Adultery Weekday Wife [COMPLETED]

[Sherlocked]

The morning sun rose with a vengeance, baking the walls of the old house until they radiated heat like a kiln. It was Sunday, the day before Ani was scheduled to return to the grueling reality of the steel plant. The air in the house was heavy, laden not just with humidity, but with the unspoken weight of his impending departure.


"Bouma," Ani's mother called out, her voice soft but firm. "I want to offer a special puja for Ani at the Satsang Mandir today. Before he travels tomorrow. Will you come with me?"


Shweta nodded, dutifully masking the turmoil churning in her gut. "Yes, Ma. I'll get ready."


After the lunch dishes were cleared and the kitchen scrubbed down, Shweta retreated to the sanctuary of her bedroom to change. The room was dim, the curtains drawn against the harsh afternoon glare. Ani was already asleep, sprawled across the antique *palanka* bed, his mouth slightly open, a soft snore escaping his lips. He looked exhausted, the deep lines of fatigue etched around his eyes even in sleep.


Shweta paused, the silk of her saree bunched in her hands, and looked at him. A wave of fierce, protective tenderness washed over her, warring with the corrosive acid of her guilt. *He works so hard for us,* she thought, her heart twisting. *He gives everything he has. I can never hurt this man. Never again.*


With a renewed resolve to be the perfect wife, she dressed with care. She chose a traditional *garad* saree—crisp white cotton with a broad, blood-red border. She paired it with a matching red blouse that fit snugly, accentuating the fairness of her skin. She applied a fresh coat of vermilion to her *sinthi*, the bright red powder screaming her marital status to the world.


When she descended the stairs, the house was settling into its afternoon stupor. Sumu’s mother was wiping down the last of the kitchen counters.


"We're leaving, Jethima," Shweta said softly.


"Go carefully, the sun is sharp," the older woman replied without turning.


Shweta and her mother-in-law walked through the baking streets to the Satsang Mandir. The temple was largely empty at this hour, the stone floors cool against their bare feet. The smell of incense and marigolds was thick in the air. They offered their prayers, the priest chanting mantras for Ani’s safety and prosperity. Shweta squeezed her eyes shut, adding her own silent, desperate plea for strength to resist the darkness growing inside her.


"Bouma," her mother-in-law said as they stepped back out onto the temple steps. "I will stay for the afternoon bhajans. It gives me peace. You take the puja thali and go home. Rest for a while."


Shweta hesitated, but the prospect of sitting in the heat for another hour was unappealing. "Okay, Ma. I'll see you in the evening."


She took the steel thali, heavy with fruits, sweets, and flowers, and began the walk back. The heat was oppressive, pressing down on her shoulders, prickling her skin. By the time she pushed open the heavy wooden door of the house, she was flushed and glistening.


The house was silent as a tomb. The heavy silence of a Bengali afternoon, where everyone retreats behind closed doors to escape the sun, hung over the hallway. Shweta locked the main door and turned toward the stairs, her anklets making a soft *chim-chim* sound that echoed too loudly in the quiet.


She climbed the first flight of stairs, her mind already on the cool water she would splash on her face. She turned the landing to head toward the second floor, toward her room and her sleeping husband.


And then she froze.


Sumu was coming down.


He had paused on the landing between his floor and hers, one hand on the banister. He was dressed in a sleeveless vest and shorts, his hair tousled as if he had just risen from bed.


Shweta’s breath hitched in her throat. She had spent the entire week dodging him, turning corners to avoid his shadow, staring at her plate to avoid his eyes. But here, in the narrow confines of the staircase, there was nowhere to hide.


Sumu didn't move. He stood there, blocking her path, his dark eyes locking onto her with a terrifying intensity. He wasn't looking at her as a family member. He was devouring her.


His gaze raked over her, drinking in the sight. The walk in the sun had left her flushed, her skin glowing with a sheen of perspiration. Sweat glistened on the long slope of her neck and gathered in the hollow of her throat. He stared at the dark, damp patches under the arms of her tight red blouse, the fabric straining against her heavy chest. The contrast of the blood-red blouse against her pale, wet skin was violent and incredibly sexy. His eyes lingered on her *sinthi*, the bright red sindur acting not as a deterrent, but as a challenge.


Shweta felt scorched by his look. It was physical, invasive. Panic fluttered in her chest. She tightened her grip on the puja thali, her knuckles turning white.


"I... I need to go up," she stammered, trying to sidestep him.


She moved to the right, trying to squeeze past him and the wall. But the moment she was level with him, Sumu moved.


Quick as a cobra, he stepped in, grabbing her upper arm. He spun her around and shoved her back against the wall.


"Ah!" Shweta let out a small yelp, instinctively bringing the puja thali up between them like a shield, the steel rim pressing into her chest and his chest.


Sumu pressed his body against hers, trapping her. He was solid, heavy, and radiated a heat that rivaled the sun outside. His face was inches from hers, his eyes dark and dilated.


Shweta squeezed her eyes shut, turning her head to the side to avoid his mouth. Her breathing came in short, jagged gasps. "Please... let me go."


