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

[thoristhanos]

UPDATE - 4

Two weeks crawled past with nothing new in the hidden folder. Every evening I checked while she showered, and every evening the same dull project files stared back at me. Then came the night she failed to come home at her usual time. At nine o’clock—two full hours after she normally walked through the door—I tried calling. The first ring went unanswered. The second call was cut after two rings. The third went straight to voicemail. I told myself she must be stuck in a meeting, but the memory of that bathroom photograph kept sliding between my thoughts. I pictured her phone facedown on a hotel nightstand while Akash’s mouth worked at her neck, her thighs, the place between her legs that no son should ever imagine. The images looped until my head ached. I finally fell asleep around eleven, the phone still clutched in my hand.


When I woke the next morning the shower was already running. I moved on instinct, opening the laptop the moment I heard water hitting tile. The hidden folder was still empty of anything new. I closed it just as the bathroom door opened. She stepped out wrapped in a towel, hair dripping, and before I could stop myself I asked where she had been and why she hadn’t answered. Her reply came smoothly, almost rehearsed: she had been at the office, speaking with the owner, and simply couldn’t take personal calls. I nodded, but my eyes had already found the fresh red marks along the side of her neck—small, circular, the kind left by lips that had sucked too hard and too long. She saw me looking and adjusted the towel higher, but the damage was done.



That day she didn’t go to work. When I asked why, she said it was her 20th wedding anniversary. The words landed like a slap. I had forgotten. The date had slipped past me the way everything else had slipped past me lately. The realization that she might have spent the night before her anniversary letting another man fuck her married pussy made my stomach turn. I spent the rest of the day in a daze, watching her move through the apartment in the same peach saree she always wore on anniversaries, the mangalsutra still resting against her skin as though nothing had changed.



In the evening she spoke to my father for nearly an hour. I listened from the hallway, trying to catch any warmth in her voice, but the conversation stayed polite, almost businesslike. She asked about his health, about the project deadlines, about the weather in Dubai. There were no endearments, no laughter, only the careful tone of someone trying to outrun guilt. When she finally hung up she sat for a long time with her hand resting on the receiver, eyes closed, as though the weight of the lie had settled over her like a second skin.



Three days later the folder finally changed. I opened it after she left for work and found four new video files, each roughly seventy minutes long. Three of the thumbnails were solid black; the fourth showed what looked unmistakably like human skin—pale, slightly flushed, the curve of a shoulder or thigh caught in low light. My stomach dropped so fast I had to grab the edge of the desk. These were recordings. Recordings of her. Recordings of whatever she and Akash had done in the hours she had claimed were spent in meetings or at the office. The thought that I might be looking at the exact moments her respect, her dignity, and her body had been stripped away by the man my father hated most made my hands shake.



I didn’t open any of them. Instead I copied all four files onto a blank pen drive, working quickly, terrified she would return early and catch me. Once the transfer finished I ejected the drive and slipped it into my pocket, heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat. For two full days I carried that drive everywhere—college, the market, even the bathroom—yet I couldn’t bring myself to plug it into my own laptop. Watching meant crossing a line I wasn’t sure I could come back from. It meant seeing parts of her that a son was never meant to see: the way she sounded when she came, the way her body moved under another man, the expressions on her face when pleasure or shame or both overtook her.



After two days, the curse of curiosity took over the fear of realisation of cheating, then with some thought I decided that because my mother had been loyal to my father until now—because my father had given her two children, a house, trips, shopping, everything a normal couple does—she would never be having a passionate or intimate affair with Akash. It would only be normal physical sex to satisfy each other’s physical needs, since she had been alone for almost six months without any action and Akash was single.



Anyway, I thought that whatever they had done, they would not have broken four rules. :





First, she would not have kissed him, because kissing is a more intimate and loving activity than mere pleasure and lust. 

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Second, she would not have been totally naked, because being completely naked without any shred of dignity under a man who is not her husband was something she simply could not do. 

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Third, I was sure she would have absolutely used a condom, because she would not want to catch any disease from a playboy like Akash, and she would not want to get accidentally pregnant at forty-five after having a baby only four years ago. 

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Fourth, even if their minds had slipped and she had allowed him to fuck her raw without restriction, I was one hundred percent certain Akash would not have been allowed to cum inside her, because cumming inside her is a breeding activity, the closest union between two human beings for making babies. I dismissed entirely the idea that she would let another man’s sperm reach her womb through her vaginal tunnel, though the thought of it actually happening felt both erotic and deeply disturbing.

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So after thinking these things and trying to convince myself that she had definitely followed these four rules, I decided to watch the videos at night and pressed play.