Adultery Weekday Wife [COMPLETED]

[Sherlocked]

Thank you guys for your kind words.

[Sherlocked]

Shweta drifted up from the depths of a coma-like sleep, pulled toward consciousness by a shiver that racked her naked frame. She blinked, her eyelids feeling heavy and swollen, staring up into a darkness that felt alien.


This wasn't her room. The ceiling was too low, devoid of the familiar wooden beams of the old roof. The mattress beneath her was impossibly soft, sinking under her weight like a cloud, a stark contrast to the hard, unyielding cotton mattress of the *palanka* she had slept on for a year. And the air—it was cold. Unnaturally, clinically cold.


She shifted, confusion fogging her brain, and her eyes caught the source of the faint illumination in the room: a small night lamp casting a spectral blue glow from the corner, and the digital display of an air conditioner humming a low, steady monotone.


Then, she saw him.


The blue light traced the silhouette of a man sleeping beside her. Broad shoulders, the rise and fall of a muscular chest, an arm thrown carelessly over his eyes.


*Sumu.*


The name hit her like a physical blow to the chest, shattering the fog of sleep.


*Borda.*


In an instant, the dam holding back the memories of the night burst. The images didn't trickle in; they crashed over her in a violent, suffocating wave.


She remembered the hallway. She remembered the water spilling down her chin, the heat of the night, and then the sudden, terrifying proximity of him. She remembered the way he had looked at her—not as a brother, not as a cousin, but as a predator. She remembered the collision of their lips, the taste of his tongue, the way he had lifted her effortlessly against the wall.


She squeezed her eyes shut, but the darkness behind her lids offered no sanctuary. Instead, it played back the reel of her transgression in high definition. She saw herself wrapping her legs around his waist, carried into this room like a spoil of war. She felt the phantom sensation of his warm, wet tongue lapping at her most private parts, the way she had cried out his name—*Dada*—while writhing in ecstasy. She remembered the searing stretch of him entering her, the fullness, the animalistic rhythm of their bodies slapping together.


A nausea, sharp and acidic, roiled in her stomach.


*What have I done?*


The question echoed in the silence of the room, terrified and accusing.


For the last few weeks, she had been living in a haze, a fever dream fueled by loneliness and a dangerous, simmering lust. The stolen glances, the accidental touches, the thrill of being watched on the terrace—it had all felt like a game. A way to feel alive in the suffocating boredom of her life.


But the game was over. The lust that had blinded her was gone, burned away by the friction of their bodies, leaving behind only the cold, hard ash of reality.


She looked down at herself. She was completely naked. Beside her, the man she had respected, the man she had called *Borda*, the man who had always maintained a dignified, professional distance, was also stark naked.


It felt as though a demon had possessed her. That was the only explanation. How else could she explain the way she had clawed at his back? The way she had begged him to take her?


She shifted her legs, and the physical reality of their sin made her flinch. The skin of her lower abdomen felt tight and sticky. She reached down, her trembling fingers brushing against her pubic hair. It was matted with the dried, crusty remnants of their mixed fluids—his seed and her own treacherous desire, glued to her skin like a brand of shame.


A whimper trapped in her throat. She felt dirty. Contaminated.


She scrambled off the bed as if the expensive grey sheets had suddenly turned into burning coals. Her feet hit the cold floor, and she nearly lost her balance, her legs shaking violently. She couldn't stay here. Not for another second. The sight of the bed—the rumpled pillows, the dark stain on the sheet where they had lain—shamed her to her very core.


She scanned the floor frantically in the dim blue light.


*Clothes. I need clothes.*


She spotted a scrap of white near the foot of the bed. Her panty. It lay tangled next to Sumu’s dark underwear, an intimate pairing that made her stomach turn. She snatched it up.


Her eyes darted to the corner of the room. Her blouse lay there, a crumpled heap of damp cotton. She remembered how she had arched her back, lifting herself to help him peel it off her skin. She had been so willing. So eager to be stripped.


She grabbed the blouse, clutching the garments to her chest as if they could shield her from the enormity of her guilt. She dared one last look at the bed. Sumu was still asleep, his breathing deep and rhythmic, completely at peace.


How could he sleep? How could he lie there so calmly after destroying everything?


She couldn't look at his face. The thought of him waking up, of his eyes meeting hers in the harsh light of morning, terrified her more than death. How would she ever face him again? How could she sit at the dining table, serve him rice, call him *Borda*, knowing that she had tasted him? Knowing that he had seen every inch of her, inside and out?


She turned and fled to the door, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She turned the knob with agonizing slowness, praying it wouldn't click.


She slipped through the crack and pulled the door shut behind her.


The transition was brutal. The heavy, humid air of the hallway crashed into her like a physical wall, instantly slicking her cold skin with condensation. The silence of the house was heavy, judgmental.


Her saree and petticoat were still where they had fallen, abandoned in the heat of their initial frenzy. The crimson fabric lay in a dark pool on the mosaic floor, a testament to her lack of control.


Shweta dropped to her knees, gathering the fabric with shaking hands. A sob welled up in her chest, a hot, expanding pressure that threatened to spill out into a scream. She bunched the cotton saree into a ball and shoved it into her mouth, biting down hard on the fabric to stifle the sound.


*Don't cry. Not here. Not yet.*


Clutching her bundle of clothes to her naked chest, she rose to her feet. She tiptoed down the corridor.


She reached her own room. Her sanctuary. Her prison.


She slipped inside and locked the door, sliding the heavy bolt home with a trembling hand. Only then did she let the clothes drop from her grasp. They fell to the floor in a heap, forgotten.


She didn't bother to dress. She stumbled toward the large, antique *palanka* bed—the bed she shared with her husband.


She threw herself onto the mattress, burying her face into the pillow on the right side.


*Ani's pillow.*


The scent hit her instantly. It wasn't the expensive cologne that lingered in Sumu's room. It was the smell of cheap coconut hair oil, stale sweat, and the faint, metallic tang of the steel plant.


It was the smell of Ani.


It felt like a knife twisting in her gut.


*Ani.* Her high college sweetheart. The boy who had ridden his bicycle in the rain just to see her. The man who worked double shifts in a furnace to buy her a saree. The man who was currently sleeping on a lumpy mattress miles away, trusting her, loving her.


She had betrayed him. She hadn't just made a mistake; she had shattered the foundation of their life. She had taken the one thing that belonged only to him—her intimacy, her loyalty—and given it to his own brother.


The sob she had been holding back finally broke free. It ripped through her throat, a jagged, ugly sound. She pressed her face harder into his pillow, inhaling his scent, punishing herself with it.


"I'm sorry," she choked out into the cotton, her voice thick with tears. "I'm so sorry, Ani. I'm so sorry."


She wept uncontrollably, her body shaking with the force of her grief. She cried for the innocence she had lost, for the demon that had taken over her, and for the husband she had wronged so deeply. The guilt was a physical weight, crushing her lungs, making it impossible to breathe.


She lay there for hours, naked and shivering in the heat, her tears soaking into the fabric of Ani’s pillow, washing over the smell of his hair oil until exhaustion finally dragged her back into a fitful, haunted sleep.

[Sherlocked]

The morning sun sliced through the gap in the heavy curtains, a blade of white light that cut across Sumu’s face, pulling him from the depths of a heavy, sated sleep. He groaned, shielding his eyes with a forearm, his internal clock telling him immediately that he had overslept. The house was already alive with the distant, muffled sounds of the day—the clanking of pots, the hum of the water pump.


He rolled over, his hand instinctively reaching out to the other side of the mattress, seeking the warmth that had anchored him through the night.


His palm met only cool, empty cotton.


Sumu blinked open his eyes, staring at the indentation on the grey pillow beside him. She was gone. But the ghost of her remained.


The air in the room, still crisp from the air conditioner, was heavy with a scent that made his head swim—a thick, heady cocktail of expensive room freshener, the lingering sweetness of jasmine, and the raw, earthy musk of sex. It was the smell of Shweta.


He shifted, the sheet rustling over his legs, and felt an immediate, sharp tug of arousal. His manhood was already hard, twitching against his thigh as the memories of the previous night flooded his brain, not as a hazy dream, but with the high-definition clarity of a film reel.


He looked down at the bedsheet. It was a battlefield of their passion. The grey fabric was rumpled and twisted, and near the center, a dark, stiff patch of dried fluids mapped out exactly where he had claimed her.


Sumu ran a hand over his face, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He had done it. He had actually done it.


For weeks, it had been a torture of his own making. He had watched her transform in his mind from Ani's wife—a fixture of the household, a sisterly figure—into a woman of devastating allure. He remembered the first time he saw her sleeping in this very bed, her saree in disarray, her large bosoms spilling from the top of her blouse, rising and falling with a rhythm that had hypnotized him. That image had been the spark.


