Adultery My Beautiful Mom Became Shameless

[Rajeev Gupta]

Hello friends, this is a new tantalizing story of how my mom got turned into a shameless woman by my my dad's friend.

Are you ready for this intriguing narration? Give me your views before we kick off.

[Ranga Raja Nambi]

your stories are simply superb bro
waiting for new story
plese don't delete your stories

[Rajeev Gupta]

                                                                        


                         MY MUZLIM MOM, FATIMA, TRAPPED 
                    UNDER  THE CHARMS OF MY DAD'S FRIEND




Hello friends, I am back again with another banger of a story. This story is narrated to my by my close friend, his name is Amir. It's about the things he noticed his mom, Fatima Shaikh did with his dad's Hiindu friend. He didn't want to narrate it himself so he asked me to narrate it for him. 





Amir, lived in a small house in Uttar Pradesh with his mom, Fatima Shaikh, who is thirty-eight, and his dad, Faizan Shaikh, who was forty-nine. They are from a '. background. Their home was simple, with plain mud walls, a tin roof, and a small courtyard where Amir played. 

Amir’s dad drove a rickshaw in a far-off city where he earned more money, but this meant he only came home once every two weeks for a day or two. His long absences left Amir’s mom to care for Amir and keep the house running. 

Though they didn’t have much money, Amir’s mom filled their home with love and faith, holding them together through tough times.
Amir’s mom was a beautiful woman with warm brown eyes that glowed when she smiled at her son. 

Her long, dark hair stayed hidden under her traditional burkha, a loose black garment that covered her from shoulders to ankles. Despite her modest clothing, her figure drew attention. 

Her fleshy breasts and plump buttocks moved slightly under the fabric when she walked, though she never sought such notice. She married Amir’s dad at twenty-seven, having left college early, and her wisdom came from her faith and daily life rather than books. 

She prayed five times a day, kneeling on her prayer mat, her hands raised to the heavens. Whenever she left the house to visit the mosque or buy vegetables, she wore her abaya and headscarf, staying true to her '. traditions.





The neighborhood around their home was busy, with narrow dirt streets, small shops selling spices and cloth, and people always coming and going. ***** men often stood on street corners, talking loudly and watching those who passed by. 

When Amir’s mom walked to the mosque, her abaya swaying with her steps, their eyes followed her. Amir, only twelve, sometimes walked beside her and heard their crude words. One man said, “Look at that woman. Her breasts are so full, I wish I could hold them and have my way with her.” Another added, “Those lips of hers, they look like they were made for kissing.” Amir’s cheeks burned with anger, but he stayed silent, not wanting to worry his mom.

The men’s words grew worse as time passed. One said, “Her ass shakes like it’s calling me every time she walks by.” Another laughed, “I bet she’s wild under that abaya, just waiting for a real man.” 

A third man whispered, “I’d love to pull off that scarf and see what she’s hiding.” A fourth sneered, “She’s too beautiful for that old rickshaw driver. She deserves someone stronger.” 

The worst came from a man who said, “These '. women act so pure, but they’re all sluts under those clothes, hiding behind their prayers.” Amir, young as he was, felt his heart race at the insult to his mom’s faith, but he was too small to challenge the men. He just gripped his mom’s hand tighter and hurried her along.

Amir’s mom never seemed to hear the men’s words. She kept her head high, her eyes fixed on her path to the mosque. She loved Amir’s dad, even though his long absences and hard work left her lonely at times. 

She never thought of leaving him, no matter how hard life got. Her faith taught her that marriage was sacred, and she stayed loyal to Amir’s dad. At home, she kept the house tidy, cooked simple meals like dal and rice for Amir, and prayed for her husband’s safety and her son’s future.







When Amir’s dad came home every two weeks, the house felt alive. Amir loved seeing his dad, who often brought a small sweet or a toy car from the city. But Amir’s dad was usually exhausted from driving his rickshaw for long hours. 

His visits were short, and he spent much of his time resting. Amir’s mom looked forward to these moments, hoping to feel close to her husband. Fatima and Faizan shared intimate moments in their small bedroom, they fucked but Amir’s dad’s tiredness meant these moments were quick. He wanted to finish fast, leaving Amir’s mom unsatisfied, though she never spoke of it.

