Adultery Dad's Enemy Made My Mom Heartless (COMPLETED!!)

[thoristhanos]

The second month was a slow, suffocating descent into a new layer of hell. The confusion curdled into a thick, toxic suspicion that poisoned every glance, every silent meal. The date of my father’s second monthly call loomed like a grim beacon. This time, I wouldn’t be passive. Two days before, I cornered her in the kitchen, my voice low but steeled with a resolve I didn't know I possessed.


“When he calls this time,” I said, cutting off her small talk about groceries, “I am talking to him. I need to hear his voice.”

She looked up from chopping vegetables, her expression flashing with immediate irritation, as if my request was a vulgar intrusion. “Fine,” she snapped, the knife hitting the board with a sharp thwack. “If he calls, I’ll connect it to the home landline.”

The phrasing snagged in my mind, a fishhook of dread. If he calls. Why ‘if’? Why wouldn’t a man in a Dubai jail, facing God-knows-what, call his family on his one precious lifeline? The doubt she planted was a tiny, malignant seed.

The designated day arrived, a Friday. The air in the empty flat was thick with static anticipation. I sat by the old, beige landline phone in the living room, staring at it as if willpower alone could make it ring. The morning passed. The afternoon crawled by. The phone remained silent, a mocking lump of plastic.

Panic, cold and sharp, began to needle me. I called her office. No answer. I called her mobile. It went straight to voicemail. A terrible, sinking realization dawned: she wasn’t just missing the call; she was ensuring it couldn’t be taken. And it was a Friday. Her night. The night she now stayed over.

The hours bled into a long, dark evening of impotent rage and crushing depression. She didn’t come home. I cried, not just for my father, but for myself. How could she do this? How could she withhold my one chance to hear him, to offer some pathetic scrap of comfort across the miles, just so she could spend the night with the man who put him there? The betrayal wasn't just of her marriage; it was of me, of my basic need as a son. It was a cruelty so specific it felt designed.

She returned the next day at 7 PM. She walked in looking tired, but with a peculiar, sated looseness to her movements, a faint smell of hotel soap and expensive air conditioning clinging to her. The sight of her, returning from her lover’s bed while my father rotted in a cell, shattered the last of my restraint.

I was on my feet before she could put her bag down. “What are you doing?!” I shouted, my voice cracking with a week’s worth of bottled fury and grief. “Where were you?! Why didn’t you call?! Why didn’t you let me talk to him?!”

She froze. For a second, she just stared at me, her face utterly blank, as if I were a stranger shouting in a foreign language. Then, the blankness was incinerated by a rage so pure and sudden it was terrifying. Her hand flew out—a vicious, open-palmed slap that connected with my cheek with a sound like a gunshot. Pain, white-hot and blinding, exploded across my face. My head snapped to the side, tears springing instantly to my eyes.

“How DARE you raise your voice to me?” she hissed, her voice a low, venomous tremor. “How DARE you ask me these questions as if I am your wife?!” And before I could even process the first blow, her other hand came around in a backhand that caught me on the same tenderized cheek. The world swam. I stumbled back, the physical pain a shocking counterpoint to the emotional devastation. I broke down into loud, heaving sobs, the humiliation complete.

She didn't say another word. She turned on her heel and stalked to her bedroom, slamming the door so hard the framed picture of a generic waterfall in the hallway rattled.

The pain in my face throbbed in time with my heartbeat for hours, a tangible reminder of her new allegiance. But the need to know was a stronger ache. Later that night, long after my brother was asleep, I crept to her door. I knocked softly, my cheek still burning.

“Maa?” I called, my voice small, stripped of all anger, just a child’s plea. “Please… what happened? What did he say?”

She was sitting on her bed, still dressed in her going-out clothes, staring at the wall. The fury had banked, replaced by a cold, weary tension. She looked at me for a long moment, then gestured to the space beside her.

“Sit.”

I did, keeping a careful distance.

“He did call yesterday, but i didn't answer ,” she began, her voice flat, devoid of emotion.

I was about to raise my voice when she suddenly looked at me and picked up a manila folder from her nightstand, one I’d never seen before. It looked official, with stamps and seals. “He is not just in jail for fraudulent transactions, Arjun.”

She opened the folder and slid a single sheet towards me. It was a formal charge sheet, transmitted via the Indian embassy. My eyes scanned the dense, bureaucratic text. The financial crimes were listed first: embezzlement, forgery, fraud under UAE commercial law. Then, my eyes caught on the next section. My blood turned to ice.

Count 1: Sexual Harassment in the Workplace (Section XYZ of UAE Penal Code)
Count 2: Sexual Harassment in the Workplace (Section XYZ of UAE Penal Code)
Count 3: Fraud of 100000$ and above
Count 4,5,7
and so on..

Details: The accused, Arun Arya, is alleged to have demanded sexual favors from two female employees (names redacted) as a condition for promotion and continued employment over an eight-month period prior to his arrest.

At the bottom, in stark, bold letters: Potential Penalties if Convicted on All Counts: Imprisonment for life, or Death Penalty, as per the severity of financial fraud combined with moral crimes.

The world tilted. I couldn’t breathe. “This… this is a lie,” I whispered, tears blurring the awful words. “He wouldn’t… he couldn’t…”

“I didn’t think so either,” she said, her voice still that terrifying monotone. “Not until about two weeks after we first heard he was arrested. I got this file through the embassy. And then… I started getting messages. Anonymous. On a new phone number.”

She picked up her current smartphone, swiped, and handed it to me. It was a messaging app I didn’t recognize. There were many video files and images. With trembling fingers, I tapped the first one.

The footage was grainy, taken from a hidden angle in what looked like a hotel room. My father was there. He was with a young woman, he was talking to her while she was half dressed, when i tried watching it full,  she took the phone from me and said, " you don't want to see these videos fully."
 
I gave her the phone as if it had burned me. I was beyond shock. I was in freefall. The father I knew—awkward, gentle, perpetually anxious—was being replaced by this grotesque, predatory stranger in official documents and clandestine videos.

“When… when did you get these?” I choked out.

“The file, two weeks after the arrest. The messages… a few days after that.” She finally looked at me, and in her eyes, I saw a horrifying justification taking root. “I didn’t tell you. I didn’t think it was right for his sons to know… these things about their father.”

“Do you…” I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. “Do you think he did it?”

