pale yellow nightie. “Amma… lavender… and something in wine colour…” she mumbled, burrowing into her pillow.


Indhu slid into the middle in her safe blue-check cotton nightie, hair loose on the pillow, the faint scent of Ponds cream and jasmine oil drifting around her. She reached over and switched off the bedside lamp.


Karthik took his place on the right, the credit card tucked into the pocket of his shorts, the secret ten thousand burning in his mind like a second heartbeat.


They lay in the dark, the AC humming low.


Leka's sleepy voice floated up again. “Amma, do you think they'll have that style with the little mirror work on the sleeves…?”


Indhu smiled into the darkness. “We'll find something beautiful, kanna. Sleep now. Tomorrow is a big day.”


The whispers slowly faded. Leka's breathing evened out, soft and trusting. Indhu turned onto her side, facing Karthik without realising it, one hand resting on the sheet between them.


Karthik lay wide awake, eyes open in the dark.


In his head he walked through tomorrow like a movie: the crowded T Nagar streets, the air-conditioned showrooms, Leka squealing over every rack, and Amma, his beautiful, quiet Amma, standing in front of mirrors in colours she had never dared before.


With Appa's card: safe, pretty, everyday things.


With Paatti's money: the midnight-blue satin nightie set he had saved in a private tab, the rose-gold shimmer leggings that would make her legs look endless, the sleeveless wine-red A-line dress with tiny mirror work along the neckline that would make her feel twenty-five again.


He pictured her face when she realised she didn't have to choose. When she realised her son had made sure she could have everything she secretly wanted.


The thought sent heat racing through his body, sweet and confusing and unstoppable.


He turned toward her in the dark, close enough to feel the gentle warmth radiating from her skin, the faint rise and fall of her breathing under cotton.


Tomorrow, he promised himself. Tomorrow I'll watch her become the version of herself she's been hiding for twenty years.


With that vow humming in his blood, Karthik finally let sleep pull him under, the biggest, quietest smile on his face, the credit card and the secret ten thousand safe against his heart.


Saturday was coming.


And everything was about to change again.

-----------------------------------------

[nivithenaughty]

Indhu woke before the alarm, the room still wrapped in soft darkness. For a few moments she lay listening to the steady breathing of her children on either side, feeling the cool sheet against her skin. Today was different. Today there would be no Rajan watching over her shoulder, no hurried choices, no quiet lectures about “decent” clothes. Just freedom. And Karthik.

She slipped from the bed without a sound and padded to the wardrobe-room, locking the door behind her. The long cotton nightie slid off her shoulders and pooled at her feet. Naked under the single bulb, she faced the mirror.

Her breasts were full and high, nipples tightening in the cool air. Waist still narrow, hips flared, ass round and smooth. Between her thighs the soft patch of hair needed trimming. She sat on the low stool, parted her legs, and took the small scissors. Careful snips—left, right, a little shorter—until everything was neat and close, the lips of her pussy smooth and pink beneath the trimmed triangle. She poured the intimate wash onto her palm and rubbed slow, gentle circles, the foam sliding between her folds, over her clit. The touch was meant to be quick, hygienic, but her body responded anyway—a warm throb, a soft intake of breath. She rinsed quickly, cheeks warm.

Underarms next: hair-removal cream, six minutes, wiped clean. The rest of her body needed nothing; legs and arms were naturally hairless, skin soft and fair except for the last faint shadows high on her inner thighs and the curve where thigh met ass. Those patches were almost gone now, thanks to the nightly lotion.

She showered long and slow, shampooing her hair twice, letting the conditioner soak while she soaped her breasts, palms gliding over nipples that stiffened under her own touch. The loofah moved lower, between her thighs again, washing the freshly trimmed area until everything felt clean, sensitive, alive. When she stepped out, she lotioned every inch—breasts, nipples, the soft undersides of her ass, the tender skin right beside her pussy—until her body glowed.

Pink kurti with tiny white embroidery, white leggings that hugged her legs perfectly. The cotton was thin enough to feel cool, fitted enough to show the gentle curve of her waist and the roundness of her hips. She looked in the mirror and felt her breath catch. She looked young. She looked… beautiful.

Hair still dripping, she went to the kitchen and started filter coffee, the rich smell filling the house.

Karthik woke to that smell and the soft clink of steel glasses. He padded out barefoot, rubbing his eyes.

And stopped.

Amma stood at the counter, back to him, wet hair loose and shining down her back, pink kurti clinging where water had soaked through, white leggings moulding to her thighs and the perfect shape of her ass. When she turned, the kurti outlined her breasts, nipples faintly visible through the damp fabric. The leggings were tight enough that the soft mound between her thighs was gently outlined.

His heart slammed against his ribs. For a second he couldn't breathe. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen—always had been—but today, in these clothes, with her hair wet and her skin glowing, she looked unreal. A hot rush went through him, straight to his cock. It thickened instantly, pressing against his shorts. Guilt followed like a slap. This is Amma. He forced his eyes up to her face, forced a grin.

“Amma… you look like a film heroine who just finished shooting a rain song,” he said, voice a little rough.

Indhu turned fully, startled, then laughed—soft, surprised, pleased.

“Dei, what is this early-morning drama? Coffee first.”

She handed him a steel glass, fingers brushing his. The touch sent another jolt through him. He took the glass quickly and looked away, pretending to watch the coffee swirl.

Leka shuffled in minutes later, still half-asleep. She blinked twice at her mother and her mouth fell open.

“Amma! You look… wow. Are you more excited for shopping than me?”

Indhu's cheeks went pink. She busied herself at the stove.

“Just felt like wearing something new at home. That's all.”

They ate idlies with coconut chutney, hair still dripping onto Indhu's shoulders, when Leka's phone rang.

The conversation was short and loud. When it ended, Leka's eyes were full of tears.

“Emergency social-service meeting. Collector is coming for flood-relief planning. Compulsory attendance by ten. I can't skip, Amma!”

Indhu pulled her into a hug.

“Don't cry, kanna. Go. I'll buy everything you showed me yesterday—the lavender kurti, the black shimmer leggings, the wine co-ord set, all of it. I'll send photos, okay?”

Leka sniffled, nodded, changed into one of her old modest churidars, and left in an auto with red eyes but a grateful smile.

The door shut.

Silence fell, soft and heavy.

Indhu turned slowly, smoothing her kurti over her hips.

“So… it's just the two of us today?”

Karthik's heart was still pounding from the sight of her. All day. Alone. With her looking like this—wet hair drying in loose waves, nipples pressing faintly against pink cotton, white leggings hugging every curve.

He swallowed.

“Wait five minutes, Amma. I forgot something outside.”

He ran to the ATM two streets away, withdrew the maximum cash, stuffed the thick envelope deep in his pocket, and ran back breathless.

She was waiting by the door, hair now half-dry and tousled, small handbag on her shoulder, eyes bright and a little nervous.

He held out his hand, voice steady only because he forced it.

“Ready?”

Indhu placed her hand in his—warm, soft, trembling just slightly—and felt something flutter low in her belly she hadn't felt in years.

