Adultery Betrayal

[Sherlocked]

The late afternoon sun bled through the gap in the heavy bedroom curtains, slicing a thick, golden beam across the plush rug. Dust motes danced frantically within it, like trapped sparks. Moli lay sprawled across the vast expanse of the marital bed, the expensive Egyptian cotton cool against her skin where her silk robe had fallen open. Subimol’s robe. As always.
A restless heat prickled under her skin, a familiar, unwelcome ache settling low in her belly. It wasn’t just lust, though that was part of it. It was a gnawing wanting, a frustration that curdled into something sharper when she was alone in this too-quiet house. Her hand, almost of its own volion, slid beneath the silk. Her fingertips brushed the lace edge of her panties, then dipped lower, finding the damp heat beneath. A soft sigh escaped her lips, not quite pleasure, more like relief at acknowledging the persistent thrum.
She closed her eyes, trying to conjure something. A fantasy. A memory that wasn’t… him. But Subimol’s face, his careful, detached touch, kept intruding. The frustration bloomed hotter. Her touch became less exploratory, more insistent. Fingers pressing, circling, seeking the friction that might drown out the thoughts. She bit down on her lower lip, tasting the faint waxy residue of her lipstick. Her hips lifted slightly off the bed, meeting her own touch with a desperate urgency.
Faster. Harder. The command was silent, internal, a rebellion against the quiet desperation. Her breath hitched, sharp little gasps escaping. The world narrowed to the pounding of her own pulse in her ears and the intense, focused pressure between her thighs. She wasn't thinking of anyone, just chasing the release, the oblivion that would quiet the restless void for a few precious moments. The expensive room, the golden light, the security Subimol provided – it all blurred into irrelevance against this raw, physical need.
Her eyes flew open, wide with panic. Not at her own actions, but at the sudden, chilling certainty that she wasn't alone. The air in the room hadn't moved. No sound had betrayed an entrance. Yet, the instinct was primal, undeniable. She froze, every muscle locking tight. Her hand stilled, trapped beneath the silk.
Slowly, with a dread that felt like ice water dumped down her spine, she turned her head towards the doorway.
Sumu stood there.
"Sumu," she breathed, her voice a ragged whisper, barely audible. "I… I didn’t hear you." Stupid. Obvious. Meaningless.
Sumu blinked, the raw heat in his gaze instantly replaced by horrified realization. His face flushed crimson, a wave of scalding embarrassment crashing over him. He couldn't look at her, couldn't meet Moli's terrified, wide eyes staring back from the bed. "I— sorry! Door... open," he stammered, the words thick and clumsy in his throat. "Forgot books." He spun on his heel, nearly tripping over the ornate rug in his haste to flee the room, the heavy door slamming shut behind him with a jarring thud that echoed in Moli’s stunned silence.
For three days, Sumu didn't return. The memory played on a relentless loop behind his eyelids: the golden light, the sprawl of her body, the desperate urgency of her touch. He buried himself in engineering schematics and loud campus cafes, trying to drown it out, but the image clung, vivid and intoxicating. Duty, and a gnawing, unwelcome compulsion, finally forced him back. He needed his textbooks, stored in Subimol's study.
The air in the grand hallway felt thick and charged when he let himself in. Moli, arranging flowers in a cut-crystal vase near the entrance, froze mid-snip. Her knuckles whitened on the stem she held. "Sumu," she said, her voice unnaturally bright, brittle. "Your uncle’s in the library." She didn't look up, focusing with intense concentration on a single white bloom.
"Yeah. Thanks," he mumbled, his own gaze fixed on the intricate pattern of the marble floor. He practically ran past her towards the study, shoulders hunched. Later, Subimol bustled into the kitchen where Moli was mechanically chopping vegetables and Sumu was pretending to be intensely interested in the contents of the refrigerator. "Ah, Sumu! Good to see you, beta," Subimol boomed, clapping his nephew on the back, oblivious to the way Sumu flinched and Moli’s knife slipped, nicking her finger. "Moli, dear, what’s for dinner? Guests tonight. Sumu, you’ll stay?" He beamed, utterly unaware of the storm crackling silently between them. Moli pressed her bleeding finger to her lips, her eyes meeting Sumu’s for a split second – a flash of shared panic – before darting away.
The blood tasted metallic, sharp against her tongue. Moli pressed her finger tighter to her lips, the tiny cut burning. Her eyes met Sumu’s across the kitchen island – a single, searing moment of shared panic, a silent scream of he knows, oh god he knows – before she wrenched her gaze away, focusing fiercely on the pile of onions needing chopping. Sumu flinched as if burned, his own face flushing crimson. He practically bolted towards the study, muttering something incoherent about textbooks.
Dinner was an exercise in exquisite torture. Subimol, expansive after a successful deal, dominated the conversation, his voice booming in the cavernous dining room. He piled food onto Sumu’s plate, oblivious to the teenager’s monosyllabic replies and the way he pushed his rice around.
"Eat, beta! Growing boy needs fuel!" Subimol chuckled, spooning another helping of dal onto Sumu’s nearly untouched mound. "Moli makes the best dal, no? Better than your hostel mess, I bet!"
Moli forced a tight smile, her knuckles white where she gripped her fork. The rich aroma of spices, usually comforting, now churned her stomach. Her pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs, loud enough she was sure Sumu could hear it across the table. She dared a glance. He was staring fixedly at his plate, a muscle jumping in his jaw. The air between them crackled, thick with unspoken shame and something else, darker, hotter, that neither dared name. Subimol, happily chewing, saw none of it. He saw his dutiful wife and his studious nephew. The storm brewing beneath the surface of civility might as well have been happening on another planet.
"Sumu," Subimol announced, dabbing his mouth with a napkin as they finished dessert, "you’re staying the night. Too late to drive back to campus now."
Sumu’s head snapped up. "No, truly, Jethu, it's fine. I can drive. I don't mind." Panic edged his voice. Staying here, trapped with her, with that memory vibrating in the very walls... it was unthinkable.
"Nonsense!" Subimol waved a dismissive hand. "Risky at this hour. I insist." He pushed back his chair, already pulling out his phone. "I'll just call your father, tell him you're bunking here. He won't mind." He dialed, already turning away, sealing Sumu’s fate with cheerful authority. "Ram? Yes, yes, all good! Listen, Sumu’s staying with us tonight... Yes, yes, drove here, but it's late now... Of course! Don't worry, he's safe here..." Subimol wandered towards the veranda, his voice fading, utterly unaware he was placing a lit match next to a powder keg.
Moli felt a fresh wave of dizziness. Stay the night. The words echoed in the suddenly silent dining room. Sumu wouldn’t meet her eyes. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, broken only by the distant murmur of Subimol’s voice. Restlessness coiled in Moli’s core, a snake made of guilt and that relentless, aching frustration. Her heart felt like it might burst through her chest.
Subimol bustled back in, pocketing his phone. "Sorted! Now, Moli," he gestured towards the kitchen, "Sumu will help you with the dishes."
Moli’s protest was swift, almost violent. "No! Absolutely not necessary, Subimol. I can manage perfectly well myself. Sumu must be tired."
"Nonsense!" Subimol boomed again, the word like a gavel falling. "It’s the least he can do after that feast. Won’t take long with two pairs of hands. Off you go!" He gave Sumu an encouraging clap on the shoulder that nearly made the younger man stumble. "I'll be in the study, catching up on some reading. Don't disturb me unless it's urgent." He winked, a gesture meant to be conspiratorial, utterly missing the horrified tension twisting his wife's features. He turned, humming tunelessly, and disappeared down the hall towards his study.
The kitchen felt cavernous and claustrophobic all at once, lit only by the weak glow of the under-cabinet lights. The air hung heavy with the lingering smells of dinner – turmeric, cumin, fried onions – and the cloying sweetness of Moli’s jasmine perfume. Sumu moved stiffly to the sink, avoiding looking at her. Moli stood frozen for a heartbeat, the weight of Subimol’s unknowing decree pressing down on her, before mechanically gathering plates.
Silence descended, thick and charged. The only sounds were the clatter of china, the rush of water from the tap Sumu turned on too forcefully, and the frantic pounding of two hearts. Moli scrubbed a plate, her movements jerky. Sumu stood beside her at the sink, rinsing, his shoulder inches from hers. His proximity was a physical shock, radiating heat she could feel even through her saree. Every accidental brush of his arm against hers, every time their fingers grazed reaching for the same dripping dish, sent a jolt of electricity through her. Her breath hitched, becoming shallow, uneven gasps she struggled to control. She heard his breathing too, rougher, heavier than it should be for simply rinsing a glass.
She risked a sideways glance. Sumu’s gaze wasn’t on the dishes. It was fixed lower, transfixed. The dim light caught the sheen of sweat glistening in the deep valley of her cleavage, barely contained by the scandalously low-cut, sheer chiffon blouse she’d chosen that morning, a choice that now felt like fate playing a cruel joke. The delicate fabric clung, outlining the full, heavy swell of her breasts. His nostrils flared slightly, inhaling her perfume – jasmine, yes, but beneath it, the muskier, primal scent of her skin. It was intoxicating, dizzying. He felt numb, disconnected, operating on pure, raw instinct.
