The Mas of Desire

To fully grasp the nuances of the characters and their world, it's best to read the introduction in the previous chapter before getting into the story.

1.1 The Bully's Bait

The sun dipped low over Hyderabad, India, painting the sky orange as Ishaan leaned against an old rusty gate, watching Abhi shuffle out with his backpack slung low.

The kid looked like a lost puppy, head down, avoiding the jeers of passing boys. Perfect. Ishaan pushed off the wall, his sneakers scuffing the gravel as he fell into step beside him.

"Yo, Abhi, wait up," he called, voice slick with fake warmth.

Abhi flinched but stopped, peering up through his bangs. "W-what do you want, Ishaan?"

"Chill bro, just wanna talk," Ishaan said, slinging an arm around Abhi's shoulders.

He could feel the kid tense, could smell the fear on him.

"You're coming over to my place tomorrow, right? Study group?" Abhi nodded hesitantly--he'd agreed last week, too scared to say no.

Ishaan grinned, "Good. Bring some of your mom's food, yeah? Heard she's a legend in the kitchen."

Abhi blinked, confused. "Uh... okay. She makes paneer curry sometimes--"

"Oh yeah? Tell her to pack extra," Ishaan cut in, his tone casual but his eyes sharp.

He didn't give a shit about the food. It was an excuse, a thread to pull Madhuri closer. He'd seen her again yesterday, dropping Abhi off in a navy saree that hugged her melons like a second skin.

His cock had throbbed so hard he'd had to adjust himself behind a tree.

She was a tease without even trying--those lips, that ass.

He needed her naked, and he'd make it happen. They walked in silence for a bit, the buzz of autorickshaws and street vendors filling the air.

Ishaan leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low, taunting whisper, "Your mom's too hot to be stuck with a boring old man, you know."

Abhi squirmed, the words sinking into him like poison. He'd never thought of his mom that way--she was his rock, his safe place. But Ishaan's smirk planted a seed, a flicker of something he couldn't name.

"My parents are happily married Ishaan, stop talking like that." He mumbled.

Ishaan's eyes glinted. "Married don't mean shit when a guy's got game."

They reached Abhi's street, and Ishaan clapped him on the back, hard enough to make him stumble.

"See you tomorrow, buddy. Don't forget the food--or I'll come get it myself" He winked and sauntered off, leaving Abhi staring after him, heart thudding.

He didn't know why, but Ishaan's words clung to him, a shadow he couldn't shake. That night, Ishaan sat in his room, shirtless, sweat glistening on his abs as he scrolled through Instagram. He'd found Madhuri's profile weeks ago--public, full of saree pics and family shots, her smile radiant.

"Fucking tease," he muttered, stroking himself through his shorts.

He opened a burner account--

DevilzMask

--and typed his first message: "Saw you today, Madhuri. That saree's a sin. Bet you know it"

He hit send, imagining her gasp when it popped up.

1.2 Madhuri's Stirring

Madhuri sat at her vanity, brushing her long, dark hair, the rhythmic strokes soothing her after a long day at the office. Her phone buzzed on the table, and she glanced at it--an Instagram notification.

She frowned, opening the app. A message from an unknown account

DevilzMask

.

Her breath caught, fingers tightening around the brush as she reads the message.

"Who's this idiot? And how did he know my name?" she muttered, her heart racing.

She wanted to block him, tell Ramesh--but his snores droned from the bed, a reminder of how useless he'd be.

Her thumb hovered over the message, a strange heat curling in her belly.

"A sin? My saree?" She'd worn the navy one that day, the same saree that made her boss stammer during their meeting.

She'd felt their eyes--men, always watching--and pretended it didn't thrill her. But this... this was different. Bold. Creepy. Wrong.

She typed back, hands trembling: "Who are you? Stop this."

The reply came fast: "Someone who sees you, the real you. Not the fake wife act, but the woman underneath"

Madhuri's cheeks flushed, her reflection in the mirror wide-eyed, lips parted. "Nasty fellow," she hissed, slamming the phone down.

But her nipples slightly hardened under her nightie, a traitor to her outrage. She stood, pacing the room, the silk brushing her thighs. She was respected, beautiful, untouchable. Yet this stranger's words slithered under her skin, waking something she'd buried. Ramesh hadn't touched her in months, his limp excuses leaving her cold. She'd never strayed, never dared--but oh, how she'd dreamed. Of strong hands, a deep voice, a man who'd take her without asking.

The phone buzzed again. Against her better judgment, she looked. "You're too gorgeous to waste on him. Tell me what you want, I'll give it to you."

A photo followed, It was her--leaving the office, captured from behind, her hips swaying. She gasped, dropping the phone like it burned.