Then came the game. The cat and mouse chase across the architecture of the old house. The hide and seek of their gazes, the stolen glances across the dinner table, the intentional, lingering brushes of fingers during the tea exchange. It had been a dangerous dance, chipping away at his conservation, eroding the walls of his morality brick by brick.


But last night... last night the dam had broken.


He closed his eyes, replaying the moment in the hallway. He could still see her standing by the water filter, the bottle tilted too high. He could see the water cascading down her chin, trailing over her lips, her neck, making her chest glisten in the faint, amber light. That sight had shattered whatever resolve he had left. He had seen the panic in her eyes, yes, but beneath it, he had seen the hunger. The same dark, gnawing hunger that had been eating him alive.


She had invited him. She had dared him.


He pushed the sheet aside, sitting up on the edge of the bed. He felt no guilt. Surprisingly, the crushing weight of betrayal he expected to feel toward Ani was absent. Instead, a possessive, primal justification took root. Ani wasn't here. He was miles away, leaving a woman like Shweta alone in this heat, week after week. She was vibrant, alive, and she needed a man’s touch. Why should she wither in loneliness?


He stood up, stretching his arms, his muscles stiff but humming with energy. He remembered the way she had moved with him, the way she had wrapped her legs around his waist, her *sankha pola* clinking a frantic rhythm as she clawed at his back. She hadn't complained. She hadn't pulled away. She had danced with him, matching his thrusts, her body opening to him as if it had been waiting for him all along.


He had explored every nook and corner of her that night. He had tasted skin that was supposed to be sacred, claimed curves that were meant for Ani’s eyes only. The thought sent a fresh wave of blood to his groin.


He couldn't stay in here all day, breathing in the scent of their transgression. He needed to face the house.


He showered quickly, scrubbing the physical evidence from his skin but unable to wash away the sensory memory of her touch. When he finally descended the stairs, the sun was high, baking the courtyard.


He walked toward the kitchen, the heart of the home. The aroma of frying spices hung in the air.


Shweta was there.


She was squatting on the floor near the vegetable basket, peeling potatoes, while Ani’s mother sat on a low stool nearby, sorting rice.


Sumu paused in the doorway, his heart giving a heavy thud. Shweta didn't look up. Her head was bent low, her focus on the potato in her hand so intense, so absolute, that it was immediately unbelievable. Her posture was rigid, her shoulders drawn in tight as if she were trying to make herself smaller, to disappear into the floor tiles.


"You're up late, Sumu," his aunt—Ani’s mother—said, looking up with a gentle smile. "Must be the work pressure."


"Yes, Jethima," Sumu lied smoothly, his eyes never leaving Shweta’s bent back. "Late night calls."


Shweta’s hand slipped. The peeler nicked her thumb. She flinched, sticking the digit into her mouth, but she still refused to turn around. She refused to acknowledge his presence.


Sumu watched her for a moment longer—the curve of her spine, the way her saree dbangd over the hips he had gripped so firmly just hours ago. He wanted to walk over, to touch her shoulder, to make her look at him and acknowledge what they had shared. But the presence of his aunt was a wall of iron between them.


He turned and walked to the dining room, a frustration simmering in his gut.


The pattern continued for the next couple of days. The house, usually small and intimate, suddenly felt vast, filled with corners and shadows where Shweta could hide.


She was avoiding him. It wasn't subtle; it was a desperate, calculated evasion.


The evening ritual, the one he had come to crave, was the first casualty. That evening, as he sat in his office waiting for the soft knock and the scent of jasmine, the door opened to reveal his own mother.


"Here's your tea, babu," she said, placing the cup on his desk. "Shweta is busy with the puja preparations."


Sumu stared at the cup, the disappointment tasting bitter in his mouth.


The mornings were no different. He would go out to the terrace, shirtless, gripping the weights, his eyes automatically drifting upward to the third-floor roof. He waited for the flash of color, the silhouette of her leaning over the pabangt. But the clotheslines were already full. She had begun hanging the laundry at dawn, long before he woke up, ensuring their eyes would never meet across the vertical distance.


She had vanished from the dining table, too. When he came down for lunch, his mother would tell him Shweta had already eaten, or that she wasn't hungry. At dinner, she would retreat to her room the moment the men sat down, claiming a headache or fatigue.


It was maddening.


Sumu sat in his office chair on the third day, staring blankly at his monitor. He spun a pen between his fingers, his jaw tight.


She was trying to erase it. She was trying to pretend that the night of the storm, the night they had torn each other’s clothes off and merged in the blue dark of his room, had never happened. She wanted to bury it under domestic duties and silence.


But he couldn't.


He couldn't scrub the sensation of her silken depth from his mind. He couldn't forget the weight of her heavy, soft breasts in his hands, or the way she had whimpered his name when he spilled himself inside her. It wasn't a memory he could just file away. It was a hunger that had been awakened, and a single meal hadn't satisfied it—it had only shown him what he was starving for.


He clenched his fist, the plastic of the pen creaking under the pressure.


*No,* he thought, a dark resolve hardening in his chest. *It cannot be a one-time deal.* She couldn't let him taste paradise and then slam the gates shut. She belonged to him now, in a way Ani would never understand. And he wasn't going to let her hide forever.

[LovePookie]

wow what an amazing writing waiting for more

[rinxox]

Wow ..just wow ...what will happen next.. waiting for the next update..will Sumu going to try or his luck and how will Shewta react...

[Sherlocked]

The week stretched out like a taut rubber band, ready to snap at any moment. For Shweta, the familiar geography of the house had transformed into a minefield. Avoiding a person under the same roof required a level of vigilance that left her exhausted before the day had even begun.


She woke before the sun, slipping out of the antique bed while the world outside was still bathed in grey pre-dawn light. She moved like a ghost, finishing her bathroom rituals and retreating to the safety of the ground floor kitchen long before the floorboards above creaked with Sumu’s waking steps. By the time he came down for breakfast, she was already entrenched behind a wall of chores, scrubbing utensils or chopping vegetables with manic intensity, always positioning herself so her back was to the door, or ensuring her mother-in-law or Jethima stood between them like human shields.


She could not look at him. The mere thought of making eye contact sent a hot, sickening flush of shame radiating through her marrow. How could she look at that face—the face of her husband’s brother—knowing exactly where it had been? Knowing the wet, ravenous things that mouth had done to her body? Every time she heard his voice, a deep baritone asking for water or tea, her skin prickled with the memory of his stubble grazing her inner thighs.


She lived for the weekend. She counted the hours until Saturday evening, praying that Ani’s presence would act as an exorcism, that seeing her husband would snap her back to reality and banish the phantom sensations of Sumu’s touch.


When Saturday finally arrived, Ani walked through the door, his shoulders slumped with the weight of the week, his face coated in the grime of the steel plant. But to Shweta, he looked like a lifeline.


Dinner that night was a tableau of tension that only Shweta seemed to perceive. For the first time all week, she could not escape the dining table. She sat on one side, while Ani and Sumu sat opposite her, side by side.


The visual contrast was cruel. Ani, thin and wiry, ate with the ravenous speed of a man who had subsisted on canteen slop for six days. Beside him, Sumu sat broad and imposing, his movements deliberate, his biceps flexing against the fabric of his t-shirt as he broke a piece of roti.


Jethima bustled around them, serving ladlefuls of chicken curry, chattering about the rising price of mustard oil. Shweta kept her eyes fixed on her plate, picking at a bone. But every time she lifted her gaze to check on Ani, to see if he needed more water or salt, her eyes inevitably drifted a fraction to the left.


Sumu was watching her.


He wasn't eating. He was leaning back slightly, his dark eyes fixed on her with an intensity that felt like a physical touch. He wasn't looking at her face. His gaze was lowered, boring through the sheer cotton of her saree, dissecting the dbang of her pallu to stare directly at the canyon of her heavy bosom.


Shweta felt her throat go dry. A bead of sweat, born of nervousness and the humid night, broke free from her hairline. It trickled down the side of her neck, sliding over her collarbone and disappearing into the deep valley between her breasts.


Sumu’s eyes tracked the droplet. His jaw tightened slightly, a microscopic shift that Shweta caught instantly.


Her whole body shivered violently. The memory assaulted her right there at the dinner table—the sensation of his rough tongue lapping sweat from that very spot, the way she had thrown her head back in the blue-lit room to give him better access. The phantom feeling of his mouth on her skin was so potent she almost dropped her water glass.


Guilt, hot and acidic, washed over her. *How can I think of this?* she screamed internally. *Ani is right here.* Her loving, hardworking husband was sitting inches away from the man who had violated his marriage, eating his dinner with a smile, completely oblivious to the silent, sordid communication passing right under his nose.


"This chicken is excellent, Jethima," Ani said, wiping gravy from his lip. "I dream of this taste all week."


Shweta looked down, her appetite gone, feeling like the worst woman in the world.


***


The moment the bedroom door clicked shut, sealing them in their private sanctuary, Shweta practically threw herself at her husband.


