Mother's Forbidden Heat

Bali was sitting on the sofa reading some novels…it was a hot day and there's nothing better to do. As he was sitting in his sofa his mother Sainab came. She was wearing a hijab and a nighty which is loose fitted but not enough to hide her features. For the past few weeks bali started having special famtasies about his mother after seeing her ass accidentally. His mother told him to put his legs on the sofa as she had to scrub tge floors Sainab got on her knees, the brush in hand, and began sweeping it across the floor in broad strokes. Her arms moved with the rhythm of an unhurried dance, coaxing the slightest rhythm from the tiles, while her body swayed gently behind her. Bali shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, his eyes catching the captivating outline of her figure as it pressed through the thin fabrics of her nightgown. He swallowed and forced his eyes back into his book, but his mind wriggled away from the letters. He found himself imagining a hundred different possibilities; that she might notice him and scold, that she might ignore him and continue, that she might turn around casually and smile. He could hardly absorb a single word from the pages before him as his imagination tangled with his own pulse. He angled the book higher, its tattered cover forming an inadequate blind against the sharp, illicit pull of curiosity. The acrid tang of cleaning solution mixed with the earthy note of their old rug, both scents familiar, both suddenly full of new energy. Sainab’s movements grew more determined, her nightgown hiking a little each time she stretched forward. She did not speak—she rarely spoke these days unless requested—but her presence filled the room as surely as any voice. Bali’s cheeks grew hot. He pressed his knees together and tried to read the same line again, but now every inch of the text seemed edged with suggestion. He closed the book and set it face-down on his stomach, folding his hands over its spine like a boy caught in confession. Sainab finished the area nearest him and leaned back on her heels. She wiped the back of her hand across her brow, leaving a smudge. She saw Bali watching,Bali was sitting on the sofa reading some novels…it was a hot day and there's nothing better to do. As he was sitting in his sofa his mother Sainab came. She was wearing a hijab and a nighty which is loose fitted but not enough to hide her features. For the past few weeks bali started having special famtasies about his mother after seeing her ass accidentally. His mother told him to put his legs on the sofa as she had to scrub tge floors Sainab got on her knees, the brush in hand, and began sweeping it across the floor in broad strokes. Her arms moved with the rhythm of an unhurried dance, coaxing the slightest rhythm from the tiles, while her body swayed gently behind her. Bali shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, his eyes catching the captivating outline of her figure as it pressed through the thin fabrics of her nightgown. He swallowed and forced his eyes back into his book, but his mind wriggled away from the letters. He found himself imagining a hundred different possibilities; that she might notice him and scold, that she might ignore him and continue, that she might turn around casually and smile. He could hardly absorb a single word from the pages before him as his imagination tangled with his own pulse. For a moment, the novel lay forgotten on his knee, a simple prop in his sudden array of fantasies. Overwhelmed by his own thoughts, he felt a swell of embarrassment and excitement. He tried to calm himself by taking deeper breaths, but this only made him more aware of her presence, the proximity of her, the way she hardly seemed aware of his struggle. Sainab continued to scrub, the domesticity of her task contrasting with the chaos within him. Her hands moved with a quickening efficiency, while her whole figure swayed, completely absorbed in her work. Bali's vision blurred between the room, the tautness of her body, and the wild scenarios unfolding just beneath his eyelids. Realizing he was dangerously close to being obvious, Bali shifted his legs strategically, hoping to hide the involuntary firmness that caused his face to flush hot. He readjusted himself on the sofa, his book a flimsy fortress against the unpredictable siege of his own youth. Just as his mind began to wander to yet another vivid scene, he saw a line in his novel. It distracted him enough to bring his attention back to the words. He looked down at the pages, willing himself to leave his imagination behind and reenter the fictional world before him but it was no use. His hardened dick is the proof that his mind is now occupied by his mother. He kept staring at his mother's hips. The way it sways and the way it pushed against the panties..he wants to touch it and immerse in them pulse. He hurried back into the room, clutching the bucket with both hands as if it were a talisman. Sainab returned to her scrubbing, her movements unhurried, each stroke of the brush a steady counterpoint to the chaos within him. He watched her slender back, her head bent in quiet determination, and for a moment, he was suspended between admiration and impatience. “Will you join me, Bali?” she asked without turning around, her voice a calm invitation. He hesitated, the question loosening a knot inside him he hadn't known was there. It was a small thing, this request, yet somehow it seemed to hold the weight of everything unsaid between them. He moved to sit beside her, wielding a brush of his own, his hands mirroring hers in the soapy water. The floor was stained with years of neglect, but together, they began to discover the lighter wood beneath, unveiling something like hope. As he looked up his mother was on all fours scrubbing without a thought..her hijab is undone but most importantly her hips is near his face. Each gentle sway seems like an invitation… he swallowed hard and raised his hands… his fingers shaking as it reached