I moved deeper, thumbs pressing along her scalp, nails scraping lightly in the way she used to love when I was small. Each stroke drew another sigh, longer, softer, her head gradually falling back until it rested against my chest. The weight of her hair spilled over my thighs; the warmth of her body seeped through the thin layers between us. I could feel the rise and fall of her breathing, the faint tremor when my fingertips grazed the sensitive spot behind her ears.
“Mmm… right there,” she whispered, voice husky with simple relief. A tiny, involuntary moan escaped as I massaged the base of her skull, tension melting from her shoulders. She shifted slightly, settling more firmly between my legs, the curve of her lower back pressing against my inner thigh. My cock swelled painfully against my shorts, trapped and throbbing, the heat of her body inches away.
She noticed—of course she did. The subtle stiffening in my posture, the way my breathing changed. But she only smiled to herself, eyes still closed, thinking: He’s at that age… everything feels intense. Let him have this closeness. It’s harmless.
I kept going, hands trembling now, oil slicking my fingers as I worked down to the nape of her neck, thumbs kneading tight knots. Another soft moan, deeper this time, vibrating through her back into my chest. Her head lolled sideways, cheek brushing my collarbone for a fleeting second. The scent of coconut oil mingled with her warm skin, the faint jasmine of her soap, the deeper, womanly note that lived beneath. Every exhale carried it straight into my lungs.
When I finally gathered her hair to braid it loosely, the way she’d taught me years ago, my knuckles grazed the soft skin between her shoulder blades. She shivered—just relaxation, nothing more—but the tiny movement ground her ass lightly against my trapped erection. I bit back a groan. She stilled for half a heartbeat, then simply leaned forward again to let me finish the braid, humming an old lullaby under her breath.
“There,” she said at last, turning to press a fond kiss to my cheek, maternal and chaste. “Thank you, beta. Feels wonderful.”
She rose gracefully, saree whispering against my knees as she passed, leaving me sitting in the dying light with oil-slick hands, a raging hard-on, and the ghost of her moans echoing in my blood.
The afternoon sun slanted through the half-drawn curtains of my parents’ bedroom, casting long shadows across the polished wooden floor that creaked under my hesitant footsteps. I needed cash for the gas cylinder—the delivery guy was waiting downstairs, honking impatiently from his rickety van—and Papa always kept a stash in the old almirah drawer, tucked beneath folded shirts like a mundane secret. Mummy was out, or so I thought; the house had felt empty when I slipped in from the terrace, still buzzing from the hair-oiling ritual that had left my fingers scented with coconut and my cock half-hard from the ghost of her sighs. But as I crossed the threshold into their room, a sound stopped me cold: the steady hiss of running water from the attached bathroom, muffled but unmistakable, like a whispered invitation I wasn’t meant to hear.