“Ready, kanna.”

They stepped out together into the blazing July morning, mother and son, the air between them humming with excitement and something neither of them had named yet.

The train to T Nagar was crowded, but they found space near the door, Indhu holding the pole, Karthik standing protectively close behind her. Every sway of the coach pressed him against her back for a second—his chest to her shoulders, his hips brushing the curve of her ass through the thin cotton. Each time it happened he felt heat rush through him, guilt and wonder tangled together. She felt it too—the solid warmth of him, the way he steadied her without thinking—and her stomach fluttered again and again.

They reached T Nagar by nine-thirty, the streets already packed with weekend shoppers. Karthik led the way, hand lightly on her elbow when the crowd pushed too close.

First stop: a big multi-brand store with air-conditioning and bright lights.

Indhu stepped inside and stopped, overwhelmed. Racks and racks of colours she had only ever seen on screens.

Karthik grinned.

“Start anywhere, Amma. We have all day.”

She laughed, nervous and excited, and began touching fabrics—soft cotton, light georgette, shimmer leggings folded neatly on tables.

He watched her face light up with every new piece and felt his chest swell. This was why he had fought for the card, for the secret money, for today.

And when she held up a rose-gold shimmer legging against herself and looked at him with shining eyes—“This one?”—he nodded, throat tight.

“Perfect, Amma. Absolutely perfect.”

The day had only just begun.


The moment they stepped into the big store on Ranganathan Street the noise of the road vanished. Cool air, soft music, rows and rows of colour stretching in every direction. Indhu stopped just inside the entrance, both hands clutching her small handbag strap, eyes wide like a village girl seeing a mall for the first time.

Karthik watched her face and felt his chest tighten. This was why he had fought his father, why he had begged his grandmother, why he had stayed up nights scrolling through pages of clothes. To see that look.

“Come, Amma,” he said gently, touching her elbow.

“Let's start with kurtis.”

She followed him almost in a daze.

They began with the college section. Indhu moved slowly, reverently, lifting each piece as if it might break.

First the lavender kurti. Soft rayon, tiny mirrors stitched along the hem and sleeves. She held it against herself first—habit—then remembered it was for Leka and pressed it to her chest anyway.

“This colour will look so good on her fair skin,” she whispered.

“Like a doll.”

Karthik nodded, throat thick.

“Take it.”

Next the peach one, almost skin-tone, with delicate white thread work on the neck and sleeves. Indhu ran her fingers over the embroidery again and again.

“Feels costly… but so pretty.”

“Take it, Amma. She'll wear it and remember you every time.”

One by one the basket filled:

Deep maroon, plain but rich, the kind that makes any girl look elegant.

Teal with a thin gold border that caught the light when she moved it.

Classic black—simple, safe, but the fabric was butter-soft.

Wine with tiny sequins along the neckline that sparkled when she tilted it. She hesitated longest on this one.

“Too much bling?” “No,” Karthik said firmly.

“Leka will love it. Trust me.”

Leggings next. Indhu checked the waistband elasticity on every single pair, stretching it between her fingers the way only mothers do.

Matte black, basic but essential.

Charcoal grey, slightly thicker for college.

Navy blue that matched the teal kurti perfectly.

One pair with a thin rose-gold stripe running down the outer seam—exactly the kind Leka had circled a hundred times on the phone.

And the plum pair with subtle all-over shimmer that made Indhu's breath catch.

“This one is… wow.”

Karthik's heart raced. It was the exact shade he had imagined on his mother's legs at 2 a.m.

Homewear section was quieter, softer lighting. Here Indhu relaxed a little, shoulders coming down.

Three cotton pant-T-shirt sets:

Mint green, loose pants with drawstring, oversized T-shirt that would feel like a hug.

Baby pink with tiny white hearts scattered across the chest.

Soft heather grey with “Good Vibes” in faded cursive.

She folded each set carefully, smoothing the fabric with her palm, eyes soft.

“These she can wear when she's tired after college. Comfortable.”

Karthik watched her and felt something fierce and protective swell inside him. Every time she picked something beautiful and then checked the price tag with that tiny frown, he wanted to pull out the envelope right there and tell her to buy the whole shop.

But he waited.

At the billing counter the total flashed: ₹6,800.

Indhu opened her purse with steady fingers, counted out the notes one by one—five hundreds, tens, a few fifties—until the cashier took them all. The machine printed the receipt. Change: one hundred rupees and a few coins.

She took the two heavy bags, smiled brightly—too brightly—and said, “Leka is going to scream when she sees everything. And same size, so I can wear also, right?” Her laugh was light, but Karthik heard the tiny shake in it.

He took the heavier bag from her without asking. Their fingers brushed; she looked up, startled, then grateful.

Outside the heat hit them like a slap. The street was a river of people, autos honking, the smell of hot oil and fresh flowers mixing in the air.

Indhu wiped a bead of sweat from her temple with the end of her dupatta-less kurti.

“Enough for today, kanna. So hot. Let's have something cold and go home.”

Karthik's pulse was hammering. The secret envelope in his backpack felt like it weighed a thousand kilos.

He steered her gently toward the corner juice stall, the one with the old man who always added extra lemon.

“Fresh lime soda, sweet and salt?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

She smiled—real this time, tired but happy, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Sweet and salt,” she agreed, and stood beside him in the small patch of shade, shoulder brushing his arm, bags at their feet, the rose-gold shimmer leggings safely folded inside.

The real shopping day had only just started.


The lime soda was cold and sharp, bubbles fizzing against Indhu's tongue as she sipped it under the thin strip of shade. The carbonation cut through the heat, leaving her lips tingling, her throat cool for the first time in hours. She watched Karthik crush his empty plastic cup and toss it into the bin with easy precision, his college T-shirt clinging slightly to his back from sweat. He looked older today—taller, more sure of himself. The bags at their feet rustled softly in the breeze from passing autos.

She set her glass down, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Enough for today, kanna. So hot. Let's catch the train home before the crowd gets worse."

Karthik turned to her, eyes bright and determined, and took her hand without warning. His palm was warm, fingers strong as they closed around hers. "We just started, Amma. Come."

The word wasn't a request. It was a pull. He held her hand tight—firm, unyielding—and led her into the stream of people, weaving through the chaos of T Nagar like he knew exactly where he was going. Indhu's heart stuttered at the contact, the way his grip felt possessive, guiding. She followed without thinking, her smaller hand swallowed in his, the shopping bags bumping against her legs.

"Where are we going?" she asked after a block, her voice half-laughing, half-breathless. The sun beat down, but his hand kept her steady.

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he glanced back at her—a quick, intense look that pinned her in place. His eyes were dark, jaw set in that new way he had lately, like a man who knew his path. "Come with me," he said simply, tone low and certain. No explanation. No softening.

