Adultery Tales of Homely / 'Horny' Mom

[jayjay_Tales]

Tales of Homely / 'Horny' Mom

The morning sun hit the veranda of our house in Kasba, and as usual, I was already at the kitchen stove by five o'clock.

To the outside world, I am Sunita—forty-five years old, always dbangd in a neat cotton sari with the pallu pinned properly over my shoulder, red vermilion bright in my hair parting, and my eyes lowered in respect whenever elders walk past. My husband, Ramesh, is forty-eight and works as a senior clerk at the local tehsildar office. Everyone in town knows him as a upright, God-fearing man. My eighteen-year-old son, Rahul, is currently struggling through his first year of college, and my seventy-year-old father-in-law, Pitaji, spends his days sitting in the courtyard, barking order after order for black tea without sugar.

"Sunita! Where is my morning tea?" Pitaji called out from the courtyard, coughing his dry, heavy cough.

"Coming, Pitaji, two minutes," I replied, my voice sweet, obedient, and full of traditional sanskar.

I poured the steaming tea into his brass glass and walked out with modest, quiet steps. But as I handed him the glass, my eyes briefly drifted toward the terrace of the double-story house right across our boundary wall.

Standing near the water tank was Vikrant.

Vikrant is thirty-two, a gym trainer who recently moved back from the big city to open a fitness center in town. In public, whenever he sees me shopping at the local market with Ramesh, he lowers his head slightly and says, "Pranam, Chachi-ji." Ramesh always praises him, telling Rahul to learn some discipline and fitness from "that respectful young boy next door."

If only Ramesh knew.

If only any of them knew what goes on behind the heavy wooden door of my storeroom on Tuesday afternoons, when Ramesh is at the office, Rahul is at his college coaching classes, and Pitaji takes his heavy two-hour afternoon nap.

As I walked back into the kitchen, my phone—a small, basic keypad phone hidden deep inside the folds of my old extra sarees at the bottom of the steel trunk—vibrated twice.

I quickly locked the kitchen door from inside under the pretext of frying spices, pulled out the phone with practiced speed, and read the message:

“Storeroom key is under the terrace pot. 2:15 PM today?”

My pulse raced, a familiar rush of excitement flooding through my veins. The dutiful, quiet housewife disappeared for a fraction of a second, replaced by the woman who craved the thrill of this dangerous double life.

I wiped my hands on my saree apron, typed a quick “Yes,” and deleted the message instantly.

The morning dragged on in its usual dull rhythm. I chopped vegetables, made fresh rotis, packed Ramesh’s tiffin box, served Rahul his breakfast, and washed Pitaji’s medicine spoon. To them, I was the quiet pillar of the household—the woman who didn't even speak loudly in front of guests.

At 1:30 PM, the house finally began to empty. Ramesh left on his scooter, Rahul rushed out on his bicycle, and Pitaji finished his lunch, taking his walking stick to move toward his small room in the inner courtyard.

By 2:00 PM, the loud snoring of Pitaji resounded through the hallway.

My heart was hammering against my ribs. I walked to the main front gate, latched it lightly so it wouldn't make a sound, and moved swiftly toward the back staircase leading to the small, dark storeroom near our upper terrace—a place nobody ever visited during the day.

I reached under the earthen pot near the terrace wall, found the spare key, and opened the squeaky wooden latch. The moment I stepped into the cool, dim room smelling of old brass trunks and dry pickles, two hands gently pulled me inside and the door clicked shut.

"You're late by three minutes, Sunita," Vikrant whispered, his voice dark and thick with excitement in the quiet room.

"Silence," I murmured, holding his cheek, my voice dropping the modest tone I used downstairs. "If Pitaji wakes up, both of our names will be ruined in the whole district."

"That is what makes this fun, isn't it?" he smiled, pulling me closer into the shadows.

For the next forty minutes, the quiet, humble housewife of Kasba completely ceased to exist. In the dark, locked storeroom, surrounded by old family heirlooms, I was someone else entirely—bold, untamed, and living every second on the edge of a dangerous cliff. The sheer risk of being caught in our conservative town only made every touch and every shared whisper ten times more intoxicating.

