Adultery Paromita :: Unfaithfully yours

[cutekomal]

The air in their Bangalore penthouse a space curated to perfection, all glass and quiet luxury felt unusually heavy that night, humming with the electric anticipation that always preceded Paromita’s dates.

Soumen, a high-level CXO with the poise of a man used to control, sat opposite her, swirling a measure of single malt. His eyes carried a complex mix of pride, anxiety, and something deeper the kind of admiration that hides its tremor behind a practiced calm.

“You look extraordinary, my love,” he said softly, his low voice resonating off the glass walls. “Ready to live that out-of-the-world life we promised each other?”

Paromita adjusted the strap of her dress, her reflection catching a glint of uncertainty before it disappeared. “It still feels strange sometimes, Soumen. Even after everything the open marriages, the experiments. Every time feels like standing on a ledge.”

“That’s the thrill, isn’t it?” he replied, leaning forward. “That’s how we balance each other. I’m the architect of this beautiful chaos the one who convinced you to step beyond the safe, conventional marriage. And you, Paromita... you’re the one who lives it. You bring it to life. I give you freedom — Tinder dates, strangers, flings and in return, you give me this proof that we’ve truly outgrown convention.”

Something shifted in her then. The corporate professional precise, rational gave way to the woman who thrived on control. She walked toward him with a slow, deliberate grace, her earlier hesitation dissolving into confidence.

“Mastered it,” she murmured. “That’s what we’ve done. You know, sometimes I take those leaps without even telling you who it’s with or where I’m going. That’s the power you’ve given me. That’s what our version of love allows.”

Soumen drew in a sharp breath, the amber liquid in his glass turning still. This was always the hardest part  where theory met reality. It was one thing to preach liberation; it was another to watch her walk out the door into someone else’s arms.

“I know,” he admitted quietly. “And it destroys me but not in the way jealousy does. It’s something more precise... a crack, a deliberate fracture in my sense of ownership. Every time I let you go, I feel both emptied and elevated. It’s the strange cost of what we built surrendering what’s most precious and finding beauty in that surrender.”

He set the glass down, his gaze resting on the front door though she still stood close. “He’s waiting downstairs, isn’t he? That tightening in my stomach it isn’t fear. It’s the excitement of not knowing what will happen, of never hearing every detail. Go, Paromita. Claim your night.”

She smiled the timid trace of her earlier self completely erased. “I always do. And when I return, you’ll remember why we chose this life beyond the ordinary. Wish me luck, husband.”

“Luck,” he whispered, his voice barely more than breath.

The door closed with a soft click. The silence that followed was plush and heavy, filled with the hum of the city below. Soumen remained seated, the faintest smile on his lips already wondering what invisible tremor tonight would send rippling through the architecture of their strange, deliberate love.

[cutekomal]

The clock on the far wall glowed a muted gold in the dim light. Soumen had stopped checking it long ago, yet his mind refused to move on from its slow rhythm. The penthouse, once alive with the hum of conversation and music, now rested in a silence that pressed against his thoughts. He poured himself another inch of whiskey, the ice melting into slow shapes, the clink of glass the only sound that kept him company.

He thought of her — not in images of what she might be doing, but in the way she *was* when she left. The light touch she gave him on the shoulder before walking out, the scent of her perfume lingering in the air, the faint tremor in her fingers when she adjusted her earrings. It was never just lust that kept him awake — it was the ache of distance created by a love too large for conventional walls.

Sometimes, he reminded himself, this was what freedom looked like — an ache one chose willingly.

He turned toward the window. The Bangalore skyline stretched beneath him, neon lights glimmering like a restless heartbeat. He watched them as though they might form a message, something that would explain what he was feeling. Pride and longing, admiration and fear — all of them blended into a strange warmth inside his chest.


Far from home, Paromita stepped out of the car. The city’s midnight wind carried the smell of rain and dust, brushing against her bare shoulders. She lingered under a streetlamp for a second before walking toward the quiet café that glowed ahead. It was their ritual — to meet in public first, to remind herself of her control before everything blurred into intimacy.

She wasn’t thinking of the man waiting for her tonight; she was thinking of Soumen. The way he said *“go, claim your experience.”* The way his voice broke on that last word. It had always been him she needed to prove something to — and yet, every time, it felt like proving something to herself.

