Mom’s slap

The small village house creaked under the weight of the humid summer night, its mud walls baked by the day’s sun. Vishal, 23, sprawled on a worn cot in the corner. His salesman’s shirt was damp with sweat. The single bulb flickered above, casting shadows over the modest room.

He lived with his widowed mother, Sakshi. At 44, she was a vision—dusky skin glowing like polished teak. Her expressive almond eyes held a quiet strength and a curvy figure softened by years of labour. Her thick, dark hair often fell loose.

Her face carried both grace and weariness, much like the actress she unknowingly resembled. Vishal had always watched her. From the time he was old enough to notice, he’d ogle at her.

She would move through their cramped home—bending to sweep the floor. Her petticoat hugged her hips, or she was washing clothes by the well, her blouse clinging to her back. He’d spy through the cracked wooden door when she bathed.

The sight of water sliding down her spine ignited something primal in him. She was his mother, yes, but to Vishal, she was more—a forbidden flame he couldn’t extinguish.

Nights were his secret indulgence. When the village slept, he’d creep to her mat on the floor. His heart was pounding as he slipped a hand under her petticoat. The fabric rustled softly as he rubbed her thigh, her warmth seeping into his fingers.

She never stirred, lost in exhaustion. He’d retreat, guilt and arousal warring in his chest. It was wrong, he knew, but the pull was too strong—her scent, her softness, the way her breaths rose and fell like a rhythm he craved.

One night, the air thick with monsoon promise, Vishal pushed too far. His hand slid higher, brushing the curve of her hip, when Sakshi’s eyes snapped open. She jolted upright, her face a mask of shock and fury.

“Vishal!” she hissed, her voice cutting through the silence. Before he could stammer an excuse, her hand cracked across his cheek, the slap echoing in the small room. “I’m your mother, you shameless boy! What filth is this?”

Her eyes blazed, tears welling as she pulled her petticoat tight around her. Vishal stumbled back, the sting of her palm matched by the ache in his heart. “Maa, I—” he choked, but she turned away, her shoulders trembling.

He fled to his cot, curling into himself, the weight of her words crushing him. Sadness swallowed him whole—he’d crossed a line, and she hated him for it.

The next morning, Vishal left early for a sales trip, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He couldn’t face her, not with the memory of her slap burning his skin. The village faded behind him as he boarded a rickety bus, his mind a tangle of regret.

Meanwhile, Sakshi sat alone in the house, the broom idle in her hands. Her anger had cooled, replaced by a gnawing guilt. She’d raised her hand to her only son—the boy she’d nursed through fevers, the man who now kept their roof from caving in.

He was flawed, yes, but he was hers. And in the quiet, she felt something else—a flicker of heat, a buried ache. Vishal was no longer just her child; he’d become the man of the house, filling the void her husband had left behind.

Days passed. Vishal trudged through dusty towns, hawking cheap goods to surly shopkeepers. In a bustling market, he paused at a stall of colourful gowns—soft cotton, sleeveless, the kind Sakshi might wear. He bought three, picturing them on her, clinging to her curves.

It was an apology, a peace offering. When he returned home, the sun dipping low, Sakshi greeted him at the door. Her eyes softened as she took his bag, her voice casual. “How was the trip?” she asked, as if the slap had never happened.

“Fine, Maa,” he mumbled, handing her the plastic bag. “Got you something.”

She pulled out the gowns—red, green, blue—and smiled faintly. “Nice colours,” she said, folding them onto a shelf. They ate dinner in silence, the clink of steel plates filling the space.

Vishal stole glances at her, her dupatta slipping to reveal the slope of her neck. She seemed different—less guarded, her movements slower, deliberate. He couldn’t read her, but the air felt charged, heavy with unspoken things.

That night, Vishal lay awake, rehearsing his apology. He’d hurt her shamed her, and he needed to make it right. The moon hung low, silver light spilling through the window as he rose, stepping softly to her mat. “Maa,” he whispered, kneeling beside her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

Sakshi stirred, her eyes opening slowly. She sat up, her hair a dark cascade over her shoulders, the red gown he’d bought hugging her body. “Vishal,” she cut him off, her voice low, husky.