towards those huge ass . His hand hovered, suspended in the charged distance between. His breath sounded loud over the hush of the brush. She kept scrubbing, oblivious or pretending. The soft cotton of her nightgown clung and slipped with the motion of her body, the floral print pulled taut across the rise and fall of her hips. He brushed his fingers lightly across the rim of her nightgown, fingertips grazing the curve where thigh met fabric. His pulse thrummed through his palm. She startled slightly, spine straightening, but did not turn. Instead, she resumed her scrubbing after the smallest pause, now slower, as if bracing for what might follow. Bali’s vision narrowed to the perfect ovals his mother’s movement carved through the air. He pressed his hand firmer, palm settling against her side, feeling the tentative heat of her. His own breath caught. Sainab let out a little huff—half surprise, half admonishment—but never broke rhythm. She went on scrubbing as nothing's happening Her shoulder blades rolled beneath the thin fabric, and her neck flushed a deep, steady pink. Still, she did not look back. He was aware, in a distant way, that this was not how a son should touch a mother. But in the small hours between sleep and sunrise, distinctions softened into other things—warmth, longing, confusion, devotion. The scent of soap and vinegar rose from the bucket at her feet. and up to her hips, tracing a light, reverent path. Sainab’s thighs tensed and relaxed in response; her fingers gripped the brush until her knuckles faded pale. She still didn’t look at him, as if the world could continue so long as she faced away, as if denial might protect them both. His hand slipped under the hem of her nightgown, the soft cotton yielding to his touch, and he felt heat radiating through her skin. She stilled for a moment, the brush motionless beneath her palm, then resumed, even slower, all pretense of cleaning now a stubborn ritual. He wondered if she would stop him, would turn and say something sharp, but she only kept on, the hush between them stretching taut as wire. His confidence grew as her silence persisted. He cupped her, squeezing gently, and the brush clattered from her hand. Sainab caught herself on the floor, breath fluttering in her throat. For a heartbeat she said nothing—she only pressed her forehead to the floor, hands flat on the tile, her whole body trembling with breath. He watched as her back rose and fell, the scoop of her nightgown clinging to the arch of her spine. His hand lingered, uncertain now, afraid of the echo of his own heartbeat. But when Sainab straightened her arms and started to rise to her knees, she did not dislodge his touch. Instead, she halfway turned, the sidelong look in her dark eyes not outrage but a curious resignation—as if she had always known this might happen, someday. Her lips tightened into a thin, trembling line. "Is this how a good son helps?" she asked, barely above a whisper. Bali's cheeks burned hot. He stared at the brush in his hand, then at her, uncertain whether to retreat or invent some clumsy apology. But the hunger wouldn't let him go. He needed to consume the hunger insude him no matter what happens. For now everything seems secondary infront of his desire. His mother was quite,she was scrubbing but he knew she was afraid of what will come next… all his life she was a religious woman but now she's afraid of what will happen. Bali slowly lowered his hands around her hips and slowly started to lift the nighty and expose the thundercloud blue of her underwear, stretched taut over the soft, generous curve. Sainab didn't move beyond a sharp inhale, nor did she turn to scold—her grip on the tiles had grown rigid, knuckles waxen, her breath fluttering up out of her throat like a trapped bird. Bali’s hands were clumsy but sure, greedy with anticipation and trembling at the same time: he traced her hips, thumbs embedding in the warmth of her flesh, palms pressing and kneading while his own arousal strained at the thin fabric of his shorts. He waited for the voice of god, or his own, to break the spell. None came. Sainab held to the pose for a time, then let her brow fall to the bend of her elbow. She shuddered—maybe from the bucket’s chill on her knees, maybe from something deeper—and only then did she let her words slip out, barbed and dubious, “Enough.” B ali froze, his hands mid-squeeze, the word forming a hole in his chest. She did not move away, but the syllables hung between them with finality. Slowly, he withdrew to a cautious inch, embarrassment crawling inside him like a rash. For a terrible, uncertain moment, he could hear his own heart drumming in his ears. Sainab twisted around, gathering her hijab more tightly over her shoulder, and finally faced him. Her face was composed almost neutrally, but her eyes flashed an old pain, ancient as mothers and sons, endless as markets and graves. He opened his mouth—what to say, really?—but the words died on his tongue. Instead, she reached for his hand, the one that had just gripped her flesh, and held it gently. It was not forgiveness exactly, but not shame either. “Tomorrow, clean the balcony,” she said, voice as level as the horizon at dusk. She rose, composed herself, and went her shoulders were drawn, the lines of her body rigid as rebar under the cotton sheath of her robe. He hovered behind her, uncertain, anchored at the edge where kitchen tile met the warmth of carpet. She set the pot on the stove, turned. That new precision in her movements startled him. She smiled, but only with her mouth. "Would you like some?" she asked, meaning the tea, maybe, or maybe not at all. He nodded, and she fetched two cups, thick-walled porcelain, mismatched from different sets. She poured with the practiced, meditative grace of someone who had poured a hundred thousand times and would pour a hundred thousand more. The cup slid across the counter towards him, stopping in the shallow pool of sunlight. When he reached for it, her hand grazed his, cool and dry, then