Coerced Shadow: Entrapment of my mother

[Rupakpolo1]

I am going to start a mom cuck story soon.

[Uvaaaa]

Start soon

[Bakchod Londa]

W a i t i n g . . .

[Fing fing]

please start the story...waiting

[Rupakpolo1]

Today, I am going to share the real incident that happened in my childhood. My name is Ayan. I grew up in Kolkata with my Bengali parents. My mother's name is Debjani and my father's name is Bimalesh. My mother is a housewife and when this incident happened my father used to work as a merchant navy officer. He used to stay with us for six months and then leave for the sea for the next six months. My parent’s marriage was a love marriage. We lived with my grandmother in a small flat in South Kolkata.
I studied at one of the renowned colleges in Kolkata. This story starts when I was in class 5. There was a new Marwari boy who joined our class at that time. His name was Rohan Agarwal.

Rohan used to dress stylishly and was very tall for his age. I had a few female friends in my class. We used to sit together during lunch breaks and discuss our favourite cartoon shows. One day, I noticed Rohan staring at me when I was talking to one of my friends. When I smiled at him, he quickly looked away and pretended to read his book.

Later that day, during the bus ride home, Rohan sat next to me. He nudged me with his elbow and said in a mocking tone, "Ayan, the ladies' man." I didn't understand why he would say that. Was I supposed to laugh? Did he expect a response? I just looked out of the window, feeling confused.

My mom used to drop me in the bus stand and Rohan saw us multiple times. One day, he asked me, "Hey, who's that lady with you?"

I frowned, confused. "My mom."

Rohan leaned closer, his stupid grin widening. "No way. She's way too hot to be your mom." He said it like he'd just cracked some cosmic joke, and I felt embarrassed at this. I didn't know what to say.

I used to avoid Rohan but oneday Rohan sat beside me and pulled out a shiny new phone from his pocket, one of those sleek foreign brands that appears to be costly.

"Check this out," he said, flipping it open with a flick of his wrist. The screen lit up like a neon sign in a dark alley, way brighter than anything I'd seen before. His thumb swiped through apps—games with graphics so sharp they looked like they'd jump off the glass.

My parents were careful handing any such electronic item to me at this age. Through Rohan, I used to get chance to look into those mobile games. Soon we became friends.

Soon, Rohan began saving the seat beside him for me. During those rides, I learned bits about his world. He’d casually mention things, like how his father brought him a new gadget from Singapore, but what stunned me was the PlayStation. "Dad got it last week," he said one Thursday, shrugging like it was nothing. My stomach clenched. I’d begged Ma for months just for a cheap handheld game, but she’d snapped, "Books first, distractions later!" Yet here was Rohan, treating a console like pocket change.

One humid afternoon, while we hunched over his phone playing some racing game, Rohan suddenly paused mid-race. His thumbs stopped tapping, letting my pixel car zoom past his. "You know," he said, voice oddly flat, "Ma died when I was born." The words hung between us, sharp as shattered glass. I froze, unsure whether to look at him or away. He finally glanced at me, his glasses fogged. "I like watching her," he admitted softly. "Your Ma. When she waves goodbye to you. And when she’s waiting there in the afternoon, holding your umbrella." He swallowed hard. "She looks... warm."

Other kids had noticed Ma before. Girls from our bus route—Priya and Shalini—used to giggle behind their hands. "Your mother’s so pretty, Ayan," Priya would tease, making my ears burn. "Like a film star!" They’d say it loud enough for Ma to hear sometimes, leaving me shuffling my feet, wishing the college bus would swallow me whole. But Rohan’s gaze was different. Quiet, intense, almost reverent. He never smiled when he looked at her; he just watched, absorbing every detail—the way she smoothed my collar, the tilt of her head as she scanned the bus windows for me.

One afternoon in the kitchen, Ma scbangd coconut flesh into a steel bowl, the rhythmic grating pausing intermittently. "That tall boy," she murmured, not looking up, "the one with glasses." A drop of sweat slid down her temple, vanishing into the cotton of her sari. "He stares at me like he’s trying to memorize my face." The words coiled in my gut. She finally lifted her eyes, her fingers stilling on the grater. " I have seen sitting with him sometime in bus. Is he from your class?"

I responded to my mom carefully, keeping my eyes on the bowl of peeled garlic cloves in front of me. "Yeah, that's Rohan. He sits next to me sometimes and sometimes I do." The words came out too quickly, and I winced at how defensive I sounded. Ma's fingers slowed their rhythmic chopping of onions. A single drop of sweat trickled from her hairline down her temple, catching the afternoon light before she wiped it away with the back of her wrist. She again asked: "Does he have any problem?"

I hesitated, then blurted it out. "He doesn’t have a mother." The knife clattered against the cutting board as Ma froze mid-chop. “ She died when he was born,” I added, softer this time, watching Ma’s face—the way her lips parted slightly, the crease forming between her brows.