Someone was watching her. Stalking her. She should be scared. She was scared. But her pussy twitched, telling her to answer back.

"I'm not that kind of woman," she whispered, clutching her chest.

She deleted the message, blocked the account, and climbed into bed, willing her body to calm.

But as she drifted off, her dreams betrayed her--faceless hands pinning her down, a masked figure growling her name.

She woke damp, thighs sticky, shame and need warring in her chest.

Downstairs, Abhi shuffled into the kitchen, oblivious to her turmoil. "Maa, Ishaan asked for your paneer curry tomorrow," he said shyly, avoiding her eyes.

Madhuri forced a smile, smoothing her hair. "Ishaan? Your friend? sure sweetie, I'll make it"

She'd met him once--tall, charming, too confident and built for a boy his age. His "Namaste, aunty" had lingered in her ears, his gaze too bold. She'd brushed it off. Now, she wondered.

Across town, Ishaan smirked at his phone. She'd blocked him--It was cute for him as he'd expected it. He had ten more accounts ready, a dozen plans brewing. Tomorrow, he'd see her again, smell her perfume, watch her squirm. Abhi would deliver the food--and the first piece of her to him. The game was on, and Madhuri didn't even know she'd already lost the opening move.

1.3 Abhi's Strings

The next day, Abhi stood in the kitchen, the faint aroma of tamarind and mustard seeds wafting from the stove as Madhuri stirred a pot of paneer curry. The morning light filtered through the window, catching the edges of her cream-colored nightie, outlining her curves in a way that made Abhi's throat tighten.

He didn't understand why he noticed her bare back, thick hips shifting as she moved, the way her hair fell her hair bun as she tried to wipe off sweat on her forehead.

She was his mom, his safe harbor, the one who hummed old Telugu songs while packing his lunch. But Ishaan's words from yesterday gnawed at him, a splinter he couldn't pull out.

"Here, Abhi, tell your friend it's ready," Madhuri said, her voice warm as she spooned the spicy curry into a steel container.

She glanced at him, her brown eyes soft but sharp, catching his fidgeting hands. "What sweetie? You're so quiet today"

Abhi ducked his head, clutching the edge of the counter. "Nothing, maa. Just... tired" He hated lying to her, but how could he say it? Those Ishaan's taunts--"Your mom's too hot to be stuck with a boring old man"--kept replaying in his head, making him see her differently

Madhuri clicked her tongue, setting the spoon down. "Study properly, okay? No daydreaming with that boy" She ruffled his hair, her touch gentle, and Abhi's chest ached with a mix of comfort and guilt.

He nodded, forcing a smile, but his eyes lingered as she turned back to the stove. The nightie clung to her lower back, hinting at the swell of her ass, and he jerked his gaze away, heat crawling up his neck. He didn't know what was wrong with him.

At high school, Ishaan was waiting. He lounged against the corridor wall, uniform shirt unbuttoned at the top, exuding a lazy confidence that made Abhi shrink.

"Got the goods?" Ishaan asked, smirking as Abhi handed over the container.

He popped it open, inhaling deeply. "Fuck, smells like heaven. Your mom's a goddamn angel, bro"

Abhi shifted on his feet, uneasy. "Yeah... she made it for you"

Ishaan's grin widened, a predator baring teeth. "For me, huh? That's sweet"

He scooped a spoonful of the curry into his mouth, tasting slowly, eyes locked on Abhi. "Bet she'd cook for me every day if I asked nice. Maybe wearing something sexy while she's at it."

Abhi's stomach twisted, a sick flutter he couldn't name. "She's not... like that," he mumbled, but his voice lacked conviction.

"Not like what?" Ishaan stepped closer, towering over him. "Not a woman? Come on, Abhi, don't be a kid. She's got needs--needs your dad's too old to handle"

He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. "Ever heard her at night? Moaning, touching herself?"

Abhi's face burned, his fists clenching. "Shut up, Ishaan! That's disgusting!"

Ishaan laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. "Relax, bro, I'm messing with you. But seriously--watch her. Tell me what she does, what she wears."

Abhi blinked, confused. "Why?"

Ishaan's eyes darkened, a glint of something dangerous. "Cause I'm curious. And you owe me, right? After I saved your ass from that locker prank last month"

Abhi swallowed hard. He didn't want to owe Ishaan anything, but the memory of being shoved into a locker--claustrophobic, humiliating--still stung.

"Fine," he muttered, barely audible.

Ishaan smirked, satisfied. "Good boy. Start tonight. Text me" He sauntered off, leaving Abhi clutching the empty container, a puppet dangling on a string he didn't yet see.

