Adultery Nalini and The Unseen Virus

[tweeny_fory]

Part 8 Continued....

Her eyes searched his, desperately seeking a flicker of conscience, a tremor of regret. She needed to see something that indicated he understood the gravity of his actions, the violation inherent in his touch. But the depths of Anbu's eyes offered no solace, only a chilling void reflecting a ruthless, almost predatory desire. The darkness within them was unsettling, a bottomless well of purpose she couldn't fathom. His face, a carefully constructed mask of professionalism, was a flimsy facade. Behind the controlled expression, she sensed a hunger, a raw intensity he struggled, and ultimately failed, to conceal.


He rubbed harder, his hand moving against her skin in firm, rhythmic circles that bordered on aggressive. A strange alchemy began to occur. Initially, Nalini felt only the sharp sting of pain, a protest from her abused flesh. But as his relentless movements continued, the discomfort began to morph, the pain giving way to a perverse, unwelcome pleasure. A heat bloomed beneath his touch, spreading outwards like a stain. She bit down hard on her lip, the taste of blood a desperate anchor to reality. Her eyes squeezed shut, blurring the world into meaningless shapes as she fought to focus on anything – a distant memory, a childhood rhyme, the texture of the rough stone floor beneath her feet – anything to escape the encroaching tide of sensation.

Teja's grip on her hand tightened, a silent reassurance, or perhaps a desperate plea for her to remain present. His thumb traced a frantic pattern on her wrist, mimicking the frantic rhythm of her racing heart. She could feel his breath on her neck, hot and damp against her sensitive skin. The sensation was both invasive and strangely comforting. His other hand reached up, hovering near her face. His fingertips, hesitant and gentle, grazed her cheek, as if assessing her feverishly rising temperature, searching for signs of her breaking point.

Nalini's eyes snapped open, the abrupt return to awareness leaving her gasping for breath, like a drowning swimmer pulled to the surface. Anbu's hand was a brand on her skin, searing her with its insistent pressure. His rough movements ignited a chain reaction, sending waves of unwanted heat rippling through her body. She felt exposed, vulnerable, as if his gaze was a physical thing, pinning her down, dissecting her every reaction. Her own hand trembled violently in Teja's grasp, a betraying tremor she couldn't suppress. She clung to his hand, a lifeline in a storm of unwanted sensation, struggling to maintain any semblance of control, to salvage the last vestiges of her dignity from the wreckage of the moment. The fight was exhausting, a desperate battle against her own treacherous body, against the violating force of Anbu's touch, and against the unsettling ambiguity of her own response.

The friction grew more intense, Anbu's hand moving in a steady, relentless rhythm against her skin. It was supposed to be a medical examination, checking for a fever, but his touch felt invasive, predatory. The initial discomfort sharpened, twisting into a strange, unfamiliar heat. The pain, sharp and insistent at first, morphed into something else, something shameful that she didn't dare acknowledge, even in the privacy of her own mind. Nalini's breath hitched, a strangled gasp escaping her lips as she felt the first stirrings of arousal, her body betraying her in this most vulnerable of moments. It was an unwelcome intrusion, a violation of her own will. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the feeling away, trying to compartmentalize the confusing sensations. But it only grew stronger, a traitorous tide rising within her.


And then, suddenly, it stopped. The unexpected cessation was jarring. Anbu's hand was gone, leaving her armpit burning and sensitive, the skin flushed and tingling. The abrupt withdrawal left her disoriented, teetering on the edge of something she didn't understand. She looked up at him, her eyes searching his for any sign of explanation, any hint of remorse. For a fleeting moment, she thought she saw a flicker of concern, a brief flash of humanity, but it was quickly replaced by something darker, something calculating and cold. The concern was gone, replaced with an unknown expression.

"It seems we've made some progress," he said, his voice devoid of any warmth, flat and clinical. The words were chilling, stripping away any pretense of care. Nalini felt a sudden emptiness, a hollowness that resonated deep within her, as if he had taken something precious, something irretrievable. She didn't know what it was, but she knew she didn't like it, this feeling of being used, of being manipulated. Her eyes searched his, desperately trying to understand what was happening, what game he was playing. She was a pawn, and the realization stung.

Nalini felt cold without his touch, the sudden absence of his hand leaving her feeling exposed and empty, like a puppet with its strings cut. The sensation of wrongness amplified, a discordant note in the sterile environment. She nodded, her voice a mere whisper, thin and reedy with suppressed emotion, as she handed the towel back to him. The simple act felt loaded, heavy with unspoken tension. He took it, his eyes never leaving hers, pinning her in place. She watched, mesmerized and repulsed, as he folded it neatly, with unnerving precision, before placing it back in his bag. The deliberate movements felt like a power play, a subtle assertion of control.

The silence in the room was deafening, amplifying the frantic pounding of her heart. The only other sounds were the telltale rustle of their PPE, a constant reminder of the sterile, clinical setting that now felt like a trap, the mechanical hum of the ventilation system, and her own ragged breathing. Anbu took the thermometer, his movements deliberate and slow, almost theatrical. He inserted it back into her armpit, his eyes searching hers for any sign of protest, any evidence of her inner turmoil. But she was too stunned to react, too overwhelmed by the tumult of emotions churning within her to do anything but nod weakly, a puppet on invisible strings.

The moment the thermometer was in place, she felt Teja's hand move to her other armpit, mimicking Anbu's earlier action with unsettling precision. But his touch was different, firmer, more possessive, as if staking a claim. The heat from his palm spread through her, a burning brand against her skin, the pressure sending conflicting waves of pleasure and pain that she couldn't ignore, that threatened to overwhelm her senses. Nalini felt her body respond against her will, her breath hitching in her chest, a silent scream building within her.

And then, just as suddenly as it had started, Anbu withdrew his hand. The movement was abrupt, leaving its absence as a tangible thing in the air. She looked at him, her eyes wide with confusion, with a desperate plea for understanding, and with a strange, unwanted longing for the very touch that had violated her. He smirked, a cruel, knowing expression that sent a shiver down her spine, the glint in his eyes telling her that he knew exactly what he was doing, that he reveled in her discomfort and confusion. Teja's hand remained, a heavy weight against her side, his movements unchanged, as if to keep her anchored in this twisted reality, trapped in a game she didn't understand and couldn't escape. The power dynamic was clear: control, manipulation, and her as the powerless subject.