Ani had barely set his bag down when she collided with him, wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her face in his chest. She held him with a desperate, crushing grip, as if he were the only solid thing in a world that was dissolving.


"Shweta?" Ani asked, surprised, his hands hovering for a moment before settling on her back. He felt her shoulders shaking. "What happened? Why are you crying?"


"I miss you," she sobbed into his shirt, the smell of sweat and iron filling her nose. "I miss you so much, Ani. Please... please take me with you."


Ani pulled back slightly, trying to look at her face, but she wouldn't let go.


"Take you with me?"


"Yes," she pleaded, her voice thick with tears. "We can stay in Durgapur. I don't care where. I can cook for you every day. You won't have to eat that rubbish from the canteen. I'll take care of you. Just take me away from here."


Ani laughed softly, a sad, weary sound. He stroked her hair, mistaking her panic for affection. "Oh, Shweta. You know I can't do that yet. I don't have a permanent quarter. I sleep in a dormitory with ten other men. Where would you stay?"


"I don't care," she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut. "Anywhere but here."


Ani cupped her face in his rough, calloused hands, forcing her to look up at him. His eyes were moist, filled with a mixture of love and helplessness. "It pains me too, you know. Leaving you every Monday breaks my heart. But I have to wait until they make me permanent. Once I get the company quarter on campus, we will start our own little household. Just us. I promise."


Shweta closed her eyes tightly, two large tears escaping to run down her cheeks. He didn't understand. He thought she wanted to be with him out of love. He didn't realize she wanted to go with him because she was terrified of herself. She wanted to run away because she no longer trusted what she might do if she stayed in this house, with that man just a wall away.


Ani leaned in, brushing the tears away with his thumbs. He kissed her.


It was a soft, tender kiss, filled with the familiar, gentle love of a husband who cherished her. His lips moved slowly against hers, asking rather than taking.


Shweta froze.


It wasn't like *him*.


The comparison struck her unbidden, swift and cruel. It wasn't like the all-consuming, violent claim of his brother. It lacked the fire, the wet, desperate hunger that had devoured her in the hallway. Ani’s kiss was safe. Sumu’s kiss had been a natural disaster.


Ani pulled back, sensing her hesitation. "What happened?" he whispered, concern creasing his brow.


"Nothing," Shweta gasped, panic rising. She couldn't let him see. She couldn't let him know. She grabbed the back of his neck and pulled his face back down to hers, kissing him with a frantic energy, trying to drown out the voice in her head. "Just love me, Ani. Love me now."


A few minutes later, the antique *palanka* bed creaked rhythmically in the quiet room. They were both naked, the fan whirring overhead.


Ani moved above her, his body familiar and safe. He followed their regular routine, the one they had established over a year of marriage. He kissed her neck, he touched her breasts gently, and then he positioned himself.


As he slid inside her, Shweta bit her lip. He felt... average.


The thought was a betrayal, but she couldn't stop it. Her body, still humming with the sensory memory of Sumu’s impressive size, registered the difference immediately. Ani didn't stretch her. He didn't fill her completely. There was no pain, no feeling of being split open, just a comfortable, sliding friction.


Ani’s hips moved in a steady, predictable rhythm. *In, out. In, out.* He breathed heavily in her ear, murmuring her name. Shweta hugged him tightly, her nails digging into his back—not to urge him on, but to anchor herself to him, to the reality of her marriage.


She closed her eyes and tried to focus on his pleasure. She moved her hips, matching his pace, doing the things she knew he liked. After a few minutes of steady movement, she felt Ani’s breath hitch. His rhythm faltered, then sped up.


"Shweta..." he groaned.


With a few whispered words of encouragement from her, he tensed, gave three quick thrusts, and released himself with a shuddering sigh. He collapsed on top of her, his heart beating fast against her chest, before rolling off to the side, exhausted.


Within minutes, his breathing deepened into the heavy rhythm of sleep.


Shweta lay naked beside her husband, staring up at the canopy of the bed. This was their life. This was what she was used to. It was familiar. It was comforting. It was safe.


But tonight, as the sweat cooled on her skin, a hollow ache settled deep in her belly.


It didn't feel... enough.


She squeezed her thighs together, trying to suppress the sensation that was ghosting through her nerves—the memory of Sumu’s thickness, the endurance that had kept him going for an hour, the way he had ravaged her until she was screaming. She looked at Ani’s sleeping form, guilt warring with a newfound, dark dissatisfaction. She loved him. She truly did. But her body had tasted a different kind of fire, and now, the warmth of the hearth felt terrifyingly inadequate.

[LovePookie]

need bigger update

[Sherlocked]

The morning sun rose with a vengeance, baking the walls of the old house until they radiated heat like a kiln. It was Sunday, the day before Ani was scheduled to return to the grueling reality of the steel plant. The air in the house was heavy, laden not just with humidity, but with the unspoken weight of his impending departure.


"Bouma," Ani's mother called out, her voice soft but firm. "I want to offer a special puja for Ani at the Satsang Mandir today. Before he travels tomorrow. Will you come with me?"


Shweta nodded, dutifully masking the turmoil churning in her gut. "Yes, Ma. I'll get ready."


After the lunch dishes were cleared and the kitchen scrubbed down, Shweta retreated to the sanctuary of her bedroom to change. The room was dim, the curtains drawn against the harsh afternoon glare. Ani was already asleep, sprawled across the antique *palanka* bed, his mouth slightly open, a soft snore escaping his lips. He looked exhausted, the deep lines of fatigue etched around his eyes even in sleep.


Shweta paused, the silk of her saree bunched in her hands, and looked at him. A wave of fierce, protective tenderness washed over her, warring with the corrosive acid of her guilt. *He works so hard for us,* she thought, her heart twisting. *He gives everything he has. I can never hurt this man. Never again.*


With a renewed resolve to be the perfect wife, she dressed with care. She chose a traditional *garad* saree—crisp white cotton with a broad, blood-red border. She paired it with a matching red blouse that fit snugly, accentuating the fairness of her skin. She applied a fresh coat of vermilion to her *sinthi*, the bright red powder screaming her marital status to the world.


When she descended the stairs, the house was settling into its afternoon stupor. Sumu’s mother was wiping down the last of the kitchen counters.


"We're leaving, Jethima," Shweta said softly.


"Go carefully, the sun is sharp," the older woman replied without turning.


Shweta and her mother-in-law walked through the baking streets to the Satsang Mandir. The temple was largely empty at this hour, the stone floors cool against their bare feet. The smell of incense and marigolds was thick in the air. They offered their prayers, the priest chanting mantras for Ani’s safety and prosperity. Shweta squeezed her eyes shut, adding her own silent, desperate plea for strength to resist the darkness growing inside her.


"Bouma," her mother-in-law said as they stepped back out onto the temple steps. "I will stay for the afternoon bhajans. It gives me peace. You take the puja thali and go home. Rest for a while."


Shweta hesitated, but the prospect of sitting in the heat for another hour was unappealing. "Okay, Ma. I'll see you in the evening."


She took the steel thali, heavy with fruits, sweets, and flowers, and began the walk back. The heat was oppressive, pressing down on her shoulders, prickling her skin. By the time she pushed open the heavy wooden door of the house, she was flushed and glistening.


The house was silent as a tomb. The heavy silence of a Bengali afternoon, where everyone retreats behind closed doors to escape the sun, hung over the hallway. Shweta locked the main door and turned toward the stairs, her anklets making a soft *chim-chim* sound that echoed too loudly in the quiet.


She climbed the first flight of stairs, her mind already on the cool water she would splash on her face. She turned the landing to head toward the second floor, toward her room and her sleeping husband.


And then she froze.


Sumu was coming down.


He had paused on the landing between his floor and hers, one hand on the banister. He was dressed in a sleeveless vest and shorts, his hair tousled as if he had just risen from bed.


Shweta’s breath hitched in her throat. She had spent the entire week dodging him, turning corners to avoid his shadow, staring at her plate to avoid his eyes. But here, in the narrow confines of the staircase, there was nowhere to hide.


Sumu didn't move. He stood there, blocking her path, his dark eyes locking onto her with a terrifying intensity. He wasn't looking at her as a family member. He was devouring her.


His gaze raked over her, drinking in the sight. The walk in the sun had left her flushed, her skin glowing with a sheen of perspiration. Sweat glistened on the long slope of her neck and gathered in the hollow of her throat. He stared at the dark, damp patches under the arms of her tight red blouse, the fabric straining against her heavy chest. The contrast of the blood-red blouse against her pale, wet skin was violent and incredibly sexy. His eyes lingered on her *sinthi*, the bright red sindur acting not as a deterrent, but as a challenge.


Shweta felt scorched by his look. It was physical, invasive. Panic fluttered in her chest. She tightened her grip on the puja thali, her knuckles turning white.


"I... I need to go up," she stammered, trying to sidestep him.


She moved to the right, trying to squeeze past him and the wall. But the moment she was level with him, Sumu moved.