pulled away. Neither spoke. The tea cooled between them. He sipped out of necessity, not desire, the tannins harsh on his tongue. Sainab quickly finished the tea and went to do the dishes bali sat there and was again looking at his mom. His eyes looking at his mother's hips like a starving child looking at food There was something punitive now in the way she moved—each dish stacked in the sink with a clack, each soapy plunge into the aluminum basin meant to mark a distance that would not be trespassed. He sipped until the tea was gone, scalding, his eyes never leaving her. An hour ago it would have been unthinkable, to see her with such animal hunger. Now his body ached with the wanting, the boundary already breached. He set the empty cup down, clicking it against the saucer for her to notice, but she didn’t turn. Instead, Sainab began humming softly, a low melody from childhood—one she used to sing over piles of laundry, or while slicing okra at the sink. It should have been comforting, but it stung with a bitter nostalgia. He remembered standing beside her as a little boy, barely able to reach the counter, watching her hands become weathered and capable, learning the world from the slip. Bali could feel the hardness rising from his pants. He slowly got up and started to walk near his mother. His mother stiffened a little bit but she didn't look back, she continued with her work. Let me help ma said bali and he went and stood behind sainab. His hardness only inches away from his mother's ass. He was standing directly beside her his breath can be felt on sainab neck She washed the last dish in silence, her hands wringing the sponge until all the water had run out. Bali leaned in, close enough to see the faint mole at the nape of her neck, close enough to smell the tang of lemon soap in her hair and the rich, animal presence beneath it. He didn't know who moved first—whether he pressed forward, or if she leaned back, surrendering a little more of her gravity into him. Sainab's hands trembled slightly as she placed the clean plate in the drying rack. She turned her face an inch, eyes never quite meeting his, mouth drawn thin with worry. They both stood suspended—not touching but with shoulders aligned, like two books wedged tight on a shelf. Bali's hand hovered again, then landed clumsily on the small of her back, the way a child might test the heat of a stove. She did not flinch. He could feel her breath change: a shallow intake, then a quick exhale. He pressed his erection forward and it lodged in between her ass cheeks —soft at first, the cotton still between them, but electric for both. Sainab gasped and stilled, her knuckles slippery with suds. For a moment neither spoke nor moved, each parsing the consequences in the narrow band of shadow by the kitchen sink. He was sure she would scold—he wanted her to, maybe, because scolding would mean a return to rules, to the world as it had always been. But her silence, dense and ambiguous, pulled him deeper. When she finally set the dishcloth down, her arm crossed over his, her hand covering his on her waist, fingers tight, fingers unwilling to relinquish what had begun. “Bali—” she said, his name breaking on her lips in a sigh, not a warning. His heart stumbled in his chest. Still, she didn’t turn, didn’t turn away. He pressed forward again, emboldened now by the absence of retreat, and squeezed her side. With his other hand he raised her nighty above her hips , baring the modest blue of her underwear, the skin of her hips pale and crescented by the elastic. Sainab’s breath sharpened, a little whistle of air in her nose. She did not move beyond clenching the edge of the sink, and still that silence cloaked them—thicker now, like the hush before a thunderstorm, or the within of a deep cave, cool and echoing. He pressed his own need forward, hard and insistent, and fitted it greedily into the valley between her hips. She made an involuntary sound—a squeak, or sob, or perhaps only the lost language of will and resignation—but did not resist. He slid his hand over her navel, palm flat and trembling, feeling the shallow heave of her belly beneath the fabric. Sainab’s hands never left the sink, white-knuckled and trembling at the base. He kept pushing his erection between her ass cheeks and he started to slide his hands upwards , exploring the soft terrain beneath her nightgown, up the length of Sainab’s trembling torso, to where her ribs fanned delicately under his fingertips. The heat between them built, urged on by the confessions their silences permitted. Bali measured the distance between horror and want with each inch his hand covered; he felt the uneven terrain of her ribs, the subtle heave and fall of her, and finally the defiant thump of her heart against her chest, which seemed at war with the trembling stillness of her body. Her head dropped forward, hijab sliding loose so a few black curls tumbled at her nape. He pressed his cheek into the fall of her hair, inhaling the earthy musk of her scalp. She did not push him away; if anything, he felt her lean into the touch, confiding some deep fatigue, some wordless longing. Tentatively, he slid his hand even higher, palm flattening against the rise of her sternum and slowly slid tgem under her bra. Cupping those enormous boobs. Sainab stifled a cry she wanted to push her son but he's lost in ecstasy and with one hand bali started to slid her panties down exposing her brown delicious ass. uddered up her spine. Sainab’s neck glistened with sweat, the sharp wing of her shoulder blade trembling under his touch. Something in her gave, a tiny, involuntary arch that rippled backward and pressed her into his invasion. The oven clock ticked, green digits melting minutes into seconds into breaths. He bit into the strap of her bra and pulled, snapping it sharp against her skin. The sting of it made her hiss and jerk, but she did not twist away. He heard her murmur something soft, a lost fragment in Somali or just a wordless animal note. He kept working, one