Adultery FALL OF THE ARROGANT MOTHER

[Momhunter123]

Part 1 - The SLAP

Tuesday morning, Gariahat market steamed under a thick July sun. Bhumika Basu stepped down from the rickshaw, the metal footrest creaking under her weight. Forty-six years old, ninety-three kilograms of warm, wheat-gold flesh filled the yellow cotton saree until it looked painted on. The sleeveless blouse, same pale yellow, pulled tight across her heavy breasts; the two hooks at the back seemed ready to surrender any second. A thick gold chain sank deep between her breasts, and the black-beaded mangalsutra rested just where the blouse ended and the soft roll of her upper belly began.

She moved through the fish lane like a queen who knew every eye was on her. Each slow step made her enormous hips roll; the saree clung, released, clung again, tracing the heavy sway of her ass in a rhythm that made men forget what they came to buy. The cloth had slipped a little low on her waist; when a sudden breeze lifted the pallu, the top inch of her deep ass-crack flashed dark against the yellow, then vanished.

Rocky had been watching her from the paan shop for twenty-one days straight. Twenty years old, thin as a blade, eyes flat and hungry. Today he followed, three steps behind the crowd, phone already unlocked, heart punching his ribs.

Bhumika stopped at a vegetable stall, bent to choose brinjals. The pallu slid off her shoulder and hung like a careless flag. The saree stretched drum-tight over the widest part of her hips. Through the thin cotton, the faint pink flowers of her printed panty appeared, the cloth swallowed deep between two mountains of flesh.

Rocky dropped to one knee, pretending to fix a perfectly tied shoelace. Phone angled up under the saree.

Forty-eight seconds of shaky, breathless treasure:

Her thighs pressed together so thickly that daylight died between them. The panty had climbed high; the lower half of each ass cheek spilled out beneath the elastic, soft and shining with sweat. One fat bead formed just above the waistband, rolled slowly down the left globe, paused at the edge of the crack, then slipped out of sight.

A sudden cool breeze kissed the backs of her thighs. Bhumika froze. Something was wrong.

She straightened fast, pallu whipping back into place. Turned.

Saw the boy on the ground, phone aimed straight up her saree like a weapon.

Her hand flew before thought. The slap cracked across Rocky’s cheek loud enough to stop the entire lane. Five bright finger marks rose instantly on his skin.

“Shuorer bachcha! What are you trying to do?”  

Her voice shook with fury, chest heaving, breasts trembling against the blouse.  

“My son is older than you and he’s an engineer in Bombay! Do you know what he can do? security officer will drag you by the hair today!”

Rocky stayed on his knee, unmoving. Slowly he held out the phone. Bhumika snatched it, scrolled fast. Gallery empty. No trace.

The crowd muttered, already taking the “poor student’s” side. 

Bhumika’s nostrils flared. She shoved the phone back into his chest, turned, and stormed off. Her hips rolled harder than ever, saree swishing like a war flag, petticoat rustling loud enough for half the market to hear.

Rocky rose slowly. He touched the burning cheek, fingers tracing the perfect fingerprints.

For the first time, the cold smile in his eyes reached his mouth.

Part 2 - The TRAP

Wednesday afternoon, the flat warm and still. Sunirmal Basu had left for tuition twenty minutes earlier; the faint smell of dal and posto lingered like a memory.

Doorbell: two soft rings.

Bhumika opened the door in a light-green cotton saree that clung to every damp curve, sleeveless cream blouse stretched tight, hair loose down her back, fresh sindoor bright in the parting. She looked relaxed, completely at home.

Sahil and Bishal stood outside, college bags hanging low, faces arranged in perfect respect.

Sahil spoke first, voice low and polite.  

“Good afternoon, aunty. Sir asked us to come at three for some calculus doubts. Looks like he’s running late.”

She gave the small, proud smile of a teacher’s wife.  

“Come in, boys. Sir won’t be back before seven-thirty. Sit, I’ll bring cold sharbat and sweets.”

She turned and walked ahead. The boys followed the slow, heavy sway of her hips under the thin cotton, the saree riding low, cloth disappearing deep between the cheeks with every step.

In the living room she bent to set the steel tray on the low table: soft sandesh, three tall glasses of chilled Rooh Afza glowing rose-red. The pallu slipped forward and stayed there. The blouse gaped wide. Two enormous breasts hung heavy in a simple white bra, the top half spilling over the cups, skin shining with heat. One bead of sweat slid from her throat and vanished into the deep valley between them.

