24-11-2025, 03:41 PM
The slam of the front door was a period at the end of their frantic sentence. Moli stretched, cat-like, across the ruined silk, the ache between her legs a pleasant reminder. Sunlight warmed her naked skin, and for the first time in months, the house’s silence felt like peace, not emptiness.
She traced the damp spot on the sheet, a smug smile touching her lips. This was her domain now, truly hers. The thrill of their morning, loud and unashamed, still hummed in her veins. It was a feeling she wanted to preserve, to drown in a little longer.
Down the street, Sumu felt the bus pull away without him, a cloud of diesel exhaust mocking his haste. He patted his pockets, a cold dread seeping through the post-coital haze. His keys. His wallet. They were on the nightstand, next to the torn scraps of her panties. He stood frozen for a moment, torn between the consequences of being late and the greater danger of returning.
He turned back. The walk to the house felt longer, the sun hotter. He let himself in quietly, the silence within now feeling heavy and accusatory. He crept up the stairs, each step a betrayal of his own fleeing resolve.
Moli heard the soft creak on the landing. She didn’t turn, simply shifted onto her back, a languid invitation. “Forget something?” she asked, her voice a low purr. She watched him hover in the doorway, his body silhouetted, the stolen polo shirt stretched tight across his shoulders.
“My wallet,” he mumbled, his eyes fixed on her, dark and hungry again already.
“It’s over there,” she said, nodding toward the nightstand. “But you’re already late.” She opened her legs just a fraction, a deliberate, silent command. “A few more minutes won’t matter.”
He was across the room in three strides, not toward the wallet, but toward the bed. His hands were on her, rough and urgent, his mouth finding hers in a desperate kiss that tasted of guilt and renewed lust. “I can’t stay,” he breathed against her lips, even as he fumbled with his jeans.
“You can,” she whispered, her hand sliding into his open fly, wrapping around the hard, familiar weight of him. “Just be quick.”
At that exact moment, Subimol signaled left, his blinker clicking a steady rhythm as he eased his sedan into the flow of traffic. He hummed along to an old film song on the radio, his mind on a tedious procurement meeting. The morning sun glared off the windshield of the truck in the next lane.
Moli guided Sumu back onto the bed, her body arching to meet his. “Like this,” she murmured, shifting to straddle him. She positioned the swollen head of his cock at her entrance, slick and ready for him. She held his gaze, her own eyes dark with a possessive fire.
Subimol’s phone vibrated on the passenger seat, skittering toward the edge. He took his eyes off the road for a single, fatal second, his hand reaching out to catch it. The truck in the next lane began its slow, inevitable drift into his.
Moli sank down onto him, a slow, excruciating descent that made him gasp. She took him in completely, her inner muscles clenching around his invading length. “God, you feel good,” she moaned, her hands braced on his chest, her hips beginning to rock.
A blaring horn. Subimol’s head snapped up, his eyes widening in the split second before impact. The grille of the truck filled his world, a wall of chrome and steel. There was no time to brake, no time to scream.
“Fuck me,” Moli panted, her rhythm building, her breasts bouncing with each forceful downward thrust. Sumu’s hands came up to squeeze them, his thumbs rough on her nipples. His other hand slid down her belly, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing frantic, slippery circles.
The sound of rending metal was a beast screaming. Glass exploded inward in a crystalline shower. The steering column slammed into Subimol’s chest, a brutal, compacting force that stole his breath and his consciousness in an instant.
“Yes! Right there!” Moli cried out, her body bowing, her head thrown back in ecstasy. Sumu drove up into her, his own climax roaring through him, a hot, pulsing release that emptied him into her depths. She collapsed onto his heaving chest, their sweat-slick skin sealing them together.
A block away, the first sirens began to wail.
The phone’s insistent ringing dragged Moli from a shallow, satisfied sleep. She was still naked, sprawled across the damp sheets, the smell of sex thick in the air. Sumu was long gone, a second, more frantic departure etched into the rumpled duvet. She groped for the device, her voice thick with sleep. “Hello?”
