u/Cevic78

Back in 2010 I used to play cricket every evening at the park 50m from home. Dad would be back from office by 4, and for some reason he got furious whenever I came home for water during innings breaks. I never understood why opening a gate was such a crime. Maa stayed silent through every scolding. Our front door had an interlock system—massive mechanism, big steel key, big keyhole. Big enough to see through. One evening I showed up silent. No doorbell. Aaj Tak blasting at full volume. Through that keyhole I had a direct line to their bed—sagging mattress, white sheet twisted. Maa was on her back. Clothes thrown aside. Face half-buried in a pillow, making sounds half Hindi, half something else entirely. Papa's face was tight, focused between her legs. He moved in a rhythm that knocked the bed against the wall. His pace was raw, animalistic—and Maa wasn't resisting. "Ahh—dheere—nahi—ahhmm—" Her lip caught between her teeth. Every thrust punched a sound from her chest she tried to swallow and couldn't. "Haan—uff—ruko na—" Her belly rippled each time. The mangalsutra bounced near her collarbone. Her face turned left, then right, braid crushed underneath. Then Papa flipped her like a roti—on all fours now. He walked to the fridge, came back with a cold lauki, and pushed it inside her. She lurched forward from the size and the cold. "Mat karo—dheere daalo—ahhhh—" The session lasted a good twenty minutes. Later Maa would make awkward small talk about my cricket game—voice too casual, eyes avoiding mine,not knowing that i know she has been fucked like a whore , like she was guilty of something. I'd just say it was alright. That memory never left. I've replayed it so many times in my head it's practically HD now—I even remember which headline Aaj Tak was running that evening.

Back in '14 my Indian family lived in a government quarter — one bedroom, one king-size bed for three people (sis was away at college). Dad on one side, Mom in the middle, me against the wall. Every few nights same ritual — Dad would nudge that slutty whore awake around 1 AM and she’d get up with her mangalsutra clinking across the pillow and her glass bangles tch-tch-tch as she sits up like a horny bitch ready to get fucked by my dad’s cock. The almirah creaks open and a DVD clicks out — I know exactly which shelf they kept their filth on. Then the test: Dad flips on the light for fifteen seconds while I fake-sleep so hard my jaw aches from not laughing at his pathetic attempt to make sure I’m really asleep. Click. Light off. The sofa-cum-bed groans open — crreeeeak — a sheet snaps across it and the DVD player hums alive. Same disc every time: early-2000s scene with an older guy and two young sluts getting fucked raw by his big brown cock — tinny speakers bleeding through thin walls but under all that porn was them... That filthy cunt mom would squeal muffled whore moans into whatever she could find — “mmph! aah! aahhh!” — sharp yelps as dad grunted deep and rhythmic “unhh... unnnh...” almost mechanical pounding that slutty wife’s pussy raw as her bangles kept time “chk-chk-chk-chkk” like a metronome synced to every wet schlap-schlap-schlap against her hairy cunt lips and her mangalsutra chain tck-tck-tck bouncing off her chest as she got plowed like the dirty desi raandi she was. Sofa springs wheek-wheek-wheek crying beneath them for more than an hour sometimes... i was hearing my own mother being used like such a filthy whore by my father... Then silence... DVD clicks off... water runs... feet pad back... mattress dips as they climb back in next to me smelling like sweat & sandalwood soap pretending nothing happened.

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Back in 2010 I used to play cricket every evening at the park 50m from home. Dad would be back from office by 4, and for some reason he got furious whenever I came home for water during innings breaks. I never understood why opening a gate was such a crime. Maa stayed silent through every scolding. Our front door had an interlock system—massive mechanism, big steel key, big keyhole. Big enough to see through. One evening I showed up silent. No doorbell. Aaj Tak blasting at full volume. Through that keyhole I had a direct line to their bed—sagging mattress, white sheet twisted. Maa was on her back. Clothes thrown aside. Face half-buried in a pillow, making sounds half Hindi, half something else entirely. Papa's face was tight, focused between her legs. He moved in a rhythm that knocked the bed against the wall. His pace was raw, animalistic—and Maa wasn't resisting. "Ahh—dheere—nahi—ahhmm—" Her lip caught between her teeth. Every thrust punched a sound from her chest she tried to swallow and couldn't. "Haan—uff—ruko na—" Her belly rippled each time. The mangalsutra bounced near her collarbone. Her face turned left, then right, braid crushed underneath. Then Papa flipped her like a roti—on all fours now. He walked to the fridge, came back with a cold lauki, and pushed it inside her. She lurched forward from the size and the cold. "Mat karo—dheere daalo—ahhhh—" The session lasted a good twenty minutes. Later Maa would make awkward small talk about my cricket game—voice too casual, eyes avoiding mine,not knowing that i know she has been fucked like a whore , like she was guilty of something. I'd just say it was alright. That memory never left. I've replayed it so many times in my head it's practically HD now—I even remember which headline Aaj Tak was running that evening.