Adultery My Muzlim Mom Became Shameless For a Hiindu Cock

[Rajeev Gupta]

Amir lay in bed, the laptop's screen casting a faint blue glow in his dark room. He couldn't sleep, his mind replaying Vivaan's unread Facebook messages. "I feel something for you," it had said, and that line gnawed at him like a bad dream. 


His parents' voices had faded into quiet snores from the next room, but Amir's curiosity burned brighter than ever. He flipped the laptop open again, logging back into his mom's Facebook account. But something was different—there were no new messages. Fatima had uninstalled the app from her phone, but Amir didn't know that Vivaan had already found another way to reach her.


Earlier that evening, before Faizan arrived, Vivaan had messaged Fatima on Facebook suggesting they switch to WhatsApp for "easier chatting." Fatima, feeling a twinge of excitement mixed with guilt, had agreed, sharing her number without thinking twice. Now, as Amir scrolled through the old chats, he noticed a new thread: 


Vivaan had sent his WhatsApp number, and Fatima had replied with a simple "Okay." Amir's heart skipped. How could he see their WhatsApp chats? He remembered—his mom often used WhatsApp Web on his laptop when her phone battery was low, and she'd forgotten to log out. 


With trembling fingers, he opened a browser tab and scanned the QR code from her phone (which he'd snuck a peek at earlier). Sure enough, the chats loaded, and there it was: a fresh conversation with Vivaan, timestamped just hours ago, after Faizan had fallen asleep.


Amir's eyes widened. His mom had messaged Vivaan back? While Dad was home? He scrolled up, reading from the beginning, his breath catching in his throat.




WhatsApp Chat between Fatima and Vivaan




Fatima: Hi Vivaan, it's Fatima. Sorry for not replying on Facebook earlier. I was just tired and had a lot of work around the house. Amir needed help with his homework, and Faizan came home unexpectedly. Everything's fine now.


Vivaan: Oh, Fatima, you have no idea how relieved I am to hear from you! I was so worried when you went silent. I kept checking my phone every few minutes, thinking maybe something happened. I even imagined the worst—that I might not see your messages again, that our little chats would just end. You brighten my days, you know? Without your wise words and that gentle way you talk, everything feels dull.


Fatima: That's sweet of you to say, Vivaan. But really, it was nothing serious. Just life getting in the way. How have you been? Busy with your business as usual?
Amir paused, his fingers hovering over the trackpad. This was weird—his mom chatting with this guy on WhatsApp now? It felt more personal, more hidden. He scrolled slowly, careful not to accidentally send a message. The conversation flowed naturally at first, like two old friends catching up.


Vivaan: Yes, business is picking up. We just closed a deal on some new fabrics—reminds me of those old days, but let's not dwell on that. Tell me about your day. What did you cook for Faizan? I bet you're an amazing cook, with hands as graceful as yours.


Fatima: Nothing special, just some dal and roti. Faizan loves simple food after his long drives. And Amir devoured it all! Boys and their appetites, right? What about you? Do you cook, or do you have people for that in your big office?


Vivaan: Haha, I try my hand at it sometimes, but I'm no match for someone like you. I can picture you in the kitchen, moving with that same energy you described in your dancing. You must look so beautiful doing everyday things, Fatima. Your smile in your profile picture lights up my screen.


Fatima: Oh, stop it, Vivaan. You're making me blush. It's just a simple photo.


Amir's fingers shook as he scrolled further. Compliments? This Vivaan guy was complimenting his mom on her looks? Amir felt a knot in his stomach. His mom was married—didn't this guy know that? And why was she responding? He leaned closer to the screen, his heart pounding louder with each message.


Vivaan: But it's true! You're not just wise, Fatima; you're stunning. The way your eyes sparkle in that picture... it draws me in. I find myself staring at it during boring meetings. Tell me, do you have more photos like that? Ones that show more of your beautiful self?


Fatima: Vivaan, that's flattering, really. But I'm a married woman. I don't share photos like that with anyone but my family.


Vivaan: I understand, Fatima. I don't mean to overstep. It's just... your beauty is driving me crazy. I can't stop thinking about you. Every time we chat, I imagine what you look like in real life—your graceful movements, that warm smile. It's like a fire in my chest. Please, just one photo? Something innocent, like you in your daily wear. It would mean the world to me.


Fatima: Why me, Vivaan? You're a successful man. Can't you find other women to talk to? There must be plenty who would love your attention.


Vivaan: Other women? Fatima, they're nothing compared to you. They're shallow, always chasing money or status. But you... you're real. You have depth, faith, that quiet strength. And your beauty isn't just skin-deep; it's in how you care for your family, how you find joy in simple things. I've dated before, but no one makes me feel alive like you do. Please, don't make me beg. Just one photo to tide me over until our next chat.