That night, Abhi sat on his bed, phone in hand, staring at the door to his room. Down the hall, Madhuri's voice floated--soft, scolding Ramesh about bills. Normal. But Ishaan's command echoed louder. "Watch her". Abhi's fingers hovered over his door knob, a traitor's tremble in them. He didn't want to. He shouldn't. But something--curiosity, fear, a twisted pull--made him open the door.

He peeked out to see his mom and typed, "She's in a blue nightie. Yelling at Dad" He hit send, heart pounding, and waited for the shadow to grow.

1.4 The Cracks in the Frame

Madhuri leaned against the kitchen counter, a glass of water in her hand, the coolness grounding her after a pointless argument with Ramesh.

"You don't even know where to spend money, Ramesh," she'd snapped at him, frustrated by his latest splurge on a gaudy watch he'd never wear.

Ramesh had just grunted, retreating to the TV, his balding head glinting under the bulb. She sighed, sipping the water, her reflection in the glass warped and restless. The house was quiet now, save for the hum of the fridge and the distant murmur of Abhi's music through his door.

She loved it--her moment of peace, when she could shed the day's weight. Her blue nightie, soft and loose, brushed her thighs as she moved, a small rebellion against the tight sarees and office pants she wore outside. She didn't notice how it hugged her curves when she bent to adjust a cushion, didn't hear the creak of Abhi's door opening a crack.

Ishaan's reply had come fast: "Blue nightie? Hot. What else?"

Abhi's palms sweated, guilt clawing at him. But he couldn't stop.

Abhi peeked out again, phone clutched tight, his breath shallow. He watched his mom stretch her arms turning her back towards him, the fabric pulling tight over her breasts, her melons and ass outlined for a fleeting second.

His mouth went dry, a shameful jolt shooting through him.

She was beautiful, always had been, but now... now it felt different.

Wrong.

He closes his door, typed with fingers shaking: "She's fixing the sofa. Looks tired"

Ishaan's response buzzed back: "Tired, huh? Bet she's pent-up. Check her room--see if she's got any secrets"

Abhi's heart thudded. "Secrets? Mom doesn't have any secrets," he whispered to himself

She was pure, perfect, the one who kissed his forehead when he failed a test. But Ishaan's words were a worm, burrowing deep, and Abhi couldn't unhear them. Madhuri set the glass down, oblivious, and padded toward her bedroom.

She paused at Abhi's door, knocking lightly. "Get ready for tomorrow, okay? Sleep early" she called, her voice a lullaby.

Abhi scrambled to hide his phone, cracking the door open. "Y-Yes, maa," he said, forcing a smile.

She smiled back, warm and trusting, then disappeared to her bedroom.

He waited, counting the minutes, until the house settled into silence. Then, driven by a force he didn't understand, he crept to the door of his parent's bedroom. It was slightly open, the glow of her bedside lamp spilling out.

Madhuri sat on the bed, brushing her hair, her nightie slipping off one shoulder. Ramesh snored beside her, a lump under the blanket. Abhi's breath hitched--she looked... lonely. Vulnerable. Her fingers lingered at her collarbone, tracing it absently, and for a moment, her eyes fluttered shut, lips parting in a faint sigh.

"Was this what Ishaan meant?" Abhi's mind spun, a mix of awe and dread.

He texted: "I can't get into her room Ishaan."

Ishaan replied instantly: "Even the cafeteria slop's got more backbone than you Abhi, I dare you to prove me wrong"

Abhi trembles with shame and replied: "Sorry Ishaan, but I can't.. She's awake brushing her hair. Dad's asleep. But.. she looks... sad?"

Ishaan replied instantly: "Ah! Sad's good. Means she's hungry for more. Keep watching, bro. You're doing great"

Abhi sank against the wall, phone trembling in his hand. He didn't want to be great at this. He didn't want to see her as anything but his mother. But the crack had formed--small, jagged, irreversible--and Ishaan was prying it wide open.

Back in his room, Abhi curled under his blanket, the image of his mom's sigh burned into him. He didn't touch himself--couldn't--but the heat lingered, confusing and heavy.

In her bedroom, Madhuri lay awake, staring at the ceiling, her body restless in a way she refused to name. Neither knew the other's turmoil, nor the shadow orchestrating it from afar.

1.5: The Weight of Eyes

Next day late afternoon, Abhi sat cross-legged on the living room floor, a math textbook open in front of him, but his eyes kept drifting. Madhuri bustled in the kitchen, her chudidhar--a deep purple one with tight leggings--swishing as she chopped onions for dinner. The sun slanted through the window, catching the gold bangles on her wrist, making them glint like tiny flames. She was humming a tune, something from an old Chiranjeevi movie, her voice soft and lilting.

