The dare escalation hit its fever pitch at the next sleepover, a humid Saturday where the air hung heavy with unspoken threats and the friends’ insatiable greed. They cornered me in my room after Mummy had tucked in, her hospitable “goodnight, boys” still echoing sweetly down the hall. Ajay leaned in close, breath hot and beer-tinged from smuggled cans, his eyes wild with that same predatory gleam: “Time to up the ante, bro—that ventilator shit was hot, but we want the full show. Leave the bathroom door cracked next time she showers, or better yet, plant your phone in there to record. We need video—her soaping those tits, fingering that pussy like you described.” Sanjay’s grin was feral, hand already drifting to his crotch as he added, “Do it, or those screenshots go viral—class group, her work friends, everyone.” My jealousy spiraled into a black vortex, dark fantasies blooming like poison flowers: punishing her for unwittingly stoking their lust, bending her over the sink and railing her mercilessly while they watched the feed, her cries of confusion turning to ecstasy as I claimed her body in brutal reclamation, whispering “this is for them, Mummy, for making me share you.” The betrayal weighed like lead, pushing me toward active complicity, my cock hardening at the thought even as my soul fractured.
The emotional fracture point shattered me one sultry night after yet another foot ritual, the lotion still slick on my fingers as she dozed off mid-massage, her feet nestled trustingly in my lap like a child’s. She lay there on the sofa, nighty disheveled, legs splayed in innocent repose, the shadowed valley between her thighs calling to me like a siren’s song. I almost broke—leaning down to kiss the high arch of her foot, tongue flicking out to taste the salty-sweet lotion; almost slid my hand higher, fingers trembling as they grazed her inner thigh, inching toward the heat of her chut, the plump mound I’d spied on so many times, imagining parting those lips and delving inside while she slept, her body responding unconsciously to her son’s touch. But guilt crashed down like thunder, freezing me mid-reach; I pulled back, tears burning, fleeing to my room where the ache consumed me whole.
The night of the almost-crossing left me shattered, curled on my bed with silent tears soaking the pillow, the ghost of her warm inner thigh still burning my fingertips. I avoided her eyes the next morning, mumbled excuses about headaches, hid in my room until the friends’ texts became too loud to ignore. But Mummy—Savitri, my gentle, perceptive mother—noticed the fracture in me the way only she could. That evening she found me on the terrace staring at nothing, sat beside me without a word, and simply rested her head on my shoulder until the sun bled out. No questions. Just presence. It was the first crack of light in the darkness I’d built.
A few days later, the power cut again—longer this time, the whole colony plunged into humid darkness. Candles flickered on the dining table; the air smelled of melting wax and her faint jasmine talc. She sighed, fanning herself with a newspaper. “This heat is unbearable. I’m going for a quick bath—bucket water only, no geyser.” A pause, then softer, almost shy: “Ankit… remember when you were small, we’d bathe together to save water? You’d scrub my back with that little plastic mug.” Her smile was nostalgic, maternal, utterly devoid of anything darker. “Come help your old mother again? Just like old times.”