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

[thoristhanos]

Two days after our return, I was passing by the kitchen counter when her phone, left face-up while she chopped vegetables for dinner, lit up with a new text message. The preview on the screen was unmistakable.


From: Aakash Janu
Message: Did you like the pics and videos :X

My breath hitched. She was in the shower, the water running loudly enough to cover any sound. This was my chance. Moving with a thief’s precision, I first grabbed her phone. I didn’t open the message—the notification preview was damning enough. But it told me everything I needed to know: there were pictures. There were videos. And they were stored somewhere accessible.

I sprinted to her laptop on the living room table, powered it on, and typed “.jpg” into the search bar of the main drive. The system churned for a moment before returning hundreds of hits. Scrolling frantically, I bypassed work presentations and family photos until I found it: the secret locked folder created back and opened with the password "Aakash", boldly titled GOA_HONEYMOON_Aakash_Parineeti.

A violent cocktail of nausea and electric excitement churned in my gut. My hands shook as I plugged in my empty 32GB pen drive and dragged the entire folder over. The transfer bar filled slowly—15 gigabytes. Fifteen gigabytes of my mother’s betrayal. While the files copied, a cold sweat broke out on my neck. This wasn't just spying anymore; this was possession. I was archiving her infidelity.

Once the transfer was complete, I unplugged the drive and retreated to my room, locking the door. On my own laptop, I opened the folder. Inside were subfolders organized by date, spanning their entire three-week "training" trip. I clicked on the first one, labeled Day1_Arrival.

It began innocently enough—a few shots of the hotel lobby, a panoramic view of the beach from their balcony, the lavish king-sized bed. Then came the pictures of them. The first showed my mother on the beach at sunset, wearing not a bikini but a thin, sleeveless cotton kurta that ended just below her hips, and loose salwar pants that stopped above her ankles. She looked younger, freer, with silver anklets glinting on her feet and a smile I hadn’t seen in years.




 In another frame, Aakash stood beside her in nothing but low-slung swim trunks, his arm dbangd possessively around her shoulders. Then came the kiss. Not the frantic, hungry mess from the office bathroom, but a soft, closed-mouth press of lips, her face tilted up to his like some Bollywood heroine. The intimacy of it was somehow worse than the raw sex I had witnessed before.




The next folder, Day3_Evening, held the real treasure. A series of images chronicled a slow, deliberate seduction. They were in the hotel room now. My mother wore a set of delicate new glass bangles that covered half her forearms, and fresh, dark mehndi swirled over her hands and wrists—the traditional adornment of a bride. In one photo, they were kissing again, but this time it was deep and carnal. Their mouths were open, tongues visibly entangled, her fingers clutching his hair, his hands gripping her bare waist where her blouse had ridden up. The depravity of it was paralyzing. Here was my mother, her skin still bearing the sacred symbols of marital tradition, fervently swapping spit with the man who had publicly destroyed my father’s dignity.



I heard the shower stop and quickly shut my laptop, heart pounding. The rest would have to wait for the cover of night.

When the house finally fell silent, long after midnight, I put on my headphones and dove back in. I navigated straight to the video folders. Inside Day1_Arrival were ten video files. I opened the first.

The camera was propped on a dresser. The frame showed my mother sitting at a vanity mirror, her back to the camera. She was applying a deep red lipstick with careful, steady strokes. She was wearing a black blouse, its sleeves absent, and from the side I could see the dramatic plunge of the back. When she stood and turned to face the camera, my stomach dropped.




The blouse was shockingly low-cut, the neckline a deep ‘V’ that ended just above her navel, framing the swell of her breasts and the gold mangalsutra that rested in the shadowed valley between them. The saree wrapped around her was made of sheer black georgette, through which the pale skin of her midriff and the dark dot of her navel were clearly visible. Dozens of thin gold bangles clinked softly on her arms as she moved. She looked directly into the lens for a moment, a sly, knowing smile touching her lips, before walking toward the bed.

Aakash entered the frame briefly to adjust the camera angle, ensuring the entire bed was in view. He was dressed in a crisp, white shirt and black pants, looking every bit the respectable gentleman—a cruel parody of my father’s own style. He sat beside her on the edge of the mattress.

What followed was a slow, torturous unraveling. She leaned in and gave him a soft, closed-mouth peck. Then another. And another—five, six quick, teasing kisses. Then, with a sudden hunger, she grabbed his face and crushed her mouth to his. The kiss deepened instantly, turning wet and loud. I could hear the slick sounds of their tongues meeting, the soft smacks of their lips parting and reconnecting. Her hands came up to his shirt, her fingers working open the buttons one by one while their mouths remained locked. Breaking the kiss only when the last button was freed, Aakash shrugged the shirt off his shoulders.



My mother’s hand immediately went to the buttons of his pants. She tugged it loose. He stood and let the pants fall, revealing a pair of tight, black briefs underneath, the fabric straining against a thick, obvious erection. The sight sent a jolt of heat straight to my own groin, a reaction that filled me with immediate, searing shame.

Then it was her turn. She stood and, with a practiced flick of her wrists, unwound the sheer black saree, letting it pool at her feet. She was left in a simple black petticoat and the devastating blouse. They kissed again, a messy, groaning affair, his hands groping her breasts over the fabric until he fumbled with the hooks at the back of her blouse. He struggled with the final clasp until, with a small, breathless laugh, she reached back and undid it herself, shrugging the garment off.

Beneath it she wore a fancy black lace bra, its cups half-transparent, doing little to contain the heavy weight of her breasts. Without hesitation, Aakash stood and stripped off his briefs, his cock springing free, fully erect and intimidatingly thick. In response, my mother reached behind her back, unhooked the bra, and let it fall.





There she stood, in just her petticoat, her upper body completely naked, her mangalsutra—the symbol of her marriage to my father—dangling prominently between her bare, milk-heavy breasts. The visual contradiction was so profoundly wrong it made my head spin. Aakash lay back on the bed. My mother, after quickly tying her hair up into a loose bun, joined him. She lay on her side facing him, one leg sliding over his hip as she nestled close. He kissed the top of her head, then her lips, a gesture of disgusting tenderness. He stretched an arm out and she rested her head on his chest, her hand tracing the lines of his torso while he stroked her bare shoulder.