Ma exhaled sharply through her nose, wiping her hands on her sari. “Oh, baba,” she murmured, the words heavy with something that made my throat tighten. For a moment, she just stared at the tiny heap of chopped onions, blinking fast. Then her fingers curled around the edge of the counter. “Bring him home sometime,” she said suddenly. “He must be missing food cooked with a mother’s hand.” Her voice wavered on the last word.

Dad came home after few days just before my birthday.Later on the same day of my dad arrival, when Mom was rolling *luchis* for dinner, she nudged me gently. "Ask Rohan to come," she murmured. "For your birthday." Flour dusted her cheekbone like a pale scar.

Everytime during my birthday when my dad was present, he used to create handmade personalised invitation cards for my friends. He was surprisingly artistic, sketching elaborate borders with ink pens he’d collected from foreign ports. This year, he spread his materials across the dining table—thick ivory paper, metallic markers, even a tiny stamp set from Japan. I hovered nearby, watching as he pressed the stamp onto an inkpad and transferred a delicate ship silhouette onto Rohan’s card. “Make the waves blue,” I suggested, pointing. Dad smirked. “Thought you’d want rockets for your space-cadet friend.”

I glanced sideways at Ma, who was pretending to fold laundry but stealing glances at Dad’s work. She had a shoebox under our bed filled with past invitations—the ones with palm trees from when I turned six, the intricate mandalas from eight.

Rohan’s fingers trembled when I handed him the card the next morning. He traced the embossed ship with his thumb, his nail catching on the raised ink. “Your dad made this?” His voice cracked. I said - “Yes”

On my birthday, Rohan arrived precisely at six, clutching a clumsily wrapped box. His father stood behind him, a stout man with thick forearms straining against his silk kurta sleeves. His dad handshake crushed Dad’s fingers briefly before he thrust a gleaming tin of Danish cookies into Ma’s hands. "For the lady of the house," he boomed, his eyes sweeping over our modest living room. Guests murmured greetings, but their glances lingered on his gold Rolex, the diamond stud winking from his cuff.

Dad flicked a glance at Ma—her spine rigid as she forced a smile—before stepping forward. "Bimalesh," he said, extending his hand again, firmer this time. Rohan’s father pumped it twice. "Ravi Agarwal." His nostrils flared slightly as he inhaled the scent of ghee and cardamom wafting from the kitchen. Ma hovered near the doorway, fingers twisting her sari pallu. "Please, make yourself comfortable," she said, her voice unnaturally high. Ravi’s gaze slid past her to the framed photos on the wall, Dad in uniform, Ma laughing under a monsoon sky, me as a gap-toothed toddler. His thumb rubbed absently at his watch face.

Rohan nudged me, his elbow sharp. He kept staring at Ma's hands as she poured tea—the gold bangles sliding down her wrist, the way her fingertips pressed the cup’s rim just so. "Your mom," he whispered, "she smells like sandalwood."

I tugged Rohan toward my cousin Arjun and our old friends from the neighborhood. "This is Rohan," I announced, my voice too loud in the sudden lull. Arjun smirked, nudging Siddharth. "The new friend of yours?" Siddharth eyed Rohan’s stiffly ironed shirt. "You play cricket?" Rohan nodded eagerly, pushing his glasses up. "Batting or bowling?" Arjun challenged. Before Rohan could answer, Siddharth tossed a tennis ball. "Catch!" Rohan fumbled, the ball bouncing off his fingertips and rolling under Dad’s armchair. Arjun snorted. "Fielding practice needed." I laughed with them, clapping Siddharth’s shoulder, but Rohan’s smile faltered. He retrieved the ball silently, dusting it on his trousers.

Across the crowded room, Ravi uncle leaned against the sideboard, swirling whiskey in his glass. The amber liquid caught the ceiling light like molten gold. Between sips, his gaze slid toward the kitchen doorway where Ma adjusted the sari pallu over her shoulder, her bangles jingling as she stirred something on the stove. A strand of hair escaped her bun, clinging to her damp temple. Ravi uncle’s fingers tightened around his glass. Dad, chatting with neighbors by the balcony, caught Ma’s quick glance—her eyebrows flickering toward Ravi uncle—and excused himself with a pat on Mr. Ghosh’s shoulder.

Dad sauntered over, clinking his glass against Ravi uncle’s tumbler with deliberate cheer. "Another drink, Ravi?"
Ravi uncle said- “You have nice collection- Bimalesh Da”

Dad grinned—that easy, lopsided smile that made strangers feel like longtime friends. "All from ports you wouldn’t believe," he said, steering Ravi uncle toward the balcony where the humid Kolkata night clung to their skin.

Dad asked - “What you do Ravi? …must be in business?” Ravi uncle took a slow sip, his eyes flicking toward the kitchen again before answering. “Textiles,” he said. “Silk exports mostly.” His thumb rubbed the rim of his glass. “And you? Six months at sea—your wife must miss you.” The words hung between them, sticky as the July humidity. Dad’s grin didn’t falter, but his knuckles whitened around his drink. “Oh, Debjani manages,” he said lightly.