They both reached for the large serving bowl at the same time. Not just hands brushing this time. Hands grasping. Fingers tangled over the wet porcelain rim. Time stopped.
Slowly, as if moving through thick syrup, their eyes met. Sumu saw it then, stripped bare in the dim light. Not just panic or shame. A raw, desperate yearning that mirrored the firestorm blazing inside him. It was the unspoken hunger he’d witnessed days ago, magnified a thousand times – a craving for touch, for release, for a man’s rough, demanding passion, not the careful, distant affection of her husband. He saw the craving her own fingers had tried and failed to satisfy. It was an invitation, a silent scream.
He couldn’t look away. Neither could she. They were drowning in each other's eyes, the world narrowing to the frantic pulse beating at the base of her throat, the heat radiating from his skin. The air crackled. The running water was a distant roar.
Sumu felt it first – the warm puff of her breath against his lips. They were so close. Inches. Less. He watched, mesmerized, as Moli’s lips parted slightly, unknowingly, a soft, inviting bloom of pink. Was he leaning in? Was she? It didn't matter. The chasm vanished.
Their mouths crashed together. Not a kiss. A collision. A desperate, furious mashing of lips, teeth scbanging, a muffled gasp torn from Moli’s throat. It was hungry, clumsy, fueled by three days of tortured imagining and a lifetime of stifled frustration. The forgotten dish slipped from their grasp, clattering loudly into the sink, ignored. The water cascaded over it, unheeded.
Sumu moved like a man possessed. His hands flew to her waist, spinning her roughly, slamming her back against the cool granite counter. One hand slid down, fingers digging possessively into the lush curve of her ass through the silk of her saree, pulling her hips hard against the rigid bulge straining against his jeans. The other hand tangled in the hair at her nape, tilting her head back, deepening the kiss with brutal intensity.
Moli moaned into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his lips. Her own saree’s aanchal, dislodged, slithered off her shoulder, pooling around her elbow, leaving the sheer blouse fully exposed. Her arms snaked around his neck, fingers plunging into his hair, gripping, pulling him closer still, as if she wanted to devour him whole. Their tongues clashed, tangled, explored with a frantic, searching heat that left them both breathless. They kissed like drowning people finding air, oblivious to the sink overflowing, the cluttered counter, the world beyond the steam rising from the tap.
They broke apart, gasping, foreheads pressed together. Sumu turned her again, pressing her back flush against his chest. His arousal, thick and insistent, ground against the cleft of her ass through their clothes. One hand slid around her waist, fingers splaying possessively over her stomach before sliding upwards, pushing beneath the dbang of her saree, finding the soft swell of her breast beneath the thin blouse. He palmed the heavy weight, thumb finding the hardened peak of her nipple through the damp chiffon, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles. Moli arched back into him, her head lolling against his shoulder, a low whimper escaping her lips. She twisted her neck, seeking his mouth again. He met her halfway, their lips fusing in another deep, wet kiss as his hand continued its deliberate exploration, squeezing, kneading her flesh.
They stayed like that, fused together against the counter, for what felt like an eternity. Fifteen minutes stolen from reality. Her back against his chest, his hand claiming her breast, his erection a persistent pressure against her. Their kisses were deep, hungry, punctuated by ragged breaths and the slick sounds of their mouths moving together. Moli’s free hand reached back, fingers threading through his hair, holding him to her. They moved in a silent, desperate rhythm, hips grinding back and forth, seeking friction, lost in a haze of touch and taste and forbidden heat. Every sense was amplified: the cool granite against her back, the rough denim of his jeans against her silk-covered ass, the intoxicating scent of him mixed with soap and sweat and her perfume, the desperate, wet sounds of their kisses echoing softly in the steamy kitchen.
Down the hall, in the study, Subimol snored softly, slumped in his leather recliner, a financial report slipping from his fingers. Oblivious. Utterly unaware that just yards away, his nephew’s mouth was hot and demanding on his wife’s exposed shoulder, trailing kisses down towards the glistening curve of her cleavage revealed by the low blouse, his hand still working her breast beneath the thin fabric.
Sumu spun Moli back to face him. His eyes, dark with lust, locked onto hers. Without a word, he hooked one arm under her thigh, lifting her leg to wrap around his waist. He pulled her forward, forcing her other leg up instinctively until she was wrapped around him, suspended, her arms clinging to his neck for balance. He supported her weight easily, his hands gripping her ass firmly through the layers of silk. She could feel the hard ridge of his cock pressed intimately against her core. Their lips crashed together again, a frantic, bruising kiss.
"Jethima," Sumu breathed, the formal term a shocking intimacy against her swollen lips. His voice was thick, raw with need. "Let's go to the bedroom."
He didn't wait for an answer. He simply started walking, carrying her effortlessly, her legs locked around his waist, their mouths still fused. He moved silently, quickly, down the dim hallway. He paused at the open door of the study. Subimol was sprawled, mouth slack, chest rising and falling steadily in deep sleep. Utterly vulnerable. Unknowing.
Moli, clinging to Sumu, her body humming with adrenaline and desire, looked at her sleeping husband. A flicker of something complex – guilt? defiance? – crossed her face, instantly extinguished by a fresh wave of lust. She turned Sumu’s face back to hers and kissed him hungrily, deep and searching, her tongue plunging into his mouth. If Subimol had opened his eyes at that moment, he would have seen his wife, wrapped around his nephew, her saree rumpled, blouse askew, breasts pressed against Sumu’s chest, locked in a passionate, devouring kiss right outside his door.
Sumu tore his mouth away, urgency overriding everything. He carried her swiftly across the wide hallway, up the curved staircase, each step jolting their bodies together. He didn’t hesitate at the landing, turning immediately into the grand master bedroom – Subimol’s bedroom, their marital bed. He kicked the heavy oak door shut behind them with a soft thud. The click of the lock sliding into place echoed in the sudden silence of the room, louder than any shout. The golden afternoon light was long gone, replaced by the soft gloom of evening filtering through the drawn curtains. The large, opulent room felt like a cage and a sanctuary all at once. He set her down on her feet just inside the door, their chests heaving, eyes locked in the semi-darkness, the air thick with the storm they had unleashed. The silence now was deafening, filled only by the frantic pounding of two hearts and the heavy weight of what was about to happen in the bed that belonged to the man snoring peacefully downstairs.
The silence now was deafening, filled only by the frantic pounding of two hearts and the heavy weight of what was about to happen in the bed that belonged to the man snoring peacefully downstairs. The only light came from a low, glowing blue nightlamp in the corner, casting deep, erotic shadows that painted the vast room in shades of cobalt and indigo. It felt illicit, a hidden grotto for forbidden acts.
Before the silence could solidify, Sumu moved. He slammed Moli back against the heavy oak door they’d just locked, the impact rattling the frame. His body crushed against hers, hot and demanding. His mouth descended on hers with bruising force, not a kiss but pure devouring. His tongue plunged past her lips, rough, insistent, claiming her mouth with a hunger that stole her breath. Moli gasped, the sound swallowed by him, then met his ferocity with her own. Her hands weren’t passive; they raked down his back, clawing at the thin cotton of his t-shirt, then slid under the hem to scbang nails over the hard muscles of his lower back, pulling him impossibly closer. His hips ground his rigid erection against her belly through their clothes.
"This... this is so wrong," Moli gasped, wrenching her mouth free for a split second, her words hot against his lips, her body arching into him even as she spoke. "We shouldn’t be doing this..."
Sumu captured her lips again, sucking her lower lip hard before pulling back just enough to meet her eyes, his own dark pools reflecting the blue glow. "That's what makes it more fun, Jethima," he breathed, his voice thick, husky. His hands slid up her sides, gripping her waist possessively. "I bet you've never felt this much excitement before." His thumb found the hard peak of her nipple through her blouse and squeezed. Moli moaned, a low, hungry sound she barely recognized as her own. He was right. The sheer wrongness, the proximity of Subimol asleep mere rooms away, sent electric currents of terror and desire crackling through her veins, amplifying every sensation tenfold. It wasn't just Sumu; it was the illicit thrill of the betrayal itself.
Fueled by that dangerous cocktail of lust and defiance, Moli shoved against his chest, breaking his hold just long enough to grab the hem of his t-shirt. With a violent yank, she pulled it up and over his head, tossing the crumpled fabric blindly across the room. Her breath hitched. The blue light sculpted the lean, defined muscles of his chest and abdomen. The hard planes, the ridges and valleys, were a stark, breathtaking contrast to Subimol’s softer, older physique. "Fuck," she whispered. She leaned in, her tongue tracing the line of his collarbone, then swirling around a flat nipple, feeling it tighten instantly under her touch. She licked a hot trail down the center of his torso, tasting salt and youth, her teeth grazing the firm skin just above the waistband of his jeans.