Ishaan's text from last night buzzed in his mind: "Keep watching, bro. You're doing great" Abhi's stomach churned every time he thought about it.

He'd crossed a line, spying on his mom, texting Ishaan like some creep. But the more he tried to shove it away, the more it stuck--like a splinter under a nail.

He glanced at her again, catching the way her dupatta slipped, revealing the curve of her neck. His breath hitched, and he dug his fingers into the textbook, tearing a corner of the page.

"Abhi, done with your homework?" Madhuri called, not turning around, her knife slicing through the onions with rhythmic thwacks.

Abhi jolted, guilt flooding him. "Almost, maa," he lied, his voice cracking.

She laughed--a warm, easy sound--and shook her head. "Don't be late, your father will nag me if you fail again" She wiped her hands on a towel, turning to face him, and Abhi dropped his gaze fast, pretending to scribble an equation.

Her footsteps padded closer, and he felt her shadow fall over him. "What? So serious today?" she teased, crouching beside him. Her perfume--rose and something earthy--hit him, and he froze, hyper-aware of her closeness.

The chudidhar hugged her thighs, her bust pressing against the fabric as she leaned in to check his work. "This is wrong," she said, tapping the page. "Add here, subtract there. Focus!"

Abhi nodded mutely, her voice a lifeline pulling him back from the edge. She was his mom--bossy, caring, safe. Not... whatever Ishaan made her out to be.

But as she stood, brushing his hair back with a fond smile, his eyes betrayed him, flicking to the sway of her hips as she walked away. His dick twitched, faint but undeniable, and he slammed the book shut, horrified.

His phone vibrated under his leg--Ishaan. "What's she up to now? Spill it."

Abhi's hands shook as he typed, each word a betrayal: "Cooking. Purple chudidhar. She's in a happy mood" He hit send, then stuffed the phone in his pocket, hating how it felt like a leash.

Ishaan's reply came quick: "Nah.. happy is boring. Dig deeper, bro. Find the dirt."

Abhi squeezed his eyes shut, willing the words to vanish. "Dirt? There's no dirt. My mom is perfect," he told himself.

But was she? Last night's sigh--the way she'd touched her collarbone--flashed in his mind. He'd never seen her like that before, unguarded, almost... needy.

He shook his head, trying to erase it, but Ishaan's voice was louder, a devil on his shoulder. Abhi grabbed his pencil, snapping it in half, the crack echoing in the quiet room.

Madhuri glanced over, frowning. "What's that noise?" she asked, concern lacing her tone.

"Nothing," he mumbled, scrambling to his feet.

"I'll finish in my room" He fled, heart pounding, leaving her puzzled but oblivious.

In his room, he locked the door, staring at the broken pencil. He didn't know what he was looking for, didn't want to find it--but Ishaan's hooks were in him, and they weren't letting go.

Across town, Ishaan lounged on his bed, smirking at Abhi's text. Purple chudidhar, huh? He pictured it--Madhuri's thick figure wrapped in tight fabric, begging to be unwrapped.

He didn't reply yet. He let the kid stew, let the guilt fester. Abhi was his key, and he'd turn him slowly, carefully, until the little shit was begging to watch his mom get fucked.

1.6: The Dining Table Divide

The dining table was a battlefield of silence that night. Madhuri sat at one end, her purple chudidhar swapped for a loose pajama set--cotton, faded pink, unassuming--but Abhi couldn't unsee the curves beneath. Ramesh sat opposite, hunched over his plate, spooning dal into his mouth with mechanical grunts. The TV blared a news debate in the background, a distraction none of them needed but all of them clung to. Abhi picked at his rice, his appetite gone, every clink of cutlery amplifying the noise in his head.

Madhuri broke the silence, her voice sharp but tired. "Ramesh, you still tensed about office? You're eating like a machine"

Ramesh didn't look up, just shrugged. "Work is work," he muttered, his bald spot catching the light.

Madhuri rolled her eyes, setting her spoon down with a clatter. "You're always zoned out. Talk to me with some life, okay?" Her tone softened at the end, a plea masked as frustration.

But Ramesh only grunted again, reaching for more roti.

Abhi watched the exchange, a knot tightening in his chest.

He'd seen this before--his mother trying to reach across the gap, his father too tired or too stubborn to meet her halfway.

Usually, he'd feel bad for her, maybe crack a joke to make her smile.

Tonight, he couldn't. Ishaan's words twisted everything--"She's got needs your dad's too old to handle" Was that why she sounded so... desperate?

She turned to him, catching his stare. "What's wrong sweetie? You're not eating" Her brown eyes searched his face, and he flinched, dropping his gaze to the plate.