Adultery In the Shadow of Diplomacy: A Tale of Temptation (Completed)

[untamable_rohini]

The plane ride back from Dubai was quiet.

Rashi sat beside Amit, his head resting lightly against the window, unaware that the woman beside him was no longer his. Not in body. Maybe not even in spirit. Her legs were still sore from Faisal. Her breasts bore Qadir’s fresh bruises. And in her handbag, she carried a sleek envelope from Faisal’s company—a job offer disguised as an outreach initiative.
Kabul looked the same when they landed, but something inside her had shifted. She wasn’t just returning to her life—she was stepping into a parallel one. One with hidden corridors and secret rooms, where the rules of marriage, morality, and diplomacy didn’t apply.
Amit, ever cheerful, talked through the cab ride about how successful the summit had been, how impressed everyone seemed with Rashi’s performance, and how Qadir’s endorsement would likely open more doors. Rashi smiled. Nodded. Listened, just enough to appear present. Inside, she was somewhere else entirely—caught between two bodies, two men, two wildly different versions of herself.
Back home, the embassy assignments kept Amit busy. Rashi, for her part, had new instructions—delivered quietly, efficiently, through an envelope Faisal had slipped into her hand on their last day in Dubai. It was an offer to work with local women’s groups—an outreach project focused on empowerment, education, skill-building. On paper, it looked like noble, progressive work. In reality, it was an extension of Faisal’s reach. And a new arena for Rashi to live out her dualities.
She accepted the offer.
The work was real. So were the women. So were the stories of poverty, violence, and survival. Rashi gave it her all—visiting villages, listening, organizing supply runs, arranging trainings. Her days were dusty, sweaty, and physically exhausting. But inside, she was alert—alive in a way she hadn’t been in years.
Faisal didn’t hover. He barely contacted her. But his presence lingered like a shadow in every meeting, every checkpoint cleared, every unspoken agreement with local tribal heads. She knew she was moving with his sanction. She knew others knew it too.
Sometimes, Qadir accompanied her. Not always. Just enough to remind her that she was still being watched—and still owned, in some unspoken way. He would appear without notice: at a field clinic one day, a college ceremony the next. They’d exchange formal greetings in front of the locals. Then, later, he’d find her alone—behind a truck, inside an empty tent, in a locked storage cabin.



He didn’t talk much during these moments. Just unzipped her, pulled her salwar halfway down, and used her until she was shaking, her knees dirty, her voice hoarse from holding back the moans.
Then there were the times he didn’t show. Weeks would pass without a word from Qadir. Those stretches were harder. Not because she missed him—but because she hated how much she did. Her body would remember him without permission. She’d masturbate late at night in the bathroom, panties stuffed in her mouth to muffle her cries, replaying in her head how he’d called her his obedient little reward.
Faisal never asked for updates. But he didn’t need to. Back at home, Amit greeted her with warmth and concern. He noticed the fatigue, the moodiness, the thin shadows under her eyes. He asked if the work was too much. She said no, just a new rhythm. He offered to rub her feet. She let him. And when he tried to kiss her thighs, she gently pushed his head away
She told him it was just cramps.
It wasn’t.
It was because the night before, Qadir had left her thighs purple from holding them apart with too much force in the back of a dusty SUV. And she wasn’t sure if she could stand the feel of tenderness while still soaked in the memory of violence.
By now, Rashi had learned how to move between worlds seamlessly. She dressed carefully, kept her clothes modest, stayed soft-spoken at embassy functions. But underneath—always underneath—she was tuned to something darker. Something that Faisal had awakened. Something Qadir still stirred. Something Amit would never touch.
She knew what she had become: a woman with layers. A woman who could lead a training session on menstrual health with perfect poise in the morning, and be fucked over a shipping crate that same evening without ever missing a breath. And she wasn’t ashamed.