She straightened slowly, tucked the pallu back, and sat opposite, thighs slightly apart under all that soft weight, watching them eat with quiet motherly pride.

Sahil wiped his mouth.  

“Aunty, may I use the washroom, please?”

Inside, he opened the laundry basket. Yesterday’s beige 42D bra still held her body warmth. Folded on top lay the light-pink printed panty, centre panel carrying a faint creamy mark. He pressed it to his face, breathed her in until his head spun, tongue brushing the stain once. Then he tucked the tiny 4K camera into the decorative soap dish, lens pointed straight down at the white commode and the open shower area.

Back in the living room they waited like patient students, sipping sharbat in small gulps, eating one sandesh after another, asking every few minutes,  

“What’s the time, aunty?” with shy smiles.

Every time Bhumika leaned forward to refill a glass, deep cleavage spilled open, blouse hooks straining, soft belly roll pressing out over the saree waist.  

Every time she walked to the kitchen, the massive ass rolled under cotton like slow waves, cloth swallowed between the cheeks, a darker patch spreading from the heat.

They never stared openly. Eyes always dropped.  

“Thank you, aunty.”  

“The sweets are really good, aunty.”

At 4:20 they stood, bent one by one to touch her feet. She rested warm palms on their heads, smiled softly.  

“Study well, boys. Sir will clear all your doubts when he returns.”

Door closed. Lock turned.

Bhumika gathered the empty glasses, hips swaying gently as she moved through the quiet flat.

She had no idea silent eyes were already waiting for her next private moment.

The trap was set.

Part 3 - HIDDEN EYES 

A cheap PG room in Jadavpur. Blackout curtains shut. Only the 55-inch screen glows cold blue.

Rocky, Sahil, and Bishal sit on the floor, breathing slow, eyes fixed.

The bathroom feed plays again, raw sound only.

Bhumika walks in wearing her long rose-print nighty that brushes her ankles. The old cotton clings softly to her heavy breasts and round belly. Hair loose, sindoor bright.

She locks the door, yawns, then gathers the nighty in both hands and slowly lifts it upward.

Because the hidden camera sits low in the soap dish, it stares straight at her ass the whole time.

The hem rises like a curtain.

First her thick calves, then her knees, then the heavy backs of her thighs pressed tight together.

Higher.

A flash of soft purple cotton appears (simple panties hugging the widest part of her hips). The nighty keeps going up, stretching over the huge, round ass that fills the screen. The cheeks jiggle as the cloth drags over them.

She lifts the nighty all the way, over her belly, over her breasts, over her head. The heavy breasts drop free with a soft bounce. Mangalsutra swings.

She folds the nighty neatly and sets it on the stool.

Now only in a purple cotton panty that has climbed deep between her cheeks.

She hooks her thumbs into the waistband, bends a little, and slides the panty down to her knees. The massive ass spreads slightly from the movement, pale skin shining. The panty stays stretched between her knees like a soft purple band.

She lowers herself onto the white commode.

From the low camera her ass fills the whole frame, cheeks spreading wide, overflowing the seat. The purple cloth stays trapped around her knees. A long, shy stream starts, hissing warm against the water below. She sighs quietly.

When she’s done she wipes carefully, stands, lets the panty drop to her ankles, steps out of it, and kicks it gently aside.

Now completely naked.

She steps into the shower. Water pours down her back, runs in thick rivers between her cheeks, drips from underneath in steady drops.

She soaps slowly, lifts each breast, circles a finger in her navel four times. When she turns and parts her cheeks to rinse, the low camera sees everything for one long second before the flesh closes again.

Twenty-five quiet minutes of her morning ritual.

She dries herself gently, powders under her breasts and between her thighs, puts on fresh bra and panty with the familiar little jump, ties the petticoat, dbangs today’s yellow saree perfectly, touches up her sindoor, smiles sweetly at the mirror, and turns off the light.

The video ends.

Silence.

Sahil whispers, voice rough.  

“Boss… what next?”

Rocky keeps staring at the frozen frame of her innocent smile.  

“Call Karim.”

Sahil blinks.  

“The bus driver?”

“Yes. Tell him I need his bus tomorrow, 10:15 route. Full bus, thirty men. I’ll pay anything.”

Sahil stands and steps outside to make the call.

Bishal leans in.  

“Plan, boss?”

Rocky touches the faint pink mark still on his cheek.

“Tomorrow morning she boards the 10:15 bus to the market.  

We’ll all be on it.”

