Adultery Desperation of a Defeated Housewife

[dashh]

Part 1: 
The blue glare of the laptop screen was the only light in the living room, painting Kriti’s exhausted face in a harsh, spectral hue. She hadn’t even bothered to change out of her pharmacy uniform; the faint, sterile smell of rubbing alcohol and cheap floor cleaner still clung to her sleeves, a stubborn perfume of her double shifts. Staring at the online banking portal, she performed her grim weekly ritual—a kind of financial autopsy where she tried to force the math of their survival to make sense.

Her cursor hovered over the "Pay Now" button for the electricity bill. If she paid it today, they would be eighty rupees short for groceries until Tuesday. If she delayed the internet payment, she risked losing the connection she needed for the freelance transcription work she did in the dead of night. The apartment was silent, save for the rhythmic, judgmental hum of the refrigerator and the cooling dal Shikhar had left on the stove before disappearing again—a silence that felt less like peace and more like a held breath, waiting for the next disaster to strike.

Kriti rubbed her temples, her fingers pressing into the throb behind her eyes. The screen flickered, the red text taunting her: Insufficient funds. Again.
She closed her eyes, and for a moment, the sterile blue light was replaced by the golden haze of a memory ten years old. It felt like looking at a different life through the wrong end of a telescope—tiny, distant, and impossibly bright.

Back then, she had been a creature of silence, a shy girl from a modest family who navigated the college corridors with her head down, hoping to remain invisible. Shikhar had been the opposite. He was a gravitational force, the kind of young man who seemed to have sunlight caught in his skin, charming professors and peers with an easy, careless grace. She remembered the terror and the thrill of him noticing her, the way he had gently dismantled her walls brick by brick. He hadn't just loved her; he had invented a version of her that could speak, that could laugh loudly, that could believe she was the only girl in the room. He was her first love, her first rebellion, her first everything
.
Five years of university had dissolved like sugar in water, sweet and fleeting. By graduation, "Kriti and Shikhar" was a single entity. He had taken the shy girl and given her a spine of steel, while he soared. He graduated at the top of his class, landing a senior role at YugaPharma straight out of the gate. It was the kind of job parents bragged about at weddings—prestigious, high-paying, secure. When they married, it felt less like a leap of faith and more like a coronation.

For three years, their life had the glossy sheen of a movie. Shikhar climbed the corporate ladder two rungs at a time. They bought a sprawling apartment with a balcony that overlooked the city lights; she had a walk-in closet, a car, and a husband who looked at the world as something he was destined to own.

Then, the ground vanished.

The news broke on a Tuesday. YugaPharma wasn’t just failing; it was rotting. The scandal involving unethical clinical trials and bribery dominated the news cycle for weeks, stripping the company down to the studs. The shutdown was swift, brutal, and total. Shikhar didn't just lose a job; he lost his identity. The confidence that had once been his armor shattered, leaving behind a man terrified of his own reflection.

The decline was not a cliff, but a slow, suffocating slide. First came the silence, then the whiskey. He started disappearing into the neon buzz of bars, coming home with liquor on his breath and apologies that grew thinner every time. In two years, the lavish apartment was sold to pay debts. The savings account was drained by online poker sites and desperate bets. The man who had once promised her the world had become a stranger who couldn't even meet her gaze across their second-hand dining table.

Kriti opened her eyes, the golden memory dissolving back into the stark reality of the blinking cursor. She had endured it all—the shame, the downsizing, the nights spent waiting for a key to turn in the lock. She had loved him through the wreckage because she believed the man she met in college was still in there, buried under the debris of his ego.

But tonight, staring at the red deficit on the screen, the feeling in her chest wasn't just exhaustion. It was a dull, heavy ache—the specific pain of a heart that had been stretched too thin, too many times, and was finally beginning to fray.
She closed the laptop with a sharp click, the sound echoing in the empty kitchen like a gunshot. The screen’s blue light died, plunging the room back into the dim amber of the single overhead bulb. She pushed the computer aside and walked to the stove, her movements mechanical, driven by a hunger she didn’t quite feel.

This kitchen was a closet compared to the culinary theater of the home they had bought—and the home Shikhar had lost. The ceiling fan whirred overhead, its rhythm uneven, casting a lazy, lopsided shadow that pulsed against the chipped wall tiles. Kriti opened the lid of the pressure cooker, and steam curled up in a thin, ghostly tendril, carrying the scent of cumin and ginger. It was simple, familiar—the kind of comfort that didn’t cost money.
The only grace left in Shikhar was this: he could still coax magic out of the bare minimum. The dal was spiced perfectly—smoky, with a sharp underscore of garlic that made her mouth water despite her mood. She ladled the yellow lentils over the rice waiting in its pot. The first bite was warm and grounding. The act of eating felt like a small rebellion, a quiet refusal to let this night completely break her.

She was halfway through her meal when the front door creaked open.

Kriti didn’t look up. She didn't need to. She knew the cadence of his return—the hesitant shuffle, the pause on the threshold as if he were checking the atmospheric pressure of the room, bracing himself for a storm. The air in the kitchen instantly thickened, charged with the static of everything they weren't saying.

"Hey," he said finally.

His voice was rough. Not from drink, she noted with a clinician’s detachment. Just exhaustion.

