Adultery Dad's Enemy Made My Mom Heartless (COMPLETED!!)

[thoristhanos]

The next three or four days passed in a thick, gray fog that settled over everything. I moved through the apartment like a sleepwalker, barely tasting the food I forced down, barely hearing Rohan when he asked me to play. My mind kept circling the same unbearable loop: my mother—the woman who had always worn her mangalsutra with quiet pride, who applied her sindoor every morning with the same careful precision my grandmother had taught her, who never left the house without her bindi perfectly centered—had become someone else entirely.
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 She was still wearing those symbols of marriage, still playing the role of the respectable, traditional wife in public, but behind closed doors she was letting another man touch her, kiss her, fuck her. The thought made my stomach twist so violently that sometimes I had to sit down, head between my knees, until the nausea passed.


I kept seeing her the way she used to be—modest blouses buttoned to the collar, sarees dbangd with perfect pleats, hair pinned so tightly that not a single strand escaped. People in our building respected her. The aunties called her “Pariniti ji” with genuine warmth. No one had ever whispered about her character, never called her anything but proper, devoted, sanskaari. Now the same woman was coming home with her lipstick smeared across her chin, her blouse unhooked, her breasts spilling out while she smiled for a man who had once made my father’s life a living hell. The contrast was so sharp it felt like a physical wound.

And yet she still wore the mangalsutra. Every single day. The thin gold chain with the black beads rested against her skin as though nothing had changed, as though she were still the faithful wife who had taken seven pheras around the sacred fire. The sindoor still sat in the neat part of her hair, bright and unmistakable. I couldn’t stop wondering if that was part of the kink for them—if Akash got off on fucking a married woman who still carried the symbols of another man who was her husband. The thought made my skin crawl, but I couldn’t push it away. I imagined him rubbing his cock along the mangalsutra while he kissed her deep red lips, imagined him kissing the sindoor-stained part of her hair while he came inside her. The images were so extremely kinky and vivid they left me shaking.
how i imagined her
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I thought about confronting her. I rehearsed the words in my head—shouting, demanding answers, forcing her to look me in the eye and explain how she could betray everything our family stood for. But i did not had anything so much as the solid proof only a picture where she is standing with a man in a bathroom dangerously.

Although i was 100 % sure she was having an affair, there was no proof and a little bit of chance that it was not physical - they were just standing close and talking or even doing something  but hadn't slept with each other till now. All these thoughts were still there but then i remembered her state that night, the disheveled hairs, the open and missing blouse hooks, the unseen sleeveless backless and deep cut blouse, the lipstick on her chin and her face that showed an expression of a satisfactory glow and i was sure again that she was propely fucked that night.

Also every time I faced her and interacted with her, her face remained cold and distant, the same expression she had worn for weeks now whenever I tried to talk to her about anything deeper than dinner or college. She had grown detached and unreachable, I wasn’t even sure she would listen. The thought of pouring my heart out only to be met with that polite, empty smile made me feel smaller than I already did.

Telling my father was even worse to contemplate. I could already see the way the news would destroy him—the man he hated most, the man who had once tried to ruin his career, now buried between his wife’s thighs while he worked sixteen-hour days in a foreign country. The image was so cruel that I knew it would kill something inside him. I couldn’t be the one to deliver that blow. So the secret stayed trapped in my chest, growing heavier with every passing hour.

And then, on the fourth night, something inside me cracked in a way I hadn’t expected I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, when the thought slipped through the cracks of my resistance: I wondered if she was doing it on purpose—if sleeping with Akash Singh was her way of punishing my father for leaving, for choosing Dubai over Mumbai, for slowly fading out of our lives one missed phone call at a time. The idea that she might be using her body as revenge made something inside me go cold. The moment this thought came, my body reacted before my mind could stop it. what if I stopped fighting it? What if I let myself feel the thing that had been hovering at the edges of my mind since I first saw that bathroom photo? Blood rushed south so fast it made me dizzy. My cock hardened against the fabric of my shorts, straining painfully, and the more I tried to will it away the worse it became. I saw her again—the green saree on the floor, the open blouse, Akash’s hand on her breast—and the image morphed into something even more explicit. I pictured them in bed, my mother on her back with her legs wrapped around his waist, her arms around his neck, pulling him deeper and not letting him go from her even if he wanted  while he fucked her in long, deliberate strokes. I imagined her whispering his name, imagined him kissing the sindoor in her hair while he came inside her, filling her with the seed of the man my father despised most.
how i pictured them 
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The thought was so overwhelming that I couldn’t stay still. I stumbled to the bathroom, locked the door, and wrapped my hand around myself with a desperation that bordered on panic. The orgasm hit me so hard I had to bite my forearm to keep from crying out. It was the most intense release I had ever felt—wave after wave of pleasure that left my knees weak and my vision blurred. When it finally ebbed, the guilt crashed over me like a second, colder wave. I had just masturbated to the thought of my mother being fucked by my father’s enemy. I had become exactly the kind of son I had always pitied in crude jokes—the cuckold son who got off on his mother’s infidelity.

But the guilt didn’t last as long as I expected. The next night the same thoughts returned, and the same painful arousal followed. I fought it for maybe an hour before giving in again, stroking myself in the dark while I pictured Akash taking her from behind, her mangalsutra swinging between her breasts, her sindoor smudged from where his forehead had pressed against hers. Each time I came the pleasure was sharper, cleaner, almost addictive. The stress that had been building for days—the constant knot of anger and humiliation—eased a little with every orgasm, as though my body had found its own twisted way of coping with something it couldn’t change.
 
By the end of the week I had stopped fighting the thoughts entirely. I told myself that if my mother no longer cared about her own dignity, about what society would say if they knew, about the man who had given her love, respect, and independence for twenty years, then why should I continue to protect an image of her that no longer existed? She was the one who had chosen Akash Singh. She was the one who still wore the mangalsutra while letting another man fuck her. She was the one who had turned our home into a place of secrets and lies. If she could discard everything that had once defined her, then perhaps I was allowed to stop carrying the weight of her honor as well.

The decision didn’t bring peace, exactly, but it brought a strange kind of clarity. I stopped trying to be the son who defended his mother’s reputation at all costs. Instead I became the son who knew the truth and carried it in silence, letting the images play in my mind whenever they wanted, letting the arousal and the guilt exist side by side without trying to separate them. The knot in my stomach remained, but it no longer felt like it was choking me. It had become something else—something darker, more complicated, and strangely easier to live with than the constant fight I had been waging against my own mind.