That night, Ayan lay in his bed, the apartment shrouded in silence. The accidental glimpse from earlier replayed in his mind like a forbidden loop. His energetic spirit, usually directed toward studies or sports, now churned with restless thoughts. He tried to push them away—Mrs. Sharma was his Ma, the woman who had raised him with love and care—but the image lingered: her smooth skin, the curve of her body, the unexpected vulnerability of her naked form.
As the hours ticked by, Ayan's imagination took over. He pictured her again, this time more vividly—her full breasts, soft and exposed, the way they might feel under his touch. His heart raced, a mix of guilt and arousal flooding him. He was young, handsome, and full of pent-up energy, and these thoughts felt wrong yet irresistibly thrilling. In the privacy of his room, he gave in, his hand slipping beneath the sheets. He stroked himself slowly at first, then faster, envisioning Mrs. Sharma's body in intimate detail—her naked curves, the warmth he imagined. The fantasy built to a crescendo, his breath quickening until he climaxed with a muffled groan, collapsing back onto the pillow.
Afterward, shame washed over him. He buried his face in his hands, whispering, "What am I doing?" Mrs. Sharma was family, not some object of desire. Yet, the seed of curiosity had been planted, and Ayan wondered if this was just a phase or something deeper stirring within him. As sleep finally claimed him, he resolved to bury these thoughts, focusing on his future. But in the back of his mind, the image remained, a secret he dared not share.