Adultery In the Shadow of Diplomacy: A Tale of Temptation (Completed)

[untamable_rohini]

The plane ride back from Dubai was quiet.

Rashi sat beside Amit, his head resting lightly against the window, unaware that the woman beside him was no longer his. Not in body. Maybe not even in spirit. Her legs were still sore from Faisal. Her breasts bore Qadir’s fresh bruises. And in her handbag, she carried a sleek envelope from Faisal’s company—a job offer disguised as an outreach initiative.
Kabul looked the same when they landed, but something inside her had shifted. She wasn’t just returning to her life—she was stepping into a parallel one. One with hidden corridors and secret rooms, where the rules of marriage, morality, and diplomacy didn’t apply.
Amit, ever cheerful, talked through the cab ride about how successful the summit had been, how impressed everyone seemed with Rashi’s performance, and how Qadir’s endorsement would likely open more doors. Rashi smiled. Nodded. Listened, just enough to appear present. Inside, she was somewhere else entirely—caught between two bodies, two men, two wildly different versions of herself.
Back home, the embassy assignments kept Amit busy. Rashi, for her part, had new instructions—delivered quietly, efficiently, through an envelope Faisal had slipped into her hand on their last day in Dubai. It was an offer to work with local women’s groups—an outreach project focused on empowerment, education, skill-building. On paper, it looked like noble, progressive work. In reality, it was an extension of Faisal’s reach. And a new arena for Rashi to live out her dualities.
She accepted the offer.
The work was real. So were the women. So were the stories of poverty, violence, and survival. Rashi gave it her all—visiting villages, listening, organizing supply runs, arranging trainings. Her days were dusty, sweaty, and physically exhausting. But inside, she was alert—alive in a way she hadn’t been in years.
Faisal didn’t hover. He barely contacted her. But his presence lingered like a shadow in every meeting, every checkpoint cleared, every unspoken agreement with local tribal heads. She knew she was moving with his sanction. She knew others knew it too.
Sometimes, Qadir accompanied her. Not always. Just enough to remind her that she was still being watched—and still owned, in some unspoken way. He would appear without notice: at a field clinic one day, a college ceremony the next. They’d exchange formal greetings in front of the locals. Then, later, he’d find her alone—behind a truck, inside an empty tent, in a locked storage cabin.



He didn’t talk much during these moments. Just unzipped her, pulled her salwar halfway down, and used her until she was shaking, her knees dirty, her voice hoarse from holding back the moans.
Then there were the times he didn’t show. Weeks would pass without a word from Qadir. Those stretches were harder. Not because she missed him—but because she hated how much she did. Her body would remember him without permission. She’d masturbate late at night in the bathroom, panties stuffed in her mouth to muffle her cries, replaying in her head how he’d called her his obedient little reward.
Faisal never asked for updates. But he didn’t need to. Back at home, Amit greeted her with warmth and concern. He noticed the fatigue, the moodiness, the thin shadows under her eyes. He asked if the work was too much. She said no, just a new rhythm. He offered to rub her feet. She let him. And when he tried to kiss her thighs, she gently pushed his head away
She told him it was just cramps.
It wasn’t.
It was because the night before, Qadir had left her thighs purple from holding them apart with too much force in the back of a dusty SUV. And she wasn’t sure if she could stand the feel of tenderness while still soaked in the memory of violence.
By now, Rashi had learned how to move between worlds seamlessly. She dressed carefully, kept her clothes modest, stayed soft-spoken at embassy functions. But underneath—always underneath—she was tuned to something darker. Something that Faisal had awakened. Something Qadir still stirred. Something Amit would never touch.
She knew what she had become: a woman with layers. A woman who could lead a training session on menstrual health with perfect poise in the morning, and be fucked over a shipping crate that same evening without ever missing a breath. And she wasn’t ashamed.