One evening, after Amir’s dad returned from the city, he and Amir’s mom sat on their bed. Amir, was asleep in the next room. The bedroom was small, with a single bulb casting a dim light. 

Amir’s dad looked worn out, his face lined from long hours of work. Amir’s mom, wearing a simple cotton nightdress, sat beside him, her hand resting on his arm.

“Fatima, I’m so tired tonight,” Amir’s dad said, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. “The city was busy, and I drove for hours without a break. Can we make this quick?”

Amir’s mom frowned, her fingers tightening on his arm. “Why do you always want to rush, Faizan? We barely see each other, and I miss feeling close to you. Can’t we take our time tonight?”

Amir’s dad sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I know you want more, but my body aches from work. I need to rest before I leave tomorrow. Please, let’s just be quick.”

Amir’s mom looked at him, her eyes soft but sad. “I understand you’re tired, Faizan. I’ll do what makes you happy. Let me take care of you tonight.” 

She climbed onto him, her movements gentle but steady. She guided their intimacy until Amir’s dad reached his release. He breathed heavily, then rolled over and fell asleep almost instantly. 





Amir’s mom lay beside him, her head on a pillow, staring at his sleeping face. Her expression was heavy with sadness, her heart unfulfilled. She stayed quiet, her faith keeping her loyal. She closed her eyes, praying silently for strength.

Amir’s mom never thought of other men. Her religion taught her to honor her marriage, and she believed in Amir’s dad, even if his absences and quick intimacy left her wanting more. 

She filled her days with prayer, cleaning, and caring for Amir. She was a devoted mother, making sure Amir ate well and studied his lessons. 
One hot afternoon, Amir was playing outside with his friends. 

They kicked a dusty ball in the street, laughing and shouting under the bright sun. 

Amir’s throat grew dry, and he ran home to drink milk. He pushed open the wooden door and stopped, surprised by what he saw. Amir’s mom stood in the small living room, her abaya replaced by a loose salwar kameez that hugged her curves. 

She was dancing, her hips swaying to music from a small radio. Her movements were graceful, almost joyful, and Amir, had never seen his mom like this.






“Mom, what are you doing?” Amir asked, holding the glass of milk he’d poured.

Amir’s mom turned, her cheeks flushing slightly. “I’m just dancing, Amir. I get bored sometimes, and moving like this makes me feel alive. Don’t worry, it’s nothing serious.”

“Who are you recording it for?” Amir asked, noticing her phone propped against a chair, capturing her movements.

Amir’s mom smiled, but her eyes looked uneasy. “It’s for no one, Amir. I just joined Facebook to pass the time. I thought it might be fun to share a little dance.”

Amir frowned, confused. “But why, Mom? I heard from friends that Facebook has lots of people watching. Doesn’t our religion say married women shouldn’t do things like that?”

Amir’s mom sat down, her hands folding in her lap. “I know it seems strange, Amir. I’m not trying to do anything wrong. I just wanted something to make me feel happy when I’m alone.”

Amir nodded, still unsure. He knew about Facebook from his friends, who said it was a place where people shared videos and pictures, and men often watched women’s posts. However his mom never posted her images or videos online. But she created a facebook account with the name "Fatima Shaikh" without profile picture.

He wondered why his mom, whose faith didn’t allow married '. women to draw attention from strangers, would use it. But he didn’t want to question her further. He looked at his mom dancing, her movements light and free, and smiled. Amir couldn’t think badly of her. She was his mom, and he loved her.

[Paty@123]

At a time two stories?, I request thie time don't make cuckson stories , make some cuckold and revenge stories with hardcore sex, I know you are master in hardcore

[Rajeev Gupta]

Boredom had settled into Fatima's bones, but she discovered a quiet joy in dancing, her hips swaying to the soft tunes of the radio in the living room. Fatima’s strict adherence to Isllamic modesty and her role as a devoted wife and mother contrasted with her exploration of Facebook, a modern platform that challenges traditional boundaries.  
 