At 2:50 PM, my internal clock alerted me.

"Time's up," I breathed, gently pushing him back and quickly fixing my saree pleats in front of the small broken mirror hanging on the brick wall. I reapplied a touch of vermilion to my forehead, checked my hair bun, and adjusted my pallu back over my shoulder.

"Same time on Friday?" Vikrant whispered from the shadow of the door.

"If the coast is clear," I replied with a subtle, calm smile.

I slipped out first, gliding down the back stairs like a ghost. I unlatched the main gate, walked back into the kitchen, and set the kettle on the stove to brew Pitaji's 3:00 PM tea.

When Pitaji shuffled out of his room ten minutes later, rubbing his eyes, I was standing near the kitchen counter, quietly humming a devotional hymn while straining the tea.

"Sunita," Pitaji called out, leaning on his stick. "Did someone come to the back gate earlier? I thought I heard the latch sound."

I didn't blink. I turned around with the most innocent, respectful expression on my face, handing him his brass glass.

"No, Pitaji, who will come at this time? It must be the afternoon wind shaking the old wooden latch. Drink your tea while it is hot."

He took a sip, nodded in agreement, and walked away.

I stood there in the quiet kitchen, smoothing down my traditional cotton saree, feeling the lingering heat of my secret life under the calm surface. Let the town think I am just a quiet, homely housewife. They will never guess the secrets hidden behind these modest eyes.




Continues .. 

[zaq121]

Seems interesting

[jayjay_Tales]

Tales of homely mom & Old sewage cleaner 




The next morning arrived with its familiar, heavy routines. By 9 o'clock, Ramesh had already left for the office on his scooter, Rahul had gone off to his morning college lectures, and Pitaji was sitting comfortably in his usual spot in the veranda, reading the daily regional newspaper and keeping a hawk-eye on the main gate.

I was in the kitchen, grinding fresh coriander and spices on the heavy stone slab, when the rusty back gate creaked open.

A frail-looking man 60 years old, walked into the backyard compound, carrying a worn-out bamboo pole, a bucket, and a bundle of thick iron wires. It was Bhola the old town worker who was periodically called to clean the deep sewage lines and clear choked drain pipes across our neighborhood. To anyone watching, he was just a weary, poor laborer doing the dirtiest job in town, wearing faded, stained clothes, his skin dark and weathered by decades of sun and hard work.

He walked past the courtyard, keeping his head down respectfully as he saw Pitaji sitting in the veranda.

"Pranam, Sarkar," Bhola said in a low, humble voice, bowing slightly toward Pitaji.

Pitaji barely looked up from his newspaper, just waving a casual hand. "Ah, Bhola. Go to the backyard toilet. The main line from the kitchen and bathroom is choking again. Clear it properly today."

"Yes, Sarkar, right away," Bhola replied, shuffling toward the small, old brick toilet located at the far corner of our back courtyard, hidden behind the high wall and overgrown papaya trees.

A few minutes later, the sound of metal scbanging against concrete resonated from the backyard. I stood near the kitchen counter, my heart already beginning a silent, rapid thumping inside my chest. Nobody in this family, nor anyone in this entire town, could ever imagine the truth about Bhola. To the world, he was just an old, invisible sewage cleaner. But to me, he was another thrilling chapter in the secret, dangerous double life I led under everyone's noses.

"Memsahib!" Bhola called out from the backyard toilet in a raspy, loud voice intended for Pitaji to hear. "I need a long iron crowbard to break this blocked pipe!"

From the veranda, Pitaji's stern voice echoed immediately. "Sunita! Go to the storeroom side and give him the tools he needs! Tell him to finish it quickly!"

"Yes, Pitaji, I am going," I called back sweetly, wiping my hands on my cotton saree.

My pulse surged with a dark, electrifying excitement. I walked out to the quiet backyard, picked up the rusty iron rod kept near the wash area, and stepped into the cramped, dim space of the backyard toilet. The air inside was heavy with the damp, pungent smell of old drain water and raw earth, but the moment I crossed the threshold, Bhola grabbed the heavy wooden door and pulled it shut behind me, sliding the crude iron latch into place with a sharp clink.