She didn’t answer immediately. She looked at the folder, then at the phone on the bed between us. “The videos don’t lie, Arjun,” she said softly, and in that softness was the most devastating condemnation of all. It wasn’t anger anymore; it was a settled, grim acceptance. “He is not the man I thought he was. He is not the man you thought he was.”

And with those words, she didn't just give me the horrific truth. She gave me the narrative. The perfect, damning narrative that explained her distance, her coldness, her retreat into Aakash’s arms. My father wasn't just a victim of a business rival’s plot; he was a predator, a criminal facing death in a desert prison. And she, the wronged wife, was finally free. The slap on my face wasn't just for shouting; it was for daring to question her new reality, a reality built on a foundation of someone else’s expertly manufactured sin. The confusion was gone, replaced by a cold, horrifying clarity that was infinitely worse.

[wxxxx]

Readers believe that Arun is innocent, Akash is harassing him by implicating him in a false case. Readers strongly believe that Arjun's father Arun will soon be released from Dubai jail and return home to reunite with his wife Pariniti and sons Arjun and Rohan, teaching Arun's enemy Akash a lesson because in the United Arab Emirates (UAE) and Dubai, it is almost impossible to frame anyone in a false case, as the country's laws are very strict in this regard. If someone files a false complaint or false case against someone else out of personal enmity or intentional intent, then the complainant himself faces serious criminal charges. The consequences of false cases or false accusations according to the legal system of Dubai and the UAE Penal Code (Federal Decree-Law No. 31 of 2021) are outlined below: 1. Legal consequences and punishment for false casesAccording to Articles 257, 275 and 276 of the UAE Penal Code, if it is proven that someone has intentionally made a false report in the name of an innocent person, the following punishments are provided against him:Imprisonment: The offender can be imprisoned for 6 months or more depending on the seriousness of the false case. If another innocent person is sentenced to a large sentence due to that false case, the person making the false case is also given an equally large punishment.Lots of fines: Large financial fines are imposed depending on the type of crime.Deportation and lifetime ban: If an expatriate is found guilty of this crime, he is deported from the UAE for life after serving a prison sentence and fine.2. False allegations online or on social mediaDubai's Cybercrime Law (Federal Decree-Law No. 34 of 2021) is very strong. Making false or defamatory allegations against someone through WhatsApp, Facebook or any other digital medium: Minimum 1 year imprisonment. Fines ranging from 250,000 to 500,000 dirhams may be imposed. 3. Dubai security officer's strict investigation process Dubai security officer or CID does not immediately convict anyone of any crime. In any case, sufficient evidence, CCTV footage, digital forensics and witnesses are verified. As a result, if a case is filed by fabricating fake documents or false stories, it is caught in the initial investigation of the security officer. 4. The victim's right to file a counter-case If someone is the victim of a false case in Dubai and is proven innocent during the investigation, he can file a counter-crime case and defamation case against the false accuser with the help of a lawyer. Through this, he can also claim a large amount of compensation for mental and financial losses.

[Ayush01111]

Ibjust want son shoudl take revange on m9m and his lover

[wxxxx]

The masterminds of everything, Akash, Akash should be taught a lesson, Pariniti should be forgiven. Now Pariniti has the responsibility of looking after and caring for Arjun and his younger brother Rohan. Arjun's father Arun is now in jail in Dubai. Until his father Arun is released from jail, Arjun should talk to his mother Pariniti respectfully, Arjun will tell his mother Pariniti that I know about your relationship with Akash, as long as your father is in jail in Dubai and until he is released, you can spend the night with Akash in your bedroom, I have no objection. Arjun will tell his mother Pariniti that I will stay in my room with my younger brother Rohan at night, there will be no disturbance in your night. This will make it much easier for Arjun to teach Akash the right lesson.

[Ayush01111]

Pahle kon sa dekh rahi thi saza dono ko milni chaiye let son humilate mother not fuck but not to leave

[prshma]

The masterminds of everything, Akash, Akash should be taught a lesson, Pariniti should be forgiven. Now Pariniti has the responsibility of looking after and caring for Arjun and his younger brother Rohan. Arjun's father Arun is now in jail in Dubai. Until his father Arun is released from jail, Arjun should talk to his mother Pariniti respectfully, Arjun will tell his mother Pariniti that I know about your relationship with Akash, as long as your father is in jail in Dubai and until he is released, you can spend the night with Akash in your bedroom, I have no objection. Arjun will tell his mother Pariniti that I will stay in my room with my younger brother Rohan at night, there will be no disturbance in your night. This will make it much easier for Arjun to teach Akash the right lesson.

Do you think the damned writers over here will do it ???? They will just make the manipulating cheater lady win in every aspect.

[Ayush01111]

Do you think the damned writers over here will do it ???? They will just make the manipulating cheater lady win in every aspect.

No writer wants to listen ever his reader ever they think every reader live only chuck and humilation and sex they dont understan we need mix of emotion and we love to see win a caracter who is week in story in end.

[sarit11]

My dear story lovers

I think we need to open a new thread to discuss about the writers creativity ,

should the writer go according to our thoughts , or we enjoy their creativity.

[wxxxx]

Singapore and Dubai's strict laws, advanced technology surveillance, and speedy justice systems have significantly reduced crime rates, but in any society, the incidence of educated or ordinary people getting involved in crime is not completely zero. Common and violent crimes (such as theft, robbery, and robbery) are much lower there due to the fear of harsh punishment. The main reasons for the low crime rate in these two countries are given below: Harsh punishment: Even minor crimes are punished with large fines, imprisonment, and even severe physical punishment like caning in Singapore. Advanced surveillance: Due to the use of CCTV cameras throughout the city, AI technology, and an efficient security officer system, there is almost no chance of getting away with a crime. Impartial application of the law: The law is enforced equally for everyone, whether influential or ordinary citizens. Arun is a high-ranking official, the head of the company's Dubai office. Arun is a highly educated man, he certainly has enough knowledge about the strict laws of Dubai, Arun is the victim of a conspiracy, all the tricks have taken Akash out of the country, readers believe that Arun will return to the country to be released from jail very soon and give Akash a proper education.

