Adultery The Rain-Soaked Secret

[osthir_aami]

The Rain-Soaked Secret

Chapter 1: The Empty Apartment

The rain in Dhaka during monsoon had a particular quality—it didn't cleanse so much as reveal. It exposed the city's crumbling infrastructure, the overwhelmed drainage systems, and on that particular Thursday evening, it exposed something else entirely: a loneliness so profound it felt like a physical presence in Rohan's luxury SUV.

Rohan Ahmed, thirty-nine years old, sat in his black Toyota Prado, windshield wipers working overtime as he navigated the flooded streets of Gulshan toward Dhanmondi. Three months had passed since cancer had stolen Anika from him, but the silence in his three-bedroom apartment still startled him each evening. At six-foot-two with the disciplined build of a man who spent five mornings a week at the gym, Rohan presented an image of controlled strength. His marketing director position at the multinational corporation paid for the apartment, the car, the Cadet College fees for his thirteen-year-old son Arif—everything except what he actually needed: connection.

His eyes, usually sharp and assessing during business negotiations, now scanned the rain-drenched sidewalks with a different kind of hunger. Since adolescence, Rohan had understood his nature—a relentless sexual appetite that had driven him through numerous liaisons, even during his marriage. Anika had known, had tolerated with quiet resignation what she called his "compulsion." His physical endowment—a thick eight and a half inches—and his stamina had become legend among certain circles in Dhaka's elite society. Women whispered about it at parties, some with admiration, others with a kind of fearful fascination.

The wipers thumped rhythmically as he turned onto Road 8 in Dhanmondi, and that's when he saw her.

Riya stood under the inadequate awning of a coffee shop, her modest umbrella proving useless against the diagonal assault of the monsoon downpour. At twenty-seven, she appeared both vulnerable and defiant, clutching her laptop bag to her chest as if it were a shield. Rohan had noticed her weeks earlier when she and her parents moved into the building—noticed her in the way a starving man notices a feast.

Even through the distortion of rain-streaked glass, her proportions were extraordinary: the generous curve of hips that flared from a surprisingly small waist, the full breasts that strained against her wet kameez, the rounded posterior that seemed designed by some particularly generous deity. Her face, now tilted upward searching for a taxi that wouldn't come, held a melancholy beauty—full lips that naturally pursed, large dark eyes that held stories Rohan wanted to read.

He pulled the SUV to the curb, lowering the passenger window. "Riya? Do you need a ride?"
She bent slightly, recognition dawning through her distress. "Rohan bhai? The rain... I can't find..."
"Get in. You're completely drenched."

The hesitation lasted only three seconds—the time it took for another wave of rain to soak her already clinging clothes. She opened the door and slid into the leather seat, bringing with her the scent of rain, wet fabric, and something floral beneath it all.

As she fastened her seatbelt, Rohan couldn't help but notice how the wet cotton clung to every contour. The outline of her bra was visible through the material, the dark circles of her areolas apparent against the light fabric. Her salwar pants, equally soaked, hugged thighs that promised soft strength. Rohan felt the familiar tightening in his groin, the quickening of his pulse that had accompanied every conquest since his teenage years.

"Thank you," she said, her voice softer than he remembered from their elevator exchanges. "I was waiting for thirty minutes. All the CNGs are occupied."

"It's no trouble. We're neighbors." He handed her the box of tissues from the console. "Here, dry yourself a bit."

As she took the tissues, their fingers brushed—a momentary contact that sent a current through him. She dabbed at her face, then her neck, the movement causing her breasts to shift in a way that made Rohan's mouth go dry.

"The monsoon surprises us every year," he said, pulling back into traffic. "Yet we're never prepared."

She offered a small smile. "Like most things in life, I suppose."

The fifteen-minute drive passed with polite conversation about the building, the flooding in Dhanmondi, their respective workplaces. Rohan learned she worked at a design firm in Gulshan, not far from his office. He stored this information carefully, as he stored all potentially useful details.

When they reached their building, she turned to him with genuine gratitude. "Really, thank you. I would have been standing there for another hour."

"Any time," he said, and meant it. "We should look out for each other. The building feels friendlier that way."

Her smile widened slightly before she disappeared into the elevator, leaving Rohan alone with the scent of her in his car and a growing certainty in his mind.

[PELURI]

beautiful opening...beautiful people...the future looks promising...all the best

[Pvzro]

Wow very beautiful,the way u have elaborated so minutely superb  keep Riya shy as much as possible 
Also put some armpit seduction as well

Very nice  keep regularly updating the story so that the story remains alive

Wonderful start seems much life in the story

Excellent narration and congratulations for the start....

