Adultery Wife's Adultary and Husbands cuckold story

[anmol2306]

The white beard itches like hell. Every time I sweat, which is constantly in this Delhi platform heat, the spirit gum tugs at the skin around my mouth. 
This cheap, rough cotton kurta is heavy and smells faintly of mothballs. I keep my head down, watching hundreds of feet shuffle past through the bottom of my spectacles.



I'm late. My plan was to be calm, to walk in just before Sheetal & be just another stranger. I lean against a dirty pillar, its paint chipped and sticky.


A crackle, then a voice booms from the rusted speaker above my head: "*...Train 12724, Pune Express... thirty minutes late...*"


I started moving, my body automatically settling into the slow, slightly stiff shuffle I’d practiced for "Mr. Agarwal." 

My Kolhapuri chappals slapped softly against the concrete. 
To anyone watching, I was just another elderly man with a white beard and hair, a harmless figure lost in his own world, moving towards the area where the A2 coach would arrive.
My eyes, behind the plain spectacles, scanned the platform signs, ignoring the crowds. There it was—A2. I moved towards it, my gaze fixed ahead. 
The tracks were still empty. The train hadn't been backed into the platform yet.
I noticed the unusual quiet. It was a Tuesday in early March. 
No holiday rush. No families with screaming kids. Parents were likely avoiding travel, glued to their homes for their children's final exams. 

The platform wasn't deserted, but the crowd was thin, scattered. There was no mad rush for our train. A strange calm had settled over the platform, which only made the frantic beating of my own heart feel louder in my ears



My eyes kept scanning the platform, Sheetal’s familiar shape in the crowd. The  specific shade of her blue suitcase. Nothing. Sheetal was nowhere to be seen.
I lowered myself onto a cold, metal bench, the effort in my movement part of the act. Now I was waiting for two things: the train, and my wife.
Just a moment later, a couple of boys dropped onto the bench next to mine. They were loud, their voices cutting through the platform's hum.
"...just find A2 and we're golden, bro," one of them said, his bag hitting the ground with a thud.
"Yeah, but upper births" the other laughed. 

There is still some time. I realize I'm actually hungry.  I need to move.
I push myself up with a quiet grunt, making a show of it for anyone who might be watching, and shuffle towards the small station restaurant. The smell of fried dough and boiling tea hits me.

I order a plate of samosa and a cup of chai, keeping my voice low and slightly raspy.
I am not in a hurry. This is the starting station. Even when the train arrives, it will sit here for at least thirty minutes before departure. I have ample time.
I take a slow bite of the samosa, the spicy potato filling feeling dense in my dry mouth. I am washing it down with a sip of overly sweet tea when the announcer's voice crackles again, clear and final.

"Train number 12724, the Pune Express, is now on Platform Number 2."

It takes me another fifteen minutes to finish the samosa and tea, forcing myself to eat slowly, to not look rushed. Every sip feels like a countdown. 
I finally stand up and begin the slow shuffle towards Coach A2, the walk feeling longer than its seven or ten minutes.
I find the coach and pause at the entrance, my eyes scanning the numbers inside. There it is. Berth 37. Lower. And right next to it, Berth 38. Her berth. The two lower berths facing each other, just as I booked them. A perfect, private little cage.

A slow smile touches my lips, hidden by the white beard. It's going to be fun, I whisper to myself, the words a secret thrill in my mind.
I take a final, sharp breath of the platform's stale air, and step up into the dimness of the A2 coach.