It was a hot summer afternoon in Kolkata. I, Arjun, 19 years old, was at my best friend Rohan’s house as usual. We had been friends since school. But lately, I couldn’t stop noticing Aunty — Rohan’s mother, Priya Sharma.

Aunty was 41, but she had the body of a woman who took care of herself. Fair skin, long black hair usually in a neat bun, full breasts that pressed against her cotton sarees, and curvy hips that swayed gently when she walked. She was the perfect Indian mom — soft-spoken, religious, always wearing a mangalsutra and sindoor, and treating me like her own son.

“Arjun beta, Rohan will be late today. Come, have some cold lemonade,” she called from the kitchen, her voice sweet and caring.

I walked in. Aunty was standing near the fridge, her pallu slightly slipped from one shoulder because of the heat. A thin line of sweat was running down her neck into her cleavage.

“Thank you, Aunty,” I said, taking the glass. My eyes couldn’t help but linger.

She noticed. Her cheeks turned a little pink. “Kya dekh rahe ho beta? (What are you looking at, son?)” she asked softly, adjusting her pallu quickly.

I smiled nervously. “Nothing, Aunty. It’s just… you look very beautiful today. The red saree suits you.”

She laughed shyly, covering her mouth. “Arre pagla. Main tumhari Aunty hoon. Aisi baatein mat kiya karo.” (You’re crazy. I’m your Aunty. Don’t say such things.)

But she didn’t scold me. Instead, she looked down, a small smile playing on her lips.

We stood there in the kitchen, the fan spinning slowly above us. The air felt heavier. I took a step closer.

“Aunty… Uncle has been away for almost a month now, right?” I asked casually.

Her expression changed a little. “Haan beta… job ke wajah se. Bahut busy rehta hai.” (Yes… because of his job. He stays very busy.)

There was a hint of loneliness in her voice.

I kept my tone innocent. “You must feel alone sometimes.”

She looked at me for a long second, then turned back to the counter. “Sabko apni zindagi mein kuch na kuch compromise karna padta hai, beta.” (Everyone has to compromise in life.)

The way her saree was clinging to her body because of sweat… my cock was already starting to get hard.

I wanted her. Badly.

And this was just the beginning.