He smiles, slow and cold.  

“She’s going to feel every minute of that ride.”

PART 4 - The UNFORGETTABLE RIDE

Friday morning was already a furnace. The sun blazed white, and Kolkata traffic crawled.

Vumika Basu stepped onto the private bus at Gariahat stop. The peach cotton saree was thin and clung to her heavy curves; in the strong light the faint outline of her panty showed clearly. The sleeveless cream blouse pulled tight across her breasts, only two hooks at the back still holding on. Her mangalsutra rested in the deep valley between them, and fresh red sindoor glowed in her hair. Thick glasses made her look gentle and proper.

Inside, only men. Not a single woman. Every face stayed turned away, but she felt the stares anyway. No ladies’ seats, no empty space. She took a deep breath, gripped the overhead steel rod with one soft hand, and held her old black jhola bag against her round belly with the other.

Her wide hips brushed the seat backs on both sides. The huge curve of her ass touched the man behind her every time the bus swayed even a little.

At the next stop three boys wearing black masks got on. They moved straight to her without a word. Sahil and Bishal took the space in front, blocking her view forward. Rocky stood right behind her, so close she felt the heat of his chest on her bare back above the blouse.

The driver, already paid, started the game.

A sudden hard brake. Vumika’s whole body jerked backward. Her massive ass slammed against Rocky’s crotch. He had opened his zip under the loose shirt. His bare cock, hot and stiff, slid perfectly into the deep groove between her ass cheeks, only the thin layers of saree and petticoat in the way.

She felt it instantly, thick, burning, alive. Her breath stopped. Eyes wide behind the glasses, she opened her mouth, then closed it fast. Thirty men all around. One scream and every head would turn. She swallowed and kept silent.

Another sharp brake. Her cheeks closed tighter around his full length. The cotton was so thin she felt every pulse against her skin.

A big speed-breaker. The bus jumped. Her body lifted and dropped hard. His cock dragged slowly from the top of her crack to the bottom and up again. Heat rushed to her face. She gripped the rod harder, knuckles white.

Rocky never moved his hips. He stood perfectly still and let the bus do everything. Every pothole, every sudden stop, every turn used her own married ass like a warm, helpless sleeve.

The other passengers looked away. Some slept, some stared at phones, some watched the road. No one met her eyes.

Vumika’s cheeks burned red. Sweat slid from her forehead to the edge of her glasses. She bit her lower lip and breathed fast through her nose. Her thighs pressed together, but the pressure behind her never stopped. The slow, steady rocking went on and on.

The driver found the worst stretch of broken road and crawled over it slowly. Four huge bumps, one after another.

First bump, her ass cheeks squeezed tight around him.  

Second bump, her body jolted again, harder.  

Third bump, her knees shook; she had to hold the rod with both hands.  

Fourth bump, Rocky gave one tiny, hidden twitch.

He came silently. Thick warmth flooded deep between her cheeks, soaking through panty, petticoat, and saree in seconds. In the crush she only felt sudden heat, nothing more.

Her stop was coming. She forced her voice out, shaky but loud enough.  

“Bhaiya, stop! My stop!”

The driver pulled over at the market entrance. The doors opened.

Vumika pushed through the bodies and stepped down on trembling legs. The moment she was on the footpath she reached back to fix her saree.

Her fingers met wet cloth. She looked at her hand. Thick white liquid coated her fingertips. More was already sliding down the backs of her heavy thighs. The peach cotton at her ass had turned dark in a perfect hand-print shape right over the crack. Thin white lines seeped through the fabric and shone in the sunlight.

For one second she just stood frozen, staring at the proof on her fingers.

Then everything inside her broke.

Her face twisted. She pressed her sticky hand against her mouth to stop the scream. Tears of pure rage filled her eyes.

“Why didn’t I shout?” she whispered to herself, voice shaking. “Why didn’t I kick that bastard between his legs? Thirty men or three hundred, I should have broken his balls right there!”

She hit her own thigh with her fist, hard.  

“My son is an engineer, my husband is a teacher, and I just stood there like a coward? I let him… I let him finish on me?”

Anger and shame burned together. Her chest rose and fell fast. People walked past, some glancing at the dark stain on her saree, some pretending not to see.

She wiped the tears away roughly, smearing kajal across her cheek.  

“No more,” she hissed under her breath. “This will never happen again.”

But deep inside, the shame still crawled, hot and heavy, mixing with the slow drip sliding down her thighs as she forced herself to walk into the market.

