Adultery Betrayal

[Sherlocked]

The polished marble of the staircase landing was cold against Moli’s bare back, a shocking contrast to the feverish heat blooming across her skin. Sumu had her pinned against the carved wooden banister, his body a solid, trembling wall blocking her from the empty hall below. From the living room, the tinny sounds of a cricket commentary drifted up – Subimol’s world, orderly and oblivious.
“He’ll hear,” Sumu breathed into her neck, his voice strained, even as his hands were already under her saree, rucking up the petticoat.
“He won’t,” Moli gasped, arching into him, her fingers digging into his shoulders. “The volume’s too high. He’s asleep by the second over.” She could picture Subimol perfectly: slumped in his recliner, a half-empty cup of tea cooling on the side table, the newspaper sliding from his lap. The safety of that image made this stolen moment on the shadow-drenched landing even more illicit.
His fingers found the damp silk of her panties. “Fuck, Jethima,” he groaned, his forehead dropping to her shoulder. “You’re already soaked.” He hooked a finger into the side of the fabric, and with a sharp tug, tore it. The sound of ripping silk was swallowed by a roar from the television downstairs. A wicket had fallen.
“Yes,” she hissed, her hips bucking against his hand. “Don’t stop. Please.”
Two of his fingers plunged into her without warning, a brutal, perfect invasion that stole her breath. Her head fell back against the banister with a dull thud. His thumb found her clit, rubbing rough, frantic circles. It was nothing like the careful, almost clinical touches Subimol offered. This was raw. Possessive. It was a claiming.
“Quiet,” Sumu whispered, his mouth crushing against hers, swallowing her moans. His fingers worked her relentlessly, curling inside her, pumping in and out with a wet, slick rhythm that was surely audible over the commentator’s drone. She could feel her own arousal dripping down her inner thighs, leaving sticky streaks on the cool marble step behind her.
“Harder,” she begged against his lips, her own hands fumbling with his belt buckle. The metal clinked softly. He didn’t help her, his entire focus on the frantic motion of his hand, on the way her body clenched and fluttered around his thrusting fingers. She finally got his jeans open, her hand sliding inside to wrap around his cock. It was iron-hard, pulsing in her grip, the skin slick with pre-come. She stroked him, her thumb smearing the moisture over the swollen head.
“I can’t… we can’t do this here,” he panted, but his hips were already pushing into her fist, betraying his words.
“We are doing it here,” Moli said, her voice a low, desperate command. She guided him to her entrance, the broad head of his cock pressing against her slick, swollen folds. “Now, Sumu. Fuck me. Right here.”
With a guttural sound torn from deep in his chest, he drove into her. One single, deep, obliterating thrust that filled her completely, stretching her, burning her. She cried out, a sharp, choked sound he muffled with another searing kiss. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, both of them trembling, listening. The commentary droned on. No footsteps. No concerned call.
Then he began to move.
It was a punishing, frantic pace, each thrust slamming her back against the unyielding banister. The wood dug into her spine, a counterpoint to the blinding pleasure. Her legs wrapped around his waist, locking him to her. His breath was hot and ragged in her ear, his whispers filthy and broken.
“You take me so deep, Jethima,” he grunted, his hips pounding. “So much deeper than he ever could. Feel how I fill you up.”
“Yes,” she sobbed, her nails raking down his back. “I feel it. God, I feel it.” Her senses were overloaded: the cold marble, the scent of his sweat, the musky smell of their sex, the raw, sliding friction of him inside her. The risk of discovery was a live wire, electrifying every nerve ending. She was close, teetering on the edge, her inner muscles clamping down around his driving cock.
“I’m gonna come,” he warned, his rhythm becoming erratic, desperate.
“Do it,” she gasped, her own climax coiling tight in her belly. “Come inside me. Fill me up.”
Her words shattered his control. With a final, deep plunge, he stilled, a raw, choked cry escaping his lips as he emptied himself into her in hot, pulsing jets. The feeling of his release triggered her own, a violent, convulsing wave that ripped through her, blinding her, her own stifled scream lost against his shoulder.
For a long moment, they stayed like that, joined, panting, suspended in the shadowy silence. The only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant television.
Slowly, reality seeped back in. The cold of the marble. The stickiness between her legs. The danger.
Sumu pulled out of her, his softening cock slick with their combined fluids. He staggered back a step, hastily tucking himself back into his jeans and doing up his fly. His eyes were wide, haunted, unable to meet hers. He looked down at the step, at the glistening wet patch she’d left on the polished stone.
“Fuck,” he whispered, the word full of self-loathing. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “We’re insane. This is insane.”
Moli leaned against the banister, her legs feeling like water. She slowly straightened her petticoat, letting the torn silk of her panties fall to the floor. She kicked them into the dark space behind the banister’s newel post. “It’s necessary,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady. She reached for him, cupping his cheek, forcing him to look at her. “You feel that, don’t you? This… need. It’s a fire. We can’t put it out.”