The cake cutting pulled us back inside. Chocolate sponge, Ma’s specialty. Dad lit the candles, his arm around Ma’s waist. "Make a wish, beta!" he urged. I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing fiercely for Dad’s next shore leave to come faster. As I blew out the candles, applause erupted. Rohan stood slightly apart, clapping politely. His father’s gaze stayed fixed on Ma, who sliced the cake with careful precision.

Dinner followed – steaming plates of *luchi*, fragrant mutton curry, Ma’s delicate *alur dom*. Chatter filled the room. I drifted back to Arjun and Siddharth near the balcony door, drawn by their laughter over a shared joke about their strict maths teacher. Rohan hovered near the edge of our circle, trying to follow the rapid-fire Bengali words. Siddharth tossed the tennis ball again, this time aiming it playfully at Arjun’s head. "Fielding!" Arjun yelled, ducking. The ball bounced off the wall behind Rohan, who flinched but didn’t catch it. "Relax!" Siddharth laughed, retrieving it himself. "Just messing around." Rohan offered a thin smile.

At the dining table, Dad leaned towards Ravi Uncle, gesturing at the spread. "So, Ravi Bhai," he asked, his voice warm but carrying across the table, "how are you finding Bengali cuisine? A bit different from Marwari fare, eh?" Ravi Uncle paused, a piece of *luchi* halfway to his mouth. He dabbed his lips neatly with a napkin. "Different, yes," he acknowledged, his gaze sweeping over the dishes. "But exceptionally flavourful." He looked directly at Ma, who was quietly serving *cholar dal* to one of dad old friends samaresh uncle. "The subtlety of spices, the balance... truly remarkable cooking, Mrs. Sen." His praise felt precise, measured, like an appraisal. Ma nodded politely, a faint flush rising on her cheeks. "Thank you, Mr. Agarwal," she murmured, avoiding his intense stare.

[Farz@123]

Nice one... Waiting for more

[Xossiy]

Update plz

[Twilight123]

Nice start

[Featherguy]

need a big update. Anyway starting of the story was awesome.

[Uvaaaa]

Nice start give a long update

[Xossiy]

Bro update fast your writein

[Rupakpolo1]

The steel spoon scbangd against the ceramic bowl with a soft clink as Ma scooped another generous portion of *alur dom*, the golden curry dripping thickly onto Rohan's already crowded plate. The steam curled upwards in lazy spirals, carrying the rich scent of mustard oil and bay leaves that mingled with the general cacophony of dinner conversation. Ma's fingers—still faintly stained yellow from turmeric—lingered near Rohan's wrist for a fraction longer than necessary as she adjusted his plate.

"Rohan," she said, and her voice had taken on that particular timbre it only ever did when addressing him—softer around the edges, like wool worn smooth with use. The overhead light caught the silver threading through her dark hair as she tilted her head, her gaze finding his with an insistence that made his shoulders stiffen imperceptibly.

"You must come over more often."

The words weren't a suggestion. They never were.

A grain of rice stuck to Rohan's lower lip; he swiped it away hastily with his thumb before it could draw attention. His glasses slid down the bridge of his nose—they always did when he was nervous—and he pushed them back up with a knuckle, buying time. The potato chunk he'd been about to spear with his fork remained suspended mid-air, the tines gleaming under the fluorescent kitchen light.

His eyes darted—quick as a sparrow—to where his father sat at the head of the table. Ravi Uncle had gone very still, his fingers curled loosely around his water glass. He took a slow, deliberate sip, the ice cubes clinking softly as he considered Ma over the rim. The condensation beaded and slid down the sides, leaving damp trails on the worn tablecloth.

"That's very kind of you, Debjani," he said at last. His voice was pleasant enough, but there was something beneath it—something that made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. "Though his studies require discipline." He set the glass down with a quiet finality, the base meeting the wood with a soft thud that somehow felt louder than it was. "Perhaps occasionally."

Rohan's shoulders slumped—just a fraction, just for a second—before he caught himself and nodded. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.

Later, long after the last guest had shuffled out the door with promises to meet again soon and the last of the laughter had faded into the humid Kolkata night, the apartment felt strangely hollow. The kind of quiet that comes after too much noise, when your ears ring with the absence of sound. The curtains—cheap cotton printed with fading flowers—still held the ghost of spices in their fibers.

Dad stretched with a groan, his spine popping audibly as he arched backwards in his chair. "Gifts!" Grandma announced suddenly, her voice cutting through the post-dinner lethargy. Her eyes—sharp despite her age—twinkled with barely suppressed excitement.

