The rhythmic sway of the train car lulled Karan into a fitful slumber, a teenager’s restless sleep. He was nineteen, a sophomore in college, his frame lean and agile at 5’11”. His father, Nitin, a 47-year-old senior executive with a slight paunch, was away on a business trip to Bangalore. This left Karan and his mother, Varsha, to navigate the annual pilgrimage to his grandparents’ house for the summer holidays. Varsha, 46, a homemaker, possessed a figure that, to Karan’s adolescent estimation, was a generous 36-32-34.
The journey began with an unexpected snag. Their second AC tickets, booked weeks ago, remained stubbornly on waiting list. One ticket eventually shifted to RAC, a half-berth, leaving the other in limbo. Nitin, ever practical, had instructed Varsha over the phone. “Go ahead. One ticket’s RAC. Just slip the TC a few rupees. He’ll sort out a seat.”
They followed his advice. At the station, they located their coach, settling onto the assigned RAC seat. When the Ticket Collector finally made his rounds, Varsha approached him. He initially waved her off, his eyes darting around the crowded compartment. Then, he leaned in, a hushed invitation. “Not here. Let’s step into the corridor. Someone might overhear, complain.”
Varsha turned to Karan. “Stay here. Watch the luggage. I’ll be right back.”
Karan nodded, watching his mother follow the TC out of sight. He sank back onto the seat, the murmur of the train a constant drone. Fifteen, twenty minutes crawled by. Then, Varsha and the TC reappeared.
“We have a seat,” Varsha announced, her voice low. “But it’s in another coach. We need to move.”
They gathered their bags, trailing behind the TC. He led them to a compartment near the gate in a different coach. Two upper berths, their new home. Below, an elderly couple, well into their seventies, occupied the lower seats. Two other women sat across the aisle. The TC departed, leaving them to settle in.
Later, after a quick dinner, they prepared for bed. Sheets were unfurled, curtains drawn. The old man below requested the corridor light remain on. His aging eyes, and his wife’s, struggled in the dark. A late-night trip to the washroom would prove difficult otherwise. So, all internal lights went out, curtains sealed the windows, but a sliver of light from the corridor pierced the fabric. Enough to discern shapes, not enough to disturb sleep. Karan climbed into his berth and drifted off.
Hours later, a shift in the air, a subtle sound, nudged Karan awake. He lay still, eyes closed, then slowly opened them. He turned his head towards his mother’s berth. She lay there, but not alone. A man was atop her, a blanket pulled halfway up their backs. They were kissing. He could discern the curve of his mother’s legs, splayed open, the man positioned between them, his head buried in her neck. Her hands clutched his back, his hands rested near her head.
The man pulled back, breaking the kiss. It was the TC. He lifted his hips, then lowered them, a soft gasp escaping Varsha’s lips. He began to move, a slow, rhythmic thrust. Varsha’s hands returned to his back, gripping him as she moaned softly with each push. The blanket, dislodged by the motion, slipped. Karan’s eyes widened. They were both naked from the waist down. Varsha’s kurta rode up to her belly, her legs splayed. The TC, still in his shirt, drove into her, his cock buried deep within her pussy.
Varsha’s hands darted down, snatching the blanket, pulling it back up. But the fervent thrusting dislodged it again and again, forcing them to pause.
“Leave it,” the TC whispered, his voice hoarse. “We keep stopping to fix it.”
“Someone will see,” Varsha breathed.
“No one will see. Everyone’s asleep. The curtains are drawn tight.”
He pulled away from her, tossing the blanket onto the steel rack at the side of the berth. Varsha turned her head, a quick, furtive glance towards Karan’s berth. He lay there, his arm covering his eyes, feigning sleep.
The TC spread Varsha’s legs further, aligning his cock with her pussy. One hard thrust, and he was home. Varsha’s eyes squeezed shut, her body tensed, her hips arching. He gripped her hips, driving into her with renewed vigor. Varsha bit her lip, stifling her cries, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
He reached for her kurta, pushing it up past her breasts. “Take off your bra,” he murmured. Varsha fumbled behind her back, unhooking it, pulling the straps from her shoulders, and sliding it out from beneath her kurta. She tossed it aside. The TC’s hands cupped her breasts, kneading them as he continued to fuck her. Varsha’s lips remained pressed together, her moans suppressed.
He leaned down, taking one of her nipples into his mouth, sucking hard. Varsha’s legs wrapped around his waist, her hips rising to meet his thrusts. He moved slowly now, his cock sliding in and out, her nipples a sweet treat on his tongue.
Then, he pulled back slightly, his pace quickening. Varsha’s hands flew to her mouth, stifling the cries that threatened to escape. Her legs lifted, suspended in the air. He pounded into her, her breasts bouncing with each forceful thrust. Her legs pedaled in the air, her hands pressed against her mouth, muffling the sounds of her pleasure.
A few more frantic pumps, and the TC groaned, collapsing onto Varsha, his seed spilling deep inside her. Varsha’s legs dropped, splayed on the berth, as they both lay panting, gasping for breath.
After a few minutes, their breathing normalized. The TC rolled off her, and Varsha shifted to the side. He pulled on his clothes. As Varsha sat up to dress, the TC spoke. “No bra, no panties. It’s still a while until morning. I’ll be back for another round. Just wear your kurta and leggings. No point putting them on just to take them off again.”
The TC left. Varsha adjusted her kurta, pulled on her leggings, and tucked her bra and panties under her pillow. She pulled the blanket over her and feigned sleep.
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