Adultery Who Watches The Watchmen (continued)

[samgreenvalley]

The second round was slower, more controlled. Dara had always had remarkable stamina—one of the many things that set him apart from younger, less experienced men. He fucked her missionary style, his chest pressed against hers, his mouth on her neck, her shoulders, her breasts.
 
"Tell me what you want," he whispered in her ear. "Tell me what you really want."
 
"I want—" Menaka hesitated, the words catching in her throat.
 
"Tell me."
 
"I want to be their slut." The confession came out in a rush, like pus from a wound. "I want all of them—Sharma, Mehta, Gupta, Singh. I want them to use me. I want to be passed around like a plate of food at a wedding. I want to be their whore."
 
Dara stopped moving. He stared down at her, his expression unreadable.
 
"You mean that," he said. It wasn't a question.
 
"Yes."
 
"And what about me?"
 
"You're my husband." She reached up and cupped his face in her hands. "You're my home. They're just... entertainment."
 
Dara was silent for a long moment. Then he began to move again, slowly, deliberately.
 
"If that's what you want," he said, "then that's what you'll get. But you'll do it my way. You'll follow my rules."
 
"Anything."
 
"You'll tell me everything. Every touch, every word, every moan."
 
"Yes."
 
"You'll come home to me afterward. You'll let me reclaim you. You'll let me fuck their cum out of your cunt."
 
"Yes, Dara. Yes."
 
"And you'll wear this dress." He tugged at the velvet, pulling it down to expose her breasts. "When they fuck you, you'll wear this dress. So you remember who you really belong to."
 
Menaka nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I love you," she said, the words surprising even her.
 
Dara's eyes widened. Then he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her, deep and hungry, and when he finally came, it was with her name on his lips.
 
---
 
Afterward, they lay tangled together on the ruined sheets, rose petals crushed beneath them, their bodies slick with sweat and other things. The diya had burned out, but the room was still warm, still fragrant with spices and sex.
 
"Dara," Menaka said, tracing patterns on his chest.
 
"Hmm?"
 
"Thank you."
 
"For what?"
 
"For understanding. For not judging me. For—" She struggled to find the words. "For letting me be who I am."
 
He turned his head to look at her. In the darkness, his eyes were pools of shadow.
 
"I'm not understanding," he said. "I'm just... accepting. There's a difference."
 
"Is there?"
 
"Yes. Understanding means I know why you do what you do. Acceptance means I don't care why." He paused. "I don't care why, Menaka. I just care that you come back to me."
 
She kissed his shoulder, his neck, his jaw. "I always will."
 
"Promise?"
 
"Promise."