Quick as a cobra, he stepped in, grabbing her upper arm. He spun her around and shoved her back against the wall.


"Ah!" Shweta let out a small yelp, instinctively bringing the puja thali up between them like a shield, the steel rim pressing into her chest and his chest.


Sumu pressed his body against hers, trapping her. He was solid, heavy, and radiated a heat that rivaled the sun outside. His face was inches from hers, his eyes dark and dilated.


Shweta squeezed her eyes shut, turning her head to the side to avoid his mouth. Her breathing came in short, jagged gasps. "Please... let me go."


Sumu reached up, his large hand cupping her chin. He forced her head back, making her look at him.


"Are you not going to give me prasad?" he asked.


His voice was low, a rough whisper that respected the sleeping house but carried a double entendre that made Shweta’s stomach clench. He wasn't talking about the sweets on the plate.


Tears pricked her eyes. "Please, Borda," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Let me go. Your brother... Ani is upstairs. He's sleeping right there."


Sumu’s expression darkened. The mention of Ani, combined with her week-long avoidance, snapped his patience. "I can't forget about that night, Shweta," he growled, leaning closer, his breath hot on her face. "I haven't slept properly since. Every time I close my eyes, I see you in my bed."


Shweta recoiled, shaking her head frantically. "That was a mistake, Borda! It... it was a sin. It should never have happened. I don't know what came over me. Please, just forget about it. Forgive me."


Sumu let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Forgive you? For giving me the best night of my life? I've been waiting all week for more."


His hand left her chin and slid down, finding the curve of her waist where the saree was tucked in. His fingers brushed against the exposed skin of her midriff, damp with sweat. He rubbed his thumb up and down, feeling the softness, the heat.


Shweta whimpered, a broken sound. "Please, Borda, don't say this. We can't... we can't let it happen anymore. I love Ani. I can't hurt him."


Sumu ignored her pleas. His hand moved boldly over her flat stomach, his forefinger dipping into the deep well of her navel before sliding just beneath the waistband of her saree. He teased the skin there, feeling the muscles of her stomach tremble under his touch.


"What are you afraid of, Shweta?" Sumu whispered, his body towering over her. He shifted his hips, pressing his pelvis into the puja thali that separated them.


He moved his other hand to the side of her face, caressing her cheek, while the hand on her waist slid around to the small of her back, pulling her hips forward. "I understood that night... Bhai can't satisfy you properly. Can he?"


Shweta gasped, shock and shame flooding her veins.


"You were so tight," Sumu murmured, his eyes boring into hers. "Like you hadn't been touched in years. You enjoyed it, Shweta. You felt it. I heard you scream my name. Why are you trying to run away from the truth?"


"Stop it!" tears leaked from her eyes now. "Please, Borda. Let me go. Ani is upstairs. I love him. I can't do anything that will hurt him."


Sumu smirked, a cruel, knowing twist of his lips. "I know you love him. But he isn't there for you, is he? He comes home for two days, too tired to even look at you. He can't take care of a woman like you."


He leaned in closer, his nose brushing against hers. "A beautiful woman like you needs to be worshipped. Not ignored. He won't know anything, Shweta. Look at him... sleeping away the afternoon when he should be worshipping this body."


His hand slid lower, cupping the curve of her buttocks through the crisp white cotton. He squeezed, pulling her hard against him. The puja thali dug into Shweta’s chest, but through the metal, and against her stomach, she felt it—the hard, undeniable ridge of his erection pressing against her.


"You can go to him when he comes home on the weekends," Sumu whispered, his lips brushing hers. "But you can't let your prime waste away waiting for him. You know how you felt that night."


Shweta’s body betrayed her. Despite the shame burning her face, her hips moved involuntarily, a microscopic shift forward to meet the pressure of his erection. Her breath hitched.


"What he doesn't know won't hurt him," Sumu breathed.


"Please, Borda... let me—"


*“Oooohhhmmmpppp.”*


Her protest was smothered as Sumu smashed his lips onto hers.


It wasn't a question; it was a conquest. He claimed her mouth with a hot, demanding ferocity that eclipsed the heat of the afternoon. The puja thali tilted dangerously in her hand, forgotten, as her other arm fell uselessly to her side.


Shweta didn't know she had this much pent-up lust coiled inside her. The moment she felt his tongue sweep against her lips, her resistance shattered. Her mouth opened automatically, inviting him in.


The kiss was ferocious, violent. Their teeth clashed, their tongues fighting for dominance. Sumu tasted of tea and desire; she tasted of the sweets she had just offered to the gods.


*“Oooohhuummm...”* Shweta moaned into his mouth, the sound vibrating in her throat.


Sumu’s hand left her face and dove into the folds of her saree. He found the elastic of her panty and shoved his hand inside.


He groaned into her mouth. She was wet. Soaking wet.


The realization gave him a sick, soaring pleasure. His brother’s dutiful wife, dressed in her puja saree, was dripping wet for him on the stairs.


His fingers slid along the length of her slick labia, bathing in her arousal. Shweta whimpered, her legs shaking, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she pressed herself harder against the wall, opening her legs slightly to grant him access.


The silent stairway was suddenly filled with the wet, sloppy sounds of their kissing. Sumu pushed two fingers deep into the warm, slippery cave of her vagina. He began to pump his fingers in and out, rubbing his thumb against her swollen clitoris.


Shweta’s free hand flew up and wrapped around his neck, her fingers digging into his hair. She pulled him closer, thrusting her tongue into his mouth, desperate for more.


Sumu broke the kiss for a second, panting heavily against her swollen, red lips.


"Come to my room tonight," he commanded, his voice a hoarse shred of sound.


Shweta felt her knees turn to water. The command bypassed her brain and went straight to her core.


"Ohhh..." she gasped, her head falling back against the wall as his fingers increased their tempo inside her. "This is so hot..."


It was a stark, blinding contrast to the tender, predictable lovemaking of her husband. This fire, this danger, this overwhelming need was consuming her.


In the quiet of the Sunday afternoon, while the house slept, they burned.


*Creak.*


The sound of a door opening on the ground floor shattered the moment like glass.


Sumu’s parents' room.


They froze. The sound of Jethima’s footsteps echoed faintly on the tiles below.


The spell broke instantly. Terror, cold and sharp, replaced the lust in Shweta’s eyes. She realized where she was, what she was doing, whose hand was inside her.


Sumu withdrew his hand instantly, the wet sound of his exit loud in the silence.


Without a word, Shweta pushed him back. She clutched the puja thali to her chest and turned, bolting up the stairs toward the second floor, her anklets chiming frantically.


Sumu didn't chase her. He couldn't. He stood on the landing, breathing heavily, his erection straining painfully against his shorts. He couldn't go downstairs in this state. He turned and retreated rapidly to his own room, closing the door on the heavy, musk-filled air of the staircase.


On the marble step where they had stood, two small, glistening drops of Shweta’s arousal lay distinct against the stone—the only evidence of the sin that had just taken place.


—


The door to the bedroom clicked shut, and Shweta leaned back against the wood, her chest heaving as if she had just run a marathon. Her eyes darted instantly to the antique *palanka* bed.


Ani was still asleep.


A wave of relief so potent it made her knees weak washed over her. He lay sprawled on his stomach, face turned away, deep in the exhaustion that only a double-shift worker knows. He hadn't moved. He hadn't seen her.


Shweta pushed herself off the door and stumbled toward the dressing table mirror. The reflection that stared back at her made her hand fly to her mouth to stifle a gasp.


She looked thoroughly ravaged.


Her hair, which she had pinned into a neat, severe bun for the temple visit, was a disaster. Strands had escaped to frame her face in wild tendrils, and the bun itself hung loosely at the nape of her neck, threatening to collapse entirely. But it was her face that told the real story. Her eyes were wide, dark, and glassy with a feral mix of panic and lingering lust. Her lips—usually painted a modest red—were swollen and devoid of color, the lipstick smeared messily around the edges of her mouth, erased by the voracious hunger of Sumu’s kissing.


And her lips still glistened. Even in the dim light, she could see the wet sheen of his saliva coating them. She hadn't even had the chance to wipe it off.


She stared at herself, her breath coming in short, sharp pants. Her chest rose and fell rapidly beneath the blood-red blouse, the fabric damp with sweat. She looked hot. She looked sex-crazed. She looked like a woman who had just been taken against a wall.


*Thank God,* she thought, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. *Thank God he didn't wake up.* If Ani had opened his eyes and seen his wife standing there—flushed, panting, lips bruised and wet, smelling of musk and another man—there would have been no lie on earth that could have saved her.


She took a step toward the wardrobe, and a sudden, wet sensation between her legs made her falter.


The arousal hadn't subsided. If anything, the terror of almost being caught had only sharpened it. She could feel the slick, hot evidence of her excitement dripping from her soaked vagina, sliding slowly down her inner thigh. It was a physical reminder of the fingers that had been inside her just moments ago, of the fire Sumu had ignited on the staircase.