One such day when the sun was already low in the sky when the wind began to change.
What had been a mild breeze sweeping over the rugged plains turned thick and violent within minutes. Dust rose like smoke across the arid stretch of road as Rashi and Qadir’s convoy rattled slowly through a rural passage outside Bamyan. They had just completed a day of visits—distributing hygiene kits, hosting a community Q&A under a tarpaulin roof, listening to women who’d never before been asked their opinion.
Rashi had barely eaten. Her throat was dry, her head light. But her eyes sparkled from the rush of the work—the kind of exhaustion that made her feel purposefully alive. Qadir, sitting beside her in the back of the SUV, had been silent for most of the return ride. Watching. Thinking. His silence always carried weight, and it pressed against her like a hand resting just between her thighs.
Visibility dropped fast. The driver hesitated, slowing further as the storm rolled in thick curtains across the road.
“We should stop,” Qadir finally said. “Fringe groups operate around here. We don’t drive blind at night.”
A call was made. The small team of three support staff were instructed to pull off to the side. A local village nearby agreed to host the crew. Not in homes—that would attract attention—but in temporary tents pitched behind a quiet compound.
By the time the wind settled, the sun was gone. The village lay dark except for a few battery lanterns. Rashi’s tent had been prepared away from the others—for her comfort, someone had said.
She slipped off her dupatta, brushing sand from her lashes. Her skin was sticky with heat, her back sore. She sat on the thin mat, trying to ease her spine.
The flap of the tent rustled.
Qadir stepped in.
He didn’t speak. Just ducked inside and zipped it closed behind him. His face was shadowed, his shirt half unbuttoned. He smelled of dust and sweat and something unmistakably male.
She didn’t ask why he was there. She didn’t need to.
He stepped closer, crouched in front of her. She could feel it already—the way her stomach clenched, her thighs instinctively pressed together.
Qadir reached out and gently pushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek. Then, with one hand gripping her jaw, he kissed her.
Hard.
There was no patience, no teasing. His mouth was rough, biting. His hands slid down her sides, pulling her kurta up over her hips. She gasped as the cool air met her skin.
She was already wet.
“You like being out here, don’t you?” he murmured, pushing her onto her back, pulling her salwar down. “No husband. No embassy. Just me. Just us.”
Rashi moaned softly, her head hitting the edge of the folded blanket. He was over her now, tugging his own pants down, his cock already thick and hard. She guided him inside without a word.
The tent was filled with the smell of sex, sweat, and the muffled sounds of skin meeting skin. Outside, the wind still howled against the canvas. But inside, it was its own storm.
He took her in long, deep thrusts, holding her thighs wide. Her nails scratched down his back. Her breath hitched in staccato gasps as he fucked her steadily, her body arching off the floor.
He grabbed her face when she came, holding her jaw as if to claim her orgasm, to remind her who had brought it. She came hard, crying out into his mouth as he swallowed the sound.
Later, they lay side by side, the tent still and warm.
He didn’t leave.
He didn’t need to.
She slept beside him, still pulsing between her legs, still aching from the stretch of his cock.
That night, wrapped in a blanket of silence and dust, Rashi didn't think about Amit. She didn’t think about what it meant.
She just slept deeply, dreamlessly, with Qadir’s breath warm against the back of her neck.
Morning crept in quietly. A pale, hazy sun filtered through the thin fabric of the tent, casting a golden blur across Rashi’s bare shoulder. She stirred, stretching lazily. Her body ached in all the places Qadir had claimed the night before—her hips, her thighs, the soft soreness between her legs a reminder of how hard she had come under him.
But the warmth beside her was gone.
She turned quickly. The blanket beside her was cool. Qadir was nowhere in sight.
Her heart picked up.
She sat up, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Dust still hung faintly in the air. She reached for her clothes, hurriedly pulling on her salwar and straightening her kurta, still wrinkled and carrying the scent of sex. Her hair was a mess. She tied it back with trembling fingers and unzipped the tent flap.
Then she froze.
Just twenty feet ahead, in the clearing where the vehicles had been parked, armed men sat with rifles drawn. A half-dozen of them, at least—faces weathered, clothes tattered, weapons resting across their laps with practiced ease. Their eyes were locked on Qadir’s men, who were kneeling in a circle, hands raised in surrender.
And in the center stood Qadir.
Barely five paces from the leader of the gang. The tension between them was palpable, like two wolves circling over a carcass. Qadir’s jaw was tight. His shirt from the night before was gone, replaced by his undershirt and dust-covered trousers. His hands were slightly raised, but his eyes—his eyes were sharp, calculating.
Rashi stepped out slowly. No one noticed her at first.
Then one of the gunmen did. He nudged the man next to him.
The rival leader turned.
He was older, leaner than Qadir but no less dangerous—scar over one brow, yellowed teeth bared in a grin that made Rashi’s stomach drop.
“Well, well,” he said loudly, eyes scanning her body openly. “So the rumours are true. You bring women now, Qadir?”
Qadir didn’t move. “She’s not part of this. Let her go.”
The leader’s grin widened. “Oh, but she is. She’s very much a part of this now.”
Rashi stood frozen, every nerve on fire. She could feel her heartbeat in her throat.
The leader took a few slow steps toward her, looking her up and down.
“You want to leave here alive?” he asked, addressing the group now, waving a hand at the kneeling men, then back at Qadir. “Then I’ll take my price. One time. With her. Then you all walk free.”
“No,” Qadir said, instantly.
The man tilted his head. “Then we shoot one. Every five minutes. Until none of you are left. Starting with your driver.”
Rashi looked at Qadir.
His jaw clenched. His fist flexed at his side.
He met her eyes.
And in that long second, Rashi saw something that wasn’t dominance. It wasn’t control. It was helplessness. It was fury wrapped in restraint.
He didn’t speak.
He just turned his face away.
Rashi understood.
She stepped back and ran back to the tent, the same one where she’d spent the night with Qadir.
The rival leader ran towards her and entered the tent. The tent felt smaller the moment he stepped in.
Rashi instinctively backed away from the entrance, heart thudding, stomach twisted in dread. The rival gang leader stood at the flap, his rifle now slung casually across his back, his eyes locked on her with a hunger that made her skin crawl.
“You got what you wanted,” she said, voice shaking. “You made your point. Now get out.”
He laughed—short, dry, cruel. “You think I came to bargain, girl? That deal’s already done.”
He took a step forward.
“Don’t come closer,” Rashi warned, her voice rising.
But he didn’t stop. “I don’t take threats from women who were already paid for.”
“You bastard,” she spat, moving to grab the edge of the cot for balance. “You think you can—”
He lunged fast.
Rashi screamed, twisting away, but he caught her by the arm, yanking her hard toward him. Her wrist bent awkwardly in his grip, and she cried out in pain. With his other hand, he grabbed at the front of her kurta, pulling it down one side, exposing her shoulder.
“No one’s coming to save you,” he hissed in her ear.
“Qadir will kill you,” she said, trying to yank herself free. “He’ll tear you apart.”
The man snorted. “Qadir agreed. You’re payment. And he made it with his eyes open.”
“No…” Her breath hitched.
“Ask him yourself when I’m done.”
She thrashed again, and this time he threw her down onto the blanket. She landed hard on her chest, the breath knocked from her lungs. He knelt over her hips, pinning her down with his knees, he inserted his hand near her belly button and started tugging at the hem of her salwar.
Rashi screamed louder, kicking at him, but he slapped her—open palm across the hips. “You can scream,” he sneered, breathing hot over her. “No one out there wants a bullet in the back.”
He tore her dupatta from her neck and flung it aside, then reached to unzip her kurta completely.
Rashi trembled beneath him. “Don’t do this,” she begged. “Please. You don’t have to—”
He turns her around and his fingers dug into her chest, tugging fabric, pulling her breasts free roughly.
He lowered his mouth to her skin, licking and sucking, groaning obscenely as if tasting something forbidden.
She turned her head away, eyes wide with tears, whispering prayers in a broken voice. 
Her limbs stiffened as his weight pressed down, anchoring her to the floor of the tent.
The air was thick with dust and sweat, but all Rashi could smell was him—sharp, sour, invasive. His hands were everywhere—grabbing, squeezing, pulling. She twisted beneath him, trying to roll away, but he slammed her back down with a guttural growl.
“You’re softer than I thought,” he muttered against her neck, his stubble scbanging her skin. “No wonder Qadir kept you hidden like a jewel.”
Rashi winced as he forced her kurta halfway down her arms, trapping her movement. Her wrists were tangled in the sleeves. She kicked again, landed a blow to his thigh, but it only made him laugh.
“You’ve got fight,” he said. “Good. I like a little struggle.”
“You’ll regret this,” she hissed through clenched teeth, breath short and panicked.
He grabbed her face roughly, turning it toward him. “Will I?” he sneered. “By the time I’m done, you’ll be begging me not to stop.”
She spat at him.
He didn’t flinch. Just wiped his cheek and smiled wider. “Keep trying, princess. No one out there gives a damn.”
He bent down, dragging his tongue over the curve of her breast. She gagged in disgust, thrashing under him. His fingers dug into her waist as he pinned her harder.
“I could do it slow,” he whispered. “Make it nice. Or I could tear you open. Your choice.”
She sobbed once—just once—but it was enough to enrage her. She felt the shame rise like bile. Not from the tears—but from how easily he thought he could break her.
He reached for his belt
"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice thick with desire as he began to unravel the fabric of her salwar. Rashi's eyes were wide with fear, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps as she felt his calloused hands graze her bare skin. His eyes never left hers, a dark promise that sent a shiver down her spine. Despite her struggles, she couldn't hide the way her body responded to his touch.
He kissed her neck, his stubble scratching against her sensitive flesh as he peeled her clothing away. She squirmed, trying to pull away, but his grip was like iron. "Please," she whispered, her voice a desperate plea, "please don't." But his only response was a low groan that grew deeper as he finally exposed her breasts.
With a hungry gaze, he took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard. Rashi's back arched involuntarily, a gasp escaping her lips. Her hands flew to his shoulders, trying to push him away, but her body was a traitor, reacting to his touch with a fervor. She could feel his erection pressing against her thigh, demanding entry.
He kissed his way down her torso, pausing to bite the soft flesh of her stomach. His hands were everywhere—on her breasts, her hips, her thighs—until she was fully exposed to him. He took a moment to appreciate the sight before him, his eyes lingering on her pussy. She was clean and her recent encounter with Qadir has made it more pinkish. With a smirk, he positioned his head between her legs, the tip of his tongue poised at her entrance. "Ready?" he growled.
Her eyes snapped to his, anger flaring in their depths. "You're going to regret this," she spat, her voice shaking. But the words had no bite. Her body was betraying her, slick with need. He chuckled and leaned down, his mouth hovering above her pussy. "Ready," he repeated, his voice a harsh whisper.
His tongue invaded her pussy as he claimed her body that sent waves of sensation through her. She bit her own lips, and trying to push him away, but it only spurred him on.
Her nails dug into his back, leaving red marks in the dust that coated his skin. He didn't care. He pulled back and kissed her on lips, and slammed his tongue into her again, watching her face contort in a mix of agony and ecstasy.
"Look at me," he ordered, his eyes burning into hers. "Look at what you do to me."
Her eyes remained locked with his, even as tears streamed down her cheeks.
"I will make you come," he said, his voice guttural. "And when you do, you're going to scream my name."
Her eyes narrowed. "Never," she vowed.
Her breath caught as his lips dragged across her bare skin—greedy, wet, possessive. He groped her chest roughly, like she was a thing to be claimed, not a woman to be touched. His fingers dug deep, leaving her skin reddened and sore as he sucked at her breast with a grotesque moan.
She squirmed beneath him, writhing, trying to push him off, but his body was heavier, his grip vice-like.
“Stop it,” she choked, her voice breaking. “Please—don’t…”
He lifted his head just enough to sneer, face inches from hers.
“You’re already mine, girl. Don’t act innocent. You fuck Qadir in a tent like a bitch in heat—and now you cry purity?”
She stared at him, stunned. Her heart plummeted as she realized just how much he knew. How much Qadir must have let him know.
“You… watched us?”
He laughed—vile and unbothered. “He told me. Smirking, like she’s fire between the legs. And I thought—why should he get all the fun?”
Rashi’s stomach twisted. A part of her wanted to scream again. Another part wanted to disappear entirely. Her hands balled into fists beneath her, nails biting into her own palms.
“You’re filth,” she spat.
He only grinned wider. “And you? You’re soft, warm, already wet from him. I’m just collecting what’s left.”
He reached between her thighs then—roughly, deliberately—and she kicked out hard, connecting with his shin.
He shouted, stumbled slightly, but didn’t move off her.
“You little—” His hand came down, grabbing her throat—not choking, but enough to remind her how helpless she was.
His other hand went to his belt, unbuckling it with a chilling purpose.
Rashi could feel her panic rising now—louder than the wind, louder than her own heartbeat. Her mind raced for escape, for help, for anything—but her body felt pinned by more than just his weight.
The belt dropped with a thud. His pants slid, she was already completely naked, her fair skin was contrast to his body, His eyes glinted with malice as he dropped his pants and brought out with a gruff tug, his cock from the confines of his pants. It was circumcised, thick and surprisingly not dark —a cruel twist of fate that made her stomach turn.
He held it in his hand, thick and menacing, and Rashi couldn’t help but feel a spark of disgust. It was a blunt instrument of power, not the tender symbol of love and passion that it had been the night before. He stroked himself slowly, watching her face, reveling in the horror that must have been etched there. Then, with a smug smile, he reached down to part her trembling thighs with his knees, bringing the tip of his cock to hover at her entrance.
“Look at that,” he murmured, his voice thick with lust. “You’re already wet for me. Can’t deny it, can you?”



