Adultery Weekday Wife [COMPLETED]

[Sherlocked]

Sunday afternoon had seen Ani depart, his figure receding down the dusty lane with his heavy bag, heading back to the grueling reality of the steel plant. But while he had taken his physical presence away, he had left the oppressive, suffocating heat behind.


It was a night where the air felt solid, a heavy, wet blanket wrapped around the house. The humidity was absolute, refusing to dissipate even as the moon climbed high. In the top-floor bedroom, Shweta lay on the *palanka*, her body sprawled diagonally across the mattress in a desperate bid to find a cool patch of cotton. There was none.


The windows were thrown wide open, but the night offered no mercy. There was no breeze, not even a whisper of wind to stir the heavy curtains. The ceiling fan spun overhead, but it only churned the stagnant, hot air, pushing it down like a convection oven. Shweta was drenched. Her hair, usually tied back, was loose and damp, plastering itself to her forehead and neck in sticky, dark tendrils.


She shifted, the sheets clinging to her skin. Her saree, a thin voile she wore for sleeping, was soaked through, turning translucent in patches where it adhered to her body. She had wiped her face a dozen times, but the sheen of perspiration returned instantly. Moonlight filtered through the window bars, painting stripes of silver across the room. It caught the glistening curve of her neckline and the rise of her chest, illuminating the beads of sweat that rolled down into the valley of her cleavage.


She closed her eyes, trying to force sleep, but a sound from the next room kept clawing at her consciousness.


*Hummmmm.*


The low, steady drone of Sumu’s air conditioner.


It was a taunt. A vibration that traveled through the brick and mortar, resonating in her own overheated room. With each passing day, the wall separating her antique prison from his refrigerated sanctuary felt thinner, more porous. She could almost imagine the cool, crisp air circulating just a few feet away, swirling around his bed, chilling his skin while she burned.


On other nights, exhaustion from the household chores would have dragged her under. But tonight, the heat was a physical antagonist, keeping her nerves frayed and her senses heightened.


The old grandfather clock downstairs chimed twelve times. Midnight.


Shweta couldn't take it anymore. The bed felt like a slab of stone baking in the noon sun. Her throat was parched, her tongue feeling like sandpaper. She needed water. Cold water.


She rose from the bed, her saree peeling away from her legs with a soft, wet sound. She didn't bother to adjust it; the heat had stripped away her capacity for propriety. She opened her door and stepped out into the hallway.


***


Inside the air-conditioned room, Sumu was wide awake. The cool air was a luxury, yes, but it couldn't cool the fever in his mind. The events of the past few weeks—the sight of her sleeping, the tension of the tea rituals, the silent, heavy gazes exchanged across the terrace—were weighing down on him. He felt like a man walking a tightrope over a ravine, the wind picking up with every step.


He tossed the sheet aside. His throat felt dry, a phantom thirst that mimicked the desire he was trying to suppress. He needed to clear his head.


He opened his door, stepping out of his artificial winter into the stifling humidity of the hallway. The temperature change was a physical slap, instantly slicking his skin. He walked toward the water filter kept on a small table at the end of the corridor.


Then, he froze.


Shweta was there.


She was standing by the filter, a steel bottle raised to her lips. She was drinking with a desperate, frantic need, her head tipped back. In her haste, she had tilted the bottle too steeply. A stream of water escaped the corner of her mouth, cascading down her chin and neck.


Sumu stood rooted to the spot, his breath catching in his lungs.


The water trailed down her throat, soaking the already damp front of her saree. The fabric, wet with sweat and now water, clung to her like a second skin, outlining the shape of her breasts, the dark shadow of her nipples, and the curve of her belly. The dim night light of the hallway cast her in a soft, amber glow, making her wet skin gleam.


She looked wild. Unraveled.


Shweta lowered the bottle, gasping for air, and turned.


Her eyes went wide. She hadn't expected him. She hadn't heard his door open.


He was standing there, barely ten feet away. He was wearing nothing but a pair of loose sleeping shorts. It was the first time she was seeing him this close without a shirt. She had spent hours devouring the sight of him from the safety of the rooftop, admiring the sculpture of his back and arms from a distance. But here, in the narrow, dim hallway, the distance was gone.


The shock of seeing him—the sheer, imposing reality of his bare chest, the broad shoulders, the dark hair trailing down his stomach—hit her hard. She inhaled sharply, and the water still in her mouth went down the wrong pipe.


She doubled over, coughing violently. The bottle slipped in her wet grip, threatening to fall.


Sumu moved before he thought.


He crossed the distance in two long strides, his instincts overriding his hesitation. He reached out, his hand closing over hers around the bottle to steady it, his other hand hovering near her back.


"Careful," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep and something else.


