Each ascent up that imposing mahogany bedpost felt like a pilgrimage to a profane altar, my fingers gripping the carved wood—smooth and unyielding, like the curves of a woman’s body I dared not touch—as I hoisted myself higher, muscles straining, sweat beading on my forehead from the effort and the heat. The ventilator grille transformed into my personal confessional, its cool metal slats pressing against my flushed cheek as I peered through, absolving myself in the steam-filled sanctity below while damning my soul deeper with every stolen glance. I watched her—my mother, Savitri—in all her unaware glory: her hands, graceful and methodical, lathering soap under the heavy undersides of her breasts, lifting them one at a time with a casual heft that made the full globes jiggle softly, water cascading in rivulets over the dark, pebbled nipples that tightened visibly in the humid steam, puckering like ripe berries begging to be sucked. Then she’d bend forward to shave her legs, the motion arching her back and parting her ass cheeks just enough to reveal the shadowed cleft between them, the soft, forbidden pucker of her asshole winking in the light like a hidden secret, smooth and vulnerable, making my mouth water with depraved urges to taste, to probe, to claim what no son should ever crave. And when her fingers dipped between her thighs to rinse, it was absent, efficient—a quick swirl through the dark curls and plump lips of her pussy, suds swirling down the drain—but in my filthy, fevered mind, it twisted into deliberate seduction, her digits lingering a fraction too long, parting those slick folds as if performing for an invisible audience, teasing me with what I’d never have. I never dared touch myself up there, perched precariously on that wooden throne—terror of slipping, of crashing down and shattering the illusion gripped me too tightly—but the ache burrowed deep, a relentless throb echoing behind my zipper, following me like a shadow through meals, chores, and sleepless nights, my balls heavy and aching with unspent seed.
The friends—Ajay and Sanjay, those bastards who’d once been brothers in arms—only amplified the torment, turning my private hell into a shared, humiliating spectacle that gnawed at my insides like acid. It started subtly, Ajay’s texts pinging my phone with what seemed like innocent banter: a looping GIF of a voluptuous MILF strutting in lingerie, hips swaying hypnotically, captioned with a sly “remind you of anyone? 😏”—the emoji winking like a co-conspirator, stirring a flush of recognition that made my stomach lurch with a volatile mix of jealousy and shameful heat, knowing exactly who he meant. Then Sanjay escalated, firing off a slow-motion video clip of a curvy woman in a sheer nighty bending over a counter, her ass cheeks jiggling enticingly as she reached low, overlay text scrawled crudely across the screen: “Aunty at dinner last night fr”—a direct jab at that evening’s memory, her lavender nighty clinging to her unbound curves, and suddenly I was reliving their leering stares, my blood boiling. They bombarded me relentlessly after that, a digital onslaught that chipped away at my sanity: poorly edited side-by-side comparisons of busty porn stars with Mummy’s face clumsily photoshopped onto their bodies, her warm smile juxtaposed against arched backs and spread legs; voice notes hissed through my earbuds in the dead of night, Ajay’s whisper rasping “bet her pussy smells like jasmine and heaven, bro, all warm and wet for us”; even dick pics from Sanjay, his veiny shaft gripped in his fist, captions like “this is what Aunty does to me—hard as fuck thinking about burying it in her.” I wanted to block them, to scream into the void that she was mine alone to worship in tortured silence, a sacred idol not for their grubby paws, but the humiliation of knowing they stroked themselves to her image too only honed my obsession to a razor’s edge, making every crude meme feel like a theft of her essence. Yet, perversely, sharing the secret—even against my will—intensified everything; my solitary showers became frenzied rituals, forehead pressed to the cool tile as hot water beat down, my fist pumping furiously to warped visions of them watching her through the grille while I watched them, their grunts mingling with mine in a twisted symphony of betrayal and desire.