Sumu groaned, his hands tangling in her hair. "Your turn, Jethima," he growled. His fingers found the pinned pleats of her saree. With a sharp tug, he unrolled yards of silk in one fluid, almost violent motion. The expensive fabric pooled heavily at her feet like a discarded skin. She stood before him in her delicate chiffon blouse and the thin petticoat beneath, tied with a lace drawstring at her waist. Sumu didn't hesitate. He hooked a finger under the lace and pulled. The knot gave way, and the petticoat slithered down her legs, puddling around her ankles. Now she was barefoot, clad only in the nearly transparent blouse gaping open at her chest and a scrap of sheer black lace panties clinging to her hips. Sumu stared, his chest heaving. "Holy shit," he breathed, awed, almost reverent. "I can't believe I get to fuck this goddess." He pulled her hard against him again, the heat of his bare chest searing against her covered breasts, her nipples hard points against his skin. Their lips crashed together, tongues tangling, teeth clashing, swallowing each other's desperate moans.
Moli’s hands were frantic, fumbling with the button and zip of his jeans. She shoved the denim down his hips just far enough, her fingers diving inside his briefs. Her hand wrapped around the thick, rigid length of him. He was already slick at the tip. She squeezed, her thumb rubbing firmly over the sensitive head, feeling him pulse in her grip. "Fuck, Jethima," Sumu gasped, hips jerking involuntarily. She pumped him, her fist sliding up and down his shaft roughly, relishing the hard heat, the velvety skin sliding over steel, the choked sounds tearing from his throat.
Sumu retaliated. His hands flew to her blouse, fingers tearing at the tiny pearl buttons. They scattered onto the plush carpet like forgotten pearls. He shoved the blouse off her shoulders, leaving her clad only in the flimsy black lace bra and matching panties. The blue light played over the generous swell of her breasts spilling from the demi-cups, the dark nipples clearly visible through the lace.
Suddenly, Moli pushed him back against the door. Her eyes, dark with lust, locked onto his. She dropped to her knees before him, the cool carpet beneath her. Her hands pushed his jeans and briefs down further, freeing his cock completely. It stood thick and heavy before her face, glistening. Without preamble, her mouth closed over the head. Sumu hissed, his head thudding back against the door. Her tongue swirled around the tip, tasting the salty pre-come, then she took him deeper, sinking down his shaft, her lips stretching tight. She sucked hard, hollowing her cheeks, one hand gripping his hip, the other wrapped around the base, pumping in rhythm with her mouth. Her head bobbed, taking him deep into her throat again and again, gagging slightly but pushing past it, fueled by the guttural groans tearing from Sumu’s throat and the heavy throb in her own core. Spit slicked his cock, dripped onto her chin, her breasts. The wet, sucking sounds filled the blue-lit space, obscene and electric.
"Gonna... fuck... Jethima..." Sumu choked out, his fingers tightening painfully in her hair. She sucked harder, faster, feeling him swell impossibly larger in her mouth. Just as his hips began to stutter, she pulled off with a wet pop. He was panting, trembling with the effort not to come.
In one fluid motion, Sumu hauled her up. He hooked her legs around his waist again, his hands gripping her bare ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh under the lace of her panties. Her arms clung to his neck as he carried her away from the door, across the shadowed bedroom. Sweat glistened on their skin, mingling with spit, the slickness making their bodies slide together. Her wetness soaked through the thin lace, smearing against his abdomen.
He lowered her onto the massive bed – Subimol’s bed, their marital bed. The cool sheets were a shock against her heated skin. Before she could move, Sumu shoved her thighs apart, kneeling between them. He hooked his fingers into the sides of her panties and ripped them down her legs. He paused for a heartbeat, staring down at her exposed pussy in the dim blue glow, glistening and swollen. Then he buried his face between her legs.
His tongue was relentless. A flat, broad stroke from her opening straight up to her clit. Then circling, flicking, sucking the sensitive bud hard. Moli arched off the bed with a choked cry, her hands fisting in the sheets. He licked deep inside her, his tongue thrusting, then returned to her clit, sucking it into his mouth, applying just the right pressure and vibration. He was ravenous, exploring every fold, tasting her deeply, lapping at her wetness. She’d never felt anything like it. Subimol’s dutiful licks were nothing compared to this devouring hunger. Pleasure, sharp and white-hot, detonated through her, building impossibly fast. "Sumu! Oh god, Sumu!" she cried out, her voice raw and loud in the silent room, uncaring who might hear, the name of her nephew tearing from her lips as her hips bucked against his face. "Right there! Fuck! Don’t stop!" He didn’t. His fingers joined his mouth, two sliding deep inside her, curling upwards, finding that spot while his tongue continued its assault on her clit. The orgasm hit her like a freight train, a violent, shuddering explosion that ripped through her core, making her scream out his name once more, her body convulsing helplessly under his mouth.
Before the last tremor faded, Sumu was on her. He tore off her bra, his mouth closing hungrily over one nipple, sucking hard, his free hand roughly kneading the other breast. His cock, thick and slick, dragged hard against her clit, making her gasp. He positioned himself at her entrance. "Tell me you want it, Jethima," he demanded, his voice ragged. "Tell me you want your nephew's cock."
"Yes! Fuck me, Sumu! Now!" she gasped, beyond shame, pure need consuming her.
He slammed into her in one brutal thrust. Moli cried out, a sound of shock and overwhelming fullness. He was thick, stretching her deliciously. There was no slow build, only raw, driving need. He pulled almost all the way out, then slammed back in, setting a punishing rhythm immediately. Her legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his ass, pulling him deeper with every thrust. The bed rocked violently, the heavy frame thudding softly against the wall. Above them, the large framed wedding photo of Subimol and Moli looked down, Subimol’s smiling face oblivious to the obscene scene unfolding beneath it – his nephew’s sweat-slicked back flexing as he relentlessly fucked his wife.
"Oh fuck, Jethima," Sumu groaned, his thrusts becoming harder, faster. "You feel... so fucking tight... around your nephew's cock... Bet he never fucks you like this..." He punctuated each word with a deep, driving plunge. "Bet he never makes you scream like a slut..."
Moli met his thrusts, arching her hips, lost in the brutal pleasure. "No!" she gasped, the truth spilling out. "Never... like this! Harder! Fuck me harder, Sumu!" The sindur marking her marital status was smeared across her sweaty forehead, a crimson streak against her skin. It mingled with the sweat slicking her sinthi, the red powder staining the parting of her hair like warpaint for adultery.
Sumu shifted, pulling her legs up over his shoulders, driving into her even deeper. The angle was brutal, exquisite. She cried out, nails raking down his back. He leaned down, capturing a nipple in his teeth, biting gently, then sucking hard. They flipped, Moli scrambling on top, straddling him. She rode him hard, bouncing on his cock, her breasts swaying, her head thrown back, a low moan rumbling in her chest. She ground down, rotating her hips, taking him impossibly deep. He gripped her hips, guiding her, thrusting up to meet her downward plunge. The sounds were filthy: skin slapping against skin, wet squelching with every deep penetration, their ragged breaths, guttural moans, and broken words. "Take it... take your nephew's cock, you dirty aunty... Fuck yes... milk it..."
He flipped her again, onto her hands and knees. He entered her from behind, one hand gripping her hip, the other tangled in her hair, pulling her head back. His thrusts were animalistic, powerful, driving her forward with each snap of his hips. The slapping sound was louder now. Moli braced herself, pushing back against him, meeting his force, moaning obscenities lost in the roar of her own blood. She could feel the pressure building again, coiling tight in her belly.
"Gonna come, Jethima?" Sumu grunted, his pace becoming erratic, frantic. "Gonna come on your nephew's cock while your husband sleeps?" His hand snaked around her hip, fingers finding her swollen clit, rubbing hard circles.
"Yes! Oh god, Sumu! I'm coming!" she screamed, the orgasm tearing through her, violent and all-consuming. Her inner walls clenched and fluttered around his cock, milking him.
That was all it took. With a harsh, guttural cry, Sumu plunged deep and held himself there, buried to the hilt. She felt the hot, thick pulses of his release deep inside her, filling her, spurt after spurt. He collapsed onto her back, his weight crushing her into the mattress, both of them slick with sweat, saliva, and the wetness smeared between her thighs. He stayed inside her, softening slowly, his breath hot and ragged against her neck.
They lay tangled like that, naked, exhausted in the blue glow. The only sound was their laboured breathing and the faint, distant sound of Subimol’s snores drifting up from the study below. The massive bed was destroyed, sheets ripped and tangled, pillows scattered. Moli’s sindur streaked the pillowcase, her sinthi was a mess. Sumu’s head rested on her shoulder, his arm heavy across her waist. Oblivious to the wreckage around them, to the profound violation committed in his own bed, Subimol slept on.