Sumu reached up, his large hand cupping her chin. He forced her head back, making her look at him.


"Are you not going to give me prasad?" he asked.


His voice was low, a rough whisper that respected the sleeping house but carried a double entendre that made Shweta’s stomach clench. He wasn't talking about the sweets on the plate.


Tears pricked her eyes. "Please, Borda," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Let me go. Your brother... Ani is upstairs. He's sleeping right there."


Sumu’s expression darkened. The mention of Ani, combined with her week-long avoidance, snapped his patience. "I can't forget about that night, Shweta," he growled, leaning closer, his breath hot on her face. "I haven't slept properly since. Every time I close my eyes, I see you in my bed."


Shweta recoiled, shaking her head frantically. "That was a mistake, Borda! It... it was a sin. It should never have happened. I don't know what came over me. Please, just forget about it. Forgive me."


Sumu let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Forgive you? For giving me the best night of my life? I've been waiting all week for more."


His hand left her chin and slid down, finding the curve of her waist where the saree was tucked in. His fingers brushed against the exposed skin of her midriff, damp with sweat. He rubbed his thumb up and down, feeling the softness, the heat.


Shweta whimpered, a broken sound. "Please, Borda, don't say this. We can't... we can't let it happen anymore. I love Ani. I can't hurt him."


Sumu ignored her pleas. His hand moved boldly over her flat stomach, his forefinger dipping into the deep well of her navel before sliding just beneath the waistband of her saree. He teased the skin there, feeling the muscles of her stomach tremble under his touch.


"What are you afraid of, Shweta?" Sumu whispered, his body towering over her. He shifted his hips, pressing his pelvis into the puja thali that separated them.


He moved his other hand to the side of her face, caressing her cheek, while the hand on her waist slid around to the small of her back, pulling her hips forward. "I understood that night... Bhai can't satisfy you properly. Can he?"


Shweta gasped, shock and shame flooding her veins.


"You were so tight," Sumu murmured, his eyes boring into hers. "Like you hadn't been touched in years. You enjoyed it, Shweta. You felt it. I heard you scream my name. Why are you trying to run away from the truth?"


"Stop it!" tears leaked from her eyes now. "Please, Borda. Let me go. Ani is upstairs. I love him. I can't do anything that will hurt him."


Sumu smirked, a cruel, knowing twist of his lips. "I know you love him. But he isn't there for you, is he? He comes home for two days, too tired to even look at you. He can't take care of a woman like you."


He leaned in closer, his nose brushing against hers. "A beautiful woman like you needs to be worshipped. Not ignored. He won't know anything, Shweta. Look at him... sleeping away the afternoon when he should be worshipping this body."


His hand slid lower, cupping the curve of her buttocks through the crisp white cotton. He squeezed, pulling her hard against him. The puja thali dug into Shweta’s chest, but through the metal, and against her stomach, she felt it—the hard, undeniable ridge of his erection pressing against her.


"You can go to him when he comes home on the weekends," Sumu whispered, his lips brushing hers. "But you can't let your prime waste away waiting for him. You know how you felt that night."


Shweta’s body betrayed her. Despite the shame burning her face, her hips moved involuntarily, a microscopic shift forward to meet the pressure of his erection. Her breath hitched.


"What he doesn't know won't hurt him," Sumu breathed.


"Please, Borda... let me—"


*“Oooohhhmmmpppp.”*


Her protest was smothered as Sumu smashed his lips onto hers.


It wasn't a question; it was a conquest. He claimed her mouth with a hot, demanding ferocity that eclipsed the heat of the afternoon. The puja thali tilted dangerously in her hand, forgotten, as her other arm fell uselessly to her side.


Shweta didn't know she had this much pent-up lust coiled inside her. The moment she felt his tongue sweep against her lips, her resistance shattered. Her mouth opened automatically, inviting him in.


The kiss was ferocious, violent. Their teeth clashed, their tongues fighting for dominance. Sumu tasted of tea and desire; she tasted of the sweets she had just offered to the gods.


*“Oooohhuummm...”* Shweta moaned into his mouth, the sound vibrating in her throat.


Sumu’s hand left her face and dove into the folds of her saree. He found the elastic of her panty and shoved his hand inside.


He groaned into her mouth. She was wet. Soaking wet.


The realization gave him a sick, soaring pleasure. His brother’s dutiful wife, dressed in her puja saree, was dripping wet for him on the stairs.


His fingers slid along the length of her slick labia, bathing in her arousal. Shweta whimpered, her legs shaking, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she pressed herself harder against the wall, opening her legs slightly to grant him access.


The silent stairway was suddenly filled with the wet, sloppy sounds of their kissing. Sumu pushed two fingers deep into the warm, slippery cave of her vagina. He began to pump his fingers in and out, rubbing his thumb against her swollen clitoris.


Shweta’s free hand flew up and wrapped around his neck, her fingers digging into his hair. She pulled him closer, thrusting her tongue into his mouth, desperate for more.