Kriti didn't answer. She kept her eyes fixed on her plate, pushing a grain of rice around with her fork, studying the way it left a small trail of sauce. The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. She could feel his gaze burning into the back of her head, pleading for acknowledgment, but she refused to turn around. If she did, she might see something in his eyes—shame, or worse, hope—that would make her soften. And God, she was too tired to be soft.

The floorboards groaned as he took a step closer. "I made dal," he said, offering the fact like a peace treaty.

"I see that," she replied, her voice flat. She didn't look up.

"So... how was work?"

His voice was careful, tiptoeing. He moved toward the stove, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his faded jeans. The harsh kitchen light caught the shadow of stubble along his jaw, illuminating the hollows beneath his cheekbones that seemed carved by regret. Once, he had been the kind of man who wore a three-piece suit like a second skin, armor against the world. Now, in his frayed t-shirt, he looked like a man who had been slowly unraveling for years.

Kriti set her fork down with deliberate slowness. The metal clinked against the ceramic. "Same as always," she said, finally lifting her eyes to meet his. Her expression was a fortress. "Long. Tiring. Why are you asking?"

Shikhar hesitated, his fingers flexing inside his pockets, searching for words he couldn't find. "I just… wanted to know."

"Yeah..." she breathed out, a small, disappointed sound that wasn't quite a sigh. She looked away. "Where were you?"

"I went with Gopal Uncle. To help set up that new store opening on the main road."

He pulled a hand from his pocket and slowly slid a worn one-hundred rupee note across the table toward her. His eyes were downcast, focused intently on the Formica pattern, avoiding her gaze.

Kriti stared at the money. It sat there between them, a pathetic, crumpled thing. Then she looked at him. Her face remained unreadable, a mask of fatigue. "What's this for?" she asked, her voice low.

Shikhar swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I thought maybe you could use it. For groceries or... whatever."

Kriti's fingers twitched on the table, a phantom instinct to grab what she could, but she didn't move. Instead, a short, humorless laugh escaped her throat. "You're giving me money now? After everything?"

He flinched as if she’d raised a hand. "Kriti, I—"

"Just one hundred rupees? For setting up an entire store?"

"I had to give some to Gopal Uncle," he said quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush, stumbling over each other like a man trying to navigate a minefield. "I borrowed money from him last week. To buy the vegetables for this week. And he gave me an advance for today's work, so I paid him back. I didn't want to keep the rest with me. I thought you could use it."

His voice dropped to a whisper on the last sentence.

Kriti stared at the note again. The edges were frayed and soft from being folded and unfolded, dirty from the hands it had passed through. She could feel the weight of his gaze on her, heavy with expectation. He was waiting for approval, or absolution. She didn’t know which was worse.
She pushed the money back toward him across the table. "Keep it."

Shikhar’s fingers curled around the note, but he didn’t move. He just stood there, holding the small, dirty piece of paper, while the ceiling fan clicked its uneven rhythm above them.

"Listen," Shikhar said finally. His voice was low, a rough rasp that scbangd against the silence. "I need to ask you something."

Kriti didn't look up. She focused intently on her plate, her fork creating meaningless patterns in the cooling yellow sauce. She watched the way the dal clung to the grains of rice, thick and congealed, refusing to meet his eyes. Even without looking, she could feel the tension radiating off him. She heard the soft squeak of his shoe on the linoleum as he shifted his weight, restless, like a man preparing for a fight.

Or maybe it was something else. Something worse.

"Kriti," he said again, softer this time, barely more than an exhale. "I need five hundred rupees."
The words hung in the air, suspended in the humidity of the small kitchen. Kriti’s fork froze mid-motion. The silence that followed wasn't empty; it was a physical thing, a tight wire strung between them, vibrating at a frequency that made her teeth ache.
Then, the wire snapped.

Kriti’s fork clattered onto the china, a sharp, violent sound that made Shikhar flinch. She pushed her chair back slowly, the wooden legs dragging against the floor with a high-pitched shriek that tore through the room.

"Five hundred rupees." Her voice was terrifyingly calm, a low rumble of thunder before the strike. "You come home, you slide me a hundred rupees like you’re some benevolent patron, and then—in the same breath—you ask for five hundred?"

She stood up, planting her palms flat on the table, leaning into the dead space between them. "For what, Shikhar? Tell me. Is it a new tip on a 'sure-thing' horse? A poker game with Gopal Uncle’s deadbeat cousins? Or is it just for the bottle, so you can spend another night passed out on the balcony while I sit here and try to figure out how to pay for our life?"

Her volume rose with every accusation, climbing the scale until she was shouting, her voice raw and ragged, bouncing off the tile walls. "I am so tired! I am tired of being the only adult here! I am tired of looking at that screen and seeing nothing! I am tired of coming home to this… this graveyard of your potential!"

Tears of pure, distilled fury blurred her vision, turning him into a watery smudge. "You think I don’t see you? You think I don’t know you’re drowning? Well, I’m drowning too! And I will not give you another rupee to pull me under with you. Not one. Do you understand me?"

He stood there, rooted to the spot, taking the verbal blows without raising his hands or his voice. He looked like a building that had already been condemned, just waiting for gravity to do the rest. When her words finally ran out, leaving her chest heaving and the room ringing, he spoke. The rage seemed to have drained his face of all color, leaving him grey.