[Chennai Veeran]

Hot start

[Eswar P]

Verynice

[Sherlocked]

The deep, rhythmic vibration wasn't Subimol’s snore this time. It was the frantic pounding inside Moli’s chest as consciousness seeped back. Moonlight, silver and cold, sliced through the gap in the curtains, painting stark stripes across the wreckage of the master bedroom. Discarded silk pooled like discarded skin on the plush carpet. The air hung thick, saturated with the cloying sweetness of night-blooming jasmine from the garden below and the unmistakable, musky tang of sex.
She lay on her side, naked skin glued to Sumu’s by a thin sheen of dried sweat and other fluids. Her heavy breasts were crushed against his chest, the soft weight rising and falling with his slow, deep breaths. Every point of contact felt electric, even in sleep. Beneath her hip, the bedsheet was damp, chillingly cool where their combined release had soaked through – a sticky testament to the violence of their coupling.
And then, cutting through the silence like a rusty saw: Hrrrronnnk... Phhhhwww... Subimol’s snores. Deep, oblivious, echoing up from the study directly below. The sound didn’t jar her; it coiled inside her gut, a live wire. Security. Generosity. Kindness. All embodied in that sleeping, unsuspecting man. And she was naked in his bed, pressed against his nephew, her body still humming from the way Sumu had fucked her hours before.
The hollowness Subimol’s distance created roared back, but now it was filled with a different kind of fire. Illicit. Dangerous. Addictive. Guilt was a dull echo, drowned out by the raw memory of Sumu’s mouth, his hands, his cock slamming into her with a possessive fury her husband never possessed. The damp sheet beneath her, the rhythmic snoring below – they weren’t deterrents. They were fuel.
Her hand, resting limply on Sumu’s hip, stirred. Fingers trailed downwards, feather-light at first, tracing the hard line of his pelvic bone. Then, bolder, sliding through the sparse hair, finding the soft, vulnerable skin of his inner thigh. Higher. Her knuckles brushed the heavy, flaccid weight nestled there. It twitched.
A low sigh escaped Sumu, more vibration than sound. Moli watched his face in the moonlight – the relaxed jaw, the smooth brow of undisturbed sleep. Her fingers closed gently around his cock. It was warm, soft velvet over hardening steel. She squeezed lightly, feeling the pulse leap against her palm. Another twitch. A deeper sigh. She began to stroke, a slow, deliberate slide from root to tip, her thumb swirling over the sensitive head, already gathering a bead of moisture.
Sumu stirred. A grunt rumbled in his chest. His eyelids fluttered open, dark pools of confusion in the gloom that quickly sharpened into startled awareness. He looked down, seeing her hand wrapped around him, seeing her face inches from his, her eyes wide and dark, reflecting the moonlight and a hunger he recognized instantly.
"Jethima?" he rasped, his voice thick with sleep and sudden arousal. "Jethima... what...?"
"Shhh," she murmured, her own voice husky, a secret shared in the moonlit silence. Her strokes intensified, becoming firmer, faster. His cock thickened rapidly in her grasp, lengthening, becoming a rigid column of heat. She saw the moment understanding, and raw lust, fully ignited in his eyes. "Couldn't sleep," she whispered, leaning closer, her breath hot on his ear. "Remembered how you tasted." Her tongue flicked out, tracing the shell of his ear, feeling him shudder. "Remembered how you filled me."
"Oh, fuck," Sumu groaned, his hips lifting slightly, pushing his cock deeper into her stroking fist. "Jethima..."
She didn't stop. She watched his face, the play of moonlight and shadow on his features as pleasure sparked. Then, slowly, deliberately, she slid downwards. Her breasts dragged across his stomach, leaving trails of heat. Her lips found the hollow of his throat, tasting salt. She kissed lower, her tongue tracing the ridge of his collarbone, then swirling around a flat nipple. He gasped, his hands tangling in her hair, not guiding, just holding on.
Down she went, a slow, sensual descent. Her tongue painted a wet path down the center of his chest, over the hard plane of his abdomen, dipping into his navel. She nuzzled the coarse hair leading downwards, inhaling his scent – sleep, sweat, and the potent, masculine musk that made her own core clench. Her hand kept working his shaft, a steady counterpoint to her exploring mouth.
She bypassed his straining cock for a moment, her lips brushing the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. He jumped. "Fuck, Jethima," he breathed, hips bucking. She did the same to the other thigh, her teeth grazing lightly, making him hiss. Only then did she turn her attention to the source of his tension.
Her free hand cupped his balls, kneading the heavy weight gently. She lowered her head. Her tongue, hot and slick, licked a long, slow stripe from the base of his shaft all the way up to the swollen, leaking head. Sumu cried out, a choked sound muffled by the pillows. She swirled her tongue around the sensitive crown, savoring the salty bead of pre-come, then took him fully into her mouth.
The heat was instantaneous, engulfing. She sank down, taking him deep, her lips stretching tight around his girth. A guttural groan tore from Sumu's throat. Her head began to move, a slow, deep rhythm at first, pulling back until just the tip rested between her lips, then plunging down again, taking him as deeply as she could. Her hand worked the base she couldn't reach, pumping in time with her mouth. Wet, sucking sounds filled the moonlit room, obscene counterpoint to the distant snoring.
She looked up, meeting his burning gaze. Her eyes held his as she sucked harder, hollowing her cheeks, creating intense pressure. Her tongue massaged the underside of his shaft on the upstroke. Saliva slicked him, pooled at the corners of her mouth, dripped down her chin onto his stomach. She moaned around his cock, the vibration sending shockwaves through him. Her free hand slid lower, fingertips brushing his perineum, then pressing lightly against the tight ring of muscle behind his balls.
"Shit! Fuck! Jethima, I'm gonna...!" Sumu gasped, his hips bucking uncontrollably, his fingers tightening painfully in her hair, trying to pull her off. But she didn't stop. She sucked harder, faster, desperate to taste him, to claim this release too. She took him deep, her throat opening, accepting him as he erupted.
The first hot spurt hit the back of her throat, thick and salty. She swallowed convulsively. The second pulse was stronger, flooding her mouth. She pulled back slightly, wanting to taste it fully, letting the next powerful jet splash across her tongue, over her lips. Some of it, glistening white in the moonlight, spattered onto the smeared crimson sindur marking the parting of her hair, a stark, profane desecration of her marital symbol. She licked her lips, swallowing more, milking him with her mouth and hand until the last shuddering pulse subsided, his cock softening against her tongue.
Sumu collapsed back onto the pillow, chest heaving, utterly spent. For a few heartbeats, he lay there, dazed. Then, the reality crashed down. He pushed himself up on shaking elbows. His eyes darted to the door, then down at Moli, kneeling naked beside him, her lips glistening, the sindur streaked with his come. Horror warred with the fading glow of satiation in his eyes.
He scrambled off the bed, stumbling slightly. "Fuck. Fuck!" he hissed, not looking at her. He snatched his briefs from the floor, yanking them on, then his jeans. He grabbed his crumpled t-shirt. His movements were frantic, jerky. He didn't look back as he unlocked the heavy bedroom door and slipped silently into the hallway.
He stood for a moment in the dark corridor, the discarded clothes clutched to his chest. The rhythmic Hrrrronnnk... Phhhhwww... was louder out here, coming from the slightly ajar door of Subimol’s study. Sumu crept closer, drawn by a morbid compulsion. He peered through the crack.
Subimol was sprawled in his leather recliner, head back, mouth slack. A half-finished glass of whiskey sat on the table beside him. He looked peaceful. Trusting. Utterly unaware that his nephew had just filled his wife’s mouth and defiled her sindur in the bed above. The betrayal hit Sumu like a physical blow. The heat of lust evaporated, replaced by a cold, sickening wave of shame. His stomach churned.
He turned away abruptly, bile rising in his throat. He practically ran down the hall towards the guest room, the sanctuary of impersonal sheets. He shut the door quietly behind him, leaning against it for a moment, breathing hard. The silence in the guest room was oppressive. He could still taste Moli on his lips, smell her on his skin. He could still hear his uncle’s snores. He stripped off his clothes again, climbed into the cold, clean bed, and pulled the sheets over his head, trying to block out the images, the sensations, the crushing weight of what he’d done. Sleep, when it finally came, was thin and haunted.
Sunlight, harsh and accusing, stabbed through the guest room window. Sumu woke with a jolt, the ghost of his uncle’s trusting face imprinted on the back of his eyelids. His mouth was dry, cottony with the lingering taste of shame. Every detail from the night before replayed in a sickening loop: the feel of Moli’s throat around him, the sight of his come streaking her sindur, the sound of Subimol’s peaceful snores echoing from below. He dressed quickly, his movements stiff, wanting only to escape the house and the memory of his own betrayal.
Downstairs, the air was thick with the smell of coffee and frying parathas. Moli moved around the kitchen with a new, unsettling energy. Her hips swayed as she set the table, a small, secret smile playing on her lips. When her eyes met Sumu’s, they held a knowing, possessive glow that made his stomach clench. “Sleep well, Sumu?” she asked, her voice a low, intimate purr that was meant only for him.