Rashi’s eyes were wide with fear and anger, but she said nothing. She felt her cheeks flushing with humiliation as her body responded to his touch despite her desperate pleas for it not to. She felt his cock rub through her pussy folds, yet to enter just the touch her slickness, the head of it just rubbing insistently against her, and she knew she was powerless to stop what was about to happen.
He leaned in closer, his breath hot and rancid on her face. “You want this, don’t you?” he whispered, his hand tightening around his shaft. “You’ve been waiting for a real man to come and take what’s yours. And now I’m here, and there’s no one to save you from it.” She bit down on a scream, her teeth grinding together.
“That’s right,” he said, his voice low and taunting. “Take it all, my little whore. Take it like the good girl you are. You’re going to love this, I promise you that.” 
“Don’t fight it,” he growled, breath thick with rot. “You’ll like it eventually.”
She wanted to scream again, but her throat was raw. Her wrists ached from his grip, and her legs were pinned by his knees
He raised his hips just to get momentum to push his cock inside when he heard sharp voice rang out from outside the tent.
“Zaman! There’s a call for you!”
The voice was urgent. Nervous.
The man—Zaman—froze, hovering above her, face contorting in irritation. “Tell them I’m busy!”
“It’s… Faisal,” the voice added.
That name cracked through the air like lightning.
Zaman went still. His hands withdrew. He glanced down at Rashi, sneering.
“Saved by the prince,” he muttered.
He stood, fastened his belt with angry, jerky movements, and stepped out of the tent without another word. Rashi lay there, chest heaving, body half-naked, sweat mixing with dust, shame, and the aching sting of where he had grabbed her. Her heart pounded so loudly she couldn’t hear anything else.
Minutes passed—long, terrible minutes.
Then she heard shouting outside. Footsteps. Movement.
And then—silence.
The tent flap lifted gently.
It was Qadir.