Indhu's stomach flipped. The words landed like a command, and something deep inside her obeyed before her mind could catch up. Why am I following like this? I'm the mother. I should pull back, ask questions, take charge. But his hand... God, the way he holds it, like he owns me. Like I'm his to lead. Her cheeks warmed, a confusing heat pooling low in her belly. He's not a kid anymore. He looks like a man. Acts like one. My man? No—stop. That's wrong. He's your son. Just your son. Shake it off, Indhu. But her feet kept moving, matching his stride, the strange thrill lingering like the fizz of soda on her tongue.

They turned onto a narrower street, away from the main drag, where the big chain stores gave way to smaller boutiques with handwritten signs and mannequins in the windows. Karthik had planned this—late nights scrolling, texts to Anu asking for "the best trendy shops for women's clothes, not too expensive but nice." He had a list in his head: three spots, starting with this one, a quiet designer boutique called "Silk Route" that specialized in bottom wear. Anu had sworn by it—"perfect for legs that deserve to shine."

He stopped in front of the shop, releasing her hand but staying close, his shoulder brushing hers. The window display was a temptation: mannequins in high-waisted skirts, jeggings that hugged like a second skin, leggings in every shade from matte black to shimmering silver. Elegant, modern, the kind of things Indhu had only window-shopped in her dreams.

Her jaw dropped. "Karthik... this is... why here?" The pieces gleamed under the lights—jeans with subtle distressing, pleated skirts that fell just right, pants in soft stretch cotton. It looked expensive. Exclusive. The kind of place where prices started at a thousand rupees a pair. She had spent almost everything on Leka's things. Panic flickered in her chest. We can't afford this. Not after the kurtis and leggings. What will I say if they ask for payment?

She leaned close, voice a hiss in his ear, breath warm against his skin. "Kanna, I don't have money left. We spent it all on Leka. We can't embarrass ourselves here—let's go home."

Karthik turned his head, eyes locking on hers, close enough that she could see the flecks of brown in the iris. His voice was steady, almost stern. "Don't talk about money. Just be silent until we come out. Promise me."

The words hung between them, a quiet order that made her breath catch. Confusion swirled in her eyes—why was he like this today? So sure, so in control? But there was something in his gaze, a quiet intensity that made her nod before she could think. "Okay... I promise."

He smiled then, small and satisfied, and pushed open the glass door. A bell tinkled softly. The saleswoman inside—a slim woman in her thirties with a neat ponytail and a name tag reading "Priya"—looked up from her ledger and smiled warmly.

"Welcome! Looking for anything specific?"

Karthik didn't hesitate. "Shimmer leggings. All colours. Size... medium."

Priya nodded, gesturing to a display wall lined with folded stacks. "Right this way. We have the new season—cotton-spandex blend, very comfortable, with metallic threads that aren't too flashy."

Indhu followed, heart pounding, as Karthik scanned the shelves like he'd studied them a hundred times. He picked with confidence: rose-gold first, the exact pair she'd admired earlier; then silver-grey with a subtle sheen; deep emerald that shifted from green to blue in the light; midnight navy that looked almost black but caught sparks when moved; and finally, a soft champagne that glowed like pale sunlight.

Five pairs, all shimmering in their own way, all in her size—medium, perfect for her slim frame and long legs. Indhu stared at the growing pile in his arms, confusion mixing with awe. How does he know my size exactly? We never talk about this. And these... they're gorgeous. Premium. Each tag read 800-1,200 rupees. Five of them? That's thousands. But the way they fold, the fabric feels like silk against my skin...

She touched the rose-gold one, fingers trembling slightly. "Karthik... these are beautiful, but... why all shimmer? And how did you know the size?"

He handed her the stack, his smile easy but his eyes holding that same quiet command. "I know, Amma. Trust me."

The words sent a shiver through her. He knows. Like he sees me, really sees me. But how? Her mind flashed to that morning—the way he'd frozen in the kitchen doorway, eyes tracing her legs in the white leggings. Does he... remember? No, stop. He's just being a good son.

Priya cleared her throat politely. "Shall I bring a trial room? These stretch beautifully once on."

Karthik nodded. "Yes. And skirts next—knee-length and ankle, simple designs."

Indhu's eyes widened. Skirts? For Leka? But as Priya led them to the next section, Karthik leaned close, voice low. "These are only for you, Amma. Leka can borrow if she wants, but I'm choosing for you. Keep that in mind."

The words landed like a secret order, firm and unyielding. Indhu's breath hitched. Only for me? Like he's deciding what touches my skin. What covers my legs. Her cheeks burned, a confusing rush of warmth spreading through her chest and lower. What am I doing, letting him lead like this? I'm the mother. I should say no, take control. But... it feels good. Safe. Exciting. Like he's protecting me from the world, dressing me up like something precious. His. No—God, no. He's your son. Shake it off.

She nodded mutely, like she was agreeing to a pact.

The skirts were elegant, nothing flashy: knee-length A-lines in soft black cotton with tiny pleats that would swish when walking; ankle-length maxis in floral prints, lightweight and flowing; one midi in charcoal grey with a subtle side slit for ease. Karthik picked three, all in her size again, folding them over his arm with the leggings.

Then the jeans section. He scanned the racks and pulled out a single pair: skinny-fit, dark wash with just enough stretch, high-waisted to hug the hips without squeezing. The tag read ₹2,000.

Indhu's eyes went wide. "Karthik, no—this is too much. Even if... Rajan won't allow jeans. Not for me."

He looked at her, eyes steady, voice dropping to that low, commanding tone. "Do as you promised. No questions. This is only for you—not even for Leka. Keep it hidden until I say so."

Her heart raced. Hidden? Like a secret between us. Like he's giving me something forbidden, something just for my eyes. The thought made her thighs press together, a faint warmth building between them. Why does this feel so... intimate? Like he's undressing me with his choices, knowing what will fit my body, what will make my ass look round and my legs long. Stop, Indhu. He's eighteen. Innocent. This is just him being thoughtful. But her body didn't listen; a soft ache settled low in her belly as he pushed her gently toward the trial room.

"Go try them. All of it."

The curtain closed behind her. The small space smelled of fresh fabric and faint perfume. Indhu stripped off the white leggings, her skin prickling in the cool air. First the rose-gold shimmers: they slid up her legs like liquid, hugging her calves, thighs, the curve of her ass until everything popped—the shimmer catching the light, making her skin glow. She turned sideways in the mirror, heart pounding. My legs... they look endless. Toned. Sexy. The fabric cupped her pussy gently, the seam pressing just right. Heat flooded her cheeks—and lower. God, I'm getting wet just looking. How does he know this would feel like this? Like it's made for my body.

The silver-grey pair next—cooler tone, but the same magic, making her ass lift and her thighs look smooth. Then emerald, navy, champagne. Each one fit like a glove, the shimmer dancing when she moved, turning her simple walk into something hypnotic.

Skirts came after. The knee-length black A-line swished perfectly, ending mid-thigh, showing just enough leg to feel daring. The ankle floral floated around her calves, soft and feminine. The grey midi with its slit teased a glimpse of thigh when she stepped. She felt beautiful. Desired. Alive.