“Is this Mrs. Moli Subimol?” a stranger’s voice, official and calm, asked.
“Yes? Who is this?” She sat up, a vague unease cutting through her languor.
“This is Constable Sharma from the City Traffic security officer. There’s been an accident. Your husband, Mr. Subimol, has been rushed to City General Hospital. It’s serious.”
The world tilted. The words ‘accident’ and ‘serious’ seemed to echo in the silent, sunlit room. Her eyes dropped to the glistening streak on her inner thigh, the physical evidence of Sumu’s visit, now horribly timed. A cold nausea washed over her, so violent she thought she might be sick. “I… I’ll come right away.”
She ended the call, her hand trembling. The room, which minutes before had felt like a sanctuary of her own power, now felt like a crime scene. The rumpled sheets, the scent of their betrayal, the sticky dampness between her legs—it all testified to a profound, disgusting disloyalty. She wrapped her arms around herself, a sob catching in her throat, part panic, part self-loathing.
She had to call Sumu. There was no one else. Her fingers shook as she dialed his number, the one saved under a fake name.
He answered on the first ring, his voice a tense whisper. “I’m in class. What is it?”
“It’s Subimol,” she said, the words tasting like ash. “A car accident. He’s at City General. It’s bad.” She heard his sharp intake of breath. “You have to come. I can’t… I can’t go alone.”
There was a long pause, filled with the same dawning horror she felt. “I’ll meet you outside the hospital,” he said finally, and the line went dead.
The hospital hallway was a tunnel of fluorescent lights and antiseptic smell. They found him in the ICU, a still form amidst a tangle of wires and tubes. A ventilator hissed, its rhythmic push and pull the only sign of life. A monitor beeped a steady, mocking cadence beside the bed.
Moli’s hand flew to her mouth. He looked small, swallowed by the white sheets, his face bruised and swollen. A thick bandage was wrapped around his head. This wasn’t the man who snored in his recliner; this was a broken doll kept alive by machines.
Sumu stood a step behind her, his face pale. He was still wearing the stolen polo shirt, and Moli could now see a small, faded stain on the collar from their first frantic coupling on the stairs. The sight of it here, in this sterile room, felt like a desecration. He shoved his hands in his pockets, as if to hide them.
They didn’t speak. Words were impossible. The weight of what they had been doing while this happened to him pressed down on them, a physical force. The memory of her own cries of pleasure echoed in her mind, a grotesque soundtrack to the image of metal and glass.
A doctor approached, her face professionally neutral. “He has a severe head trauma and several broken ribs. The next twenty-four hours are critical. We won’t know the full extent of the damage until the swelling goes down.” She looked between them, Moli in her hastily thrown-on salwar kameez, Sumu looking like a guilty child. “You should go home. Get some rest. There’s nothing more you can do here tonight.”
They drove back to the silent house in Sumu’s beat-up car. The journey was wordless, the air thick with unspoken recrimination. Every corner they turned was a landmark from their secret map of the house—the street that led to the market where they’d brushed hands, the turn that brought the house into view, the site of so many transgressions.
He killed the engine in the driveway. The house loomed, dark and full of ghosts.
“I should stay,” Sumu said, his voice rough. He wasn’t looking at her. He was staring at the front door, at the marble landing just inside visible through the glass. “In case… in case there’s news.”
Moli just nodded, numb. She led the way inside, the click of the lock sounding far too final. They did not touch. They did not look at each other. The fire that had burned so fiercely in every room was now just cold, choking ash. The master bedroom awaited, its door standing ajar, the rumpled, stained sheets a testament to the precise moment their world had fractured.
The house was a cavern of shadows, the fading evening light doing little to pierce the gloom that had settled in Subimol’s absence. It felt different now, the silence not of peace but of judgment, every familiar piece of furniture a stark reminder of the man lying broken in a sterile room. They moved through it like ghosts, not speaking, the weight of the day pressing down on them.