He flinched at her touch but didn’t pull away. His jaw was tight. “He’s twenty feet away, Jethima. My uncle. The man who paid my tuition last semester.”
“And I’m his wife,” she countered, her thumb stroking his jawline. “And right now, I’m filled with your come. That’s the reality.” She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. “And you loved it. You came harder than you ever have in your life.”
From downstairs, the television was abruptly silenced. The sudden quiet was deafening. They both froze. A chair creaked. Footsteps. Slow, shuffling footsteps moving towards the hallway.
Sumu’s eyes widened in pure panic. He looked at the staircase, then back at Moli, his face a mask of terror. There was nowhere to run.
Moli acted on pure instinct. She shoved him hard, towards the deep shadows of the alcove under the stairs. “Go,” she hissed. As he stumbled into the darkness, she quickly smoothed her saree, ran a hand over her hair, and started walking down the stairs, meeting Subimol as he reached the bottom step.
“Jaanu?” she said, her voice the picture of wifely concern. “Everything alright? I was just getting a book from the study upstairs.”
Subimol blinked up at her, his eyes bleary with sleep. “Hmm? Oh, yes. Just going to get some water. The match is over.” He squinted. “You look… flushed.”
“It’s a bit warm upstairs,” she said, descending the rest of the steps and laying a cool hand on his arm. “Let me get your water. You go sit down.”
He allowed her to guide him back towards the living room, patting her hand. “You’re a good girl, Moli.”
Over her shoulder, as she led her husband away, Moli cast a single glance back up the dark staircase. She couldn’t see Sumu hidden in the alcove, but she could feel his gaze on her, a hot, shameful brand. And she knew, with a certainty that thrilled and terrified her, that the fire was far from out. It had only just begun to burn.
The fire, once a spark on the landing, became a conflagration that mapped itself across the house over the following weeks, each room a new coordinate in their secret geography.
In the dusty quiet of the upstairs linen closet, Sumu pressed Moli against the shelves, their breathing shallow. "He's on a work call in the next room," he whispered, his hand already under her kurti, cupping her breast. "We have ten minutes." She fumbled with his jeans, her knuckles brushing against neatly folded towels, her mouth finding his in the dim light to swallow his gasp as she took him in her hand. He lifted her, her back scbanging against the wood, and entered her in one fluid, desperate motion, their rhythm a silent, frantic prayer against the muffled drone of Subimol's voice through the wall.
Later, with Subimol gardening just outside the open kitchen window, Sumu bent Moli over the cold granite island. "Don't make a sound," he breathed, pushing her saree up her thighs, his cock nudging against her from behind. The smell of cilantro and soil mixed with the scent of her arousal as he slid into her, his hand clamping over her mouth to stifle her cry. They moved in a tense, restrained dance, her hips meeting his thrusts, their eyes locked on Subimol's back as he knelt, pruning roses, completely unaware of the raw fucking happening mere feet away.
A Tuesday afternoon, the house empty and ringing with silence, found her on her knees in the formal living room, a place usually reserved for guests. "Suck it," Sumu said, his voice rough, his fingers tangled in her hair. "I want to watch you take all of it." She did, her mouth stretching to accommodate his length, her tongue working the thick vein underneath until he was fucking her face in earnest, his groans echoing off the high ceilings. He came in hot, bitter pulses down her throat, and she swallowed every drop, a messy, claiming act in her husband's favorite chair.
During a weekend lunch, under the heavy teak dining table, Moli's hand found Sumu's thigh. Subimol sat at the head, slurping his dal. Her fingers traced the shape of his hardening cock through his pants, then undid his zipper. Sumu froze, his spoon halfway to his mouth, as her warm, knowing hand closed around him. She stroked him slowly, relentlessly, her face a mask of wifely concern as she asked Subimol about his day, her thumb smearing pre-come over the head of Sumu's shaft until his knuckles were white on the tablecloth and he had to excuse himself abruptly.
In the guest bathroom during a family gathering, the lock clicked shut a second before Sumu spun her around to face the mirror. "Look at us," he growled, his hands gripping her hips, his erection pressed against the cleft of her ass. He entered her from behind, a sharp, deep penetration that made her gasp. They watched their reflection, his body covering hers, her saree a riot of color around their waists, as he pounded into her, the sound of their skin slapping together masked by the sink's running water. "You're mine in this house," he grunted into her ear, his pace unforgiving. "Every fucking room."
The most brazen was the study, with Subimol sleeping heavily on the sofa after his whiskey, his soft snoves filling the room. Sumu laid Moli on the large oak desk, pushing ledgers and papers aside. He buried his face between her legs, his tongue a wicked, precise instrument that had her biting her own fist to keep silent. When she came, shuddering, he didn't let up, driving her through one climax and straight into the need for another. He entered her then, a slow, deep possession, their joined bodies reflected in the dark glass of the trophy case, a secret tableau playing out in the heart of her husband's domain.