Indian step mom gone wild…

My study/computer room just below my parents.
Over time, I got used to the sounds: creaking bed at night, soft moans, the rhythm of sex.. (majorly in winters)

But last Sunday, what I heard wasn’t background. It was so vivid I could see it — even with my eyes closed.

It was around 5:30 PM. Almost Raining outside. The house was silent.
And then — the bed above me started creaking. Not a random squeak.
Slow. Heavy. Deliberate.

Exactly 10-15 thrusts — not fast, but deep, the kind where the bed groans under every push. It didn’t sound like love-making. It sounded like someone was lying flat, being drilled from behind, absorbing every bit of it…

And I could picture it — too clearly.

I could feel she was lying face down, arms probably resting alongside a pillow, her cheek pressed into it, sweat all over her.
hair sticking to her face and neck, maybe strands caught near her lips, while she probably had that slightly irritated expression — like she was hot, over it, just letting it happen.
Her kurti must’ve been scrambled up, maybe around her shoulders, sticking to her back.
bra unhooked, so with each slow thrust, her boobs would’ve been pushed into the mattress, shifting just a little from the pressure.
And knowing how tight her churidar usually is, it was probably pushed down to her thighs, with her thong pulled aside — not fully off, just enough.

The kind of sex where your whole back gets hot, your arms go limp, and your face shows it — tense, sweaty, maybe even slightly annoyed from the weight on top of her.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t playful. It was just raw — slow, pressing, rhythmic fucking, and she was fully in it.

*And then, silence.*

A second later, a metallic sound — a chain or earring hit the floor and rolled.
I didn’t see anything. But that sound made it all real.

Five minutes later, I check the CCTV.
A car pulls up. My dad steps out, with his friend and his friend’s wife.
His car had been home the whole time.
He wasn’t even in the house.

And now, nothing made sense — except one thing.

Two or three minutes later, my stepmom came downstairs.
Not out of breath, but… flushed. A little sweaty.
Her dupatta fixed, her messy bun still up, like she hadn’t touched it.
She walked down like nothing happened — like she hadn’t just been getting dressed upstairs after sex.

She’s from Uttarakhand.
Medium frame. Not skinny, not chubby.
Probably a 34B, 36-inch hips, soft and fitted in tight clothes — the kind of figure that doesn’t need to be shown off to be noticed.
And she doesn’t wear old-style underwear. I’ve seen what dries on the line — always bikini-style, fitted. Easy to move aside. Not much in the way.

And it all just sat there in my head — the way the bed moved.
The way the thrusts landed.
The metallic roll.
The delay.
The way she came down…..

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