Her hesitation about posting photos and accepting friend requests, particularly from Hiindu men, highlighted her internal conflict between upholding religious and cultural norms and embracing a new, potentially liberating digital space 
  
Sometimes, as Amir darted through the house to grab a snack or head to the courtyard, Fatima would catch his hand, her warm brown eyes sparkling with mischief. “Come on, Amir, dance with me just for a minute!” she’d urge, her voice bright but tinged with a plea. “It’s fun, beta, you’ll see! It’ll make you smile!”  
 
But Amir, was often too caught up in his own world—games with friends or the toy cars his father brought from the city—to indulge her.  
  
“Mom, I’m not in the mood,” he’d mutter, pulling away with a shy grin. “Maybe later, okay? I’m busy.” Fatima would sigh, her smile softening, and return to her dancing, her movements growing more immersive, as if she were losing herself in the music, her loneliness momentarily forgotten. 
  
One sweltering afternoon, Amir sat cross-legged on his bed, a plate of dal and rice balanced on his lap, the ceiling fan creaking above him. The air was thick, and his thoughts wandered to the dusty football game he’d played earlier with his friends.  
   
“Amir, beta, can you help me with something on this phone?” she asked, her voice soft but eager. “I’m trying to put a picture on my Facebook, but I don’t know how it works. Please, just show me quickly.” 
  
Amir scooped up a mouthful of rice, barely glancing up. “Mom, I’m eating right now, can’t you see? I don’t have time for this. Maybe later, okay?” He kept his eyes on his plate, hoping she’d leave him to his meal. 
  
Fatima didn’t budge. She sat on the edge of his bed, the mattress dipping under her weight, and leaned closer, her phone still in hand. “Please, Amir, it’s not hard for you, I know it,” she said, her tone insistent but warm.  
 
“I’ve been trying to figure it out all morning, and it’s so confusing. Just help your mother this once, beta.” She held the phone closer to his face, the Facebook app glowing on the screen, her eyes pleading for his attention. 
  
Amir sighed, setting his plate on the bedside table with a clink. “Mom, you’re always on that phone now, it’s annoying. Why do you even need a picture? I’m trying to eat here.” His voice carried a hint of exasperation, his patience thinning. 
  
Fatima’s lips pursed, but her smile held firm, her eyes bright with determination. “I know you’re busy, Amir, but this is important to me. I just want my page to look nice for my friends. Please, beta, it’ll take two minutes, I promise.” She tilted her head, holding the phone up again, her expression almost childlike in its hopefulness. 
  
Amir crossed his arms, sensing a chance to negotiate. “Fine, Mom, I’ll show you, but only if you let me play with my friends, even the kafir ones. You’re always saying I shouldn’t hang out with non-Musslims, but they’re my friends. If you want my help, you have to say it’s okay.” He leaned back against the wall, watching her closely, expecting her to refuse. 
  
Fatima’s smile faded, her fingers tightening around the phone as she considered his words. “Amir, you know why I worry about you playing with those boys—it’s about keeping our faith strong. But if it means that much to you, I’ll allow it, just be careful. Now, please, show me how to upload this picture.”  
 
Her voice was steady, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of hesitation, as if she were wrestling with her own rules. 
  
Amir’s face lit up, surprised at her concession. “Okay, deal! It’s easy, Mom, look,” he said, taking the phone from her hand. “You go to your profile here, click this button that says, ‘Change Profile Picture,’ and then pick a photo from your gallery. See? Done.”  
  
He tapped the screen quickly, showing her the steps, his earlier annoyance fading with his small victory. 
Fatima watched intently, her head tilted as she followed his fingers on the screen. “That’s all? I was making it so complicated in my head! Thank you, beta, you’re so smart with these things.” She took the phone back, her smile widening as she scrolled through her photos, her excitement palpable.  
  
  
THE FIRST PHOTO AMIR'S MOM POSTED ON HER FACEBOOK  
  
  
  
 
 
Amir picked up his plate again, ready to return to his meal. “Yeah, it’s not hard once you know. But, Mom, why do you even need a picture? I thought you said married women shouldn’t do stuff like that on Facebook.” His tone was curious but edged with doubt, recalling her strict adherence to their faith’s modesty rules. 
  