I knelt by the modest pile of presents, my knees pressing into the cool tile. The wrapping paper crinkled satisfyingly beneath my fingers as I tore into the first one—a crisp blue shirt from Grandma, still smelling faintly of the marketplace. Next came the cricket bat from Dad, its handle still rough and unweathered by use. Ma's handmade sweater emerged from its cocoon of paper, the stitches slightly uneven where she'd gotten distracted during her favorite television serials.

And then—Rohan's gift.

It sat apart from the others, wrapped in paper that had clearly been folded and refolded by uncertain hands. The tape was too thick in some places, absent in others. I peeled it back carefully, the paper giving way to layers of tissue so thin they tore at the slightest pressure.

The breath left my lungs in a rush.

Nestled in the paper wasn't the comic book I'd been expecting—the one I'd pointed out to Rohan just last week in the shop near college—but something far more impossible. Something that didn't belong in our cramped flat with its leaking taps and second-hand furniture.

The PlayStation gleamed up at me, its black casing polished to a mirror shine. The controller felt alien in my hands—too heavy, too cold.

"What on earth—?" Dad's voice came from somewhere above me, rough with disbelief. He crouched down beside me, his work-roughened fingers hovering over the console as though afraid it might disappear if touched.

Ma had gone very still by the sink, a plate dangling forgotten from her soapy hands. Water dripped steadily onto the floor, pooling around her bare feet. Her eyes—wide and uncomprehending—flicked from the glossy box to my face and back again.

"This is..." She trailed off, her voice thin. "This is too much. Why would he—?"

Dad picked up the console with careful hands, turning it over as though searching for some clue as to its provenance. His brow furrowed deeply—the way it always did when confronted with something beyond his understanding.

"Rohan's father gave this?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. His voice had taken on that particular tone—low and strained, the way it got when discussing things we couldn't afford.

I nodded mutely, my throat suddenly dry. The extravagant gift sat heavy in my lap, its presence an accusation.

Later—much later—when the flat was dark and still and the only sounds were the occasional rumble of a passing rickshaw and the creak of old pipes, I lay awake beneath the thin cotton sheet. The PlayStation sat on my desk, untouched.

Voices drifted from the kitchen—low and urgent, just barely audible through the thin walls.

"...impossible." Dad's voice was sharp, edged with something I couldn't quite name. "That Rolex alone costs more than my annual salary. And this?" A pause, thick with unspoken implications. "He claims he's in textiles. I don't believe him, Debjani."

Ma's reply came softer, muffled by the persistent hum of the refrigerator. "Bimalesh, stop it. You don't know anything. Just suspect everyone."

The silence that followed was heavier than before.

After my birthday, Rohan became a fixture in our flat—his presence slowly working its way into the fabric of our daily lives like a vine creeping up a wall. He'd appear at our door most evenings, his college uniform rumpled from the humid climb upstairs, his glasses fogged with condensation.

Ma welcomed him each time with the same warm smile, her hands still dusted with flour or turmeric from whatever she'd been cooking. "Sit, sit," she'd urge, already ladling extra rice onto his plate before he'd even taken off his shoes.

Rohan's initial stiffness—that careful guardedness he carried like armor—began to melt under her persistent ministrations. He lingered longer each time, finding reasons to stay well after homework was finished. Sometimes he'd help Grandma shell peas on the balcony, his fingers moving with surprising dexterity for someone so otherwise awkward. Other times he'd sit cross-legged on the floor, listening with rapt attention as Dad spun tales of storms near the Cape of Good Hope—stories he'd told a hundred times before but which Rohan treated with the reverence of scripture.

Our small living room—crowded with mismatched furniture and stacks of Dad's nautical charts—felt fuller with him there. Brighter.

Ravi Uncle started dropping by too, always arriving with gifts clutched in his manicured hands. For Dad, it was bottles of imported whiskey—Chivas Regal, Johnnie Walker Blue—their labels glossy and foreign-looking against our modest side table.

"For the sailor!" he'd boom each time, clapping Dad on the shoulder with enough force to make him rock forward slightly.

The two men would retreat to our cramped balcony, their chairs scbanging against the concrete floor. The humid Kolkata nights pressed in around them—heavy with the scent of frying oil from street vendors and the distant clamor of temple bells. Their glasses sweated condensation onto the wrought-iron table while the city hummed below—a constant symphony of honking cars and bicycle bells and the occasional burst of firecrackers from some unseen celebration.

Dad leaned back in his plastic chair, legs stretched out comfortably, while Ravi Uncle perched stiffly upright, his silk kurta straining slightly across his shoulders whenever he reached for his drink. They spoke in low murmurs punctuated by occasional laughter—their voices thick with whiskey and the unspoken weight of whatever lay between them.

Ma moved between them like a silent shadow, balancing plates of crisp pakoras still sizzling from the oil. Her bangles chimed softly with each precise movement—a gentle counterpoint to the men's deeper voices. The scent of fried onions and cumin clung to her sari as she bent to refill their glasses.

