### Chapter 20: Facing My Son's Fury
The afternoon sun filtered through the half-drawn curtains of Amar's room, casting a soft, amber glow across the wooden floor where motes of dust danced lazy in the beams. I paused in the doorway for a long moment, my hand resting light on the frame, fingers curling just enough to feel the smooth grain of the wood against my palm. The air inside held the faint, clean scent of his morning shower, mingled with the subtle warmth of the space itself, a room that had become both sanctuary and confessional in the weeks since our secrets had deepened. My saree draped soft over my shoulders, the cotton brushing against my skin with each slow breath I took, the pleats falling even at my waist as I stood there, gathering the words that needed to come. Amar sat on the edge of the bed, his back straight against the headboard, one leg drawn up with his arm draped casual over the knee, the other extended long along the mattress. His t-shirt clung light to his chest from the day's lingering heat, the fabric outlining the steady rise and fall of his breaths, and his eyes met mine across the space between us, dark and even, holding steady without rush or demand.
The door clicked shut behind me soft, the sound full and final in the quiet room, and I crossed the threshold with measured steps, each one placing my sandal deliberate on the tile floor. He watched me approach, unmoving, his hand resting open on his thigh, fingers splayed wide as if waiting for the moment to close around something fragile. When I reached the bed's side, I lowered myself onto the mattress beside him, the springs dipping gentle under my weight, my saree pooling soft around my hips as I settled with my hands folded in my lap, fingers interlacing to steady the subtle tremor that rose there. The space between us closed gradual as he shifted closer, his thigh pressing warm against mine through the fabric, the heat of him seeping into my skin like sunlight warming stone after a cool dawn. For a long stretch, neither of us spoke, the air holding still around us, broken only by the distant hum of a scooter passing in the street below, its engine fading slow into silence.
"The terrace last night," he began then, each word drawn out even and full, his hand rising to rest on my knee, palm flat and steady over the saree's pleats. His thumb traced a single circle there, the pressure light but present, sending a quiet warmth curling along my leg. "I saw you with Askah. The way his hand slipped under your pallu in the shadows. The flush on your cheeks when you returned to the hall, carrying his touch inside you." His fingers pressed a little firmer, the cotton yielding under his touch, and I met his gaze without flinching, my hands unfolding in my lap to rest palm up on my thighs, open to him as the confession formed slow on my tongue. "Yes, kanna," I replied, voice calm and complete, the admission slipping free without defense or haste. "It was quick, but full of memory. His fingers parting me while the music played below. His mouth on my throat, sucking a mark that bloomed warm under his lips."
Amar's hand slid higher then, fingers splaying over my thigh to rest just below the knee's bend, the touch firm but unhurried, as if anchoring me to the moment while his eyes held mine steady, darkening gradual like shadows lengthening at dusk. He leaned closer, his breath warm on my cheek as his free hand lifted to cup my chin, tilting my face up to his with gentle pressure. "You let him inside you," he said, the words measured and direct, thumb brushing my lower lip with slow care, parting it just enough to feel the soft give of the flesh beneath. "On the open terrace, with your husband laughing below and relatives milling about. Tell me how it felt. Every detail, Amma. Let me hear it from your lips." The request carried no anger in its tone, only the quiet demand of possession, his grip on my chin light but unyielding, holding me there as the memory unfolded in my mind, vivid and unhurried.
I exhaled slow, my hand rising to cover his at my chin, pressing it closer as my other rested on his thigh, fingers curling light into the muscle there, feeling the warmth of his skin radiate through the fabric of his pants. "His hand under my saree first," I began, each sentence full and even, the words weaving through the air between us like smoke rising from a low, steady flame. "Fingers parting the lace of my panties, tracing my folds until I dripped down my thighs, the wetness cooling in the evening breeze. He sucked my nipple through the blouse, teeth grazing the peak slow, the pull sharp enough to sting with every thrust of his tongue against the cotton." Amar's thumb traced my lip again, dipping just inside to feel the warmth of my mouth, and I continued, voice steady despite the heat building low in my belly, spreading gradual through my core. "Then he turned me to the railing, hiked the saree high with careful hands, his thickness nudging my entrance slow. Pushed in inch by inch, stretching me full—the girth dragging my walls as he bottomed out, balls snug against me, the fullness blooming warm and complete."
His hand at my thigh tightened just a fraction, fingers digging into the flesh through the cotton, and he released my chin to trail his touch down my throat, palm flattening over the rapid pulse there, feeling it quicken under his skin like a bird's wing against a cage. "And you came for him," he murmured, voice low and complete, leaning in to press his lips to the mark on my collarbone—kissing it slow, tongue flicking the bruised skin with deliberate care as his hand slid lower, parting the saree's pleats with fingers that moved without haste. "Tell me that part. How your body gave in to him, Amma. Let me feel it in your words." I arched into his mouth, a soft sigh escaping as his fingers brushed the damp lace between my thighs, pressing light against the ache that stirred there anew. "His hand at my clit then," I said, words full and ragged, hips shifting forward to meet his touch, the fabric yielding under his palm. "Rubbing steady while he thrust deep—the risk of your father's voice calling from below making it sharper, the breeze cooling the wetness on my skin as I clenched around him. I squirted quiet against his palm, soaking his wrist in hot pulses, my body shuddering full as he filled me with his seed, warm and thick inside, overflowing slow down my thighs."
