Adultery Paromita :: Unfaithfully yours

[cutekomal]

The air in their Bangalore penthouse a space curated to perfection, all glass and quiet luxury felt unusually heavy that night, humming with the electric anticipation that always preceded Paromita’s dates.

Soumen, a high-level CXO with the poise of a man used to control, sat opposite her, swirling a measure of single malt. His eyes carried a complex mix of pride, anxiety, and something deeper the kind of admiration that hides its tremor behind a practiced calm.

“You look extraordinary, my love,” he said softly, his low voice resonating off the glass walls. “Ready to live that out-of-the-world life we promised each other?”

Paromita adjusted the strap of her dress, her reflection catching a glint of uncertainty before it disappeared. “It still feels strange sometimes, Soumen. Even after everything the open marriages, the experiments. Every time feels like standing on a ledge.”

“That’s the thrill, isn’t it?” he replied, leaning forward. “That’s how we balance each other. I’m the architect of this beautiful chaos the one who convinced you to step beyond the safe, conventional marriage. And you, Paromita... you’re the one who lives it. You bring it to life. I give you freedom — Tinder dates, strangers, flings and in return, you give me this proof that we’ve truly outgrown convention.”

Something shifted in her then. The corporate professional precise, rational gave way to the woman who thrived on control. She walked toward him with a slow, deliberate grace, her earlier hesitation dissolving into confidence.

“Mastered it,” she murmured. “That’s what we’ve done. You know, sometimes I take those leaps without even telling you who it’s with or where I’m going. That’s the power you’ve given me. That’s what our version of love allows.”

Soumen drew in a sharp breath, the amber liquid in his glass turning still. This was always the hardest part  where theory met reality. It was one thing to preach liberation; it was another to watch her walk out the door into someone else’s arms.

“I know,” he admitted quietly. “And it destroys me but not in the way jealousy does. It’s something more precise... a crack, a deliberate fracture in my sense of ownership. Every time I let you go, I feel both emptied and elevated. It’s the strange cost of what we built surrendering what’s most precious and finding beauty in that surrender.”

He set the glass down, his gaze resting on the front door though she still stood close. “He’s waiting downstairs, isn’t he? That tightening in my stomach it isn’t fear. It’s the excitement of not knowing what will happen, of never hearing every detail. Go, Paromita. Claim your night.”

She smiled the timid trace of her earlier self completely erased. “I always do. And when I return, you’ll remember why we chose this life beyond the ordinary. Wish me luck, husband.”

“Luck,” he whispered, his voice barely more than breath.

The door closed with a soft click. The silence that followed was plush and heavy, filled with the hum of the city below. Soumen remained seated, the faintest smile on his lips already wondering what invisible tremor tonight would send rippling through the architecture of their strange, deliberate love.

[cutekomal]

The clock on the far wall glowed a muted gold in the dim light. Soumen had stopped checking it long ago, yet his mind refused to move on from its slow rhythm. The penthouse, once alive with the hum of conversation and music, now rested in a silence that pressed against his thoughts. He poured himself another inch of whiskey, the ice melting into slow shapes, the clink of glass the only sound that kept him company.

He thought of her — not in images of what she might be doing, but in the way she *was* when she left. The light touch she gave him on the shoulder before walking out, the scent of her perfume lingering in the air, the faint tremor in her fingers when she adjusted her earrings. It was never just lust that kept him awake — it was the ache of distance created by a love too large for conventional walls.

Sometimes, he reminded himself, this was what freedom looked like — an ache one chose willingly.

He turned toward the window. The Bangalore skyline stretched beneath him, neon lights glimmering like a restless heartbeat. He watched them as though they might form a message, something that would explain what he was feeling. Pride and longing, admiration and fear — all of them blended into a strange warmth inside his chest.


Far from home, Paromita stepped out of the car. The city’s midnight wind carried the smell of rain and dust, brushing against her bare shoulders. She lingered under a streetlamp for a second before walking toward the quiet café that glowed ahead. It was their ritual — to meet in public first, to remind herself of her control before everything blurred into intimacy.

She wasn’t thinking of the man waiting for her tonight; she was thinking of Soumen. The way he said *“go, claim your experience.”* The way his voice broke on that last word. It had always been him she needed to prove something to — and yet, every time, it felt like proving something to herself.

Inside, laughter from a nearby table floated toward her. For a moment, she envied the simplicity of strangers who didn’t live inside experiments of love. But when her phone vibrated — "a message from Soumen" — her heart skipped.

“Take a deep breath,” it read.
“I’m thinking of you. Always.”

She smiled — a real, unguarded smile. Whatever boundaries they tested, that message was the tether. The invisible line that kept her from floating too far.


Hours later, when the key turned in the door, Soumen didn’t move. The sound of her footsteps reached him first — steady, quiet, deliberate. He could tell everything from that rhythm. If it was hurried, she was uncertain; if it was slow, she was herself again. Tonight, it was calm.

Paromita stopped near the entrance, slipped off her heels, and stood there for a long second. Then she walked toward him, her perfume soft and familiar, and he finally turned. Their eyes met  no words, just that silent exchange that always bridged the space between guilt and understanding.

“Coffee?” she asked, her voice husky, almost fragile.

He nodded. “Let me make it.”

While he busied himself in the kitchen, she sank into the couch. The faint hum of the coffee machine filled the silence. When he returned, two cups in hand, she looked up at him, something unspoken trembling between them.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” she began. “It’s never about replacing you, Soumen. It’s about finding pieces of myself that I didn’t know existed.”

“I know,” he said softly. “And I don’t want to take them away. I just… need to learn how to breathe through the waiting.”

She reached out and touched his wrist, grounding him. “Then let’s breathe together.”

He sat beside her, the city still awake beyond the glass. Their shoulders touched light, hesitant as though rediscovering each other after a long journey. No confessions, no questions. Just two people in love, carrying the weight of their choices, and finding peace in the small, human warmth between them.