A Housewife : Burden

SECOND INNINGS I 21+

"Mommy, your tits are fucking perfect. I could suck on them for hours. The way they fit in my hands, the way your nipples get hard for me... fuck, I want to watch you feed our baby someday. Want to see these beautiful breasts full of milk. But right now? Right now they're mine. Only mine. Let me worship them, Mommy. Please."

Those words, whispered reverently while his hands cupped my breasts and his mouth moved between them, changed everything.

They say you can't miss what you've never had.

They're wrong.

I'm 33 years old, and I just had my first orgasm.

Not by myself—I'd figured that part out years ago, in the dark, while my husband snored beside me.

No, this was different.

This was given to me.

By a man who isn't my husband. A man eleven years younger than me. A man who looked at me like I was something precious instead of something convenient.

A man who calls me "Mommy" when he's worshipping my body and makes me feel alive for the first time in sixteen years.

My name is Aradhya Mehra, and I'm invisible.

Or at least, I was.

Until him.

I'm not supposed to be here—naked in a stranger's bed, covered in marks I'll have to hide, still trembling from watching a 22-year-old lose himself in my breasts like they're his salvation.

I'm supposed to be home. Making dinner. Being the dutiful wife to Vikram, who hasn't really looked at me in a decade. Being the ignored mother to my fifteen-year-old twins, who see me as the woman who cooks and cleans, nothing more.

I'm supposed to be invisible.

But right now, with his taste still on my lips and his touch still burning my skin, with the memory of him telling me how perfect my body is, how he wants to see me pregnant with his child someday, I feel anything but invisible.

I feel seen. Wanted. Alive.

It started with a dog.

My golden retriever, Bruno, escaped and stole a cricket ball from the park. I chased him, mortified, trying to get it back.

And there he was.

Aarav Kapoor. 22 years old. Domestic cricket player training for nationals. All lean muscle and easy smiles and eyes that actually SAW me when he looked my way.

He laughed when Bruno tackled him. Said the dog had good taste in cricket balls. Asked if I wanted to sit and talk while Bruno played.

Just talking, I told myself.

Just friendship.

Just someone who treats me like a person, not a servant.

But somewhere between the park benches and the accidental meetings, between his stories about cricket dreams and my confessions about forgotten ones, between the first lingering glance and the first intentional touch—

Everything changed.

Three months of stolen moments. Morning meetings at the park. Afternoon "walks" that turned into conversations in his car. His hand brushing mine. My breath catching when he smiled.

And today, we crossed the line.

He took me to bed—not his bed, but mine. The bed I share with my husband.