hand trailing down, finding her knee, prying it open with slow leverage. His erection throbbed against her, caged by the nylon mesh of his boxers, his own knees beginning to tremble. He fumbled, one-handed, to shove them down, baring himself, breathing her hair, the sick-sweet scent of chemical relaxer and his dick was free of his cage at last. His mother seemed to know what is about to happen she suddenly came to her senese. Sainab started to object but it fell on deaf ears and with one sudden move he inserted his dick into his mother , and the smallest moan was ripped from her lips—a sound he'd never heard, alien and beautiful and terrible all at once. the heat and friction making him choke out a gasp. Her whole body arched, hips jerking up in reflex as she clung to the edge of the sink—her face hidden, her hair wild, her mouth pressed to her own wrist to muffle whatever sound threatened to escape. —loud, sharp, ringing off the cheap tiles and into the shocked silence of the room. Sainab’s lips twisted, a sound caught in her throat—half a sob, half the moan of someone falling slowly through a void of their own making. The clumsy friction of their bodies bruised her against the laminate of the countertop, but she did not resist further; she went soft, then rigid, then impossibly yielding, as if the argument inside her had at last exhausted itself and left only raw sensation in its wake. The second thrust split her prayer in half. She buckled, pressing away from the sink, but he was already flush to her, his hands greedy at her hips, hauling her back onto him with all the resolve of a drowning man hauling at a rope. Her protest was unspooled in whimpers: “No, no, no, stop, Bali, please—” but his name came out different now, shaded with dread and astonishment and something else, fractal and wet, desire’s trembling echo. Her knuckles blanched around the faucet. The bare skin of her thighs, exposed now in the harsh daylight, quivered from the impact. He was lost. The first sensation was a dazzling terror—he had never been inside anyone before, and the heat of it, the velvet press of her, the impossible knowledge that he was inside his own mother, nearly made him faint. He felt the blood rush to his head, his body a circuit of trembling fever, his vision winking at the edges. Sainab’s scent—warm sweat and lemon, the sharp green of coriander, the salt of her—filled his mouth, his lungs, his every cell. The whole world telescoped into the shape of her back, the trembling valley of her spine, the ripple of her breath as he impaled her and again and again. Her cries grew hoarser, and soon there were no more words, only a deep, rolling resistance like the tide pressing against the hull of a grounded boat. She bucked and twisted, but only into him, never away. Her pink slippers clattered to the floor, the slap of her heels on the linoleum brutally loud. He wondered if the neighbors could hear; if the whole block would know what he had done, what they were doing—but the thought only stoked something black and bottomless inside him, and he drove his hips forward with a new, punishing rhythm. Sainab’s hijab, already loose, unspooled in a slow ripple, then fell from her head entirely. The sight of her hair—thick, wild, curling in the heat and sweat of their union—snapped some thin tendon in his heart. He gathered a fistful at the base of her neck, yanking her head back, and she let out a yelp so sharp it might have woken the dead. She twisted, at last looking back at him over her shoulder. Her eyes were wet, ringed with disbelief, smeared at the corners with mascara and tears. “Bali, stop—” she said, but the words were barely air. He didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He was rutting now, the wordless force in him older than shame, older than even the rules of prayer and modesty and law. He felt the skin of her ass slap against his pelvis, the collapsing and reforming of flesh, the way she’d open and close around him as if trying to spit him out and pull him deeper at the same time. The kitchen was a furnace, the aroma of cooked onions and cumin thickening the air, the sunlight on the counter now a glaring spotlight on the violence of their act. Sainab’s hands unclenched, then found new purchase, flat against the back wall, as if she meant to push the whole building away from her. Her head dropped, defeated, her cries dying to a hush. But the sounds she made now were not only anguish: he heard a wavering, animal note, a want that had survived the wreck of her resistance. Each time he moved inside her, her hips rolled to meet him, amplifying the shock, the sticky slap of flesh and the dark pulse between their bodies. He angled himself, chasing the place where her body shuddered most, and the third thrust made her knees buckle entirely. She sagged down, hands scrambling for the edge of the sink, and he followed, folding over her, his chest against her back, sweaty and shaking. His hand slid up to her throat, not choking, only holding her in place, and she let herself hang into it, shoulders slack, as if she’d been waiting all her life to be caught and claimed. He whispered her name: “Mama.” He said it without thinking, a sob in his voice, and she gasped, hearing it, the two syllables fusing everything between horror and love and need. Bali’s hips pumped harder. His vision clouded, the world graying at the edges, heat boiling in his gut and spine and fingertips. He was no longer a boy, no longer even himself—just this animal need, this blind desire, and the living heat of his mother’s body beneath his own. The room swam with the rhythm of their bodies. He felt the tremor in her thighs, the way her belly tensed and relaxed, the arch and collapse and arch again. Her hair stuck to her face, sweat dripping from her brow into the basin, eyes closed now. He knew, with a clarity both terrible and beautiful, that she had surrendered to him, to this, to fate. The shift in her was audible: a new, higher whine, a shudder of breath, the crescendo of flesh