“Fine,” he muttered, looking away, focusing intently on pouring his coffee. He could feel her gaze like a physical touch, tracing the lines of his body. He took his plate and retreated to the far end of the dining table, putting as much distance between them as possible. Every casual brush of her arm as she passed, every time she leaned over to refill his glass, sent a jolt of unwanted heat through him. His body remembered what his mind was screaming to forget.
Later, as Subimol read the newspaper in his study, Sumu tried to slip out the front door. Moli materialized in the hallway, blocking his path. “Going so soon?” she murmured, her hand resting lightly on his forearm. Her fingers burned through his shirt. “We barely got to talk.” He flinched away from her touch as if scalded. “We can’t, Jethima. This has to stop. It’s wrong.”
“Wrong?” she whispered, stepping closer, her body crowding him against the wall. Her scent, jasmine and warm skin, filled his senses. “It didn’t feel wrong when your cock was buried inside me. It felt like the only right thing I’ve felt in years.” Her hand slid down, her palm pressing flat against the growing tightness in his jeans. He was hard instantly, a traitorous response that filled him with self-loathing. “See?” she breathed. “Your body knows it’s not wrong.”
He pushed her hand away, his own trembling. “He’s my blood, Moli. My uncle.” His voice was strained, desperate. “I can’t do this to him.” He tried to sidestep her, but she moved with him, a predator cornering her prey. “Where was this guilt last night?” she challenged, her eyes flashing. “When you were pounding your uncle’s wife into his own mattress? When you came in my mouth?” The crude words, spoken in a hushed, furious whisper, undid him. He had no defense.
“Moli! Sumu!” Subimol’s voice boomed from the study, making them both jump apart. Sumu’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of guilt. “I’m heading to the market for those parts. Won’t be long!”
“Drive safely, jaanu!” Moli called back, her voice perfectly even, a loving wife’s send-off. Her eyes, however, never left Sumu’s, holding him in a vise of promise and threat. The front door clicked shut. The sound of the car engine turning over rumbled from the driveway. They stood frozen, listening. The car didn't move. He was still there.
The engine revved. Tires crunched on gravel. The sound faded into the distance. The house was utterly, profoundly silent. The last thread of Sumu’s resistance snapped.
Moli launched herself at him. There was no more pretense, no more conversation. Her mouth crashed against his, a furious, hungry assault. His hands came up to push her away, but instead, they gripped her hips, pulling her flush against him. A low groan ripped from his throat as he felt the solid ridge of his erection press into her soft stomach. He kissed her back with a frantic, starving need, his tongue plunging deep into her mouth, tasting coffee and a darker, more addictive flavor – sin.
In one fluid, powerful motion, he lifted her and placed her on the cold granite of the kitchen counter. Her legs immediately wrapped around his waist, her heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him into the aching heat between her thighs. His hands tore at the aanchal of her saree, yanking the delicate fabric away before cupping her breasts through her blouse, squeezing the heavy weight, his thumbs rubbing her hardened nipples into tight points. She moaned into his mouth, her own hands fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.
“Jethima,” he breathed against her lips, the honorific now a filthy endearment.
“Sumu,” she gasped back, her voice thick with want.
His mouth left hers, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of her neck. He sucked at the sensitive skin over her pulse point, surely leaving a mark. He moved lower, nuzzling into the deep cleavage revealed by her low-cut blouse, his tongue dipping into the shadowed valley between her breasts. With a violent sweep of his arm, he sent a fruit bowl and a stack of mail clattering to the floor. He pushed her back, laying her down on the cold, hard surface.
He loomed over her, his mouth descending to her navel, his tongue circling the shallow dip before dipping inside. She cried out, her back arching off the counter, thrusting her breasts towards his face. He took the invitation, his mouth closing over one lace-covered nipple, sucking hard through the fabric while his hand kneaded the other. Her saree was bunched at her waist, a tangled pool of silk. His free hand slid down, palming her mound through her damp panties, rubbing firm, circular motions against her clit.
He pulled her up to a sitting position. Her fingers finished with his buttons, yanking his shirt off and throwing it across the room. His hands found the pinned end of her saree, and with a series of practiced, frantic tugs, he unwound the six yards of silk. It joined his shirt on the floor. He pulled her from the counter, her body sliding against his. Their mouths found each other again, a desperate, sloppy connection as they stumbled out of the kitchen.
They left a trail of clothing from the kitchen to the bathroom – his jeans, her blouse, her bra, her petticoat. By the time Sumu shoved the bathroom door shut and turned the lock, they were both completely naked. He pushed her against the tiled wall, his body pinning hers as he reached into the shower stall and turned the knob. A blast of warm water quickly warmed, filling the room with thick, billowing steam.
The water plastered her hair to her skull, streamed in rivulets down her body. Sumu’s mouth was everywhere. He licked the water from her shoulders, sucked on her collarbone, worshipped her breasts, taking first one nipple and then the other into his hot mouth, sucking and biting until she was whimpering. He dropped to his knees, his hands gripping her hips. His face buried itself in the wet, dark triangle of hair between her legs.
His tongue, hot and rough, licked a broad, flat stripe from her entrance to her clit. Moli jolted, a sharp cry echoing off the tiles. Her hands flew to his head, her fingers tangling in his wet hair. “Yes, right there,” she moaned, pushing her pelvis forward, grinding herself against his face. He ate her with a ravenous intensity, his tongue plunging inside her, then returning to flick and suck her swollen clit. He lapped at her essence, drinking her in, his groans of pleasure vibrating through her core.
“Sumu… I’m close…” she gasped, her thighs trembling. He redoubled his efforts, his tongue a relentless, perfect pressure. Her orgasm crashed over her, a raw, shuddering wave that made her legs buckle. He held her up, his mouth still working her through the convulsions, milking every last spasm.
Before she could recover, he surged to his feet. He grabbed a handful of her hair, pulling her head back and crushing his mouth to hers. She could taste herself on his lips and tongue, a musky, intimate flavor that sent a fresh surge of lust through her. “I need you inside me,” she panted against his mouth. “Now.”
He turned her roughly to face the large mirror opposite the shower. The glass was fogged, but their forms were clear – his lean, muscular body pressed against her softer, curvier one, water sluicing over them both. He positioned himself behind her, one hand on her hip, the other guiding the thick, ruddy head of his cock to her slick entrance.
“Watch,” he commanded, his voice a guttural rasp in her ear.
He drove into her in one deep, brutal thrust. She screamed, her hands slapping against the wet tiles for support. Her eyes, wide and dark with pleasure, locked with his in the misty reflection. He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust slamming her forward, the wet, slapping sound of their bodies meeting mixing with the drumming of the water. He gripped her hips, his fingers leaving pale marks on her skin.
“Look at us,” he grunted, his hips pistoning. “Look at me fucking you, Jethima. Look how deep I am.”
Moli’s gaze was glued to the mirror, to the sight of his body joining with hers. “Oh god, Sumu… yes! Fuck me! You feel so much better than him,” she cried out, the comparison torn from her in her ecstasy. “So much bigger… harder… fuck! Right there! Don’t stop!”
Her words, her complete surrender, pushed him over the edge. With a final, deep plunge that pressed her against the wall, he roared, his body shuddering as he emptied himself inside her in hot, pulsing jets. The feeling of his release triggered her own, a second, violent climax that ripped through her, her inner muscles clenching around him, milking him dry.
They slumped against the wall, under the stream of water, panting, spent. For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breath and the spray hitting the tiles. Then, without a word, Sumu pulled out of her. He turned off the water, stepped out of the shower, and began to dress in his damp, discarded clothes from the hallway. He didn’t look at her.
“Sumu…” Moli began, her voice soft.
“I have to go,” he said, his tone flat, final. He walked out of the bathroom, out of the house, leaving the front door slightly ajar.
Moli moved quickly. She gathered the scattered clothes – the torn blouse with its broken hooks, the saree, his t-shirt. She stuffed them deep into the laundry basket, burying the evidence beneath other linens. She took another shower, scrubbing the smell of him from her skin, but nothing could wash away the feeling of his cum already starting to leak from her. She dressed in a fresh, modest saree, carefully reapplied her sindur, making the red line in her sinthi neat and bright.
When Subimol returned an hour later, bags in hand, he found his wife waiting for him in the spotless living room, a picture of domestic serenity. “Welcome home, jaanu,” she said, smiling, taking the bags from him. “Did you get everything you needed?”
“Yes, yes,” he said, patting her cheek affectionately. “The house is so quiet. Where’s Sumu?”
“Oh, he left a while ago,” Moli said smoothly, turning to put the groceries away. “Said he had studies.”
Subimol nodded, completely believing, completely unaware. He didn’t see the torn blouse in the laundry, or the panties stained with another man’s dried release. He didn’t know that the loving wife who kissed his cheek was still filled with his nephew’s seed. He saw only what he expected to see, and the truth, for now, remained hidden in plain sight.