With trembling hands, she stripped off the *garad* saree and the tight red blouse, kicking them into the bottom of the laundry basket as if they were contaminated. She grabbed the simple cotton saree she had been wearing earlier in the day and wrapped it around herself with frantic, clumsy movements. She wiped her face vigorously with the end of the pallu, scrubbing away the smear of lipstick and the ghost of Sumu’s kiss, though the tingling sensation on her mouth refused to fade.


She lay down beside Ani, careful not to disturb the mattress. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing her heart to slow down, but it thumped against her chest like a trapped bird.


*How could he?* The thought spiraled in her mind, a mix of outrage and thrill. *How could he demand that? With Ani right here?*


It was madness. Sumu’s demand—*“Come to my room tonight”*—wasn't just a request; it was a blatant, arrogant command. He expected her to leave her husband’s bed, to crawl out from under Ani’s arm, and sneak across the hall to him. It was risky beyond belief. It was daring. It could destroy everything they had built—the family, the reputation, the brotherhood.


She knew she couldn't do it. It was impossible. Not while Ani was in the house.


But as she lay there, staring at the wooden beams of the ceiling, her body betrayed her resolve. If only they hadn't heard Jethima’s door open. If only Sumu had finished what he started on the stairs, perhaps this gnawing, burning ache in her belly would have been soothed. But he hadn't. He had lit a fire in her veins with his rough hands and dirty whispers, and then left her burning. The flames weren't dying down; they were licking at the edges of her willpower, turning her "no" into ash.

[LovePookie]

awesome

[rinxox]

So good man.. waiting for the next  update may be longer one...

[Sherlocked]

The evening passed in a blur of distraction. Shweta moved through the house like a sleepwalker, her body present but her mind trapped in the stairwell.


"Shweta?"


She blinked, looking up from her plate at dinner. Ani was watching her, his brow furrowed. "You've barely touched your food. And you seem... lost. Is everything okay?"


Shweta felt a flush of guilt creep up her neck. She forced a small, sad smile. "I'm okay. Just... sad that you're leaving tomorrow. The weekend went too fast."


Ani’s face softened instantly. He reached across the table and gave her hand a squeeze, followed by a side hug as he leaned in. "I know. It’s hard for me too. But I'll be back soon."


Shweta nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. She couldn't look him in the eye. And she certainly couldn't look across the table.


She didn't need to look to know Sumu was watching. She could feel his gaze burning into her skin, heavy and demanding. He ate silently, his presence looming large and dark at the table. Every time she reached for the water jug, she felt the weight of his eyes on her wrist, on her neck, stripping away her pretense of normalcy.


The relief was palpable when the men finally finished and went upstairs to their respective rooms. Shweta threw herself into the cleanup, scrubbing the dishes with a manic intensity, grateful for the noise of the running water and the chatter of her mother-in-law and Jethima.


One by one, the lights went out. The elders retreated to their rooms on the ground floor. The house settled into the heavy, suffocating silence of the night, illuminated only by the faint, amber glow of the night lamps in the corridor.


Shweta dried her hands and turned toward the stairs. Her heart began to race again. She had to pass his room to get to hers.


She climbed the stairs slowly, her anklets chiming softly. She reached the second-floor landing. The hallway was dark, save for a slice of yellow light spilling from the slightly ajar door of her own bedroom at the far end.


She took a step toward safety.


Suddenly, a hand shot out from the shadows near the staircase pillar.


"Mmph!"


Before a scream could tear from her throat, she was yanked sideways. She crashed into a wall of hard muscle, the air knocked out of her lungs.


Sumu.


He didn't give her a second to recover. He spun her around and slammed her back against the wall in the narrow, dark recess between the staircase railing and the entrance to the hallway.


Panic exploded in Shweta’s chest. Her eyes darted wildly to her bedroom door, just ten feet away. through the crack, she could see the edge of the bed. She could see Ani’s legs.


*Oh god. He’s right there.*


If Ani woke up, if he walked out to see who made the noise...


Sumu seemed to thrive on the danger. He pressed his entire body against hers, pinning her to the plaster. He grabbed her face with one large hand, his fingers digging into her cheeks, forcing her to look at him in the gloom.


She could feel the trembling of her own body, vibrating against his solidity. He lowered his head, his face looming in the darkness until their noses touched. His breath, smelling faintly of toothpaste, fanned across her lips.


"We should finish what we started in the afternoon," he whispered.


His voice was barely a breath, a low rumble that vibrated straight through her chest bones.


Shweta’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth, a desperate "no" forming on her tongue, but Sumu was faster.


He placed two fingers firmly over her lips, silencing her.


He didn't pull them away. He rubbed her lower lip slowly, pressing into the softness. He traced the shape of her mouth—the mouth he had bruised earlier, the mouth he clearly wanted to devour again.


"Come when he falls asleep," he commanded softly.


The words hung in the air, heavy and absolute.


Then, as suddenly as he had grabbed her, he released her. He stepped back into the shadows of the landing, disappearing toward his room without a backward glance.


Shweta stood frozen against the wall, her legs shaking so hard she thought she might collapse. She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to calm the erratic thumping of her heart. She waited one minute. Two.


She smoothed her saree, took a deep, shuddering breath, and walked into her bedroom.


Ani was dozing, his phone loosely gripped in his hand, the screen casting a pale light on his chin. Shweta walked over and gently pried the device from his fingers, placing it on the bedside table.


Ani stirred, blinking blearily. "Hmm? Shweta? Where were you?"


"I was just helping Ma and Jethima clean up the kitchen," she lied, her voice sounding surprisingly steady to her own ears. She forced a smile, though her facial muscles felt tight.


"Mmm. Okay," Ani mumbled, shifting to make space for her. He patted the mattress. "Come to bed."


Shweta walked to the door. She turned the lock with a soft *click*, the sound echoing the finality of her decision to stay. She switched off the light, plunging the room into darkness, and climbed into the antique bed beside her husband.


Ani immediately rolled toward her. He wrapped his arm heavy around her waist and buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply.


"Goodnight," he murmured.


"Goodnight," Shweta whispered.


Within minutes, his breathing deepened, shifting into the rhythmic, soft snoring of deep sleep.


But for Shweta, sleep was a distant country.


The ceiling fan whirred overhead, churning the hot air, but it did nothing to cool the fever in her blood. She lay rigid, staring into the dark. Every time she closed her eyes, the images assaulted her.


She saw herself in the white and red puja saree, pressed against the wall. She felt Sumu’s hand disappearing into her waistline. She heard the wet sound of his fingers inside her. She felt the ghost of his erection pressing against her stomach through the metal thali.


*Come when he falls asleep.*


The command replayed in her mind on a loop.


It wasn't just a command; it was a promise. A promise of the fire she craved, the oblivion she needed to escape the suffocating dullness of her life.


She tried to fight it. She thought of Ani, sleeping peacefully beside her, trusting her. She thought of the shame, the risk, the sheer immorality of it.


But then she thought of the fire. She thought of the way Sumu looked at her—like he wanted to consume her whole. She thought of the release she had been denied on the stairs, the pressure building in her lower belly until it was a physical ache.


An hour passed. Then another. The house was dead silent.


Shweta bit her lip until it tasted of iron. She couldn't take it anymore. The heat in her veins was unbearable. She felt like she was going to scream if she didn't move.


Finally, the decision crystallized in her mind. It wasn't a surrender, she told herself. It was a necessity. She would go to him. She would go to his room and tell him to stop. She would tell him this madness had to end, that they couldn't keep playing with fire without burning the whole house down.


Yes. That was why she was going. To end it.


Ani’s sleep was heavy, born of physical labor and trust. Slowly, with agonizing care, she reached for Ani’s arm dbangd across her chest. She lifted it, inch by inch, holding her breath. He grunted softly, shifting his leg, and Shweta froze, her heart stopping.


He settled again, his breathing resuming its heavy rhythm.


She lowered his arm to the mattress. She carefully extracted her legs from where they were tangled with his. She slid to the edge of the bed and placed her feet on the floor.


She stood up, the silence of the room amplifying the rustle of her saree. She took a step.


*Chink.*


Her anklet made a soft sound. She paused, looking back at the bed.


Ani didn't stir. He hugged the pillow she had just vacated, pulling it close to his chest, seeking her warmth in his sleep.


She tiptoed across the room, her breath held tight in her lungs. She reached the door and slid the bolt back with painstaking slowness. She turned the knob.


She slipped out into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind her, leaving her husband sleeping peacefully with a pillow in his arms, while she turned toward the stairs to ascend into the darkness.

[LovePookie]

hmm again suspense need bigger update next

[Sherlocked]

The next update would be big indeed. But I'll also be wrapping up the story after that. Hope you guys liked my story.