Moli went straight upstairs, needing to shed the hospital’s clinging scent from her skin. She emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, her body feeling both heavy and numb. She dropped the towel and did not reach for a bra. Instead, she pulled on a pair of simple black panties and then the familiar, well-worn light yellow saree with its thin green cotton blouse. The fabric, softened by countless washes, was nearly sheer, the dark circles of her areolas visible shadows against the green cloth.
Downstairs, Sumu moved on autopilot, filling the kettle, the mundane task a anchor in the swirling chaos. He too had changed, stripping off the clothes that smelled of hospital and fear, pulling on a soft, old t-shirt and a pair of shorts from his uncle’s drawer. The cotton carried Subimol’s faint, familiar scent, a ghost on his skin. He carried two steaming mugs of green tea into the study, the place that was most unequivocally his uncle’s domain.
He found her there, standing motionless against the massive oak desk. She was clutching Subimol’s shirt, the one he’d worn that morning, holding it to her face. Her shoulders shook with silent, wrenching sobs. She didn’t hear him approach.
“Jethima?” he said softly, his voice rough.
She jumped, recoiling from his touch on her shoulder as if burned. Her eyes, when they met his, were red-rimmed and swimming in tears. “Don’t.”
“I made tea,” he offered, holding out a mug.
The simple kindness shattered her completely. A raw, guttural sob broke from her chest. “It’s our fault,” she choked out, the words wet and broken. “This happened because of us. Because of what we did in this house, on these stairs… while he was… The universe is punishing me.”
“No, that’s not true,” Sumu said, setting the mugs down on the desk with a clatter. He tried to pull her into an embrace, but she shoved him away, her hands weak against his chest.
“It is! Don’t you see? We were in his bed, Sumu. We were fucking in his bed while he was… while that truck…” She couldn’t finish, her body trembling violently.
“It was an accident,” he insisted, his voice low and urgent. He moved closer again, his hands finding her shoulders, rubbing slow circles on her back. “A stupid, random accident. It has nothing to do with us. Nothing to do with you seeking a little happiness.”
“Happiness?” she spat the word out like poison. “This is not happiness. This is sin. I am his wife.”
“And what is a husband?” Sumu countered, his hands moving more firmly down her spine, feeling the tension in every vertebra. “Is it only providing a house and money? Doesn’t he have a duty to you, to your body? To make you feel alive?” His voice dropped to a persuasive whisper. “You are young, Moli. Your life shouldn’t be wasted. Wanting to feel wanted isn’t a crime. It doesn’t mean you don’t love him. It means you love yourself, too.”
His words were a seductive poison, seeping through the cracks in her resolve. Her resistance was crumbling, the physical need for comfort overwhelming the guilt. When he pulled her against him this time, she didn’t fight it. She melted into the embrace, her face burying in his neck, her full breasts pressing against the familiar fabric of his—Subimol’s—t-shirt.
He could feel it immediately, the hard points of her nipples through the thin layers of cotton. The sensation sent a jolt of pure, primal heat straight to his groin. His hands, which had been offering comfort, began to change their intent. They slid from the small of her back down to the swell of her hips, gripping her through the silk of her saree.
“We can’t,” she whispered, but it was a breathy, weak protest, her body arching into his of its own volition. “Not here. Not in his study.”
“He won’t know,” Sumu murmured, his mouth hovering inches from hers. His breath was warm on her lips. “What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.”
Then his mouth was on hers, not gentle or questioning, but a crashing, desperate claim. The shirt fell from Moli’s limp fingers, discarded on the polished floor. All thought, all guilt, was incinerated in the furnace of that kiss. Her hands came up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, her tongue meeting his with a frantic hunger.
He walked her backward until the edge of the solid oak desk dug into her thighs. Lifting her, he sat her on the cleared surface, sending a pen holder clattering to the floor. He stood between her spread legs, his mouth devouring hers, his hands ripping the pallu of her saree away. He yanked the thin blouse up to her neck, exposing her breasts, their weight swaying, nipples dark and taut.
