Adultery Deepa - An innocent Wife and Elder sister and her sacrification

[Suresh@123]

Raghava sat across from Sangeetha in the private room, voice low and precise.
“Every time you get access, copy the important papers from his system and send them to me. Every tender—tell me exactly what amount he is quoting. All secrets. Timely. No delays. I want Charan’s business bleeding while you slowly pull his eyes away from that wife of his.”
Sangeetha nodded, a small, confident smile on her lips. “I understand. Leave it to me.”
She began her game the very next day.
In the office she moved with careful calculation—efficient, soft-spoken, always slightly too close. One afternoon, as Charan walked out of his cabin holding a file, Sangeetha timed her step perfectly. She “slipped” on the polished floor and fell straight against him. Charan’s hands shot out instinctively to catch her. Both palms landed fully on the heavy, soft weight of her breasts.
For a frozen second neither moved.
Sangeetha’s eyes widened in perfect, manufactured surprise. “Sorry, sir… I slipped…”
Charan’s hands remained on the warm, yielding flesh a moment longer than necessary before he pulled back as if burned. “Sorry… I didn’t mean—”
He turned quickly and walked into his cabin, closing the door harder than usual. Inside, alone, a sudden fire raged through him. The soft, full press of her breasts against his palms replayed again and again. He sat at his desk, jaw tight, trying to force the heat down, but the memory stayed.
Sangeetha watched the closed door, then quietly moved to his computer while he remained distracted. Within minutes she had noted the system password. That evening she began sending selected files and tender figures to Raghava. Small, carefully chosen leaks at first. Within days Charan’s company started facing unexpected losses—quotes undercut, confidential numbers reaching the wrong hands. Raghava received each update with cold satisfaction.
“Good,” he told her over the phone. “Keep going. Make him weaker.”



*************************************************




Deepa neighbour house , in a quieter house, Pawan sat on the edge of the bed facing his wife Prameela. The fifty-three-year-old neighbour—tall, still solid at five-foot-nine—had been restless since the night of Charan’s party. Tonight the words finally came out.
“Prameela… you know about Deepa?”
Prameela looked up from folding clothes, surprised by his tone. “Yes, of course. A good housewife. Good woman. Perfect traditional, innocent woman. Why?”
Pawan gave a short, low laugh that held no humour. “You don’t know. That traditional woman has so much heat in her body.”
Prameela frowned. “What are you saying? Have you been drinking again? Why are you talking about Charan’s wife like that?”
“Yes,” he said, eyes dark with the memory. “Yes, I am talking about her. You don’t know what I saw. Five days back, during the party at their house… we were both there. I went inside to use the toilet. The bedroom door was slightly open. I stopped. My mouth opened by itself.”
Prameela’s hands went still.
“There,” Pawan continued, voice lower, “our homely wife Deepa had become completely wild. Two men were fucking her. One from the front, one from behind. Her moans were big… loud… continuous. The way her body responded to every thrust… she was pushing back, taking everything they gave her. I stood there watching. I could not look away.”
Prameela stared at him, shock written across her face. “What…? Are you serious? We always thought she was such a traditional woman… soft-spoken, modest… and she did this?”
“I saw it with my own eyes,” Pawan said. “My eyes still cannot take it back. The same Deepa who comes here for chit-chat with you, who visits with Charan, who touches our feet respectfully… that night she was bent over, moaning like she had never been touched properly before. Both men using her. Her body moving with them. The sounds she made filled the room.”
He leaned forward slightly, the image still vivid.
“I have watched her quietly for years whenever she came to our house or we went to theirs. Always the perfect traditional wife. That night I saw the fire underneath. Loud moans. Body responding to every thrust. Completely lost in it. I stood frozen in the doorway until I forced myself to walk away.”
Prameela sat in silence for a long moment, the folded clothes forgotten in her lap. The quiet, respectable image of Deepa she had always carried now sat shattered beside the picture her husband had just painted—wild, moaning, taking two men while the party continued outside.
Pawan looked at his wife, the memory still burning behind his eyes.
“That is the Deepa we never knew.”