Naughty Reha Learns a Strong Lesson

The clock had just crossed 11. Lucknow’s night was still, except for the faint hum of a ceiling fan and the low bass of Reha’s phone speaker. Her room glowed in blue and red LED strips, the kind she saw in trending reels. Aparna, her mother, had come home early that evening. Reha had seen her head straight to her bedroom after dinner, tired from travel. “Shaayad so gayi hogi,” Reha had whispered to herself with a smirk, locking her own door halfway. In her mind, the night was hers. Reha slipped into a deep red saree — scraped  blouse, no shame — wrapping it low on her waist, letting the long pallu hang off her shoulder. 

Her kajal was dark, lips glossy, and hair open — the same long, silky hair that got her the most tips. She adjusted the webcam on her laptop, typed in her login to a private adult site, and hit ‘Go Live’. Within seconds, the screen lit up with comments: “Finally, Naughty Reha is here.” She smiled confidently and let her fingers glide through her hair. slowly rolling it, teasing the camera. She had a glass of vodka nearby, took a slow sip, and tilted her head seductively. She knew what they wanted — and she was ready to give it. The saree slipped slightly as she leaned forward, getting into her act. Her fingers reached behind to untie the pleats. 

Her long hair fell over her bare shoulder. “Today I’ll make it special,” she whispered into the mic. That’s when she heard a soft but sharp sound outside footstep, maybe. She froze for half a second, dismissed it as nothing, and leaned closer to the webcam. Aparna had been standing silently at Reha’s door for a full minute, the gap just wide enough to see. Her jaw was clenched, fists tight at her sides. The blouse had already begun slipping off Reha’s shoulder. She saw her daughter lean in, voice husky, whispering into the camera, “Now for your special treat…” That was the final line. Without a second’s delay, Aparna burst in. 

The door slammed open. Reha spun around, but before she could even register her mother’s presence, Aparna had crossed the room, brought her hand down, and crack — the webcam shattered against the wall. The laptop was slammed shut. And then came the slap — loud, sharp, leaving a red print across Reha’s cheek. It wasn’t just pain — it was humiliation, disbelief, and the death of the fake world she had built. her hand flew to her face, her eyes wide. “Maa!” she gasped, stumbling back. Reha reached under her pillow to grab her phone, but Aparna had already seen it. She lunged forward, yanked the phone from her grip, 

and held it out like filth. “Yeh kya hai, haan?” her voice was low, dangerous. “Yeh kar rahi thi tu jab main so rahi thi doosri kamre mein?” Reha tried to speak, her lips trembling, but the words came out broken. “Please… bas ek galti thi…” But Aparna wasn’t listening. Her eyes were scanning the phone, silent fury building like a volcano ready to erupt — but not yet. Not tonight. Not without knowing everything. Aparna sat down slowly on the edge of Reha’s bed, phone in hand. Her fingers moved fast — years in the Navy had taught her more than just flying. She didn’t ask for passwords; she bypassed app locks,

recovered deleted media, traced hidden folders. Reha had no idea her mother could move like this. Within minutes, every dirty chat, hidden image, and app Reha thought was private lay exposed under the dull screen light. Reha stood frozen, wiping silent tears from her cheek. “Maa… I swear… it’s just timepass… nothing serious…” But Aparna didn’t even look up. Her thumb opened a folder named “PRIV8 – NO TOUCH”. The first image showed Reha in a backless black blouse, biting her lip. The second — a mirror selfie, pallu half fallen, comment below: “Jo chahiye bolo. I give special show for lucky boys ”. Aparna’s eyes didn’t blink. 

Then came the worst. A live stream thumbnail, recorded, blurred background — until Aparna zoomed in. Behind Reha’s open hair and fake smile, stood the family’s pooja mandir. Ganesha, Durga, Shiva — all blurred behind Reha’s seductive gestures. The video was titled: “Desi temple tease – Only for VIPs”. Aparna stopped breathing. She opened one last meme Reha had saved. It was a photo of a female Navy officer standing proud. Reha had captioned it: “My mom’s a Navy robot. I salute her before she salutes herself ”. The phone dropped to the floor. Aparna stood up. Quiet. Too quiet. Her breathing was deep, controlled. 

Then suddenly she grabbed Reha by the wrist and slapped her across the other cheek. Harder than before. “Kameeni,” she hissed, “Yeh sab karta hai tu mere mandir ke saamne? Jis room mein maine tujhe janam diya, usi jagah tu apni izzat bech rahi thi?” Reha broke down, covering her face, crying out, “Maa please! Sorry! Bas ek baar ka tha!” But the next slap came without warning. And the next. Then Aparna grabbed her hair and yanked her forward. Her voice dropped to a growl, filled with fire. “Teri maa hoon main. Fauj ki beti banaya tha tujhe. Aur tu kya nikli? Ek sasti dikhawa baaz? Online bikau maal?” Reha fell to her knees, begging now,