[LovePookie]

WISH YOU ALL A HAPPY NEW YEAR

[Rocky@handsome]

Awesome!!
❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

[rinxox]

Waiting for the grand night behind her husband..make her blow his cock

[Sherlocked]

Wish you guys a very very happy new year.

[Sherlocked]

The short walk across the dark hallway felt like a journey across a tightrope strung over a deep chasm. Shweta tiptoed, her bare feet making no sound on the mosaic floor, but the thumping of her heart was so loud in her ears she feared it might wake the dead.


*I have to end this,* she told herself, the mantra repeating in her head with every step. *I have to end this tonight. Right now. Or I will never sleep again.*


She reached the heavy wooden door of Sumu’s room and paused, her hand hovering over the brass knob. She held her breath, listening. Silence. Was he asleep? A part of her prayed he was, that she could turn around and retreat to the safety of her husband’s side without confrontation. But deep in the marrow of her bones, she knew better. He wasn't asleep. He was waiting.


With a trembling hand, she twisted the knob and pushed the door open.


The room was plunged in shadow, illuminated only by the spectral, electric-blue glow of the night lamp in the corner. The air inside was crisp and cool, a jarring contrast to the humid soup of the hallway. Shweta stepped inside, and her eyes adjusted instantly to the gloom.


He was there.


Sumu was sitting on the edge of the bed, his upper body leaning back against the headboard of the divan. He was a dark silhouette against the pale grey sheets, motionless, like a predator patiently waiting in its lair. She couldn't see his face clearly in the low light, but she could feel the weight of his eyes. They were boring into her, stripping away her resolve before she had even spoken. The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood up.


She pushed the door shut behind her, the click sounding like a gunshot in the quiet room.


"Borda," she whispered, her voice shaking but determined. "We can't do this anymore. We have to stop."


The shadow on the bed moved. Sumu stood up slowly, unfolding his large frame with a fluid, feline grace. He didn't speak. He just started to move toward her.


Shweta’s breath hitched. She took a step back, but her shoulder blades hit the solid wood of the door. There was nowhere to go.


Sumu closed the distance, his body looming over hers, blotting out the blue light. He didn't stop until he was framing her, his presence overwhelming her senses.


"Stop?" he murmured, the word vibrating in the small space between them.


"Yes," she gasped. She brought her hands up, placing her palms flat against his bare, hard chest to push him away. "Move back."


But her strength was nothing against him. It was like trying to hold back a landslide. Sumu didn't even flinch. He reached up, tearing her hands away from his chest with effortless dominance. He pinned both her wrists together in one large hand and forced them high above her head, pressing them against the door.


In the same motion, his other arm snaked around her slender waist, yanking her forward. He sank his body into hers, crushing her soft curves against his granite hardness.


Shweta let out a small, strangled noise, stuck between the cool, hard wood of the door and the searing heat of her brother-in-law. She squirmed, trying to twist away, but his grip was iron.


"Let me go," she pleaded, though the fight was already leaking out of her voice.


Sumu lowered his face until he was inches from hers. In the blue twilight, she could see the glint in his eyes. There was no apology there, only a dark, burning hunger. This time, she didn't look away. She stared back, trying to summon a look of defiance, trying to remember the sleeping husband across the hall.


Sumu didn't seem impressed by her resistance. His free hand, the one around her waist, began to roam. It slid down the curvature of her hip, molded the softness of her buttocks through the cotton saree, and then moved up to trace the trembling skin of her stomach.


"Why, Shweta?" he asked, his voice hoarse and rough.


"I love your brother, Borda," she whispered, her voice low but surprisingly steady. "I can't hurt him. He trusts me."


"I know you love him," Sumu replied, his hand squeezing her waist possessively. "You have been with him since college. But that does not mean you need to ignore your own needs."


"No, Borda," she shook her head, tears pricking her eyes. "He makes me happy."


Sumu gave a small, dark laugh that sent a shiver down her spine. "No, he doesn't. If he did, then you would not have come with me that night. You wouldn't be standing here right now. You know what you felt that night, Shweta. You know what I gave you."


"Please, Borda," she begged, desperation creeping in. "Let me go. He might wake up. He might wonder where I am."


"Shweta," Sumu whispered, leaning in to brush his nose against hers. "You know once he falls asleep, he does not wake up. He is dead to the world."


While Shweta was distracted by his logic, terrified by the truth of it, Sumu’s hand moved. His fingers found the edge of her pallu where it was tucked into her waist. With a subtle, practiced tug, he pulled the fabric free.


The saree slid off her shoulder.


The cool air from the air conditioner hit her exposed chest instantly, raising goosebumps across her skin. Shweta gasped, realizing she was now standing before him with her chest heaving beneath the thin, worn fabric of her blouse.


Sumu didn't wait. His palm moved up, hovering over her breast for a second before cupping it. He didn't press hard; he just held the weight of her, his thumb finding the center. He rubbed her sensitive nipple through the cotton. It was already hard, betraying her completely.


Shweta involuntarily arched her back, her body seeking the friction even as her mind screamed to stop.


"Please, Borda... let me go..." she started to say, the words fragile.


Sumu moved his hand from her wrists to her chin, gripping her jaw with his fingers. He tilted her head upwards, angling her face towards his. He brought his lips so close they brushed against hers, a ghost of a kiss.


"Shhh," he hushed her.


She stopped mid-sentence. Her eyes fluttered closed automatically at the proximity, her senses overwhelmed by his scent—musk and desire. Her lips parted in anticipation, her breath coming out in short, jagged puffs that mingled with his.


Sumu kept his lips hovering against hers, teasing her, denying her the contact she suddenly craved.


"Forget everything, Shweta," he whispered against her mouth. "Let's go to the bed together. I'll show you pleasure you have never felt before."


His words were a spell, weaving through the fog of her morality. His whole body pressed into hers, and she felt it—the hard, undeniable ridge of his erection poking firmly against her navel through the layers of clothes.


"Ani is not here for the whole week," Sumu continued, his voice a seductive rumble. "Nobody else comes to this floor. This will be our own paradise."


Shweta started to shiver violently at his words. The temptation was agonizing. The allure of not spending her nights alone in her hard, empty bed, of not staring at the ceiling in frustration... the promise of someone to keep her warm, to fill the void that Ani’s exhaustion had left behind.


Lust twisted in her lower abdomen, a hot, liquid coil that crumbled her last shred of resolve. She had already crossed the boundary. She had already tainted the sanctity of her marriage on the stairs, in the hallway, in his bed. Why should she deny herself the pleasure she knew—she *knew*—this man could give her?


She opened her eyes, looking into the dark depths of his, and saw her own reflection surrendering.


In a breathy whisper, barely audible over the hum of the AC, she said the words of her final defeat.


"Take me, Borda... finish me."

[Sherlocked]

That was all the invitation Sumu needed.


He released his grip on her wrists, letting her arms fall slack against the door. He watched her face in the spectral blue light, searching for any lingering trace of the dutiful wife who had walked into the room moments ago. But she was gone. The resistance in her eyes flickered and died, replaced by a dark, dilated surrender that mirrored his own obsession.


He leaned in and let his lips claim hers. It wasn't the bruising, frantic violence of the afternoon on the stairs. This was different. This was a slow, deep assertion of ownership. He kissed her like a man drinking from a fountain after a lifetime of thirst, tilting his head to deepen the angle, plunging his tongue deep into the warm cavern of her mouth.


He tasted the minty freshness of her toothpaste, a domestic flavor that clashed intoxicatingly with the frantic, raw sweetness of her desire. He sucked on her tongue, drinking her in, tasting her sweet saliva. Shweta met him halfway, feeding more of herself into his mouth as if desperate to quench his thirst, to drown his rationality so he wouldn't stop. Her arms, now free from his grip, drifted up slowly, hesitantly at first, before wrapping tightly around his neck. She pulled him deeper into the kiss, pulling him deeper into their sin.


Sumu broke the kiss, his forehead resting against hers, his breathing ragged and harsh in the quiet room. Shweta didn't pull away. Her hands roamed over his naked chest, her fingers tracing the hard, defined slabs of muscle, exploring the body she had worshipped from the rooftop for so long.


Sumu stepped back slightly, his hand finding the end of her saree. He tugged gently.


Shweta understood. She turned on her heel, a slow pirouette in the center of the room. Sumu held the fabric, unwinding her, unwrapping the gift he had obsessed over for the last couple of weeks. The cotton fell away layer by layer, swirling around her ankles until the last strand slipped from her body.


She stood facing the door, her back to him. Sumu moved in instantly, wrapping his arms around her waist and hugging her from behind. He pulled her flush against him, his hips snapping forward so that his raging hardness pressed firmly into the crack of her ass through her petticoat.


His hands fumbled for the drawstring at her hip. One tug, and the knot gave way. The petticoat loosened, sliding down her legs to pool around her ankles in a ring of white cotton.


Sumu slid his hands down her hips to pull her bottom back into his manhood, intending to grind against the fabric of her panties. But his hands met only warm, bare skin.