Ravi Uncle's fingers always lingered a second too long when taking the plate from her—just enough to be noticeable if you were paying attention. His eyes tracked the graceful arc of her wrist as she retreated, his gaze lingering on the fall of her dupatta.

Soon, Ravi Uncle was a near-weekly fixture—his arrivals timed to coincide perfectly with Ma finishing dinner. He'd fill our small flat with his loud presence and the sharp tang of his expensive cologne—something woody and foreign that clung to the curtains long after he'd gone.

He praised Ma's cooking with the precision of a connoisseur—analyzing the balance of coconut milk and mustard paste in her *chingri malai curry* with an intensity that made the hairs on my arms stand up.

"Debjani, you've outdone yourself!" he'd declare each time, making Dad puff up with pride beside him.

One particularly humid evening—the kind where the air felt thick enough to chew—Ravi Uncle leaned back in his chair, swirling amber whiskey in his glass. The ice cubes had long since melted, leaving the liquid diluted and lukewarm.

"Bimalesh," he began with studied casualness, "I've got a tricky situation." He sighed dramatically—the kind of sigh meant to draw attention. "A sudden business trip to Chennai next week. One week, perhaps."

His gaze slid to Rohan, who froze mid-bite.

"Leaving the boy alone with the cook..." Ravi Uncle shook his head slowly, his expression carefully arranged into something resembling concern. "It doesn't sit right."

He turned to Ma then, his smile wide but his eyes sharp.

"Debjani, would it be too much trouble...?"

Before he could finish, Dad clapped him on the shoulder with enough force to make him rock forward slightly. "Nonsense! Rohan's practically family already. He'll stay here!"

Ma nodded quickly, wiping her hands on her apron. "Of course, Ravi bhaiya. We'd be happy to have him."

Relief flooded Rohan's face—bright and sudden—before he could college his expression back to neutrality.

Ravi Uncle beamed, raising his glass. "Excellent! I knew I could count on you." The whiskey caught the light as he tilted it towards us. "To family!"

The day Ravi Uncle left for Chennai, Rohan arrived with an oversized duffel bag—the kind athletes used—his college uniform freshly pressed. Ma fussed over him immediately, adjusting his collar with fingers that lingered briefly—an unconscious maternal gesture.

That night, as we lay side by side on the makeshift mattress in my room—the ceiling fan creaking overhead and stirring the mosquito net dbangd around us—Rohan suddenly rolled onto his side.

"Hey," he whispered, his voice tight with something between curiosity and hesitation.

His next words came out in a rush—like he'd been holding them in all day and couldn't contain them any longer:

"Have you ever... seen them? Your parents. When they are alone?”

The question landed like a dropped coin—metallic and unexpected. My fingers clenched the sheet reflexively.

"What do you mean?" I asked, though I knew.

Rohan exhaled sharply through his nose—a sound of frustration. "Close," he pressed. "Like—"

His hand moved vaguely in the dark—fingers intertwining in a way that made my stomach flutter strangely.

Outside, the rhythmic scbang of Ma washing dishes paused—as if she'd heard us through the thin walls. The silence stretched until Rohan added, softer now:

"My dad has... women. Different ones. I've seen him getting intimate with them."

Confusion prickled my skin. "Intimate?" I echoed, wrinkling my nose.

Rohan's knuckles whitened around his pencil—I could hear the faint creak of wood under pressure. "You know," he whispered, eyes fixed on the paper. "Like... naked. Doing things…or if not naked, kissing each other.”

Silence pooled between us—thick and uncomfortable. Through the cracked door, Ma's muffled voice drifted from the kitchen—a soft reprimand to Grandma about burnt milk.

I shook my head violently, the cot creaking beneath me. "No," I hissed, curling my fingers into fists.

Rohan exhaled through his nose, pushing his spectacles up with one finger. "Your parents are just careful," he murmured, his gaze sliding toward my bedroom door. "They won't do anything where you could... catch them."

The humid night pressed against the mosquito net as Rohan unzipped his collegebag with exaggerated slowness. His fingers emerged clutching his phone—the screen's glow casting eerie shadows across his face.

I recoiled as he tapped twice, then thrust the device toward me. Two figures writhed on screen—mouths locked in a wet, twisting dance that made my stomach lurch. The woman's fingers raked through the man's hair as he grabbed her hips, pulling her closer until—

I shoved the phone away, my palms slick with sweat.

Rohan grinned, retrieving his phone like a prized trophy. "See? That's what married people do." His whisper slithered through the dark. "Your dad must kiss your mom like that every night."

My fingers curled into the bedsheet, the cotton bunching beneath my nails. "Shut up," I muttered, turning away.

The video's flickering images clung to my eyelids—the arch of that woman's back, her fingers twisting in bedsheets.

Rohan nudged my shoulder. "Your mom's lips are perfect for it," he persisted. "Full. Soft."

A mosquito buzzed near my ear. I swatted at it violently. "I said stop." My voice came out sharper than intended.

Outside, Ma's slippers whispered against the kitchen tiles.

