Adultery My Muzlim Mom Became Shameless For a Hiindu Cock

[Rajeev Gupta]

                                                                        


                         MY MUZLIM MOM, FATIMA, TRAPPED 
                    UNDER  THE CHARMS OF MY DAD'S FRIEND




Hello friends, I am back again with another banger of a story. This story is narrated to my by my close friend, his name is Amir. It's about the things he noticed his mom, Fatima Shaikh did with his dad's Hiindu friend. He didn't want to narrate it himself so he asked me to narrate it for him. 





Amir, lived in a small house in Uttar Pradesh with his mom, Fatima Shaikh, who is thirty-eight, and his dad, Faizan Shaikh, who was forty-nine. They are from a '. background. Their home was simple, with plain mud walls, a tin roof, and a small courtyard where Amir played. 

Amir’s dad drove a rickshaw in a far-off city where he earned more money, but this meant he only came home once every two weeks for a day or two. His long absences left Amir’s mom to care for Amir and keep the house running. 

Though they didn’t have much money, Amir’s mom filled their home with love and faith, holding them together through tough times.
Amir’s mom was a beautiful woman with warm brown eyes that glowed when she smiled at her son. 

Her long, dark hair stayed hidden under her traditional burkha, a loose black garment that covered her from shoulders to ankles. Despite her modest clothing, her figure drew attention. 

Her fleshy breasts and plump buttocks moved slightly under the fabric when she walked, though she never sought such notice. She married Amir’s dad at twenty-seven, having left college early, and her wisdom came from her faith and daily life rather than books. 

She prayed five times a day, kneeling on her prayer mat, her hands raised to the heavens. Whenever she left the house to visit the mosque or buy vegetables, she wore her abaya and headscarf, staying true to her '. traditions.





The neighborhood around their home was busy, with narrow dirt streets, small shops selling spices and cloth, and people always coming and going. ***** men often stood on street corners, talking loudly and watching those who passed by. 

When Amir’s mom walked to the mosque, her abaya swaying with her steps, their eyes followed her. Amir, only twelve, sometimes walked beside her and heard their crude words. One man said, “Look at that woman. Her breasts are so full, I wish I could hold them and have my way with her.” Another added, “Those lips of hers, they look like they were made for kissing.” Amir’s cheeks burned with anger, but he stayed silent, not wanting to worry his mom.

The men’s words grew worse as time passed. One said, “Her ass shakes like it’s calling me every time she walks by.” Another laughed, “I bet she’s wild under that abaya, just waiting for a real man.” 

A third man whispered, “I’d love to pull off that scarf and see what she’s hiding.” A fourth sneered, “She’s too beautiful for that old rickshaw driver. She deserves someone stronger.” 

The worst came from a man who said, “These '. women act so pure, but they’re all sluts under those clothes, hiding behind their prayers.” Amir, young as he was, felt his heart race at the insult to his mom’s faith, but he was too small to challenge the men. He just gripped his mom’s hand tighter and hurried her along.

Amir’s mom never seemed to hear the men’s words. She kept her head high, her eyes fixed on her path to the mosque. She loved Amir’s dad, even though his long absences and hard work left her lonely at times. 

She never thought of leaving him, no matter how hard life got. Her faith taught her that marriage was sacred, and she stayed loyal to Amir’s dad. At home, she kept the house tidy, cooked simple meals like dal and rice for Amir, and prayed for her husband’s safety and her son’s future.







When Amir’s dad came home every two weeks, the house felt alive. Amir loved seeing his dad, who often brought a small sweet or a toy car from the city. But Amir’s dad was usually exhausted from driving his rickshaw for long hours. 

His visits were short, and he spent much of his time resting. Amir’s mom looked forward to these moments, hoping to feel close to her husband. Fatima and Faizan shared intimate moments in their small bedroom, they fucked but Amir’s dad’s tiredness meant these moments were quick. He wanted to finish fast, leaving Amir’s mom unsatisfied, though she never spoke of it.

One evening, after Amir’s dad returned from the city, he and Amir’s mom sat on their bed. Amir, was asleep in the next room. The bedroom was small, with a single bulb casting a dim light. 

Amir’s dad looked worn out, his face lined from long hours of work. Amir’s mom, wearing a simple cotton nightdress, sat beside him, her hand resting on his arm.

“Fatima, I’m so tired tonight,” Amir’s dad said, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. “The city was busy, and I drove for hours without a break. Can we make this quick?”

Amir’s mom frowned, her fingers tightening on his arm. “Why do you always want to rush, Faizan? We barely see each other, and I miss feeling close to you. Can’t we take our time tonight?”

Amir’s dad sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I know you want more, but my body aches from work. I need to rest before I leave tomorrow. Please, let’s just be quick.”

Amir’s mom looked at him, her eyes soft but sad. “I understand you’re tired, Faizan. I’ll do what makes you happy. Let me take care of you tonight.” 

She climbed onto him, her movements gentle but steady. She guided their intimacy until Amir’s dad reached his release. He breathed heavily, then rolled over and fell asleep almost instantly. 





Amir’s mom lay beside him, her head on a pillow, staring at his sleeping face. Her expression was heavy with sadness, her heart unfulfilled. She stayed quiet, her faith keeping her loyal. She closed her eyes, praying silently for strength.

Amir’s mom never thought of other men. Her religion taught her to honor her marriage, and she believed in Amir’s dad, even if his absences and quick intimacy left her wanting more. 

She filled her days with prayer, cleaning, and caring for Amir. She was a devoted mother, making sure Amir ate well and studied his lessons. 
One hot afternoon, Amir was playing outside with his friends. 

They kicked a dusty ball in the street, laughing and shouting under the bright sun. 

Amir’s throat grew dry, and he ran home to drink milk. He pushed open the wooden door and stopped, surprised by what he saw. Amir’s mom stood in the small living room, her abaya replaced by a loose salwar kameez that hugged her curves. 

She was dancing, her hips swaying to music from a small radio. Her movements were graceful, almost joyful, and Amir, had never seen his mom like this.






“Mom, what are you doing?” Amir asked, holding the glass of milk he’d poured.

Amir’s mom turned, her cheeks flushing slightly. “I’m just dancing, Amir. I get bored sometimes, and moving like this makes me feel alive. Don’t worry, it’s nothing serious.”

“Who are you recording it for?” Amir asked, noticing her phone propped against a chair, capturing her movements.

Amir’s mom smiled, but her eyes looked uneasy. “It’s for no one, Amir. I just joined Facebook to pass the time. I thought it might be fun to share a little dance.”

Amir frowned, confused. “But why, Mom? I heard from friends that Facebook has lots of people watching. Doesn’t our religion say married women shouldn’t do things like that?”

Amir’s mom sat down, her hands folding in her lap. “I know it seems strange, Amir. I’m not trying to do anything wrong. I just wanted something to make me feel happy when I’m alone.”

Amir nodded, still unsure. He knew about Facebook from his friends, who said it was a place where people shared videos and pictures, and men often watched women’s posts. However his mom never posted her images or videos online. But she created a facebook account with the name "Fatima Shaikh" without profile picture.

He wondered why his mom, whose faith didn’t allow married '. women to draw attention from strangers, would use it. But he didn’t want to question her further. He looked at his mom dancing, her movements light and free, and smiled. Amir couldn’t think badly of her. She was his mom, and he loved her.