His eyes landed on her immediately—on the state she was in, her exposed skin, her torn clothes, the terror still fresh in her face. His expression didn’t change at first. But his jaw clenched, so tightly the veins in his neck bulged.



He stepped in, removed his shawl, and without a word, dbangd it gently over her shoulders.
“They’re gone,” he said.
Rashi looked at him, eyes wide, throat tight.
“Faisal called,” he added. “They left on his command.”
She nodded slowly, too stunned to speak.
Qadir knelt beside her, his voice softer now, restrained. “Did he…?” He didn’t finish the question.
“No,” she whispered. “He didn’t.”
But he almost did.
And they both knew it.
The journey back to Kabul was silent.
Qadir sat beside her in the backseat of the SUV, his face unreadable. The wind from the cracked window tugged at Rashi’s dupatta, but she didn’t bother adjusting it. Her hands stayed folded in her lap. Her eyes remained fixed on the dirt road ahead.
She hadn’t spoken a word since the moment Qadir helped her out of the tent and into the vehicle. No one had. The guards knew something had happened. They could read it in the way she walked, the way Qadir kept glancing sideways like a man fighting back an animal inside him.
When they reached the embassy quarters, Qadir dropped her at the main gate without a word. Their eyes met only for a second. There was no apology. No comfort. Just mutual recognition of what had almost happened—and how powerless they both had been in stopping it.

Amit was waiting at the door.
“Rashi!” His voice carried relief as he pulled her into a hug. “You’re back—you didn’t call. I’ve been trying all night.”
She wrapped her arms around him stiffly.
“There was a storm,” she said. “Dust everywhere. We had to camp at a nearby village. No signal. Nothing serious.”
Amit pulled back, looking at her more carefully now. “You look… exhausted. Are you okay?”
“Just tired,” she said. “It was a long, messy night. I just want to sleep.”
She walked past him before he could ask more. He didn’t push it. He never did.
Inside, she stripped quickly, turning on the shower. The water hit her skin, and she shivered—not from cold, but from the weight of everything that had almost happened. Her reflection in the fogged mirror looked older. Her eyes, dimmer.
She didn’t cry.
She was too tired to. Later that night, as he lay beside her reading, Rashi lay awake with her eyes closed, her body stiff as stone, her mind replaying the sounds, the weight, the humiliation she hadn’t even begun to process.

[untamable_rohini]

The next morning, the storm reached Kabul—but not from the skies.
Faisal arrived.
By noon, Qadir was summoned to the estate on the outskirts of the city. No entourage. No optics. Just Faisal in his office—cool, crisp, silent. His black shirt was rolled to the sleeves, his watch gleaming against his wrist, his expression unreadable.
“You compromised her,” he said coldly, staring straight into Qadir’s eyes. “You let it happen.”
Qadir stood motionless. “I handled it.”
“No, you didn’t. I did. With a single call. After you let her get dragged into the dirt like a hostage.”
Qadir’s jaw tightened. “It was one moment. One slip.”
“One moment,” Faisal repeated, rising from behind his desk. “One moment away from her being violated. Publicly. While under my protection.”
He leaned closer. “You don’t make mistakes with what belongs to me, Qadir. Not with her.”
The words cut. But Qadir said nothing.
Faisal turned away, looked out the window for a long moment, then spoke again.
“She’s too exposed here. I’ll take her back to Dubai. She’ll work directly under me. Office postings. Safe environments. Controlled spaces.”
“You think she’ll go?” Qadir asked, almost bitterly.
“She will,” Faisal replied.
That evening, Faisal met Rashi privately in a secured guest suite. He was calm, composed, dressed in a crisp tailored suit. There was no trace of the man who had threatened war with a phone call less than 24 hours earlier.
“You did good out there,” he said simply, handing her a small envelope.
Inside was a formal job offer.
Senior Liaison – Dubai Office. Faisal’s personal oversight.
“I want you closer,” he said. “Where I can watch you. Properly.”
Rashi looked up, searching his face. “And control me?”
He smiled faintly. “No. But I don’t trust anyone else to try.”
She nodded slowly, her voice even. “I’ll talk to my husband.”
“Of course,” he said, standing. “But we both know you’ve already decided.”