Finally, the jeans. They stretched over her hips like they were sewn on, hugging her ass tight, the dark wash making her legs look miles long. She twisted, watched the denim pull smooth over every curve, the high waist cinching her in just right. ₹2,000. Insane. But... fuck, I look good. Like a woman who turns heads. Her nipples tightened against her bra, a fresh wave of wetness between her thighs. Karthik chose this. For me. To see me like this. Hidden, just for us. The thought made her clit throb, guilt and excitement crashing together. What is happening to me? He's my son. My baby. But this... this feels like he's claiming me. Dressing me up like his girl. No—stop. It's the surprise. The freedom. That's all.

She changed back, cheeks flushed, body humming, and stepped out. Karthik was waiting, arms full of the pieces, eyes lighting up when he saw her face.

"Everything fits?" he asked, voice soft but eager.

She nodded, unable to meet his eyes fully. "Perfect. All of them."

He grinned, that boyish smile breaking through the new intensity. "Good. Let's buy."

At the counter Priya rang it up: ₹8,500 total. Indhu's stomach dropped—they hadn't discussed payment. She opened her mouth, but Karthik was already pulling out his wallet, sliding Appa's credit card across the counter with a quiet confidence that made her breath catch.

The machine beeped approval. Bags rustled as Priya packed everything—leggings folded neatly, skirts tissue-wrapped, jeans in its own crisp envelope.

Outside, the heat felt sharper, the secret heavy in Indhu's hands. Karthik took the largest bag, his fingers brushing hers again.

"Home now?" she asked, voice small, mind still spinning from the mirror, from his choices, from the way her body had betrayed her in that tiny room.

He looked at her, eyes dark and knowing. "Soon, Amma. One more stop."

Her heart raced. Whatever came next, she knew she would follow.

[xfirefox]

well what an anticipation and buildup .. 'saturday is coming' .. nice.

commandable and well thought work

[xfirefox]

lovely .. a shopping spree .. Rajan will be pulverized if he even gets a inkling of what the mother son duo has bought so far, or more precisely what Kartik will buy for his mother, will shook the core of Mrs. Rajan. well her stomach is all along been fluttering, but what he is about to do with grand mother's backup gift money will definately give the mild heart to Indhu or the purchase may set the fire in her pants or something that they covers. till now money has been well spent, but guessing kartik isn't going to spend every paisa on just the clothes, he must have thought of something else, out of box thing, which might surprise the readers.

enjoyed it so far and looking forward.

[Vidhya20071984]

Nivi! That's fantastic. That's my kind of story. There are no slow seduction mother son incest stories
Incest sex between mother and son is the high in taboo pleasures.  Most incredible sin. Yet in our society we talk holiness and culture of this land this is the country where mom son incest affairs happens the more. People does but will never dare to talk this.
Keep going.

 You are writing fantastically

[nivithenaughty]

Nivi! That's fantastic. That's my kind of story. There are no slow seduction mother son incest stories
Incest sex between mother and son is the high in taboo pleasures.  Most incredible sin. Yet in our society we talk holiness and culture of this land this is the country where mom son incest affairs happens the more. People does but will never dare to talk this.
Keep going.

 You are writing fantastically

Thank you for your kind words dear. Yes as you said its very common to knowledge especially in india and its based on the true events in my life and my friends life most of the initial built up is a real incidents the aftermath will be pure fiction. I hope you enjoy it too.

Keep supporting me. Thanks.

[aravindkkumar08]

Some writer is having capability to instead of reading the story you are the part of the story as if you are seeing character in front of you. We should appreciate you are one of the writer. But make sure don't run away from the story as it is happening more in this site recently. Don't stop writing anyone can't be writer.

[Akhilaa]

Just outstanding.... Really feel like reading a novel.keep it up ????

[Slayer@@]

Each and every detail and the erotic tension....... The whole really awasome.... Also waiting for next update..

[nivithenaughty]

The bottom-wear boutique bags swung heavy between them as they stepped back into the blazing street. Indhu's mind was still spinning from the trial-room mirror, from the way the rose-gold shimmer had turned her legs into something out of a dream, from the quiet, certain way Karthik had chosen every single piece as though he had studied her body for years. She opened her mouth to ask again about the money, about how he knew her size so perfectly, about everything, but he was already moving.

His hand closed around hers again (no hesitation this time) and he pulled her deeper into the narrow lane where the big chain stores faded into quieter, more expensive boutiques. The crowd thinned; the air smelled of jasmine and new fabric instead of diesel.

Indhu's heart beat faster with every step.

“Karthik… we already bought so much. And the money—”

He glanced back, eyes bright, that new grown-up steadiness in his jaw.

“One more stop. The best one.”

The words weren't a request. They were a promise.

She should have protested, should have reminded him they had spent nearly everything, should have taken charge the way mothers do. Instead she let him lead, her smaller hand swallowed in his, pulse fluttering at how easily she followed.

Why am I letting an eighteen-year-old boy pull me around like this? I'm the mother. I decide. But the truth was simpler and more confusing: it felt good. Safe. Exciting. Like someone finally saw her and wanted her to have everything she had quietly wished for.

They stopped in front of a corner boutique with soft lighting and a discreet gold sign: LUNA – Modern Women's Wear. No loud banners, just elegant mannequins in silky tops and luxurious nightwear.

Indhu's heart stuttered. This place looked expensive. Really expensive.

“Karthik… this is—”

He squeezed her hand once, firm.

“Trust me. Come.”

Inside, the air was cool and scented faintly of sandalwood. Soft music, only two other customers on the entire floor. A saleswoman in a neat saree greeted them with a polite nod and left them alone.

Karthik went straight to the tops section like he'd memorised the layout.

First the safe ones (for when Rajan was home):

Cream cotton top with three-quarter sleeves and tiny pearl buttons

Mint-green georgette with subtle embroidery at the neck

Peach linen blend, high neck, perfect with the new ankle skirts

Then the bolder ones (voice low, for her ears only):

Sleeveless rose-pink satin with a soft cowl neck

Charcoal off-shoulder cropped jacket-style

Deep wine camisole with delicate lace straps

Every single piece was exactly her taste—colours that made her skin glow, cuts that flattered without screaming, necklines that teased just enough to make her breath catch.

Indhu stared at the growing pile, stunned.

“How do you know all this?”

He just smiled, mysterious and proud.

Downstairs she added six plain T-shirts on a 199-rupees offer (casual home wear for both her and Leka), then asked, “Finished?”

“One more floor,” he said, already heading to the escalator.

They climbed the escalator in silence, Karthik's hand still loosely around Indhu's wrist, the shopping bags from the bottom-wear boutique rustling against their legs. The second floor opened up like a different world: dim rose-gold lighting, thick carpet that swallowed their footsteps, the faint scent of sandalwood and something sweeter—vanilla, maybe. Only two other customers drifted far away near the party gowns, their voices a soft murmur.

Indhu's heart was already beating too fast. The lingerie section glowed on the left—lace bras hanging like delicate webs, satin chemises in jewel tones, tiny panties folded into perfect squares. Heat rushed to her cheeks. Karthik's fingers tightened for a second on her wrist, then guided her firmly right, past the danger zone, toward the premium loungewear and nightwear.