One such day when the sun was already low in the sky when the wind began to change.
What had been a mild breeze sweeping over the rugged plains turned thick and violent within minutes. Dust rose like smoke across the arid stretch of road as Rashi and Qadir’s convoy rattled slowly through a rural passage outside Bamyan. They had just completed a day of visits—distributing hygiene kits, hosting a community Q&A under a tarpaulin roof, listening to women who’d never before been asked their opinion.
Rashi had barely eaten. Her throat was dry, her head light. But her eyes sparkled from the rush of the work—the kind of exhaustion that made her feel purposefully alive. Qadir, sitting beside her in the back of the SUV, had been silent for most of the return ride. Watching. Thinking. His silence always carried weight, and it pressed against her like a hand resting just between her thighs.
Visibility dropped fast. The driver hesitated, slowing further as the storm rolled in thick curtains across the road.
“We should stop,” Qadir finally said. “Fringe groups operate around here. We don’t drive blind at night.”
A call was made. The small team of three support staff were instructed to pull off to the side. A local village nearby agreed to host the crew. Not in homes—that would attract attention—but in temporary tents pitched behind a quiet compound.
By the time the wind settled, the sun was gone. The village lay dark except for a few battery lanterns. Rashi’s tent had been prepared away from the others—for her comfort, someone had said.
She slipped off her dupatta, brushing sand from her lashes. Her skin was sticky with heat, her back sore. She sat on the thin mat, trying to ease her spine.
The flap of the tent rustled.
Qadir stepped in.
He didn’t speak. Just ducked inside and zipped it closed behind him. His face was shadowed, his shirt half unbuttoned. He smelled of dust and sweat and something unmistakably male.
She didn’t ask why he was there. She didn’t need to.
He stepped closer, crouched in front of her. She could feel it already—the way her stomach clenched, her thighs instinctively pressed together.
Qadir reached out and gently pushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek. Then, with one hand gripping her jaw, he kissed her.
Hard.
There was no patience, no teasing. His mouth was rough, biting. His hands slid down her sides, pulling her kurta up over her hips. She gasped as the cool air met her skin.
She was already wet.
“You like being out here, don’t you?” he murmured, pushing her onto her back, pulling her salwar down. “No husband. No embassy. Just me. Just us.”
Rashi moaned softly, her head hitting the edge of the folded blanket. He was over her now, tugging his own pants down, his cock already thick and hard. She guided him inside without a word.
The tent was filled with the smell of sex, sweat, and the muffled sounds of skin meeting skin. Outside, the wind still howled against the canvas. But inside, it was its own storm.
He took her in long, deep thrusts, holding her thighs wide. Her nails scratched down his back. Her breath hitched in staccato gasps as he fucked her steadily, her body arching off the floor.
He grabbed her face when she came, holding her jaw as if to claim her orgasm, to remind her who had brought it. She came hard, crying out into his mouth as he swallowed the sound.
Later, they lay side by side, the tent still and warm.
He didn’t leave.
He didn’t need to.
She slept beside him, still pulsing between her legs, still aching from the stretch of his cock.
That night, wrapped in a blanket of silence and dust, Rashi didn't think about Amit. She didn’t think about what it meant.
She just slept deeply, dreamlessly, with Qadir’s breath warm against the back of her neck.
Morning crept in quietly. A pale, hazy sun filtered through the thin fabric of the tent, casting a golden blur across Rashi’s bare shoulder. She stirred, stretching lazily. Her body ached in all the places Qadir had claimed the night before—her hips, her thighs, the soft soreness between her legs a reminder of how hard she had come under him.
But the warmth beside her was gone.
She turned quickly. The blanket beside her was cool. Qadir was nowhere in sight.
Her heart picked up.
She sat up, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Dust still hung faintly in the air. She reached for her clothes, hurriedly pulling on her salwar and straightening her kurta, still wrinkled and carrying the scent of sex. Her hair was a mess. She tied it back with trembling fingers and unzipped the tent flap.
Then she froze.
Just twenty feet ahead, in the clearing where the vehicles had been parked, armed men sat with rifles drawn. A half-dozen of them, at least—faces weathered, clothes tattered, weapons resting across their laps with practiced ease. Their eyes were locked on Qadir’s men, who were kneeling in a circle, hands raised in surrender.
And in the center stood Qadir.
Barely five paces from the leader of the gang. The tension between them was palpable, like two wolves circling over a carcass. Qadir’s jaw was tight. His shirt from the night before was gone, replaced by his undershirt and dust-covered trousers. His hands were slightly raised, but his eyes—his eyes were sharp, calculating.
Rashi stepped out slowly. No one noticed her at first.
Then one of the gunmen did. He nudged the man next to him.
The rival leader turned.
He was older, leaner than Qadir but no less dangerous—scar over one brow, yellowed teeth bared in a grin that made Rashi’s stomach drop.
“Well, well,” he said loudly, eyes scanning her body openly. “So the rumours are true. You bring women now, Qadir?”
Qadir didn’t move. “She’s not part of this. Let her go.”
The leader’s grin widened. “Oh, but she is. She’s very much a part of this now.”
Rashi stood frozen, every nerve on fire. She could feel her heartbeat in her throat.
The leader took a few slow steps toward her, looking her up and down.
“You want to leave here alive?” he asked, addressing the group now, waving a hand at the kneeling men, then back at Qadir. “Then I’ll take my price. One time. With her. Then you all walk free.”
“No,” Qadir said, instantly.
The man tilted his head. “Then we shoot one. Every five minutes. Until none of you are left. Starting with your driver.”
Rashi looked at Qadir.
His jaw clenched. His fist flexed at his side.
He met her eyes.
And in that long second, Rashi saw something that wasn’t dominance. It wasn’t control. It was helplessness. It was fury wrapped in restraint.
He didn’t speak.
He just turned his face away.
Rashi understood.
She stepped back and ran back to the tent, the same one where she’d spent the night with Qadir.
The rival leader ran towards her and entered the tent. The tent felt smaller the moment he stepped in.
Rashi instinctively backed away from the entrance, heart thudding, stomach twisted in dread. The rival gang leader stood at the flap, his rifle now slung casually across his back, his eyes locked on her with a hunger that made her skin crawl.
“You got what you wanted,” she said, voice shaking. “You made your point. Now get out.”
He laughed—short, dry, cruel. “You think I came to bargain, girl? That deal’s already done.”
He took a step forward.
“Don’t come closer,” Rashi warned, her voice rising.
But he didn’t stop. “I don’t take threats from women who were already paid for.”
“You bastard,” she spat, moving to grab the edge of the cot for balance. “You think you can—”
He lunged fast.
Rashi screamed, twisting away, but he caught her by the arm, yanking her hard toward him. Her wrist bent awkwardly in his grip, and she cried out in pain. With his other hand, he grabbed at the front of her kurta, pulling it down one side, exposing her shoulder.
“No one’s coming to save you,” he hissed in her ear.
“Qadir will kill you,” she said, trying to yank herself free. “He’ll tear you apart.”