driven past its edge. He braced her at the hips, pulling her ass back to meet every thrust, the soft slap of their bodies filling the kitchen with a rhythm older than prayer. The table shook, a cup toppled and shattered on the floor, but neither noticed. All that remained was the friction, the give and take, the ferocious heat where they dissolved into each other. It was the longest and shortest moment of his life. He felt it coming—knew the shape of it, the inevitability, the bright, searing joy of it. He whispered again: “Mama,” and this time she answered, not with words but a wild, desperate moan that cut through her last defiance. The last thrust wracked him; he felt his soul leap out of his body and crash into hers, white-hot and shivering. Sainab shrieked, her muscles seizing, her head thrown back into his shoulder. He held her there as he emptied himself into her, the two of them locked and shaking, bonded by the unthinkable violence of their union. After, they collapsed together, slumped over the counter, breathless, trembling, the echo of their cries still ringing off the cheap wallpaper. His hands were numb on her hips. Sainab’s face was buried in the crook of her elbow, her shoulders shuddering with silent sobs or laughter or both. Their bodies, still joined, twitched with the aftershocks. For a long moment nobody moved. He rested his forehead against her back, inhaling the sweat and salt and shame. Then, slowly, he pulled out of her, and a wet, broken sound escaped her lips. He thought she might scream, might run, might finally turn and strike him, but Sainab just slumped lower, her breath coming in slow, jagged tides. Bali’s own knees nearly buckled, and he steadied himself against the counter, suddenly emptied, suddenly a boy again, not older, no wiser, only more ruined. The silence was a wall. Neither could breach it. He braced himself for her rage, her tears, her banishment. But when Sainab finally straightened, pulling her nightgown down and dabbing her face with the dishtowel, she turned and looked at him—not with love, but not with pure hatred either. Something else, resigned and ancient, flickered in her eyes. She said nothing. She only reached up, fixed her hair back under the scarf, and busied herself at the sink, as if arranging the broken plates of herself into something that might still serve. It was only then, hands in the dishwater, that Sainab spoke. Her voice was hoarse but level, the voice of the woman who had raised him and buried every sorrow in the folds of a dishcloth: “That is the last time, Bali.” But he knew, from the way her shoulders shivered, from the way she did not send him away, that nothing had ended at all. If anything, the world outside had been abolished, replaced by this new, irreversible gravity. He moved to stand behind her again, closer than before. Slowly, as the afternoon lengthened, as the sun moved along the kitchen floor, their breathing returned to a steady, shared lull. As his dick was erect again he knew he have to quench the hunger completely The second time was easier—no words, no protest, just the slow, yielding slide of hips as he pressed himself to her, the nightgown bunched in his fists, the thin cotton a mere rumor between flesh. Sainab braced herself with both palms spread in the sudsy basin, her ass shivering as he split her open, the endless blue of her underwear now halfway around her thigh The second time there were no voices, no warnings, nothing but the mute choreography of need that redrew every line between them. He stepped against her as if it were his right, the soft bump of his hips to her ass a question he’d already answered for both of them. She did not flinch. Instead, she shifted her feet, squared her elbows on the counter, and let the fabric of her nightgown ride up her thighs like a wave surrendering to the sand. Sainab did not look at him, but she did not look away, either. She simply stood there, arms braced in the suds, the slope of her back a single vowel, curving to receive him. He clutched the thin cotton at her waist—so clean, so domestic, the modest nightwear of every morning—and gathered it in both fists, pressing forward until the whole bunched length was nothing but a knot in his hands. Her underwear, a pale blue like the sky of their old country, bunched itself at her knees. He should have felt shame, or revulsion, or at least a trace of horror. Instead, all he felt was a smooth, annihilating purpose, a hunger that had sloughed off every layer of taboo and left only the trembling truth of their bodies. The first time had been violence—a riptide, a crash, a flailing descent into zero gravity—but now the undertow was slow, inexorable, patient as death. He pressed the head of his dick to her and found her already wet, the opening easing as if she had been waiting, as if she had always contained a space meant for him alone. It was not the frantic rut of a forbidden act, but the careful testing of a new law, a rhythm so steady it erased every moment before it. He leaned down, lips grazing the back of her neck, and tasted the private heat of her skin. She shivered, not in fear but as if struggling not to welcome it. Even the air in the kitchen seemed to thicken around them, the sun making a mosaic of shifting light and shadow on the wallpaper, the clock ticking uselessly above the stove. Each motion was deliberate: his hand guiding her hips, his other hand sliding up the ladder of her spine, palm flat between her shoulder blades as if steadying a vase on a trembling shelf. Nothing in his life had taught him what to do, but every cell in his body knew. Sainab’s silence was absolute. She did not scold, did not sob, did not plead, even as he breached her again and again. Only the rise and fall of her back gave her away, the contained violence of her shoulders and the tense line of her neck betraying how each thrust stoked a fire she could neither douse nor admit. The water in the sink sent up soft clouds of steam, blurring the window, turning their shapes into