Rohan exhaled dramatically, rolling onto his back. The phone's glow illuminated his smug expression. "Fine. But you know I'm right."

The ceiling fan's rhythmic squeak filled the silence. My fingers dug into the mattress. Beneath us, Grandma's muffled cough echoed through the thin floorboards.

"I'm sleepy," I muttered, turning my face toward the wall. The video's pulsing images still burned behind my eyelids—those grasping hands, that wet sound of mouths moving. I wiped my palms against my pajamas.

After Ravi Uncle returned, Rohan started getting picked up by Ma along with me when the college bus dropped us off. He'd stay with us until Ravi Uncle's sleek black sedan pulled up outside our building—the engine idling like a low growl in the alleyway.

Those hours felt suspended—homework spread across our dining table, Ma humming as she chopped vegetables, Rohan stealing glances at her movements as if memorizing the rhythm of her ordinary afternoons.

One particularly sticky evening—the kind where the air clung to your skin like wet paper—we sat cross-legged on my bedroom floor playing snakes and ladders.

I nudged Rohan's knee with mine. "You actually saw your dad with those women?" The question escaped before I could stop it, my voice barely above a whisper.

Rohan's fingers froze on the dice. For a moment, I thought he wouldn't answer.

Then he exhaled sharply, adjusting his glasses. "Not—not directly," he muttered. "But he keeps videos." His voice dropped lower, barely audible over the distant honking of Kolkata traffic outside. "Hidden in a locked drawer in his study. I found the key once." His breath hitched slightly as he rolled the dice—a six. "They're… different women. Every time."

He leaned closer, breath hot against my ear. "I can show you. Only if you come to my house."

The offer hung between us—heavy and forbidden. I never answered.

The day Dad's departure loomed—just a week away—Ravi Uncle invited us to his apartment.

Mom, Dad and I reached Ravi Uncle's building—an imposing structure of glass and steel that towered over the surrounding tenements. The doorman—resplendent in his gold-trimmed uniform—ushered us into the elevator with a deferential nod.

The lift opened directly into Ravi Uncle's penthouse—a fact that made Dad's eyebrows climb towards his hairline. Ma's sandals squeaked against the marble foyer as she stepped inside, her fingers tightening around the strap of her handbag until the knuckles stood out white.

The ceilings stretched impossibly high—hung with a chandelier that scattered diamond-shaped reflections across the walls.

"My god," Dad murmured, craning his neck.

Ravi Uncle chuckled—a low, satisfied sound—and guided us forward with expansive gestures.

"Welcome," he said, spreading his arms wide, "to my humble home."

The words dripped with false modesty.

Ma's breath hitched—just slightly—as she took in the expanse of polished marble, the floor-to-ceiling windows offering panoramic views of the Kolkata skyline. Her fingers—still rough from years of scrubbing floors and kneading dough—fluttered unconsciously to her hair, smoothing down nonexistent flyaways.

Dad's jaw worked silently as his eyes tracked the details—the imported Italian leather sofas, the original artwork hanging in museum-quality frames, the crystal decanters arranged just so on the teak sideboard.

Ravi Uncle watched our reactions with the quiet satisfaction of a magician revealing his best trick.

"Come," he said, leading us further into the apartment—his loafers clicking against the marble with each deliberate step. "Let me show you around."

His hand settled casually against the small of Ma's back—a touch that lingered just a second too long—as he guided her forward.

Dad didn't seem to notice this.

[Farz@123]

Nice and awesome update start giving regular updates

[neelchaand]

Great!

[neelchaand]

Fantastic start to another awesome story!
But All Be Aware!
Author of the story Rupokpolo1 has a signature habit of keeping all his awesome stories Unfinished!!!

Hopefully... He'll complete this story till the end!

[Rawaeee]

Really you are great

[ray.rowdy]

Glad to see you have started penning your next story. Hope you have already figured out its climax and definitely gonna finish it. Best wishes.

[Uvaaaa]

Super your way of writing is awesome

[Rupakpolo1]

He showed us the drawing room first—all cream leather and glass surfaces, dominated by a wine bar with bottles arranged like soldiers. “Single malt collection,” Ravi uncle announced, running his fingers along the labels. Behind it, a home theatre system took up an entire wall, its screen dark and massive. Dad whistled low under his breath as Ravi uncle demonstrated the surround sound, the thump of bass vibrating through my soles.

Rohan’s bedroom was next—twice the size of mine, with a gaming console hooked to a monitor that curved like a cinema screen. His neatly made bed looked lost in the space. “You like it?” Rohan nudged me, grinning at my wide eyes. Then Ravi uncle’s room: king-sized bed, a wardrobe with mirrored doors reflecting our stunned faces. My fingers brushed a keypad by the doorframe, its red light blinking. “Security,” Ravi uncle said smoothly, intercepting Dad’s curious glance. “All rooms have them. For valuables.”

