Adultery Weekday Wife [COMPLETED]

[Sherlocked]

The week stretched out like a taut rubber band, ready to snap at any moment. For Shweta, the familiar geography of the house had transformed into a minefield. Avoiding a person under the same roof required a level of vigilance that left her exhausted before the day had even begun.


She woke before the sun, slipping out of the antique bed while the world outside was still bathed in grey pre-dawn light. She moved like a ghost, finishing her bathroom rituals and retreating to the safety of the ground floor kitchen long before the floorboards above creaked with Sumu’s waking steps. By the time he came down for breakfast, she was already entrenched behind a wall of chores, scrubbing utensils or chopping vegetables with manic intensity, always positioning herself so her back was to the door, or ensuring her mother-in-law or Jethima stood between them like human shields.


She could not look at him. The mere thought of making eye contact sent a hot, sickening flush of shame radiating through her marrow. How could she look at that face—the face of her husband’s brother—knowing exactly where it had been? Knowing the wet, ravenous things that mouth had done to her body? Every time she heard his voice, a deep baritone asking for water or tea, her skin prickled with the memory of his stubble grazing her inner thighs.


She lived for the weekend. She counted the hours until Saturday evening, praying that Ani’s presence would act as an exorcism, that seeing her husband would snap her back to reality and banish the phantom sensations of Sumu’s touch.


When Saturday finally arrived, Ani walked through the door, his shoulders slumped with the weight of the week, his face coated in the grime of the steel plant. But to Shweta, he looked like a lifeline.


Dinner that night was a tableau of tension that only Shweta seemed to perceive. For the first time all week, she could not escape the dining table. She sat on one side, while Ani and Sumu sat opposite her, side by side.


The visual contrast was cruel. Ani, thin and wiry, ate with the ravenous speed of a man who had subsisted on canteen slop for six days. Beside him, Sumu sat broad and imposing, his movements deliberate, his biceps flexing against the fabric of his t-shirt as he broke a piece of roti.


Jethima bustled around them, serving ladlefuls of chicken curry, chattering about the rising price of mustard oil. Shweta kept her eyes fixed on her plate, picking at a bone. But every time she lifted her gaze to check on Ani, to see if he needed more water or salt, her eyes inevitably drifted a fraction to the left.


Sumu was watching her.


He wasn't eating. He was leaning back slightly, his dark eyes fixed on her with an intensity that felt like a physical touch. He wasn't looking at her face. His gaze was lowered, boring through the sheer cotton of her saree, dissecting the dbang of her pallu to stare directly at the canyon of her heavy bosom.


Shweta felt her throat go dry. A bead of sweat, born of nervousness and the humid night, broke free from her hairline. It trickled down the side of her neck, sliding over her collarbone and disappearing into the deep valley between her breasts.


Sumu’s eyes tracked the droplet. His jaw tightened slightly, a microscopic shift that Shweta caught instantly.


Her whole body shivered violently. The memory assaulted her right there at the dinner table—the sensation of his rough tongue lapping sweat from that very spot, the way she had thrown her head back in the blue-lit room to give him better access. The phantom feeling of his mouth on her skin was so potent she almost dropped her water glass.


Guilt, hot and acidic, washed over her. *How can I think of this?* she screamed internally. *Ani is right here.* Her loving, hardworking husband was sitting inches away from the man who had violated his marriage, eating his dinner with a smile, completely oblivious to the silent, sordid communication passing right under his nose.


"This chicken is excellent, Jethima," Ani said, wiping gravy from his lip. "I dream of this taste all week."


Shweta looked down, her appetite gone, feeling like the worst woman in the world.


***


The moment the bedroom door clicked shut, sealing them in their private sanctuary, Shweta practically threw herself at her husband.


Ani had barely set his bag down when she collided with him, wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her face in his chest. She held him with a desperate, crushing grip, as if he were the only solid thing in a world that was dissolving.


"Shweta?" Ani asked, surprised, his hands hovering for a moment before settling on her back. He felt her shoulders shaking. "What happened? Why are you crying?"


"I miss you," she sobbed into his shirt, the smell of sweat and iron filling her nose. "I miss you so much, Ani. Please... please take me with you."