“So beautiful,” he groaned, before his mouth descended, sucking a nipple deep, his tongue lashing the stiff peak. She cried out, her head falling back, her fingers scrambling against the wood, knocking over a stack of papers. Her hips began to grind against the hard ridge of his erection straining against his shorts.
He unbuttoned his shorts, freeing his cock, already slick at the tip. He pushed her back until she was lying across the desk, her head near his uncle’s computer monitor. He shoved her saree and petticoat up around her waist, his fingers hooking into the sides of her black panties. With a sharp tear, he ripped them from her body.
“I need to taste you,” he growled, dropping to his knees before the desk. He pushed her thighs apart, his breath hot on her inner skin. His tongue, flat and rough, licked a long, wet stripe from her entrance to her clit.
Moli gasped, her back arching off the wood. “Sumu…”
He didn’t answer with words. He buried his face in her, his tongue plunging inside her, then circling her clit with relentless, focused pressure. He ate her with a starved intensity, his hands holding her hips down, his nose pressed against her, inhaling her musky, aroused scent right there in his uncle’s chair. The obscene, wet sounds of his mouth on her filled the quiet room.
“I’m going to come,” she whimpered, her legs trembling. “Oh god, I’m coming on his desk!”
Her climax ripped through her, a violent, shaking wave that made her buck against his mouth. He didn’t stop, drinking her down, licking and sucking until she was pushing his head away, oversensitive and spent.
He rose, his lips and chin glistening with her. He pulled her up into a sitting position, then lifted her entirely, her legs wrapping around his waist, her arms around his neck. Their mouths found each other again in a messy, wet kiss as he carried her out of the study and up the stairs, her saree trailing behind them like a banner of their betrayal.
He didn’t bother with the light in the bedroom. The dim glow from the streetlights outside was enough. He laid her on the bed, on the same sheets they had defiled that morning, and finally stripped off his t-shirt and shorts. She was only in her torn blouse now. They were both reduced to their most primal selves.
This time, there was no frantic rush. The empty house granted them a terrible, expansive freedom. He kissed her slowly, deeply, his hands mapping every curve of her body as if memorizing it. He licked the sweat from the hollow of her throat, sucked on her fingers, worshipped the inside of her thighs.
He entered her with a slow, inexorable push, sheathing himself completely in her wet, clutching heat. They both groaned, a long, shuddering sound of profound connection. He moved in a deep, rhythmic cadence, his eyes locked on hers. She wrapped her legs high around his back, taking him deeper, her hips meeting each of his thrusts.
They moved together for what felt like hours, changing positions, exploring. He on top, driving into her with slow, powerful strokes that made her whimper. Then her on top, riding him with a lazy, rolling grind, her breasts swaying above him, her head thrown back in pleasure. Their bodies were slick, glistening in the faint light, the air thick with the smell of sex and sweat.
Down in the study, on the oak desk now smeared with Moli’s arousal, her phone began to vibrate. The screen lit up with the name of the hospital. It buzzed, skittering in a small circle on the wood, the ringtone a muffled, insistent plea in the empty room. Upstairs, the sound was swallowed by the thick walls, by the wet, sliding noise of Sumu’s cock moving in and out of Moli’s pussy, by their low, elongated sighs and the soft, sucking sounds of their kisses.
Subimol had stirred, his fingers twitching on the stiff hospital sheets. His eyes had fluttered open for a brief, disoriented moment, his mind grasping for his wife’s name. A nurse, seeing the movement on the monitor, had hurried in. “He’s trying to speak,” she’d said to the colleague outside. “Try his wife again.”
The phone rang until it went to voicemail. Subimol, exhausted by the effort, slipped back into a medicated sleep, waiting for a wife who would not come. Above him, in the dark of his own bedroom, that wife was wrapped naked around his nephew, their limbs entangled, their breathing finally evening out into the deep, satiated rhythm of sleep. They were lost to the world, and to the man who was, for now, waking up alone.