Behind the dark windows of the bus, Rocky pulled off his mask. His fingers brushed the faint pink slap-mark still on his cheek.

He smiled, slow and cold.

“This is just the beginning, madam”

[fuckandforget]

She did not kick him because she felt a big cock that is much bigger and stronger than her husband. She knows that it has triggered something within her.

[Momhunter123]

Any guess for next part ?

[Little finger]

Pls Don't make it a blackmail story. 42 size are perfect for her. Pls drag her and make her crave sex. Can we also chat?

[Little finger]

Pls clear ur private messages. I can't send DM. Also her pussy should be overflowing with cum like this

[Kore shivkant]

The idea of the story is good.....keep writing......when will be the next update?????? Please update asap...

[Yash121]

Fucking awesome update

[Momhunter123]

Next few parts are coming within 2 hours .

Please don't expect this to be romantic love story or something soft like that.

[Momhunter123]

Part 5 - the INVASION

Seven days after the bus.

Friday afternoon, the lane baked under the July sun. No breeze, no people, only the distant bark of a street dog.

Fifty metres away, two bikes waited in the shade. Rocky, Sahil, and Bishal sat motionless as Sunirmal Basu locked the front door, pulled the grill shut, and walked off toward his tuition. Vumika’s shadow vanished inside.

1:24 PM.

Rocky moved first.

He crossed the empty lane, climbed the drainpipe in silence, and slipped through the kitchen window. The small hand-cam in his left hand recorded every breath, every soft step on the cool tiles.

At the half-open bedroom door he stopped.

Vumika lay on her stomach, sky-blue cotton saree clinging to every roll, sleeveless cream blouse stretched tight across her wide, meaty back. Thick arms lay beside her head, soft flesh spilling over the mattress. Her phone glowed on her face. Thick calves and bare alta stained feet dangled off the edge. With every slow breath her massive ass lifted and sank under the thin cotton.

Rocky’s breathing grew heavy. The camera zoomed in, slow and hungry.

She suddenly fanned herself. “Too hot,” she muttered, sat up, and padded to the attached bathroom, door half open.

The second she disappeared, Rocky stepped in, poured the clear liquid (strong aphrodisiac mixed with alcohol) into her steel water glass, stirred once with his finger, tasted a drop, and put the glass back.

He hid in the dark corner of the corridor, hand-cam aimed through the gap.

The toilet flushed. Vumika returned, hair in a loose bun, a few water drops shining on her neck. She drank almost the whole glass in long gulps, lay back on her stomach, and kept scrolling.

At first she was still. Then her thick thighs rubbed together. Her hips began slow circles against the mattress.

A soft moan “Uffff…” escaped from her mouth.

The pallu fell away. One hand disappeared under her heavy belly.

The saree and petticoat climbed higher until thick milky meaty thighs opened wide. Her fingers moved fast inside the panty, wet sounds filling the room. Small desperate moans leaked in the air. Her whole body stiffened, toes curled, a long shaking climax tore through her. She moaned into the pillow and collapsed. Rocky's camera recored everything.

A minute later she caught her breath, pulled the saree and petticoat down with trembling hands, fixed the pallu, and lay on her stomach again. Fifteen minutes later the phone slipped from her fingers. Her thick arms relaxed. Deep, drugged sleep swallowed her completely.

Rocky watched a moment longer, then quietly opened the front door.

Sahil and Bishal stepped inside.

The three entered the bedroom together.

Vumika lay dead to the world, face turned to the side, her mouth slightly open.

Rocky went straight to the bed. He placed both palms on the saree-covered ass and pressed, no reaction. Satisfied, he lifted the sky-blue cotton and white petticoat together from the back, slow and deliberate.

Thick calves appeared first. Rocky ran his hands over them, feeling the heavy, warm softness of her flesh. Then the sudden appearance of pale thunder thighs. He stopped when the cloth bunched at her waist.

Her light-pink flowery panty was soaked through. He peeled it down to her knees. The wet cotton made a soft, sticky sound as it left her skin.

Now her huge naked ass filled the golden afternoon light.

Rocky placed one palm on each enormous cheek and spread her wide. The deep crack opened. In the centre sat her small, clean pink-brown asshole, tight and puckered. Below it, swollen pussy lips still dripped.

He lowered his face into the warm valley, pressed his nose deep between her cheeks, and breathed her in long and slow, eyes closed, body shaking. Then his tongue dragged from the bottom of her pussy to the top of her crack in one wet, greedy lick. He circled her asshole slowly, then gently pushed the tip inside.

