Chennai buzzing with that sticky night heat, the kind that made you want to drown the world in booze and fuck it all off. I’d been itching to mess with Visu ever since that summer day—middle of some lazy afternoon—when I caught Mom sucking him off, her lips locked around his dick like it was her damn life. Three years with Umaiyal, he’d said later, and I still couldn’t figure what I was to him—not wrong, just a blur. Didn’t give a shit either—guys like him, drooling over older women with asses that didn’t quit, weren’t my spark. But that memory—his cum on her face—stuck, a shadow I couldn’t kick, flipping my gut between disgust and a sick buzz I hated owning up to. Mom used to be my saint—clean, untouchable—now she’s his, and I’m stuck clawing at the pieces, wondering how deep he’s got her snared.
Started light—dropped by his room one night, post-confrontation, when the dark pressed heavy and sleep wouldn’t come. Wanted to poke him, unravel Mom through his cracks—see if he’d squirm, spill something real. Walked in, chill as fuck, short skirt hugging my thighs, no bra under the tee—let him sweat it. “Visu,” I kicked off, voice easy, “why’s Mom so into you?” He froze, eyes dodging—knew I’d seen, knew I’d dig. “Life’s full of surprises, Sindhu,” he dodged, spinning some crap about Mom needing escape. Made my skin crawl—anger flared, hot and quick, that perfect Amma I’d built smashed by his filth, and he’s playing saint? Kept at it—her happiness, his grip—but every answer tangled us, awkward as hell. Wanted him to crack, admit he fucked her raw, not this “solace” bullshit. “She happy with you?” I circled, voice cutting, defiance rising over the shame twisting my chest. He nodded, too calm—then it hit, tears spilling, that memory choking me like a noose. He hugged me, long, steady—felt him trying to stitch her back into something clean through me, and fuck, I almost bought it, desire sneaking in, soft and wrong, wanting his calm to mean something. Pulled back, self-loathing burning—fucker had me teetering.
That hug wasn’t just comfort—it was a taunt, him picking her over this, over me. Later, alone, I stood naked in front of my mirror—skin bare, shadows slicing me raw. Stared at myself, tits firm but small, waist tight but not perfect, legs lean but scarred from old falls—beautiful, sure, for 19, but something off, something flawed. Anger flared again—why me, stuck like this? Ran my hands over my hips, smooth but not enough, tracing curves that didn’t match hers. Twice I’d seen Umaiyal naked—once slipping from the bathroom, wet and glowing, once disrobing slow, thinking I slept—her body a fucking tease, full and ripe, still killer for a mom who popped me out young. Early marriage kept her stunning—tits heavy, ass round—while I’m stuck here, a teen’s sloppy sketch next to her canvas. Shame crept in—couldn’t fathom it, Visu picking that over this? If I flashed him, peeled it all off, would he still choose her?
Doubted it—my fuzz, that mess I’d let grow wild under my arms, down my legs, between my thighs. Caught my reflection—dark patches mocking me, a sloppy rebel thing I’d owned till now. Mom’s razor-clean, always—smooth as glass, no trace of what I’d skipped. Self-loathing bit deeper—shaving pissed me off, red bumps, itch that burned for days, but maybe that’s why he didn’t blink, why I’m the kid, not the threat. Desire flickered, sneaky—razor slicing it all off, clean shaven down there, bare as a fresh page. Pictured it, fingers slipping down after, teasing myself slow—not every night, just then, fresh and sharp, a quick buzz that’d feel good. Chuckled in my head—stupid, horny kid—shaking off the itch with a smirk, but it lingered. Thought of Umaiyal, her smooth slit—maybe Visu shaves her, razor steady in his hands, her spreading wide, pussy lips open for him. Or her doing it solo, fingers working after, right in front of him, his eyes locked on her cum? Couldn’t see it—Mom, all proper, letting him carve her bare? But maybe she does, maybe he’s the one scraping her clean, and she’s giving it up for him while I’m here, fuzzy and ignored. Defiance surged—time to shave, clean it up, no more excuses—razor’s sting be damned, I’d make him see me next time, not her stained glow.
Sat with it—her moans, his grip, that shadow I couldn’t dodge. Wanted to scream—why her, Visu? Look at me—but it stuck, a lump I couldn’t spit out. He’d spun his “trust” and “care” line, like she’s some fragile thing needing him, while I’m just the kid crying in his arms. Anger flared again—fuck that, I’m not her shadow, I’m the storm coming for her spot. He’s not just Mom’s anymore—he’s the bastard I’d outshine, the wall I’d smash. Stood there, naked, staring down my own eyes—fierce, not soft—and knew it: I’d tease him, push him, unravel him. Not to save her, but to beat her. Needed noise, bodies—something to shove this stewing out of my skull. Pub nights, whatever—he’d see me, not her, next time.