[Givemeextra]

Good updates. Eager to read next

[Sherlocked]

The polished marble of the staircase landing was cold against Moli’s bare back, a shocking contrast to the feverish heat blooming across her skin. Sumu had her pinned against the carved wooden banister, his body a solid, trembling wall blocking her from the empty hall below. From the living room, the tinny sounds of a cricket commentary drifted up – Subimol’s world, orderly and oblivious.
“He’ll hear,” Sumu breathed into her neck, his voice strained, even as his hands were already under her saree, rucking up the petticoat.
“He won’t,” Moli gasped, arching into him, her fingers digging into his shoulders. “The volume’s too high. He’s asleep by the second over.” She could picture Subimol perfectly: slumped in his recliner, a half-empty cup of tea cooling on the side table, the newspaper sliding from his lap. The safety of that image made this stolen moment on the shadow-drenched landing even more illicit.
His fingers found the damp silk of her panties. “Fuck, Jethima,” he groaned, his forehead dropping to her shoulder. “You’re already soaked.” He hooked a finger into the side of the fabric, and with a sharp tug, tore it. The sound of ripping silk was swallowed by a roar from the television downstairs. A wicket had fallen.
“Yes,” she hissed, her hips bucking against his hand. “Don’t stop. Please.”
Two of his fingers plunged into her without warning, a brutal, perfect invasion that stole her breath. Her head fell back against the banister with a dull thud. His thumb found her clit, rubbing rough, frantic circles. It was nothing like the careful, almost clinical touches Subimol offered. This was raw. Possessive. It was a claiming.
“Quiet,” Sumu whispered, his mouth crushing against hers, swallowing her moans. His fingers worked her relentlessly, curling inside her, pumping in and out with a wet, slick rhythm that was surely audible over the commentator’s drone. She could feel her own arousal dripping down her inner thighs, leaving sticky streaks on the cool marble step behind her.
“Harder,” she begged against his lips, her own hands fumbling with his belt buckle. The metal clinked softly. He didn’t help her, his entire focus on the frantic motion of his hand, on the way her body clenched and fluttered around his thrusting fingers. She finally got his jeans open, her hand sliding inside to wrap around his cock. It was iron-hard, pulsing in her grip, the skin slick with pre-come. She stroked him, her thumb smearing the moisture over the swollen head.
“I can’t… we can’t do this here,” he panted, but his hips were already pushing into her fist, betraying his words.
“We are doing it here,” Moli said, her voice a low, desperate command. She guided him to her entrance, the broad head of his cock pressing against her slick, swollen folds. “Now, Sumu. Fuck me. Right here.”
With a guttural sound torn from deep in his chest, he drove into her. One single, deep, obliterating thrust that filled her completely, stretching her, burning her. She cried out, a sharp, choked sound he muffled with another searing kiss. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, both of them trembling, listening. The commentary droned on. No footsteps. No concerned call.
Then he began to move.
It was a punishing, frantic pace, each thrust slamming her back against the unyielding banister. The wood dug into her spine, a counterpoint to the blinding pleasure. Her legs wrapped around his waist, locking him to her. His breath was hot and ragged in her ear, his whispers filthy and broken.
“You take me so deep, Jethima,” he grunted, his hips pounding. “So much deeper than he ever could. Feel how I fill you up.”
“Yes,” she sobbed, her nails raking down his back. “I feel it. God, I feel it.” Her senses were overloaded: the cold marble, the scent of his sweat, the musky smell of their sex, the raw, sliding friction of him inside her. The risk of discovery was a live wire, electrifying every nerve ending. She was close, teetering on the edge, her inner muscles clamping down around his driving cock.
“I’m gonna come,” he warned, his rhythm becoming erratic, desperate.
“Do it,” she gasped, her own climax coiling tight in her belly. “Come inside me. Fill me up.”
Her words shattered his control. With a final, deep plunge, he stilled, a raw, choked cry escaping his lips as he emptied himself into her in hot, pulsing jets. The feeling of his release triggered her own, a violent, convulsing wave that ripped through her, blinding her, her own stifled scream lost against his shoulder.
For a long moment, they stayed like that, joined, panting, suspended in the shadowy silence. The only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant television.
Slowly, reality seeped back in. The cold of the marble. The stickiness between her legs. The danger.
Sumu pulled out of her, his softening cock slick with their combined fluids. He staggered back a step, hastily tucking himself back into his jeans and doing up his fly. His eyes were wide, haunted, unable to meet hers. He looked down at the step, at the glistening wet patch she’d left on the polished stone.
“Fuck,” he whispered, the word full of self-loathing. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “We’re insane. This is insane.”
Moli leaned against the banister, her legs feeling like water. She slowly straightened her petticoat, letting the torn silk of her panties fall to the floor. She kicked them into the dark space behind the banister’s newel post. “It’s necessary,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady. She reached for him, cupping his cheek, forcing him to look at her. “You feel that, don’t you? This… need. It’s a fire. We can’t put it out.”
He flinched at her touch but didn’t pull away. His jaw was tight. “He’s twenty feet away, Jethima. My uncle. The man who paid my tuition last semester.”
“And I’m his wife,” she countered, her thumb stroking his jawline. “And right now, I’m filled with your come. That’s the reality.” She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. “And you loved it. You came harder than you ever have in your life.”
From downstairs, the television was abruptly silenced. The sudden quiet was deafening. They both froze. A chair creaked. Footsteps. Slow, shuffling footsteps moving towards the hallway.
Sumu’s eyes widened in pure panic. He looked at the staircase, then back at Moli, his face a mask of terror. There was nowhere to run.
Moli acted on pure instinct. She shoved him hard, towards the deep shadows of the alcove under the stairs. “Go,” she hissed. As he stumbled into the darkness, she quickly smoothed her saree, ran a hand over her hair, and started walking down the stairs, meeting Subimol as he reached the bottom step.
“Jaanu?” she said, her voice the picture of wifely concern. “Everything alright? I was just getting a book from the study upstairs.”
Subimol blinked up at her, his eyes bleary with sleep. “Hmm? Oh, yes. Just going to get some water. The match is over.” He squinted. “You look… flushed.”
“It’s a bit warm upstairs,” she said, descending the rest of the steps and laying a cool hand on his arm. “Let me get your water. You go sit down.”
He allowed her to guide him back towards the living room, patting her hand. “You’re a good girl, Moli.”
Over her shoulder, as she led her husband away, Moli cast a single glance back up the dark staircase. She couldn’t see Sumu hidden in the alcove, but she could feel his gaze on her, a hot, shameful brand. And she knew, with a certainty that thrilled and terrified her, that the fire was far from out. It had only just begun to burn.
The fire, once a spark on the landing, became a conflagration that mapped itself across the house over the following weeks, each room a new coordinate in their secret geography.
In the dusty quiet of the upstairs linen closet, Sumu pressed Moli against the shelves, their breathing shallow. "He's on a work call in the next room," he whispered, his hand already under her kurti, cupping her breast. "We have ten minutes." She fumbled with his jeans, her knuckles brushing against neatly folded towels, her mouth finding his in the dim light to swallow his gasp as she took him in her hand. He lifted her, her back scbanging against the wood, and entered her in one fluid, desperate motion, their rhythm a silent, frantic prayer against the muffled drone of Subimol's voice through the wall.
Later, with Subimol gardening just outside the open kitchen window, Sumu bent Moli over the cold granite island. "Don't make a sound," he breathed, pushing her saree up her thighs, his cock nudging against her from behind. The smell of cilantro and soil mixed with the scent of her arousal as he slid into her, his hand clamping over her mouth to stifle her cry. They moved in a tense, restrained dance, her hips meeting his thrusts, their eyes locked on Subimol's back as he knelt, pruning roses, completely unaware of the raw fucking happening mere feet away.
A Tuesday afternoon, the house empty and ringing with silence, found her on her knees in the formal living room, a place usually reserved for guests. "Suck it," Sumu said, his voice rough, his fingers tangled in her hair. "I want to watch you take all of it." She did, her mouth stretching to accommodate his length, her tongue working the thick vein underneath until he was fucking her face in earnest, his groans echoing off the high ceilings. He came in hot, bitter pulses down her throat, and she swallowed every drop, a messy, claiming act in her husband's favorite chair.
During a weekend lunch, under the heavy teak dining table, Moli's hand found Sumu's thigh. Subimol sat at the head, slurping his dal. Her fingers traced the shape of his hardening cock through his pants, then undid his zipper. Sumu froze, his spoon halfway to his mouth, as her warm, knowing hand closed around him. She stroked him slowly, relentlessly, her face a mask of wifely concern as she asked Subimol about his day, her thumb smearing pre-come over the head of Sumu's shaft until his knuckles were white on the tablecloth and he had to excuse himself abruptly.
In the guest bathroom during a family gathering, the lock clicked shut a second before Sumu spun her around to face the mirror. "Look at us," he growled, his hands gripping her hips, his erection pressed against the cleft of her ass. He entered her from behind, a sharp, deep penetration that made her gasp. They watched their reflection, his body covering hers, her saree a riot of color around their waists, as he pounded into her, the sound of their skin slapping together masked by the sink's running water. "You're mine in this house," he grunted into her ear, his pace unforgiving. "Every fucking room."
The most brazen was the study, with Subimol sleeping heavily on the sofa after his whiskey, his soft snoves filling the room. Sumu laid Moli on the large oak desk, pushing ledgers and papers aside. He buried his face between her legs, his tongue a wicked, precise instrument that had her biting her own fist to keep silent. When she came, shuddering, he didn't let up, driving her through one climax and straight into the need for another. He entered her then, a slow, deep possession, their joined bodies reflected in the dark glass of the trophy case, a secret tableau playing out in the heart of her husband's domain.