That night, Rashi sat across from Amit at dinner.
He was tired, relaxed, laughing about something that had happened at the embassy. She watched him quietly for a while before speaking.
“I’ve been offered something,” she said. “A position. In Dubai.”
He blinked. “Who offered it?”
“Faisal.”
Amit sat up straighter. “That’s… big.”
“He wants me to manage the women’s division. Directly from his office.”
“And you want this?”
Rashi stirred her soup slowly. “I think it’s time.”
He nodded, thoughtful. “We’ll make it work.”
Rashi smiled faintly. “I’ll go ahead first, travel back on weekends. You should also try to join me soon, talk for a transfer please.”
Amit reached across the table and touched her hand.
And for the first time in days, she didn’t flinch.
But somewhere deep inside, she knew this was the beginning of the next transformation.
Rashi wasn’t just going to Dubai.
She was stepping into the center of the storm.
And this time, she would walk into it with her eyes open.
Dubai was everything Kabul wasn’t—clean, glittering, fast, and quiet in the way power operates when it no longer needs to raise its voice.
Rashi's new apartment was on the 33rd floor of a serviced tower in the Marina, overlooking the water, the skyline lit like a futuristic dream. A black car picked her up every morning at 8:00 a.m. sharp. She didn’t ask where it came from. She knew Faisal was behind every arrangement, every keycard, every glass wall in her new corner office.
Monday to Friday, she lived in Dubai.
Weekends, she returned to Kabul. To Amit. To the polite fiction of marriage.
But it was here—in this high-rise office, in the silence between meetings and the echo of her heels on marble—that Rashi truly began to vanish from her old life.
Faisal did not hover. He rarely interrupted her work. But when he wanted her—he let her know.
A message from his assistant: “The Sheikh would like you in his suite after 7.”
A folded note left on her desk: “No meetings tomorrow morning. Stay the night.”
Sometimes it was direct. Sometimes, he simply walked into her office at the end of the day, closed the door behind him, and said nothing as he removed his jacket.
It was never tender. It was never sweet.
But it was never forced either.
Rashi didn’t resist.
She bent. She obeyed. She undressed herself when he looked at her that way.
During the day, she reviewed reports, led community funding strategy calls, managed media coverage for the women’s programs.
At night, she was pressed into expensive sheets with her wrists pinned above her, Faisal’s mouth at her ear, reminding her that the only power she truly held was the power he allowed her to enjoy.
And still, she came back every time.
By Thursday evenings, her body was aching. By Friday afternoons, her skin carried faint traces of his teeth, the scent of his cologne clinging to her thighs even after two showers. She’d board the flight to Kabul with perfect posture and a small suitcase, playing the part of the devoted wife returning for the weekend.
Amit never asked much. He believed she was changing the world. He had no idea the shape it was taking inside her. Dubai had not freed her. It had claimed her. And she had let it.


One Thursday Evening
The door clicked softly behind her. Faisal's penthouse was quiet, lights dimmed, city lights flickering beyond the glass walls like scattered diamonds. Rashi stepped in, heels clicking lightly on the marble. She was still in her work clothes—a fitted cream blouse, long slate skirt, a gold pin holding her hair up with precision. She didn’t need to announce herself. He already knew she was coming.
He was at the minibar, pouring something into two tumblers—his jacket off, sleeves rolled, neck slightly open. The control in his posture was still present, but the edge had softened. This was his domain, and here, he didn’t need to pretend to be anything less than sovereign.
“You’re late,” he said, turning toward her, offering a glass.
She took it, stepping closer. “I had to finish with the UN reps. They wanted to add five villages to the maternal health program.”
He nodded. “Ambitious.”
“They believe in what we’re doing,” she said, taking a sip. “Or maybe they believe in how I explain it.”
Faisal smirked slightly. “You do have a way of making people feel… inspired.”
He stepped toward her and paused, studying her face.
“You’ve changed since Kabul.”
“How so?”
“You walk like power belongs to you.”
She smiled. “And here I thought that belonged to you.”
He set his glass down. “Power can be shared. Under the right arrangement.”
They stood like that for a moment—silent, but far from still.
Then he reached for her hand.
“Come here,” he said quietly.
She followed. In the lounge, he sank into a leather chair, tugging her gently into his lap. She settled across him with practiced ease, her legs curling beneath her, skirt pulling tight across her thighs.
“Tell me,” he said, his hand resting on her hip. “Do you look forward to this part of the evening?”
She met his gaze directly. “You know I do.”
“What exactly do you look forward to?”
She smiled faintly, fingers brushing the edge of his collar. “The quiet. The way you don’t ask permission. The way my body forgets everything else.”
He let out a soft breath, his hand sliding higher. “That’s not an answer.”
Rashi’s eyes dropped to his mouth, then back up. “I look forward to the feeling of being wanted… with no softness. No hesitation. When you touch me like I’m yours for the hour, not for a lifetime.”
Faisal exhaled slowly, voice lower now. “And the orgasm?”
She laughed gently against his neck. “That too. When it’s earned.”
“I give you what he can’t.”
“You don’t even pretend to love me.”
“I don’t need to,” he said. “Your body doesn’t want love. It wants surrender.”
She leaned in, whispering near his ear, “And what do you want?”
He didn’t answer right away. He slid his hand beneath her blouse, his palm warm against her bare waist. Her body pressed closer, breath catching.
“I want the version of you that no one else gets to see. The one that waits all week to fall apart.”
Rashi looked at him, the knot of tension she wore every day loosening thread by thread. “She’s here,” she whispered. “She’s always here when you ask”.
Faisal stood, eyes never leaving her as he took her hand and led her from the lounge into the bedroom.
The space was minimalist—warm tones, soft lighting, floor-to-ceiling windows spilling the Dubai skyline into the room like a dream. But tonight, the only thing Rashi saw clearly was him.
He paused at the edge of the bed and turned toward her. “You carry the whole week in your shoulders,” he said, brushing a finger lightly over the side of her neck. “You forget how to let go.”
“I never forget,” she whispered. “I just save it… for here.”
Her voice was steady, but inside, her body was already heating beneath the surface, skin anticipating touch before it arrived.
Faisal reached for her blouse and slowly undid the first button. Then the second.
He didn’t rush.
With every small movement, his knuckles brushed her skin, drawing goosebumps across her chest. When the last button came free, he slipped the blouse off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor behind her.
“You hide behind fine fabrics and power meetings,” he murmured, tracing the edge of her bra with his thumb. “But underneath it all…”
“I’m yours,” she said quietly, finishing it for him.
His eyes darkened, and without a word, he leaned in and kissed her—not with aggression, but with purpose. He tasted her mouth slowly, one hand on the small of her back, the other sliding up to cup her jaw.
Rashi sighed into the kiss, her body softening against him. She reached up to unfasten his shirt, fingers working quickly. When she pushed it off his shoulders, she let her palms wander over the smooth, hard lines of his chest. The contrast between them—the elegance of her body and the raw strength of his—was something they both felt every time they touched.
Faisal walked her backward until her knees hit the edge of the bed. She sat, and he knelt down, removing her shoes, then easing her skirt down over her hips.
By the time she lay back, he was already trailing kisses down her stomach, pausing at her hip, his stubble grazing her skin, drawing a sharp inhale from her lips.
“You’re always in control out there,” he murmured, eyes locking with hers. “But here, you give it up so easily.”
“Because you know how to take it,” she replied, breath catching.
He kissed her inner thigh, slowly, reverently. “Then tonight, I’ll take everything.”

