Adultery Tales of Homely / 'Horny' Mom

[jayjay_Tales]

Tales of Homely / 'Horny' Mom

The morning sun hit the veranda of our house in Kasba, and as usual, I was already at the kitchen stove by five o'clock.

To the outside world, I am Sunita—forty-five years old, always dbangd in a neat cotton sari with the pallu pinned properly over my shoulder, red vermilion bright in my hair parting, and my eyes lowered in respect whenever elders walk past. My husband, Ramesh, is forty-eight and works as a senior clerk at the local tehsildar office. Everyone in town knows him as a upright, God-fearing man. My eighteen-year-old son, Rahul, is currently struggling through his first year of college, and my seventy-year-old father-in-law, Pitaji, spends his days sitting in the courtyard, barking order after order for black tea without sugar.

"Sunita! Where is my morning tea?" Pitaji called out from the courtyard, coughing his dry, heavy cough.

"Coming, Pitaji, two minutes," I replied, my voice sweet, obedient, and full of traditional sanskar.

I poured the steaming tea into his brass glass and walked out with modest, quiet steps. But as I handed him the glass, my eyes briefly drifted toward the terrace of the double-story house right across our boundary wall.

Standing near the water tank was Vikrant.

Vikrant is thirty-two, a gym trainer who recently moved back from the big city to open a fitness center in town. In public, whenever he sees me shopping at the local market with Ramesh, he lowers his head slightly and says, "Pranam, Chachi-ji." Ramesh always praises him, telling Rahul to learn some discipline and fitness from "that respectful young boy next door."

If only Ramesh knew.

If only any of them knew what goes on behind the heavy wooden door of my storeroom on Tuesday afternoons, when Ramesh is at the office, Rahul is at his college coaching classes, and Pitaji takes his heavy two-hour afternoon nap.

As I walked back into the kitchen, my phone—a small, basic keypad phone hidden deep inside the folds of my old extra sarees at the bottom of the steel trunk—vibrated twice.

I quickly locked the kitchen door from inside under the pretext of frying spices, pulled out the phone with practiced speed, and read the message:

“Storeroom key is under the terrace pot. 2:15 PM today?”

My pulse raced, a familiar rush of excitement flooding through my veins. The dutiful, quiet housewife disappeared for a fraction of a second, replaced by the woman who craved the thrill of this dangerous double life.

I wiped my hands on my saree apron, typed a quick “Yes,” and deleted the message instantly.

The morning dragged on in its usual dull rhythm. I chopped vegetables, made fresh rotis, packed Ramesh’s tiffin box, served Rahul his breakfast, and washed Pitaji’s medicine spoon. To them, I was the quiet pillar of the household—the woman who didn't even speak loudly in front of guests.

At 1:30 PM, the house finally began to empty. Ramesh left on his scooter, Rahul rushed out on his bicycle, and Pitaji finished his lunch, taking his walking stick to move toward his small room in the inner courtyard.

By 2:00 PM, the loud snoring of Pitaji resounded through the hallway.

My heart was hammering against my ribs. I walked to the main front gate, latched it lightly so it wouldn't make a sound, and moved swiftly toward the back staircase leading to the small, dark storeroom near our upper terrace—a place nobody ever visited during the day.

I reached under the earthen pot near the terrace wall, found the spare key, and opened the squeaky wooden latch. The moment I stepped into the cool, dim room smelling of old brass trunks and dry pickles, two hands gently pulled me inside and the door clicked shut.

"You're late by three minutes, Sunita," Vikrant whispered, his voice dark and thick with excitement in the quiet room.

"Silence," I murmured, holding his cheek, my voice dropping the modest tone I used downstairs. "If Pitaji wakes up, both of our names will be ruined in the whole district."

"That is what makes this fun, isn't it?" he smiled, pulling me closer into the shadows.

For the next forty minutes, the quiet, humble housewife of Kasba completely ceased to exist. In the dark, locked storeroom, surrounded by old family heirlooms, I was someone else entirely—bold, untamed, and living every second on the edge of a dangerous cliff. The sheer risk of being caught in our conservative town only made every touch and every shared whisper ten times more intoxicating.

At 2:50 PM, my internal clock alerted me.

"Time's up," I breathed, gently pushing him back and quickly fixing my saree pleats in front of the small broken mirror hanging on the brick wall. I reapplied a touch of vermilion to my forehead, checked my hair bun, and adjusted my pallu back over my shoulder.

"Same time on Friday?" Vikrant whispered from the shadow of the door.

"If the coast is clear," I replied with a subtle, calm smile.

I slipped out first, gliding down the back stairs like a ghost. I unlatched the main gate, walked back into the kitchen, and set the kettle on the stove to brew Pitaji's 3:00 PM tea.

When Pitaji shuffled out of his room ten minutes later, rubbing his eyes, I was standing near the kitchen counter, quietly humming a devotional hymn while straining the tea.

"Sunita," Pitaji called out, leaning on his stick. "Did someone come to the back gate earlier? I thought I heard the latch sound."

I didn't blink. I turned around with the most innocent, respectful expression on my face, handing him his brass glass.

"No, Pitaji, who will come at this time? It must be the afternoon wind shaking the old wooden latch. Drink your tea while it is hot."

He took a sip, nodded in agreement, and walked away.

I stood there in the quiet kitchen, smoothing down my traditional cotton saree, feeling the lingering heat of my secret life under the calm surface. Let the town think I am just a quiet, homely housewife. They will never guess the secrets hidden behind these modest eyes.




Continues .. 

[zaq121]

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