Adultery Undercover Desires

[PELURI]

yes bro...Rahul is not impotent...he's merely an innocuous husband, loving good natured guy...his idea of sex is gentle and caring as his traits...Danish too is well mannered guy and more physical...he's a gym guy...sperm count is biological nothing to do with being physical prowess.....suggested this twist to open up opportunities for some nerve wrecking slow fire seduction and under cover desires...in tune with the title

[Gopal Ratnam]

So finally everyone want kavya to mother a bastard child. ha ha

[Paty@123]

Rahul is not impotent, But Danish is a coward, because even if kavya tring seduce him also he could have restrained himself, since she is his friend's wife and he has made danish to come Bombay and helped in getting ajob, with a belief he has accomodated him in his flat, and with a belief he went onsight, they both betrayed him, he has every eligibility to take revenge on them, Moreover kavya is a bitch inside herself

[PELURI]

So finally everyone want kavya to mother a bastard child. ha ha

how brother...plz elaborate

[Rangabaashyam]

Kavya is a bitch by birth. She cannot be satisfied by one single man and she gets attracted to more men and their dicks. So far its just three and more may join and only god knows who impregnates her.

[Paty@123]

Update plz sir

[NovelNavel]

Kavya should get pregnant by another man sperm, so that Danish feel the same pain that of Rahul.

[PELURI]

bhashyam brother.....let's not be unfair to kavya...is she not entitled to fulfillment of bodily desires as a new bride....must not rahul be aware of this aspect

[PELURI]

Kavya should get pregnant by another man sperm, so that Danish feel the same pain that of Rahul.

think Danish has done no wrong..fault if any lies with Rahul or Kavya...more so Rahul not even Kavya...

[PELURI]

may be niw it's time for the author John446 to intervene to clarify on this ...

[Paty@123]

I request all the people keep quiet, now writer is going to give a long update , sir plz

[PELURI]

i wanted to keep quite but can't...as i see here Danish is being blamed unfairly....if you all remember, he's helped Kavya get a job through his contacts and recommendation....at that time Kavya was getting increasingly frustrated and Rahul was helpless....though Kavya fought with him and lectured about kitchen, he didn't hold any grudge and helped her in return....though Rahul knows that Kavya got the job due to Danish, he was not invited to the celebration Dinner...the Husband and Wife went alone without even thanking / acknowledgement....So Danish has given back more than what he got...so Rahul is entirely responsible for the whole mess, with his naivity and stupidity...And Kavya is only a victim of the circumstances ....i rest my case

[Paty@123]

I can understand sir peluri's argument, but it is nothing but betrayal on a friend, one should agree for that plz

[PELURI]

I can understand sir peluri's argument, but it is nothing but betrayal on a friend, one should agree for that plz

agreed ...still waiting for an update...it's been a while since the last update...hope john babu will post something tonight

[PELURI]

UPDATE PLEASE....URGENT...CAN'T WAIT

[Paty@123]

Update plz sir

[PELURI]

hi guys....any one interested in chat over Rahul, Kavya & Danish....i am on

[John446]