Vumika gave a tiny unconscious moan, hips twitching once, but stayed lost in sleep.

Sahil knelt on the left and slid his hand inside the armhole of her sleeveless blouse, cupping one heavy hanging breast, rolling the stiff nipple between his fingers.

Bishal knelt on the right, hands roaming the backs of her thighs, fingers sinking into the soft crease under each cheek.

After a minute Rocky lifted his face, shiny and wet. He gave a small nod.

Together they rolled the heavy, burning-hot body onto her back. Her thick arms flopped above her head. The sleeveless blouse pulled tight under her arms, armholes gaping open, revealing soft, fleshy armpits with a few tiny black hairs in the centre.

Sahil lowered his face to her left armpit. The smell was warm, womanly, Ponds talc mixed with fresh sweat. He dragged his tongue slowly from the edge of the blouse to the soft centre, tasting salt and skin.

Rocky wedged himself deep between her heavy, trembling thighs, forced them impossibly wide, and lowered his mouth until his breath burned against her skin; then his tongue slid in one long, deliberate, claiming stroke across her swollen clit, slow enough to make her feel every inch of the invasion.

Her drugged body arched hard, a helpless jerk that rippled through all that soft flesh.

He circled faster, hungry now, then closed his lips and sucked with cruel, perfect pressure.

A low, broken moan spilled from her throat, thick with shame and unwanted heat.

Her eyelids fluttered, heavy, fighting to stay closed.

He gave her one last deep, merciless lick that dragged fire straight through her core.

Her eyes flew open.

In that single heartbeat the world crashed awake: two hot, wet tongues moving on her at once—one sliding slow and shameless through the warm, faintly hairy hollow of her armpit, the other locked on her clit, devouring without pause—and terror exploded inside her like ice and fire together.

A scream tore loose from the depths of her chest, raw, piercing, desperate to shatter the walls.

Before the sound could finish climbing her throat, two rough, powerful hands slammed down over her mouth, crushing the scream into a frantic, muffled wail that vibrated against unyielding palms.

Only her eyes remained free—huge, glassy, wild with panic—staring up into the shadows leaning over her, searching for faces she still could not see while the tongues kept moving, moving, moving…

Part 6 -  The PUNISHMENT

Her eyes cleared just enough to see through the blur of tears.

Bishal’s face hovered above her, his smile sharp and hungry, teeth flashing white while one strong hand pinned both her thick wrists high above her head, the flesh around his fingers turning pale and bloodless, his other hand holding the small hand-cam steady, red light blinking, recording every second of her shame.

Sahil’s tongue still moved slowly, shamelessly, in the warm hollow of her left armpit, lapping at her sweat like it was the sweetest thing he had ever tasted, and it was Sahil’s palm pressed hard over her mouth, crushing her screams into frantic, muffled cries.

She tried to twist away, tried to close her heavy thighs, tried to hide any part of herself, but Rocky’s hands were iron clamps around her legs, forcing them wide open, and his tongue never once left her clit, flicking faster and faster, punishing her with every wet stroke.

Rocky lifted his head just enough for her to see him clearly.

The same sharp jaw. The same cold eyes. The same faint pink shadow of her five fingers still printed on his cheek.....The boy from the market!

Everything inside her shattered.

A new scream tore against Sahil’s palm, raw and desperate, vibrating through his fingers like an animal trapped in a cage. Fresh tears spilled hot and fast down her cheeks.

She thrashed with everything she had; ninety-three kilograms of soft married flesh against three hard, determined boys was nothing. Her body only shook and jiggled uselessly under their grip.

Rocky’s tongue returned to her clit, faster, cruel, merciless.

Her hips jerked upward into his mouth even as her eyes screamed no.

Rocky suddenly pulled away and crawled up her body, knees forcing her folded thighs even wider apart, until his face hovered inches from hers, lips and chin shining with her own juices, the smell thick and shameful in the hot room.

He placed one wet finger against his lips.

“Shhhhhhhhh…” A long, slow hiss that froze her blood.

Her scream died instantly. Only terror remained.

Sahil’s hand stayed over her mouth, lighter now, but ready.

Rocky grabbed his phone, thumb moving fast across the screen, then turned it toward her.

The market upskirt video played silently: forty-five seconds of her thick thighs, light-pink flowery panty swallowed deep between her cheeks, one bead of sweat sliding slowly into her crack.

All three boys laughed, low, cold, victorious.

Her eyes went huge with pure horror.