Shweta coughed, her body shaking with the force of it. She could feel the heat radiating off him, a furnace that rivaled the ambient temperature. But it was his touch that seared her. His fingers were large and warm over her trembling hand.


Sumu took the bottle from her, setting it on the table with a *thud*, but he didn't step back. He couldn't.


He was mesmerized. Up close, the smell of her was intoxicating—a raw, primal mix of salt, heat, and the lingering, sweet note of her jasmine deodorant. It assaulted his senses, breaking down the last reserves of his restraint. He looked down at her, watching the way her chest heaved as the coughing fit subsided. Her hair was a mess, the bun unraveling, exposing the long, elegant slope of her neck, which was glistening with sweat and spilled water.


Shweta straightened slowly, her eyes watering, her chest rising and falling rapidly. The cough had passed, but her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.


She looked up. He was right there.


He was so close she could feel his breath on her forehead. She could see the individual beads of sweat forming on his collarbone. She could see the definition of the pectoral muscles she had fantasized about, now just inches from her fingertips.


The silence that descended on the hallway was heavy, thick with the unsaid.


Downstairs, Jethima and his father were deep in the sleep of the elderly. Two hundred and fifty kilometers away, Ani was likely tossing and turning on a thin mattress, dreaming of this very woman, completely unaware that the sanctity of his marriage was dissolving in the humidity of a Durgapur night.


Shweta didn't move away. She didn't pull her saree up to cover her wet, clinging blouse. She looked at Sumu, her eyes dark and dilated, reflecting the same hunger she saw in him.


Sumu looked at her lips, wet with water, then up to her eyes. The air between them crackled, the invisible wall finally crumbling into dust.


They stood there in a trance, the heat of the night fusing them together. Neither of them knew who moved first—whether she leaned in, seeking the fire, or whether he reached out to claim it—but suddenly, the space between them vanished.


—-


Their lips smashed together, a collision of wet heat and desperate need that shattered the silence of the hallway. It wasn't a tentative exploration; it was a starving, frantic claiming. A jolt of pure electricity arced through them, searing and immediate, making their knees weak and their blood boil.


Sumu’s arm, heavy and trembling with adrenaline, whipped around Shweta’s slender waist. He didn't pull her gently; he yanked her against him, eliminating the last inch of air between them with a force that knocked the breath from her lungs. The impact fused her soft, yielding curves against the granite hardness of his chest, the contrast sending a shockwave of sensation through both of them.


The taste of her—cool water, salt, and the sweet, maddening flavor of forbidden fruit—flooded Sumu’s senses. The restraint he had built up over weeks of agonizing observation, the discipline of the gym, the loyalty to his cousin—it all evaporated in the humid night air. All the pent-up desire, the images of her sleeping in his bed, the torture of the rooftop glances, poured into that demanding kiss. He devoured her mouth, tilting his head to deepen the angle, his tongue sweeping inside to taste the recesses he had only dreamed of. A low, guttural groan vibrated in his throat, a sound of surrender and conquest that vibrated against her lips.


For Shweta, the world simply ceased to exist.


The moment his lips locked onto hers, the heavy antique bed in her room, the red saree Ani had given her, the sleeping in-laws downstairs—it all dissolved into the darkness. The guilt that had plagued her was incinerated instantly by the roaring fire that lit up her veins. There was no Ani here. There was no duty. There was only this—the overwhelming, crushing weight of Sumu’s desire answering her own.


Through the thin, damp cotton of her saree and blouse, she could feel every ridge of him. The sculpted chest she had watched glisten in the sun was now pressing against her breasts, flattening them, the heat of his skin searing through the fabric. His body felt like iron wrapped in velvet fire.


A whimper escaped her throat, swallowed whole by his mouth. She didn't push him away. instead, her hands flew up, snake-like and desperate, wrapping around his thick neck. Her fingers tangled into the hair at the nape of his neck, gripping tight, pulling his head down to anchor him there, pulling him deeper into her mouth. She arched her back, pressing her pelvis into his, seeking the friction she had been denied for so long.


Sumu’s control snapped completely. His free hand began to roam, no longer tentative. It swept down the curve of her spine, tracing the damp valley of her back, before sliding lower to grip her hip, his fingers digging into the soft flesh through the wet saree. He squeezed, molding her against him, his touch igniting nerve endings she had thought were dead. Every stroke, every shift of their mashed lips poured gasoline on the fire, turning the quiet, dusty hallway into the epicenter of a storm that threatened to consume them both.
The momentum of their collision carried them backward, Sumu driving her with an urgency that bordered on violence. They stumbled blindly until Shweta’s back hit the wall of the corridor with a dull thud, the impact jarring the breath from her lungs but doing nothing to break the seal of their mouths.