He froze for a microsecond, surprise flaring in his chest. She wasn't wearing any underwear. Beneath the saree and the petticoat, she had been completely naked from the waist down. The realization that she had walked across the hall, past her sleeping husband, in such a state of readiness sent a fresh shockwave of lust through him. His sleeping shorts and her thin, sweat-dampened blouse were now the only barriers left between them.


His hand slid around her hip, diving between her thighs. He found her mound instantly. It was soaked, a hot, slick testament to her need.


Feeling his rough palm cup her private most part, Shweta threw her head back against his shoulder and moaned in pure pleasure. Sumu grabbed the entire area in his large palm, his fingers kneading the soft flesh. He pulled her ass hard into his erection, helping her rotate her hips. She followed his lead, welcoming the soft, crushing touch of her buttocks against him, welcoming the friction that promised to end her ache.


He started rubbing his fingers along the length of her wet opening, bathing his digits in her juices.


"Ohhh... Borda..." Shweta whimpered, the pleasure intense and blinding. She began to writhe against him, twisting like a snake, her body seeking more pressure, more contact.


Sumu moved one hand up to her neck. He swept the heavy mass of her hair aside, creating a curtain that exposed the nape of her neck and the expanse of her back to him. Shweta turned her head to the side, pressing her cheek against his shoulder, offering herself.


Sumu began to rain kisses down her neck, his lips hot and wet against her skin. He moved to her shoulder, biting gently, then licking the spot to soothe it. He was marking her, claiming territory that wasn't his. His hand between her legs continued its relentless work, his middle finger slipping shallowly in and out of her, teasing the entrance.


Shweta’s knees went weak, threatening to buckle under the assault of sensation. She reached back, grabbing a handful of his thick hair, tugging him closer, silently encouraging him in his feast.


Sumu dropped to his knees behind her.


He kissed his way down her spine, his unshaven chin grazing her skin through the gap in the back of her blouse. He stopped at the small of her back, rubbing his face against the curve, tasting the salt of her dried sweat. His arms wrapped around her stomach, holding her steady as his face moved lower.


He buried his face between her buttocks, inhaling deeply, taking in the raw, musky smell of her arousal.


Shweta gasped, her body stiffening in shock. "What are you doing, Borda?" she exclaimed, her voice high and breathless. "Please... remove your face from there. It's dirty!"


Sumu didn't heed her words. The taboo only fueled him. He kept his face buried in the ass of his brother's wife, breathing her in, while his hand reached around to rub her clitoris with a rhythmic, maddening pressure.


He stood up abruptly, the sudden motion making Shweta sway. He grabbed her shoulders and turned her to face him. His eyes were dark holes in the blue light. He shoved his shorts down, kicking them away until they joined the pile of Shweta’s petticoat on the floor.


He pulled her against his naked body, his hot, rigid shaft pressing intimately between their stomachs. His hands went to the front of her blouse. With a violent rip, the buttons popped, flying into the shadows. He tore the fabric from her arms and threw it away.


She stood before him completely naked, her breasts heaving, her skin glowing in the dim light.


Sumu didn't wait. He bent and scooped her up effortlessly into his arms. Shweta reacted instantly, wrapping her legs around his waist and locking her ankles behind his back to secure herself. She clung to his neck, her breasts flattened against his chest, her face buried in the crook of his neck.


She lifted her head, her lips brushing against his ear, and whispered the surrender he had been waiting for.


"Take me to your bed."


The surrender in her voice sent a jolt of electricity straight to Sumu’s groin, more powerful than any physical touch. His manhood, already hard as iron, twitched violently against the soft, pale flesh of her inner thigh, acknowledging her command. He tightened his grip beneath her thighs, his fingers digging into the plush curves of her bottom, lifting her slightly higher to settle her weight against his hips.


He began to walk, not with the hurried pace of a thief, but with the slow, deliberate stride of a conqueror. The few steps from the center of the room to his bed felt heavy with significance. The reality of the moment crashed into him with intoxicating force: he was carrying Ani’s wife. The woman who had been forbidden, the woman who wore the vermilion of his cousin’s name in the part of her hair, was now hanging completely naked off his body, clinging to him as if he were the only solid thing in her world.


The thought maddened him. Just few feets away Ani was sweating in his sleep in this hot, humid night, dreaming of this woman. Here, in the cool, blue-lit hum of the air-conditioned room, Sumu was stealing his future.


Shweta didn't let him think for long. She pulled his face down to hers, her mouth capturing his in a wet, ravenous seal. Her tongue darted out, hot and eager, swirling inside his mouth, tasting him, claiming him. She tasted of forbidden desire, a flavor that made his blood boil.


With every step he took, the friction between their bodies sent shockwaves through them both. Because her legs were locked firmly around his waist, his rigid length was pressed directly against her sex. The movement of his stride caused the broad head of his penis to brush rhythmically against her slick, weeping entrance. She let out a muffled moan into his mouth, her hips instinctively grinding forward, seeking more friction, wetting the tip of his shaft with the evidence of her betrayal. She was ready, dripping and open, practically begging to be filled before they even reached the mattress.The knowledge of who slept in the room separated by couple of concrete walls twisted in Sumu’s gut, not as guilt, but as a dark, combustible fuel. Ani had always looked up to him, treating Sumu not just as a cousin, but as an elder brother, a mentor, a pillar of stability. I the stifling, humid darkness of his room, Ani was likely sprawled on a mattress that had grown too thin, exhaustion from the steel plant dragging him into a coma-like slumber despite the heat. He was suffering to build a life for the woman currently wrapped around Sumu’s waist. The sheer, absolute wrongness of stealing his brother’s wife, of carrying her like a prize into his own air-conditioned sanctuary, made Sumu’s erection harden beyond anything he had ever felt. It was harder than the steel Ani broke his back over; it was a weapon of conquest.


Shweta felt it, too. With every heavy step Sumu took toward the bed, that iron-hard ridge of flesh thumped against her wet heat, sending electric jolts shooting through her groin and straight up her spine. The friction was maddening, a promise of the devastation to come. She knew Ani was only a few dozen feet away, separated by nothing but a layer of concrete and the silence of the sleeping house. The proximity didn't stop her; it stripped her bare. She had discarded every shred of modesty the moment she begged Sumu to take her. The terrified, lonely wife was gone, replaced by a woman consumed by a hunger that only this man—her husband’s own blood—could satisfy.


She didn’t wait for the mattress. The walk from the door to the bed felt like an eternity, and she needed to touch the reality of what she was doing. Without breaking the ravenous seal of their mouths, she loosened her left arm from around his neck, keeping her right arm locked tight to anchor herself. Her hand slid down between their sweating bodies, seeking the source of the heat that pressed against her.


Her fingers brushed his waistband before diving lower, wrapping around the thick, throbbing root of his manhood. It was massive, hot as a furnace rod, and pulsing with a life of its own. As her small hand engulfed his length, she began to stroke him, matching the rhythm of his stride.


*Click. Clack.*


The sound was sharp and distinct in the quiet room. The red coral and white conch shell of her bangles—the *sankha* and *pola* that marked her as a married woman, as *Ani’s* wife—struck against Sumu’s rigid cock. The auditory symbol of her fidelity was now sliding up and down the shaft of her lover. The sensation of those sacred bangles wrapping around his penis, combined with the soft, skilled pressure of her palm, was too much. Sumu groaned into Shweta’s open mouth, the vibration of his pleasure humming against her tongue, as the rhythmic clicking of her betrayal heralded their approach to the bed.He lowered her onto the mattress, refusing to break the savage kiss that had consumed them in the hallway. Shweta felt the bed sink beneath their combined weight, the high-quality memory foam molding to her back—a stark, luxurious contrast to the hard antique *palanka* and thin cotton mattress she shared with Ani across the hallway. But the cool, soft cotton of Sumu’s sheets did nothing to douse the fever burning through her skin; if anything, the softness made her feel even more vulnerable, more open to him.

[Sherlocked]

Sumu’s hands moved with practiced dominance, sliding from her waist to capture her wrists. He interlaced his fingers with hers, the grip firm and unyielding, and pinned her arms high above her head into the plush pillows. She was completely exposed to him now, her chest heaving, her breasts pressing against his muscular chest with every ragged breath.


He shifted his hips, settling heavily between her splayed thighs. Shweta instinctively bucked upward, seeking the fullness she craved, but Sumu denied her. Instead of thrusting inside, he began a slow, torturous grind. The broad, blunt head of his erection glided through the slick wetness of her nether lips, rubbing directly against her swollen clitoris without breaching the entrance.


"Ohhhhhh..." Shweta broke the kiss with a ragged gasp, her head thrashing to the side.


The sensation was exquisite agony. His hot, iron-hard manhood was right there, teasing the sensitive bundle of nerves, coating itself in her juices, but refusing to fill the aching void inside her. He was breathing hard against her open mouth, inhaling her whimpers as he continued the cruel friction—up and down, sliding along the slit, making her writhe.


