Adultery Mily compromises

[hotguydelhi_sidharth]

The Delhi sun, a relentless hammer, beat down on Vasant Kunj. Heat shimmered off the asphalt, distorting the familiar lines of the colony, making everything appear fluid, uncertain.
 
Mily clutched the worn strap of her purse, the faux leather slick with perspiration. Her saree, a simple cotton affair, clung to her skin, each fold a testament to the oppressive humidity. She felt the familiar weight of the silver anklet on her left ankle, a cool band against her skin, a small comfort in a world that felt increasingly devoid of it.
 
Thirty-six years, and she had never felt so utterly adrift. The clinic in Patna had called again. Arpita, her mother, was fading. The surgery, they said, was her only chance.
 
One and a half lakh rupees. A sum that might as well have been a king’s ransom. Amit, her husband, had merely grunted, his eyes fixed on the flickering television screen. "One and a half lakh? You think money grows on trees, Mily?" His voice, thick with disinterest, had been a dull thud in the suffocating silence of their small apartment. "Your mother's old. It's… God's will."
 
God's will. The words tasted like ash. Mily knew Amit wouldn't help. His meagre salary barely covered their own existence, and his affection for her mother had always been a thin, brittle thing, easily shattered.
 
He saw Arpita as a burden, a drain. Her gaze drifted to the house next door, Sid's house.
 
A tremor ran through her. Sid. Forty-two, a walking advertisement for neglect, his unkempt hair and perpetually stained clothes screaming of a life lived without consequence. The stench of stale alcohol and unwashed linen often preceded him, a foul herald.
 
He owned a small, struggling business, but sometimes, Mily had heard whispers, he had access to… funds. Unsavory funds. Her feet, clad in simple sandals, moved almost against her will, carrying her towards his gate. Each step was a descent, a surrender to a desperate hope. The gate creaked open, a groan of protest.
 
The air in his small, overgrown yard was thick with the scent of jasmine, clashing incongruously with the faint, metallic tang of something unpleasant. She knocked, her knuckles rapping softly against the peeling paint of his front door.
 
A long moment passed, then the door swung inward. Sid stood there, a loose vest hanging off his shoulders, his eyes, bloodshot and heavy-lidded, taking her in with a slow, predatory sweep. A smile, more a leer, stretched his lips, revealing stained teeth. "Mily, Mily. What a pleasant surprise." His voice, raspy, carried the faint echo of last night's whiskey. He leaned against the doorframe, blocking her path, his body radiating a warmth that had nothing to do with the sun. Mily swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. "Sid, I… I need your help." His eyebrows rose, a slow, deliberate movement. "My help, is it? What kind of help would a beautiful woman like you need from a scoundrel like me?" The words dripped with insinuation.
 
"My mother… she needs an operation. It's urgent. I need one and a half lakh rupees." The words tumbled out, rushed and breathless. Sid's smile widened, a slow, unfolding thing that chilled her to the bone. He pushed off the doorframe, stepping closer, his scent, a pungent mix of sweat, cheap liquor, and something vaguely musky, filling her nostrils. "One and a half lakh, you say? That's a lot of money, Mily. A lot of money." He reached out, his calloused fingers brushing against the silk of her saree, near her breast.
 
Mily flinched, pulling back instinctively. "I… I'll pay you back. I promise. Every rupee." Her voice was a desperate plea. He chuckled, a low, guttural sound. "Pay me back? How, Mily? Your husband barely earns enough to feed himself. What do you have to offer that's worth one and a half lakh rupees?"
 
His gaze dropped, lingering on the gentle curve of her hips beneath the saree, then back up to her face, his eyes burning with an unspoken demand. Mily’s breath hitched. She knew. She had known the moment she decided to come here. The shame, a hot blush, spread across her cheeks. "Anything, Sid. Please. My mother…" "Anything?"
 
He repeated, his voice a low growl. He stepped fully into the doorway, beckoning her inside with a tilt of his head. "Come in, Mily. Let's discuss 'anything'." Her legs felt like lead, but she stepped across the threshold, into the dim, stale air of his house.
 
The living room was cluttered, dust motes dancing in the shafts of light that pierced the grimy windows. He led her past it, down a narrow hallway, to a bedroom. The air in here was even heavier, saturated with the smell of old sheets and a faint, cloying sweetness. "Sit," he commanded, gesturing to the edge of his unmade bed.
 