CHAPTER – 66


Feroz flourished in their presence, his once-solitary days now vibrant with connection. Kavya tended to him with a daughter’s care, her attentiveness born of respect for the man who had once hesitated to bless her marriage to Danish, his '. roots clashing with her ***** traditions. She understood his strength, his principles, and the effort it took to accept their love, and she poured her heart into building a bond that felt like family. She noticed the small things—his preference for tulsi tea, the creak of his favorite chair, the way his eyes lit up at old engineering journals—and made them right, restocking the pantry with his spices, oiling the chair’s hinges, organizing his books by year. Over morning coffee, she asked about his life, her questions gentle but probing. “What was it like, building bridges back then?” she asked one day, stirring her coffee, and Feroz’s face softened, launching into tales of his engineering days, his voice rich with memory. “You’re spoiling me, beta,” he said, his eyes shining, and Kavya’s smile deepened, feeling the gap of their past differences narrow with each shared moment.
Danish’s IT work and rekindled friendships often left Kavya and Feroz alone together, their time together fostering a deep, comfortable bond. His absences grew frequent—late-night client calls to resolve server crashes or outings with childhood friends, sparked by a chance meeting with Vikram, a collegemate from their coding club days. Vikram’s invitations to coding jams, chai sessions at a local café, or nostalgic drives to Necklace Road pulled Danish away most evenings, his laughter bright with stories of teenage hacks when he returned. Kavya encouraged him, her smile genuine, though a faint unease flickered—memories of Mumbai’s work-driven distance stirred, but she pushed them aside, caught in the glow of their new life. In Danish’s absence, Kavya turned to Feroz, determined to know him better, to make him see her as family, to ease the shadow of his initial reluctance about their marriage.
Their morning walks became a cherished ritual, the colony’s tree-lined lanes quiet in the dawn’s crisp air, the scent of jasmine trailing them like a soft melody. Kavya, in her cotton kurta and sneakers, matched Feroz’s steady pace, her questions drawing out stories of his youth—his first job, his wife’s love for gardening, the cultural concerns that once made him doubt her marriage to Danish. “What changed your mind?” she asked one morning, her breath visible in the cool air, her eyes earnest. Feroz paused, his gaze distant, his walking stick tapping the gravel. “Your heart, Kavya. The way you love Danish—it’s like my wife loved me. I couldn’t stand in the way of that.” Her throat tightened, and she touched his arm, their steps syncing as they passed bungalows dbangd in bougainvillea, his stories weaving a bridge between them. “You’re like a daughter now,” he added, his voice soft, and Kavya’s smile bloomed, her heart light with the warmth of his acceptance.
Evenings found them at the park near Hussain Sagar Lake, the sunset painting the sky in hues of pink and gold, the water reflecting the city’s lights. Kavya teased Feroz about his stubborn refusal to use a smartphone, her laughter bright as she mimicked scrolling on an imaginary screen. “You’d love my app recommendations,” she said, and he countered with tales of coding on punch cards, his eyes twinkling. “You keep me young, beta,” he said, his voice warm, and she asked about his wife’s favorite vegetarian dishes, eager to recreate them. Back home, they worked side by side in the kitchen, Kavya chopping okra for a bhindi masala, Feroz grinding spices, their hands moving in tandem, the clatter of utensils a quiet rhythm. She shared stories of her ***** upbringing—temple festivals, her mother’s sambar recipe—and he listened, his respect deepening, their conversations a tapestry of trust.
Kavya’s efforts extended beyond walks and talks. She organized Feroz’s old engineering tools, polished his wife’s brass puja lamp, and learned to make his favorite tulsi tea just right, its earthy warmth filling their mornings. One afternoon, she found him struggling with a jammed drawer and fixed it, her IT problem-solving skills turning to practical use, earning a grateful nod. “You’re a blessing,” he said, and she blushed, feeling the weight of his approval. When Danish returned from his outings, his eyes bright with Vikram’s latest coding prank, Kavya listened, her encouragement masking the faint unease of his absence. Her own IT demands—a server outage, a client escalation—kept her up late, and Danish’s fleeting sigh, quickly masked, didn’t escape her notice. But these were mere whispers, drowned by their harmony.