[osthir_aami]

Chapter 2: The Careful Web

In the days that followed, Rohan began what he thought of as "the campaign." Like any marketing expert worth his salary, he understood the importance of research, positioning, and gradual escalation. His target audience: one recently divorced, emotionally vulnerable woman living three floors below him.

He started with casual encounters—"accidentally" being in the lobby when she returned from work, sharing the elevator with purposeful frequency. Their conversations progressed from weather to work to more personal territories. He learned about her disastrous marriage to Rasel, a man whose insecurities had festered until they poisoned everything.

"My body became the problem," Riya confessed one evening in the elevator, surprising herself with her candor. "He said men looked at me too much. Then he decided I must be enjoying their attention."

Rohan offered a sympathetic expression he had practiced in mirror meetings. "Some men can't appreciate what they have."

She had looked at him then with a searching intensity. "You understand? Anika bhabi was beautiful too."

"Beautiful, yes," Rohan said, allowing genuine emotion to surface—not for his dead wife, but for the opportunity before him. "But her illness... it was long. The last year, there was no..."

He let the sentence hang, implying sexual deprivation that wasn't entirely accurate but served his narrative.

Riya's eyes softened. "That must have been difficult."

The following week, he proposed the carpool arrangement. "It's practical," he argued when she hesitated. "We're going the same direction, returning the same time. My car is empty otherwise."

The economic logic appealed to her Dhaka-bred practicality. She agreed, and they exchanged numbers. Rohan saved hers under "Riya-Designer" though he needed no identifier to remember those digits.

Their commute became ritual. They discussed office politics, Dhaka traffic, films they'd seen. Gradually, Rohan shared curated pieces of his history—the loneliness of being a widower, the challenge of parenting a teenage son from a distance, the empty hours in his apartment.

In return, Riya offered fragments of her own story. "Rasel was... inadequate," she said one evening, staring at the stalled traffic on Mirpur Road. "Not just as a husband. In every way."

Rohan let the implication hang between them, fertile ground he would cultivate later.

The digital escalation began naturally. Late-night WhatsApp messages started with innocent questions about building maintenance, evolved to sharing articles and memes, then progressed to what Rohan considered "phase two": light flirtation.

Rohan: That presentation must have been brutal today. You sounded exhausted.
Riya: My brain is melted. Need something strong.
Rohan: I have single malt. Too strong?
Riya: For a divorced woman from Dhaka? Nothing is too strong.

He smiled at his phone. The self-deprecating humor was a promising sign.

Weeks passed, and their interactions grew more physically intimate in small, deniable increments. At a book fair at Bangla Academy, he took her elbow to guide her through a crowd. His hand lingered a moment longer than necessary. She didn't pull away.

At a concert at Army Stadium, when the crowd surged forward, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her against his side. He felt the generous curve of her breast press against his ribcage, the warmth of her body through their clothes.

"You're very protective," she said afterward, her voice carrying a note he couldn't quite decipher.
"For friends," he said, establishing the category while suggesting it might be temporary.
Then came the Friday revelation. They were having coffee at a café in Gulshan when Riya mentioned her parents' upcoming trip to Sylhet.
"They'll be gone five days," she said. "I was supposed to go, but this client presentation..."
Rohan's mind began working immediately, calculating angles and opportunities. "When is the presentation?"
"Sunday. But I'm nowhere near ready."
"I could help," he offered casually. "I've done hundreds of presentations. It's basically my job."
Her gratitude was immediate and effusive. "Would you? Really?"
"Of course. We're friends."

He suggested his apartment—more private, fewer distractions than a coffee shop. She agreed without hesitation, a trust he found both touching and useful.

That night, alone in his bed, Rohan planned with the precision of a general. He would clean the apartment thoroughly, select the right music—something atmospheric but not obvious. He would wear clothes that showed his physique without appearing trying. Most importantly, he would create the perfect convergence of opportunity and vulnerability.

As he drifted to sleep, his mind wandered through his sexual history, as it often did. There had been so many women, each conquest a temporary balm for the restless hunger that had defined him since adolescence.

[PELURI]

ho bro ! potential scorcher...now on slow fire mode...its good...solid strong foundations are always worth the while....can always bear a spark evolving as a tornado and muffled moan into a full throttled war cry...waiting with abated breath....for the all out no holds barred wrestling ....

[Pvzro]

Superb what a way to portrait it

Excellent looks much more potential in the story can't wait for the episodes ahead

[PELURI]

update plz...