We settled into the drawing room’s massive sectional, sinking into leather softer than best silk cushions. Ravi uncle dimmed the lights with a remote, the home theatre screen flickering to life, he played some Hollywood action movie in a low volume . He handed Dad a tumbler of whiskey, ice clinking, then perched on the armrest beside him, close enough that their knees almost touched. Ma sat stiffly between me and Rohan, her sari pallu clutched in her lap as helicopters whirred across the screen.

"So, Bimalesh," Ravi Uncle began, leaning forward conspiratorially, the ice in his tumbler clinking. "The merchant navy life. Six months tossing on some rusty tub, eh?" He chuckled, but his eyes stayed sharp. "Tell me honestly—how do you manage it? The loneliness? The... separation?" His gaze flickered toward Ma.

Dad shifted, the leather sighing beneath him. "It’s... part of the job," he answered carefully, swirling the dark whiskey. "You learn to cope. Letters, phone calls when possible." He glanced at Ma, a silent understanding passing between them. "It’s difficult," he admitted quietly. "Missing birthdays, festivals... the everyday things."

Ravi Uncle nodded slowly, thoughtfully, his gaze drifting deliberately from Dad to Ma. "And you, Debjani?" he asked, his voice softening unnaturally. He leaned closer, resting his elbows on his knees, the diamond cufflink catching the chandelier light. "How is it for you? Running the household alone for half the year? Raising Ayan?" His eyes lingered on her face, intense, probing. "It must be... incredibly tough." The air thickened with his sudden, focused attention. Dad stiffened beside her.

Ma met his stare, a small, tight smile touching her lips. She smoothed her sari over her knees, a gesture both composed and defensive. "We manage, Ravi bhaiya," she replied, her voice calm but firm. "Bimalesh provides. Ayan is a good boy. My mother-in-law helps. Life... finds its rhythm."

Ravi Uncle leaned back slowly, swirling the dark whiskey in his crystal tumbler. The ice chimed like tiny bells. A wide, practiced smile spread across his face, smoothing away the intensity of moments before. "Ah, resilience! Admirable, truly admirable," he boomed, the sound jarring in the sterile room. He raised his glass again, this time encompassing all of us. "But listen, Bimalesh Bhai, Debjani," he began, his tone shifting to one of earnest benevolence. "You've been such pillars for Rohan... practically family now." His gaze swept over our modest clothes, lingering subtly on Dad's worn watchstrap. "Since you've helped me so much," he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a confidential murmur thick with implication, "I am there to help your family. Anytime you need. Truly." He spread his hands wide, encompassing the opulent room. "Anything !!! … Grocery , Shopping or any emergency…just call me…I will be there." The offer hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, like the scent of expensive leather and imported whiskey.

Beside me, Rohan nudged my knee sharply .When I glanced at him, his eyes darted meaningfully towards the hallway leading deeper into the apartment. He tilted his head almost imperceptibly. *Come*, the gesture screamed silently. I hesitated, glancing back at the adults. Dad was staring fixedly at the amber liquid in his glass, his jaw clenched. Ma was looking down at her hands folded neatly in her lap, her posture rigid. No one was watching the movie. Ravi Uncle was watching them both, that benevolent smile still plastered on his face, waiting for a reaction to his grand proclamation. They were locked in their own tense, unspoken battle. Now was the moment.

I slid off the plush sofa, the leather sighing softly. Rohan was already moving, padding silently across the vast, cold marble floor towards a corridor. I followed, the echoes of our footsteps swallowed by the thick carpets further in. He stopped before a heavy wooden door, pushed it open, and slipped inside. I followed him into near-darkness.

Rohan’s room was cavernous, dominated by a massive bed and shelves lined with untouched-looking toys. But he beelined for a sleek black desk in the corner. On it sat a computer monitor, larger and flatter than any I’d seen. He pressed a button on the tower unit beneath the desk. A low hum filled the room, and the monitor flickered to life, bathing his face in an eerie blue glow. His fingers danced over the keyboard with practiced ease, tapping keys rapidly. He pulled a small silver memory stick from his pocket and plugged it into a slot on the tower. A tiny green light blinked on the stick.

I stared, dumbfounded. "You know how to use this?" I whispered. Computers at college were clunky things we barely touched. Rohan didn’t look up. "Dad taught me," he mumbled, clicking the mouse rapidly. A window popped open on the screen, filled with rows of tiny icons. "Said it’s important to understand technology." His voice was flat. He scrolled down, clicked once, and another window opened. This one showed a list of files with cryptic names: *Invoice_Del_Jan*, *Supplier_Pay_Feb*. Business stuff. My eyes glazed over. "What are we looking at?"

Then Rohan clicked a folder named *Personal*. Inside were videos. Thumbnails flickered – blurred glimpses of skin, tangled limbs. My throat tightened. This was it. The videos he’d mentioned. "See?" Rohan whispered, his voice tight. He pointed a trembling finger at one thumbnail showing a man from behind, dark hair slicked back. "That’s him." He didn’t need to say who. The posture, the arrogance – unmistakably Ravi Uncle. He hovered the mouse over the file. "Want to see?" The question hung, thick and sour.