Mily perched on the edge, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her silver anklet a cold weight against her skin. He closed the door, the click of the latch echoing loudly in the sudden silence. He turned, his eyes fixed on her, no longer veiled by pretense. "So, Mily. One and a half lakh." He began to unbutton his vest, his movements slow and deliberate. "I think you know what I want." A cold dread seeped into her bones.
 
Her eyes darted around the room, searching for an escape, but there was none. The window was small, barred. The door, locked. "Sid, please," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "My mother is dying." He pulled the vest off, tossing it onto a nearby chair. His chest, surprisingly broad, was covered in a sparse scattering of dark hair. "And you, Mily, are a beautiful woman. A very beautiful woman." He started on the buttons of his trousers. "I've watched you for years. Always in your sarees, so modest. But I know what lies beneath." Tears pricked at her eyes. Her hands trembled. "I… I can't. Please."
 
He chuckled, a harsh, dismissive sound. "Can't? Or won't? Your mother's life hangs in the balance, Mily. Is her life worth one and a half lakh? Or is it worth… this?" He gestured to himself, then to her. The trousers dropped to his ankles, revealing a pair of soiled briefs. He kicked them off, his erection, thick and veined, springing free. It pulsed, a dark, menacing presence. Mily gasped, her breath catching in her throat.
 
She had seen Amit naked countless times, but this was different. This was raw, exposed, demanding. "Now, Mily," he said, his voice softer, but no less menacing. "Take off your saree." Her fingers fumbled, tracing the edge of her pallu. Her mind screamed, *No!* But her mother's face, pale and drawn, flashed before her eyes.
 
The image of the sterile hospital room, the beeping machines, the desperate plea in the doctor's voice. With trembling hands, she began to unpin the folds of her saree. Each movement felt agonizingly slow, a public disrobing in the privacy of this sordid room. The cotton fabric, soft against her skin, now felt like a shroud.
 
She unwrapped it, letting it pool around her feet, revealing the delicate lace of her petticoat and the simple cotton blouse. Sid watched, his eyes unblinking, devouring every inch of exposed skin. "Now the blouse." Her fingers, cold and clumsy, struggled with the tiny buttons. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. The blouse came away, exposing the simple white bra underneath, and the gentle swell of her breasts. Her nipples, usually demure, hardened in the cool air, betraying her. "And the rest."
 
His voice was a low command. The petticoat slid down, rustling softly, pooling around her feet with the saree. She stood before him in her bra and panties, her body, usually hidden, now laid bare. Shame burned through her, but beneath it, a flicker of something else, a primal fear, a desperate resignation. "Please, Sid," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Don't do this." He laughed, a short, sharp bark. "Don't do this? Mily, you walked into my house, you asked for my money. You knew what I wanted."
 
He moved closer, his hand reaching out, his fingers brushing against the lace of her bra, then cupping one of her breasts. His thumb circled her nipple, a rough, insistent touch. A shiver ran through her, a mix of revulsion and a strange, unwelcome spark. It had been so long since anyone had touched her like this, since Amit had even looked at her with desire. "Take it off," he murmured, his voice husky.
 
Her hands, still shaking, unhooked the bra, letting it fall. Her breasts, full and pale, spilled free, her nipples, dark and prominent, pointing at him. He stared, his eyes widening slightly. "Beautiful," he breathed, his voice rough. He reached out, his fingers closing around her other breast, squeezing gently. "So soft." She stood there, frozen, the air thick with tension. He then moved to her panties, his fingers tracing the elastic band. "The last barrier, Mily." Her mind screamed, but her body remained still.
 
She could feel the heat radiating from him, the scent of him, now closer, more potent. Her breath came in shallow gasps. She had to do this. For her mother. With a deep, shuddering breath, she reached down, her fingers fumbling with the elastic of her panties. She pulled them down, slowly, deliberately, until they joined the pile of clothes at her feet. She stood naked before him, her body exposed, vulnerable.
 
The silver anklet on her left leg glinted in the dim light, a stark contrast to the raw intimacy of the moment. Sid's eyes, dark and hungry, raked over her, from her bare shoulders to the soft curve of her belly, to the dark triangle between her legs. A low groan escaped his lips. "Come here, Mily." He held out a hand. Her feet moved on their own, carrying her towards him. She felt like a puppet, her strings pulled by an unseen force.
 
