The moment Balu stepped into the kitchen with the empty coffee tumbler, Manjula periyamma fixed him with that exhausted yet adoring smile.
"Come here, little stud…" (kunju paiya = the filthy-sweet secret nickname some Tamil aunties use for their favourite young nephews when they want to tease them about their growing cock; sounds harmless to outsiders but makes the boy's dick leap)
"You're a big boy now. Studies, job, money—life is about to race ahead. Keep your head straight, study hard, land a good job… and until then drop all this useless playboy nonsense, got it, darling?"
"Yes, Periyamma," Balu muttered, eyes glued to the floor.
She stepped right up to him, yanked his head down and ruffled his hair roughly. She had just finished cleaning uncle's piss and shit; her armpits were drenched in thick, ripe woman-sweat. The raw, musky scent slammed into Balu's nose and shot straight to his cock.
"But right now it's holiday… so enjoy yourself to the fullest, little stud!"
Balu walked back to the hall. His mother Lalitha had changed into a nightie. Amma's body had always been lethal—wide, heavy hips, a deep navel you could lose a finger in, and a big, round ass that sat high and proud like two ripe melons. She wore her saree as low as decency allowed, the fold sometimes slipping to reveal the top of her ass-crack. A nightie was even more dangerous—every curve, every jiggle on full display. If the doorbell rang she'd throw a shawl over her tits, but inside the house she let everything bounce free.
Manjula: "Want some more?"
Lalitha: "No, I'm good."
The three of them sat in silence while a Vijay TV serial screamed in the background.
Ten minutes later the cot creaked loudly from uncle's room.
"Mama's awake," Manjula said and stood. Balu and Lalitha followed.
Uncle Arumugam struggled to sit up, smiled weakly when he saw them, exchanged a few words, then rolled over and went back to sleep.
Manjula tucked her pallu tight into her waist—the saree now hugging her massive hips and fat ass like a second skin—and said,
"Lali, you two watch TV… I left the bathroom half-cleaned, I'll finish it."
Lalitha: "Take Balu with you."
"Aiyo, the boy just arrived… you want to put him to work the second he lands?"
Balu followed her to the backyard anyway.
The old cement overhead tank was coated with slimy green moss. Manjula stepped onto a plastic stool, sat on the rim, swung both legs over, and dropped inside. Her smooth, fair calves and thighs flashed in the sunlight, glistening with sweat. Balu stared like a starving man.
Staring at his own periyamma like this was a mortal sin, but his age, the porn he jerked off to every night, the incest stories he devoured—everything had already turned his cock half-hard.
She bent low to scoop the filthy water. Her blouse rode up; her entire belly was exposed—soft, slightly folded flesh, gold chain and mangalsutra swinging between her heavy breasts. Balu's brain burned the image into permanent memory.
Bucket after bucket came up. Her blouse turned transparent with sweat—white bra completely visible, even the dark edge of one nipple poking through the wet fabric. Balu's cock swelled to full mast, straining against his shorts.
Finally she straightened, panting.
"My whole body is burning… run inside and grab cold water from the fridge, quick!"
Balu sprinted, snatched a Kinley bottle, sprinted back. Periyamma stood with hands on hips, chest rising and falling like bellows. She threw her head back and gulped—water spilled from the corners of her mouth, streamed down her neck, and vanished into the deep valley between her breasts. Balu swallowed hard, imagining his tongue following that same path.
She wiped her lips with the back of her hand, then—without a shred of shame—pressed her palm firmly once right over her mound, rubbing hard for a second as if soothing an ache deep inside her cunt. Balu saw every single movement.
Three minutes later:
"Almost done, little stud… go fetch the phone, I need to call Kalpana about mama's medicine."
That "little stud" again echoed in his ears like a whore's moan. His cock jerked violently.
He dashed inside. Amma wasn't in the hall. Suddenly the curtain to uncle's room parted—Lalitha stepped out, hurriedly wiping her mouth with the nightie pallu and tugging the neckline back into place.
"Mama wanted water… I gave it to him," she said casually and went to wash her hands.
For one filthy heartbeat Balu pictured his own mother on her knees in there. Guilt and lust crashed together like waves.
He grabbed the phone and bolted back.
Periyamma had climbed down, legs spread wide for balance, petticoat hiked up to her knees, phone now stuffed inside her soaked blouse and pressing against one fat tit.
"One last round of bleaching powder and we're finished," she said. She squatted, saree riding high on her thighs, sprinkled the powder, then stood.
Mani mama's bike roared up. Lunch was eaten—omelettes, small talk, nothing unusual.
Ten minutes after lunch:
"That's it, little stud… everything's done. Come down and switch on the motor."
Balu flipped the switch—kirrr kirrr, the pump kicked to life.
He started climbing the steps again, then froze dead in his tracks.
His heart pounded like a drum.
The curtain to uncle's room was swaying gently… and from behind it came the unmistakable, rhythmic, wet sound of sucking.
Awaiting for the next holidays