I shouldn’t have said yes. The word tasted like dust. "Okay." My voice cracked.

Rohan’s eyes, huge behind his glasses, darted to the bedroom door. "Close it," he hissed. "Lock it." My fingers fumbled with the heavy brass knob, clicking the lock into place. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the silent room. He turned back to the glowing screen, the blue light etching harsh shadows on his face. With a single click, the video filled the monitor.

My breath stopped. Ravi Uncle, naked, his skin slick with sweat, loomed over a woman pinned beneath him on a rumpled silk sheet. Her face was contorted—mouth open in a silent scream, eyes squeezed shut, tears streaking through smudged makeup. Not pleasure. Pain. Raw, twisting agony. She clawed weakly at his shoulders, but he pinned her wrists above her head, thrusting harder. A low, guttural groan came from the computer speakers, mingled with her choked, shuddering sobs. My blood turned to ice water, freezing me where I stood.

"What..." The word scbangd out of my throat, dry and brittle. "What is this?" I couldn't tear my eyes away from the screen, from the awful, rhythmic violence unfolding. It wasn't like the fleeting glimpses of skin I'd imagined. This was darkness. Invasion.

Rohan’s voice was flat, detached, beside me. "Sex." He stared at the screen, his glasses reflecting the flickering horror. "What adults do. To enjoy." He said it was like reciting a dull textbook fact. "Dad says it’s... natural. Fun." His knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the desk. On screen, Ravi Uncle leaned down, biting the woman’s shoulder hard enough to make her arch and cry out – a sharp, ragged sound that cut through the speakers.

Fun? This wasn’t fun. This was terror. Her eyes weren’t closed anymore; they were wide, rolling in panic, fixed on the camera lens above the bed. She saw it. Saw *us* seeing her. A wave of nausea slammed into me. I stumbled back, bile rising hot and sour in my throat. My shoulder bumped against a shelf stacked with pristine model cars. One wobbled, fell, clattering onto the marble floor. The sound was deafening.

Rohan flinched violently, his hand jerking on the mouse. The video froze abruptly. Ravi Uncle’s face, twisted in exertion, filled the screen mid-thrust. The woman’s tear-streaked face, frozen in silent agony beneath him. The sudden silence was worse than the sounds. Heavy. Suffocating. Rohan stared at the frozen horror, his breathing shallow and rapid.

My own breath came in ragged gasps. The image burned into my retinas – the raw terror in the woman’s eyes, the possessive brutality in Ravi Uncle’s posture. This wasn’t fun. This was… monstrous. "Turn it off," I choked out, my voice thick with nausea. "Turn it off!"

Rohan flinched, his finger trembling over the mouse. But before he could click, the speakers crackled back to life, the frozen scene dissolving into motion. Ravi Uncle paused his thrusting, pulling back slightly. He wasn't looking at the camera now, but down at the woman beneath him. A slick sheen coated his chest. He ran a thumb roughly over her tear-streaked cheek, smearing her makeup.

"Shh, shh, my lovely," his voice purred from the speakers, chillingly calm amidst her ragged breaths. "You're doing so well. Such a good girl." He leaned down, planting a wet, possessive kiss on her trembling lips. She didn't respond, her eyes wide and vacant. "I'm proud of you," he murmured, his voice thick with false tenderness. "Keeping my client happy... that's what matters." He shifted his weight, grinding against her deliberately. "He was very pleased. Very pleased indeed." His hand slid down her body possessively.

The woman beneath him blinked, a flicker of something – relief? desperation? – crossing her tear-stained face. "I... I'm glad," she whispered hoarsely. "Glad you... you decided to be with me tonight." She lifted a shaky hand to touch his cheek. "After... after so many months..." Her voice cracked.

Ravi Uncle chuckled, low and satisfied, capturing her hand and pinning it back down beside her head. "Of course, my sweet," he murmured, his hips beginning a slow, grinding rhythm again. "I take excellent care of all my girls." He leaned in, kissing her deeply, possessively, his tongue forcing its way past her lips. She closed her eyes, a fresh tear escaping as she kissed him back, her body moving with his in a practiced, hollow rhythm. "You deserve it," he breathed against her mouth. "For making Mr. Ali so... enthusiastic." His thrusts became harder, faster, punctuating his words. "He paid double. *Double*."

My stomach lurched violently. I tore my eyes away, gasping for air that tasted like dust and decay. "Stop it!" I hissed, shoving Rohan's shoulder. He flinched, clicking the mouse frantically. The screen went mercifully black. The sudden silence roared in my ears, filled only by our ragged breathing and the frantic thudding of my heart against my ribs. The frozen image of the woman’s tear-streaked face was seared onto my eyelids.