The man snorted. “Qadir agreed. You’re payment. And he made it with his eyes open.”
“No…” Her breath hitched.
“Ask him yourself when I’m done.”
She thrashed again, and this time he threw her down onto the blanket. She landed hard on her chest, the breath knocked from her lungs. He knelt over her hips, pinning her down with his knees, he inserted his hand near her belly button and started tugging at the hem of her salwar.
Rashi screamed louder, kicking at him, but he slapped her—open palm across the hips. “You can scream,” he sneered, breathing hot over her. “No one out there wants a bullet in the back.”
He tore her dupatta from her neck and flung it aside, then reached to unzip her kurta completely.
Rashi trembled beneath him. “Don’t do this,” she begged. “Please. You don’t have to—”
He turns her around and his fingers dug into her chest, tugging fabric, pulling her breasts free roughly.
He lowered his mouth to her skin, licking and sucking, groaning obscenely as if tasting something forbidden.
She turned her head away, eyes wide with tears, whispering prayers in a broken voice. 
Her limbs stiffened as his weight pressed down, anchoring her to the floor of the tent.
The air was thick with dust and sweat, but all Rashi could smell was him—sharp, sour, invasive. His hands were everywhere—grabbing, squeezing, pulling. She twisted beneath him, trying to roll away, but he slammed her back down with a guttural growl.
“You’re softer than I thought,” he muttered against her neck, his stubble scbanging her skin. “No wonder Qadir kept you hidden like a jewel.”
Rashi winced as he forced her kurta halfway down her arms, trapping her movement. Her wrists were tangled in the sleeves. She kicked again, landed a blow to his thigh, but it only made him laugh.
“You’ve got fight,” he said. “Good. I like a little struggle.”
“You’ll regret this,” she hissed through clenched teeth, breath short and panicked.
He grabbed her face roughly, turning it toward him. “Will I?” he sneered. “By the time I’m done, you’ll be begging me not to stop.”
She spat at him.
He didn’t flinch. Just wiped his cheek and smiled wider. “Keep trying, princess. No one out there gives a damn.”
He bent down, dragging his tongue over the curve of her breast. She gagged in disgust, thrashing under him. His fingers dug into her waist as he pinned her harder.
“I could do it slow,” he whispered. “Make it nice. Or I could tear you open. Your choice.”
She sobbed once—just once—but it was enough to enrage her. She felt the shame rise like bile. Not from the tears—but from how easily he thought he could break her.
He reached for his belt
"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice thick with desire as he began to unravel the fabric of her salwar. Rashi's eyes were wide with fear, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps as she felt his calloused hands graze her bare skin. His eyes never left hers, a dark promise that sent a shiver down her spine. Despite her struggles, she couldn't hide the way her body responded to his touch.
He kissed her neck, his stubble scratching against her sensitive flesh as he peeled her clothing away. She squirmed, trying to pull away, but his grip was like iron. "Please," she whispered, her voice a desperate plea, "please don't." But his only response was a low groan that grew deeper as he finally exposed her breasts.
With a hungry gaze, he took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard. Rashi's back arched involuntarily, a gasp escaping her lips. Her hands flew to his shoulders, trying to push him away, but her body was a traitor, reacting to his touch with a fervor. She could feel his erection pressing against her thigh, demanding entry.
He kissed his way down her torso, pausing to bite the soft flesh of her stomach. His hands were everywhere—on her breasts, her hips, her thighs—until she was fully exposed to him. He took a moment to appreciate the sight before him, his eyes lingering on her pussy. She was clean and her recent encounter with Qadir has made it more pinkish. With a smirk, he positioned his head between her legs, the tip of his tongue poised at her entrance. "Ready?" he growled.
Her eyes snapped to his, anger flaring in their depths. "You're going to regret this," she spat, her voice shaking. But the words had no bite. Her body was betraying her, slick with need. He chuckled and leaned down, his mouth hovering above her pussy. "Ready," he repeated, his voice a harsh whisper.
His tongue invaded her pussy as he claimed her body that sent waves of sensation through her. She bit her own lips, and trying to push him away, but it only spurred him on.
Her nails dug into his back, leaving red marks in the dust that coated his skin. He didn't care. He pulled back and kissed her on lips, and slammed his tongue into her again, watching her face contort in a mix of agony and ecstasy.
"Look at me," he ordered, his eyes burning into hers. "Look at what you do to me."
Her eyes remained locked with his, even as tears streamed down her cheeks.
"I will make you come," he said, his voice guttural. "And when you do, you're going to scream my name."
Her eyes narrowed. "Never," she vowed.
Her breath caught as his lips dragged across her bare skin—greedy, wet, possessive. He groped her chest roughly, like she was a thing to be claimed, not a woman to be touched. His fingers dug deep, leaving her skin reddened and sore as he sucked at her breast with a grotesque moan.
She squirmed beneath him, writhing, trying to push him off, but his body was heavier, his grip vice-like.
“Stop it,” she choked, her voice breaking. “Please—don’t…”
He lifted his head just enough to sneer, face inches from hers.
“You’re already mine, girl. Don’t act innocent. You fuck Qadir in a tent like a bitch in heat—and now you cry purity?”
She stared at him, stunned. Her heart plummeted as she realized just how much he knew. How much Qadir must have let him know.
“You… watched us?”
He laughed—vile and unbothered. “He told me. Smirking, like she’s fire between the legs. And I thought—why should he get all the fun?”
Rashi’s stomach twisted. A part of her wanted to scream again. Another part wanted to disappear entirely. Her hands balled into fists beneath her, nails biting into her own palms.
“You’re filth,” she spat.
He only grinned wider. “And you? You’re soft, warm, already wet from him. I’m just collecting what’s left.”
He reached between her thighs then—roughly, deliberately—and she kicked out hard, connecting with his shin.
He shouted, stumbled slightly, but didn’t move off her.
“You little—” His hand came down, grabbing her throat—not choking, but enough to remind her how helpless she was.
His other hand went to his belt, unbuckling it with a chilling purpose.
Rashi could feel her panic rising now—louder than the wind, louder than her own heartbeat. Her mind raced for escape, for help, for anything—but her body felt pinned by more than just his weight.
The belt dropped with a thud. His pants slid, she was already completely naked, her fair skin was contrast to his body, His eyes glinted with malice as he dropped his pants and brought out with a gruff tug, his cock from the confines of his pants. It was circumcised, thick and surprisingly not dark —a cruel twist of fate that made her stomach turn.
He held it in his hand, thick and menacing, and Rashi couldn’t help but feel a spark of disgust. It was a blunt instrument of power, not the tender symbol of love and passion that it had been the night before. He stroked himself slowly, watching her face, reveling in the horror that must have been etched there. Then, with a smug smile, he reached down to part her trembling thighs with his knees, bringing the tip of his cock to hover at her entrance.
“Look at that,” he murmured, his voice thick with lust. “You’re already wet for me. Can’t deny it, can you?”