The haveli in Hyderabad stood as a silent witness to the deepening bond between Kavya and Feroz, its ancient walls absorbing the quiet intimacy that had grown over the months since Danish and Kavya had moved in. The late monsoon had given way to a softer season, but the air remained heavy, charged with the promise of rain. The house, with its labyrinthine corridors and faded elegance, was no longer just a backdrop but a living space filled with the warmth of shared moments—Danish’s laughter when he was home, Kavya’s meticulous care in tending to the puja corner, and Feroz’s stories that wove the past into the present. Feroz, Danish’s father, a widower whose eyes held both wisdom and a quiet yearning, found the haveli transformed by their presence. His joy at having his son and daughter-in-law under his roof was palpable, but it was his connection with Kavya that had begun to shift the air, filling it with a warmth that was both comforting and perilous.
Kavya, raised in a ***** family, had initially approached life in the haveli with caution, mindful of the cultural differences with Danish’s '. family. But Feroz’s open-hearted welcome had dismantled her reservations, drawing her into a rhythm of shared routines—morning chai on the veranda, where his deep voice spun tales of Hyderabad’s old city, or evenings in the kitchen, where she taught him the art of her family’s recipes while he introduced her to the poetry of Ghalib. Their differences, once a quiet divide, had become a bridge of genuine care. Kavya found herself drawn to Feroz’s steady presence, the way he listened with undivided attention, his laughter a warm embrace that lingered in her thoughts. Feroz, in turn, was captivated by her grace, the way her eyes lit up when she spoke of her traditions, and the quiet strength with which she made the haveli her own. Danish’s long hours at his friends tech startup left Kavya and Feroz alone often, their time together weaving a tapestry of familiarity that felt like home—yet beneath it, a subtle sexual tension simmered, unspoken but ever-present, flaring in the quiet moments when they were alone.
It was a late afternoon, the sky a soft gray with the threat of rain, the air thick with the scent of wet earth and jasmine from the courtyard. Danish was at a friend’s house, leaving Kavya and Feroz in the haveli’s quiet embrace. The living room was bathed in the golden glow of brass lamps, their light casting intricate shadows through the jali screens. Kavya sat on the embroidered divan, her sleeveless kurti clinging softly to her curves beneath a sheer dupatta, her hair loose and tumbling over one shoulder as she arranged a stack of old letters Danish had asked her to sort. Feroz was nearby, seated at the teak table, restoring an antique wooden box, his fingers moving with deliberate care, sanding the surface with a rhythmic motion that seemed to echo the steady pulse of the house.
“This one’s from your mother,” Kavya said, holding up a yellowed letter, her voice soft but carrying a warmth that drew his attention. “It’s about Danish’s first day at college. She sounds so proud.”
Feroz looked up, his eyes softening as he set the sanding cloth aside. “She was,” he said, his voice low, rich with memory. He rose and crossed to the divan, settling beside her, closer than necessary, his arm brushing hers as he reached for the letter. The contact sent a shiver through Kavya, her skin prickling with awareness, the warmth of his body a quiet pull she couldn’t ignore. She didn’t move away, and neither did he, the space between them charged with a heat that had grown familiar yet no less potent.