Days later, I hit him up—friend’s get-together, fresh off dumping some prick, no boyfriend to drag along. “You’re my age, kinda—come with?” Skirt short, tee loose—fuck bras, let him twitch. “Crowds aren’t my thing,” he grumbled, but I cut it. “Bullshit—you dig hard rock, pub’s got killer tunes.” Tavern Pub was half-dead that Friday night—just enough air to move. My crew rolled in, pairs piling up, pitchers flowing—DJ kicked off with Losing My Religion, REM’s whine slicing through. Sank into it, ears peeling sound from their chatter—my trick, sharp as a blade.
Leaned into Visu, chest grazing him—everyone’s half-on someone, normal shit, right? Pushed harder, tits pressing, teasing—caught his eye, winked sly. Pitcher barely dented when Smells Like Teen Spirit roared—Nirvana’s growl—and the gang bolted for smokes. “Cigarette,” I signaled, smirking—he didn’t puff, just watched, eyes glinting like some creep who gets off on it. Short skirts, no bras—dress code, I grinned—cig in hand, I puffed like a goddamn painter, dots curling smoke. Another Brick in the Wall thumped next—Pink Floyd filling the haze, skirts flashing thighs. “Why no smoke?” I nudged. “Ganja only,” he deadpanned—I laughed. “Want some?” Eyes real—almost tempted me.
Crew swapped tales—one guy lost to drunk driving, heavy vibes—I half-tuned in, that shadow flickering, Mom’s gasps, while my gaze slid to bare thighs cutting smoke. Summer of ’69 hit—everyone hummed, belted—fucking anthem. Yanked Visu—“Dance, prick”—no real floor, just gaps. His hand brushed my ass—denim thin, no panties—felt him tense, my heat seeping through. Song died, back to pitchers, then tequila shots—five, six, eight—me and two guys outlasting the rest. Head spun, but sharp—booze my bitch now, not like those sloppy teen nights. Visu tapped out—smart—I didn’t.
Cash clinked, bill settled—hugs, kisses, bye-bye—then it hit. “Fuck me,” I slurred, tequila slamming hard, stumbling down steps. “My cunt not good enough? I’ll blow you like Mom—scared of young pussy?” Voice thick, venom dripping—anger and shame boiling over, self-destruction spilling out. He didn’t bite, just hauled me to an auto—no bike post-booze, his rule. Auto guy didn’t blink—heard worse, probably. Halfway home, sobered a flash—road glaring—shoved his hands off, defiance kicking, then crashed, head in his lap, gone.
Woke in his room, naked—head pounding like a drum, shame curling tight. He handed me paracetamol, water—no fuss. “Did we fuck?” I croaked, gut sinking, self-loathing clawing up. “No,” he said, flat. “You stripped, yelled ‘Fuck me,’ begged me to take you.” Face paled—“Did I?” Nodded, head low. “Fingered yourself, came—then slept.” Stared, stomach dropping—tears pricked, not from booze, but that raw, wrecked mess I’d made. Sat there, breath hitching, and it crept back—slow at first, then a flood. That night—whole damn thing—playing out like a fucked-up reel. Me, tequila-slushed, peeling off my tee in his room, tits out, skirt flung, yelling “Fuck me” like a broken record—anger spitting, shame drowned in shots. Saw myself, sprawled on his sofa, legs wide—one foot propped on the table—fingers diving in, two, then three, wet and wild, hips bucking like a goddamn animal. Felt it again—teasing myself slow at first, then fast, moaning loud, that rush building, spilling over three times, soaking his carpet, a flood I didn’t plan. Visualized it—me, cumming hard, yelling “Here it comes,” grinning at him, then crashing, out cold. Tears spilled now—couldn’t stop them—head pounding harder, that wrecked night clawing me open, but a smirk broke through, defiance flaring. “Fuck, that was wild,” I rasped, voice cracking, “never came that much—best damn rush ever.” Didn’t say it loud—kept it in—but fuck, I’d soaked his world, right there for him to see, my dirty little dream of spilling it in front of someone, and he’d made it real. Stumbled up—wet still sticking to my thighs—hugged him hard, fierce, like some twisted thanks. “Even fucking you wouldn’t top that—you made my night, asshole,” I muttered, half-laughing, half-choked, then flopped to the sofa’s other end, crashed out—wrecked, raw, mine.
Tears spilled now—couldn’t stop them—head pounding harder, that wrecked night clawing me open. “Please, don’t tell Mom,” I rasped, voice cracking—grabbed my clothes, bolted. Stood outside, breath ragged, defiance flaring over the ruin—fuck him, fuck her—I’d torched it, messy and loud, but that mess was mine. I’d rebuild it sharper, fiercer—next time, he’d see me, not her shadow, and I’d make damn sure it stuck.