She traced the damp spot on the sheet, a smug smile touching her lips. This was her domain now, truly hers. The thrill of their morning, loud and unashamed, still hummed in her veins. It was a feeling she wanted to preserve, to drown in a little longer.
Down the street, Sumu felt the bus pull away without him, a cloud of diesel exhaust mocking his haste. He patted his pockets, a cold dread seeping through the post-coital haze. His keys. His wallet. They were on the nightstand, next to the torn scraps of her panties. He stood frozen for a moment, torn between the consequences of being late and the greater danger of returning.
He turned back. The walk to the house felt longer, the sun hotter. He let himself in quietly, the silence within now feeling heavy and accusatory. He crept up the stairs, each step a betrayal of his own fleeing resolve.
Moli heard the soft creak on the landing. She didn’t turn, simply shifted onto her back, a languid invitation. “Forget something?” she asked, her voice a low purr. She watched him hover in the doorway, his body silhouetted, the stolen polo shirt stretched tight across his shoulders.
“My wallet,” he mumbled, his eyes fixed on her, dark and hungry again already.
“It’s over there,” she said, nodding toward the nightstand. “But you’re already late.” She opened her legs just a fraction, a deliberate, silent command. “A few more minutes won’t matter.”
He was across the room in three strides, not toward the wallet, but toward the bed. His hands were on her, rough and urgent, his mouth finding hers in a desperate kiss that tasted of guilt and renewed lust. “I can’t stay,” he breathed against her lips, even as he fumbled with his jeans.
“You can,” she whispered, her hand sliding into his open fly, wrapping around the hard, familiar weight of him. “Just be quick.”
At that exact moment, Subimol signaled left, his blinker clicking a steady rhythm as he eased his sedan into the flow of traffic. He hummed along to an old film song on the radio, his mind on a tedious procurement meeting. The morning sun glared off the windshield of the truck in the next lane.
Moli guided Sumu back onto the bed, her body arching to meet his. “Like this,” she murmured, shifting to straddle him. She positioned the swollen head of his cock at her entrance, slick and ready for him. She held his gaze, her own eyes dark with a possessive fire.
Subimol’s phone vibrated on the passenger seat, skittering toward the edge. He took his eyes off the road for a single, fatal second, his hand reaching out to catch it. The truck in the next lane began its slow, inevitable drift into his.
Moli sank down onto him, a slow, excruciating descent that made him gasp. She took him in completely, her inner muscles clenching around his invading length. “God, you feel good,” she moaned, her hands braced on his chest, her hips beginning to rock.
A blaring horn. Subimol’s head snapped up, his eyes widening in the split second before impact. The grille of the truck filled his world, a wall of chrome and steel. There was no time to brake, no time to scream.
“Fuck me,” Moli panted, her rhythm building, her breasts bouncing with each forceful downward thrust. Sumu’s hands came up to squeeze them, his thumbs rough on her nipples. His other hand slid down her belly, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing frantic, slippery circles.
The sound of rending metal was a beast screaming. Glass exploded inward in a crystalline shower. The steering column slammed into Subimol’s chest, a brutal, compacting force that stole his breath and his consciousness in an instant.
“Yes! Right there!” Moli cried out, her body bowing, her head thrown back in ecstasy. Sumu drove up into her, his own climax roaring through him, a hot, pulsing release that emptied him into her depths. She collapsed onto his heaving chest, their sweat-slick skin sealing them together.
A block away, the first sirens began to wail.
The phone’s insistent ringing dragged Moli from a shallow, satisfied sleep. She was still naked, sprawled across the damp sheets, the smell of sex thick in the air. Sumu was long gone, a second, more frantic departure etched into the rumpled duvet. She groped for the device, her voice thick with sleep. “Hello?”
“Is this Mrs. Moli Subimol?” a stranger’s voice, official and calm, asked.