Fatima’s expression softened, her fingers brushing the edge of her headscarf as she looked at him. “It’s not what you think, Amir. I just want to connect with my friends from the mosque and the market—it’s nice to have a picture so they know it’s me. I’m not trying to show off or do anything wrong, beta.”  
 
Her voice was calm, reassuring, though her eyes held a trace of unease, as if she were justifying it to herself as much as to him. 
  
Amir nodded, unconvinced but unwilling to press further. “Okay, Mom, whatever you say. Just pick a picture and be done with it.” He turned back to his food, scooping up another bite, his mind already drifting to his plans with his friends. 
  
  
Amir glanced at it, shrugging. “That one’s fine, Mom, you look good. Just use it and stop asking me. I’m trying to eat here.” His voice carried a touch of irritation, though he couldn’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. 
  
Fatima frowned slightly, scrolling to another photo, this one with a blue veil. “But what about this one? It’s a little brighter, don’t you think? Or maybe this one, where I’m smiling more?” She flipped to a third photo, her excitement undeterred, her voice bubbling with indecision as she held the phone up again. 
 
pics uploading site 
  
Amir groaned, leaning back against the wall. “Mom, they’re all basically the same! The first one is good, just go with that. You’re driving me crazy with this.” He waved a hand, his patience wearing thin as he tried to focus on his meal. 
  
Fatima laughed, a soft, musical sound, and nodded. “Alright, alright, I’ll use the first one, beta. You’re so good to help your mother, thank you. I won’t bother you anymore.”  
She stood,  and walked to the door, her phone still in hand. “You eat your food now, okay?” She closed the door gently behind her, leaving Amir in peace. 
Amir didn’t think much of his mother’s new Facebook venture. To him, it was just something mothers did to pass the time, like cooking or praying.  
He figured she was bored, seeking a small distraction while his father was away, and he returned to his dal and rice, his thoughts drifting to the games he’d play now that he could include his non-'. friends, thanks to their deal. 
  
Over the next few days, Fatima’s Facebook account began to draw unexpected attention. Despite posting only her profile picture, followers accumulated steadily, and friend requests flooded her notifications. The small living room, with its woven mats and single bulb, became a stage for her growing excitement.  
 
One evening, as Amir lounged on a mat, sipping a glass of milk, Fatima rushed in, her veil slightly askew, her face alight with astonishment. She thrust her phone toward him, the screen glowing with a list of notifications. 
“Amir, look at this, you won’t believe it!” she exclaimed, her voice brimming with disbelief. “I have so many followers already, and all these friend requests! I didn’t even do anything except put up my picture!” She sat beside him, her fingers scrolling through the list, her eyes wide with a mix of thrill and confusion. 
  
  
THE PHOTO WHICH MADE FATIMA GAIN MORE FRIEND REQUESTS 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
Amir took the phone, his jaw dropping as he saw the numbers. “What? How do you have this many people following you? You didn’t post anything, Mom, how is this happening?” His voice was laced with shock, his brows furrowed as he scrolled through the names, many of them unfamiliar. 
  
Fatima leaned closer, her smile tinged with uncertainty. “I don’t know, beta, it’s so strange to me too. Maybe some are women from the mosque or people who know me from the market. I didn’t expect this at all!” She tapped the screen, her fingers hesitating over the friend requests, her excitement tempered by caution. 
  
Amir noticed the names—many were men, with Hiindu names. “Mom, most of these are guys, and they’re Hiindu. How do they even know who you are? Are you sure this is okay?” His tone was skeptical, though he wasn’t overly concerned, his mind still half on his milk. 
  
Fatima’s smile faltered, her fingers pausing on the phone. “You’re right, Amir, I didn’t notice so many were men. I won’t accept them all, don’t worry—I’ll only add the women I know from the mosque. I don’t want to talk to strangers, especially kafir.”  
Her voice was firm, though her eyes lingered on the screen, as if tempted by the attention. 
  
Amir handed the phone back, shrugging. “Why not just accept some of them? It’s just Facebook, it’s not like you’re meeting them in person. Do whatever you want, Mom.” He leaned back on the mat, sipping his milk, his interest waning. 
  
Fatima hesitated, her thumb hovering over a request. “Maybe I’ll accept a few, just the ones who seem polite. But I’ll be careful, Amir, I promise.  
 