smudged silhouettes. A single glass slipped from her soapy grip and shattered in the basin, but even that sharp report failed to break the spell. He worked his hips in slow, patient arcs, learning exactly how to move inside her. The first time, he’d pounded with all the terror and urgency of a drowning boy, but now he learned to savor, to carve out a pocket in time. For once, there was no rush—just the quiet, the trembling, the impossible certainty of what they were doing. The sound of flesh, of breath, of the water in the pipes, all of it melted down into a single, pulsing undertone. He had never known that his mother could make such noises: the soft, animal hum, the quickened hiss of air, the tiny whimper that meant pleasure or pain or both. He watched the tendons bunch and flex in her forearms as she gripped the sink, her knuckles pearly and white from strain. His own hands left marks on her hips, thumbprints blooming purple beneath her skin. He wanted to apologize, to ask her if she was all right, but if he opened his mouth he feared he would either scream or sob. At one point, she twisted her head and caught his gaze in the window’s reflection: what passed between them was not love, not the language of family or even of enemies, but something older, a code they both spoke and could never translate. He tried to remember the prayers she had taught him as a boy. He wondered if she was praying now, or if the words had unspooled inside her, leaving only this silence, this rhythm, this ache. He pressed his lips to her neck and whispered, “Mama,” not as a weapon but as a wound, the syllables sticking in his throat like hard candy. Soon it was all muscle, all memory, all repetition—a thousand years of it, ancestor to ancestor, mother to son, the secret histories no one spoke aloud. He wanted to last forever, but the feeling built until it threatened to split him in half. He slowed, almost stopped, just to keep himself from falling over the edge. She met him, push for push, her hips tilting to catch the angle, her body instructing him without words. He felt her pulse through his hands, the charge that ran up his arms and turned his bones to wax. Time warped and folded. He have climaxed, he felt his seeds filling his mother's pussy, they both fell to the floor, panting hard. Zainab curled in the floor, her white voluptuous ass bare with her son's seed leaking out of her. Bali felt like he needed to say something but what's there to say, he had crossed a line from which he can never return. Just as he was contemplating what to do, the door bell rang his father has returned home. Zainab hurriedly got up, straightening her hijab and adjusting her underwear. There was fear in her eyes and bali quickly rose up, his dick still wet and limp from the encounter, quickly took a novel and pretending to be immersed in it. His baba came into the kitchen. Zainab he called, what's there for dinner? I'm preparing the food replied Zainab. Ok, i will go freshen up and have a little nap, it's been a tiring day said baba and also bali stay here and help your mother. Bali quickly nodded and he saw Zainab quickly hiding the panic in her eyes. As soon as his father went up the stairs zainab turned her back facing away from him as he was a monster.Bali can't help but agree, he had done something monstrous, then i Bali, please—” but his name came out different now, shaded with dread and astonishment and something else, fractal andthink its better to accept being the monster thought bali as he again started to look at his mom's buttocks, the thought of just a few moments ago his dick was inside of her made his mind again flustered he still wasn't satisfied he needs more, he needs her.The way her hips jutted over the sink. The trembling in her arms as she braced herself, knuckles so white they looked like raw bulbs under the skin. Bali could see the throb of her breath in her neck. There was a bruise where her hijab had pressed, or maybe it was just the red flash of shame. The sight of it made him dizzy again, made him want to apologize, to reach out and smooth it, to make her warm again. He reached for her shoulder, barely brushing the fabric, but Sainab recoiled, flinched so hard the dish in her hand clattered against porcelain. He drew his hand back, a stinging in his chest that wasn’t anger but something hotter, more urgent. He looked away, heart bucking slow, and found himself staring at the clock on the wall. It was barely past noon. Two hours until Baba would expect lunch on the table. Two hours until he would sit here,so there's still time for to satisfy his desires. His mind is now consumed by one thing and these two encounters wasn't enough for himeven now, in the hard fluorescence of the kitchen, his body still buzzed with warm, dangerous desire. He thought Sainab would send him from the room, or lock herself in the pantry, or fold into some implacable, unreachable sadness. But she stood at the counter—back braced, head down, the blue veins in her wrists stark under the wet sheen—her presence a challenge in itself. He watched her dice garlic, the blade catching glints of light with every savage, practiced chop. The rhythm was harsher than usual. She’d drawn the scarf over her head again, but loose, the tail hanging limp and uneven, exposing the ragged line of her jaw. The air between them was charged and metallic. Bali could still smell himself, sour and animal, and under it the faint perfume of her deodorant, the drift of cooked onions. His dick was soft now, pressed uncomfortably against the seam of his shorts, but the hunger had simply awoken his desires again evident as by the hardening of his manhood, sainab was still facing away from him. He slowly approached her, his eyes on the prizerelent or flinch. He felt the shutter of her breath before she hunched a little deeper into her task, knife rolling over knuckles, a rhythm now. He watched her hands—long, narrow, crisscrossed with the faint silvery roadmap of old burns. Not delicate, but never clumsy, either. He