“Yes? Who is this?” She sat up, a vague unease cutting through her languor.
“This is Constable Sharma from the City Traffic security officer. There’s been an accident. Your husband, Mr. Subimol, has been rushed to City General Hospital. It’s serious.”
The world tilted. The words ‘accident’ and ‘serious’ seemed to echo in the silent, sunlit room. Her eyes dropped to the glistening streak on her inner thigh, the physical evidence of Sumu’s visit, now horribly timed. A cold nausea washed over her, so violent she thought she might be sick. “I… I’ll come right away.”
She ended the call, her hand trembling. The room, which minutes before had felt like a sanctuary of her own power, now felt like a crime scene. The rumpled sheets, the scent of their betrayal, the sticky dampness between her legs—it all testified to a profound, disgusting disloyalty. She wrapped her arms around herself, a sob catching in her throat, part panic, part self-loathing.
She had to call Sumu. There was no one else. Her fingers shook as she dialed his number, the one saved under a fake name.
He answered on the first ring, his voice a tense whisper. “I’m in class. What is it?”
“It’s Subimol,” she said, the words tasting like ash. “A car accident. He’s at City General. It’s bad.” She heard his sharp intake of breath. “You have to come. I can’t… I can’t go alone.”
There was a long pause, filled with the same dawning horror she felt. “I’ll meet you outside the hospital,” he said finally, and the line went dead.
The hospital hallway was a tunnel of fluorescent lights and antiseptic smell. They found him in the ICU, a still form amidst a tangle of wires and tubes. A ventilator hissed, its rhythmic push and pull the only sign of life. A monitor beeped a steady, mocking cadence beside the bed.
Moli’s hand flew to her mouth. He looked small, swallowed by the white sheets, his face bruised and swollen. A thick bandage was wrapped around his head. This wasn’t the man who snored in his recliner; this was a broken doll kept alive by machines.
Sumu stood a step behind her, his face pale. He was still wearing the stolen polo shirt, and Moli could now see a small, faded stain on the collar from their first frantic coupling on the stairs. The sight of it here, in this sterile room, felt like a desecration. He shoved his hands in his pockets, as if to hide them.
They didn’t speak. Words were impossible. The weight of what they had been doing while this happened to him pressed down on them, a physical force. The memory of her own cries of pleasure echoed in her mind, a grotesque soundtrack to the image of metal and glass.
A doctor approached, her face professionally neutral. “He has a severe head trauma and several broken ribs. The next twenty-four hours are critical. We won’t know the full extent of the damage until the swelling goes down.” She looked between them, Moli in her hastily thrown-on salwar kameez, Sumu looking like a guilty child. “You should go home. Get some rest. There’s nothing more you can do here tonight.”
They drove back to the silent house in Sumu’s beat-up car. The journey was wordless, the air thick with unspoken recrimination. Every corner they turned was a landmark from their secret map of the house—the street that led to the market where they’d brushed hands, the turn that brought the house into view, the site of so many transgressions.
He killed the engine in the driveway. The house loomed, dark and full of ghosts.
“I should stay,” Sumu said, his voice rough. He wasn’t looking at her. He was staring at the front door, at the marble landing just inside visible through the glass. “In case… in case there’s news.”
Moli just nodded, numb. She led the way inside, the click of the lock sounding far too final. They did not touch. They did not look at each other. The fire that had burned so fiercely in every room was now just cold, choking ash. The master bedroom awaited, its door standing ajar, the rumpled, stained sheets a testament to the precise moment their world had fractured.
The house was a cavern of shadows, the fading evening light doing little to pierce the gloom that had settled in Subimol’s absence. It felt different now, the silence not of peace but of judgment, every familiar piece of furniture a stark reminder of the man lying broken in a sterile room. They moved through it like ghosts, not speaking, the weight of the day pressing down on them.