Time lost meaning.
Faisal didn’t rush. He knew her body now—every sound she made, every place she arched, every whisper of “don’t stop” when she forgot to keep her voice steady. He worshipped her not with flattery, but with expertise. She gave herself over, moaning into his shoulder, clutching the sheets when she couldn’t speak.
When she came, her nails raked his back, her mouth open in silent release.
He stayed inside her, watching her face as she fell apart.
She looked radiant, undone.
And in that moment, there was no diplomacy. No dual life. No lies.
Just this: her body in his hands, trembling from something only he could give her.
Later, when the city lights had dimmed and the only sounds were the soft hum of the air and the distant echo of her moans long since silenced, Rashi lay tangled in his sheets, his arm wrapped loosely around her waist.
She wasn’t thinking about Kabul. Not about work. Not about Amit. Only about the man beside her. The one who never gave her flowers, but always gave her release.
And she already knew: she would show up again next Monday. On time.
Because the orgasm was never just pleasure—it was her confession and duty towards her body.

As usual she was returning to Kabul for the weekend. The flight touched down just after sunset. Rashi looked out of the window, the lights of Kabul hazy in the distance, and felt that familiar ache in her chest. It wasn’t nostalgia. It wasn’t love. It was weight—the kind that came from pretending too well for too long.
She had spent the last five days in Faisal’s orbit—her body still remembered his touch. Her skin held faint marks beneath her blouse. And yet, now she was here, preparing to be Amit’s wife again.
He was waiting outside the airport, smiling like he always did—relieved, proud, happy to see her.
“You look beautiful,” he said as he took her bag. “Tired, but glowing.”
Rashi smiled, kissed his cheek, and murmured, “It was a long week.”