[thoristhanos]

UPDATE - 10

WHAT ACTUALLY HAPPENED (AAKASH'S STORY) : 



When Aakash accepted Company management’s offer to take on his previous office duties—the grunt work of audits, vendor payments, and compliance filings—without a corresponding title bump or salary increase, he didn't just feel slighted. He saw an opening. Arun, puffed up with his own authority and eager to offload the tedious paperwork onto his younger, sharper subordinate, handed over access with a careless wave. He saw it as dumping a burden; Aakash saw it as receiving the keys to the kingdom.

For one month, Aakash worked with a quiet, meticulous diligence that earned him more of Arun’s trust and, consequently, more unsupervised access. While Arun was busy “bossing him around”—issuing petty orders, taking credit for his ideas, enjoying the ego boost of having a former rival now running on his one command on phone —Aakash was burrowing deep into the company’s financial architecture. He studied every pattern, every approval threshold, every nuance of Arun’s digital signature file. 
 

The plan was elegant in its cruelty. Aakash began creating a series of false transactions. Phantom supplier invoices from Dubai-based shell companies he controlled. Falsified letters of credit. Forged purchase orders for non-existent construction materials earmarked for the proposed Gulf expansion. He made them just plausible enough to slip past a cursory glance, embedding them in stacks of legitimate paperwork he send to Arun for sign-off during the man’s most distracted moments.

Arun, viewing the paperwork as a mere bureaucratic nuisance, of no real consequence compared to the “big picture” deals he was chasing, would scribble his signature without a second thought. “You handle the details, Aakash,” he’d say on phone, clapping him on the back with condescending familiarity. Each signature was a nail in Arun’s own coffin.

These fraudulent transactions siphoned significant capital out of the company, creating a growing, hidden loss. Aakash managed the books to hide the immediate bleeding, but the evidence of the outflows was there, a paper trail leading directly back to Arun’s authorized approvals.


With the trap set, Aakash pulled the trigger from a distance. After leaving the company, Using anonymized email accounts and untraceable internet connections, he mailed meticulously compiled copies of the damning documents to the company’s internal investigations department and, simultaneously, to the relevant financial oversight authorities in Dubai where the expansion was headquartered. The package was presented not as a whistleblower’s concern, but as a concerned third-party tip about massive fraud perpetrated by Arun Arya.

The reaction was swift and severe. It was 2007 in Dubai. The city was a gleaming monument of ambition, rising from the desert on a foundation of strict, uncompromising law, especially regarding financial crimes that threatened its burgeoning reputation. An accusation of this scale wasn't met with an inquiry; it was met with a raid. Dubai Agency, accompanied by the company’s own horrified internal auditors, descended on Arun’s hotel meeting room. He was arrested on the spot, his confusion turning to paralyzing terror as the charges were read out in formal, chilling Arabic-accented English.


But Aakash wasn't finished. A financial scandal could be fought. A man could claim set-up, blame faulty systems, hire lawyers. To ensure Arun was utterly destroyed, to make him not just a criminal but a moral pariah—to sever him completely from Parineeti’s sympathy and the world’s goodwill—Aakash added a second, deadlier charge.

He called upon friends in Dubai, men with connections in the city’s underbelly. He provided funds and precise instructions. Two high-end prostitutes, chosen for their sophisticated, business-like demeanor, were hired. Their assignment: pose as potential clients interested in Arun’s expansion project. They approached him at his hotel bar, at a “networking event” Aakash’s contacts arranged. They flattered his acumen, spoke knowledgeably about markets, and made their interest unmistakably personal.

Arun, alone for weeks, missing the physical intimacy of his marriage, his ego bruised by the stressful negotiations and now stroked by these beautiful, attentive women, was vulnerable. The seduction was professional and relentless. He succumbed. In the privacy of his hotel suite, with hidden cameras recording every moment, he had unprotected sex with both women, on separate occasions, mistaking transactional lust for a much-needed ego boost and release.

As soon as the financial complaint was formally registered, the women, following their script, went to the authorities. They filed criminal complaints of sexual harassment and coercion, alleging Arun had demanded sexual favors as a quid pro quo for business consideration. They submitted the video evidence. In the context of the already-serious financial charges, these moral crimes painted Arun as a predatory, corrupt monster. The UAE’s legal system, fiercely protective of its moral fabric, took a dimmest possible view. The charges were consolidated. The potential penalties escalated from imprisonment to death.


Aakash’s masterpiece had one final, psychological component. He waited until Parineeti had received the official, soul-crushing charge sheet from the Indian embassy—the dry, legal document outlining the financial and now sexual crimes. Once that reality had begun to sink in, he anonymously sent the video files to her phone.

The timing was calculated to perfection. The shock of the official charges left her reeling, questioning everything she knew about her husband. Then, the visual proof arrived—not of financial ledgers, but of his carnal betrayal. There he was, her Arun, moving inside another woman with a hunger she hadn’t seen in years. The context of the setup was invisible; all that remained was the visceral evidence of his infidelity and the grim official charges that now seemed horrifically credible.

It wasn't just about putting Arun in jail. It was about assassinating his character so thoroughly that his own wife would believe him capable of it. It was about ensuring that when Parineeti looked at the empty space where her husband used to be, she wouldn't see a victim, but a guilty stranger who deserved his fate. And in that emptied space, only one man would remain: Aakash, her confidant, her lover, the one who had seen the “real” Arun all along. The perfect revenge was not just taking what belonged to another, but making the owner willingly hand it over, grateful to be rid of it.

[thoristhanos]

SON'S POV :

The time that passed after the revelation of my father’s alleged crimes was a period of suspended animation, a strange, hollow limbo where the ground beneath my feet never solidified. I didn't know what to think, what to believe. The image of my gentle father in those videos clashed violently with the monster described in the charge sheet. Was he a victim of an unfathomably cruel setup, or had a hidden, grotesque persona lurked beneath his mild exterior all along? My mind, exhausted by betrayal and whiplash, could find no safe place to land. So, I did the only thing left that had any structure, any objective measure of success or failure: I buried myself in my studies. The looming 12th board exams became a welcome siege, a concrete enemy I could fight with textbooks and solved papers.