She tried to scream again; only a muffled, broken animal sound escaped against Sahil’s palm.

Rocky leaned closer, voice soft and poisonous.

“Remember what you said in the market, aunty?  ‘My son is an engineer… security officer will catch you…’  Your son is far away in Bombay. And we are right here.”

The words burned her deeper than any slap. Tears poured faster.

Sahil slowly lifted his hand.

The moment air touched her lips she gasped, voice cracked and shaking:

“Please… don’t speak my son’s name…  Whatever you want… money, anything… just delete everything… don’t show anyone… please…”

Before the last word left her mouth, Rocky dropped his full weight on her.

His mouth crashed against hers, hard, claiming, still tasting of her own pussy. His tongue forced its way in, thick with her shame.

She tried to turn her face. But he gripped her jaw and kissed deeper.

Her heavy legs kicked uselessly, thighs trembling, knees still forced wide by his body, the soaked panty hanging off one ankle like a white flag of surrender.

Sahil shifted to her right armpit, tongue dragging slow and wet across fresh skin, moaning into the soft, faintly hairy hollow.

Bishal leaned close to her ear, the hand-cam still recording every tear, every tremble.

“Stay quiet, aunty… or tomorrow the whole colony sees this.”

Rocky finally broke the kiss.

A thick string of saliva and her juices stretched between their mouths, then snapped.

Vumika sobbed silently now, mouth open, chest heaving, eyes red and empty.

Rocky sat back between her spread thighs, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked straight into her broken face.

“Now behave…  or your husband opens his phone tomorrow and sees his wife exactly like this.”

The room fell dead silent except for the wet sounds of Sahil’s tongue and her own terrified breathing.

They dragged her forward until she knelt in the centre of the bed, knees swallowed by the same mattress that still carried the faint married scent of her life with Sunirmal.

Rocky stood on his knees in front of her.

He turned his cheek slowly.

The faint pink print of her slap still glowed.

“Look. Still here.”

She couldn’t meet his eyes.

Rocky went behind her, sat close, pulled her damp meaty back against his chest. His left arm slid around her throat, fingers resting just above the mangalsutra, light but ready. His right hand seized her wrist and twisted it high up her back until pain shot through her shoulder.

Gold bangles clinked, sharp in the silence.

His mouth touched her ear.

“These soft hands hit me in front of everyone. Today they pay.”

He stripped the sky-blue saree from her body in one slow, deliberate pull, letting the cotton drag over her belly, her hips, the petticoat string.

Now she knelt in only the sleeveless cream blouse and white petticoat, bra straps visible on shoulder  ... cutting deep into soft flesh.

He seized both wrists, forced them together behind her back, and bound them tight with her own saree, knot after knot after knot, until her forearms were locked and her heavy breasts pushed forward helplessly.

Her voice came out tiny, cracked, pleading:

“Please… I’m your mother’s age… I have a son… a husband… let me go…”

Rocky placed one palm between her shoulder blades and pushed.

She understood.

Slowly, shaking, she lowered her face into the pillow, cheek pressed into the wet patch of her own tears and smeared sindoor.

With her hands bound, she couldn’t hold herself up. Her huge breasts hung and swayed with every sob. Her hips rose high, knees wide for balance, petticoat Above her wide thick hip.

Cool air kissed her naked ass, completely exposed, lifted, waiting.

Rocky’s voice came low and furious: “You called me a thief and slapped me in public.”

The first slap landed like thunder....PAK!

White-hot pain exploded across her right cheek. Her whole body jerked forward; the mattress bounced.

She screamed into the pillow, raw and unrecognisable.

Second slap, harder.

Third, fourth, fifth, faster, louder.

Every blow was fire. Her huge ass rippled like water; the flesh kept moving long after each hit.

The leftover drug betrayed her; every burning slap sent a shameful pulse straight between her legs.

Rocky’s voice rose with every strike: “Proud woman!  Today I make this ass pay for your hand!”

Left cheek, right cheek, sometimes both palms together.

Sahil knelt in front of her face, phone inches away, recording every tear, every smear of kajal, every broken gasp.

Bishal behind her, holding the hand-cam steady on the spanking, every jiggle, every fresh red print.

Rocky continued .....Fifty… eighty… one hundred.

He stopped.

Her ass was swollen, dark crimson, throbbing so hard she felt her own heartbeat in the burning skin.

Tiny helpless shakes ran through her hips.