They had dinner in the living room—simple home food, just the two of them. Amit talked about embassy meetings, some new interns, and a minor protocol error that made him laugh. Rashi listened, sipping wine, nodding. Smiling.
Later, as they lay in bed, Amit ran a hand along her waist under the blanket.
“It’s nice to have you home,” he murmured.
She nodded, eyes closed.
He leaned in, kissed her neck, then her shoulder, slower, warmer.
“You’re different these days,” he whispered. “More confident. But also… distant.”
Rashi opened her eyes.
“I’m just busy,” she replied softly.
He pulled back enough to look at her.
After dinner in their bedroom He undressed slowly, more lovingly than usual, he touched her gently, his hands cautious, reverent. But Rashi’s body didn’t respond the way it should. Her mind wandered. Her thighs tensed.
She guided his cock inside her anyway.
He moved slowly, trying to please her, trying to draw a response not knowing that she likes pounding from a Stallion, not a soft caress from a weak man. She moaned softly—on purpose,  fake, for Encouragement.
He whispered her name. Told her how beautiful she looked.
But within minutes, his breath hitched, rhythm faltered.
He came too soon.
And the silence after was too loud.
“I’m sorry,” he said, forehead against her shoulder, breath warm. “It’s just… the thought of you, of us… it was too much.”
Rashi wrapped her arms around him and held him close.
“It’s okay,” she whispered.
But her body was aching still—for what it didn’t receive. For what she was used to now.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “We’re settled now. Stable. Maybe… we could think about expanding our family?”
Rashi blinked. Her heart stalled for just a second.
“You mean…”
“A baby,” he said gently, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I think it’s time.”
She stared at the ceiling.
It wasn’t the idea of motherhood that startled her. It was the timing. The hypocrisy. The thought of carrying her husband’s child while her body still wanted an orgasm and remembered how Faisal made her cume against a glass wall two nights ago.
But she couldn’t say that.
So she smiled faintly.
“If that’s what you want,” she said quietly, “then… we can try.”
Amit beamed, kissed her deeply, and pulled her beneath him.
Later, as Amit slept, arm dbangd around her, Rashi stared at the ceiling again. The air was cool. Her thighs were damp.
She placed her hand on her belly, thinking of what it meant—this choice, this agreement.
To build something with Amit… while something else—something darker, deeper—thrived within her, in a city far away, behind Faisal’s locked doors.
She turned onto her side, closed her eyes. And waited for morning.
Sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, a soft golden glow settling over the room. Rashi lay still for a moment, her eyes tracing the ceiling above, the sound of birds just outside the window mingling with the quiet hum of the city stirring to life.
Amit was still asleep beside her, his arm curled loosely over her waist, breath steady and even. His face looked younger in sleep—unguarded. Peaceful.
She turned carefully so as not to wake him, slipping out from under the covers. The floor was cool beneath her feet as she walked to the bathroom, tying her robe around her waist. The air smelled faintly of jasmine soap and cologne—the scent of a shared life, or at least the illusion of one.
She moved through the familiar motions: brushing her hair, rinsing her face, dabbing moisturizer on her cheeks.
And then she reached into the small wooden cabinet by the mirror.
The tiny blister pack lay there on the second shelf, nestled between a travel toothbrush and a tube of night cream.
She stared at it for a long second.
Her fingers hovered. Then dropped.
She shut the cabinet door without taking anything.
No fanfare. No commentary. Just silence—and the quiet weight of a decision not spoken aloud.
She returned to the bedroom, where Amit was still dreaming under the sheets. She sat at the edge of the bed for a moment, watching the way his chest rose and fell. The way his hand still reached for her in sleep.
They took a short walk through the quiet diplomatic district. Ate a simple lunch at a courtyard café. He held her hand while talking about a potential transfer posting in six months.
She nodded, said all the right things, smiled when she needed to. Played her part so well she almost believed it.
By Sunday night, her suitcase was packed again. Cream blouse folded precisely, laptop zipped in its own sleeve, discreet lingerie tucked between layers. Nothing out of place. Nothing traceable.
At dawn on Monday, she kissed Amit softly goodbye at the doorway.
“I’ll call you before bed,” she promised.
“You always do,” he smiled, sleep still in his eyes.
And just like that, she was gone again.
Dubai greeted her with dry heat and gleaming surfaces. Her driver met her at the airport, as always. She slid into the back seat and watched the skyline emerge as they crossed the bridge.
Her office waited. Her team. Her itinerary. A carefully laid-out week of meetings, reports, strategy briefs.
And Faisal.
The thought of him struck not like a bolt of lightning—but like a slow, deep current, running quietly under the surface. Steady. Certain.
She didn’t know if she would see him that night.
She didn’t need to.
It was only Monday.
There was a whole week ahead.
Slowly the weeks blurred.
Monday to Friday belonged to Faisal.
Rashi stopped counting days. Time in Dubai didn’t move in numbers—it pulsed in glances, touches, commands. She remembered her calendar by the way he had her the night before: whether it was her knees pressed to his office desk, her cheek against the cold glass of the window, or the edge of the marble bathtub she gripped with trembling fingers while he moved behind her, speaking only her name.
Faisal never gave her a schedule. He didn’t have to.
Sometimes it was after hours—wordless, intense, after a board meeting, when he’d gesture toward the private corridor outside his suite and she’d rise without question. Other times it was early mornings, her blouse barely buttoned, as he pulled her into his private elevator and lifted her skirt without even removing her heels.
Each time was different.
Sometimes he was slow, calculated—eyes fixed on hers, whispering what he liked about the shape of her back, the sound she made when he bit just below her collarbone.
Other times he used her like a secret, rough and deliberate, a fist tangled in her hair, her wrists pinned to the wall while he groaned low in her ear, “This is how I erase every thought of him.”
And every time—every single time—Rashi surrendered.
She told herself she still held control.
But the way her knees trembled afterward, the way she craved the next encounter before the current one even faded from her body—she knew she was lying.
Their encounters didn’t follow a pattern. That’s what kept them addictive.
Sometimes, he’d call her up late—well past midnight—when the city below had gone quiet and her apartment was shrouded in moonlight. Other times, it was in the middle of a workday, under the pretext of a “private strategy session” in his suite. She’d arrive with her tablet in hand, only to find him already loosening his tie, eyes dark with anticipation.
He liked to take control. And she liked to give it to him.
One evening, he bent her over the glass balcony, the city below unaware, his name whispered into the night like a prayer. Another time, in the backseat of his car, his hand gripped her thigh the moment the door shut, his instructions hushed but commanding. And sometimes, he took his time—laying her across silk sheets, removing each piece of her clothing like it was a ritual.
He learned her body the way a man studies a map—not just to explore, but to own.
And Rashi, in turn, learned to anticipate him. To ache for him. Her body, so long dormant under Amit’s tender but forgettable touch, came alive with every command Faisal gave her.


By the time two months had passed, it was no longer just an affair.
It was her second reality.
By Friday mornings, she’d fly to Kabul, perform the role of wife and daughter-in-law with practiced ease, attending embassy brunches, handling family matters, smiling beside Amit. He never doubted her.
And then, every Monday morning, she returned to the world where she truly breathed.
But now, her routine was about to break.
Late one Thursday evening, just as she was collecting her things in office, Rashi’s phone lit up with a message from her mother-in-law’s number.
She opened it.
A long text. Sent to the family group. Written in Hinglish. Flowery emojis. The kind she had grown used to smiling through.
“Pallavi ki shaadi fixed!! 3rd next month in Lucknow. Rashi you’re her favourite bhabhi, you need to come at least 1 month in advance.?”
Rashi exhaled slowly. Lucknow.
The old world.
Henna, gold, rooms filled with questions and cousins and relatives who asked too much.
She texted back a smiley face and a thumbs-up. Then paused.
She told Amit that night while folding laundry. He lit up.
“She always said she wanted you at her wedding,” he said, tucking a towel into the cupboard. “You’ll help her with the lehenga, right?”
“Of course,” Rashi said with a small smile. “I’ll take a few days off from Dubai.”
“You should,” he said, walking over and pressing a kiss to her temple. “You deserve to be with your people.”
She didn’t respond. Because her people were becoming harder to define.