My mother’s life seemed to bifurcate completely. During the week, she was a whirlwind of corporate activity, her phone buzzing constantly with calls from clients (or so she claimed), her face a mask of strained concentration. The tragedy of Dubai was now a logistical problem to be managed, not an emotional wound to be nursed. Except on Fridays. Fridays remained sacred, immutable. She would leave work "late for a client dinner," or simply not come home at all, returning Saturday evening with that now-familiar aura of spent passion and distant contentment. The duality was jarring. One part of her life was a bleak drama of being a truthful and a good mother to her two sons; the other was a continuous, clandestine romance. I existed in the chasm between them, studying in the silent flat, the ghost of my brother’s laughter a painful reminder of a family that no longer was.

When my board results arrived—82%—it was a relief devoid of joy. It wasn't the stellar score I’d once dreamed of, but it was solid, a testament to grinding through the fog of depression. It secured me a seat, albeit in a lower-tier branch (Civil Engineering, when I’d hoped for Computer Science), at a prestigious university in Mumbai itself. A part of me, the wounded, clinging part, saw this as a lifeline. I could go to a good college and stay home, keep some semblance of a base, watch over whatever remained.

I told my mother the news, holding out the printout like a peace offering. She glanced at it, her expression unreadable. She didn’t congratulate me. She didn’t criticize. She simply said, “Hmm,” and walked away. No reply at all.

Three days later, she announced we were going to see a career counselor. The session was held in a sterile, glass-walled office in a posh South Mumbai high-rise. The counselor, a man with overly gelled hair and a practiced, vacant smile, barely looked at my marks or my preferences. Instead, he launched into a rehearsed spiel about "thinking outside the box" and "the incredible opportunities in emerging colleges outside the metro cities." He pushed brochures for institutes in Pune, Manipal, even one in Rajasthan, talking up their "world-class infrastructure" and "high placement packages" with a zeal that felt completely disconnected from their actual, middling reputations.

My mother listened intently, nodding. Then she turned to me, her voice adopting the counselor’s plastic enthusiasm. "You should explore outside Mumbai, Arjun. See new places, meet new people. It’s not good to always remain in one place, tied to the same environment."

I knew instantly. This wasn't about opportunity. This was about removal. I was a loose end, a pair of watching eyes, a living reminder of the husband incarcerated in Dubai. My presence in the Mumbai flat, even as a college student, would be an obstacle. It would mean questions about her Friday absences. It would mean a witness to the gradual erasure of my father from our home. She wasn't sending me away for a better education; she was clearing the stage for the next, uninterrupted act of her life with Aakash.

The plan unfolded with cold, efficient speed. Days later, over dinner (a quiet, tense affair), she casually mentioned my younger brother, Rohan. "With you going away to a hostel," she said, stirring her dal, "there will be no one to help Rohan with his studies. The tuition teachers here are not reliable. I’ve been looking into options." She then presented the fait accompli: a "top-tier" boarding educational instituition in Bengaluru. It was framed as an academic necessity, but the subtext screamed: He is also in the way.

I was stunned. "Have you already decided I’m going to an outside college?" I asked, my voice trembling. "I got a seat here. In Mumbai."

Her patience, always thin these days, snapped. She put her spoon down with a sharp clink. "That seat is in a lower branch," she stated, her voice turning stern, final. "You will not get a proper job from that. The decision is made. You will go to a proper college, in a proper branch, even if it is outside. This is for your future." The words were parental concern weaponized as banishment. My future, in her hands, was a map where home was deliberately X-ed out.

The weeks that followed were a blur of grim logistics. My admission was secured at an engineering college in Pune—a decent college, but one chosen for its distance, not its merit. Simultaneously, the paperwork for Rohan’s boarding educational instituition in Bengaluru was finalized. The day arrived to drop him off. He was five, confused and clingy, his small suitcase looking absurdly large in his hand. As we stood outside the imposing gates of the residential college, he clutched my leg, his big eyes filling with tears. "Why can't I stay with you, Bhaiya?" he whimpered.

I broke down. I knelt and hugged him, crying harder than he was, my tears soaking into his little shirt. The guilt was crushing. I was being sent away, and I was complicit in sending him away too, fracturing the last bond of our shattered family. Our mother stood a few paces back, her face a careful composition of sad resolve. She shed a few tears, but they were measured, performative. Her grief had limits, neatly contained by the greater plan. I couldn't believe how can a mother do that to her 5 year old son and get him away from her and for what ? , to continue her sexual affair without any limits. What will happen to his growth when he will grow up without the love of his parents, how can a normal biological mother not think about these things.

Then it was my turn. A few weeks later, with a single trunk and a backpack, I stood at the gates of my new college hostel in Pune. My mother came to "settle" me. She helped me make the bed, bought me some buckets and mugs from the local market, and handed me an envelope with a month's allowance. Her actions were mechanically maternal, devoid of warmth. As she prepared to leave, she stood at the door of my sparse, twin-shared room. She looked at me, and for a second, the mask slipped. In her eyes, I didn't see sadness at her son leaving home. I saw relief. Profound, unburdening relief.

"Study hard," she said, the standard parting phrase. Then she turned and walked down the hostel corridor, her heels clicking a steady, retreating rhythm on the polished cement floor. I watched her go, standing in the doorway of my new, empty life. The umbilical cord wasn't cut; it was surgically severed by her own hand, with a clear clinical purpose. My college life started not with the boisterous anticipation of freedom, but with the heavy, lonely silence of exile. The house in Mumbai was now empty, save for her. A clean slate, ready for Aakash to finally, fully, move in.

[thoristhanos]

The first few weeks of my college life were a descent into a new, more immediate hell. The prestigious institute was a facade; behind its sandstone arches and manicured lawns lay a festering ecosystem of brutal, institutionalized hazing. Our seniors weren't just strict; they were petty tyrants who ruled the freshman hostel with casual cruelty. Any perceived slight—a failure to greet them loudly enough, an accidental bump in the mess line—was met with instant, public punishment. Slaps across the back of the head, kicks to the shins, forced to hold stress positions until our muscles screamed.


The worst of it was orchestrated. One sweltering evening, a week after classes began, we were rounded up after dinner. "Ground. Now. In your underwear," the senior's command brooked no argument. Trembling with shame, fifty of us first-year boys stood in the dusty hostel ground, stripped to our briefs or boxers, exposed under the harsh glare of the floodlights. The real humiliation wasn't the cold night air on our skin; it was the knowledge that the girls' hostel overlooked this ground. From darkened windows across the quadrangle, we could hear the shrieks of laughter, the catcalls, the phones held up to record our degrading dance. We were forced to perform a crude, shuffling jig while the seniors roared with laughter, pointing out the skinniest, the most awkward. I, at 5'6" and painfully thin, my ribs visible under pale skin, was a prime target. They called me "Skeleton," "Chhota Packet," making me spin until I was dizzy and nauseous, the girls' mocking laughter a searing chorus in my ears.