As they read the letter together, their fingers brushed, the touch lingering, deliberate, a silent acknowledgment of the pull between them. Kavya’s breath hitched, her pulse quickening as she felt the weight of his nearness, the faint scent of his sandalwood cologne mingling with the humid air, wrapping around her like a caress. She glanced at him, her eyes meeting his—dark, intense, and holding a quiet hunger that made her chest tighten. The silence stretched, heavy with the rhythm of their breathing, the distant hum of the city muffled by the haveli’s walls. In her mind, Kavya was pulled back to that night months ago, before they’d moved to Hyderabad. A power cut had plunged the guest room into suffocating darkness, her fear of the dark gripping her, and Feroz had been her anchor. They had ended up on the guest room bed, her trembling body pressed tightly against his, his arms enveloping her with a possessive tenderness. His nose had grazed the sensitive curve of her neck, his hot breath spilling across her skin, each exhale a molten caress that sent shivers of fear and forbidden desire through her. In the heat of that moment, Feroz had taken charge, his fingers bold as they slid the strap of her nighty off her shoulder, the fabric slipping to expose the soft, heaving swell of her breast. His lips followed, confident, unhurried, brushing the delicate skin above her breast, his nose trailing along the curve, each touch a slow, searing exploration that left her breathless, caught in a haze of fear and reckless longing. They had talked about it, but the memory scorched her now, her body aching with the echo of his touch, her heart torn between guilt and an insatiable pull toward him.
Feroz’s thoughts were a mirror, raw and unvoiced, the memory of that night a fire in his veins. He saw her trembling in his arms on the guest room bed, her body pressed against his, the heat of her skin under his nose as he breathed her in, her scent a heady mix of jasmine and vulnerability. His breath had fanned across her neck, hot and deliberate, drawing shivers from her that he felt in his core. In a moment of unguarded desire, he’d slid her nighty strap down, his fingers steady, claiming, as the fabric fell to reveal the soft curve of her breast. His lips had followed, brushing the delicate skin, his nose tracing the swell with a boldness that blurred every boundary, the act a forbidden dance they’d never acknowledged. Sitting beside her now, the letter forgotten in his hand, he felt that same fire, his body taut with the effort to contain the desire that threatened to spill over.
Neither spoke of it, the memory of that night a heavy, unspoken shadow pulsing between them. A soft rumble of thunder rolled outside, and Kavya’s dupatta slipped, revealing the smooth curve of her shoulder, the lamplight catching the faint sheen of her skin. Feroz’s voice was low, husky, “You’ve made this house a home, Kavya.” His words were simple, but his eyes burned into hers, raw with a desire that made her breath catch, her body responding despite herself. “I hadn’t realized how much I needed that.”
Kavya’s lips parted, a soft gasp escaping as his words wrapped around her, warm and dangerous, each syllable laced with the memory of his lips on her skin, his breath on her neck. Her fingers tightened on the letter, her mind flooded with that night—his arms claiming her, the heat of his breath igniting her skin, the bold slide of her nighty strap, the searing brush of his lips and nose against the swell of her breast. “It feels like home,” she whispered, her voice trembling, thick with want, her eyes dropping to the letter to escape the intensity of his gaze. But the air between them was electric, the distant thunder mirroring the storm within.
Feroz shifted, his knee pressing against hers under the table, the contact deliberate, unyielding, sending a wave of heat through her. Neither moved to break it, the silence stretching, thick with the weight of their unspoken desire. Kavya’s heart raced, her body caught between the genuine care that had grown between them and the guilt of the desire it stirred. She was Danish’s wife, yet here, in the haveli’s sultry glow, with the world outside fading into the hum of the approaching rain, the lines were dangerously blurred, the tension between them a living, breathing force, coiling tighter with every heartbeat.
The sky darkened, a thunderclap shaking the windows, and the power flickered, the lamps dimming, threatening to plunge them into darkness. Kavya’s breath caught, her fear of the dark surging, her hand instinctively reaching for Feroz’s arm, her fingers curling tightly around his wrist, the warmth of his skin grounding her yet fanning the fire within. He covered her hand with his, his touch firm, searing, charged with the same intensity that had marked that night. Their eyes locked, the moment teetering on a knife’s edge—toward restraint or toward something they couldn’t undo. The letter slipped from her hand, fluttering to the floor, a fragile tether to the present, as the storm drew closer, holding them in its intoxicating grip.