Amar's mouth pulled back from my skin, eyes lifting to mine full and dark, his fingers slipping under the lace now—parting my folds slow, one digit gliding along the seam to circle my clit with unhurried pressure that drew a quiet moan from me. "You are mine," he said, voice even and full, leaning closer until his forehead rested against mine, breaths mingling warm in the small space between us. "My slut. My Amma. And yet you took him. Let him claim what belongs to me without a thought for me." The words carried no shout, only the steady weight of claim, his grip on my thigh firm as he added a second finger, stretching me gradual with even strokes that curled against that ridge inside, the wet sound faint but present in the room's stillness. "You'll pay for it now. Slow. Every thrust a reminder of who owns you. Stand."
He released me then, rising from the bed with deliberate motion, the mattress shifting back into place as he turned to face the wall, gesturing with a nod of his head. I stood without haste, the tile cool under my feet, and moved to brace my palms against the plaster—fingers splaying wide, the surface smooth and unyielding beneath them. He positioned behind me slow, hands at my hips steady as he hiked the saree higher, the fabric bunching at my waist with careful folds, petticoat's tie giving under his touch to fall away. The air kissed my bare skin then, cool against the warmth building between my thighs, and his fingers traced the curve of my ass—palms cupping the globes full, thumbs parting them light to expose the pucker and folds beneath. "You'll feel the whip of it first," he said, voice low and complete, stepping back to retrieve something from his drawer—a thin leather belt, folded double in his hand, the buckle tucked safe away.
The first crack landed soft but firm across my cheeks, the leather whistling faint through the air before meeting skin with a sharp sting that bloomed warm and immediate, the flesh quivering under the impact. I gasped full, body arching forward against the wall, palms pressing harder into the plaster as the heat spread gradual, a red line rising slow on my skin. "For letting him touch you," he said, each word even and measured, the belt whistling again—landing lower this time, the sting sharper on the undercurve, drawing a soft cry from me that echoed quiet in the room. His hand soothed then, palm flattening over the mark, rubbing the warmth in circles that eased the burn into a throb, fingers dipping between my thighs to trace my wetness—coating them before bringing to my lips. "Taste how it makes you wet," he murmured, and I did—sucking his fingers deep, tongue swirling the flavor of myself as the belt cracked once more, the rhythm unhurried, each strike full and deliberate, building the heat layer by layer until my ass glowed red, the skin sensitive and alive under his touch.
He set the belt aside then, the leather whispering as it fell to the desk, and his hands returned to my hips—turning me slow to face him, my back pressing against the wall as he stepped close, bodies aligning full. His mouth claimed mine without rush—lips parting slow, tongue exploring deep and thorough, tasting the salt of my tears and the sweetness of my arousal on my tongue. One hand wrapped my throat light from the front, fingers curling under my jaw to tilt my head back, holding me there as his other dipped between us—parting my folds to plunge two fingers deep, curling against that ridge inside with measured strokes that drew a moan from me into his mouth. "Choke on it now," he said against my lips, voice full and commanding, withdrawing his fingers to unfasten his pants—his cock springing free, 9 inches rigid and thick, curving upward as he guided it to my mouth.
I parted my lips then, taking him slow—tongue extending to lap the head, tasting the bead of precum salty on my tastebuds before wrapping around the girth, lips stretching full as I bobbed deliberate, taking him deeper inch by inch until he nudged my throat. He thrust shallow at first, each push measured, the veins dragging against my inner cheeks as saliva gathered slow, dripping in thin trails down my chin to coat his base. His hand at my throat tightened just a fraction, fingers pressing the pulse there steady, feeling it quicken with every gag that rose soft and wet. "Swallow me," he murmured, voice even and low, hips shifting forward to bottom out, nose brushing his pubes as tears pricked my eyes, spilling slow down my cheeks. He held there for three full breaths—mine ragged through my nose, his steady—before pulling back, only to thrust again, the rhythm building gradual, each slide slick and full, gags bubbling as I hummed vibrations around him.
The coil built then, unhurried in my core—pussy clenching empty, clit throbbing untouched as his free hand dipped low, fingers circling it firm but slow, rolling the nub in lazy pressure that sparked fire along my nerves. Positions shifted deliberate after that—me on my back on the bed, legs spread wide as he mounted between them, cock spearing my pussy deep with even plunges, one hand choking light at my throat while the other pinned my wrist above my head; then flipped to all fours, ass high as he claimed it from behind, fingers plunging my pussy in counter rhythm, spanking my cheeks red with measured cracks that echoed full in the room. Confessions poured from me between moans—details of Askah's mouth on my breast, his seed warm inside me—each one drawing a harder thrust, his cock switching holes mid-way without pull-out, the fullness shifting seamless as he choked light, forcing the words out full and ragged.
Climaxes chained without haste—mine squirting around him in steady arcs, soaking the sheets as he held deep through the spasms, his loads flooding me deliberate, creampieing pussy then ass in thick ropes that overflowed, trickling down as he ground through the aftershocks, hand at my throat steady until the last wave faded. By midday, we lay tangled on the bed, my body a map of his marks—throat bruised faint from his hold, ass glowing red from the spanks—his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my thigh, voice full and sated as he kissed my temple slow. "Mine now," he murmured, the words complete and possessive, pulling me closer into the warmth of his chest. "Always." The fury had burned clean, leaving submission deeper, the web tighter for the next pull, the room holding us in its quiet embrace as the sun climbed higher outside.