wanted to say something, anything, but the exact words slipped around the inside of his mouth, clumsy and stupid. Instead, he let his lips brush the back of her neck, tasted the brine and smoke of her skin, and waited for her to shatter from the center out. Was he expecting her to elbow him in the ribs? Turn and slash the knife at his face? Maybe. But she did neither. She only stood, shoulders up and sharp, so tense he could feel her vertebrae mapping against him. They stood like that, breathing in time with the leaking faucet, until Sainab’s hand slowly lowered the knife and she said him to move away weakly. But it was too late for bali, sainab could feel her sons dick pressing again and she was afraid of making noise and alerting her husband. As she was in a dilemma, balis hands found her breast and started squeezing, his lips grazing at her neck. No, not again thought sainab she won't allow it but she was weak against him and she protested silently in order not to alert her husband.imperfect stitching of fresh ones, the pale seam where her thigh met torso. There was an animal tension in him—like yanking free a thorn, or driving it deeper—and he wondered if she felt it too, if in this strangling hush she heard the furnace sputter or the breathless scratch of his stubble on her naked skin. He moved greedily now, his tongue wetting the whorl of her ear, teeth snagging the lobe. She jerked, not away but into it, her left elbow almost buckling on the Formica. He pressed her tighter, hard enough that the countertop edge must be digging red into her thighs. A part of him—smaller, juddering, ashamed—hoped she’d make a noise, a word or whimper, force him back into the gravity of the world. Her silence only gilded their isolation. He ran a hand across her stomach, failed to steady himself. The silk of her nightgownthe end, spat into the space between writhing and denial. He kept thinking she would turn and look at him, maybe smile that sharp smile, reclaim control of the scene, but she didn’t. She just kept her face mashed sideways, swallowing the impacts of every ragged thrust, gripping the Formica as if gravity had reversed and she’d fly off the world if she let go. The overhead light flickered, bulb on the verge of sputtering out. The refrigerator thrummed, collecting condensation in its sagging tray. It was too warm, heavy with the scent of sweat and artificial vanilla. One of the knives on the counter, a paring knife, tipped off and clattered to the tile. The pitch of the sound made him grit his teeth. He told himself he would slow down, would end this gently. He told himself a lot of things, but the moment kept piling forward—her body trembling, the flesh at her hips growing red and shiny. She Bali’s hands tightened on Sainab’s hips, pressing her harder against the counter as he rocked into her. She stifled a gasp, biting down on her lower lip to keep silent while her husband slept just upstairs. The kitchen reeked of sweat and sex, the air thick with guilt and need. Her nightgown was bunched around her waist, her damp thighs trembling as he fucked her with slow, deep strokes—each one deliberate, savoring the way she clenched around him. Her fingers scrambled against the laminate countertop, her knuckles white with tension. Every muscle in her body was taut, her breath coming in ragged little hiccups. Bali leaned over her, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “You feel so good, Mama,” he murmured, voice rough with greed. She shuddered, her hips jerking back against him involuntarily, and he smirked. Even now, even like this, her body betrayed her. He could feel her pulse hammering where his fingertips dug into her skin. The curve of her ass was flushed, marked faintly from their last round, and the sight made his cock throb harder. He slid a hand around her waist, fingers dipping beneath the soaked fabric of her panties to find her clit. Sainab jerked, a high-pitched whimper escaping before she could choke it back. “Shh,” Bali breathed, thumb circling roughly. “Don’t want Baba to hear, do you?” She shook her head, her breath coming faster now. He could feel her tightening around him again, her body fighting to resist even as it arched into his touch. He quickened his pace, relishing every hitch of her breath, every stifled moan. The pressure coiled low in his gut, unavoidable. With a final brutal thrust, he buried himself deep, grinding into her as he came. Sainab gasped, her own climax shuddering through her as she clenched around him, her fingers clawing at the counter for purchase. For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then, with a quiet exhale, Sainab sagged forward, her forehead pressed to the counter. Bali pressed a kiss to the nape of her sweat-slick neck before pulling away. Her hands trembled as she adjusted her nightgown. She didn’t look at him. The clock on the wall ticked, indifferent.The water from the showerhead hissed against his skin, scalding, as Bali scrubbed himself raw. The steam curled thick around him, filling the small bathroom with the scent of cheap soap and his own sweat. His muscles still hummed, his cock half-hard again just from the memory—Sainab’s choked gasps, the way her thighs had quivered when he pinned her against the counter. He cranked the faucet to cold, gasping as the icy spray shocked his body. *Clean. You have to be clean.* But no amount of water could wash away the heat simmering under his skin. --- Dinner was a quiet affair. Baba sat at the head of the table, chewing methodically while the ceiling fan creaked above them. The lamb stew was rich with cumin and cloves, but Bali barely tasted it. His gaze kept flicking to Sainab, who moved like a shadow—serving, clearing, refilling glasses without a word. She avoided his eyes, her lips pressed tight, fingers trembling faintly whenever she reached for a dish. “Zainab,” Baba said between bites, “you’re quiet tonight.” She flinched, her spoon clinking against the pot. “Just tired,” she murmured, wiping her hands on her apron.