[osthir_aami]

Chapter 3: A History of Hunger


The Early Awakening

Rohan's sexual awakening came early and with overwhelming intensity. At fifteen, while his classmates whispered about stolen kisses, he was already experiencing the compulsive drive that would shape his life. It began with his cousin Tania, two years older, who visited during summer vacation.

They were alone in his house, the adults at work. The monsoon heat pressed against the windows as she showed him a dance move in the living room, her body swaying in a way that made his uniform trousers suddenly tight.
"Your body..." he had stammered, fifteen and overwhelmed.

"What about it?" she teased, knowing exactly her effect.

He didn't remember who moved first, only the shocking heat of her mouth on his, the feel of her breast in his trembling hand. They fumbled on the sofa, clothes pushed aside rather than removed. When he entered her, the sensation was so profound he thought he might lose consciousness. She gasped, her nails digging into his back.

"Slow," she breathed, but he couldn't. The hunger was a physical thing, driving him with piston-like rhythm until she shuddered beneath him and he spilled into her with a cry that felt torn from his soul.

Afterward, she looked at him with something like fear. "You're... intense."

It was the first time he heard that word applied to his sexuality, but not the last.


University Years

At Dhaka University, Rohan's reputation grew. His combination of physical presence, confidence, and undeniable skill in bed made him a legend in certain circles. There was Laila, the economics major who cried after their first time together.

"I've never..." she whispered, trembling in his narrow dorm bed. "It's never been like that."

He learned then the power of his gift—not just the size that women commented on with awe or apprehension, but the stamina that allowed him to continue long after other men finished. He could bring a woman to climax repeatedly, learning her body with focused attention that felt like worship even when it was really about his own need.

Then came the dangerous liaison with Professor Rahman's wife, Nusrat. She was thirty-eight to his twenty-two, elegant and bored. At a department party, their eyes met across a room, and the understanding was immediate.
Their first encounter was in her Gulshan home while her husband attended a conference. She led him to the bedroom with a married woman's practiced discretion.

"I've heard stories," she said as she unbuttoned his shirt.

"Don't believe everything you hear."

But when she saw him fully aroused, her composure faltered. "My God."

What followed was an education in the sexuality of older women—less inhibition, more directness. She demanded specific things with a clarity that thrilled him.

"Harder," she commanded, her legs locked around his waist. "Don't be gentle."

He complied, driving into her with a force that made the headboard knock against the wall. She screamed, not in pain but in triumphant release, her body convulsing beneath him.

Afterward, smoking by the window, she said, "You'll break hearts, Rohan. Or worse."


The Married Man

Even after marrying Anika—a good match, a beautiful woman from a respectable family—the hunger persisted. He took lovers discreetly: colleagues, friends' wives, even his neighbor in Banani whose husband worked abroad.

There was Shehla, his assistant at work, who became his mistress for eighteen months. She was married to a man in Chittagong, visiting Dhaka monthly. Their encounters were frantic, stolen hours in hotel rooms where she would beg him for things she'd never asked of her husband.

"Please," she would whimper as he took her from behind, her face pressed into the mattress. "Don't stop. Never stop."

He never did, not until she was hoarse from screaming and he had emptied himself into her for the second or third time.

Anika knew, of course. Dhaka was too small a city for such secrets. She confronted him once, tears streaming down her face.

"Why am I not enough?"

He had no answer that wouldn't wound her further. The truth—that no one woman could ever be enough—was a cruelty he couldn't voice.


The Bhabi

Most taboo of all was his relationship with his cousin's wife, Farah—his bhabi. It began at a family wedding, both of them drunk on smuggled whiskey in a quiet corner of the garden.

"You look at me differently," she said, her words slurred but her meaning clear.

"Do I?"

She placed her hand on his thigh, high enough to leave no doubt. "I know what you are. I've heard."

He took her to an empty guest room, their movements hurried and desperate. When he entered her, she bit his shoulder to muffle her cry.

"My husband..." she gasped between thrusts. "He's nothing like..."

He silenced her with his mouth, driving into her with a ferocity that felt like anger. Afterward, as they straightened their wedding clothes, she touched his face with something like pity.

"This hunger in you... it will consume everything."

He kissed her once more, hard. "Then let it."


Now, years later, lying in his empty bed in Dhanmondi, Rohan remembered these women not with nostalgia but as data points in his ongoing study of his own nature. Each had been a temporary satisfaction, a meal that left him hungry again within days.

Riya, he sensed, might be different. Not because she could satisfy the hunger permanently—he had abandoned that hope—but because her own need might match his.

[PELURI]

beautiful prose...highly erotic narrative, the style has no room for details as can be understood...nevertheless, minute tit bits of personal sexual habbits make the characters move upclose to the readers  and makes the story a lot more alluring ......my two bit suggestion

[readersp]

amazing narrative!!! awesome!!!