I don’t want to do anything wrong.” She tapped a few buttons, accepting a handful of requests, her expression a mix of curiosity and restraint as she navigated this unfamiliar world. 
  
Amir nodded, barely listening. “Yeah, okay, Mom, just be careful like you said. It’s your account, do what you want.” He set his glass down, his thoughts drifting to the courtyard and his friends, unconcerned about his mother’s online activities 

[Rajeev Gupta]

The next day, Fatima was using her phone just replying to people who commented on her quotes. 
“Amir, beta, can I use your laptop for a bit?” Fatima asked, holding her dead phone in one hand, her voice soft but eager. “My phone’s battery is gone, and I need to check something on Facebook.” 

Amir frowned, setting the comic down.  
 
“Mom, no way. I don’t want your friends calling you on my laptop or sending messages. It’s my stuff, okay?” His tone was firm, his eyes narrowing at the thought of his gaming time being interrupted. 
 
Fatima stepped closer, her smile warm but pleading. “Please, Amir, I promise I’ll log out after. No one will call or message. I just need to check my account for a minute. I’ll be quick, beta.” 
 
Amir crossed his arms, shaking his head. “No, Mom. You’ll forget to log out, and then I’ll have to deal with all those notifications. I’m not letting you mess up my laptop.” 
 
Fatima’s eyes lit up with an idea, her smile turning playful. “What if I buy you that new Spider-Man suit you’ve been wanting? The one with the red and blue design? If you let me use the laptop, I’ll get it for you, I promise.” 
 
Amir paused, his eyes widening. He loved Spider-Man, and the suit he’d seen at the market was perfect—shiny, bright, just like the one in his comics. He thought for a moment, tapping his fingers on the bed. “You’re serious? You’ll really buy it?” 
“Yes, beta, I swear,” Fatima said, nodding quickly. “Just let me use the laptop for a little while, and I’ll get you the suit next time we go to the market.” 
 
Amir sighed, a grin breaking through. “Fine, Mom. You can use it. But you better log out, and I’m holding you to that Spider-Man suit.” 
 
Fatima laughed, rushing over to him. She planted a quick kiss on his cheek, her face beaming. “Thank you, beta! You’re the best son ever!” 
 
“Enough, Mom!” Amir groaned, wiping his cheek with a shy smile. “Just go use it and be quick.” 
Fatima hurried to his desk, her green salwar kameez swaying as she moved, her plump figure bouncing slightly with each step. She sat at the laptop, her fingers already tapping the keys to open Facebook, her excitement bubbling over. 
 
Amir shook his head, picking up his comic again. He didn’t care much about his mom’s Facebook obsession. It was just her way of passing time while Dad was away. He knew her faith was strong—her prayers, her modesty, her loyalty to their family would keep her from doing anything wrong.  

FATIMA CHANGED HER PROFILE PICTURE TO THIS



 
He flipped a page, losing himself in Spider-Man’s adventures, the hum of the laptop fading into the background. 
 
The next day, night had settled over the house, the air cooler but still heavy. Amir was in his room, hunched over his laptop, playing a racing game. The screen glowed with speeding cars, the sound of engines roaring through his headphones. He leaned forward, his fingers flying over the keys, dodging obstacles in the game. The house was quiet, Fatima asleep in her room after another long day of prayers, cooking, and checking her phone until it died again. 
 
Suddenly, a loud ping interrupted his game. A Facebook call popped up on the screen, the name “Vivaan” flashing. Amir frowned, recognizing the name from the call he’d seen on his mom’s phone the day before.  
 
“What the heck?” he muttered, hitting “end call” without a second thought. He went back to his game, steering his car through a sharp turn. But another ping came, and Vivaan’s name appeared again. Amir’s jaw tightened, his focus broken. “Not again,” he grumbled, ending the call with an angry click.  
 
The game was intense, and he didn’t need some random guy messing it up. 
When the call came a third time, Amir slammed his hand on the desk. “Are you kidding me?” he said, cutting the call again.  
 
He was about to log out of his mom’s account, furious that she’d forgotten to sign off as promised. But curiosity stopped him. Who was this Vivaan guy, and why was he calling his mom much? Amir clicked on Vivaan’s profile; his game paused on the screen. 
 
