I couldn’t breathe. My cock hardened instantly, painfully, straining against my shorts like a caged animal desperate for release. Emotion crashed over me in waves: guilt, sharp and twisting like a blade in my chest—this is your mother, you sick fuck—mingled with a raw, aching tenderness that made my eyes sting. She was beautiful, not in the airbrushed porn way we’d ogled on the laptop, but real, flawed, human: the faint stretch marks on her hips from carrying me, the soft pooch of her belly that spoke of life given, the way her hands moved with unconscious grace, soaping her arms, her neck, then lower—oh god—cupping her breasts to lather them, thumbs brushing over nipples in a motion that looked almost absentminded, but sent a jolt through me as if she’d touched me instead.
A low moan escaped her—not sexual, just the sigh of relaxation as the hot water eased the day’s knots—but in my fevered mind, it twisted into something erotic, a sound meant for me, echoing the moans from our hair ritual. I imagined her knowing I was there, performing for her hidden audience, but no—she was oblivious, lost in her private world. Her hands slid down her torso, fingers splaying over her stomach, then dipping briefly between her thighs to wash, a quick, efficient motion that made my vision blur with want. Water sluiced over her ass as she turned, the full, rounded cheeks flexing, a dimple at the base of her spine collecting droplets like forbidden nectar. I wanted to taste it, to kneel and lick every inch, to bury my face in her warmth and inhale the musk beneath the soap—clean, womanly, maternal yet profane.
Shame burned hot in my veins, but it only fueled the fire. My free hand drifted down, pressing against my erection through the fabric, a desperate rub that sent sparks up my spine. Stop, my mind screamed, but my body betrayed me, hips twitching involuntarily as I watched her rinse, the water turning her hair into a black river down her back. Emotion deepened the kink: this wasn’t just lust; it was obsession, a son’s love warped into something darker, more possessive. She was mine—had always been, from the womb to now—and spying like this claimed her in secret, a twisted bond that made my heart ache even as my cock throbbed. Tears pricked my eyes; I loved her so much it hurt, this woman who’d nursed me, scolded me, held me through fevers, now reduced to an object of my depraved gaze. Yet the power thrilled me—the voyeur’s high, stealing what wasn’t offered, every glimpse a stolen kiss.
She hummed softly—a lullaby she’d sung to me as a child—voice vibrating through the steam, innocent and piercing. Her hands lingered on her thighs, massaging sore muscles from her run, fingers digging in deep enough to leave faint red marks on her skin. I imagined those marks under my teeth, biting down as she gasped my name. The ventilator grille dug into my cheek, a painful reminder of the barrier between us, but I pressed harder, desperate for clarity. Finally, she shut off the water, the sudden silence deafening, broken only by drips echoing like heartbeats. She reached for her towel, body twisting in a way that arched her back, breasts thrusting forward, nipples tightening in the cooler air. As she dried off—patting her neck, her arms, then wrapping the towel around her torso—she paused, head cocking slightly, as if sensing eyes on her. My breath hitched; did she know? But she shook it off with a small smile, murmuring to herself, “Silly, it’s just the heat.” In her mind, perhaps a fleeting thought: Ankit is growing up… boys get curious. She rubbed it away like steam on a mirror, preserving the innocence between us.