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

[thoristhanos]

Then, something in Aakash broke.


It was as if the prolonged, tight embrace of her body finally unleashed a feral energy. With a sudden, powerful roll of his hips and shoulders, he flipped them over.

Now she was underneath him, pinned by his weight. He wedged his right arm under her ass, lifting her pelvis for better access. He broke the gentle kiss they had maintained for three-quarters of an hour, pulling his face back to look down at her. Their eyes locked, and the intensity there was terrifying—a raw, unspoken communication of pure need.

He signaled with a tilt of his head. She understood, opening her mouth wide. He did the same, lowering his face over hers.

And then it was violence again.

Their mouths crashed together in a brutal, devouring kiss as he began to pound into her. This was different from anything I’d seen in the previous, fragmented recordings. Usually, she was on top, setting the pace. Now, Aakash was in utter control, and he was merciless.




His hips pistoned with a speed and force that made the bed frame creak audibly through the microphone. Each thrust was a full-body commitment, driving deep into her. His right arm stayed hooked under her ass, sometimes lifting her higher to change the angle, to penetrate even deeper. His left arm was stretched out, his hand gripping her right hand so tightly their knuckles were white.

My mother’s response was equally ferocious. She wrapped her legs around his waist just below his pounding ass, locking her ankles in a vise-like grip. Her right arm snaked behind his back. At times, her hand would fly down to his ass, pressing hard, as if physically trying to shove him even further inside her. Then it would scramble up his sweat-slicked back, and I saw her crimson nails dig in, raking down his skin.

The scratch marks, angry and red, seemed to egg him on further. He grunted with each thrust, a animalistic sound. He was trying to tear her apart with his cock, and the digging of her nails was her desperate, ecstatic encouragement.

He broke the violent kiss, throwing his head back, his neck corded with strain. My mother’s eyes, which had been squeezed shut, flew open. They stared at each other, a direct line of fire connecting their gazes. When he slammed home particularly deep, her eyes would widen in shock and overwhelming pleasure, as if he’d touched her very womb.

Aakash buried his face in the junction of her neck and shoulder. Her face was likewise tucked into his shoulder. Her eyes closed again, only to fly open wide with each deep, punishing penetration. Then, I saw her teeth sink into the meat of his shoulder.

I had never seen such savagery. It was a pounding meant to break and claim. And through it all, her hands, her eyes, her biting teeth—they all screamed that she wanted more. She was not just bearing it; she was reveling in it, meeting his brutality with her own.

Finally, after a relentless twenty minutes, Aakash’s rhythm faltered. His thrusts became deeper, slower, more purposeful. He was climaxing. He gradually stilled, like a massive engine winding down, but remained buried inside her, pulsing.

He continued to ejaculate within her for what seemed like another half-minute, a long, continuous release. Then, with a final, exhausted shudder, he collapsed onto his back beside her, pulling out. My mother’s left arm had been under him; she left it there, a pillow of flesh.

I could see the clear, deep imprint of her teeth on his left shoulder, a purpling love bite. On her own fair shoulder, a matching red mark stood out—his claim on her.

Her body was a wreck of their passion. His semen dripped from her used pussy, spreading in a wet patch on her inner thighs. With a conscious, almost reverent movement, she gently lifted her hips, tilting her pelvis as if to ensure not a single drop was wasted, that every last bit of him was absorbed into her.




Spent, she turned onto her side and curled into him, resting her head on his hairy, heaving chest. Her right hand came to rest over his now-limp, spent cock, a final, possessive touch.

No words were exchanged. None were needed. In the silence of the ruined bedroom, wrapped in each other’s arms amidst the stains and scars of their passion, they fell asleep just like that. Exhausted. Sated. Utterly connected.

They didn’t have another session that night. Their bodies were drained, their hunger temporarily slaked. But as the feed continued to roll, showing their still forms in the dim light, the knowledge was a cold stone in my gut: they had two full days of this steamy, grotesque love-making ahead of them. A full weekend celebration of their victory, played out on the stage of my former home, with my father’s mangalsutra resting between them. The show was far from over.