Adultery Home is where the scandals are !

[Lousy1995]

Fuck, let me spill the beans on my mom, Anuradha—the ultimate MILF goddess who's been the center of my world without me ever crossing that incest line, at least not yet. She's this shy little kitten around strangers, blushing and keeping her eyes down like a proper conservative bitch, but once she's comfy with you? Holy shit, she flips into total extrovert mode, chatting up a storm, laughing that throaty laugh that makes her tits jiggle just right. Back before she tied the knot with Dad, she was a hot-as-hell English teacher, strutting around in those tight chudidhars that hugged her curves like a second skin, probably driving her students wild with boners under their desks. But after marriage? Bam—family rules kicked in, courtesy of her strict-as-fuck parents, my grandparents, who were these hardcore devotional prudes drilling god-fearing bullshit into her and Aunt Madhu from the cradle. No more pants or modern slutwear; it's sarees only, dbangd over that killer body from dawn till dusk, the fabric clinging to her sweat-slick skin in the Bangalore heat, outlining every inch of her fuckable frame.

Speaking of that body—goddamn, Mom's packing a 36C rack, those perky, bouncy tits that strain against her blouse like they're begging to be squeezed and sucked, a tiny 28-inch waist that flares out to a juicy 38-inch ass and hips, the kind of bubble butt that sways hypnotically when she walks, making you dream of bending her over and pounding that tight housewife pussy raw. She rocks those sarees all day, the pallu sometimes slipping just enough to tease a glimpse of cleavage, and only before crashing out at night does she slip into a soft cotton nighty, the thin material doing fuck-all to hide her hard nipples or the outline of her thong-clad mound. And that mangalsutra?(thali or gold chain used in christian ) It's always dangling between her tits like a golden chain screaming "owned by cock," symbolizing her eternal bond to Dad, but fuck if it doesn't look like a collar on a submissive slut ready for more.

Her conservative routine is clockwork: up at the ass-crack of dawn, drawing those intricate kolams outside the house by 6 or 7 AM, her saree hitched up to her knees exposing those smooth, toned legs as she bends over, ass up like an invitation. Then it's bath time before 8, emerging fresh and dripping, her wet hair cascading down her back while she whips up breakfast—steaming idlis, crispy dosas slathered in chutney, fluffy pongal, or hot pooris that make the kitchen smell like heaven, all while her hips sway to some internal rhythm. In my 21 years, I've never seen the Mom cry, not once—through all the family bullshit, she's been a rock, loyal as fuck to Dad and us, never bailing even when we were scbanging by in the lower middle class, facing hardships like power cuts and tight budgets. She stuck it out, probably getting fucked good by Dad to keep her sane, building this upper-class life brick by brick. Now she's reaping the rewards, lounging in our fancy pad, but still humble, chatting on the phone mostly with her strict old folks 350 klicks away in that podunk town—visits there are rare, just me and her sometimes, where she'd slip back into that obedient daughter role, but I'd catch her ass looking extra plump in the car ride.


Evenings? She's glued to those trashy TV serials from 7 to 9 PM, sprawled on the couch with her legs tucked under, saree riding up her thighs just enough to flash some skin, munching on snacks while drama unfolds on screen. She's got like four or five friends tops—bitches from her teaching days or church circle—but her phone's bloated with relatives' numbers, yakking away with Grandma, Grandpa, or Aunt Madhu about family gossip, her voice turning all sultry and animated. After that, she hits the streets for her one-hour evening walk, that's the secret sauce keeping her MILF body so damn tight—those hips rolling, tits bouncing with every step, probably turning heads left and right as she power-walks off any extra calories, her sweat making the saree cling to her ass crack like wet paint. Mornings after Dad heads to work, she's off to the market or stores, basket in hand, bargaining like a boss while her curves do the talking, vendors eye-fucking her the whole time.

By the time I hit adulthood, Mom was still rocking that same voluptuous figure—tits full and firm, waist cinched, ass begging for a slap—but I swear, I never let my mind go there, no dirty fantasies of burying my face in her cleavage or sliding into her experienced cunt. Nah, that shit's off-limits... for now. But every other dude? Fuck, they've all got eyes on her—the male relatives at family gatherings, stealing glances at her swaying hips; the neighborhood creeps in our old place, probably jerking off to memories of her bending over to pick something up, her saree outlining that perfect pussy mound. She's the epitome of housewife material: loyal, devout, sexy as sin without trying, heading to church every Sunday rain or shine, morning or evening mass, kneeling in prayer with that mangalsutra glinting, looking like a holy whore ready to confess her deepest sins. I've seen the way guys stare, imagining stripping her saree off layer by layer, exposing those C-cup tits and pounding her until she screams in ecstasy. But Mom? She doesn't give a fuck—oblivious or ignoring it, striding through life with that graceful poise, her body a temple of untapped lust just waiting for the right spark to ignite.




So now let's get into story . ......