"It’s not for a drink," he said. "It’s for a suit."

His voice was a flat, quiet ruin. "I have a job interview tomorrow. At SynthLabs. A real one. I need to rent a decent suit."

He looked at her then, his eyes desperate to catch hers, trying to anchor himself to her one last time. "If I get this, Kriti, things get back on track. I promise. You won’t have to look at that screen and see red ever again."

She stared at him, the white-hot heat of her anger cooling rapidly into something hard, brittle, and infinitely colder. A bitter laugh escaped her throat—a dry, hacking sound. "A suit. An interview. Do you think I’m stupid?"

"It’s the truth."

"You’ve had 'interviews' before," she spat, hooking her fingers into mocking air quotes, her voice dripping with a sarcasm that corroded the air between them. "They were just excuses to get out of the house, to feel important for a few hours before coming back empty-handed. Do you remember the 'sure-thing' at that biotech startup? Or the 'guaranteed offer' from your old colleague?"

She shook her head, a sharp, final movement. "I don’t believe you."

"This is different."

"It’s always different!" she screamed, the words ripping out of her throat. "The story is always different, Shikhar, but the ending is always the same! I’m done believing in your 'different.'"

He watched her for a long, agonizing moment. She saw the last flicker of light in his eyes—not anger, but hope—gutter out and die. His shoulders slumped, not in defeat, but in a profound, utter withdrawal. He looked small.

Without another word, he turned his back on her. She heard the soft, defeated shuffle of his feet on the floor, moving away from the light of the kitchen. Then came the quiet click of the bedroom door closing.

It wasn't a slam. It was a surrender.

The silence Shikhar left behind was heavier than the shouting. It pressed against the walls, thick and accusatory. Kriti stood frozen, her palms still pressed flat into the cool Formica of the table, listening to the ghost of her own rage ringing in her ears. Then, the adrenaline abandoned her all at once—a sudden, violent vacuum that left her limbs weak and trembling. Her knees buckled, and she sank onto the worn sofa, its springs groaning in familiar, rusty protest.

The food sat forgotten on the table. The dal would be a cold, congealed mass by morning, a small tragedy she simply didn’t have the energy to prevent. She slumped forward, burying her face in her hands, her fingers digging into her hairline.

The tears came then—not the hot, explosive fury from before, but a quiet, desperate flood from a much deeper well. They seeped through her fingers, dampening her palms, a silent acknowledgment of a defeat that had been years in the making. She couldn’t do this anymore. The constant, brutal calculus of survival; the loneliness of a marriage that felt like a one-room prison; the exhausting, thankless work of loving a ghost. She felt like a balloon stretched so thin that the next breath of air would shatter her.

But then, unbidden, small details began to surface through the misery, stubborn and inconvenient.

The kitchen. It was clean. He’d washed the pressure cooker and left it upside down on the drying rack, positioned just so. The hundred-rupee note—it hadn't been a boast or a bribe, but a humble, almost shy restitution. And the timing: he’d come home straight after his work with Gopal Uncle, instead of disappearing into the neon haze of the night. He hadn’t smelled of cheap whisky or the stale smoke of a gambling den; he’d smelled of sweat and dust, the honest, pungent scent of actual labor.

And his eyes, just before he turned away. They hadn’t held their usual defensiveness, that shifting, theatrical guilt she knew so well. They’d just looked… stripped bare. Honest.

Was it possible? The thought was a fragile, dangerous thing, sharp enough to cut. Was the man who built me up finally trying to rebuild himself?
But her patience was a thread worn down to a single filament. One more pull, one more lie, and it would snap for good. She couldn’t hang her future on a 'maybe,' not when 'definitely' had already cost her everything.

A soft chime from her phone, abandoned on the arm of the sofa, sliced through the quiet. She wiped her face roughly with the heels of her hands, leaving damp, shiny streaks on her cheeks, and picked it up.

The screen’s glow illuminated her puffy, red eyes. She read the text. Her shoulders sank further, as if the pixels carried physical weight. A long, defeated sigh leaked out of her, the last of her fight leaving her body in a rush. She thought of the red numbers on the banking screen, the pending bill payment that would fail tomorrow, the hollow, echoing emptiness of her account.

Her thumbs moved slowly, punching out a short reply. The message sent with a quiet whoosh.
She sat there for another minute, gathering the scattered fragments of herself. Then, with a resolve that felt borrowed from someone else, she pushed herself up. She walked to her worn purse, hanging by the door. She dug past old receipts, a tangle of headphones, and a lone tube of lipstick she hadn’t worn in months, until her fingers brushed paper. She pulled out a single five-hundred rupee note. It was crisp—the last of her emergency cash, the "do not touch" money from her last paycheck.

The bedroom door was ajar. She pushed it open gently.
The room was dark, lit only by the streetlamp’s amber glow filtering through the thin, cheap curtains, casting long shadows across the floor. Shikhar was lying on his side, facing the wall, the sheet pulled up to his shoulders. His breathing was even, a rhythmic rise and fall, but she knew he wasn’t asleep. His posture was too still, too rigid with wakefulness.

She didn’t turn on the light. She moved quietly to his side of the bed, her socks sliding on the floor. His phone lay face-down on the cracked nightstand. With a trembling hand, she slipped the note underneath it, the pale green of the currency just visible against the dark wood—a seed planted in the dark.