Vumika Basu knelt bound and broken on her own marital bed, face drowned in tears, body trembling, completely owned by three boys younger than her son. 
A low, endless animal whimper leaked from her throat, the sound of a once-proud woman completely torn apart inside.

[Momhunter123]

Share your thoughts about the story ...Next part coming soon.

[nostonari]

Mindblowing start. Keep going. Don't stop

[Little finger]

Super update bro. Getting revenge on her was so hot. Want to see her in nasty scenes

[Momhunter123]

Part 7 - The SECOND SLAP

Rocky stepped back, chest heaving, both palms bright red and stinging from the hundred brutal slaps.  

Vumika Basu collapsed forward onto her stomach like a heavy, broken doll, arms still tightly bound behind her, face buried deep in the pillow soaked with tears, sweat, and smeared sindoor.  

Her huge crimson ass shook with tiny aftershocks, the swollen flesh rippling every time she pulled in a ragged, painful breath. 

The bedroom was quiet except for that pitiful noise and the soft click of phone cameras still rolling.

She lay helpless: the sleeveless cream blouse glued to her back with sweat, bra straps cutting deep into soft shoulders, petticoat twisted like a useless rope around her wide hips, burning ass lifted high.

Memories stabbed her like knives.

This same bed: her wedding night, Sunirmal trembling beside her, barely daring to touch her, whispering her name like a prayer ...  while she stayed calm and completely in control.  

Now her retired-teacher husband slept curled on the far edge every night, back turned, never crossing the line she had drawn long ago.

This same bed: Baban(Pritam) as a newborn, tiny mouth on her breast while she stroked his soft hair and felt like a queen.  

Now three boys who once sat at her dining table for Sunirmal’s maths tuition, boys younger than her son, were destroying her on the same mattress.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Tears still forced their way out.

One last desperate plan flashed inside her: They have taken her phone ... But the landline in the drawing room. She can call security officer. 

She was still heavy. She was still strong. One second was all she needed.

Bishal knelt behind her, lazily loosening the saree knot at her wrists, already bored, already sure she was finished.

The moment the cloth went slack, she exploded. Ninety-three kilograms of pure, furious mother surged upward. She rolled, rose, stood on the mattress like a storm.

Bishal lunged, but too late....She slammed both freed palms into his chest with all her weight.  

The skinny boy flew backward, crashed hard against the steel almirah, breath knocked clean out of him, hand-cam clattering to the floor.

Sahil clawed for her thigh, fingers slipping on the sweaty petticoat.

Rocky was half-undressed, T-shirt tangled over his head, blind for one second..And she ran.

Bare feet slapped cold marble as she sprinted through the corridor, blouse flapping open, petticoat sliding lower with every step, heavy breasts bouncing painfully, burning ass jiggling with every step.

Rocky removed the T-shirt, and chased after her.

She burst into the drawing room, fingers already reaching for the old cream landline on the side table.

Rocky was one step behind, shirtless, hand stretching for her petticoat string.

Pure reflex, the same reflex from the market.

Her right arm swung back in a wide, desperate arc.

PAK!

The slap landed perfect and vicious across his untouched left cheek.

The crack echoed through the room like a gunshot.

Rocky’s head snapped sideways. Fresh red fingerprints bloomed bright and instant on his skin.

She snatched the receiver, punched 1-0-0…

Then she saw the wire.

Cut clean, lying on the floor like a dead snake.

She froze.

Turned slowly.

Rocky stood in the doorway, shirtless, slowly rubbing both burning cheeks, one five days old, one brand new, eyes shining with something colder than anger.

He smiled the cruelest smile she had ever seen.

Sahil and Bishal appeared behind him, breathing hard, eyes bright with pure delight. Handcam still in bishal's hand, recording everything.

They had planned it. They had cut the wire hours ago. They had wanted her to run. They had wanted her to hope. But the slap ...Nobody expected that.

Rocky’s voice was soft, almost gentle.

“Second slap, aunty...This time we won’t be polite...”

Vumika stood trembling in the middle of her own drawing room, blouse soaked and half-open, petticoat slipping lower, burning ass still on fire beneath the thin cotton, surrounded by three boys who had just watched her destroy the very last piece of her pride.

And the red lights on the cameras never stopped blinking.

She stood barefoot on the cold marble, petticoat hanging so low that the soft roll of her belly spilled over the loose string, the knot ready to give way any second.  

Sweat had turned the thin cream blouse completely see-through, clinging to every heavy curve, every tremble, nipples still painfully hard from the drug that refused to leave her blood.  