Shweta couldn't take the torture anymore. The teasing friction was maddening, a promise whispered but not kept. With a sudden, guttural cry of frustration, she planted her palms against Sumu’s chest and shoved him with a strength born of desperation.


Sumu, caught off guard by the feral aggression of his usually timid sister-in-law, tumbled backward. He rolled onto his back, looking up in surprise, but Shweta didn't give him a second to recover. She didn't want space; she needed contact. She needed the searing heat of his naked skin to burn away the last of her inhibitions.


In a fluid motion, she scrambled over him, straddling his waist. Her heavy, unbound hair fell forward like a dark curtain, creating a private, illicit tent that enclosed just their faces. Their breaths, hot and ragged, mingled in the small, enclosed space. Shweta descended upon him, raining kisses over his face—his cheeks, his strong chin, the bridge of his nose—before capturing his lips. She kissed him ravenously, licking and tasting him, her sweet saliva slicking his face.


As she moved, her impressive bosom was pressed flat against him, the soft mounds rubbing against the hard planes of his pectorals. The friction sent jolts of electricity arcing through both their bodies. Sumu groaned, his initial surprise dissolving into lust. One of his large hands wrapped around her waist to anchor her, while the other reached back to grab a handful of her round, firm ass, squeezing the flesh possessively.


Shweta broke the kiss, burying her face in the crook of his neck. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with his scent. It was a heady musk—a mix of male sweat and expensive aftershave. Her hands roamed feverishly over his chest and stomach, nails digging in. The smell was intoxicating, and dangerously different. Ani... Ani mostly smelled of industrial grease and stale sweat after his long shifts at the steel plant. The sudden thought of her husband, sleeping exhausted just rooms away, sent a shiver racking through her body. But it wasn’t a shiver of guilt; it was the dark, vibrating thrill of illicit pleasure.


She raked her long fingernails down Sumu’s chest, leaving angry red trails on his skin. Sumu groaned in pain, a sharp sensation he welcomed as it cut through the haze of lust. Shweta’s mouth found one of his flat nipples. She sucked it into her mouth, her tongue flicking and teasing the nub, while her thumb rubbed circles around the other nipple.


The dual sensation sent a torrent of pleasure through Sumu. He grabbed the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair, urging her to press harder, to take more. But Shweta was on a mission. She trailed wet, open-mouthed kisses down his sternum, licking her way toward his navel. As she lowered herself, her breasts came to rest on his throbbing manhood.


She could feel the radiating heat of him through her soft skin. Instinctively, Sumu bucked his hips upward, rubbing the hard length of his erection between her breasts. Shweta caught the thick, musky scent of his sex before she even reached it. She sat back slightly, grabbing the impressive length of his manhood in her hand.


The visual was stark and depraved. Sumu lay spread-eagled on his bed, completely vulnerable, while his brother’s naked wife sat between his legs, wielding his erection like a scepter. The head of his penis glistened with a pearl of precum. The scent drove Shweta mad. She leaned down, not to take him in yet, but to rub the large, weeping tip against her lips and cheeks. She smeared the clear fluid over her face, marking herself with the forbidden juices of her brother-in-law.


She couldn't wait another second. She opened her mouth and captured the tip. The salty tang of his precum hit her tongue instantly. The incredible thickness stretched her lips wide, filling her completely, but she didn’t mind—she craved the fullness. Slowly, deliberately, she began to take him in.


Sumu fought the urge to close his eyes. He needed to see this. He looked down his own body to witness the ultimate betrayal. Ani’s wife, naked, with his cock buried in her mouth. In the dim light of the room, the red sindoor in the part of her hair seemed to glow like a neon sign of her infidelity. The sight made his penis twitch violently.


Sensing the reaction, Shweta looked up. Their eyes locked. She didn't look away, nor did she stop. With her gaze fixed on his, she relaxed her throat and swallowed him whole, taking the entire length of his large manhood until the tip brushed the back of her throat. The warm, velvety suction of her mouth and the swirl of her tongue were driving Sumu to the brink of insanity.


Ani had always refused to let her do this, pushing her away and calling it dirty. But here, in the shadows of his *Borda’s* room, Shweta was gobbling the forbidden stick of her brother-in-law with an enthusiasm that bordered on worship.


She established a rhythm, bobbing her head up and down, never breaking eye contact. Her left hand gripped the base of his penis to steady it, while her right hand slid down between her own thighs. She found her clitoris, wet and swollen, and began to rub herself furiously, combining the sensation of his cock in her throat with the pleasure of her own touch.


Sumu couldn't take the passive role anymore. He reached down, grabbing her hair and pulling it back sharply to reveal her face fully. He watched, mesmerized, as his brother’s wife pulled his penis out of her mouth with a wet pop. She didn't stop there; she darted her tongue out, licking him slowly from the base all the way to the tip, treating him like a delicious, forbidden treat she intended to devour completely.


Sumu gritted his teeth, his head falling back as the sensation became too intense to bear. The wet heat of her mouth was threatening to push him over the edge far too soon, and he wasn't ready to end this game yet. He needed to reclaim the pace. With a guttural growl, he framed her flushed face between his large hands, halting her rhythmic worship and pulling her upward.


Shweta didn't resist. She uncoiled her body, sliding up his frame like a serpent, seeking every inch of contact she could get. Her breasts, soft and yielding, flattened against his hard, muscular chest, the friction of skin against skin sending sparks through the cool air of the room. 


Once they were eye-to-eye, the air thick with the scent of their sin, Shweta didn't wait for him to speak. She crashed her lips against his, driving her tongue deep into his mouth. The flavor hit him instantly—the salty, musky taste of his own essence that coated her tongue. It was a raw, primal claim, forcing him to taste what she had just been devouring. 


Far from being repulsed, Sumu groaned, intoxicated by the sheer depravity of it. The realization that this was Ani’s wife, feeding him his own juices while her husband slept a few walls away, spiked his adrenaline. Craving more, he tightened his grip on her jaw, pulling her face harder against his. He sucked on her tongue, drinking down the evidence of her infidelity, dominating the kiss until her knees went weak.


They broke apart only when their lungs burned for air, a silver string of saliva connecting them for a heartbeat before snapping. Shweta lay there, on top of her borda, chest heaving, her eyes glazed with a look of absolute surrender. She looked thoroughly ravished, breathless from the demanding assault on her mouth.


Sumu gave her no time to recover. His hands dropped to her waist, fingers digging into her soft flesh with possessing force. With a sudden, fluid motion, he spun her around and threw her onto the divan. Shweta yelped—a sharp, stifled sound—as her back hit the mattress. 


Before she could even adjust, Sumu was over her, a blanket of heavy muscle and heat. He buried her into the sheets, his weight pressing the air from her lungs in the most delicious way. He settled between her splayed thighs, and the hard ridge of his erection—still glistening and rock-hard—pressed urgently against the wet, swollen lips of her vagina. The contact was electric, a promise of the violence to come. Shweta let out a needy, broken whimper, her hips instinctively bucking upward, desperate for the invasion she knew was inevitable.


She lifted her pelvis again, desperate to capture him, to force him inside, but he was too heavy, too strong. He kept her pinned, controlling the pace, controlling her pleasure.


She discarded the last remnants of her shame, her need overriding centuries of tradition and duty. "Borda... please," she begged, her voice a broken sob of desire. "Put it in me... don't make me wait anymore..."


A dark, predatory smile curled Sumu’s lips. The sight of her—his brother’s wife, naked and defenseless, begging for his cock while Ani slept the sleep of the dead merely a few feet above them—sent a surge of power through his veins that was headier than any alcohol.


He lowered his head, his lips brushing against hers, whispering the words like a secret pact. "Tell me what you want, Shweta."


She whimpered, her mind fracturing under the onslaught of sensations—the heat of him, the smell of his musk, the wet friction between her legs. She struggled to form words, her body arching off the mattress, trying to maximize the contact with his hard frame.


"I... I want you to take me, Borda," she managed to gasp out. "Please... ahhh... I can’t take it anymore."


Sumu didn't stop his teasing rhythm, the head of his penis slipping over her clitoris again and again. He looked down into her glazed eyes, his expression intense. "What about Ani, Shweta?"


Her eyes flung open. The mention of her husband’s name was like a splash of ice water, momentarily dragging her back to the reality of her transgression. For a split second, the image of Ani—thin, exhausted, working himself to the bone for her—flashed in her mind. But the phantom weight of her husband’s guilt was nothing compared to the heavy, tangible reality of Sumu pressing her into the mattress. She was too far gone, drowning in a sea of lust she had never known existed.


She looked up at Sumu, her eyes darkening with resolve. "Don't talk about him now, Borda," she panted, her voice trembling but certain. "I am lying naked beneath *you*, not him. You have lit this fire in my body, Borda. You have to finish this."