[Sherlocked]

The metallic gleam of Subimol’s sedan vanished around the bend of the driveway, the crunch of gravel fading into the hum of distant traffic. Before the silence could fully settle, Moli’s hand was fisted in the front of Sumu’s shirt, yanking him off balance. She didn’t speak, her eyes dark pools of pure intent, dragging him through the hallway and into the master bedroom.
The door slammed shut, the sound echoing in the spacious room. She shoved him backward, and he fell onto the vast expanse of the silk-covered bed, the duvet swallowing him. “Jethima—” he started, but she was already on him, her knees pinning his hips, her mouth crashing down on his with a ferocity that stole his breath. Her hands tore at his t-shirt, buttons popping and skittering across the wooden floor.
“No talking,” she breathed against his lips, her own fingers working frantically at the buckle of his belt. “Just fuck me. I need to feel you. All of you.” The desperate hunger from weeks of stolen, silent moments in closets and against furniture was finally unleashed, roaring into the open space of the one room that was meant to be forbidden.
He got the message. His hands shoved her kurta up, over her head, and tossed it aside. He didn’t bother with the clasp of her bra, simply pulling the cups down to free her heavy breasts, his mouth latching onto a nipple, sucking hard, his tongue circling the stiff peak. She cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound that would have been terrifying minutes before. Her head fell back, her fingers tangling in his hair, holding him to her.
“Now,” she demanded, scrambling off him only to rip his jeans and boxers down his thighs in one rough pull. His cock sprang free, thick and already leaking. She didn’t give him a second. She straddled him again, her own panties shoved aside, and guided him to her entrance. She was soaked, her slickness coating the head of his cock as she rubbed him against her swollen folds.
“Look at me,” she commanded, her voice low and husky.
He forced his eyes open, glazed with lust, to meet hers. She held his gaze, and with a slow, deliberate, excruciating roll of her hips, she sank down onto him, taking every inch of his length inside her in one seamless, deep stroke. A guttural groan was torn from his chest, his hands flying to her hips, his fingers digging into her soft flesh.
“Fuck,” he choked out, his eyes squeezing shut again at the overwhelming sensation of her hot, tight sheath clamping around him.
“Eyes open,” she repeated, and began to move.
She set a brutal, punishing rhythm from the start, riding him with a frenzied abandon that made the bedframe knock rhythmically against the wall. Her breasts bounced with each downward thrust, a sheen of sweat already glistening on her skin. There was no finesse, no slow build, just pure, raw need. This was different from the frantic, hushed couplings in the linen closet or over the dining table. This was a claiming.
“You like this?” she panted, leaning forward, her hands braced on his chest, her pace never faltering. “You like watching your Jethima ride your cock like a whore?”
“Yes,” he gasped, his hips bucking up to meet her downward drives, the slap of their skin a loud, wet percussion in the quiet room.
“God, yes. You’re so fucking deep.”
“Deeper than him?” The question was a razor blade, sharp and dangerous.
“So much deeper”..
Sumu groaned, his hands moving from her hips to grip her ass, spreading her, angling her to take him even more completely. “I can feel you… all of you… fucking milking my cock.”
His filthy words spurred her on. She rode him harder, faster, her inner muscles fluttering and clenching around his shaft, the coil of her own pleasure winding impossibly tight. The scent of their sex, musky and primal, filled the air, mixing with the faint jasmine from the garden outside.
“I’m going to come,” she warned, her rhythm becoming erratic, her body trembling with the effort.
“Do it,” he grunted, his own release building, a tight heat coiling at the base of his spine. “Come on my cock. Soak me.”
Her climax hit her like a seizure. A broken, screaming cry ripped from her throat as her body convulsed around him, her inner walls spasming violently, gripping him like a fist. The sight of her, lost in pure, unadulterated ecstasy, her head thrown back, her body shuddering, was what pushed him over the edge. With a final, driving thrust up into her wet, clenching heat, he came, his own shout joining hers. Hot pulses of his release filled her, his body arching off the bed as he emptied himself inside her with a series of ragged groans.
For a long time, the only sound was their harsh, gulping breaths. She collapsed forward onto his chest, her sweat-slick skin sticking to his. He could feel the frantic hammering of her heart against his ribs, a mirror of his own.
The digital alarm clock on the nightstand glowed 9:47 AM.
Sumu’s eyes snapped open. “Shit. Shit!” He moved to push her off, his body suddenly tense.
“What?” Moli mumbled, her voice thick and languid.
“My class. It starts at ten.” He scrambled out from under her, his softening cock slipping out of her with a wet sound. He looked down at himself, at the mix of their fluids glistening on his skin. The evidence was stark.
Moli rolled onto her side, propping her head on her hand, watching him with a lazy, satisfied smile. She made no move to cover herself. “So be late.”
“I can’t,” he said, grabbing his jeans and pulling them on over his sticky skin, wincing at the sensation. He found his t-shirt, but it was missing buttons. “Fuck.” He rummaged in his uncle’s wardrobe, pulling out a plain blue polo shirt. “He’ll notice this is gone.”
“He won’t,” Moli said dismissively, her gaze trailing over the mess they’d made of the bed. The silk sheets were tangled and damp in the center. “He doesn’t notice anything.”
Sumu pulled the stolen shirt over his head. It smelled faintly of Subimol’s cologne. The wrongness of it, the layers of betrayal, sent a fresh wave of nausea through him. He looked at Moli, at her disheveled hair and swollen lips, at the possessive calm in her eyes. This was no longer just a frantic escape for him. It was something else. Something darker and more entrenched.
He grabbed his backpack, not daring to look back at the bed, at her. “I have to go.”
He practically ran from the room, down the stairs, and out the front door. The bright morning sun felt accusatory. As he half-walked, half-jogged down the street toward the bus stop, he could still feel the phantom warmth of her body, the slick proof of their act cooling on his skin inside his uncle’s clothes. He was late, he was disheveled, and he carried the scent of their sin with him like a brand.