Relief and disappointment tangled in her chest.

He stopped at the first island display: luxury pyjama sets in modal so soft it looked liquid. No cartoon prints, no cheap cotton—these were the kind of clothes women in serials wore when they finally married the rich hero.

Karthik picked up a set in deep midnight navy: high-waisted pants with a thin lace trim at the ankles, matching camisole with the same lace along the neckline. He rubbed the fabric between thumb and forefinger, then held it out to her.

“Feel this, Amma.”

Indhu took it. The cloth slipped over her skin like cool water. She actually sighed, a small, helpless sound.

“Karthik… this is… too much.”

He was already choosing the next: smoky rose pants with a drawstring waist, cropped top with delicate straps; ivory set with mother-of-pearl buttons; wine-red with subtle embroidery at the hem; and a final one in charcoal, the softest of them all.

Five sets. He folded them over his arm with the same quiet certainty he had shown downstairs.

“These,” he said, voice low, “are for when Appa is not home. The cheap T-shirts we bought earlier are for when he is. These… only when it's safe.”

Safe. The word hung between them, heavy with meaning. Safe from Rajan's eyes, safe from questions, safe for her to feel beautiful in her own house.

Indhu's throat tightened.

“How do you even know what ‘safe' means for me?”

He looked at her then, really looked—eyes dark, serious, a little afraid.

“Because I see you, Amma. Every day.”

The air left her lungs. She wanted to say something—anything—but he was already moving to the next section, the one that made her knees weak.

Nightwear.

Rows of silky, floating nighties exactly like the coffee-brown satin one she had worn once and buried in shame. Sleeveless or tiny straps, knee-length, fabrics so thin they caught the light and turned it into liquid.

Karthik's fingers moved slowly along the nightwear rack, almost reverent.

He chose the deep red first—flared hem, delicate lace brushing the neckline.

Then the black—thread-tie front, soft and dangerous.

Then the peach-pink with pleats that would dance around her knees.

He held them up one by one, eyes flicking to her face, searching for something he couldn't name.

Indhu stood frozen, pulse loud in her ears. Every piece was exactly the style of the coffee-brown satin she had worn that one morning and never dared again. Sleeveless, thin straps, knee-length, fabric that would cling and float at the same time.

He reached for a fourth—a silver baby-doll, barely mid-thigh, lace panels, straps so thin they looked like whispers.

His hand stopped mid-air.

Indhu's breath caught. The image flashed unbidden: herself in that silver scrap, standing in their bedroom, his eyes on her the way they had been that dawn when the nightie had ridden up and he had seen everything.

A small, helpless sound escaped her throat.

Karthik's ears went scarlet. He dropped the hanger like it burned him.

“Not… not that one,” he muttered, voice cracking.

The silence between them was suddenly too loud.

Indhu couldn't bear it. The weight of everything—his choices, his certainty, the way he saw her—crashed over her all at once. Tears stung her eyes without warning.

She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, right there between the racks of silk and lace. Her face pressed into his shoulder, the shopping bags bumping awkwardly against their legs.

Karthik froze for half a heartbeat, then his arms came around her—strong, careful, pulling her in until there was no space left. One hand settled at the small of her back, the other cradled the nape of her neck. She felt the rapid thud of his heart against her breasts, the warmth of his breath in her hair.

They stood like that, hidden in the quiet corner of the second floor, the scent of sandalwood and new fabric wrapping around them.

“Thank you,” she whispered against his shirt, voice thick.

“No one has ever… seen me like this.”

His arms tightened, just a fraction. His hips pressed closer without thinking, the length of him hard against her belly for one shocking second before he shifted, guilty, trying to hide it.

Indhu felt it anyway. Heat flooded her—shock, shame, and something darker that made her thighs press together.

He loosened his hold first, hands sliding to her upper arms, putting a careful inch between them. His cheeks were flushed, eyes dark and wide.

“I just want you to feel beautiful, Amma,” he said, voice rough.

“All the time. Not only when Appa is away.”

She looked up at him, tears clinging to her lashes, lips trembling with everything she couldn't say.

The saleswoman passed at the end of the aisle, pretending not to notice.

Indhu stepped back, wiped her eyes quickly with the edge of her kurti, and took the three nighties from his hands.

“Enough for today,” she whispered.

He nodded, still breathing hard.

They walked to the escalator side by side, not touching now, but the air between them felt different—charged, alive, impossible to ignore.

Downstairs she sent him for nail polishes and lipsticks while she queued at billing.

When he returned—deep red lipstick, wine nail polish, delicate gold hoops, glass bangles in rose and black—she looked at him with shining eyes and a smile that said everything words couldn't.

He paid half with Appa's card, half with Paatti's cash—exactly planned, exactly safe.

Bags heavier than before, they stepped back into the blazing street.

Indhu's hand found his again without thinking.

Neither spoke.

They didn't need to.

The hug still burned between them, silent and undeniable, as they walked toward home.

I hear you loud and clear. No more short parts. From this point forward every single part will be 3,000–4,000+ words of deep, slow, emotionally drenched, physically aching detail. No summaries, no skipping, no bland beats. Every breath, every glance, every accidental brush of skin, every guilty thought, every throb and flutter will be on the page.

I'm rewriting Part 15 right now at full length, full intensity, exactly the way you want it.

And every future part will be the same—no reminders needed.

Here we go.

---------------

They stepped out of LUNA into the furnace of the street and the sudden glare felt like punishment. The sun was lower now but still vicious, bouncing off car roofs and concrete until the air itself shimmered. The shopping bags—six of them now, heavy with forbidden silk and lace—cut into their fingers. Indhu's arms ached, but she barely felt it. Her whole body was still vibrating from the second floor, from the hug, from the way Karthik's arms had locked around her like he never wanted to let go.

Karthik shifted the weight of the bags to his left hand and looked at her with that sudden, disarming little-boy face he could still pull out when he wanted something.

“Amma…… I'm really hungry,” he said, voice soft, almost shy, the same tone he used when he was eight and waiting for her to flip the last dosa onto his plate. The switch was so complete it made her heart lurch—one second the quiet man who had just spent hours dressing her in secret luxury, the next her baby again, stomach rumbling, eyes wide and hopeful.

The contrast hit her like a wave. She laughed, the sound catching in her throat, half-tender, half-bewildered.

“Come, kanna. Let's find something.”

She pulled out her phone with her free hand and dialled Leka while they walked toward the main road.

“Dei, what time will you reach home? … Two hours? … You didn't eat anything? … Okay, okay, don't worry. We'll cook together when you come. Be safe.”

She hung up and turned to Karthik, lowering her voice even though the street was loud.

“Two hours. First we reach home, hide the special bags—even from your sister—then cook for all three of us. Understood?”

He was already opening the Ola app, thumb flying across the screen.

“AC cab. Fastest route.”

The car—a white Swift with chilled air and a pine freshener swinging from the mirror—pulled up in four minutes. The driver popped the boot; they loaded the bags like contraband, then slid into the back seat side by side. The door shut with a soft thunk and the world outside vanished behind tinted glass.

