Over the following weeks, Ayan's secret habit deepened, becoming an almost nightly ritual. What started as a fleeting impulse after the accidental sighting had evolved into something compulsive. In the quiet of his room, he'd retrieve the hidden bra from under his mattress, its scent a trigger for his fantasies. He'd imagine Mrs. Sharma not just as his nurturing Ma, but as a woman—desirable, sensual, with her curves and warmth that he now craved. Her laughter at dinner, the way her saree draped over her figure, even the simple act of her brushing her hair—all fueled his thoughts.
Each evening, after the family retired, Ayan would lock his door and give in. His hand would move rhythmically as he pictured her naked body, her breasts bare and inviting, her moans in his mind. The masturbation sessions grew more intense, leaving him breathless and sated, yet hungry for more. Guilt lingered, but it was overshadowed by the thrill; he rationalized it as harmless, a private escape from the pressures of college and family expectations.
During the day, his perception of Mrs. Sharma shifted subtly. He found himself stealing glances at her, noticing the sway of her hips or the softness of her skin. Conversations felt charged, her touches—innocent pats on his shoulder—lingering in his imagination. Priya teased him about being distracted, and Mr. Sharma joked about young love, unaware of the storm brewing in Ayan's mind. He buried himself in studies and work, but the fantasies persisted, blurring the lines between family and forbidden desire. Ayan wondered how long he could keep this hidden, or if it would one day spill into reality.