“I’m going to Ma’s,” she said. Her voice was hoarse from crying but flat with finality. “I won’t be back for two days.”
There was a long pause. She could see the silhouette of his face against the pillow, the way he blinked. His eyes were open, staring at nothing.
“Ok,” he said. The word was barely a breath, fragile as glass.
She turned and left, closing the door softly behind her.

[Pvzro]

Wow great 

Seems good story,keep posting

[RCF]

Good start! Looks promising so far!

~RCF

[Nobita]

Good start

[dashh]

Part 2:



The motel room smelled of cheap detergent and mildew, the floral wallpaper peeling at the seams like dead skin. A single lamp with a stained shade buzzed on the nightstand, its weak light throwing long, shuddering shadows against the far wall where a muted television played a cricket match to an empty room. Kriti sat on the edge of the bed, the synthetic bedspread scratchy against her palms, her body held in a wire-taut line of dread. The salwar kameez was not hers—a given, gaudy thing of synthetic silk a size too small, the emerald green fabric straining across her breasts and hips, every curve perfectly outlined by the tight clothing. 

It had been two hours since she left her house; Shikhar would be asleep by now, alone with the money beneath his phone. She was in this motel in Pune where she was now a regular, a place that belonged to the local land mafia boss. The door opened without a knock, and Hemant Kelkar’s bulk filled the frame, his gold chains glinting dully under the lamp. 

He was in his sixties, a thick slab of a man whose bald head shone under the weak light, a greasy fringe of grey hair clinging stubbornly to the sides and back of his skull. A big, mean moustache dominated his upper lip, yellowed at the edges from decades of chewing tobacco and cheap whisky, twitching now as his grin widened at the sight of her. He was dressed in what passed for his uniform: a white shirt strained across his prodigious belly, white pants, and polished black shoes, the crispness of the fabric a stark, cruel joke against the room’s grime.

His work was intimidation. He was the local land mafia’s blunt instrument, a man who made old shopkeepers vanish and construction contracts appear with a few well-placed threats and a ledger of debts. He closed the door with a soft, final click, the lock engaging with a sound like a bone snapping.

“Looking like a real gift tonight,” he grunted, his voice a gravelly rasp.

Kriti’s mind fled the room, hurtling backwards.

It had started six months ago. Hemant had randomly appeared in the pharmacy where she worked, a looming, menacing presence in the sterile aisles. He hadn’t bought anything, just stood there, his eyes crawling over her and the other female staff like thick, cold slugs. Her colleague, an older woman named Leela, had pulled her into the stockroom afterward, her face pale. “That’s Hemant Kelkar,” she’d whispered. “Don’t look at him. Don’t talk to him. Just pray he forgets you.”

But the situation at home was a collapsing mine shaft. Shikhar had just lost another petty job, their fridge was echoingly empty, and the eviction notice was a fresh paper cut on her soul. Desperation was a taste in her mouth, metallic and constant. A week later, she found Hemant outside a paan shop, surrounded by sycophants. She approached him, the words “I need a loan” sticking in her dry throat.

He’d laughed, but he’d given her the money. Fifty thousand rupees in crumpled notes. The interest was predatory, the timeline impossible. When she couldn’t pay, the calls started. Then the men outside the pharmacy. She didn’t want her family—her mother, her sister—to know the depths she’d sunk to. She went to his office to negotiate, a trembling sparrow walking into a vulture’s nest.

Hemant had leaned back in his leather chair, his eyes on her trembling hands. “The debt is gone,” he’d said, flicking ash on the floor. “But you work for me now. Personally. You come when I text. You do what I say. I’ll even pay you a little something for your time. Think of it as a… private arrangement.”

The first feeling was a grief so profound it felt like death. She’d vomited in a filthy public toilet afterward, sobbing silently, scbanging her knuckles against the concrete wall until they bled. She was a pharmacist, a married woman from a good family. This was a midnight chasm from which there was no return. But the weight of the debt was gone. And when she went home to Shikhar’s vacant eyes and the silent, sexless despair of their bed, the chasm began to look like a strange, terrible refuge.

She began visiting him whenever he texted, a simple ‘Come’ with a time and this motel’s address. He would always offer her money afterward, stuffing notes into her purse without looking at her. She hated it at first, each touch a violation that left her scrubbing her skin raw in her bathroom. Shikhar hadn’t touched her with desire in years; his occasional, drunken fumbling was a pitiable thing, over in minutes, leaving her more alone than before.

Hemant was different. He was crude, vile, and took what he wanted with a brutal, athletic selfishness that shocked her body into a traitorous response. The humiliation was part of it—the filthy names he growled in her ear, the way he used her like an object. It was a punishment she felt she deserved, and in that punishment, a twisted thread of pleasure began to pulse. It was real, animal, and obliterating. And on top of that, she got money for it.

He liked to feel her body’s every curve through her clothes first, his thick, ringed hands groping and kneading the straining silk. “Fuck, look at that,” he grunted, his breath hot and sour against her neck as his palms crushed over her breasts, the thin fabric providing no barrier. His other hand slid down, cupping her between her legs through the salwar, his fingers rubbing hard against the seam. “All dressed up just for me, you greedy little bitch.” She closed her eyes, seeing not his rotten grin but the crisp five-hundred rupee note she’d left beneath Shikhar’s silent phone.

