Ananya(Student) - How I gave my measurements to the tailor(11 videos)-Scene-28-GOLD!*

[ashuezy2]

Scene 17

I couldn’t sleep that night. My bed felt too soft, the ceiling fan too loud. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the flashing images of my mother in the tailor shop—her head thrown back, her mouth open, Remo’s hand on her throat.
The dinner conversation played on a loop in my head.

I was thirsty. So, I got up around 2:00 AM to get water from the kitchen. The hallway glowed faintly under a zero-watt bulb. The house was silent… or so I believed.

As I passed my parents' bedroom door, I heard it. It wasn't a snore. It wasn't the rustle of sheets.
"Stay down," a voice hissed.

I froze. It was my mother’s voice. But it wasn't the soft, maternal voice she used at dinner. It was the voice she had used in the shop—commanding, raw, powerful. But this time, she wasn't begging. She was ordering.
Then I heard a man groan. "Ohhhhh... God..." It sounded like a sound of pain mixed with intense, suffocating pleasure. It was my father.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I should have kept walking. I should have run to the kitchen. But the demon that woke up in me at the tailor shop was awake now. I needed to see.

I crept closer. The door wasn't clicked shut. It was slightly ajar, just a crack. I pressed my fingers against the wood and pushed. Just a millimetre. Just enough to see into the slice of dim orange light coming from their bedside lamp.
I clamped my hand over my mouth to stop the scream.

My father was on the bed, but he wasn't on top. He was on his hands and knees, his head buried in the pillows, his back arched, his white buttocks exposed to the air. He was completely naked.
And standing behind him was my mother. She was naked too, her body glowing in the dim light. But she was wearing something else. A black leather harness strapped tight around her wide hips. And sticking out from it was a thick, dark purple dildo.

My mother didn't just shove it in. She picked up a bottle from the nightstand. She poured oil into her palm.

Squelch.

She rubbed the oil onto the synthetic cock, making it glisten in the orange light. Then, she reached down and rubbed the oil onto my father’s hole. She circled it sensually, teasing him.

"Relax, Rajesh," she commanded, her voice clinical and cold. "Open up for me."
"Aaahhh... yes... Sunita..." my father whimpered into the sheets.

She gripped my father’s hips—just like Raju had gripped hers earlier.
"Take it, Rajesh," she whispered, her voice low and dangerous. "Take it in your ass!"

She thrust forward. Slap. The harness hit his cheeks. She drove the strap-on deep into my father.
"Ohhh! F-fuck!" my father let out a long, broken moan. "Oh God... Sunita... yes!"

He wasn't fighting her. He wasn't just tolerating it. He was pushing back against her, desperate for it. He wasn't the strong, protective husband in that moment. He was submissive. He was hers to use.
My mother moved her hips with a rhythm that was terrifyingly confident. She dominated him. She looked down at his back with a look of pure ownership.

"You love this, don't you?" she taunted him, pulling back and slamming in again. Schlick. Slap.
"Yes!" my father gasped, his knuckles gripping the sheets. "I love it. Please... harder!"
She raised her hand and brought it down hard on his bare ass. Thwack! "Aaahhh!" he screamed in pleasure. Thwack! "Good boy," she purred. "Take every inch."

"I'm close," he gasped. "Sunita... please."
"Turn over," she ordered sharply.
She pulled out. Pop.

My father scrambled to turn onto his back. He looked pathetic and desperate, his erection standing straight up, red and angry.
My mother moved between his legs. She grabbed his ankles. She lifted his legs high in the air, pinning his knees to his chest. It was a humiliating position. He was wide open to her, splayed out like a broken doll.
"Look at you," she whispered, looking down at him with a mix of pity and power. "You need this, don't you? You can't feel anything unless I break you open."

"Yes," he sobbed, his eyes squeezed shut, his legs trembling in her grip. "It’s the only way. Please."
She didn't use her mouth. She didn't use her body. She reached out with her hand. She gripped his penis. She started jerking him off, using a rough, milking motion.

"Come on," she said, pumping her hand. "Give it to me."
My father arched his back violently. He let out a long, high-pitched cry. "Thank you! Thank you, Sunita! Aaahhhhh!"
He erupted. He shot all over his own chest and stomach. My mother watched him cum with zero emotion. She didn't smile. She didn't kiss him. She just held his legs until he stopped twitching.

I stumbled back from the door, my head spinning. I leaned against the wall in the dark hallway, trying to breathe.
Everything suddenly made sense in a twisted, sickening way.
My father didn't treat her like a Goddess because he was boring. He treated her like a Goddess because he worshipped her. He gave her all the power. In their bedroom, she was the King, and he was the servant. She controlled him. She pegged him. She owned him.

And that was the problem.
At home, she had too much power. She was in charge. She was the Don.
That’s why she went to Remo. That’s why she let Raju use her. She didn't go to the shop to be worshipped. She went there to be degraded. She went there to lose the control she had to maintain at home. She needed to be the one on her knees, the one being slapped, the one being used, because everywhere else—even in her own marriage—she was the one holding the whip.

I looked at the closed door one last time, hearing my mother’s grunts of exertion and my father’s whimpers of submission fading into the silence. I realized then that my family was a house of mirrors, and everyone was wearing a mask. And now, I had to decide which mask I was going to wear.