[John446]

CHAPTER – 67


It was a quiet afternoon, the sky a soft gray with the promise of rain, the haveli bathed in the warm glow of brass lamps. Danish was at a friend’s house, and Feroz was in the courtyard, tending to the jasmine vines, his kurta sleeves rolled up as he worked with careful precision. Kavya sat in the living room, her sleeveless kurti dbangd beneath a sheer dupatta, her hair loose as she sorted through a box of old photographs. She reached up to adjust her dupatta, the fabric slipping slightly to reveal the smooth curve of her shoulder, the lamplight catching her skin as she sifted through the images.
Her phone buzzed on the divan, the screen lighting up with a name she hadn’t seen in years: Ma. Kavya froze, her heart clenching with shock and unease. Her parents had disowned her when she married Danish, a '., their rejection a wound that had never healed. She hesitated, her fingers trembling, before answering. “Ma?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, the word heavy after years of silence.
“Kavya,” her mother’s voice came through, raw with tears, a sound that struck Kavya like a blow. “It’s your father… he’s not well.” Her mother’s words broke, a sob escaping as she explained—her father had suffered a stroke, his condition critical, the hospital bills mounting, and the family fractured without Kavya. “I know we hurt you,” her mother choked out, “but I didn’t know who else to call. He’s asking for you.”
Kavya’s hand tightened around the phone, her eyes stinging as the weight of years of estrangement crashed over her. The living room, once warm and familiar, felt overwhelming, the photographs forgotten on her lap. Her mother’s tears stirred a storm of emotions—guilt, anger, longing for the family she’d lost when she chose Danish. She didn’t notice Feroz entering the room, his steps quiet as he sensed her distress, his presence a steady anchor in her turmoil.
“Kavya?” Feroz’s voice was gentle, concerned, as he crossed to the divan, standing a respectful distance away. “Is everything alright?”
She looked up, her eyes glistening, her dupatta still slipped, revealing the curve of her shoulder, the vulnerability of her expression mirroring the rawness in her chest. “It’s my mother,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “She called… after all this time. My father’s sick, really sick.” The words spilled out, her voice breaking as she recounted her mother’s call, the hospital, her father’s condition.
Feroz nodded, his expression softening with empathy as he sat on a chair nearby, giving her space but offering his presence. “That must be hard to hear,” he said quietly, his voice a steady balm. “After so long.”
Kavya’s breath hitched, the weight of her mother’s words pressing down on her. “I don’t know what to do,” she said, her voice raw, the photographs slipping from her hands to the divan. “They didn’t want me when I chose Danish, and now… he’s asking for me.”
Feroz leaned forward slightly, his hands clasped, his gaze steady but kind. “You don’t have to decide today,” he said, his tone calm, reassuring. “Take your time. Whatever you choose, it’s your decision.”
A soft rumble of thunder rolled outside, and Kavya’s shoulders tensed, the approaching storm echoing the turmoil within her. Her dupatta slipped further, baring more of her shoulder, but she barely noticed, her mind consumed by her mother’s call. Feroz’s presence was a quiet anchor, his care genuine, though the unspoken tension between them lingered, a subtle undercurrent in the air. “I just… I thought that door was closed forever,” she said, her voice breaking, the weight of her family’s rejection mingling with the uncertainty of her father’s illness.
“You’ll find your way through this,” Feroz said, his voice steady, his eyes holding hers with a warmth that spoke of their shared months of connection. “You’re stronger than you know.”
Kavya’s heart pounded, torn between the care that had grown between them, the pain of her mother’s call, and the weight of her past choices. She was Danish’s wife, yet here, in the haveli’s warm glow, with the world outside fading into the hum of the approaching storm, she felt the strength of Feroz’s support, a quiet reassurance amidst the chaos. Her hand rested on the divan, the photographs scattered around her, a fragile tether to the present. The storm drew closer, the thunder a low rumble, holding the haveli in its quiet grip as Kavya sat, grappling with the past and the uncertain path ahead.
As kavya is crying she doesn’t understand how to react and without thinking, she stood and stepped toward Feroz, her body seeking comfort instinctively. She hugged him, her arms wrapping around him as she buried her face against his chest, her tears falling softly.
Feroz hesitated for a moment, then hugged her back, his hands resting gently on her lower back, his touch warm and reassuring. “It’s alright, Kavya,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “You’re not alone in this.” His words were a quiet anchor, his hands steady as he held her, offering solace in her grief. Kavya’s tears fell silently, her body trembling against his, the weight of her mother’s call overwhelming her.
As he consoled her, Feroz’s arms tightened slightly, a subtle shift that drew her closer, his hands pressing more firmly against her lower back. Kavya felt the change, the warmth of his embrace intensifying, and her body responded instinctively, rising onto her toes to hug him back tighter, her arms clinging to him as if he were the only solid thing in her storm of emotions. Her dupatta slipped further, baring more of her shoulder, but she barely noticed, her tears and the weight of her family’s call consuming her. Feroz’s voice remained steady, “You’ll get through this, Kavya. Take it one step at a time.” His hands stayed on her lower back, a quiet strength in his hold, his breath warm against her hair as he spoke.
Kavya pulled back slightly, her tears slowing, and reached for her phone, her hands still trembling. “I need to call Danish,” she said, her voice shaky but resolute. She dialed his number, her heart heavy as she waited for him to pick up. When he answered, his voice was warm but tinged with concern at her tone. “Kavya? What’s wrong?”
“It’s my father,” she said, her voice breaking as she recounted her mother’s call—the stroke, his critical condition, the years of silence broken by this desperate plea. “Ma called… he’s asking for me.” Her words were halting, the pain raw in her voice.
Danish’s voice softened, steady and reassuring. “Don’t worry, Kavya. I’m coming home right now. We’ll go to Delhi together to see your father. We’ll figure this out.” His words were a lifeline, grounding her in the midst of her turmoil.
Kavya nodded, though he couldn’t see her, a fresh wave of tears spilling over as she whispered, “Thank you.” She hung up, her hands still clutching the phone, her eyes meeting Feroz’s. He stood nearby, his expression one of quiet support, his presence a steady anchor. “Danish is coming home,” she said softly, her voice still raw. “We’re going to Delhi.”
Feroz nodded, his eyes warm with understanding. “You’ll be there for your father,” he said gently. “And you’ve got Danish with you. You’re not alone.” A soft rumble of thunder rolled outside, the storm drawing closer, echoing the turmoil within her. The photographs lay scattered on the divan, a fragile tether to the present, as the haveli held them in its quiet grip, the weight of her family’s call and the promise of Danish’s support anchoring her in the moment.

[Astroboy11]

Hmm, yep an expected development. Thanks for taking the suggestions from readers, Im sure it helps with developing the story. Speaking of which, the story has evolved to one where the couple are living with their choices and are moving on with the life they have chosen. As for me, I was wanting a revenge arc but it doesnt look like that will be happening.
Keep up the good work and try to write longer updates. I understand that will mean longer intervals between updates but readers can be pacified by popping in and leave a note that you are still working on it. Dont commit to deadline releases but let us know that the story will continue.