He pinned her there, using his superior weight to cage her between the unforgiving plaster and the wall of his own muscle. He pressed into her with everything he had, crushing the soft, yielding curves of her body against his granite hardness. Shweta didn't shrink from the pressure; she welcomed it. She arched her back, lifting herself on her toes, trying to fuse her pelvis with his, desperately seeking the friction she had been craving for months.


Through the thin, damp layers of her saree and his shorts, the evidence of his desire was undeniable. His erection was a rigid, throbbing bar of heat, pressing dangerously close to the center of her womanhood. The sensation sent a jolt of electricity straight to her core, making her knees buckle, but Sumu caught her. His large hands slid down her spine and clamped onto her soft buttocks, his fingers digging into the flesh possessively. He hauled her upward and into him, grinding his groin against hers in a slow, circular rhythm that drew a jagged, broken whimper from both of their throats, the sound vibrating directly into each other's mouths.


Sumu tore his lips away for a fraction of a second, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Before Shweta could protest the loss of contact, his hand moved with swift, decisive intent. He grabbed the edge of her saree’s pallu—the veil of modesty she had used to hide herself from the world—and yanked it down.


The fabric pooled uselessly at her side, leaving her upper body exposed to the dim hallway light and his ravenous gaze. Shweta didn't open her eyes. She didn't want to see the reality of what they were doing; she only wanted to feel it. Her head fell back against the wall, her lips parted and wet, blindly searching for his return.


Sumu didn't make her wait. He crashed his mouth back onto hers, silencing her soft keen of need, while his hand moved to claim what he had unveiled.


The blouse she wore was old and worn thin from countless washes, and in the suffocating heat of the night, she wore nothing underneath. When Sumu’s hand cupped her large breast, there was barely any barrier between his palm and her skin. The fabric was soaked with sweat and spilled water, rendering it translucent and clinging.


He groaned into her mouth as he felt the heavy weight of her breast in his hand, the flesh hot and incredibly soft. But at the center, the nipple was hard as a pebble, straining against the wet cotton. Sumu felt a madness take over him. He began to knead her breast mercilessly, his fingers squeezing and molding the soft flesh, his thumb rasping over the sensitive, hardened peak through the damp cloth.


The sensation of his strong, rough hand claiming her so intimately shattered Shweta’s last restraint. A feral noise ripped from her throat, and the passive, waiting wife vanished. In her place was a woman starving. She became aggressive, her hands tightening in his hair as she thrust her tongue deep into his mouth, meeting his with a frantic, wrestling hunger.


She pulled back just an inch to attack his face. She licked the corners of his mouth, tasting the salt of his sweat and the musk of his skin. Her tongue darted out to trace the line of his lips, his chin, the sharp angle of his jawline that she had admired from the roof. The taste of him—her brother-in-law, the forbidden man—was intoxicating, driving her insane.


Sumu’s hand continued its relentless assault on her breast, wringing cries of pleasure-pain from her, and in response, Shweta clamped her teeth onto his jawline, biting down hard enough to leave a mark.


The sharp sting of pain snapped something in Sumu. He growled, releasing her breast to grab her face with both hands, his fingers digging into her cheeks to hold her still. He slanted his head and captured her lips again, sucking on them with a bruising intensity. He devoured her, sucking her lower lip into his mouth, biting it gently, tasting her sweet saliva and mixing it with his own.


He pulled back slightly, seeing a strand of saliva connecting their lips before it broke, a droplet escaping the corner of her swollen, red mouth. Not wanting to waste a single drop of her, he lowered his head and licked it away, his tongue sweeping over her skin.


The quiet, ancestral house, usually filled only with the sound of ticking clocks and snoring elders, was now filled with the wet, sloppy sounds of their kissing and the echoing, heavy breathing of their lust. And piercing through the moans was the sharp, rhythmic clatter of Shweta’s *sankha* and *pola*—the white conch and red coral bangles of a married woman—clashing together as her arms tightened desperately around her lover’s neck.
Sumu tore his mouth away, his breath ragged, but he didn't retreat. His focus dropped lower, tracing the long, elegant slope of her neckline that he had studied from afar for weeks. In the stifling heat of the hallway, beads of sweat had gathered along the column of her throat and pooled in the hollow of her collarbone.


He didn't wipe them away. Instead, he leaned in, extending his tongue to lap at the moisture.


Shweta’s body gave a violent shiver, a paradox of goosebumps rising on her skin despite the oppressive temperature. The sensation of his hot, wet tongue against her sensitive skin was electric. She squeezed her eyes shut, her lips parting as she panted, small, jagged breaths escaping her throat. Instinctively, she tilted her head to the side, baring her neck, offering more of herself to him.


Sumu accepted the invitation with ravenous intent. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, rubbing his cheek against her shoulder, the stubble grazing her soft skin before his tongue swept over her again, his saliva mixing with and replacing the salty sheen of her sweat.


