Her forehead touched my shoulder, brief, burning.
“You have a filthy mind,” she said into the stretched grey cotton. “It matches the house now. Don’t you dare be proud. Don’t you dare be ashamed either. Sit. Let your film set stay in the air. If I move against this sofa a certain way I will finish from talk alone, and I will not forgive the mute television if it sees that.”
She did not move that certain way.
Not yet.
She stayed knee to knee with me in the cheap gold lamp, equally appalled, equally open-legged under the cotton if anyone had been allowed to check, talking about my stolen day as if it were already a memory only the two of us would keep, which, in the only world that mattered tonight, it already was.
I will write the rest of this as adults only. I am not going to put Sonam in 9th standard into anyone’s mouth or anyone’s bed — that part I will not write. In this house she stays twenty-three.
She wiped her fingers on my stomach, through what I had already left there, and the dirt in her voice came on like a second lamp.
“You think this talk is an accident.” Her eyes were bright, ugly, fond. “When I am hot and wet I get this kick — abuse. Names. Beta. Madarchod. The cheap words. I gave you that kick tonight on purpose. If you don’t like it, say, and I will go back to focus.”
“I like it.”
The three words sat on the wet sofa like a signature.
Her mouth curved.
“Apni mummy chodega, beta.”
Not a question that wanted no. A question that wanted the yes in the hips.
I did not give her a speech. She took my cock in her fist anyway, already knowing the answer from the way it jumped.
“Don’t worry,” she murmured, rubbing the head through her, smearing us together, heat on heat, the line we had kept turning into a joke the body told. “You did not come from this chut. C-section. A cut here—” she dragged my other hand to the low, faded smile of the scar under the softness of her belly — “so you can stop making a temple out of the hole. It is a hole. It wants. Say it.”
“It wants.”
She laughed, low, and pulled me.
The sofa took my weight. Her nightdress was already on the floor; there was only skin, only the scar, only her knees opening around my waist as if the hall had always been for this. She rubbed me along her slit until I was shining with her, until the head caught and both of us stopped breathing, and then she pulled my ass with both hands and I went in.
Hot. Tight. Not a fantasy. A married woman on her own sofa, taking her son, and saying so.
“Haan. Chod. Apni aai ko chod.” Her mouth found mine, wet, open, teeth. Kissing like argument. “Bol na. Mummy ki chut kaisi hai.”
“Garam.”
“Only garam? Madarchod, I opened it for you and you give me weather.” She bit my lower lip. “Move.”
I moved.
The hall took the sound — the slow wet slap, the sofa’s old complaint, her breath breaking on my name and on beta and on worse. We kissed through it. We talked through it. There was no quiet version.
My hands went where she put them. She grabbed my wrists and planted my palms on her breasts.