[fuckandforget]

excellent update

[Ragasiyananban]

Very interesting start on the life of playboy.

[Pvzro]

Nice dear writer keep going

[osthir_aami]

Chapter 4: Riya's Wounds


While Rohan planned his seduction, Riya lay in her childhood bed, staring at the ceiling of the room she had left as a bride and returned to as a divorcee. The irony wasn't lost on her—the full circle of disappointment.


Her marriage to Rasel had begun with such promise. He was handsome in a conventional way, from a good family, with a respectable engineering career. Their courtship was chaste by Dhaka standards—held hands, a few stolen kisses, endless conversations about their future.

The wedding night was the first fracture. In the luxury hotel suite, surrounded by rose petals and expectation, Rasel fumbled with her elaborate bridal wear.

"You're so..." he kept saying, his hands trembling. "So much."

When they were finally naked, his eyes widened at the sight of her body. Riya had always been voluptuous—her curves arriving early and generously. In college, she endured teasing and unwanted attention. In university, she learned to use her body as both armor and weapon, dressing modestly to deflect attention while knowing exactly the effect she created.

But with Rasel on their wedding night, her body became a problem.

"You're..." he said again, staring.
"Beautiful?" she tried, offering the word like a gift.

He didn't answer, just mounted her with an urgency that felt like panic. His penetration was brief, awkward, over in minutes. He climaxed almost immediately, leaving her untouched and confused.

"I'm tired," he said, rolling away. "The wedding was long."

Thus began the pattern of their sexual life: rushed, unsatisfying encounters that left Riya feeling more alone than before. Rasel developed performance anxiety that became self-fulfilling prophecy. The more he worried about disappointing her, the quicker he finished.

"Are you..." he would ask afterward, always the same question. "Did you...?"

She learned to fake pleasure, to make sounds that suggested satisfaction she never felt. She bought books, suggested techniques, tried to initiate at different times. Nothing worked.

Then the accusations began.

"Who were you talking to?" Rasel would demand when she returned from work.
"A client."
"Male client?"
"Rasel, it's my job."

He began checking her phone, questioning her about male colleagues, interpreting polite conversation as flirtation. The real issue, Riya understood later, was that her body—which should have been their shared pleasure—became a symbol of his inadequacy. Men looked at her. Therefore, she must want them to look. Therefore, she must be unfaithful.

The night she asked for a divorce, he struck her. Not hard, but the shock of it reverberated more deeply than any pain.

"You whore," he hissed. "You've never been satisfied with me."

She left that night with a single suitcase, returning to her parents' home in shame and relief. The divorce proceedings were ugly, with Rasel's family spreading rumors about her character. Her parents, though supportive, carried the weight of social judgment.

"You'll marry again," her mother said with forced optimism. "A better man."

Riya doubted it. Not because better men didn't exist, but because she had begun to doubt her own capacity for trust. Her body, which should have been a source of pleasure, had become a battlefield.
Then came Rohan.

From their first encounter in the elevator, she felt the difference. His eyes held appreciation without leering, confidence without aggression. When he looked at her body, it felt like admiration rather than judgment.

Their growing friendship became a lifeline. He listened without offering unsolicited advice, shared his own grief without demanding she manage his emotions. When he mentioned his loneliness after Anika's death, she recognized the echo of her own isolation.

Late-night WhatsApp exchanges became her secret pleasure. She found herself smiling at her phone, anticipating his messages. The gradual shift to flirtation felt natural, like water finding its level.

Riya: Another Friday alone. Dhaka is full of people but sometimes feels empty.
Rohan: Empty can be comfortable. Too full is overwhelming.
Riya: You think so?
Rohan: I know so. Some hungers are better than feasts.
The double meaning thrilled her. For the first time since her marriage ended, she felt desired rather than resented.

When her parents planned their trip to Sylhet, part of her dreaded five days alone. Another part—a part she barely acknowledged—felt anticipation. When Rohan offered to help with her presentation, then suggested dinner at his place, she agreed with a quickening pulse she hadn't felt in years.

The night before their meeting, she stood before her mirror, examining the body that had caused so much trouble. Full breasts that Rasel had found intimidating, hips he called excessive, the lips he said were "too sensual."

For the first time, she saw these features not as flaws but as possibilities.

[readersp]

Indeed they are opportunities!!! Amazing writing!!! Keep going!!!

[PELURI]

for a hero of rohans' stature, education and exposure and vast experience with the opposite sex, the heroine here should have been somebody like salma hayek, tall slender and upright rather than plump and overflowing......not sure who the target audience are....