Rashi’s eyes were wide with fear and anger, but she said nothing. She felt her cheeks flushing with humiliation as her body responded to his touch despite her desperate pleas for it not to. She felt his cock rub through her pussy folds, yet to enter just the touch her slickness, the head of it just rubbing insistently against her, and she knew she was powerless to stop what was about to happen.
He leaned in closer, his breath hot and rancid on her face. “You want this, don’t you?” he whispered, his hand tightening around his shaft. “You’ve been waiting for a real man to come and take what’s yours. And now I’m here, and there’s no one to save you from it.” She bit down on a scream, her teeth grinding together.
“That’s right,” he said, his voice low and taunting. “Take it all, my little whore. Take it like the good girl you are. You’re going to love this, I promise you that.” 
“Don’t fight it,” he growled, breath thick with rot. “You’ll like it eventually.”
She wanted to scream again, but her throat was raw. Her wrists ached from his grip, and her legs were pinned by his knees
He raised his hips just to get momentum to push his cock inside when he heard sharp voice rang out from outside the tent.
“Zaman! There’s a call for you!”
The voice was urgent. Nervous.
The man—Zaman—froze, hovering above her, face contorting in irritation. “Tell them I’m busy!”
“It’s… Faisal,” the voice added.
That name cracked through the air like lightning.
Zaman went still. His hands withdrew. He glanced down at Rashi, sneering.
“Saved by the prince,” he muttered.
He stood, fastened his belt with angry, jerky movements, and stepped out of the tent without another word. Rashi lay there, chest heaving, body half-naked, sweat mixing with dust, shame, and the aching sting of where he had grabbed her. Her heart pounded so loudly she couldn’t hear anything else.
Minutes passed—long, terrible minutes.
Then she heard shouting outside. Footsteps. Movement.
And then—silence.
The tent flap lifted gently.
It was Qadir.