“Stop.” She reached out, her fingers brushing his cheek—not to slap, but to linger. “I was wrong, too. I shouldn’t have hit you. You’re my son… but you’re more now. The man of this house.”

His breath caught, her touch igniting the fire he’d tried to smother. “Maa, I—”

“Shh.” She leaned closer, her lips parting, her gaze wild and unguarded. “I’ve seen how you look at me. I’ve felt it. And I… I’ve missed being wanted.” Her confession hung between them, raw and electric.

Before he could process it, she pulled him to her, her mouth crashing against his in a kiss that was all hunger and surrender.

Vishal groaned, his hands finding her waist, the gown’s thin fabric no barrier to her heat. She tasted of salt and spice, her tongue fierce as it tangled with his. “Maa,” he gasped, breaking away, “is this okay?”

“Don’t call me that now,” she growled, her voice thick with need. “I’m Sakshi tonight—your woman.” She shoved him onto the mat, straddling him, her curvy frame pressing down.

The slap, the guilt, the years of restraint—it all melted in the heat of her body against his. She yanked his shirt off, her nails raking his chubby chest, drawing a hiss from his lips.

He grabbed her hips, flipping her beneath him, his bulk pinning her. “Sakshi,” he rasped, testing the name, savouring it. Her dusky skin glowed in the moonlight, her breasts straining against the gown as he tugged it down.

He kissed her neck, her collarbone, then lower, his lips closing around a nipple. She arched, a moan escaping her—a sound so wild it set his blood ablaze.

“You’ve wanted this,” she panted, her fingers digging into his shoulders. “Spying on me, touching me—I knew.” Her words were a taunt, a dare, and they drove him deeper into the madness.

He slid a hand under the gown, finding the softness of her thigh, then higher, her heat slick against his fingers. She bucked, her breath ragged. “Don’t tease,” she snarled, “take me.”

Vishal shed his pants, his arousal stark against his chubby frame. She spread her legs, pulling him down, her eyes locked on his—expressive, fierce, pleading. He entered her slow at first, the sensation overwhelming, her warmth enveloping him.

“Fuck,” he groaned, the word slipping out as he moved, her moans matching his rhythm. She was tight and wild, her nails clawing his back as she urged him faster.

“Harder,” she demanded, her voice breaking, her hips rising to meet him. The mat creaked beneath them, the village night swallowing their cries. He gripped her ass, lifting her, driving deeper, the emotional weight of years spilling into every thrust.

She was his mother, his forbidden dream, and now his lover—surrendering, claiming, consuming. Sakshi’s hands roamed his body, tracing the rolls of his stomach and pulling him closer. “You’re mine,” she whispered, her tone possessive, sensual.

She wrapped her legs around him, locking him in, her breath hot against his ear. “Don’t stop—make me feel it.” Her words unleashed him. He pounded into her, the line between son and man dissolving in sweat and lust.

The air grew thick, their bodies slick as they chased release. Vishal buried his face in her neck, inhaling her scent—earth, musk, home. She shuddered beneath him, her cry sharp and primal as she came, her walls pulsing around him.

It tipped him over, and he spilt into her, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. They collapsed, tangled and panting, the mat damp beneath them.

For a long moment, they lay there, the silence heavy with what they’d done. Sakshi traced his jaw, her touch tender now. “No more guilt,” she murmured, her eyes soft but firm. “You’re the man here. I’m yours.”

Vishal nodded, his chest tight with emotion—love, relief, a wild new bond. He pulled her close, her curvy body fitting against his, and they drifted into sleep, the village night their witness.

The next morning, Sakshi wore the green gown, her smile quiet but knowing as she cooked. Vishal watched her, no longer spying but openly admiring. The slap was a memory, the sadness gone. They’d crossed into something new—sensuous, emotional, untamed—and the small house felt alive with it.