The Mumbai apartment felt quieter than usual without Aman's father, the distant hum of city traffic filtering through the windows like a secretive whisper. At 20, Aman had crossed into manhood, but his mind was fixated on one obsession: his mother, Nikita. At 39, she was a vision of ripe sensuality—curves that strained against her sarees, full breasts that swayed with every step, and hips that begged to be gripped. She is a total bomb with 36-32-34. Married at 19, she'd given birth to him young, her body blossoming into something every man in the neighborhood eyed with raw hunger. But to Aman, she was his private fantasy, innocent and oblivious to the way he'd been testing boundaries—hugging her too tight, pulling her onto his lap during movie nights and talking, even squeezing and spanking her soft ass or brushing his palms over her heavy tits. She never protested, chalking it up to her son's affection.