.

Baba nodded absently, his attention already drifting back to his plate. Bali watched the way his mother’s throat worked as she swallowed, the nervous flutter of her pulse visible beneath her hijab. The silence stretched, thick with things unsaid, until the scrape of cutlery against china became unbearable. Bali’s knee brushed against Sainab’s under the table—just a graze, an accident. But she recoiled like she’d been burned, her chair legs screeching against the tile. Baba glanced up, brow furrowed. “Everything alright?” “Fine,” she whispered, fingers twisting in the fabric of her dress. Bali took a slow sip of water, hiding his smirk behind the glass. He could still taste her on his lips, the salt and musk lingering no matter how hard he scrubbed. The memory of her—spread open, trembling, biting back noises—sent a fresh wave of heat through him. Baba pushed his plate away with a satisfied sigh. “I’m going to bed early. Long day tomorrow.” He stood, pausing to press a kiss to Sainab’s forehead. She stiffened, her eyes darting to Bali for a fraction of a second before she forced a smile. “Rest well,” she murmured. The moment Baba’s footsteps faded up the stairs, the tension in the room tightened like a noose. Bali leaned back in his chair, letting his gaze drag over his mother—the way her collarbone peeked from her dress, the faint red mark he’d left on her neck earlier, barely hidden by her scarf. “You didn’t touch your food,” he said, voice low. Sainab’s jaw clenched. “I’m not hungry.” He reached out, catching her wrist before she could retreat. Her pulse jumped under his fingers. “Liar.” Her breath hitched, but she didn’t pull away. The air between them crackled, charged with the weight of what they’d already done—and what they both knew wasn’t over. Upstairs, a door creaked. Sainab yanked her arm free, her eyes wide with panic. “Go to bed, Bali,” she hissed. But the tremor in her voice only made him harder. He stood slowly, deliberately crowding her against the kitchen counter. “You first,” he murmured, trailing a finger down her sleeve. “I’ll follow.” Her lips parted—to protest, to beg, he couldn’t tell. But the way her body arched toward him, just slightly, told him everything he needed to know. The house groaned around them, the walls too thin, the night too long. Bali exhaled, slow and deliberate. They had time.

The house groaned around them, the walls too thin, the night too long. Bali exhaled, slow and deliberate. They had time. The sharp trill of his alarm shattered the silence the next morning. His hand slapped blindly at the nightstand, silencing it. For a moment, he lay still, the weight of the dream—no, not a dream, the memory—pressing down on him. His skin still burned where her nails had dug into his back. His mouth still tasted her. Bali sat up, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. Sunlight sliced through the curtains, harsh and unforgiving. Down the hall, water ran in the bathroom—her morning routine, the same as always. He stretched, rolling his shoulders as last night replayed behind his eyes: her choked whimpers, the way her hips jerked when he bit her thigh, the slick heat of her clenching around his fingers when she came. The bathroom door creaked open. Footsteps padded past his room, hesitant. Bali grinned, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. "Morning, Ammi," he called, loud enough to make her freeze outside his door. The sharp intake of breath was all the answer he needed. It hadn't been a dream. And he wasn't done yet.

.

The footsteps paused outside his door. He could almost hear her heartbeat—the way it must be hammering, remembering the way he’d pinned her wrists to the bed, the way she’d gasped when he whispered *filth* in her ear. Bali stood, padding barefoot to the door, his cock already half-hard at the memory. He didn’t bother with pants—just dragged his fingertips along the wood as he leaned against the frame. "Sleep well?” he murmured. Ammi’s breath hitched again. She was close enough that he could smell the soap on her skin, the faint trace of her shampoo. He could see the way her fingers twisted in the fabric of her robe—nervous. Excited. His grin widened. She turned, finally, eyes darting down his bare chest before forcing herself to meet his gaze. “Bali, we can’t—” He caught her wrist before she could back away, pulling her into the heat of his body. “We already did,” he reminded her, voice low. His free hand slid under her robe, fingers skimming the soft curve of her waist. “And you loved it.” Her protest died as he palmed her breast, thumb rolling over her nipple. It peaked instantly under his touch. Ammi shuddered, her resistance crumbling as he backed her against the wall.