Adultery Between Nabila and Ranjeet

[naj0501]

I closed the door softly behind me, letting the heavy hush of the room settle over my shoulders like a comforting shawl.
For the first time all day, solitude wrapped itself around me, heavy and absolute.
I moved toward the dressing table with slow, almost reverent steps, each footfall muffled against the soft rug. My hand lifted on its own, finding the clip that had held my hair captive all day. With a gentle tug, the clip loosened, and my hair tumbled down in a heavy, cascading wave, thick and slightly unruly, a few rebellious strands framing my face. The familiar scents of coconut oil and jasmine water floated up, wrapping me in a fragrance that felt both tender and nostalgic. I sat down before the mirror, studying the woman who stared back at me—a version of myself I hadn’t truly looked at in what felt like forever.
There I was.
Not just a mother, not just a wife, but a woman in her own right. A woman rediscovering herself in the quiet hush of an evening. Me—whole, vivid, unapologetically alive.
I peeled off my kurta with slow, deliberate movements, feeling the soft cotton whisper against my skin, trailing a shiver along my arms as it slipped down. The fabric clung momentarily to the curve of my shoulders before falling away, pooling silently at my feet like a shed layer of hesitation. Each motion felt like a small reclamation of self, a quiet act of letting go, leaving me standing there, vulnerable yet strangely empowered under the dim, forgiving light.
Slowly, I rose to my feet, feeling the soft tug of fabric against my skin as I slid my salwar down, letting it pool soundlessly at my ankles. I stepped out of it carefully, savoring the growing sense of lightness that came with each piece I shed.

Underneath, I was still wearing the same set I had slipped on in the morning—simple, soft, nude-toned lace bra and matching mid-rise panties. My breasts, 34C, felt slightly flushed from the heat and movement. My waist, curved and soft, bore the gentle impressions of the drawstring of my leggings.
I looked at my reflection in nothing but those delicate underthings and let myself feel the moment—no filters, no mask. Just skin and breath.
Then I turned to the cupboard.
I reached for the one outfit I hadn’t worn in a long time.
It was a dark midnight blue salwar-kameez set—designer, exquisite, radiating understated luxury. Silver hand-embroidered floral patterns snaked up from the hem of the kameez and curled delicately along the cuffs of the sleeves, each stitch a testament to painstaking craftsmanship. The fabric itself was georgette, featherlight and sheer, catching the light with a soft, tantalizing shimmer that made it seem almost alive when I moved. The dupatta, fashioned from the finest chiffon, floated weightlessly, its borders kissed with tiny silver sequins that caught the faintest glimmers of light, twinkling like distant stars scattered across a midnight sky. Just holding it made my heart thud louder, made the air around me feel charged with forgotten excitement.
I had worn it last Eid, when everything had felt celebratory and light. Now, my hands reached for it almost instinctively, drawn to its memory and meaning.
Or maybe not instinctively—maybe knowingly.
Because he loved blue. Always had. Always said it made me look like something out of a dream.
He had once gazed at me, a rare softness in his eyes, and whispered that I looked like the night sky wrapped in velvet when I wore it. That memory shimmered now, tender and electric, as my fingers clutched the fabric tighter, drawing comfort from something I wasn’t ready to name.
I slipped into the matching Salwar first, pulling the soft fabric over my legs. Then came the kameez—it hugged my figure gently, accentuating the curve of my hips and the inward dip of my waist. It flowed just past my knees, the neckline a modest scoop that sat just above my cleavage, the embroidery drawing the eyes subtly, beautifully.
I wore the dupatta around my neck.
Then I opened my jewelry box.
I chose a delicate silver necklace—thin, almost fragile—with a single sapphire stone that sat at the hollow of my throat. Ranjeet had once complimented it. “Yeh tumhari skin pe chamakta nahi… behta hai,” he’d said.
I added a pair of matching sapphire studs in my ears.
Then the bangles—thin silver ones that clinked softly as I slid them onto each wrist. The sound felt like a woman reclaiming her rhythm.
I sat before the mirror again, gathering my hair with careful fingers. I twisted it loosely into a soft, low bun at the nape of my neck, letting a few wisps fall around my face deliberately, a casual elegance I hadn’t allowed myself in a long time. Only then did I apply a fresh layer of kajal, dark and smooth. A soft brown shadow, a little highlighter. Just enough mascara. I added a light blush to my cheeks, then paused.
Lipstick.
I reached for the deep rose shade I hadn’t worn in months.
It was bold. More than I usually wore. But I remembered how his eyes lingered the last time I wore it at the office Diwali function.
My fingers hesitated… then applied it anyway.
I ran one hand down my front to smooth the fabric, watching the way the dupatta shifted, the outline of my breasts soft but present beneath it.
This wasn’t about seduction.
But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to be seen.
I didn’t want to be invisible anymore.
And when I stood, fully dressed, fully me, I felt it.
I wasn’t dressing for anyone’s approval today.
But if he looked at me—really looked—I wouldn’t look away.