Vivaan’s Facebook page loaded, and Amir scrolled through it. The man was a businessman, his profile picture showing him in a sharp black suit, his thick beard neatly trimmed, his dark eyes confident.  
 
Every photo was polished, Vivaan in suits, standing by a shiny black car, or posing in what looked like an office.  
 
 
 
One post showed him at “Vivaan Enterprises,” his company, with a caption about a new business deal. Another had him leaning against his car, a proud smile on his face.  
 
Amir scrolled further, seeing more car photos, more suits, more posts about his business success. “Why’s this non-Musslim guy calling Mom?” Amir muttered to himself. “Maybe he’s just a friend of my mom who likes her quotes.” 
 
Before he could log out, another call from Vivaan popped up. Amir groaned, ending it instantly. Then a message appeared: “Please pick up the call, I need to hear your voice.” It was meant for Fatima.  
 
Amir’s eyes widened, his curiosity spiking. He clicked the message, opening a new window of their chat history. His heart sank as he saw that his mom and Vivaan had been talking for the past week. 
 
He noticed something else—Vivaan was the only “kafir” his mom allowed to message her. All her other chats were with women from the mosque, sharing recipes or prayer times.  
 
But Vivaan’s name stood out, his messages frequent, his likes on every single one of Fatima’s quotes and her profile picture. 
Amir wanted to know more about this guy. He scrolled to the top of their chat, determined to read every message from the start.  
 
Vivaan had liked every quote Fatima posted, every word about faith and love, and even commented on her profile picture, calling it “beautiful” and “graceful.” What did that mean? Amir’s fingers moved fast, scrolling up to the very first message. 

 
Facebook Chat between Fatima Shaikh and Vivaan 


Vivaan: Hi, Fatima! Your profile picture is so lovely. You look so peaceful and graceful. I’m Vivaan, nice to meet you! 
(No reply for 5 days) 
 
Vivaan: Hello again! I saw your quote about faith today. It’s beautiful, just like your photo. Do you always share such wise words? 
(No reply for another day) 
 
Vivaan: I hope I’m not bothering you, Fatima. I just really like your posts. They’re so different from what I usually see on here. I run a business, Vivaan Enterprises. What do you do? 
(Finally, a reply from Fatima) 
 
Fatima: Hello, Vivaan. Thank you for your kind words. I’m just a mother and wife, taking care of my home and my son. Your business sounds interesting! What are Vivaan Enterprises? 
 
Vivaan: Thanks for replying! I was starting to think you’d never answer, haha. Vivaan Enterprises is my company—we deal in textiles, exporting fabrics to different cities. It’s a lot of work, but I love it. Your quotes are so calming, Fatima. Are you very religious? 
 
Fatima: Yes, I’m Musslim. I pray five times a day and try to live by my faith. It keeps me strong. Your work sounds busy! Do you travel a lot for it? 
 
Vivaan: I do travel sometimes, but mostly I’m in my office here in Lucknow. Your faith sounds beautiful. I’m Hiindu. Your quotes make me think about life differently. Do you have a big family? 
 
Fatima: Just my husband and my son, Amir. My husband works far away, driving a rickshaw, so it’s mostly me and Amir at home. Your pictures make you look rich, Vivaan! All those fancy suits and that car! 
 
Vivaan: Haha, you think so? I guess I do alright, but I don’t like to show off. The car’s nice, though—gets me around fast! Your life sounds so peaceful, Fatima. I’ve never met a Musslim woman like you before. You’re so dedicated to your family and faith. It’s inspiring. 
 
Fatima: You’re too kind, Vivaan. I’ve never had a Hiindu man talk to me this much! It’s nice, but I’m just a simple woman. I only joined Facebook to connect with my mosque friends. 
 
Vivaan: Well, I’m glad you did. Your posts brighten my day. Tell me more about your son. Is he into sports or college? 
 
Fatima: His name is Amir. He loves playing outside with his friends, kicking a ball around. He’s a good boy, but he’s always busy! What about you? Do you have kids? 
 
Vivaan: No kids, just me and my work. I spend most of my time building the business. Your son sounds like fun. Does he like your quotes too? 
 
