Adultery FALL OF THE ARROGANT MOTHER

[Momhunter123]

Part 7 - The SECOND SLAP

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

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

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

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

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

Memories stabbed her like knives.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pure reflex, the same reflex from the market.

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

PAK!

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

The crack echoed through the room like a gunshot.

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

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

Then she saw the wire.

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

She froze.

Turned slowly.

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

He smiled the cruelest smile she had ever seen.

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

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

Rocky’s voice was soft, almost gentle.

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

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

And the red lights on the cameras never stopped blinking.

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

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

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

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

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

Her voice was raw, torn from earlier screams.

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

His smile was quiet, patient, absolute.

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

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

Her knees buckled, but Sahil was already behind her.  

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

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

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

Snip…  

Snip…  

Snip…

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rocky glanced at the photo and laughed softly.

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

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

Rocky unbuttoned his jeans and let them drop.

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

Sahil followed, revealing almost the same size.

Vumika’s breath stopped in her throat.

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

Her knees finally gave way.

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

“Please… don't do this to me…”