Tears poured down her cheeks in endless rivers, carrying black kajal and red sindoor in long tragic streaks that dripped from her chin onto the mangalsutra resting between her heaving breasts.

She pressed her palms together, gold bangles sliding down her damp forearms with a soft metallic cry.

“By God… I beg you with folded hands… let me go…  Don’t destroy my purity…  I do puja every morning… I am a mother…  I am your mother’s age… please… have mercy…”

Her voice was raw, torn from earlier screams.

Rocky stood two feet away, slowly rubbing the two perfect handprints glowing on both cheeks.  

His smile was quiet, patient, absolute.

“You didn’t think of mercy when you raised your hand twice, aunty.  Now it’s too late.  Every mistake has a price.  One more slap from you, and the full video goes everywhere, and a perfect copy goes straight to Pritam’s phone in Bombay.  Think carefully, after that will anyone still respect his mother?”

The name of her son hit her like a blow to the chest.

Her knees buckled, but Sahil was already behind her.  

Rough hands clamped her wrists and yanked them hard behind her back, forcing her spine into a cruel arch that pushed her soaked breasts forward like an offering to the camera.

Bishal dropped to one knee in front of her, hand-cam only inches from her tear-soaked face and the deep, wet valley between her breasts.

Rocky lifted the long steel scissors, let the cold metal rest for a long second in the hollow between her breasts so she could feel how easily her last piece of clothing would be taken.

Snip…  

Snip…  

Snip…

He sliced straight up the centre of the sleeveless cream blouse in one slow, deliberate line.  

The fabric parted like skin, showing inch after inch of soft chest and the soaked white bra now completely transparent, dark areolas stark against wet cotton, nipples stiff and aching.

When he reached the neckline he cut the shoulder seams, snip, snip, and the blouse fell away in two lifeless pieces, sliding down her arms and pooling on the floor like dead skin.

Cool air rushed over her bare shoulders and the tops of her heavy breasts. She tried to fold forward, to hide, but Sahil’s grip was iron. She stayed cruelly arched, chest thrust out, mangalsutra swinging in the valley of sweat and tears.

They dragged her, half-naked, stumbling, petticoat slipping lower with every step, down the short corridor and pushed her into Pritam’s bedroom.

The huge convocation photo on the wall hit her like another slap: Pritam in his crisp black convocation gown, arm around his beaming mother in a yellow saree, both of them smiling at a future that no longer existed.

Rocky glanced at the photo and laughed softly.

“Should have live-streamed it for Pritam.  He would have seen how beautiful his mother looks today.”

They shoved her forward until she stood at the foot of Pritam’s narrow single bed, the same bed where she had sat whole nights pressing cold cloths to his fevered forehead when he was small.

Rocky unbuttoned his jeans and let them drop.

His cock sprang free, thick as her wrist, frighteningly long, veins standing out like ropes, the swollen head already shining with precum.

Sahil followed, revealing almost the same size.

Vumika’s breath stopped in her throat.

These thin, hungry boys, once her husband’s tuition students, boys younger than her son,  were carrying things no married woman should ever have to face.

Her knees finally gave way.

She sank to the carpet, palms pressed together toward the ceiling, toward silent gods.

“Please… don't do this to me…”

[Yash121]

Mind-blowing

[Momhunter123]

Excited for next part?

[LovePookie]

excellent start

[Munda007]

Looks very promising.. Keep Going man

[Uvaaaa]

Nice start update soon

[PELURI]

dear momhunter ...you are a great discovery for me...your language skills are top notch....the narration is fluid and engaging....me is a lover of slow fire stuff involving married colleague/ Bhabi / young moms...a bong female is epitome of beauty with brains and sensually hyper....a perfect female lead for top rate erotica....your grip over english is just right ingredient...next project, try creating an erotic thriller with a gorgeous bong female lead and male lead from NCR....hats off to your calibre and look forward to your master piece....just expressed my desire...intend no downplay of any ethnic group..

[Momhunter123]

dear momhunter ...you are a great discovery for me...your language skills are top notch....the narration is fluid and engaging....me is a lover of slow fire stuff involving married colleague/ Bhabi / young moms...a bong female is epitome of beauty with brains and sensually hyper....a perfect female lead for top rate erotica....your grip over english is just right ingredient...next project, try creating an erotic thriller with a gorgeous bong female lead and male lead from NCR....hats off to your calibre and look forward to your master piece....just expressed my desire...intend no downplay of any ethnic group..

Thank you so much.... I'll think about your idea. .