Ani pulled back slightly, trying to look at her face, but she wouldn't let go.


"Take you with me?"


"Yes," she pleaded, her voice thick with tears. "We can stay in Durgapur. I don't care where. I can cook for you every day. You won't have to eat that rubbish from the canteen. I'll take care of you. Just take me away from here."


Ani laughed softly, a sad, weary sound. He stroked her hair, mistaking her panic for affection. "Oh, Shweta. You know I can't do that yet. I don't have a permanent quarter. I sleep in a dormitory with ten other men. Where would you stay?"


"I don't care," she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut. "Anywhere but here."


Ani cupped her face in his rough, calloused hands, forcing her to look up at him. His eyes were moist, filled with a mixture of love and helplessness. "It pains me too, you know. Leaving you every Monday breaks my heart. But I have to wait until they make me permanent. Once I get the company quarter on campus, we will start our own little household. Just us. I promise."


Shweta closed her eyes tightly, two large tears escaping to run down her cheeks. He didn't understand. He thought she wanted to be with him out of love. He didn't realize she wanted to go with him because she was terrified of herself. She wanted to run away because she no longer trusted what she might do if she stayed in this house, with that man just a wall away.


Ani leaned in, brushing the tears away with his thumbs. He kissed her.


It was a soft, tender kiss, filled with the familiar, gentle love of a husband who cherished her. His lips moved slowly against hers, asking rather than taking.


Shweta froze.


It wasn't like *him*.


The comparison struck her unbidden, swift and cruel. It wasn't like the all-consuming, violent claim of his brother. It lacked the fire, the wet, desperate hunger that had devoured her in the hallway. Ani’s kiss was safe. Sumu’s kiss had been a natural disaster.


Ani pulled back, sensing her hesitation. "What happened?" he whispered, concern creasing his brow.


"Nothing," Shweta gasped, panic rising. She couldn't let him see. She couldn't let him know. She grabbed the back of his neck and pulled his face back down to hers, kissing him with a frantic energy, trying to drown out the voice in her head. "Just love me, Ani. Love me now."


A few minutes later, the antique *palanka* bed creaked rhythmically in the quiet room. They were both naked, the fan whirring overhead.


Ani moved above her, his body familiar and safe. He followed their regular routine, the one they had established over a year of marriage. He kissed her neck, he touched her breasts gently, and then he positioned himself.


As he slid inside her, Shweta bit her lip. He felt... average.


The thought was a betrayal, but she couldn't stop it. Her body, still humming with the sensory memory of Sumu’s impressive size, registered the difference immediately. Ani didn't stretch her. He didn't fill her completely. There was no pain, no feeling of being split open, just a comfortable, sliding friction.


Ani’s hips moved in a steady, predictable rhythm. *In, out. In, out.* He breathed heavily in her ear, murmuring her name. Shweta hugged him tightly, her nails digging into his back—not to urge him on, but to anchor herself to him, to the reality of her marriage.


She closed her eyes and tried to focus on his pleasure. She moved her hips, matching his pace, doing the things she knew he liked. After a few minutes of steady movement, she felt Ani’s breath hitch. His rhythm faltered, then sped up.


"Shweta..." he groaned.


With a few whispered words of encouragement from her, he tensed, gave three quick thrusts, and released himself with a shuddering sigh. He collapsed on top of her, his heart beating fast against her chest, before rolling off to the side, exhausted.


Within minutes, his breathing deepened into the heavy rhythm of sleep.


Shweta lay naked beside her husband, staring up at the canopy of the bed. This was their life. This was what she was used to. It was familiar. It was comforting. It was safe.


But tonight, as the sweat cooled on her skin, a hollow ache settled deep in her belly.


It didn't feel... enough.


She squeezed her thighs together, trying to suppress the sensation that was ghosting through her nerves—the memory of Sumu’s thickness, the endurance that had kept him going for an hour, the way he had ravaged her until she was screaming. She looked at Ani’s sleeping form, guilt warring with a newfound, dark dissatisfaction. She loved him. She truly did. But her body had tasted a different kind of fire, and now, the warmth of the hearth felt terrifyingly inadequate.