Inside, laughter from a nearby table floated toward her. For a moment, she envied the simplicity of strangers who didn’t live inside experiments of love. But when her phone vibrated — "a message from Soumen" — her heart skipped.

“Take a deep breath,” it read.
“I’m thinking of you. Always.”

She smiled — a real, unguarded smile. Whatever boundaries they tested, that message was the tether. The invisible line that kept her from floating too far.


Hours later, when the key turned in the door, Soumen didn’t move. The sound of her footsteps reached him first — steady, quiet, deliberate. He could tell everything from that rhythm. If it was hurried, she was uncertain; if it was slow, she was herself again. Tonight, it was calm.

Paromita stopped near the entrance, slipped off her heels, and stood there for a long second. Then she walked toward him, her perfume soft and familiar, and he finally turned. Their eyes met  no words, just that silent exchange that always bridged the space between guilt and understanding.

“Coffee?” she asked, her voice husky, almost fragile.

He nodded. “Let me make it.”

While he busied himself in the kitchen, she sank into the couch. The faint hum of the coffee machine filled the silence. When he returned, two cups in hand, she looked up at him, something unspoken trembling between them.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” she began. “It’s never about replacing you, Soumen. It’s about finding pieces of myself that I didn’t know existed.”

“I know,” he said softly. “And I don’t want to take them away. I just… need to learn how to breathe through the waiting.”

She reached out and touched his wrist, grounding him. “Then let’s breathe together.”

He sat beside her, the city still awake beyond the glass. Their shoulders touched light, hesitant as though rediscovering each other after a long journey. No confessions, no questions. Just two people in love, carrying the weight of their choices, and finding peace in the small, human warmth between them.

[cutekomal]

The city lights of Bangalore spilled across the glass walls of their penthouse, a mosaic of gold, silver, and restless motion. Paromita stood near the window, her hands folded lightly in front of her, staring at the streets below. The hum of traffic and distant laughter seemed muted, like it existed outside her consciousness. Soumen sat on the low couch, a glass of whiskey in hand, his posture relaxed yet deliberate, as though every movement had been measured for the effect it might have on her.

“You look tired,” he said softly, his eyes scanning her from across the room. “Or maybe… cautious?”

Paromita shifted, uncomfortable under his gaze. “I’m fine,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction. She had learned long ago that Soumen’s observation was rarely casual.

He set the glass down and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “You’ve been asking questions lately. About us. About what we are, what we want.” He paused, letting the words hang. “And I think it’s time we talk honestly, Paro.”

She turned toward him, heart tightening. “Honestly about what?”

“About everything,” he said. “About marriage, about freedom, about what it means to love someone fully… and let them live fully, too.”

Paromita laughed softly, a nervous, brittle sound. “Soumen, are you suggesting—”

“Yes,” he interrupted gently, “I am suggesting that the life we’ve been living—the routine, the comfort—it’s not enough for either of us. I want you to feel the world differently. I want us to explore, to push boundaries. To live a life that’s… complete out of the world.”

She blinked, caught between disbelief and curiosity. “I don’t… I don’t know if I could.”

“You could,” he said firmly, his voice unwavering. “You are braver than you think. I see it in you every day. That hesitation you feel? It’s only the first step toward discovering what you want. I’m not asking you to change who you are, Paro. I’m asking you to let yourself exist fully, without the invisible chains society or even tradition has placed on us.”

She looked away, her mind spinning. For years, she had trusted him, admired him, sometimes feared the quiet certainty with which he moved through life. Now he was asking her to abandon everything she thought she knew—everything that had defined her.

“Soumen… you mean… non-monogamy?” Her voice trembled slightly. “Open marriage, polyandry,… all that?”

He smiled, a slow, deliberate curl of his lips. “Yes. But more than labels, it’s a philosophy. A way to understand ourselves and each other beyond what’s comfortable. You’ll have the freedom to explore, to experience. And I’ll be here. Not as a jailer, not as a shadow—but as someone who trusts you completely.”

She swallowed hard. “And you… won’t feel… jealous?”