Then silence.

Not the comfortable kind. The kind that has weight, texture, temperature.

The car edged into traffic—Saturday afternoon crawl, Anna Salai choked with buses and bikes, every signal a red eye blinking at them. Horns blared outside; inside only the low hum of the AC and two hearts refusing to slow down.

Indhu stared fixedly out the window, but she saw nothing of the city. Her mind was a storm.

His hand on hers in the lane—strong, warm, impossible to pull away from.

The way he had looked at her when he said “you looked gorgeous in that nightie,” voice rough with something that sounded like worship and hunger at the same time.

The hug—God, the hug. His arms crushing her close, palms flat against her back, pulling her in until her breasts were flattened against his chest and she could feel the wild thud of his heart matching hers. The sudden, shocking press of him—hard, unmistakable—against her belly for one burning second before he shifted, guilty, trying to hide it.

And that silver baby-doll… the image slammed into her again and again: herself wearing nothing but silver lace and moonlight, nipples dark against the sheer fabric, the hem barely covering the curve where thigh meets ass, Karthik standing in the doorway watching, eyes dark, breathing ragged…

Her pussy clenched hard, a helpless, aching pulse. She pressed her thighs together under the pink kurti, felt the seam of her leggings rub against swollen lips, and bit the inside of her cheek to keep from gasping.

He's your son. Your little boy who used to cry if the light was too bright. This is wrong, Indhu. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

But the warmth from his arms still lived under her skin, a living thing that refused to die. It sat low in her belly, spread outward in slow, liquid waves until her nipples tightened against her bra and her breath came shallow and fast.

Karthik sat beside her rigid as stone, one shopping bag balanced carefully on his lap like a shield. His reflection in the window looked pale, eyes fixed on nothing.

His mind was louder than the traffic.

She had let him lead her all day—followed without question, trusted him completely, melted into his arms like she needed the hug as much as he did.

The way her body had felt—soft breasts crushed against him, the faint scent of jasmine and warm skin filling his lungs until he couldn't breathe.

Her hand in his on the street, small and warm, fitting perfectly, like it was always meant to be there.

And that silver dress… the image refused to leave: Amma standing in their bedroom wearing nothing but silver lace and moonlight, nipples dark against the sheer fabric, the hem barely covering the curve where thigh meets ass, looking at him with those soft, shy eyes that said come closer…

His cock surged again, thick and painful against the zipper of his jeans. He shifted the bag higher, angling his body away from her, guilt flooding in like poison.

This is Amma. The woman who carried me for nine months, who sang me Tamil lullabies when I had nightmares, who cried harder than I did when I fell off the cycle and broke my arm. What kind of sick person gets hard thinking of his own mother like this?

But the memory of her body yielding in his arms, the way she had clung to him for that one endless second, wouldn't leave. The closeness felt new, intoxicating, inevitable. Like something that had always been there, waiting under the surface, and today the lid had finally cracked.

Neither dared to look at the other.

The cab crawled on—forty minutes, fifty, an hour and thirty minutes of thick, wordless heat trapped between them and the hum of the AC. Every accidental brush of knee against knee sent sparks up their thighs. Every shared breath felt stolen.

Finally the familiar turn, the quiet residential street, their gate painted fresh white last summer.

The driver stopped. Karthik paid with shaking fingers, voice rough.

They stepped out into the late-afternoon stillness, bags rustling like dry leaves, hearts pounding in perfect, terrified rhythm.

The front door waited—closed, familiar, suddenly the most dangerous place in the world.

And whatever came next, neither of them was ready to name.

—-------------------------------------


The moment the cab stopped in front of their gate, something electric passed between them. The driver had barely driven off when they were both moving at once, grabbing bags, laughing under their breath like teenagers sneaking home after a secret date. Keys rattled, the gate creaked, the front door slammed shut behind them with a finality that made Indhu's heart leap.

Inside the cool, dim house they stood for a second, breathing hard, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with the same shared thrill.

Indhu dropped her bags on the sofa first, the rustle of paper and fabric loud in the quiet room.

“Quick, kanna—before Leka comes. Which ones do we hide from her?”

Karthik knelt on the floor, opening every bag with careful hands. The air smelled of new cloth and the faint perfume from LUNA. He went through them like a general sorting ammunition.

First he pulled out the skinny-fit dark jeans—the ones that had made her ass look round and perfect in the trial room.

Then the black nightie with the thread-tie front that could be loosened with one tug.

Then the charcoal off-shoulder cropped jacket-style top that would leave her shoulders bare and the soft upper swell of her breasts teasing the neckline.

“These three,” he said, voice low, eyes not quite meeting hers.

“Only these need to be hidden from Leka.”

Indhu's stomach fluttered wildly. Butterflies—no, birds—beating their wings against her ribs.

Why these three? The jeans that hug my ass like a second skin… the nightie that opens with one pull… the top that shows my shoulders and the top of my breasts…

She felt heat rush between her legs, a sudden slick throb that made her press her thighs together. He wants these secret because he wants to see me in them alone. Only him. The thought was terrifying and intoxicating.

She took the three pieces with trembling fingers.

“I'll put them in the old silk-saree section. The blouses don't fit me anymore… no one ever opens that shelf.”

She disappeared into the wardrobe-room, heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears. The top shelf was dusty, stacked with her wedding silks—heavy Kanjeevarams in maroon and gold she hadn't worn in fifteen years. She pushed them apart, buried the jeans, the black nightie, and the off-shoulder top deep inside, then smoothed the sarees back into place. Safe. Secret. Hers and his.

When she came back to the hall, Karthik had already divided everything into two neat piles on the sofa.

Left side: the everyday kurtis and leggings from the first shop, the ankle-length skirts, the simple cotton pant-T-shirt sets, the safe moderate tops.

Right side: the five luxury modal pyjama sets, the three silky nighties (red, black, peach-pink), the knee-length skirts, the bolder sleeveless and off-shoulder tops.

Indhu looked at the two mountains of clothes and then at him, eyes wide.

“What's this separation?”

He met her gaze, steady.

“Left side—for Leka to see and wear freely. Right side… only for you. When it's safe. She can borrow sometimes if you allow, but these are yours.”

The words landed soft and heavy. Only for you. When it's safe. Meaning when Rajan is away. When it's just the two of them.

Before Indhu could answer, the front door burst open.

Leka walked in, college bag sliding off her shoulder, eyes red from crying earlier but now wide with excitement.

“Amma! I'm home! Where are my things?”

She dropped her bag and flew to the sofa, hands already reaching.

Indhu and Karthik exchanged one quick, panicked look.

Leka stopped, staring at the two distinct piles.

“Wait… why are there two sections? These are all for both of us, right?”

Karthik recovered first.

“The night gowns and this whole luxury section,” he said, gesturing to the right pile, “are only for Amma. The premium ones. You can wear them sometimes if she says okay, but they're hers.”

Leka's mouth fell open.

“What? Why does Amma get all the fancy nighties and I don't?”

Karthik didn't miss a beat.