but Aparna didn’t stop. She pushed her to the ground, dragging her by the hair once, with the sharp intention of waking her up. Aparna was not shouting anymore. She didn’t need to. Every word came like a slap. Every action hit harder than any stick. Her mother walked to the cupboard and pulled out one of her own old yellow sarees — plain, cotton, temple-worn — and threw it near Reha’s feet. “Pehen,” she said, coldly. Reha shook her head, covering her chest with trembling arms, tears already blinding her. “Please maa, no… please, don’t do this…” she whispered. But Aparna had already grabbed her by the hair, yanked her up,

 and began dressing her like a doll — no care for modesty, no time for emotion. Every pin, every pleat, every tug of cloth was like justice being wrapped over sin. When it was done, Reha sat dressed like a devotee except her eyes were swollen, her mouth dry, and her heart broken. Aparna lit the pooja lamp and agarbatti without saying anything. The yellow light cast long shadows across the room as she brought in a small stool and placed it directly in front of the idols. She pushed Reha down to sit cross-legged, adjusting her position. A steel mug filled with water sat beside her. A straight razor, polished and sharp, 

She poured the water slowly over Reha’s head, soaking the crown. Reha flinched as the cold drops slid down her neck. “Don’t move,” Aparna said flatly, pressing her shoulder down with one hand while her other hand combed back the wet strands. Reha’s long, thick, black hair clung to her skin like a curtain of shame. Aparna ran her fingers through it one last time — not gently, but with firm finality. Then came the first stroke. The straight razor scraped from front to back — a slow, sharp hiss of steel meeting scalp. Reha gasped and sobbed, but stayed still. The first layer of her identity falling in wet clumps to her lap. Aparna didn’t stop. 

She didn’t speak. She shaved in clean, practiced lines — left, right, center — each stroke peeling away the version of her daughter she no longer recognized. Reha’s cries grew louder, but the razor was louder still. Aparna pressed down more firmly with every pass. “Baaki sab toh jhooth tha,” she said softly, almost to herself. “Yeh baal… ispe tujhe ghamand tha.” She dipped the blade in the water again, wiped it, and shaved again — not satisfied until not a single stubble remained. Reha’s head gleamed under the flickering diya. Her saree was soaked near the neck with tears and water, but she didn’t wipe them. She couldn’t. 

The livestream was still running — comments pouring in, shocked viewers watching the fall of ‘Naughty Reha’. Aparna looked straight into the camera once and said, “Yeh meri beti hai. Aaj uski maa uska mukh dhula rahi hai. Jo becha tha, usey wapas khareed rahi hoon. Dekh lo sab.” Then she ended the stream. She took the kumkum from the pooja thali and pressed a strong red dot on Reha’s clean, bald forehead. Finally, she handed Reha a packet and pointed to the floor. “Saare baal bator. Cover mein daal. Kal subah mandir bhejna hai. Apne paapon ka dand bhagwan ke charno mein dena padega.” 

Reha bent down slowly, silently, collecting the strands of what once made her feel powerful. Her hands trembled. She didn’t speak. The girl who once posed in front of the camera was now just… quiet. The house was silent, save for the occasional buzz of Reha’s discarded phone vibrating on the floor. Aparna picked it up without a word. Her fingers moved fast, calculated, methodical. She wasn’t just a mother now — she was an officer in uniform, handling a breach. She unlocked the phone again, bypassed biometric locks, traced folders, searched for synced backups. Every app — Telegram, Insta, OnlyFans, GPay, vaults — were logged out, 

deactivated, and deleted. She went into Gmail, disabled the accounts. Every identity Reha had built online was wiped in silence. Aparna walked into the kitchen, picked up a pair of rusted scissors, and cut the SIM card into tiny pieces, her jaw clenched. The battery was yanked out, memory card snapped. Then she took the mutilated phone and lit the gas stove. With nothing but a steel spatula, she held the plastic SIM over the open flame until it bent, melted, turned black. “Ab koi connection nahi bacha,” she muttered. Her voice was calm — but it carried the weight of fire. Back in the room, she opened her laptop,

 called up an old Navy contact — a cybersecurity unit officer. In five minutes, Reha’s IP history, backup logins, payment accounts, and online aliases were flagged and scrubbed. “Permanently block these usernames,” Aparna instructed. “No social recovery allowed. No rebuild.” The man didn’t ask questions. He heard the tone. He obeyed. Aparna entered from the kitchen holding a small white plastic container, fingers already smeared with something dense and white. Reha looked up slowly. Her heartbeat ticked louder than the clock. Aparna sat down cross-legged behind her. 

She scooped a thick layer of the hair removal cream on her fingers and leaned forward. Reha flinched the moment she felt the first cold drag of it across her crown. SLAP. Aparna’s palm landed directly across her bald scalp — sharp, flat. “Seedhi baith. Aadat toh hai tujhe camera ke liye pose karne ki. Ab maa ke saamne bhi kar le.” Reha’s lips trembled as she adjusted her posture. Aparna pressed more cream into Reha’s scalp — behind the ears, along the nape, right to the hairline. Every single patch was covered like she was wiping out any memory that a single strand had ever grown there. “Baalon ke liye jhooth bolti thi tu.