He pulled her against him, his erection pressing hard against her belly. The shock of his naked skin against hers, the rough texture of his chest hair, sent a jolt through her. His lips descended, rough and demanding, crushing hers. His tongue pushed past her teeth, invading her mouth, tasting of stale whiskey and something else, something primal. He sucked on her tongue, a deep, insistent pull, his hands grasping her buttocks, pulling her closer, grinding her against his hardness. A whimper escaped her. Her hands, almost unconsciously, found purchase on his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin. The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent, more desperate. Her body, starved of intimacy for so long, began to betray her. A warmth spread through her loins, a slow, insistent throb.
 
He broke the kiss, his breath ragged. "Down on your knees, Mily." His voice was a low command, his eyes burning into hers. Her knees, weak and trembling, bent slowly. She knelt before him, her head bowed, her hair falling around her face. He stood over her, his erection, thick and engorged, jutting out before her. "Take it," he ordered, his voice thick with desire. Her eyes, filled with tears, lifted to his. The shame was overwhelming, but the image of her mother, frail and fading, spurred her on. Slowly, tentatively, she reached out, her fingers closing around the thick shaft of his cock. It was hot, surprisingly smooth, and heavy in her hand. She looked up at him, her eyes pleading.
 
He merely nodded, his jaw set. Her lips parted, and she leaned forward, her tongue darting out, tasting the tip of him. It was salty, slightly metallic. A shiver ran through her. She took him into her mouth, slowly, carefully, her lips closing around him. The head was large, filling her mouth, and she gagged slightly, but forced herself to continue. She licked, she sucked, her tongue circling the sensitive tip, then moving down the shaft. He groaned, a deep, rumbling sound in his chest.
 
His hands found her hair, guiding her, pushing her deeper. She felt the thick veins beneath her tongue, the slight roughness of his skin. She worked him, her mouth a warm, wet sheath, her breath coming in short, quick gasps. She tasted him fully, the muskiness, the sheer male scent of him, filling her senses. She felt him swell, growing harder, thicker in her mouth. She felt a slight pre-cum, a slick, salty liquid, coat her tongue. "Ah, Mily," he moaned, his voice strained. "That's it. Yes." She continued, her movements becoming more confident, more practiced. She moved her head up and down, sucking, licking, using her throat to take him deeper, until she felt the base of his shaft brush against the back of her throat. She heard his ragged breathing, felt the tension in his body.
 
 Suddenly, he pulled her up, his grip on her arms surprisingly gentle. He guided her to the bed, pushing her back onto the stained sheets. She lay there, naked and vulnerable, her body tingling, a strange mix of disgust and a nascent, unwelcome arousal. He knelt between her legs, his eyes still fixed on hers. He spread her legs, his hands firm on her thighs. Her silver anklet, still on her left leg, brushed against the rough fabric of the sheets.
 
He leaned down, his head descending between her legs. Mily gasped, her eyes widening. His tongue, rough and insistent, found her clit, circling it, licking, then sucking. A shockwave of pleasure, sharp and unexpected, shot through her. She arched her back, a soft moan escaping her lips. It had been years since she had felt such direct, focused attention. He continued, his tongue delving into her folds, lapping at her juices, drawing them out. The sensation was intense, overwhelming.
 
She felt her body clenching, tightening, a deep ache building within her. He nibbled at her labia, teased her clit with the tip of his tongue, then sucked it deep into his mouth, drawing on it with a primal hunger. "Oh… oh, God," she whimpered, her hands gripping the sheets, her fingers clenching into fists. Her hips began to buck, an involuntary rhythm. She was wet, so wet, the slickness spreading between her legs, a testament to her body's betrayal. She felt a dizzying rush, a building pressure, and then, with a gasp, her body convulsed, a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure washing over her. Her back arched, her legs trembled, and a long, drawn-out moan escaped her lips. He lifted his head, his face wet, his eyes gleaming with triumph. "Ready now, Mily?"
 
She could only with glazed stare, her breath still coming in ragged gasps. Shame, yes, but also a raw, physical need that had been dormant for too long. He positioned himself above her, his cock, slick and engorged, pressing against her wet entrance. He looked down at her, a predatory gleam in his eyes.
 
He leaned in, kissing her again, a deep, bruising kiss, his tongue tangling with hers. Then, slowly, deliberately, he pushed. Mily felt the blunt head of him pressing against her, stretching her. She gasped, a sharp intake of breath. He pushed further, a slow, agonizing slide, until she felt him fully inside her, filling her completely. A deep, guttural groan escaped him. He began to move, a slow, steady rhythm, pushing in, pulling out. The sensation was overwhelming, a deep, intense pressure. Her body, still thrumming from her orgasm, responded, clenching around him. The sounds of their bodies meeting, a wet *shlick, shlick*, filled the small room.
 
