The rain hammered against the tin roof of our small Mumbai apartment like it wanted to wash away every sin we were about to commit.
I stood in the kitchen doorway, my cotton saree clinging to my damp skin, watching my twenty-two-year-old son Rahul peel off his soaked shirt. His broad chest rose and fell, water tracing paths down the dark hair that arrowed toward his waistband. I had raised this boy alone since his father left, but lately the house felt too small, the nights too long, and the ache between my thighs too sharp to ignore.
"Rahul, come dry yourself before you catch cold," I said, my voice lower than usual. He turned, eyes locking on the way my blouse had turned translucent, nipples dark and tight against the thin fabric. He didn't look away. Instead he stepped closer, the heat from his body cutting through the humid air.
"Maa, you've been staring at me all week. Every time I come out of the shower." His hand reached out, fingers brushing the edge of my pallu, sliding it off my shoulder. The saree slipped, exposing the swell of my breasts. I should have stopped him. Instead I leaned into the touch, feeling the calluses on his palm as he cupped one heavy breast through the wet blouse.
"I've tried to be good," I whispered, already pulling at his belt. "But watching you grow into this man… it makes me wet every night." The words came out raw, dirty, exactly what we both needed. Rahul groaned, yanking my blouse open. Buttons scattered across the floor. My breasts spilled free, full and dark-nippled, and he bent to suck one hard into his mouth. His tongue circled, teeth grazing, while his hand shoved up under my saree, finding my bare thigh and then the soaked crotch of my panties.
"Fuck, Maa, you're dripping." He pushed two fingers inside me without warning, knuckle-deep in my tight heat. I cried out, hips bucking against his hand. The kitchen smelled of rain and sweat and my arousal. I fumbled his cock freethick, veined, already leakingand stroked it hard, thumb smearing the precum over the head.
We didn't make it to the bedroom. Rahul spun me around, bent me over the wooden table, and ripped my panties aside. The head of his cock nudged my entrance, thick and insistent. "Tell me you want your son's cock," he demanded, voice rough.
"I want it," I panted. "Fuck your mother, Rahul. Fill this hungry pussy."
He slammed in deep on the first thrust, stretching me wide. I gasped, walls clenching around him as he started pounding. Each stroke slapped skin against skin, the table scraping the floor. My breasts dragged against the wood, nipples scraping. Rahul gripped my hips, pulling me back onto his cock with every thrust, muttering filthy things in Hindi mixed with English: "Take it, Maa, take your son's lund deep… you're so tight, so wet for me."
I came first, hard, gushing around him, thighs shaking. He didn't stop. He flipped me onto my back, hooked my legs over his shoulders, and drove back in. The angle let him grind against my clit with every stroke. Sweat slicked our bodies. Outside, thunder rolled as he fucked me through another orgasm, then pulled out and painted my belly and breasts with thick ropes of cum.
We stayed like that, breathing hard, until the rain eased. Then I pulled him down for a slow, deep kiss, tasting myself on his tongue. "This is only the beginning," I told him, already reaching between us to stroke him hard again. The night was young, the apartment empty, and the monsoon had only just started.