His hand, still grinding against her, suddenly shoved her back with a force that stole her breath. She landed on the mattress with a soft whump, the bedsprings shrieking in protest, her legs dangling off the edge. "Stay right there," he commanded, his voice thick with anticipation as he stepped back into the center of the room.

First came the heavy gold watch, its clasp clicking open with a definitive snap that echoed in the quiet. He placed it carefully on the chipped dresser with a soft thud, the gesture oddly reverent. Next, his thick fingers worked the elaborate clasp of the gold chain, the links slithering like a dead, metallic snake from beneath his collar.

He added it to the watch, the gold pooling on the dusty wood. Then, his hands went to his shirt buttons, fingers fumbling slightly in their eagerness. He peeled the white fabric open, revealing a broad, hairy chest and a stomach that spilled over his belt, pale and thick.

The shirt was tossed aside, landing on the floor like a discarded ghost. Kriti watched from the bed, her head propped on a thin pillow, her body still in the emerald silk. She saw the sweat already glistening in the grey hair on his chest, smelled the mix of cheap cologne and raw male exertion that filled the space between them.

He stood there for a moment, his chest heaving, his small eyes fixed on her like she was a meal. "Better," he grunted, his hands going to his belt. The leather slid through the loops with a harsh, whispering sound, a promise of what was to come.

The leather slid through the loops with a harsh, whispering sound, a promise of what was to come. His trousers and shorts followed, kicked into a pile on the stained carpet, leaving him naked and ruddy in the lamplight. He walked and slumped himself on the bed, next to Kriti, the old frame groaning under his weight.

He slowly began to run his hand through Kriti’s hair, his fingers thick and possessive, scratching against her scalp. “Had to break some accountant’s fingers today,” he said conversationally, his voice a low rumble. “Stupid bastard thought he could skim from the East Side project.”

Kriti stared at the water stain on the ceiling, shaped like a distorted continent. “Oh,” she said, the word hollow.

“You?” he asked, his hand still moving, tangling in her dark hair. “How was your shining day of giving people pills?”

“It was fine,” she whispered. The lie was automatic. Her day had been the grey smear of all her days, punctuated by the phantom vibration of his text message in her apron pocket.

“Just fine?” He chuckled, a wet sound in his throat. His hand left her hair and traveled down, his palm rough as it cupped her cheek, turning her face toward him. His breath smelled of onions and paan. “You seem quiet. That husband of yours finally grow a pair?”

She didn’t answer. His thumb rubbed over her lips, pressing against them until they parted. “Open,” he commanded softly.

When she did, he slid his thumb into her mouth, pressing it down on her tongue. She closed her eyes, tasting salt and tobacco. “Suck,” he said. She obeyed, the mechanical motion hollowing her cheeks. He watched her, his small eyes glittering with ownership. “Good girl. You know how to use that mouth.”

He pulled his thumb out with a pop and wiped it on the bedspread. Then his hands were on her, impatient now, grabbing the neckline of her kameez. He didn’t bother with it. He just pulled, hard. The cheap silk tore with a shocking ripping sound, parting to her navel. Cool, musty air hit her skin. Her plain, practical bra was exposed, beige against her skin.

“Fuck, I hate these things,” he grunted, his fingers clumsy on the clasp. It gave way. He peeled the cups down, her breasts falling free, and he groaned appreciatively. His hands were all over them, squeezing and mauling, his calloused palms abrading her nipples until they hardened into painful points. “Perfect tits. Wasted on that drunk fool.”

He bent his head and took one into his mouth, not kissing, but sucking hard, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh. A jolt, electric and unwelcome, shot through her groin. She bit her lip, her fingers curling into the torn silk at her sides. He switched to the other, biting a little, laughing against her skin when she flinched. “You like that, you cheap whore? You get wet for me?”

Kriti’s hand, which had been lying inert on the stained bedspread, slowly rose. Her fingers threaded through the sparse, greasy strands clinging to the back of his skull, then tightened into a stiff claw, her nails biting into his sweaty scalp as he continued sucking her tit, grunting like a beast at a trough. He seemed to enjoy the sharp pressure, his mouth working harder, leaving a slick, bruising mark.

Then he stopped sucking and moved to her face. He pulled back, his moustache wet with her saliva, his breath coming in hot gusts. He began slowly kissing all over her face, messy, wet smears across her closed eyelids, her temples, the hollows of her cheeks—a grotesque pantomime of tenderness that made her stomach twist.

Then he parted her lips and kissed her. It was an invasion, thick and overwhelming. He inserted his tongue in her mouth and both tongues met, his pushing past her teeth, a muscular, probing thing that tasted of stale tobacco and power. She didn’t reciprocate; she let hers lie there, a dead fish in the murky water of his mouth, as his hands groped between her legs, pulling at the drawstring of her salwar.

“You’re dripping,” he growled into her mouth, his words a wet vibration against her tongue. He broke the kiss, a string of saliva connecting them for a second before it snapped. “I can feel it through the cloth, you desperate cunt. But you'll have to wait, I want to enjoy your body first before I put my cock in you."

 His fingers dug into the drawstring of her salwar, yanking it loose with a sharp tug. The fabric gaped open. He pushed his hand inside, his palm rough and hot against her bare stomach, sliding lower.