Fatima: Haha, Amir thinks my Facebook is silly. He’s too busy with his games. Your business sounds like a big deal. Do you make all those fabrics yourself? 
 
Vivaan: We source them from local weavers, then ship them out. It’s a lot of organizing, but I like it. I bet Amir would like my car, though! Boys love fast cars, right? 
 
Fatima: Oh, he’d love it! He’s always asking for toys or a bicycle. Maybe one day you can tell me more about your work. I have to go now, time to cook dinner. 
 
Vivaan: Faizan, you mentioned about your husband’s name Faizan? Does he drive a rickshaw in the city? I think I might know him.  
 
Fatima: Yes, Faizan drives a rickshaw. Do you know him? 
 
Vivaan: I do know Faizan. We’ve crossed paths in the city. He is a good man. 



 
Context: The Feud Between Faizan and Vivaan 



Unbeknownst to Fatima, Vivaan was not just a casual acquaintance of her husband, Faizan. He was Faizan’s biggest enemy, a fact that simmered beneath the surface of their interactions. Two years ago, Faizan, eager to improve his family’s financial situation, had saved up to invest in a small business venture.  
 
He partnered with Vivaan, whose textile company, Vivaan Enterprises, seemed like a golden opportunity. Faizan, trusting Vivaan’s polished demeanor and promises of profit, poured his savings into a deal to supply rickshaws with custom fabric seats, hoping to earn extra income. 
 
Vivaan, however, had other plans. He manipulated the deal, inflating costs and delivering substandard materials to the rickshaw cooperative Faizan worked with.  
 
When the cooperative rejected the faulty goods, Faizan was left with a massive debt, his savings gone, and his reputation damaged among his fellow drivers.  
 
Vivaan walked away with the profits, leaving Faizan to bear the loss. The betrayal crushed Faizan, who had trusted Vivaan as a business partner.  
 
Their family’s financial stability crumbled, forcing Faizan to work longer hours in the city, scbanging by to pay off the debt. He never told Fatima the full story, sparing her the pain of knowing how deeply Vivaan’s actions had hurt them.  
 
But Faizan’s anger toward Vivaan burned hot, a quiet rage he carried every time he drove his rickshaw through the city streets. 
Fatima, unaware of this history, saw Vivaan only as a polite man on Facebook, someone who liked her quotes and seemed friendly. She had no idea that the man messaging her was the same one who had ruined her husband’s dreams, plunging their family into financial hardship. 
 
 
After few chats..... 
 
Vivaan: Of course, Fatima. I’ll be here. Your posts make me smile every day. Talk soon? 

Fatima: Maybe later, Vivaan. I’m busy with my family. Take care. 

(Messages continue over the week, with Vivaan commenting on every new quote, asking small questions about Fatima’s day, and sharing bits about his business. Fatima replies politely but briefly, keeping the conversation light) 
(Recent message, from yesterday) 
 
Fatima: Vivaan, I’ll talk to you later. I have to pray and take care of Amir now. 
 
Vivaan: Alright, Fatima. I’ll wait to hear from you. Your voice would be nice to hear, though. Goodnight. 
 
Amir scrolled down to the latest message, his eyes narrowing. Vivaan’s interest in his mom was clear—he liked every post, every quote, and kept messaging her, even when she didn’t reply right away.  
 
 

[aravindkkumar08]

Hey buddy after so many stories of you. This story seems flat in narration. This is my perspective. I know you are writing this story on behalf of your friend. Can you take complete story of his and start narrating as per your thinking. It's Just a suggestion.

[Mahendra_]

I love how this story goes, make fatima a slut

[Rajeev Gupta]

The next day, the sun rose over the small house in Uttar Pradesh, casting a warm glow through the windows. Fatima was glued to her phone, her fingers tapping the screen with a quiet intensity. It seemed she’d found someone who gave her more attention than her husband, Faizan, ever could in his brief, exhausted visits every two weeks.  