Mandir ke naam pe… aur raat ko naachti thi duniya ke saamne,” she muttered under her breath, her fingers pushing harder into the skin. Another tighg slap. Same spot — the top of her head. Reha’s scalp was tingling now — itching, starting to burn lightly, a mix of oil, sweat and now the chemical setting in. Aparna leaned closer, her voice low but harsh “Yeh cream nahi hai, Reha. Yeh tere jhooth ki chaadar hai. Aaj maa ke haathon se tu wahi cheez kho rahi hai jiske dam pe tu logon ko apna bana rahi thi.” Reha didn’t respond. Her eyes were red. She was silent. Not brave — just numb. 

Aparna rubbed a final circle of cream at the center of the scalp and gave one more slap — not full strength, but deliberate.“Tu ek din firse baal uga legi… par izzat? Woh dobara nahi ugegi.” Then, she stood. Looked at her fingers, wiped them on Reha’s discarded top lying nearby. Not even on a cloth. No care. Reha sat on the floor — legs drawn in, arms wrapped tight around her knees, Her body was damp with sweat and shame. Aparna stood at the corner, arms folded, watching. In one sudden movement, she walked up, bent down, and grabbed the end of the saree near Reha’s shoulder. Reha’s eyes widened in confusion, then fear.

 “Maa—” Aparna yanked. In a single, swift motion, she pulled the entire saree off her — layer after layer — dragging it from her body like peeling off skin. The blouse tore at the shoulder. The petticoat slipped off without resistance. Reha tried to clutch the folds back — but Aparna’s grip was unrelenting. Within seconds, Reha was bare. Completely naked. The cold hit her first. Then the shame. Then the stillness. She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. There was nothing left. Aparna stood back, holding the crumpled yellow saree in her hand. Reha lay downed slowly, her back against the floor, hands by her sides, face turned towards the diya.

 The marble was freezing. Her bald head touched the ground. Her body curled from the cold. There was no pillow. No bedsheet. No fan. Just light. And the sound of Reha’s teeth shivering in the night. Later at 5 o clock morning Aparna walked in, holding a full steel bucket of water. No footsteps. No noise. Just presence. Reha lay on the cold floor, completely naked, curled up against the floor . Her arms hugged her chest. Her body had gone numb hours ago. Aparna raised the bucket and poured the entire thing on her. The water hit like a slap. Hard. Cold. Merciless. Reha woke up with a sharp gasp, her body jerking. 

She coughed, choking on her breath. Her scalp burned, skin stung. Her arms rushed to cover herself. Aparna dropped the empty bucket on the floor. “Uthke Naha. Our Darwaza khula rahega.” Her voice was cold. Mechanical. No shouting. Just order. Reha didn’t argue. She stood slowly, trembling, dripping wet, and walked to the bathroom. The door stayed open. She stepped in, still naked, hands shaking. There was no towel. No soap. Just a mug and cold water. Aparna stood in the corridor. Watching. Reha bathed silently. The chill didn’t leave her body. Ten minutes passed.

 Aparna placed a simple folded pale blue salwar suit on the floor near the bathroom door. It had no brand, no design. Just plain stitching. The kind given to hostel maids or school support staff. “Pehn le,” she said, without looking at her. Reha dried herself with her hands and wore it silently. Her scalp was patchy from the cream. Her eyes were red. She didn’t speak. She didn’t dare. The colony was still asleep as Aparna stepped out of the house with her handbag in one hand and a plain envelope in the other. Reha followed, two steps behind, wearing the dull blue suit and her scalp was still moist. Her body clean. But her eyes had no light. 

Cold wind brushed against their faces. Reha kept her head down. They reached the outer road where a government cab was already waiting. Aparna opened the back door. Reha got in without question. By 6:10 AM, the vehicle stopped in front of a grey campus wall with an iron gate. S.R. Military Residential Training Institute – Lucknow Aparna stepped out first. Her walk was firm. Uniform perfect. Reha followed, quiet and slow. The security guard opened the gate. No questions asked. Inside, the campus was strict. Clean. No noise. A bell rang in the distance — short and sharp. Morning routine had started. They reached the admin block. 

A clerk handed over a form. Aparna signed page after page without stopping. Reha stood beside her like a statue. The clerk flipped to the final sheet. Reha glanced down. Her eyes froze on one line: Wing Commander Aparna Sharma – Discipline & Behavioural Ethics Faculty Her stomach tightened. Aparna didn’t look at her. She closed the file and stood up. “Tere naye routine ka pehla din,” she said, flatly. “Yeh sirf school nahi hai. Main bhi yahaan hoon.” “Saans lena bhi meri permission se hoga.” She turned and walked away. Reha didn’t ask where to go. A staff lady appeared, pointed to the dorms. Reha followed. Her steps were slow, eyes low. Her identity, her image, her ego — all stripped. The gate behind her shut with a metal thud.