Kriti jerked, a involuntary spasm of revulsion that made her hips lift off the mattress. “Don’t—” The word was out before she could choke it back.

“Don’t?” He paused, his fingers curling in the hair between her legs. His eyes, small and gleaming, locked onto hers. “You telling me not to? After you came begging for that loan? After all the times you’ve spread your legs for this?” He pressed the heel of his hand against her, a blunt, grinding pressure. She was wet—a traitorous, slick fact her body supplied without her consent. He felt it and smirked. “Your cunt’s more honest than you are.”

He withdrew his hand, bringing his fingers to his mouth. He sucked them slowly, obscenely, his tongue curling around each digit. “Salty,” he pronounced. “Like you’ve been crying. You cry for me, Kriti?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He grabbed her hips again, his grip like iron. “Time for a better view.”

In one fluid, brutal motion, he rolled, his weight crushing her for an instant before the world upended. Her flipped her in one swift motion, making her land on top of him.

Air left her lungs in a shocked gasp. She was suddenly sprawled across his broad, hairy torso, her palms slapping against his sweaty chest to brace herself. The room spun—the faded wallpaper, the buzzing lamp, the silent television flashing blue across his gold chains piled on the dresser. His erection, thick and urgent, pressed against her inner thigh through the loose salwar now tangled around her knees.

“There,” he grunted, his hands already moving to her waist, controlling her. “That’s better.” He shifted beneath her, his belly a soft, rising mound. Then he slowly moved her forward, in a way that her breast were positioned on his face.

Kriti had to scramble with her knees to keep balance, the mattress dipping under their combined weight. He pushed her upward, his rough palms sliding from her waist to her ribcage, until she was kneeling over his chest. Her torn kameez hung open, her breasts exposed and swaying slightly. He looked up, his gaze predatory, his rotten grin wide. “Come here,” he breathed, his voice thick.

He slowly let her down so that his face was burried under her breasts.

His hands on her back pressed, insistent and unyielding. Kriti had no choice but to sink down, a slow, controlled collapse. The coarse hair of his chest scratched her inner thighs as she descended. Then her breasts enveloped his face, the soft flesh muffling his features. She felt the immediate, wet heat of his mouth on her nipple, sucking hard, his tongue lashing the peak. His nose dug into her other breast, his breath hot and humid against her skin. The scratch of his moustache was a sharp, unpleasant friction. She could hear his muffled grunts, feel the vibrations against her sensitive skin. Her hands, still braced on his shoulders, clenched. She stared over the top of his bald head, at the water stain on the ceiling, her mind scrambling for detachment. But her body responded—a treacherous, unwelcome pulse of warmth spreading from where his mouth worked, a tightening in her lower belly that felt like shame made physical. He shifted, nuzzling deeper, biting playfully at the tender underside of her breast. “Fucking perfect,” he muttered, his words slurred by her flesh.

[jiivajothii]

Lovely update

[dashh]

Part 3: 

His grunt vibrated against her breast. A sudden, sharp clarity cut through her numbness—if she had to be here, she would not just be taken. She would play. Tilting forward, she extended her tongue and slowly dragged the flat of it over the sweat-slicked crown of his head. The salt of his sweat was bitter, the skin surprisingly smooth under her hesitant stroke.

He froze for a second, then a choked, eager sound escaped him. “You filthy little learner,” he rasped, his voice muffled by her flesh, his hands gripping her hips tighter.

The words were a spark on dry tinder, igniting a reckless fire in her gut. She wanted to wipe that possessive grin off his face, even if it meant diving deeper into the filth. With a sharp, decisive twist of her hips and a kick of her legs, she yanked the loose salwar down past her knees and kicked the garment away entirely, the fabric slithering off the bed onto the stained floor.

Now completely naked from the waist down, she leaned forward, her bare thighs pressing against his ribs. She enveloped his entire bald head between her breasts, squeezing with her arms, smothering him in soft, warm flesh. Then she lowered her mouth to the crown of his head, planting a series of slow, open-mouthed kisses on his sweat-damp scalp, her lips moving with a perfunctory rhythm that felt like a strange, silent rebellion.

He groaned, a deep, gratified rumble that she felt through her chest. “Yeah, you fucking get it now,” he slurred, his hands sliding from her hips to grip the full, aching swell of her ass, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. “All that high-class pharmacy lady bullshit, just an act.” His words were hot and damp against her sternum. “This is what you are. A cheap, hungry cunt who gets wet for a real man.”

One of his thick fingers, calloused and insistent, found its way between her legs from behind, not entering her but pressing hard against her clit, rubbing rough, circular patterns. A jolt shot through her, a wire of pure sensation tripped despite her mind’s revolt. A sharp gasp escaped her lips, muffled against his skin. Her hips gave a tiny, involuntary rock against his hand, seeking more pressure, and the traitorous movement made her want to weep.

“See?” he chuckled darkly, the finger working her faster. “Your body’s smarter than you are. It knows its purpose.” His voice was a thick, satisfied rumble against her skin. Then, with a sudden heave of his shoulders, he pushed her off.

Kriti tumbled onto her back beside him, the mattress shuddering. The torn silk of her kameez was now a damp, open ruin across her chest. Hemant grunted as he sat up straight, his bulk creating a deep valley in the bed.