That night, curled on my stiff hostel bed, the physical bruises throbbing in time with my heartbeat, I cried silent, shuddering tears into my pillow. The bullying was bad, but it was the loneliness that was lethal. I thought of home. Not the empty Mumbai flat, but the idea of home that had died. And then, with horrifying, intrusive clarity, my mind would paint the picture of what "home" was right now.

It was a tuesday night. Around 10 PM. While I was nursing my shame and sore body, she would be with him. In my home, or some hotel room paid for with money that should have been for my father's legal defense. My mother, Parineeti. Her hands wouldn't be wringing in worry; they'd be wrapped around Aakash's neck, her nails digging into his skin. Her thick, shapely thighs—thighs my father had once shyly adored—would be locked around his waist, pulling him deeper into her as he moved. His lips wouldn't be speaking words of comfort; they'd be mangling with hers in a wet, hungry kiss, swallowing her moans. He would be fucking her bare, without a condom, without any obstacle, a claim of ownership so complete it erased even the ghost of precaution. There were no problems in their world, no bullies, no jail cells, no lonely sons in hostels. Just friction, and heat, and the utter conquest of a family.

Thinking about it gave me goosebumps—not of arousal, but of a sick, fascinated horror. It was a vortex I couldn't escape. My misery here was directly correlated to her pleasure there. My father's absence enabled their presence. Every slap from a senior was echoed by a slap of flesh on flesh in that distant bedroom.

Gradually, through sheer survival instinct, the acute disaster softened into a grim routine. The extreme hazing eased after the first month, settling into a background hum of disrespect and minor torments. I found a fragile refuge in the college's Electronics Club. The clubroom, smelling of solder and ozone, became my sanctuary. Here, amidst circuit boards and oscilloscopes, I wasn't the bullied skinny kid or the son of a disgraced father; I was someone who could make an LED blink in sequence. The small victories—getting a motor to run, debugging a faulty connection—gave me tiny, concrete droplets of happiness. It was a life lived in miniature, focused on the flow of current, not the torrent of my own reality.

Communication with my mother was another ritual, stripped of all warmth. Once a week, usually on a Sunday evening, I would queue for the common room's single, grimy landline phone. The calls followed a sterile script.

"Hello, Maa."
"Arjun. How are studies?"
"Fine. Going okay."
"Good. Eat properly. Don't waste money."
"Yes."
"Okay then."

They never lasted more than five minutes. The silences between the clichéd questions were vast and echoing. She never called hostel. Not once. Its number was in her phone, but my voice in her life was an obligation to be dispatched with efficiency. I imagined her ending the call, placing the phone down on a glass table in a sunlit living room that was no longer ours, and turning back to him, to the life that had no space for a son's stuttering updates.

Even as this numb normalcy established itself, the nights remained treacherous. Sleep was not an escape but a theater where my subconscious staged its darkest plays. I had recurring nightmares. In them, everything was burning—our old Mumbai flat, my college hostel, the Dubai jail—all consumed in silent, orange flames. But in the center of the conflagration, untouched by the fire, was a clear, cold spotlight. And under it, they were fucking. Aakash and my mother, moving with a relentless, mechanical passion on a bed floating in the inferno. I’d wake up gasping, drenched in cold sweat, the images seared behind my eyelids.

Lying in the dark, listening to the snores of my roommate, the thoughts would descend, sharp and unsparing.

At this exact moment, I would think, my father is crying. Not figuratively, but really crying. Sitting on a thin mattress in a Dubai jail cell, the weight of a death penalty over his head, regret like a poison in his veins. Regretting the transfer he fought for, the expansion he saw as his crowning achievement. He’d be thinking, Why did I go? Why did I leave them? He believed he was building an empire for his family. Look at it now. The empire was a prison cell.

At this exact moment, I would think, my brother Rohan is sleeping. A small, lonely figure in a dormitory filled with strangers' children, clutching the teddy bear I’d given him, unaware of the intricate web of betrayal that had exiled him to Bengaluru. His childhood was now measured in term breaks and sanctioned phone calls.

And at this exact moment, I would think, the anger coiling tight in my chest, my mother is the only one living in the home. The home that once held a beautiful, if imperfect, family of four. She is the sole occupant. And what is she doing? She is not grieving, not planning, not holding the fort. She is getting railed. Fucked like a whore. Taken like a cumdump by the very man my father despised most—the man he saw as an ungrateful, arrogant subordinate. Aakash wasn't just sleeping with his wife; he was defiling his home, his memory, his entire legacy, and she was not just allowing it, but arching her back for more.

The bitter refrain would echo in the dark: Why did he even get that transfer? He came home that day, waving the approval letter, his face lit with a pride I hadn't seen in years. He looked like he’d conquered the world. And we celebrated. A special dinner. He promised my mother diamonds from the Dubai Gold Souk. He promised me a new laptop for engineering. Look at us now. He’s in a foreign jail with no bail. I’m in a hostel being called "Skeleton." My brother is a paying guest in a edu. instit. far from home. And his sanskaari, traditional, "respectful" wife… the words would curdle in my mind, the vilest labels feeling like the only accurate ones… his whore, his slut, his cumdump… is being fucked senseless by the architect of our ruin. The greatest achievement of his life had been the trigger for its total annihilation. And the punchline was the sound of his enemy's pleasure, echoing in the empty house he worked his whole life to provide.

[Ayush01111]

I just waiting arjun take revenge on mom for all tears and akash use to gali ka kutta bana de arjun tab maza aeyga

[thoristhanos]

The first semester ended not with a sense of accomplishment, but with the weary exhaustion of a survivor. I was supposed to return home on Thursday, as per the script. But a gnawing, ugly curiosity had taken root in me—a need to see the truth without the filters of her preparation. On a reckless impulse, I booked a train ticket for Tuesday night. I didn't tell her.


I spent that Tuesday night crashing on the floor of an old college friend’s apartment in a distant Mumbai suburb, my nerves coiled tight. The next morning, Wednesday, I took a local train across the city, my heart hammering against my ribs as I approached our building. It was 11 AM. The time when she would be at work, and the flat would be empty, revealing its true nature.