The Friday before she was due to fly to Delhi, Faisal called her to his suite earlier than usual.
When she entered, he was already unfastening the buttons of his shirt, tossing his cufflinks onto the tray by the door. His movements were controlled. But there was something else beneath the surface—an edge in his silence.
“You’re leaving Monday,” he said.
“Yes. Just for more than 1 month.”
He studied her. “India.”
“My sister-in-law’s wedding.”
He stepped closer. “And Amit?”
She nodded. “He’ll join later”
His eyes scanned her body—not in lust, but in possession.
“You’ll wear red?” he asked.
She tilted her head. “For the wedding?”
“No,” he said quietly. “For me. Before you go.”
That night, he fucked her slowly. Deliberately. On silk sheets she hadn’t lain on before, in a different room of the suite. It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t rushed. It was memorized—etched into skin and scent and muscle.
As she rode him, hair loose over her shoulders, her hands on his chest, Faisal stared up at her as if committing her to memory.
When she climaxed, she whispered his name into his neck—not like a secret, but like a truth.
And afterward, as he lay beside her, watching the ceiling, he said:
“Don’t disappear over there.”
She turned her face toward him. “I won’t.”
It was late February when she boarded the flight to Delhi. Her sister-in-law’s wedding had been planned for months, and even Faisal had insisted she take time off.
“You need to go,” he’d said, adjusting his cufflinks without looking at her. “Play the daughter-in-law. Recharge. Then come back.”
She smiled and nodded, but something in her chest ached when he said then come back.
She hadn’t been away from him for more than four days at a time.

It was a mid-morning flight to Mumbai—her sister-in-law’s wedding was just days away. Rashi wore a soft beige travel kurta, her hair pulled back, lips lightly tinted. She had barely slept the night before—Faisal had kept her until after 2 a.m., and when she finally left his penthouse, her thighs were still sore from the hours they’d lost to each other.
She’d dozed through most of the boarding, head resting against the window, her hand resting on her stomach. But now, cruising at 30,000 feet, something stirred.
A queasyness. Subtle at first. Then unmistakable.
Her brow furrowed. She sat up, adjusted the air vent, took a sip of water.
But the nausea rolled again—slightly stronger.
Rashi’s fingers gripped the armrest as she breathed through it.
And then the thought landed.
Heavy.
Sudden.
She blinked.
When was the last time…?
Her hand dropped to her lap. Her mind raced.
The calendar in her planner. She had skipped it that first week back from Kabul. Blamed it on travel, then stress, then forgot to check. And the month had flown.
Then another.
Her eyes widened.
She hadn’t bled in over seven weeks.
Seven.
Her pulse quickened. Her stomach churned—not from nausea this time, but from realization.
Not now. Not here. Not like this.
She reached for her bag with a shaky hand, as if looking for something would calm her.
But nothing inside could answer the question forming like a storm behind her ribs.
She leaned back, eyes fixed on the seat in front of her. Somewhere in the clouds, reality cracked open.
What if…?
Her fingers slipped down to her belly. Still flat. Still unchanged.

But maybe… not for long.

[eslx1212]

The story is now completed, which is a disappointment. The latest episodes read well. But just when it was beginning to get more interesting the story has ended.

[qazmlp]

Nah,I do not think so.There is a lot of complexity to the story.Very well written and damn interesting.

[Dorabooji]

Where is the wimp and useless husband? Let him get killed by the terrorists.

[chellaporukki]

She is pregnant with her lover child. impotent husband will be happy that his time is saved and he is gonna be proud father.

[Blackdick11]

Perfect! Finally, this is the moment where both stories merge and everything starts to click into place!
That tiny mention of Pallavi’s wedding? Absolute genius — like a secret handshake for fans who’ve been following both stories. I’m buzzing with excitement just thinking about how you’ll weave the rest together! Seriously, this is next-level storytelling and I can’t wait for what’s next!

[ricah43165]

Wow,,,what a perfect backstory and merging climax for Rashi in In the Shadow of Diplomacy: A Tale of Temptation!
It beautifully ties everything together — her depth, her choices, and the connection back to Bound by Storm. 
Honestly, what a satisfying way to let her story shine while bringing both worlds into one!
In Kabul, Rashi first rode qadir's big cock  then Faisal's, and now she's about to take wild ride of zaid's cock in lucknow. 
What a lucky mf Zaid is, first with Urvashi, then Pallavi, now Rashi...

[Paul5]

I think only on or two persons not more than otherwise mess up this story allmost all Stories are here this type you can take example by Krish story here who knows my wife as well although it is cuck story but as per viewers ship 4 the no other wise lesser viewership

[untamable_rohini]

The story is now completed, which is a disappointment. The latest episodes read well. But just when it was beginning to get more interesting the story has ended.

Thanks for your feedback and sorry for disappointing you, but I wanted to finish the story here to merge with another one. so in essence it has not ended but will be continued in other thread with already existing characters.

[untamable_rohini]

No, he will survive to see his wife being a loving mother.

[untamable_rohini]

Where is the wimp and useless husband? Let him get killed by the terrorists.

I think only  on or two persons not more than otherwise mess up this story allmost all Stories are here this type you can take example by Krish story here who knows my wife as well although it is cuck story but as per viewers ship 4 the no other wise lesser viewership

So did you like it or not?

[eslx1212]

Thanks for your feedback and sorry for disappointing you, but I wanted to finish the story here to merge with another one. so in essence it has not ended but will be continued in other thread with already existing characters.

Will the characters other than Rashi in this story appear in the other story?

[Arul Pragasam]

Good that story did not end. Otherwise it would have been a disappointing finish. Great writing.

[Hornytamilan23]

Fantastic madam... u r dirty minded, who is smart and enough IQ level. Looking fwd for part 3. Do Zaid got to fuck Rashi? Who is the father of that bastard child? Qadir or faisal?