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

[thoristhanos]

UPDATE - 11

The figure on the screen—Aakash, turned. His fingers, strong and possessive, lifted my mother’s chin. Her eyes, already glazed with a lust I’d never seen in her before, fluttered closed.

And then the kiss.


It wasn't a gentle meeting of lips. It was a violent, consuming liplock, the kind I had both dreaded and been morbidly eager to witness. Their mouths crashed together with a hunger that was audible even through the digital feed—a wet, smacking sound that made my skin crawl. They were devouring each other, their heads tilting, jaws working open and shut as if they were literally trying to eat the other's face. My stomach twisted into a cold knot. This was my mother, the woman who used to chastise me for chewing with my mouth open.




“Missed this,” Aakash growled against her mouth, the words distorted but clear.

“A whole month,” she gasped back, her voice thick with need, before diving back in, her tongue lashing against his.

Aakash’s arms, corded with muscle from the gym he now clearly frequented, slid around her waist. In one smooth motion, he lifted her clean off the floor so that her slippered feet dangled in the air, bringing their faces perfectly level. The bridal saree pooled around his arms. She let out a small, breathy moan of relief into his mouth, the kiss deepening, becoming even more invasive. He didn’t carry her to the bed immediately. He just stood there, holding her aloft, letting her wrap her legs around his waist as they feasted on each other, a grotesque parody of a bride being carried over a threshold.

He’s treating her like a toy, I thought, my fingernails biting into my palms. And she’s loving it.

Finally, he walked them toward the bed, but stopped beside it. My breath stopped looking at bed, it was decorated with candles and red and white flowers, they were really going to make it a memorable night one month after fucking each other.



He set her down gently, yet the moment her feet touched the ground, she surged back up onto her toes, refusing to let their connected mouths break for even a second. It was exactly like the kiss I’d imagined from Goa—primal, desperate. Their mouths were gaping wide, both pushing their faces forward as if trying to physically enter the other’s skull. It was impossible to tell whose tongue was probing where. Hers? His? It was a single, writhing, wet entity.





My mother’s hands, adorned with the delicate henna of a new bride, scrabbled over his back, tracing the muscles under the fine silk of his kurta. Up and down, possessively. Meanwhile, Aakash’s large hands found her ass, still covered by layers of silk and petticoat. He didn’t just hold her; he massaged her cheeks through the fabric, kneading them with a rough, claiming pressure, pulling her flush against the growing bulge in his pyjamas.

“You look… incredible,” he breathed during a momentary, saliva-strung separation of their lips. “A real bride.”

“I am your bride,” she panted back, her voice husky and utterly unfamiliar. Then her hands slipped inside his open-necked kurta. I could see the outline of her fingers moving against the white fabric from behind, mapping the terrain of his back. One hand remained there, kneading his shoulder muscles, while the other drifted lower, more daring.

It slid around his hip, over the front of his churidar pyjamas. Her fingers traced the shape of him tentatively at first, then with purpose. She cupped his balls through the thin cotton, giving a gentle, rolling squeeze that made him groan into her mouth. Then her hand traveled upward, palming the thick, hard length of his erection. She began to massage him through the fabric, a slow, firm stroke from root to tip.

She’s measuring him, I realized with a wave of nausea. Memorizing him.

They continued like this for what felt like an eternity on my screen—ten minutes of sloppy, open-mouthed kissing, her hand working him over his clothes, his hands groping and squeezing her ass, the red silk of her saree rustling with every movement. The room, my parents’ bedroom, was filled with the sounds of their heavy breathing, wet kisses, and soft, hungry murmurs.

“Can’t wait to be inside your wet and warm cunt,” Aakash muttered, biting her lower lip.

“Then stop waiting,” she challenged, her eyes blazing.

Finally, they broke apart, both breathing raggedly. My mother lowered fully onto her feet, her chest heaving. Without breaking eye contact, her gaze locked on his with a carnality that shattered any last remnant of the woman I knew, she brought both hands to the long row of buttons on his kurta.

“Let me,” she whispered, her voice a seductive command.

One by one, with deliberate slowness, she popped the silk buttons open, revealing his tanned, hairy chest. When the last button was free, she pushed the kurta off his shoulders. He raised his arms obediently, letting her peel the garment away. She tossed it carelessly onto the floor, a heap of expensive cream silk. Immediately, she leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his chest. She nibbled at one of his flat brown nipples, then the other, eliciting a sharp hiss from him. Her tongue came out, painting a wet trail through the coarse hair on his pectorals.