He reached over, his hand surprisingly not rough as it closed around her upper arm. He guided her up until she was sitting beside him, their naked hips touching. The contrast of their skin was stark—her smooth, honey-toned thigh against his pale, hairy leg.

His gaze held hers, a flicker of something beyond pure hunger in his small eyes. Then his hand moved, slowly, to the back of her head. His thick fingers tangled deep into the smooth, black strands of her hair, not pulling, but claiming.

He applied gentle, inexorable pressure, drawing her face toward his. Kriti didn’t resist. She let herself be pulled, her own breath catching, part of her marveling at this parody of tenderness.

Their lips met. His were surprisingly soft, but the taste was instantly familiar—bitter paan, stale tobacco, and power. He kissed her slowly, a deep, exploring pressure that demanded a response.

Kriti closed her eyes. A memory of Shikhar’s dry, perfunctory pecks flashed and shattered. She parted her lips. Her tongue touched his, tentatively at first, then with a deliberate, sliding curl.

She heard him inhale sharply through his nose, a sound of pure victory. Her hand, which had been limp at her side, rose of its own volition. It settled on his bare, sweaty shoulder, her fingers pressing into the solid, repellent flesh.

She kissed him back, opening her mouth wider, letting his tongue delve deeper. The sour taste filled her, and in that moment, she consumed her own complicity. It was not passion, but a cold, furious transaction, and her active, seeking tongue was the final, damning payment.

She let his tongue explore her mouth, her fingers now clutching at the sweat-slick skin of his shoulder as if she were drowning. Hemant broke the kiss with a wet sound, his breathing ragged, and used light force to bring Kriti even closer, wrapping one thick arm around her torso while his other hand remained tangled in the hair behind her head. "That's it, give it all to me," he grunted, his lips against her temple, the cloying scent of his pomade filling her nostrils. 

The command in his voice, the smell of his hair, it all coalesced into a cage. Her compliance snapped. She shoved hard against his shoulder with a sudden, surprising force, breaking his grasp. "Wait," she said, her own voice sounding foreign, low and thick.

He blinked, his face slack with stupid surprise as she twisted away from his arm. She moved on the stained bedspread, positioning herself before he could react, and then lowered herself deliberately into his naked lap. His thick erection, hot and insistently hard, pressed against the back of her thigh. She felt the damp heat of his stomach against her spine.

Then she turned to face him, her movements deliberate and slow. She raised her hands, palms slick with her own sweat and his, and framed his jowly face. His skin was coarse with stubble, oily to the touch. She held him there, forcing his small, bewildered eyes to meet hers in the dim light.

She saw the flicker of irritation, then a dark, intrigued amusement. She didn’t give him time to speak. Leaning in, she covered his mouth with hers, but this was nothing like the kiss he had taken. This was possession. She kissed him harder, her lips forceful, her tongue plunging past his teeth without invitation, mapping the rotten landscape within. She tasted the decay, the paan, the cheap whisky, and she consumed it all, a bitter sacrament. A muffled grunt escaped him, a vibration against her mouth that was part shock, part arousal. His big hands came up and clenched around her bare waist, his grip tightening like a vise, but he didn’t push her away. He held on, letting her lead this brutal dance, his own hunger momentarily stunned into submission.

He held on, letting her lead this brutal dance, his own hunger momentarily stunned into submission. Her tongue was a ruthless invader now, and he yielded to it with a choked, approving groan. When she finally broke the kiss, a strand of saliva connecting their mouths, his eyes were glazed and eager. “Fuck,” he breathed, his hands kneading the flesh of her waist. But the predatory focus had returned to his eyes, the brief spell of her control shattered. He gave her a rough squeeze, then shoved her off his lap with a grunt. “Enough playing. I can’t wait anymore.”

Kriti moved wordlessly, her body obeying before her mind could protest. She settled beside him on the creaking bed, the torn silk of her kameez hanging open. She knew what was expected. Taking a slow breath that tasted of him and stale air, she lowered her head into his lap.

The coarse, wiry thicket of his pubic hair scratched against her cheek. It was an unpleasant, prickling sensation. “Why don’t you shave these off?” she mumbled, her voice muffled against his skin, the question absurd and small in the heavy silence.

Hemant barked a short, derisive laugh. “What, and look like some hairless boy?” He patted her head, his fingers tangling in her hair possessively. “This is a man. You’ll take me as I am.”

Kriti shook her head slowly, a minute gesture of resignation. She closed her eyes, shutting out the sight of his swollen belly. She inhaled, her nose nearly touching the tip of him. The scent was musky, sharp with male sweat and a faint, sour tang she’d come to know. With her right hand, she gently grasped the base of his penis, feeling the hot, veined weight of it. The skin was surprisingly soft there, stretched taut.

She leaned in, her lips parting. Slowly, gently, she planted a series of soft, closed-mouth kisses on the swollen, ruddy tip. Each press of her lips was deliberate, a silent echo of the kisses she’d once imagined for a different life.

Hemant let out a satisfied sigh, his hand stroking her head playfully, as if petting a dog. “Good girl,” he rumbled, his hips shifting slightly. “Now get it wet.”

Kriti opened her eyes, focusing on the detailed landscape before her. She extended her tongue, flattening it against the salty slit. Then she dragged it slowly down the entire thick length of his shaft, from the flared head to the root buried in coarse hair. The taste was bitter and unequivocally male. She repeated the motion, a long, languid lick, coating him with her saliva, her own heartbeat a dull thud in her ears.



