21-05-2026, 09:44 AM
The Faithful Husband
-------------------------
That night, Anu's husband reached for her in the dark. His hand found her hip, gentle and familiar, and she flinched before she could stop herself.
"Sorry," he whispered, withdrawing immediately. "I know you've been tired lately. We can just sleep."
She should have let him. She should have turned away, feigned sleep, preserved the last shreds of her fidelity.
Instead, she rolled toward him.
"Make love to me," she whispered, desperate to erase Gopal's ghost, to reclaim her marriage bed as sacred ground. "Please. I need you."
He was surprised but willing—always so willing, so grateful for her attention. He kissed her throat, her collarbone, his touch tender where Gopal's had been brutal. He entered her slowly, carefully, asking "Is this okay?" in that gentle voice that had never demanded anything from her.
And she felt nothing.
She moved her hips, made appropriate sounds, but her body remained distant, mechanical. She found herself looking past his shoulder at the ceiling, counting cracks in the plaster, while he moved above her with increasing desperation.
"Anu," he gasped, "are you... are you close?"
"Yes," she lied, squeezing her eyes shut. "Don't stop."
He finished with a shudder and a sigh, collapsing beside her with a satisfied smile. "I love you," he whispered, kissing her temple. "You're my everything."
She waited until his breathing evened into sleep, then crept to the bathroom and vomited into the toilet.
She had betrayed him twice over—first with her body, then with this performance. He had made love to a shell, to a woman who was no longer there. And the worst part—the part that made her press her forehead against the cool porcelain and sob silently—was that she couldn't stop thinking of how Gopal would have taken her in this same bathroom. How he wouldn't have asked permission. How her body would have responded with that terrible, traitorous urgency.
She was broken. Her husband deserved a wife who trembled for him, who begged him to fill her up. Instead, he had a woman who saved her passion for a man who treated her like meat, who took what he wanted while she pretended to resist.
She wiped her mouth and stared at her reflection. The woman in the mirror looked like a stranger—eyes hollow, lips swollen from biting them to keep silent while Gopal had her. She looked like a woman who had discovered something terrible about herself, something she could never known.
-------------------------
That night, Anu's husband reached for her in the dark. His hand found her hip, gentle and familiar, and she flinched before she could stop herself.
"Sorry," he whispered, withdrawing immediately. "I know you've been tired lately. We can just sleep."
She should have let him. She should have turned away, feigned sleep, preserved the last shreds of her fidelity.
Instead, she rolled toward him.
"Make love to me," she whispered, desperate to erase Gopal's ghost, to reclaim her marriage bed as sacred ground. "Please. I need you."
He was surprised but willing—always so willing, so grateful for her attention. He kissed her throat, her collarbone, his touch tender where Gopal's had been brutal. He entered her slowly, carefully, asking "Is this okay?" in that gentle voice that had never demanded anything from her.
And she felt nothing.
She moved her hips, made appropriate sounds, but her body remained distant, mechanical. She found herself looking past his shoulder at the ceiling, counting cracks in the plaster, while he moved above her with increasing desperation.
"Anu," he gasped, "are you... are you close?"
"Yes," she lied, squeezing her eyes shut. "Don't stop."
He finished with a shudder and a sigh, collapsing beside her with a satisfied smile. "I love you," he whispered, kissing her temple. "You're my everything."
She waited until his breathing evened into sleep, then crept to the bathroom and vomited into the toilet.
She had betrayed him twice over—first with her body, then with this performance. He had made love to a shell, to a woman who was no longer there. And the worst part—the part that made her press her forehead against the cool porcelain and sob silently—was that she couldn't stop thinking of how Gopal would have taken her in this same bathroom. How he wouldn't have asked permission. How her body would have responded with that terrible, traitorous urgency.
She was broken. Her husband deserved a wife who trembled for him, who begged him to fill her up. Instead, he had a woman who saved her passion for a man who treated her like meat, who took what he wanted while she pretended to resist.
She wiped her mouth and stared at her reflection. The woman in the mirror looked like a stranger—eyes hollow, lips swollen from biting them to keep silent while Gopal had her. She looked like a woman who had discovered something terrible about herself, something she could never known.
D:) Emotion In Motion, A Dirty Mind 
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)