Reminder: this is my novel. So don't expect to find a steamy sex scene in every episode. For those who are only interested in that, there's no need to read this episode; it will save you from giving it a bad rating out of pure spite. We suddenly realize that time has flown by, that dinnertime must have arrived long ago. A shiver runs through me: Smaïn's mother is surely waiting for us, and the smell of couscous must already be wafting through the house. We exchange a knowing glance, still drunk with pleasure, then we dress hastily, our fingers trembling, our clothes in disarray. We climb the cellar steps in silence, our bodies still warm against each other, and slip into the house like two thieves. Ten minutes later, we are sitting at the table, our cheeks still flushed, our eyes shining. The royal couscous steams before us, rich with vegetables, lamb, and merguez sausage, and the aroma of thyme and spices fills the air. Smaïn's mother watches us with a smile, unaware of what we've just experienced. We must honor the hostess who keeps serving us, refilling our plates, and refilling them until we're stuffed. At the end of the meal, we retire to Smaïn's room for a nap. He falls asleep in two minutes, on his back, mouth open. For me, impossible. I've eaten too much! I get up discreetly to fetch a glass of water from the kitchen. The apartment is deserted except for Smaïn's mother, who is washing up alone. She asks me if everything is alright. I tell her I'm not used to eating so much. She replies, "Sit down, my son, I'll make you some mint tea; it'll help with your digestion." She hands me a steaming cup of mint tea, the golden liquid shimmering in the kitchen light. She sits opposite me, her hands resting on the table, and observes me with a gaze that is both gentle and piercing. " So, Pierre, did you like my couscous?" she asks, slowly swirling the teacup between her fingers. Then, without hesitation, as if it were burning her… "What I love is seeing my son happy. And you know…" she lowers her voice slightly, as if sharing a secret, "I'm the one who does the laundry in this house. Who washes my boys' pajamas, their underwear…" She looks me straight in the eyes, without adding anything, but the message is clear. I take a sip of tea, feeling a warmth rise in my cheeks. "So you know, Pierre, my Smaïn…" she continues, "he has always been a very affectionate boy. Very close to those he loves." And I can see the way he's looking at you. And you too, for that matter." She pauses, observing my reaction."He has a heart as big as all outdoors," she continued, spreading her arms wide, "and when he gets attached to someone, it's for life. Do you understand?" I remained silent, a little flustered. She smiled, as if she had sensed my discomfort, and added, sounding relaxed but with a hint of seriousness: "I'm not naive, Pierre. I know there are things people don't tell me. But I also see that you make him happy. And that's all that matters to me. You know, we mothers are the only ones who feel this, who understand it… and who can continue to love our sons, no matter what. Men, they're too proud… or too stupid, if you prefer." She leaned slightly forward, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. "I'm not going to lecture you, Pierre. I just want him to be happy. And you too. But be careful, okay?" She looks me straight in the eyes, her tone suddenly becoming firmer. "If you ever break her heart, I'll break your legs. And I promise you'll never walk the same way again." She straightens up and takes a sip of tea, leaving me with my thoughts and the tea, which suddenly tastes a little deeper, more bitter. She gathers some dishes and puts them away in the cupboard, taking the opportunity to say to me, but with her back to me, "And in the bedroom, that's your world, but be discreet..." And with that, she leaves the room, still with her back to me. I remain seated, the still-warm cup of mint tea in my hands, but my mind is elsewhere. This woman's words resonate within me like a melody both sweet and sad. She, with her calm smile and wise eyes, holds the reins of this family like a silent guardian. I think back to Karim, that wild brother, that unhinged man who indulged himself in the dark, damp cellars with the hysterical neighbors, as if each embrace were a victory snatched from the night. I see again the father, discreet, almost ghostly, slipping away in the evening to seek another kind of service, one his wife no doubt denies him, in the shadows of a sordid garden, far from prying eyes, far from judgment. And she, she's there, in the middle of it all. She washes the sheets, she puts away the pajamas, the underwear, stained or not, she turns a blind eye to her men's indiscretions, as if she knows that life is too short to waste time on recriminations. She loves them, simply, unconditionally, without expectations. She is the safe harbor in their storm, the one who keeps the boat afloat, even when the waves threaten to sweep everything away. I feel a lump forming in my throat. She, the saint among sinners, the light in the darkness. She does not judge, she does not condemn. She loves. Just that.And perhaps that is the most beautiful and rarest thing in the world: a real mother.I push open the bedroom door. Smaïn is asleep on his back, his mouth slightly open, one arm raised above his head. He's so beautiful, so peaceful. I sit on the edge of the bed, my heart heavy. I think of his mother, of her piercing gaze just now. She knows. She's figured it all out. And if Smaïn wants to talk to her, I can't let him do it alone. I lean down, brushing his shoulder. "Smaïn…" I whisper. He grunts, blinks. "Your mother…" I say, my voice trembling. "She understands. About us. And you're right, I think we need to talk to her. Together." He sits up, instantly awake, and looks at me with an intensity that takes my breath away. "Yes… I need to talk to her… But do you want to go together?" "What don't we do together, my love?" I whisper. “Yes, you’re right, that’s true… But it’s very kind of you. Habibi.” Smaïn enters the kitchen with a determined stride, and without hesitation, he throws himself at his mother, embracing her with a force that almost makes her stagger. I see her face, turned towards me, as her fingers slowly caress her son’s hair, as if to absorb the contact. “My son, my little one…” she murmurs, her voice slightly trembling, but her eyes shining with quiet pride. Then she straightens up, wiping away a furtive tear from the corner of her eye, and looks at us in turn. “You came together, that’s good. That’s brave.” Her voice is soft, but firm. “I like that.” She rises with quiet grace, adjusts her shawl over her shoulders, and adds, heading towards the hallway, "Wait, I'll close our bedroom door. Your father is still asleep, and I don't want him to disturb us… Pour yourselves some tea, it's still warm." Smaïn hands me a small, decorated glass, the mint tea steaming in our hands. We sit side by side, our shoulders barely touching, but enough for me to feel the warmth of her body against mine. She returns, sits opposite us, her hands clasped on the table, as if in prayer or sharing a secret. She looks at us for a long moment, a mischievous smile on her lips, then says, her voice tinged with a tenderness th ...

... Log in to read the end of this erotic story | 100% free registration