Before I could even set the iron rod down, two calloused, rough hands gripped my waist tightly from behind.

"Hey... no... what are you doing?" I grumbled in a hushed, trembling whisper, putting up a half-hearted attempt to push his arms away while my body leaned right back against his chest. "Listen... Pitaji is sitting right there in the front veranda... if he hears anything..."

Bhola chuckled softly in my ear, his breath warm and heavy against my neck. His eyes were wide with intense, unbridled lust a sharp contrast to the meek, submissive old worker who had bowed to my father-in-law just five minutes ago.

"Let the old man sit in his veranda, Sunita," Bhola murmured, his voice thick and possessive as his rough fingers dug into my waist. "He thinks I am pumping his clogged drain, while I am standing right here with his proper, traditional daughter-in-law. Going to pump her soft pussy with my dirty rod"

"You are so dirty today, Bhola... you smell completely of bad drain water and sweat," I whispered, turning around in the cramped space, my arms automatically winding around his neck despite my words. "Don't press so hard... my neat cotton saree will get completely ruined and stained. What will I tell Ramesh when he comes home for lunch?"

Bhola smiled, his dark, wrinkled face lighting up with a mischievous, crooked grin.

"Then remove it fully," he whispered closely, his hands already finding the tucks of my saree at my waist. "I don't want to spoil your expensive cotton saree... I only want to spoil you."

A sharp shiver ran straight down my spine. The absolute filthiness of the setting, mixed with the extreme danger of my 70 year-old father-in-law sitting barely thirty feet away, made my blood boil with intense desire. I undid the pins of my pallu with trembling fingers, unwrapped the long yards of traditional cotton fabric, and hung the saree carefully over the top hook of the wooden door so it wouldn't touch the damp floor.

With Sunita's saree hung safely on the top hook, she stood with her back pressed flat against the wooden door, using it for support while keeping her hands ready to muffle any sound.

Utilizing the narrow concrete rim near the wash basin area, Sunita leaned forward, keeping her upper body low to ensure they stayed well beneath the line of the frosted glass window.

Wedged into the corner where the brick walls met, Bhola supported her weight against the wall to keep their movements completely silent, ensuring no loud shuffling or footstep sounds echoed out into the open courtyard.

For the next twenty minutes, inside that tiny, dark, foul-smelling toilet, the sweet and obedient house-wife completely surrendered to the raw, untamed thrill of her hidden life. Every muffled sigh was swallowed by the background sound of Bhola occasionally rattling his iron bucket or splashing water against the drain pipes to keep up the pretense for anyone listening outside. The contrast between my respectable status in society and this dirty, taboo secret gave me a high that no peaceful, normal life could ever match.

At last, I quickly gathered my composure. I pulled my saree back on, carefully re-pinning the pallu over my chest, smoothing down every crease until I looked like the immaculate, traditional housewife once again. I adjusted my bangles, applied a fresh touch of red vermilion from the small box I kept in my blouse pocket, and checked my face in a small pocket mirror.

Bhola unlatched the door quietly and stepped out first, picking up his bamboo pole with his usual bent posture.

"Work is done, Memsahib!" he shouted loudly toward the main house, his voice instantly changing back to that of a poor, tired laborer. "The pipe is completely clear now!"

"Good, good," Pitaji's voice boomed back from the veranda. "Sunita, give him fifty rupees from the kitchen drawer and send him away!"

"Yes, Pitaji," I called back smoothly.

I walked out into the bright morning sunlight, handing Bhola a crisp fifty-rupee note without letting our fingers touch in the open yard. He took the money, bowed his head humbly, and whispered under his breath so only I could hear: "Until next month's blockage, Memsahib."

I offered him a faint, pious smile as he walked out of the back gate. Then, carrying the clean tools back toward the storeroom, I felt a deep, secret sense of power wash over me. My husband, my son, my father-in-law, and this entire conservative town saw me as a simple, innocent woman anchored to the kitchen stove. They would never, in their wildest dreams, imagine the dark, thrilling double life I was living right beneath their noses.


Continue..

[jayjay_Tales]

[chrisgale159]

nice update next update please