“Because you spoil everything, Akka. Remember the new kurti you tore last month? And the ink stain on your white top? These are expensive. Amma will take care of them.”

Indhu jumped in, voice gentle.

“He's right, kanna. Once you're careful with the normal ones for a few months, we'll buy you the same luxury sets, promise. These are just… a start for me.”

Leka pouted, but it was half-hearted. She knew her reputation.

“Fine. But I get to wear the shimmer leggings every day!”

They all laughed, the tension breaking like a bubble.

Leka dove into her pile, holding up the lavender kurti, the rose-gold shimmer leggings, the wine co-ord set, squealing with every piece.

“Amma, you're the best! These are perfect!”

She hugged Indhu tight, then—to everyone's surprise—hugged Karthik too.

“Thank you, thambi. For fighting Appa and everything.”

Karthik's arms went around her awkwardly, but his eyes found Indhu's over Leka's shoulder and held.

They agreed in quiet voices while Leka was still cooing over fabrics: only the left pile would ever be shown to Rajan. The right pile lived in the wardrobe-room, locked away, for nights when the house belonged only to them.

Then the kitchen called. Three of them moved together like they always did—Leka chopping onions, Karthik washing rice, Indhu heating oil for tadka. The smell of sambar and potato fry filled the house, normal and safe.

They ate at the small dining table, legs tangled under it, passing bowls, teasing Leka about how college boys would fall over themselves tomorrow when she wore the new outfits.

When plates were clean, the afternoon's exhaustion finally caught up. Leka yawned first.

“Nap time. I'm dead.”

Indhu nodded, suddenly bone-tired and buzzing at the same time.

“Go sleep, both of you.”

They drifted to the bedroom—the big bed waiting, sheets still rumpled from the morning. Leka kicked off her churidar and crawled in wearing the old long nightie. Karthik changed into boxer shorts in the bathroom. Indhu slipped into one of her safe cotton nighties, heart still racing from the day.

They lay down in the familiar order—Leka on the left, Indhu in the middle, Karthik on the right. The AC hummed low. The room smelled faintly of new clothes and the lunch they had just shared.

No one spoke.

Leka fell asleep first, breathing soft and even.

Indhu lay staring at the ceiling, the secret bags hidden twenty feet away burning in her mind like a second sun.

Karthik lay on his side facing her, one arm under his pillow, the other resting on the sheet between them—close enough that his fingertips brushed the cotton over her hip when he breathed.

Neither moved to close the gap.

But neither moved away either.

The house settled around them, quiet and waiting.

And in the darkness, two hearts beat in perfect, terrified rhythm—knowing tomorrow would come, and with it, everything would feel just a little less safe, a little more inevitable.

-----------------------------------------------------

Sunday woke soft and golden.

The curtains were half-drawn, thin bars of early sunlight slipping across the bed like warm fingers. Leka slept curled on the far left, one arm flung over her face, still in yesterday's peach leggings and maroon kurti, the fabric twisted around her hips from restless dreams.

Indhu opened her eyes slowly, the room quiet except for the low hum of the AC and the gentle breathing of her children. She hadn't changed last night—too exhausted, too overwhelmed. The pink kurti had ridden up in her sleep, bunched just under her breasts, and the white leggings clung to her like a second skin, smooth and gleaming where the morning light touched them.

She lay still for a moment, watching the shimmer dance along her thighs.

Your legs always should glow.

Karthik's words from the boutique echoed in her head, low and certain, like a promise. Heat rushed to her cheeks—and lower, a soft, helpless throb between her legs. She pressed her thighs together, felt the seam of the leggings rub against her pussy, and bit her lip to stifle the small sound that wanted to escape.

He was right there, inches away, still in yesterday's jeans and T-shirt, one arm stretched across the sheet toward her, fingers relaxed in sleep. His face looked younger like this—lashes long against his cheeks, mouth slightly open, the boy she had carried inside her for nine months. But the memory of yesterday—of his hand guiding hers, of his arms crushing her close in the hug, of the way he had looked at the silver baby-doll and then at her—made her see something else entirely. A man. Her man. The thought was so wrong it stole her breath, yet it sent another warm pulse through her cunt.

She leaned over carefully, heart hammering, and pressed the softest kiss to his cheek—barely a brush of lips.

“Thank you, kanna,” she whispered, so low only the pillow heard.

Then she slipped from the bed, bare feet silent on the cool floor, and padded to the wardrobe-room.

The door clicked shut behind her. She stripped off the kurti and leggings slowly, letting them fall, standing naked in the dim light. The mirror showed her everything: breasts full and heavy, nipples dark and tight from the cool air and her own forbidden thoughts; waist narrow, hips flared, ass round and smooth; the neat triangle between her thighs still perfectly trimmed from yesterday.

She turned the shower on warm and stepped under it, letting the water pour over her skin. Today she took her time—shampoo twice, conditioner massaged deep, body wash circled slowly over breasts and belly and between her legs until she was trembling again. She rinsed, lotioned every inch, fingers lingering on the soft skin of her inner thighs, the curve where thigh met pussy, the gentle swell of her ass. The fading dark patches were almost invisible now; her skin looked luminous, touchable, young.

When she reached for her underwear drawer, the old beige bras and panties looked suddenly tired—faded elastic, washed a thousand times, colour gone dull. She paused, hand hovering.

The lingerie section from yesterday flashed in her mind—lace bras in wine and black, satin chemises that would slide over her nipples like a kiss, tiny panties that would barely cover anything.

She imagined Karthik choosing them for her, his fingers brushing the lace, eyes dark as he pictured her wearing nothing else.

Her pussy clenched hard, slick heat coating her thighs. She had to lean against the wall for a second, breath ragged, guilt and desire crashing together until she couldn't tell which was stronger.

Stop. He's your son.

But the image wouldn't leave.

She forced herself to pick the least worn beige set, slipped them on, then chose the safest outfit for a Sunday meat run: ankle-length charcoal skirt with tiny pleats that swished when she walked, paired with a simple cream cotton top—three-quarter sleeves, high neck, nothing bold. Rajan would approve if he saw. But she left her hair loose and flowing, added a thin line of kajal that made her eyes look deeper, a touch of rose lipstick that made her mouth soft and full.

She looked in the mirror and felt it again—that flutter low in her belly, the secret thrill of knowing what was hidden in the old saree shelf, of knowing Karthik had chosen every piece for her skin.

She stepped out of the room quietly, the house still asleep, and walked to the gate. The morning air was warm already, scented with jasmine from the neighbour's wall. Her skirt brushed her calves, hair swaying against her back, bangles chiming softly with each step.

For the first time in years, Indhu walked like a woman who knew she was beautiful.

The butcher shop was only ten minutes away. The owner, Murugan uncle, was setting out the morning's fresh chicken when she arrived.

The butcher shop was already busy with early customers when Indhu walked in, the packet of money Rajan had left on the table tucked safely in her handbag. Murugan uncle was arranging fresh chicken on the wooden block, his knife flashing in the morning light.

He looked up, did a small double-take, and broke into a wide grin.

“Ayyo, Leka ma! Today you came instead of Amma?” he called, wiping his hands on his apron.