Moli went straight upstairs, needing to shed the hospital’s clinging scent from her skin. She emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, her body feeling both heavy and numb. She dropped the towel and did not reach for a bra. Instead, she pulled on a pair of simple black panties and then the familiar, well-worn light yellow saree with its thin green cotton blouse. The fabric, softened by countless washes, was nearly sheer, the dark circles of her areolas visible shadows against the green cloth.
Downstairs, Sumu moved on autopilot, filling the kettle, the mundane task a anchor in the swirling chaos. He too had changed, stripping off the clothes that smelled of hospital and fear, pulling on a soft, old t-shirt and a pair of shorts from his uncle’s drawer. The cotton carried Subimol’s faint, familiar scent, a ghost on his skin. He carried two steaming mugs of green tea into the study, the place that was most unequivocally his uncle’s domain.
He found her there, standing motionless against the massive oak desk. She was clutching Subimol’s shirt, the one he’d worn that morning, holding it to her face. Her shoulders shook with silent, wrenching sobs. She didn’t hear him approach.
“Jethima?” he said softly, his voice rough.
She jumped, recoiling from his touch on her shoulder as if burned. Her eyes, when they met his, were red-rimmed and swimming in tears. “Don’t.”
“I made tea,” he offered, holding out a mug.
The simple kindness shattered her completely. A raw, guttural sob broke from her chest. “It’s our fault,” she choked out, the words wet and broken. “This happened because of us. Because of what we did in this house, on these stairs… while he was… The universe is punishing me.”
“No, that’s not true,” Sumu said, setting the mugs down on the desk with a clatter. He tried to pull her into an embrace, but she shoved him away, her hands weak against his chest.
“It is! Don’t you see? We were in his bed, Sumu. We were fucking in his bed while he was… while that truck…” She couldn’t finish, her body trembling violently.
“It was an accident,” he insisted, his voice low and urgent. He moved closer again, his hands finding her shoulders, rubbing slow circles on her back. “A stupid, random accident. It has nothing to do with us. Nothing to do with you seeking a little happiness.”
“Happiness?” she spat the word out like poison. “This is not happiness. This is sin. I am his wife.”
“And what is a husband?” Sumu countered, his hands moving more firmly down her spine, feeling the tension in every vertebra. “Is it only providing a house and money? Doesn’t he have a duty to you, to your body? To make you feel alive?” His voice dropped to a persuasive whisper. “You are young, Moli. Your life shouldn’t be wasted. Wanting to feel wanted isn’t a crime. It doesn’t mean you don’t love him. It means you love yourself, too.”
His words were a seductive poison, seeping through the cracks in her resolve. Her resistance was crumbling, the physical need for comfort overwhelming the guilt. When he pulled her against him this time, she didn’t fight it. She melted into the embrace, her face burying in his neck, her full breasts pressing against the familiar fabric of his—Subimol’s—t-shirt.
He could feel it immediately, the hard points of her nipples through the thin layers of cotton. The sensation sent a jolt of pure, primal heat straight to his groin. His hands, which had been offering comfort, began to change their intent. They slid from the small of her back down to the swell of her hips, gripping her through the silk of her saree.
“We can’t,” she whispered, but it was a breathy, weak protest, her body arching into his of its own volition. “Not here. Not in his study.”
“He won’t know,” Sumu murmured, his mouth hovering inches from hers. His breath was warm on her lips. “What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.”
Then his mouth was on hers, not gentle or questioning, but a crashing, desperate claim. The shirt fell from Moli’s limp fingers, discarded on the polished floor. All thought, all guilt, was incinerated in the furnace of that kiss. Her hands came up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, her tongue meeting his with a frantic hunger.
He walked her backward until the edge of the solid oak desk dug into her thighs. Lifting her, he sat her on the cleared surface, sending a pen holder clattering to the floor. He stood between her spread legs, his mouth devouring hers, his hands ripping the pallu of her saree away. He yanked the thin blouse up to her neck, exposing her breasts, their weight swaying, nipples dark and taut.