Sumu broke the kiss for a second, panting heavily against her swollen, red lips.


"Come to my room tonight," he commanded, his voice a hoarse shred of sound.


Shweta felt her knees turn to water. The command bypassed her brain and went straight to her core.


"Ohhh..." she gasped, her head falling back against the wall as his fingers increased their tempo inside her. "This is so hot..."


It was a stark, blinding contrast to the tender, predictable lovemaking of her husband. This fire, this danger, this overwhelming need was consuming her.


In the quiet of the Sunday afternoon, while the house slept, they burned.


*Creak.*


The sound of a door opening on the ground floor shattered the moment like glass.


Sumu’s parents' room.


They froze. The sound of Jethima’s footsteps echoed faintly on the tiles below.


The spell broke instantly. Terror, cold and sharp, replaced the lust in Shweta’s eyes. She realized where she was, what she was doing, whose hand was inside her.


Sumu withdrew his hand instantly, the wet sound of his exit loud in the silence.


Without a word, Shweta pushed him back. She clutched the puja thali to her chest and turned, bolting up the stairs toward the second floor, her anklets chiming frantically.


Sumu didn't chase her. He couldn't. He stood on the landing, breathing heavily, his erection straining painfully against his shorts. He couldn't go downstairs in this state. He turned and retreated rapidly to his own room, closing the door on the heavy, musk-filled air of the staircase.


On the marble step where they had stood, two small, glistening drops of Shweta’s arousal lay distinct against the stone—the only evidence of the sin that had just taken place.


—


The door to the bedroom clicked shut, and Shweta leaned back against the wood, her chest heaving as if she had just run a marathon. Her eyes darted instantly to the antique *palanka* bed.


Ani was still asleep.


A wave of relief so potent it made her knees weak washed over her. He lay sprawled on his stomach, face turned away, deep in the exhaustion that only a double-shift worker knows. He hadn't moved. He hadn't seen her.


Shweta pushed herself off the door and stumbled toward the dressing table mirror. The reflection that stared back at her made her hand fly to her mouth to stifle a gasp.


She looked thoroughly ravaged.


Her hair, which she had pinned into a neat, severe bun for the temple visit, was a disaster. Strands had escaped to frame her face in wild tendrils, and the bun itself hung loosely at the nape of her neck, threatening to collapse entirely. But it was her face that told the real story. Her eyes were wide, dark, and glassy with a feral mix of panic and lingering lust. Her lips—usually painted a modest red—were swollen and devoid of color, the lipstick smeared messily around the edges of her mouth, erased by the voracious hunger of Sumu’s kissing.


And her lips still glistened. Even in the dim light, she could see the wet sheen of his saliva coating them. She hadn't even had the chance to wipe it off.


She stared at herself, her breath coming in short, sharp pants. Her chest rose and fell rapidly beneath the blood-red blouse, the fabric damp with sweat. She looked hot. She looked sex-crazed. She looked like a woman who had just been taken against a wall.


*Thank God,* she thought, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. *Thank God he didn't wake up.* If Ani had opened his eyes and seen his wife standing there—flushed, panting, lips bruised and wet, smelling of musk and another man—there would have been no lie on earth that could have saved her.


She took a step toward the wardrobe, and a sudden, wet sensation between her legs made her falter.


The arousal hadn't subsided. If anything, the terror of almost being caught had only sharpened it. She could feel the slick, hot evidence of her excitement dripping from her soaked vagina, sliding slowly down her inner thigh. It was a physical reminder of the fingers that had been inside her just moments ago, of the fire Sumu had ignited on the staircase.


With trembling hands, she stripped off the *garad* saree and the tight red blouse, kicking them into the bottom of the laundry basket as if they were contaminated. She grabbed the simple cotton saree she had been wearing earlier in the day and wrapped it around herself with frantic, clumsy movements. She wiped her face vigorously with the end of the pallu, scrubbing away the smear of lipstick and the ghost of Sumu’s kiss, though the tingling sensation on her mouth refused to fade.


She lay down beside Ani, careful not to disturb the mattress. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing her heart to slow down, but it thumped against her chest like a trapped bird.


*How could he?* The thought spiraled in her mind, a mix of outrage and thrill. *How could he demand that? With Ani right here?*


It was madness. Sumu’s demand—*“Come to my room tonight”*—wasn't just a request; it was a blatant, arrogant command. He expected her to leave her husband’s bed, to crawl out from under Ani’s arm, and sneak across the hall to him. It was risky beyond belief. It was daring. It could destroy everything they had built—the family, the reputation, the brotherhood.


She knew she couldn't do it. It was impossible. Not while Ani was in the house.


But as she lay there, staring at the wooden beams of the ceiling, her body betrayed her resolve. If only they hadn't heard Jethima’s door open. If only Sumu had finished what he started on the stairs, perhaps this gnawing, burning ache in her belly would have been soothed. But he hadn't. He had lit a fire in her veins with his rough hands and dirty whispers, and then left her burning. The flames weren't dying down; they were licking at the edges of her willpower, turning her "no" into ash.