Adultery Born of Deceit

[untamable_rohini]

Back to flashback, when they arrived Delhi as a married couple.

Their first home was the single-room barsati in Rohini Sector 16—tin roof that rattled in the rain, one small window facing a blank wall, and a shared toilet downstairs that always smelled faintly of phenyl. But to Tulika, it was freedom. No mother asking when she’d come home, no aunties commenting on her weight or her ambitions. Just her, Vikram, and the promise of tomorrow.
Vikram had found her a coaching institute in Mukherjee Nagar. The very next day she enrolled, paid the first installment with money they had borrowed from his chacha, and bought a second-hand notebook with a blue cover. She wrote “Tulika Kapoor – SSC CGL 2020” on the first page in neat black ink.
The nights belonged to them.
In those early months, sex was daily, almost ritualistic. After she returned from coaching—exhausted, hair damp from sweat, kurta sticking to her back—Vikram would wait. Sometimes he’d have made dinner: aloo paratha, curd, mango pickle. Sometimes he’d just pull her into the room before she could even change.
He’d kiss her slowly at first, tasting the salt on her neck, untying her dupatta with practiced fingers. Tulika, still new to this intimacy, would tense then melt. He’d undress her piece by piece—salwar first, then kameez, then bra—murmuring how beautiful she was, how he couldn’t get enough of her. She believed him because the way he looked at her felt like worship.
On the narrow bed, he’d lay her down, spread her legs gently, and enter her with a slow thrust that made her gasp every time. He was attentive, almost reverent. His fingers would circle her clit in steady rhythms while he moved inside her, watching her face for every small reaction. Tulika had never known her body could respond like this. In Hyderabad, she’d only ever touched herself furtively under the blanket, quick and guilty. Here, with Vikram’s mouth on her breasts, his hips rocking in a steady rhythm, she discovered what it felt like to climb toward something inevitable.
She came once each night—always once, but deeply. Her back would arch, fingers digging into his shoulders, a soft cry escaping before she bit her lip to muffle it against the thin walls. The orgasm would roll through her like a slow wave, leaving her trembling and boneless. Vikram would follow soon after, groaning her name, collapsing beside her with a satisfied sigh.
They would lie there afterward, sweat cooling on their skin, fan creaking overhead. He’d trace lazy circles on her belly and say things like, “We’re going to have the best life, jaan. You’ll see.”
And for a while, she did.
The daily intimacy began to change her body in small, noticeable ways. The constant release of endorphins, the regular calories from late-night meals Vikram cooked to celebrate “good days,” the way he loved touching her—kneading her breasts, gripping her hips, kissing the soft skin of her inner thighs—started to soften her edges. Her breasts grew fuller, nipples darkening slightly. Her hips widened just enough to make her old jeans snug. A gentle curve appeared at her waist, her belly softening from the way she lay on her back night after night, legs wrapped around him. She wasn’t voluptuous yet, but the sharp college-girl angles were rounding, her body blooming under consistent attention and affection.
Vikram noticed. “You’re filling out so beautifully,” he’d whisper against her neck, hands roaming possessively. “I love every inch of you.”
In the second year, luck turned for a moment. Vikram cracked three decent real-estate deals in quick succession—two small plots in Noida and one commercial space in Rohini. The commissions were enough to clear some debts and put down a booking amount for a 2BHK flat in Sector 7, Rohini—a modest but proper apartment with two bedrooms, a small kitchen, and a balcony that overlooked a park.
They moved in on a rainy September afternoon. Tulika stood in the empty living room, barefoot on the cool tiles, arms wrapped around herself as she looked out at the drizzle. Vikram came up behind her, chin on her shoulder.
“This is it,” he said. “Our real beginning.”
She turned in his arms, kissed him deeply, and that night they christened every room—kitchen counter, bathroom shower, even the balcony under the cover of rain and darkness.
For the first time since moving to Delhi, Tulika felt something close to security. Her coaching notes were spread across the new dining table. Her body, now softer and more womanly, moved with a quiet confidence she hadn’t known she possessed. Vikram’s deals were flowing again. The future, for a brief shining moment, felt within reach