Fatima: I appreciate your words, Vivaan, but it's not right. In my culture, sharing photos with unrelated men... it's frowned upon. And Faizan—he trusts me. I can't betray that.


Vivaan: I get it, truly. But think about it: it's just a photo, nothing more. No one has to know. Your beauty haunts me, Fatima. I dream about your curves, your elegant form. It's torture not seeing more. Come on, for a friend? I promise I'll keep it private.



Amir's breath hitched. Photos? This kafir was asking his mom for photos? Amir's mind raced—would she actually send them? His mom, the one who prayed five times a day, who covered herself modestly? He scrolled faster, his palms sweaty, dreading what came next.


Fatima: Vivaan, you're persistent! Fine, but just one or two, and only because you've been so kind. But please, don't share them or ask for more. This is a one-time thing, okay? And remember, I'm married—this is just friendly.


And there they were—attached to her message: two photos. Amir clicked on them, his eyes bulging in shock. The first was a selfie of his mom in the bedroom wearing a coat and a purple dress.


             





But the there is one... oh god, the second one made Amir's stomach drop. It was Fatima in a blue dress and black veil, taken from behind somehow—maybe a mirror shot or one she'd asked a neighbor to take? 


It showed her big buttocks prominently, the fabric hugging her curves. Fatima's ass was full and round, shaped by years of dancing in her youth and the natural build from her active home life—carrying heavy pots, squatting to clean, all those subtle movements that had sculpted her body into something voluptuous and womanly. Amir couldn't believe it. 


His Muzlim mom, sending photos like this to another man? A kafir, no less? This wasn't okay—it violated everything he'd been taught about honor, modesty, family. His fingers trembled so hard he almost dropped the laptop. How could she do this? While Dad slept in the next room?


Vivaan: Oh, Fatima... these are incredible! That blue dress suits you perfectly. And that second one—wow, your figure is breathtaking. Your ass looks so inviting, so perfectly shaped. I can't stop staring. You're a goddess!


Fatima: Vivaan! Language, please. But thank you... I guess. ? It's just me after a long day.


Vivaan: No need to be modest. That veil frames your face so elegantly, and the way the dress clings to your curves... it's driving me wild. Tell me, do you ever think about how sexy you are? Faizan is a lucky man.


Fatima: Stop, you're embarrassing me. ? But it's nice to hear. Faizan doesn't say things like that much anymore. He's always tired.


Amir read on, his shock deepening with every line. His mom's responses—they weren't shutting Vivaan down completely. She was engaging, even smiling with emojis. It felt like a betrayal, like she was enjoying the attention. He scrolled further, the chat growing longer, more intimate.


Vivaan: I wish I could see you in person, Fatima. Just to talk, face to face. Imagine us sharing a cup of tea, laughing about life.


Fatima: Meet? Vivaan, that's a big step. How would that even work? I have responsibilities—Amir, the house, and Faizan... he's my husband. It's not okay for a married woman to meet another man like that. In our culture, it's forbidden.


Vivaan: I know, I know. But think about it: just for tea, nothing more. We could meet at a quiet café in the city, away from prying eyes. No one would know. I've been so lonely, Fatima, and talking to you is the highlight of my days. Please?


Fatima: But what if someone sees us? Faizan works hard for us; I can't risk hurting him. Marriage is sacred Why push this?


Vivaan: Because I can't help it. You're special, Fatima. Just tea—simple, innocent. We sit, chat about your quotes, my business. No touching, no nothing. It could be in the afternoon when Faizan's out driving. Easy to slip away for an hour. Come on, live a little.


Fatima: You're making it sound so harmless. But I don't know... what if Amir needs me? And Faizan—he'd be heartbroken if he found out.


Vivaan: Amir's a big boy; he can manage. And Faizan doesn't have to know. It's just two friends meeting. I've got a place in mind—cozy, private. Please, Fatima? Your beauty, your voice... I need to experience it in real life. Don't deny me this.


Fatima: Sigh... okay, but just tea. Next Tuesday, when Faizan's on a long shift. 3 PM at that café near the market? But if anything feels off, I'm leaving.


Vivaan: Yes! You won't regret it. I'm so happy, Fatima. This means everything. Can't wait to see you. ?


And that was it—the chat ended there, with Vivaan's heart eyes emoji staring back at Amir. He slammed the laptop shut, his mind reeling. Shocked didn't even cover it. 


How could his mom, his pious, loving mom, agree to meet this kafir? Easily talking to him, sending photos of her ass, flirting back with smiles? It shattered everything Amir thought he knew. 


What shocked him more was the details he'd pieced together from the chats—Vivaan knowing too much about Dad's old business, the way he probed about their family life. Was this guy using Mom to get back at Dad? And Mom, oblivious, falling into it? Amir's hands shook; he felt sick. He buried his face in his pillow, tears stinging his eyes. This couldn't be happening