“Jealousy is a small word for what this is,” he said, his gaze steady. “What I feel is… complexity. Thrill. Awe. Sometimes a hollow ache. But mostly… pride. Pride that you can be yourself, entirely. That we can both grow, independently and together.”

Paromita’s fingers clenched around the edge of the window sill. She had felt many emotions in their years together, but this one—this invitation to step entirely outside herself—was new. Terrifying. Alluring.

“Can it really work?” she whispered. “If I… if we try it?”

Soumen stood and moved toward her, placing a hand lightly on her shoulder. “It will work because it’s built on trust. Because I believe in you. And because I want us to be brave enough to live in a world that many fear to enter. You’ll discover strength in yourself, Paro. And I’ll witness it, without needing to control it. You will be… a different human being.”

The words settled over her like a weight she didn’t know she wanted to carry. There was fear, yes—but underneath it, a pulse of anticipation, a spark she hadn’t realized had been dormant.

---

Over the next few weeks, the conversations continued. Soumen was patient but insistent, a careful architect of her awakening. He would leave books on her side table, articles and essays on modern relationships, freedom, and self-discovery. He would speak in casual asides about the philosophy behind polyandry, always grounding the radical in the rational.

“Look,” he said one evening, sitting across from her over a cup of coffee, “it’s not about replacing me. It’s about expanding you. Your world doesn’t shrink by loving differently. It grows. Every time you take a step, you’ll find new facets of yourself.”

Paromita listened, hesitant but attentive. The idea was still strange, almost alien, yet every word, every patient gesture from him made her feel safer exploring it. And slowly, the fear began to fade, replaced by curiosity.

---

Her first tentative steps into this world were cautious. She downloaded the app he suggested—not for immediate encounters, but to observe, to learn, to imagine possibilities. She explored conversations and read profiles, her pulse quickening in ways that startled her. Each new interaction was both thrilling and humbling; she felt like a student of life, discovering parts of herself that had long been dormant.

Soumen never pressured her. He remained a steady presence, a silent anchor she could return to after every new encounter with her own thoughts and desires. He reveled in her stories, in the spark of awakening that grew in her eyes, in the soft confidence that replaced her earlier hesitation.

One evening, she returned from a dinner she had attended alone. Soumen was waiting in the living room, leaning casually against the counter. Her reflection in the glass walls caught his gaze before she even entered.

“You’re glowing,” he said softly, and she realized she truly was—something inside her had shifted.

“I… I feel different,” she admitted. “More in control, more… myself.”

“That’s the point,” he said, a faint smile on his lips. “When you command your own experiences, you transform. That control, that freedom… it changes the way you exist. And when you return, we reconnect not as the same two people, but as something richer, deeper. You are awakening, Paro.”

She smiled, a quiet, tentative smile. And in that smile, Soumen saw all the courage he had hoped to awaken in her.

---

Days turned into weeks. Paromita grew bolder. She met new people, navigated her feelings, and explored the boundaries of trust and attraction. Soumen remained her confidant, her observer, her equal in this experiment of the heart. There were moments of tension—of jealousy, of doubt, of unease—but they never lasted long. Their bond was stronger than fear, stronger than convention, stronger than shame.

In the quiet hours, when Bangalore slept and only the distant hum of the city remained, they would speak openly about what they felt, what they feared, and what thrilled them. Paromita found that her body, her mind, her very self responded to experiences in ways she hadn’t anticipated. She had discovered that freedom could be intoxicating, that desire was not a cage but a revelation.

Soumen, in turn, discovered new dimensions of love, of patience, of pride. Watching her awaken was like watching a masterpiece being unveiled stroke by stroke. He had given her the key, yes—but she had chosen to open the door, and in doing so, transformed the landscape of their marriage forever.

And yet, the story remained unfinished. The city lights continued to shine against their windows, and each evening brought new possibilities, new questions, and new awakenings. Neither could say how far this path would stretch, nor where it would end. But both knew one truth: in daring to live fully, to trust fully, and to desire fully, they had crossed a threshold that would forever change the way they loved—and the way they lived.

The night stretched on, quiet but electric, a canvas of anticipation. Somewhere in that expansive city, new encounters waited, new choices loomed, and Paromita and Soumen remained suspended in that delicate, intoxicating tension—alive, alert, and endlessly open to whatever came next.