I used the spare key I’d always kept hidden in my wallet. The familiar click of the lock sounded obscenely loud in the silent hallway. I pushed the door open.

The smell hit me first. Not the familiar scent of sandalwood agarbatti and lemon polish, but something alien: stale beer, faint cigarette smoke, and the lingering, greasy aroma of rich food. My stomach dropped before my eyes even finished surveying the carnage.

The living room was tidy, but in a cold, minimalist way. The family photos were gone from the side tables. In their place were abstract glass sculptures that screamed of Aakash’s sterile, modern taste. It was like walking into a showroom apartment staged by strangers.

Trembling, I moved to the kitchen. The shock deepened. On the granite countertop stood three empty Kingfisher beer bottles. Next to them, in a stainless-steel takeaway container, was the congealed, oily remnant of chicken korma, studded with cashews. I stared, my mind refusing to process it. We were from a community that did not ate products originated from animal cruelty. Strict vegetarians for generations. My mother, who used to meticulously wash utensils if a non-vegetarian guest so much as visited, now had leftover meat in her fridge. This wasn't just a change in diet; it was a ritualistic desecration of her entire upbringing, a surrender so complete it included swallowing what was once considered taboo. Aakash hadn't just claimed her body; he had rewritten her palate, her customs, her very identity. My sanskaari mother was gone, replaced by someone who drank beer and ate chicken curry with her lover.

The realization made me physically ill. I thought of the looks from the neighbors I’d vaguely registered on my way up—the aunties quickly looking away, the uncles with their disapproving frowns. It wasn't just pity for the son of a jailed man. They knew. They knew a young man lived here with her now. They saw him come and go. In their eyes, Parineeti Arya wasn't a tragic figure; she was the neighborhood slut, the cheating wife living in sin while her husband faced execution. And the most devastating part was that she clearly didn't care. Their judgment meant nothing against the weight of his presence, the pull of his "young dick," as my mind viciously supplied, ploughing her without the constraints of tradition or shame. All those values she’d once enforced with such rigid authority had evaporated, dissolved in the heat of an illicit affair.

Steeling myself, I walked down the corridor to the master bedroom—the room that had been my parents' sanctuary. The door was ajar.

I almost cried out loud.

The king-sized bed, the same one they’d bought on their 15th anniversary, was a tangled wreck. The sheets were ripped off one corner, pillows lay scattered on the floor. It looked less like a place of rest and more like a battleground, the aftermath of a "long session," as my traitorous mind whispered. On the bedside table on his side (my father's side) stood another beer bottle, half-empty, and next to it, a small, crumpled foil sachet. I picked it up with trembling fingers. It was for i-pills. Emergency contraception. The pack held ten pills. Five were missing.

The final confirmation came from the walk-in wardrobe. I slid the door open. My father’s suits, his crisp white shirts, his collection of ties—all gone. In their place hung expensive, slim-fit linen shirts, designer jeans, and sharp blazers. On the shelf below, a row of leather belts and three expensive-looking watches gleamed under the closet light. The scent was his—a mix of cedarwood and aggressive cologne that had lingered in the car that day. He wasn't just visiting. He had moved in. His clothes lived here. His smell permeated the marital bedroom. The conquest was total.

I fled the apartment, locking the door behind me, feeling like a ghost in my own home.

The next day, Thursday, I performed the charade of my formal return. I rang the bell at 4 PM, lugging my trunk. She opened the door. Her expression wasn't one of joy, or even relieved surprise. It was thinly veiled irritation, as if I were a delivery boy interrupting a crucial meeting. "You're early," she stated flatly, not moving to hug me or help with the bag. Her eyes flickered past me, down the hallway, as if checking if I was alone. The message was clear: my presence was an inconvenience to the life she was now living.

When i looked at apartment, it was clean almost like the evidence of a crime has been erased, every symbol of Aakash was gone, the kitchen clean and so was her bedroom. 

The following three days were a masterclass in icy coexistence. She spoke to me only when necessary—"Dinner is ready," "Don't leave the lights on." Conversations about college, friends, life were nonexistent. She moved through the flat with a detached efficiency, her phone never far from her hand, her attention perpetually elsewhere. The home felt like a hotel where we were unfortunate co-guests.

A temporary thaw came with Rohan’s arrival from Bengaluru. We went to pick him up together. At the station, when she saw his small, eager face searching the crowd, she did cry. A few genuine tears rolled down her cheeks as she hugged him fiercely. For a moment, I dared to hope a shred of motherhood remained, buried beneath the layers of betrayal. I, however, broke down completely, holding my little brother after six months, feeling the profound wrongness of our fractured reunion. He’d grown taller, but his eyes held a new, unsettling wariness.

At home, for a brief, deceptive period, things felt almost normal. Rohan’s chatter filled the silence. We played board games. She cooked his favorite aloo parathas. It was a fragile pocket of borrowed time, a photo album tableau of a family that no longer existed.

Then, the ultimate letter arrived.

We had forgotten about our father was in jail for last nine months.

It was from the dubai court through embassy, forwarded from Dubai. Its official seal seemed to bleed coldness. My hands shook as I watched her slit the envelope. Her eyes scanned the dense, formal Arabic and English text, her face paling. She wordlessly handed it to me.

The language was dry, legal, and utterly final. After nine months of legal proceedings, the Dubai court had delivered its verdict. Given the severity of the financial fraud, compounded by the "grave moral crimes" of sexual harassment and coercion, the sentence was death. Arun Arya was to be executed.

The world narrowed to a pinprick. The words "death" and "father" collided in my brain, unable to reconcile. I made a sound, a choked gasp that wasn't quite a sob. I looked at her. She had sunk into a chair, her face ashen, one hand pressed to her mouth. She was shocked. But even in that moment of seismic news, I saw the difference. Her shock was that of someone receiving tragic news about a distant acquaintance. My shock was the obliteration of my universe.

Her recovery was unnervingly swift. By the next day, she was back to routine—making breakfast, answering work emails, her grief compartmentalized into a neat, one-day event. You couldn't tell, looking at her calmly sorting laundry, that her husband had just been condemned to die. The death sentence was just another piece of bad paperwork.