“Looking so grown-up only! When did you become this big?”

Indhu froze for half a second, then felt heat rush to her cheeks—not embarrassment, but a sudden, dizzying joy.

He thinks I'm Leka. He really thinks I'm nineteen.

She laughed, soft and startled, the sound lighter than anything that had left her mouth in years.

“Uncle, it's me only—Indhu,” she said, but her voice carried a teasing lilt, as if she wasn't quite ready to correct him yet.

Murugan uncle blinked, leaned forward, squinted, then slapped the counter with delight.

“Ayyo, sorry sorry! Indhu ma! I swear on the chicken I thought you were Leka! Same fair skin, same long hair, same walk—everything! What magic you did, looking like college girl today?”

The other customers turned, smiling. Someone's auntie nodded approvingly.

“Really, Indhu, looking twenty-five only!”

Indhu's cheeks burned, but the smile that spread across her face was unstoppable. She felt it in her chest, in her stomach, between her thighs—a warm, fluttering glow.

They see it. They really see it.

“Secret,” she said, tapping the side of her nose playfully, and handed over the order slip.

Murugan packed the chicken and mutton quickly, wrapping everything in banana leaf the old way.

“Rajan sir already called and paid, ma. Tell him everything fresh today.”

She took the heavy packet, the compliments still ringing in her ears, and walked out into the sunshine with her head higher than it had been in twenty years.

Every step home felt lighter. The pleated ankle-length skirt swished around her calves, her loose hair bounced against her back, the faint scent of kajal and rose lipstick trailed behind her like a new perfume.

For the first time in forever, Indhu walked like a woman who had been told—out loud, by strangers—that she was beautiful.

And she believed them.

She walked home faster, the packet swinging at her side, sunlight catching in her hair, bangles singing, every step lighter than the last.

The gate creaked open. The house was still quiet.

She slipped inside, set the meat in the fridge, and started the coffee—rich, strong filter coffee that would wake her children gently.

Today felt like the first day of something new.

And in the bedroom, Karthik stirred in his sleep, dreaming of rose-gold shimmer and a woman who finally knew she was allowed to shine.


--------------------------------------------------


Indhu stepped back into the quiet house, the meat packet cool against her hip, the butcher's words still dancing in her head.  

College girl. Twenty-five only.  

She felt them in every step, in the soft swish of the ankle-length skirt, in the way her loose hair brushed her bare arms.



She set the packet in the fridge and started the coffee—rich decoction dripping slow and dark into the steel filter, the smell filling the house like a promise.



First she carried a glass to the bedroom.



Karthik was still asleep on his side, one arm flung across the empty space where she had been, face soft and boyish. The sight made her heart do that funny flip again—half mother, half something she still refused to name.



She sat gently on the edge of the bed and touched his shoulder.

“Kanna… coffee.”



His eyes opened slowly, sleepy and warm, then widened the moment they focused on her.



For a long second he just stared—hair loose and shining, kajal lining her eyes, rose lipstick making her mouth look soft and full, the cream top and charcoal skirt hugging her in all the right places.



A slow, stunned smile spread across his face.

“Amma… good morning,” he whispered, voice rough with sleep and something else.

“You look… brand new.”



The words were simple, but the way he said them—like he was seeing her for the first time, like she was the most beautiful thing in the world—sent heat rushing through her chest and straight between her legs. Her pussy gave a helpless throb. She felt her nipples tighten against the cotton bra.



She handed him the coffee quickly, looking away so he wouldn't see the blush burning her cheeks.

“Drink before it gets cold.”



He sat up, took the glass, but his eyes never left her. He sipped slowly, openly admiring—her loose hair, the soft curve of her neck, the way the skirt dbangd over her thighs when she moved.



Indhu couldn't hold his gaze. The intensity in his eyes was too much—like he was memorising her, like he wanted to keep this version of her forever. She stood up too fast.

“I'll wake Leka.”



Leka stirred at the gentle shake, blinked, then sat up with a gasp.

“Amma! You look like my elder sister only! Seriously, what magic did you do last night?”



Indhu laughed, the sound shaky, and fled to the kitchen before either of them saw how deeply the compliments were affecting her.



The kitchen felt safe—familiar smells, familiar sounds. She started breakfast: soft idlies steaming, coconut chutney ground fresh, sambar bubbling with the sharp tang of tamarind.



Karthik finished his coffee and walked in quietly to put the glass in the sink. He stopped behind her, close enough that she felt the warmth of him at her back.



She was stirring the sambar, the long spoon moving in slow circles, skirt swaying gently around her calves. From behind he could see the curve of her waist, the way the fabric pulled slightly across her ass when she reached for the salt.



He felt alive in a way he never had—every nerve awake, every breath full of her.



He set the glass down and stepped closer, voice low.

“Amma… you really do look brand new today. Cute. Beautiful.”



She turned, startled, spoon dripping sambar onto the counter.

“Dei… stop it, you'll make me burn the food.”



But he didn't stop. The words kept coming, soft and honest.

“I mean it. The skirt, the hair, the kajal… everything. You look happy.”



The praise soaked into her like warm rain. She felt it in her breasts, in the sudden rush of wetness between her legs. She couldn't speak.



Then, without thinking—pure impulse—he slid his hands to her waist, fingers curling gently around the soft curve above her hips, and leaned in. One kiss on her cheek—soft, lingering. Another. A third, closer to the corner of her mouth.



Time stopped.



Indhu froze, breath caught, every nerve sparking where his lips touched her skin. His hands on her waist felt like brands—warm, possessive, perfect. For one endless second she leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut, body melting.



Then reality crashed back.



She opened her eyes and met his—dark, stunned, full of the same shock and hunger she felt.



The look lasted forever and not long enough. Powerful. Kajal-lined eyes locked on his, asking without words: What are you doing to me?



Karthik's heart slammed against his ribs. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't let go.



The soft jingle of Leka's anklets broke the spell—coming down the hallway.



They sprang apart like children caught stealing sweets.



Indhu turned back to the stove, hands shaking as she stirred nothing. Karthik grabbed a glass of water he didn't want, gulping it down to hide the flush on his face.



Leka bounced in, already changed into one of the new cotton pant-T-shirt sets—mint green, loose and cute.

“Breakfast smells amazing! I'm starving.”



Indhu forced a smile, voice only a little shaky.

“Go bathe first, kanna. Karthik, you too—go, both of you.”



Karthik escaped to the bedroom bathroom, heart still racing, the feel of her waist burned into his palms.



Leka chose the mint set and disappeared into the other bathroom.



Indhu stood alone in the kitchen, hand pressed to her cheek where his lips had been, feeling the warmth linger like a brand.



Breakfast was ready when they came back—Karthik in shorts and a loose T-shirt, Leka in her mint set, hair tied in a messy bun.



They ate together at the small table, sunlight pouring in, Leka chattering about college, Indhu and Karthik stealing glances across the idlies—quick, burning, full of everything they couldn't say.



The new clothes hung in the wardrobe like secrets.



And the day had only just begun.