His balls slapped against her ass with each thrust, a rhythmic thud. Mily closed her eyes, tears streaming down her face, but not just tears of shame. There was also a strange, primal satisfaction, a release of tension that had been building for years. Her hands, almost of their own accord, wrapped around his back, her shapely nails digging into his skin, leaving crescent-shaped marks.
 
She met his thrusts, her hips rising to meet him, her body moving in sync with his. She was sex-starved, and her body, despite her mind's protests, was revelling in this raw, carnal act. He grunted, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Ah, Mily… so tight. So good." He picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming faster, deeper, harder. The bed creaked beneath them, a rhythmic protest. She felt him surge, a deep, visceral groan escaping him as he pumped into her, filling her with his hot, sticky cum. She felt the warm liquid gush inside her, a primal invasion. He collapsed onto her, his body heavy, his breath hot against her neck.
 
They lay there for a long moment, the sounds of their ragged breathing filling the silence. The scent of sex, musky and potent, hung heavy in the air. Mily felt utterly spent, her body a trembling mess.
 
After a few minutes, he stirred, rolling onto his back, pulling her with him. She lay against his side, her head on his shoulder, her body still intertwined with his. Her silver anklet, cold against her skin, brushed against his bare shoulder. He shifted, pulling her legs up, resting them on his shoulders. Her knees bent, her pussy, still swollen and wet, was exposed to him.
 
He looked down, his eyes still heavy-lidded with desire. "Again," he murmured, his voice hoarse. Mily’s eyes fluttered open. She was exhausted, but a strange, insistent throb still pulsed between her legs. He leaned forward, his cock, still hard, pressing against her entrance again. He pushed, slowly, deliberately, re-entering her. Her body, though tired, stretched to accommodate him. He began to thrust again, a slower, more deliberate rhythm this time, his eyes fixed on hers. Her anklet, cold and metallic, rubbed against his shoulder with each thrust, a strange, rhythmic friction.
 
She felt him deep inside her, filling her, stretching her. The shame was still there, a dull ache, but it was overshadowed by the sheer, raw intensity of the sensations. She felt herself clenching around him again, her body responding, moving with him. He moved faster, his grunts becoming more guttural. Mily felt the familiar build-up, the tightening in her belly, the rush of heat.
 
Her legs, still resting on his shoulders, trembled. He leaned down, kissing her again, a deep, possessive kiss. Then, with a final, deep thrust, he groaned, a raw, primal sound, and came inside her again, a hot, pulsing gush that filled her. He collapsed, his body heavy, his breath ragged against her ear.
 
They lay there, entwined, for a long time. The afternoon sun, now lower in the sky, cast long shadows across the room. Mily felt utterly drained, physically and emotionally. Her body ached, but beneath the ache, a strange, unsettling calm settled over her.
 
She had done it. For her mother. Finally, he stirred, pulling away from her. He reached for a crumpled wad of notes on his bedside table. He counted out the money, a thick stack of thousands, and placed it on her belly. "One and a half lakh," he said, his voice flat. "Your mother's operation." Mily looked down at the money, then back at him. His face was unreadable. She felt a cold emptiness spread through her. The price of her mother's life. She slowly sat up, her body protesting with every movement. She reached for her saree, lying in a crumpled heap on the floor, and began to dress, her movements slow and deliberate. Each fold of the fabric, each button, felt heavy, weighted with the events of the last hour.
 
The silver anklet on her left leg felt like a brand, a permanent mark. She picked up the money, clutching it tightly in her hand. She didn't look at him again. She walked out of the room, through the cluttered living room, and out of his house.
 
The Delhi sun still beat down, but it felt colder now, its light harsh and unforgiving. The jasmine scent in his yard now seemed sickly sweet, cloying. As she walked back to her own home, the money clutched in her hand, Mily felt nothing but a profound emptiness. Her mother would live. But a part of Mily, something precious and inviolable, had died in that stale, dim bedroom. The memory of his touch, his taste, his smell, would forever be etched into her, a bitter reminder of the price she had paid. Her mother would live, but Mily would carry the ghost of that afternoon, a silent scream trapped within her, forever.