His eyes landed on her immediately—on the state she was in, her exposed skin, her torn clothes, the terror still fresh in her face. His expression didn’t change at first. But his jaw clenched, so tightly the veins in his neck bulged.



He stepped in, removed his shawl, and without a word, dbangd it gently over her shoulders.
“They’re gone,” he said.
Rashi looked at him, eyes wide, throat tight.
“Faisal called,” he added. “They left on his command.”
She nodded slowly, too stunned to speak.
Qadir knelt beside her, his voice softer now, restrained. “Did he…?” He didn’t finish the question.
“No,” she whispered. “He didn’t.”
But he almost did.
And they both knew it.
The journey back to Kabul was silent.
Qadir sat beside her in the backseat of the SUV, his face unreadable. The wind from the cracked window tugged at Rashi’s dupatta, but she didn’t bother adjusting it. Her hands stayed folded in her lap. Her eyes remained fixed on the dirt road ahead.
She hadn’t spoken a word since the moment Qadir helped her out of the tent and into the vehicle. No one had. The guards knew something had happened. They could read it in the way she walked, the way Qadir kept glancing sideways like a man fighting back an animal inside him.
When they reached the embassy quarters, Qadir dropped her at the main gate without a word. Their eyes met only for a second. There was no apology. No comfort. Just mutual recognition of what had almost happened—and how powerless they both had been in stopping it.

Amit was waiting at the door.
“Rashi!” His voice carried relief as he pulled her into a hug. “You’re back—you didn’t call. I’ve been trying all night.”
She wrapped her arms around him stiffly.
“There was a storm,” she said. “Dust everywhere. We had to camp at a nearby village. No signal. Nothing serious.”
Amit pulled back, looking at her more carefully now. “You look… exhausted. Are you okay?”
“Just tired,” she said. “It was a long, messy night. I just want to sleep.”
She walked past him before he could ask more. He didn’t push it. He never did.
Inside, she stripped quickly, turning on the shower. The water hit her skin, and she shivered—not from cold, but from the weight of everything that had almost happened. Her reflection in the fogged mirror looked older. Her eyes, dimmer.
She didn’t cry.
She was too tired to. Later that night, as he lay beside her reading, Rashi lay awake with her eyes closed, her body stiff as stone, her mind replaying the sounds, the weight, the humiliation she hadn’t even begun to process.