 
The phone’s glow lit up her face, her warm brown eyes fixed on the notifications that buzzed like a heartbeat. She stood in the living room, her green salwar kameez swaying as she danced to the soft tunes of the radio, her hips moving with a grace that seemed freer, almost defiant.  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Sometimes, she’d pause to record a short video of her dancing, her movements light and joyful. Some videos she sent to Faizan, hoping to spark a smile from him in the city. Others she kept for herself, private moments of feeling alive, stored in her phone’s gallery. 
 
Amir noticed how his mom was different now. When he came home from playing in the courtyard, his sandals dusty and his shirt damp with sweat, he’d find her sitting on the woven mat, her phone in hand, her lips curved in a faint smile as she typed.  
 
The house smelled of dal and rice, the ceiling fan creaking above, but Fatima’s attention was elsewhere. She’d look up briefly, asking, “Amir, beta, did you have fun?” before her eyes drifted back to the screen.  
 
It wasn’t just boredom anymore—something was pulling her in, something that made her light up in a way Amir hadn’t seen before. 
 
One afternoon, Amir plopped onto the couch, wiping his sweaty forehead. The courtyard games had been fun, but he was curious about his mom’s Facebook fame. “Mom, can I see how many followers you have now?” he asked, his voice casual as he reached for a glass of water. 
 
Fatima looked up from her phone, her smile bright. “Oh, beta, it’s so many now! Here, take a look.” She handed him the phone, her fingers brushing his, her excitement spilling over. 
 
Amir unlocked the screen, expecting to see her Facebook page. Instead, it opened to an article, the title bold at the top: How to Get a Big Butt and Wow Men. His eyes widened as he scrolled, seeing pictures of women in tight clothes, their curves highlighted.  
 
His cheeks flushed, and he glanced at his mom, who was stirring a pot in the kitchen, humming softly. Why was she reading this? His mom already had a full figure—her abaya hugged her curves, her hips swaying naturally when she walked.  
 
He wondered if she was trying to make his dad more excited, maybe to spice up their nights when he came home to fuck her. Faizan was always tired, their moments together quick and rushed. Maybe she wanted to make him notice her more, to make him want her the way he used to.  
 
But the word “men” in the article’s title stuck in Amir’s mind. It didn’t say “husband.” It felt off, like a puzzle piece that didn’t fit. 
He frowned, scrolling up to read more, but the words blurred in his head. Was his mom looking for attention from someone else? From Vivaan, the Hiindu businessman who kept messaging her? The thought made his stomach twist.  
 
He knew his mom was Musslim, devout and loyal. Her prayers, her modesty, her love for Faizan—they were unshakable. She’d never cross that line, not with Vivaan or anyone. He dismissed the idea, shaking his head. “No, she’s just being Mom,” he muttered to himself.  
 
“Probably wants Dad to like her more.” 
 
He tapped the Facebook app, wanting to check her messages with Vivaan to see what they talked about. Were they still just chatting about her quotes and his business? 
 
Or was there something more? Before he could open the chat, he heard Fatima’s footsteps coming from the kitchen. “Amir, beta, did you see the followers?” she called, her voice cheerful. 
Amir quickly closed the app, his heart racing. “Uh, yeah, Mom, it’s a lot!” he said, handing the phone back as she approached. “Six thousand now, right?” 
 
“More than that!” Fatima beamed, taking the phone. “Six thousand five hundred! Can you believe it, beta?” She sat beside him, scrolling through her notifications, her face glowing with pride. 
 
“That’s cool, Mom,” Amir said, forcing a smile. He stood, brushing off his shorts. “I’m gonna go play again.” He didn’t want to think about the article or Vivaan. His mom was fine—she had to be. 
That night, the house was quiet, the air cool and still. Fatima was asleep, her phone charging by her bed. Amir sat at his desk, the laptop screen glowing as he loaded his racing game.  
 
The hum of the game’s engines filled his headphones, but his mind wandered to his mom’s Facebook. She’d used his laptop the day before, promising to log out, but he had a feeling she’d forgotten. He minimized the game and checked. Sure enough, her account was still open, the Facebook page loaded with notifications. 
 
Amir’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. He shouldn’t snoop, but the article he’d seen earlier gnawed at him. He clicked on the messages, scrolling to the chat with Vivaan. His eyes widened as he read the recent ones, his heart sinking with shock at what he saw 
 

[Paty@123]

Good updates

[ronylol]

Good going