A week later, another embassy letter came, this time from Indian side. This one told that they were planning to appeal the death sentence in dubai court and outlined the appeals process exclusively for arun's family member (my mother). It was a complex, expensive, long-shot undertaking, but it existed. It listed the required formalities, the mountains of paperwork, the need to engage specialized international lawyers, the substantial fees required to even file the appeal by them. All these things had to done by us. It was a lifeline, however thin.

She read it at the breakfast table, her expression unreadable. Then, she folded the letter neatly, placed it back in the envelope, and set it aside on a pile of old bills. She didn't make a single call. She didn't consult a lawyer. She didn't move to gather a single document. She ignored it. Completely.

That very Friday, she dressed with extra care and left for the night. The death sentence for her husband wasn't a call to action; it was, perversely, a green light. With the finality of the verdict, perhaps the last lingering thread of guilt was severed. Her Friday night shenanigans with her lover resumed, now underscored by the grim knowledge that the man she was betraying would soon be legally erased from the earth.

One month later, on a Tuesday morning, a terse, formal call from the embassy confirmed it. The appeal had never been filed because of no reply from the family. The sentence had been carried out. Arun Arya was dead. Executed by the authorities in Dubai.

When she told me, her voice a hollow monotone, everything went black at the edges. I didn't faint, but the world lost its color, its sound, its meaning. My father was gone. Not lost, not passed away. Executed. A cold, clinical termination in a foreign land. She began to cry then, slow, quiet tears that tracked through her makeup. It was the most authentic sorrow I’d seen from her in over a year.

Then, her phone rang.

She glanced at the screen, her weeping hiccuping to a stop. Without a word, she stood up, walked into the next room, and closed the door. From where I sat, paralyzed in my grief, I could hear the low murmur of her voice. It wasn't the hushed, broken tones of a newly widowed woman. It was normal. Conversational. And then, unmistakably, a soft, brittle laugh escaped the room. A laugh. While the ghost of my father’s execution still hung in the air of our home.

The embassy again called for arrangement of body transportation, but she declined to accept the body, This was another shock to me in addition to ongoing shock as i won't be able to provide him last rites as his son, but i was not in a mental and physical state to even argue about this to her.

For the next month, she entered a strange period of mourning performance. She didn't visit Aakash. She didn't even go to the office. She wore simple white cotton saris, the traditional garb of a widow. But she was constantly on her phone, texting, chatting, her fingers flying over the screen, her expressions shifting from somber to animated and back again. She was grieving publicly, but privately, she was maintaining a connection. To him. It was a pantomime of widowhood orchestrated for the neighbors' eyes, while her digital heart remained elsewhere.

When it was time to return Rohan to his boarding edu, inst., the performance continued. At the station, she held him tightly, her eyes wet. But once he was on the train and we returned to the empty flat, the veil dropped instantly. The white sari was swapped for casual home clothes, and the phone was back in her hand.

My own departure was due on Monday. On thursday evening, I told her I'd decided to leave a day early, on Friday.  She merely nodded, not even asking why the hurry. My absence was, as always, preferable.

But I wasn't going for a project. Using the skills and components I'd quietly acquired from the Electronics Club, I had spent my time at home building something. Tiny, wireless pinhole cameras with cloud connectivity. While she was out shopping one day, I had installed them. One in the living room corner, disguised within a fake smoke detector. Another with a view of the main entrance. A third, with a trembling hand and a heart full of self-loathing, I'd placed high on the bookshelf in the master bedroom, angled to cover the bed.

On Friday, I left for Pune as announced. But as soon as I reached my hostel room that night, I didn't unpack. I locked the door, opened my laptop, and logged into the secure, anonymous cloud server. The feed from the Mumbai apartment loaded on my screen, crisp and clear.

The living room was empty, bathed in the late evening gloom. The entrance was still. I clicked on the third feed, the one from the bedroom.

[thoristhanos]

The Friday night feed was a study in anticlimax and quiet intimacy. Aakash arrived around 8 PM, not with the urgency of a clandestine lover, but with the casual ease of a man returning to his own home. He carried a bag of groceries. They moved around the kitchen together, preparing a simple meal, their conversation inaudible through the microphone but their body language speaking volumes. It was domestic. Normal. They smiled at each other over the chopping board. He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. She leaned into his touch. After dinner, they sat on the sofa, his arm around her shoulders, watching something on television. There was no frantic, clothes-ripping passion that night. Just the chilling comfort of a settled couple. He left around midnight with a soft kiss at the door, not staying over. This somehow felt worse than the raw sex I’d witnessed before. It was the visualization of a life built, brick by stolen brick, in the shell of our old one.


Saturday dawned on my screen as a rectangle of pale morning light. The apartment was quiet until mid-morning when my mother emerged from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her hair. What followed was not the preparation for a normal day, or even for a secret tryst. It was a ritual.

She sat at her vanity, the one that had once held her modest collection of lipsticks and kohl, and began an elaborate, meticulous process. First, the base: foundation, concealer, powder applied with a careful hand. Then, the eyes: dark, sweeping kajal lines, gold eyeshadow dusted on the lids, making her gaze deep and dramatic. Blush was stroked onto her cheeks, not a subtle flush, but a bold, celebratory color. Her lips were painted a deep, matte crimson.

My confusion mounted with every stroke of her brush. This wasn't office makeup. This was bridal makeup.

Then, she opened her jewelry box. Not the everyday one, but the heavy, velvet-lined case reserved for weddings and grand festivals. She fastened thick, jhumka earrings that brushed her shoulders. She clasped multiple gold bangles onto each wrist, the metallic clinking audible even through the tinny laptop speaker. She dbangd a neckpiece of layered gold chains over her collarbone. Each piece was flashy, traditional, meant for a bride on her wedding day.

But it was what she did next that made my heart seize, the blood draining from my face so completely I felt lightheaded.

From a small, lacquered box at the back of the drawer, she extracted my father’s mangalsutra.

I recognized it instantly. The simple, elegant black beads interspersed with gold, the two small, diamond-studded cups—the vati—that symbolized the union. My father had placed it around her neck on their wedding day. It hadn't left her neck in twenty years. Until he was executed in Dubai. I hadn't seen her wear it since.

Now, with steady, reverent hands, she lifted it. She brought the chain around her neck, fumbling slightly with the clasp at the back until it snapped shut. The familiar weight settled between her collarbones, the symbol of her first marriage resting against her skin, which was flushed with anticipation for her second.