She repeated the motion, a long, languid lick, coating him with her saliva, her own heartbeat a dull thud in her ears.

“Wider,” he commanded, his voice a guttural push.

She opened her mouth, letting the broad, spongy head press against her lips, and took him inside. The immediate taste was a bitter, salty flood that made the back of her throat constrict. She relaxed her jaw, letting him slide deeper, the sensitive ridge of his crown hitting the roof of her mouth. She moved slowly at first, a shallow, tentative rhythm, her tongue pressed flat against the throbbing underside.

“Use your fucking hand, too,” he grunted, his hips giving a slight jerk. “Don’t be lazy.”

Her left hand, which had been braced on his hairy thigh, wrapped around the base of his shaft, her fingers barely meeting. She began to move her hand in time with the bobbing of her head, creating a tight, twisting tunnel of fist and mouth. The syncopated rhythm was clinical, a learned technique from countless other motel-room nights, and she fell into it with a detached precision. The wet, sucking sounds filled the stale air, obscene and rhythmic. Saliva dripped from her stretched lips, coating her chin and his fist where it met her mouth.

“That’s it, you fucking slut,” he moaned, one hand gripping the stained bedspread, the other returning to the back of her head. His fingers tightened in her hair, not guiding yet, just holding. “Just like that. Take it all.”

She pushed further, feeling the thick length nudge the entrance to her throat. Her eyes watered instantly, a reflexive burn. She pulled back, gasping softly for air, a string of spit bridging her lips to his glistening skin. The cool motel air felt sharp on her wet chin.

“None of that,” he snapped, his voice edged with impatience. He applied downward pressure on her head. “You know how to swallow it. Stop fucking around.”

She inhaled sharply through her nose, steeling herself, and took him in again. This time, when he hit that resistant barrier, she forced her muscles to relent, to open. The head of his penis pushed into her throat, a solid, insistent invasion that triggered a gag so violent her whole body clenched. She held it, tears streaming from her squeezed-shut eyes, the primal urge to vomit a roaring storm in her gut. She could feel the violent pulse of his heartbeat in the meat of him.

After a few seconds that stretched into a lifetime, he let her up. She dragged herself off him, coughing, saliva and tears mingling on her face. Oxygen burned back into her lungs.

“Wipe your face and get back to work,” he said, watching her dispassionately. “I’m not paying you to cry.”

Kriti swiped the back of her hand across her mouth, smearing the wetness. She looked at him, at his smug, expectant face glowing with sweat in the lamplight. A cold rage settled over her, clearer than the tears. She lowered her head again, but this time her approach was different. There was no tenderness, no exploratory licks. She took him back into her mouth with a sudden, engulfing hunger that made him gasp.

She worked him with a brutal, efficient rhythm, her head pistoning in his lap. Her hand twisted tightly at the base, her fingers a vise. She used her tongue aggressively, jabbing and swirling around the head each time she pulled back, focusing on the spot just beneath the crown that made his thighs tremble. The wet noises were louder now, sloppy and emphatic.

“Oh fuck, yes,” he choked out, his hands now both fisted in her hair, controlling the pace, forcing her deeper onto each downstroke. “Your husband ever get his dick sucked like this? Huh? That useless fuck ever make you gag on it?”

She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. Her world narrowed to the salt-and-skin taste flooding her mouth, the ache in her jaw, the scbang of his pubic hair against her nose, and the heavy, frantic weights of his hands on her skull. She breathed in ragged bursts through her nostrils, the air thick with the smell of him and the room’s perpetual decay.

He began to fuck her mouth in earnest, his hips pumping up to meet her, thrusting past her lips with a force that stole her breath. Her throat opened and closed around him, a raw, used passage. The pressure built, a coiled tension in his groin and in the grunts tearing from his chest. His breathing became sharp, ragged saw-blades of air.

“I’m gonna come,” he warned, his voice strained and high. “Don’t you dare stop. You swallow every fucking drop, you understand me?”

Kriti’s rhythm didn’t falter. She increased it, her movements becoming a frantic, focused drill, her mouth a slick, punishing instrument. She wanted him to finish. She needed this part to be over.

His body went rigid. A guttural, shapeless roar erupted from him, and his hands clamped her head in a final, brutal lock, holding her impaled as he erupted. The first hot, bitter pulse hit the back of her throat. She swallowed convulsively, the viscous fluid a shocking, warm rush. Another followed, and another, each contraction of his body forcing more into her. She kept swallowing, her throat working, until the pulses subsided into weak tremors.

He finally released his death-grip on her hair, his body collapsing back onto the mattress with a heavy sigh. Kriti pulled away slowly, her lips making a soft, wet sound of release. She sat back on her heels, breathing hard, her mouth flooded with the lingering, acrid aftertaste. She didn’t look at him. She looked at the wall, at the peeling floral pattern, while he lay there panting, spent.

[abcturbine]

Superb....take it slow and seductive..also add lead female emotional introspection ... eagerly waiting for next...

[dashh]

Superb....take it slow and seductive..also add lead female emotional introspection ... eagerly waiting for next...

Sure brother thanks for the feedback. I will implement in the next update.