Adultery Betrayal

[Sherlocked]

The metallic gleam of Subimol’s sedan vanished around the bend of the driveway, the crunch of gravel fading into the hum of distant traffic. Before the silence could fully settle, Moli’s hand was fisted in the front of Sumu’s shirt, yanking him off balance. She didn’t speak, her eyes dark pools of pure intent, dragging him through the hallway and into the master bedroom.
The door slammed shut, the sound echoing in the spacious room. She shoved him backward, and he fell onto the vast expanse of the silk-covered bed, the duvet swallowing him. “Jethima—” he started, but she was already on him, her knees pinning his hips, her mouth crashing down on his with a ferocity that stole his breath. Her hands tore at his t-shirt, buttons popping and skittering across the wooden floor.
“No talking,” she breathed against his lips, her own fingers working frantically at the buckle of his belt. “Just fuck me. I need to feel you. All of you.” The desperate hunger from weeks of stolen, silent moments in closets and against furniture was finally unleashed, roaring into the open space of the one room that was meant to be forbidden.
He got the message. His hands shoved her kurta up, over her head, and tossed it aside. He didn’t bother with the clasp of her bra, simply pulling the cups down to free her heavy breasts, his mouth latching onto a nipple, sucking hard, his tongue circling the stiff peak. She cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound that would have been terrifying minutes before. Her head fell back, her fingers tangling in his hair, holding him to her.
“Now,” she demanded, scrambling off him only to rip his jeans and boxers down his thighs in one rough pull. His cock sprang free, thick and already leaking. She didn’t give him a second. She straddled him again, her own panties shoved aside, and guided him to her entrance. She was soaked, her slickness coating the head of his cock as she rubbed him against her swollen folds.
“Look at me,” she commanded, her voice low and husky.
He forced his eyes open, glazed with lust, to meet hers. She held his gaze, and with a slow, deliberate, excruciating roll of her hips, she sank down onto him, taking every inch of his length inside her in one seamless, deep stroke. A guttural groan was torn from his chest, his hands flying to her hips, his fingers digging into her soft flesh.
“Fuck,” he choked out, his eyes squeezing shut again at the overwhelming sensation of her hot, tight sheath clamping around him.
“Eyes open,” she repeated, and began to move.
She set a brutal, punishing rhythm from the start, riding him with a frenzied abandon that made the bedframe knock rhythmically against the wall. Her breasts bounced with each downward thrust, a sheen of sweat already glistening on her skin. There was no finesse, no slow build, just pure, raw need. This was different from the frantic, hushed couplings in the linen closet or over the dining table. This was a claiming.
“You like this?” she panted, leaning forward, her hands braced on his chest, her pace never faltering. “You like watching your Jethima ride your cock like a whore?”
“Yes,” he gasped, his hips bucking up to meet her downward drives, the slap of their skin a loud, wet percussion in the quiet room.
“God, yes. You’re so fucking deep.”
“Deeper than him?” The question was a razor blade, sharp and dangerous.
“So much deeper”..
Sumu groaned, his hands moving from her hips to grip her ass, spreading her, angling her to take him even more completely. “I can feel you… all of you… fucking milking my cock.”
His filthy words spurred her on. She rode him harder, faster, her inner muscles fluttering and clenching around his shaft, the coil of her own pleasure winding impossibly tight. The scent of their sex, musky and primal, filled the air, mixing with the faint jasmine from the garden outside.
“I’m going to come,” she warned, her rhythm becoming erratic, her body trembling with the effort.
“Do it,” he grunted, his own release building, a tight heat coiling at the base of his spine. “Come on my cock. Soak me.”
Her climax hit her like a seizure. A broken, screaming cry ripped from her throat as her body convulsed around him, her inner walls spasming violently, gripping him like a fist. The sight of her, lost in pure, unadulterated ecstasy, her head thrown back, her body shuddering, was what pushed him over the edge. With a final, driving thrust up into her wet, clenching heat, he came, his own shout joining hers. Hot pulses of his release filled her, his body arching off the bed as he emptied himself inside her with a series of ragged groans.
For a long time, the only sound was their harsh, gulping breaths. She collapsed forward onto his chest, her sweat-slick skin sticking to his. He could feel the frantic hammering of her heart against his ribs, a mirror of his own.
The digital alarm clock on the nightstand glowed 9:47 AM.
Sumu’s eyes snapped open. “Shit. Shit!” He moved to push her off, his body suddenly tense.
“What?” Moli mumbled, her voice thick and languid.
“My class. It starts at ten.” He scrambled out from under her, his softening cock slipping out of her with a wet sound. He looked down at himself, at the mix of their fluids glistening on his skin. The evidence was stark.
Moli rolled onto her side, propping her head on her hand, watching him with a lazy, satisfied smile. She made no move to cover herself. “So be late.”
“I can’t,” he said, grabbing his jeans and pulling them on over his sticky skin, wincing at the sensation. He found his t-shirt, but it was missing buttons. “Fuck.” He rummaged in his uncle’s wardrobe, pulling out a plain blue polo shirt. “He’ll notice this is gone.”
“He won’t,” Moli said dismissively, her gaze trailing over the mess they’d made of the bed. The silk sheets were tangled and damp in the center. “He doesn’t notice anything.”
Sumu pulled the stolen shirt over his head. It smelled faintly of Subimol’s cologne. The wrongness of it, the layers of betrayal, sent a fresh wave of nausea through him. He looked at Moli, at her disheveled hair and swollen lips, at the possessive calm in her eyes. This was no longer just a frantic escape for him. It was something else. Something darker and more entrenched.
He grabbed his backpack, not daring to look back at the bed, at her. “I have to go.”
He practically ran from the room, down the stairs, and out the front door. The bright morning sun felt accusatory. As he half-walked, half-jogged down the street toward the bus stop, he could still feel the phantom warmth of her body, the slick proof of their act cooling on his skin inside his uncle’s clothes. He was late, he was disheveled, and he carried the scent of their sin with him like a brand.