“So beautiful,” he groaned, before his mouth descended, sucking a nipple deep, his tongue lashing the stiff peak. She cried out, her head falling back, her fingers scrambling against the wood, knocking over a stack of papers. Her hips began to grind against the hard ridge of his erection straining against his shorts.
He unbuttoned his shorts, freeing his cock, already slick at the tip. He pushed her back until she was lying across the desk, her head near his uncle’s computer monitor. He shoved her saree and petticoat up around her waist, his fingers hooking into the sides of her black panties. With a sharp tear, he ripped them from her body.
“I need to taste you,” he growled, dropping to his knees before the desk. He pushed her thighs apart, his breath hot on her inner skin. His tongue, flat and rough, licked a long, wet stripe from her entrance to her clit.
Moli gasped, her back arching off the wood. “Sumu…”
He didn’t answer with words. He buried his face in her, his tongue plunging inside her, then circling her clit with relentless, focused pressure. He ate her with a starved intensity, his hands holding her hips down, his nose pressed against her, inhaling her musky, aroused scent right there in his uncle’s chair. The obscene, wet sounds of his mouth on her filled the quiet room.
“I’m going to come,” she whimpered, her legs trembling. “Oh god, I’m coming on his desk!”
Her climax ripped through her, a violent, shaking wave that made her buck against his mouth. He didn’t stop, drinking her down, licking and sucking until she was pushing his head away, oversensitive and spent.
He rose, his lips and chin glistening with her. He pulled her up into a sitting position, then lifted her entirely, her legs wrapping around his waist, her arms around his neck. Their mouths found each other again in a messy, wet kiss as he carried her out of the study and up the stairs, her saree trailing behind them like a banner of their betrayal.
He didn’t bother with the light in the bedroom. The dim glow from the streetlights outside was enough. He laid her on the bed, on the same sheets they had defiled that morning, and finally stripped off his t-shirt and shorts. She was only in her torn blouse now. They were both reduced to their most primal selves.
This time, there was no frantic rush. The empty house granted them a terrible, expansive freedom. He kissed her slowly, deeply, his hands mapping every curve of her body as if memorizing it. He licked the sweat from the hollow of her throat, sucked on her fingers, worshipped the inside of her thighs.
He entered her with a slow, inexorable push, sheathing himself completely in her wet, clutching heat. They both groaned, a long, shuddering sound of profound connection. He moved in a deep, rhythmic cadence, his eyes locked on hers. She wrapped her legs high around his back, taking him deeper, her hips meeting each of his thrusts.
They moved together for what felt like hours, changing positions, exploring. He on top, driving into her with slow, powerful strokes that made her whimper. Then her on top, riding him with a lazy, rolling grind, her breasts swaying above him, her head thrown back in pleasure. Their bodies were slick, glistening in the faint light, the air thick with the smell of sex and sweat.
Down in the study, on the oak desk now smeared with Moli’s arousal, her phone began to vibrate. The screen lit up with the name of the hospital. It buzzed, skittering in a small circle on the wood, the ringtone a muffled, insistent plea in the empty room. Upstairs, the sound was swallowed by the thick walls, by the wet, sliding noise of Sumu’s cock moving in and out of Moli’s pussy, by their low, elongated sighs and the soft, sucking sounds of their kisses.
Subimol had stirred, his fingers twitching on the stiff hospital sheets. His eyes had fluttered open for a brief, disoriented moment, his mind grasping for his wife’s name. A nurse, seeing the movement on the monitor, had hurried in. “He’s trying to speak,” she’d said to the colleague outside. “Try his wife again.”
The phone rang until it went to voicemail. Subimol, exhausted by the effort, slipped back into a medicated sleep, waiting for a wife who would not come. Above him, in the dark of his own bedroom, that wife was wrapped naked around his nephew, their limbs entangled, their breathing finally evening out into the deep, satiated rhythm of sleep. They were lost to the world, and to the man who was, for now, waking up alone.
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