Then, she picked up a small silver box. Sindoor. Vermillion powder. The ultimate mark of a married H woman, applied by her husband in the parting of her hair. My father was dead. His ashes were likely already scattered or stored in some impersonal urn. There was no husband to apply it.

She did it herself.

Leaning close to the mirror, she dipped her ring finger into the vibrant red powder and drew a thick, perfect line from the crown of her forehead down the center parting of her meticulously styled hair. The crimson streak was a blazing declaration.

I stared, my mind reeling, unable to comprehend the blasphemy. Now that her suhaag is dead… what does she mean by doing this? The mangalsutra and sindoor weren't just jewelry; they were sacred covenants, visual vows to one man. To wear them now, especially the sindoor applied by her own hand… it wasn't just moving on. It was an act of profound symbolic theft. She was stealing the sanctity of her first marriage and dbanging it over the illicit flesh of the second.

And then, the horrible, devastating truth crashed over me. This wasn't just dressing up. This was her second suhagraat. The first night of a new marriage. With her lover. In the home she'd shared with her executed husband.

The contrast was a physical pain in my chest. Just last month, the man whose mangalsutra she now wore had been killed, potentially innocent, potentially framed by the very man she was preparing to welcome as her new "husband." A month of widow's white, a month of perfunctory mourning, and now this? The hunger I saw in her eyes as she admired her reflection wasn't grief; it was pent-up desire. She’d been without sex for over a month, and now she was going to enjoy it, not as a mistress in a hotel, but as a bride in her own sanctified bedroom.

She stood back, surveying her complete transformation in the full-length mirror. The red Banarasi silk saree, embroidered with gold thread, shimmered under the lights. The jewelry glinted. The sindoor burned like a fresh wound. She looked like a vision from a wedding album, radiant and eager.

Then, the doorbell rang.

My breath hitched. The camera on the entrance feed showed a figure at the door. She floated towards it, a swirl of red and gold, and pulled it open.

It was Aakash.

But he wasn't in casual clothes. He was dressed in a magnificent, cream-colored silk kurta, intricately embroidered with golden thread, paired with matching churidar pyjamas. He looked every inch the bridegroom.

I almost fainted. The room swam. The confirmation was visceral, undeniable. They weren't just having sex. They were performing a wedding. A mockery of one. A dark, perverse sacrament where the altar was my parents' bed and the vow was their shared guilt.

He stepped inside, his eyes drinking her in with a possessiveness that was both tender and triumphant. He didn't say anything. He simply reached out and touched the mangalsutra at her throat, his thumb stroking the cold gold, a smirk playing on his lips. He was claiming the symbol itself. Then, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to the sindoor in her hair parting—not applying it, but consecrating it with a kiss.

They stood there for a moment, bride and groom in the doorway of their stolen home, a perfect, horrifying picture.

The reality crystallized with icy clarity: My father's body, as it was not accepted by mother ,if it had even been repatriated, would have been electrically cremated in some anonymous facility, an unclaimed, unwanted vessel. His ashes, no longer important to anyone, would have been disposed of by the state, perhaps thrown away in trash. No shraadh, no rituals, no tears from his wife.

And here, in the space his life had paid for, these two were alive, glowing, dressed in the sacred finery of matrimony, ready to fuck each other's brains out in a ceremony that spat on his memory, his death, and every tradition he had believed in. The widow and the widower’s killer, playing house, with my father's mangalsutra as their prop. The grief inside me evaporated, incinerated by a pure, white-hot hatred. I wasn't just watching an affair anymore. I was witnessing a desecration.

[Ayush01111]

Will son will become chuck or revange will take place like arjun lost dad his mom should lost his last shread of dignity and aakash he should comit sucide infrunt of arjun

[Featherguy]

please upload pics....super update

[wxxxx]

Akash skillfully framed Arun in Dubai for false transactions and honey traps and was convicted by the Dubai Judicial Court and sentenced to death. It is unfortunate for Arun that his wife Pariniti did not appeal to the Dubai High Court despite the request of her country's embassy, then after the execution of the death sentence, Arun's wife Pariniti is expressing reluctance to bring the body to the country despite the request of the embassy, Pariniti has sent her five-year-old son Rohan to a boarding college, which is a gross violation of motherhood, Pariniti has sent her elder son Arjun to study engineering in another city because she can live a peaceful life with Akash. Readers hope that Arjun will use his intelligence to take revenge on Akash for framing his father Arun in false transactions and honey traps and on his mother Pariniti for quickly executing the death sentence of his father Arun without appealing to the Dubai High Court. Arjun will keep the nightly sex between his mother Pariniti and Akash well preserved in the cloud as proof of their illicit physical relationship.

[prshma]

THIS STORY IS EXTREMELY CORRUPT AND IMMORAL

This story is all about encouraging mothers to disown their children and wives to murder their husbands cold heartedly. This story is only aimed at ruining the societal values, ruining the relationship betwwen a mother and her child and the love between a husband and a wife. 

This story is encouraging a wife to plan her husbands murder just for the sake of carnal desires. It is also depicts how a mother should forget her maternal instincts and become a whorish woman. 

Moreover this story depicts women as cold hearted and devilish and thus disregards all the postive aspects a woman brings to the family in the form of a wife, mother, sister or a daughter. This is an open insult to womanhood. 

Therefore I request the admins to kindly to take this story down from the forum as it is extremely unsocial.    

[wxxxx]

THIS STORY IS EXTREMELY CORRUPT AND IMMORAL

This story is all about encouraging mothers to disown their children and wives to murder their husbands cold heartedly. This story is only aimed at ruining the societal values, ruining the relationship betwwen a mother and her child and the love between a husband and a wife. 

This story is encouraging a wife to plan her husbands murder just for the sake of carnal desires. It is also depicts how a mother should forget her maternal instincts and become a whorish woman. 

Moreover this story depicts women as cold hearted and devilish and thus disregards all the postive aspects a woman brings to the family in the form of a wife, mother, sister or a daughter. This is an open insult to womanhood. 

Therefore I request the admins to kindly to take this story down from the forum as it is extremely unsocial.    

Readers hope that Arjun will use his clever wits to take harsh revenge on Akash for framing his father Arun in false transactions and honey traps, and on his mother Pariniti for quickly executing his father Arun without appealing to the Dubai High Court.