“Here,” she said matter-of-factly, fingers tracing just below her navel. “This is where a woman carries life. Soft, sensitive.” She let the kurti rest there, exposing herself with the same clinical ease she’d use showing me a diagram in a textbook.
My mouth went dry. Blood roared in my ears. My cock throbbed painfully against my thigh, leaking helplessly into my underwear.
She glanced down at herself, then back at me, voice gentle. “Breasts are for feeding babies, but they’re also very sensitive. Touch can feel nice—comforting, pleasurable.” She cupped one breast lightly through the bra, lifting it slightly as if demonstrating weight, not seduction. “See how full they get sometimes? It changes with the month.”
I couldn’t breathe. The sight of her own hand on her breast—innocent, educational—sent a bolt of pure agony through me.
Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her palazzo pants and eased them down just a few inches, revealing the gentle rise of her lower belly and the very top of her black lace panties. The fabric clung low on her hips, a faint shadow of dark curls visible through the sheer lace.
“And here,” she said softly, fingertip tracing a small circle just above the lace edge, “is where a woman is most sensitive. The clitoris—it’s small, but full of nerves. When a woman is aroused, this area swells, becomes wet…” She paused, cheeks tinting the faintest pink—not embarrassment, but the shy admission of a private truth. “Your father’s been away so long… sometimes I wonder too. If I’m still… capable of feeling those things.”
The confession hung in the humid air like incense. Her eyes met mine, vulnerable for the first time, seeking reassurance from her son. “Do I still seem… normal to you, beta? Desirable, even a little?”
The question wasn’t flirtation. It was loneliness wrapped in maternal trust, meant to comfort me by normalizing desire itself. But to me it was devastation: the first crack in her serene innocence, the first hint that she might ache too.
I could only stare, tears burning behind my eyes, cock pulsing with need so intense it hurt. “You’re… the most beautiful woman in the world, Mummy,” I whispered, voice cracking. “Always.”
Her face softened, eyes glistening. She reached out and cupped my cheek, thumb brushing my lower lip. “My sweet boy.” Then she lowered her kurti, tugged her waistband back into place, and the Mummyent folded itself away like a secret letter—tender, devastating, irreversible.
The house still buzzed with the echoes of laughter and popped balloons when the last of the guests trickled out, leaving behind a battlefield of confetti-strewn floors, half-eaten cake plates, and wilting streamers dangling from the ceiling fans. It was my eighteenth birthday—Ankit turning legal, as Ajay had joked all evening—and Mummy had outdone herself: a sprawling buffet of spicy chaat, buttery pav bhaji, and a towering chocolate cake she’d baked herself, her apron dusted with flour and her cheeks flushed from the kitchen heat. She’d invited the whole neighborhood gang—classmates, cousins, even a few of Papa’s business associates who’d pinched my cheeks and slipped envelopes of cash—but the real spark came from her, Savitri, gliding through the crowd in a fitted red saree that hugged her curves like a lover’s promise, blouse low enough to tease the deep valley of her cleavage, pallu slipping artfully over one shoulder as she served plates with that warm, inviting smile.