His hand moved to the back of her head, finding the disheveled bun that was barely holding together. With a sharp tug, he pulled the pins free. The heavy mass of her dark hair cascaded down her back, a curtain of silk in the dim light. Sumu wrapped his hand around a thick lock of it, pulling her head back gently but firmly to expose the full length of her throat.


He began to worship the exposed skin, his tongue trailing a wet, searing path from the top of her heaving chest all the way up to the underside of her chin. Every time his lips neared her jaw, Shweta would part her mouth, the tip of her tongue darting out in anticipation, a silent, desperate plea for him to claim her mouth again.


Sumu obliged, chasing her tongue with his own, capturing it and sliding deep into her mouth for another searing, possessive kiss that made her knees buckle. It was too hot, too intense. He felt he could drown in the taste of her right there in the corridor.


He gripped her shoulders with both hands and shoved her back against the wall, the thud echoing softly. He broke the kiss, needing to see her.


Shweta’s eyes fluttered open, dark and glazed with lust. She was panting, her chest rising and falling in extreme, rapid heaves. Her lips were swollen, red, and slick with his saliva. But it was her chest that held Sumu’s gaze. Glistening with sweat from the heat and the internal fire consuming her, her breasts seemed to have swollen, straining heavily against the flimsy, wet fabric of her blouse. The old cotton struggled to contain the soft mounds that were heaving with every breath.


Sumu didn't wait. He brought his hands up, cupping the weight of her breasts, pushing them together to deepen the canyon between them. He buried his face in that cleavage, groaning as he rubbed his cheeks against the soft, yielding warmth. He licked the sides of each mound, tasting the salt on her skin, while his hands kneaded the flesh roughly, molding her to his grip.


Shweta’s hands flew to the back of his head, her fingers digging into his scalp, pressing him closer. She turned her head side to side against the wall, a low keening sound trapped in her throat.


Sumu couldn't wait anymore. He locked his mouth over one nipple, sucking it hard right through the fabric. His saliva soaked the thin, worn cotton instantly, turning it translucent, the dark areola and the hardened peak visible underneath.


A bolt of lightning shot through Shweta’s body. It had been so long since anyone had touched her with such hunger. She gasped, her fingers tightening in his hair, pulling his face harder into her chest, uncaring that she was making it impossible for him to breathe.


Sumu didn't care about air; he only cared about this.


Suddenly, he released her, spinning her around with a rough dominance that made her gasp. He pressed her face toward the wall, forcing her hands up above her head to support herself against the plaster. Her buttocks were now pressed back towards him.


Sumu stepped in, grabbing her waist with one hand and hauling her hips back against his groin. He ground his hips forward, the rigid, throbbing length of his manhood pressing into the soft cleft of her buttocks, hard as stone even through the layers of cloth. His other hand snaked around her front, squeezing her flat stomach before moving up to crush her breast in a punishing grip.


A loud moan escaped Shweta’s lips, echoing dangerously in the silent house, but neither of them cared. The world outside this hallway—the sleeping in-laws, the distant husband—had ceased to exist.


Sumu pressed his entire body weight against her back, pinning her. Shweta instinctively relaxed, letting her head fall back onto his shoulder, surrendering to his strength. She turned her face slightly, her lips parted, seeking him.


Sumu grabbed her chin with his fingers, forcing her head around further, and crushed his mouth onto hers. She wrapped one arm backward around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, and they devoured each other, moaning into each other’s mouths while his hand roamed wildly over her body.


His fingers found the tucked pleats of her saree at her waist. With a singular, decisive tug, the fabric unspooled. The heavy cotton pooled around her feet. She was left in just her blouse and a light pink petticoat. Sumu didn't stop. His hand found the drawstring at her hip. Without breaking the kiss, he yanked the knot free.


The petticoat loosened and slid down her legs, bunching around her ankles.


They finally broke the kiss, gasping for air. Sumu slowly turned her around to face him. She stood before him in the wreckage of her modesty, wearing nothing but the wet, translucent blouse and a simple cotton panty.


He didn't give her time to feel shame. He hooked one arm under her knee, lifting her leg around his waist. Then he grabbed the other, lifting her effortlessly off the floor. Shweta wrapped both legs around her brother-in-law’s waist, locking her ankles, her body flush against his. There was no gap left between them.


She grabbed his neck again, sinking her lips into his with a desperation that bordered on madness. Sumu supported her weight easily, his large hands gripping her buttocks over the soft cotton of her panties, his fingers digging in. He could feel the heat of her core radiating against him, his erection trapped between their bodies, poking insistently against her.


Holding her tight, their mouths fused together, Sumu turned and walked blindly toward his room. He reached out, twisting the knob and pushing the door open. He carried her across the threshold into the cool, air-conditioned darkness, kicking the door shut behind them with a definitive, final click.