While she worshipped his chest, Aakash worked on her. He tugged the pallu of her saree from where it was dbangd over her shoulder. She lowered her arms, letting the gold-embroidered end slither down. Then his hands went to her waist, his fingers dipping inside the drawstring of her petticoat to find the tucked-in end of her saree. With a practiced pull, the entire six-yard length of red Banarasi silk unwound from her body and collapsed in a shimmering pool on the floor, atop his discarded kurta.

Now she stood in her blouse and a slim black petticoat. She was the one in control. Her hands went to the tie of his pyjamas. A quick yank at the drawstring and the fine cotton pooled at his ankles. He stepped out of them.

He was left in a pair of tight, black, V-fronted briefs that did nothing to hide the formidable erection straining against the fabric. The bulge was massive, intimidating. My mind, against my will, supplied the measurement from the previous text: 9 inches. A sick, cold feeling spread through me.

As Aakash’s hands came up to cup her breasts through her blouse, my mother reached out and wrapped her fingers around that bulge. She held him through the thin cotton, her grip firm, and gave a slow, pumping stroke. A shudder ran through his entire body.

“Fuck, Parineeti,” he groaned, his head falling back.

“Do you like that?” she purred, her other hand sliding around his back to pull him closer. They kissed again, this time with Aakash bending his knees slightly to lower himself to her level, making it easier for her to dominate the kiss, to suck his tongue into her mouth.

While he kneaded her breasts, his thumbs finding and circling her nipples until they were hard peaks against the silk of her blouse, she continued to massage him. Then, impatient, she slipped her hand inside the waistband of his briefs. I could see the movement of her forearm as she took him in hand, skin on skin now. After a few strokes, she hooked her fingers in the elastic and tugged his underwear down just enough to spring his cock free.

I stared, transfixed in horror. It was thick, veined, and uncircumcised, the head a dark, flushed purple. She wrapped her hennaed fingers around it, and her hand looked almost comically small. She began to pump him slowly, her thumb swiping over the slick tip that already glistened with pre-cum.

She’s touching him like she owns him, I thought, a bitter acid rising in my throat. Like my father never existed.

Finally, Aakash guided them toward the bed. As he sat on the edge, their kiss broke. He sat with his legs spread, feet planted on the floor, his fully erect cock jutting out proudly. My mother stood before him, a vision in her embroidered blouse and petticoat, her mangalsutra gleaming between her breasts, the sindoor a bloody slash in her hair.

She didn’t join him on the bed. Instead, she sank into a graceful squat directly in front of him, her eyes level with his groin. Holding his gaze, she took the waistband of his briefs in both hands and pulled. He lifted his hips off the bed to help her, and she stripped the last piece of clothing from him, tossing the black briefs aside. He was completely naked, utterly exposed to her.

He leaned back on his elbows, a king on his throne. My mother stood up, bent at the waist, and resumed her worship of his body. She kissed his nipples again, licked a path down his sternum, swirled her tongue in the deep well of his navel. Each movement was slow, sensual, deliberate. She was savoring him.

Then she sank back into her squat. Her breasts, constrained by the blouse, were now right at the level of his cock. The tip brushed against the silk. Aakash reached around her neck, his fingers fumbling with the clasp of her gold necklace. He got it open and carefully placed the heavy piece on the bedside table. It was a strangely tender gesture amidst the depravity.

All the while, my mother was kissing the insides of his powerful thighs, her lips leaving faint red marks from her lipstick. Then she looked up, her eyes locking with his.

“My turn,” she said, her voice a low, smoky promise.

Her hands went to the back of her blouse. I watched, my breath frozen in my lungs, as her fingers worked the long line of hooks and eyes. One by one, they came undone. When the last hook was free, she slowly, seductively, shrugged the blouse off her shoulders. The mangalsutra chain, caught for a moment, was displaced and swung around to hang down her back. She pulled the blouse off completely and let it drop. It fluttered down to land on his discarded pyjamas.

She was now in her petticoat and a black lace bra. Her hands went behind her back again. A click, and the bra joined the pile on the floor. Her breasts fell free—full, heavy, with dark, erect nipples. The mangalsutra now lay against the bare skin of her back, a black and gold snake on her spine.

My mother, my sanskaari mother, was topless before her lover in her marital bedroom. The humiliation was absolute. I wanted to scream, to smash the laptop.

She bent forward again, her bare breasts swaying. She didn’t go straight for his cock. Instead, she leaned in and pressed a soft, reverent kiss to the tip. Then another on the shaft. Aakash let out a shaky breath.

Then, holding his gaze with those lust-drunk eyes, she opened her mouth.

And took him inside.