[Givemeextra]

Pls post paragraphs one after another with 1-2 lines space between each para, else difficult to read one big para

[Givemeextra]

Updates are very good.

[Sherlocked]

The slam of the front door was a period at the end of their frantic sentence. Moli stretched, cat-like, across the ruined silk, the ache between her legs a pleasant reminder. Sunlight warmed her naked skin, and for the first time in months, the house’s silence felt like peace, not emptiness.
She traced the damp spot on the sheet, a smug smile touching her lips. This was her domain now, truly hers. The thrill of their morning, loud and unashamed, still hummed in her veins. It was a feeling she wanted to preserve, to drown in a little longer.

Down the street, Sumu felt the bus pull away without him, a cloud of diesel exhaust mocking his haste. He patted his pockets, a cold dread seeping through the post-coital haze. His keys. His wallet. They were on the nightstand, next to the torn scraps of her panties. He stood frozen for a moment, torn between the consequences of being late and the greater danger of returning.

He turned back. The walk to the house felt longer, the sun hotter. He let himself in quietly, the silence within now feeling heavy and accusatory. He crept up the stairs, each step a betrayal of his own fleeing resolve.

Moli heard the soft creak on the landing. She didn’t turn, simply shifted onto her back, a languid invitation. “Forget something?” she asked, her voice a low purr. She watched him hover in the doorway, his body silhouetted, the stolen polo shirt stretched tight across his shoulders.
“My wallet,” he mumbled, his eyes fixed on her, dark and hungry again already.

“It’s over there,” she said, nodding toward the nightstand. “But you’re already late.” She opened her legs just a fraction, a deliberate, silent command. “A few more minutes won’t matter.”
He was across the room in three strides, not toward the wallet, but toward the bed. His hands were on her, rough and urgent, his mouth finding hers in a desperate kiss that tasted of guilt and renewed lust. “I can’t stay,” he breathed against her lips, even as he fumbled with his jeans.
“You can,” she whispered, her hand sliding into his open fly, wrapping around the hard, familiar weight of him. “Just be quick.”

At that exact moment, Subimol signaled left, his blinker clicking a steady rhythm as he eased his sedan into the flow of traffic. He hummed along to an old film song on the radio, his mind on a tedious procurement meeting. The morning sun glared off the windshield of the truck in the next lane.
Moli guided Sumu back onto the bed, her body arching to meet his. “Like this,” she murmured, shifting to straddle him. She positioned the swollen head of his cock at her entrance, slick and ready for him. She held his gaze, her own eyes dark with a possessive fire.
Subimol’s phone vibrated on the passenger seat, skittering toward the edge. He took his eyes off the road for a single, fatal second, his hand reaching out to catch it. The truck in the next lane began its slow, inevitable drift into his.

Moli sank down onto him, a slow, excruciating descent that made him gasp. She took him in completely, her inner muscles clenching around his invading length. “God, you feel good,” she moaned, her hands braced on his chest, her hips beginning to rock.

A blaring horn. Subimol’s head snapped up, his eyes widening in the split second before impact. The grille of the truck filled his world, a wall of chrome and steel. There was no time to brake, no time to scream.

“Fuck me,” Moli panted, her rhythm building, her breasts bouncing with each forceful downward thrust. Sumu’s hands came up to squeeze them, his thumbs rough on her nipples. His other hand slid down her belly, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing frantic, slippery circles.
The sound of rending metal was a beast screaming. Glass exploded inward in a crystalline shower. The steering column slammed into Subimol’s chest, a brutal, compacting force that stole his breath and his consciousness in an instant.

“Yes! Right there!” Moli cried out, her body bowing, her head thrown back in ecstasy. Sumu drove up into her, his own climax roaring through him, a hot, pulsing release that emptied him into her depths. She collapsed onto his heaving chest, their sweat-slick skin sealing them together.
A block away, the first sirens began to wail.

The phone’s insistent ringing dragged Moli from a shallow, satisfied sleep. She was still naked, sprawled across the damp sheets, the smell of sex thick in the air. Sumu was long gone, a second, more frantic departure etched into the rumpled duvet. She groped for the device, her voice thick with sleep. “Hello?”
“Is this Mrs. Moli Subimol?” a stranger’s voice, official and calm, asked.
“Yes? Who is this?” She sat up, a vague unease cutting through her languor.
“This is Constable Sharma from the City Traffic security officer. There’s been an accident. Your husband, Mr. Subimol, has been rushed to City General Hospital. It’s serious.”
The world tilted. The words ‘accident’ and ‘serious’ seemed to echo in the silent, sunlit room. Her eyes dropped to the glistening streak on her inner thigh, the physical evidence of Sumu’s visit, now horribly timed. A cold nausea washed over her, so violent she thought she might be sick. “I… I’ll come right away.”

She ended the call, her hand trembling. The room, which minutes before had felt like a sanctuary of her own power, now felt like a crime scene. The rumpled sheets, the scent of their betrayal, the sticky dampness between her legs—it all testified to a profound, disgusting disloyalty. She wrapped her arms around herself, a sob catching in her throat, part panic, part self-loathing.
She had to call Sumu. There was no one else. Her fingers shook as she dialed his number, the one saved under a fake name.
He answered on the first ring, his voice a tense whisper. “I’m in class. What is it?”

“It’s Subimol,” she said, the words tasting like ash. “A car accident. He’s at City General. It’s bad.” She heard his sharp intake of breath. “You have to come. I can’t… I can’t go alone.”
There was a long pause, filled with the same dawning horror she felt. “I’ll meet you outside the hospital,” he said finally, and the line went dead.

The hospital hallway was a tunnel of fluorescent lights and antiseptic smell. They found him in the ICU, a still form amidst a tangle of wires and tubes. A ventilator hissed, its rhythmic push and pull the only sign of life. A monitor beeped a steady, mocking cadence beside the bed.
Moli’s hand flew to her mouth. He looked small, swallowed by the white sheets, his face bruised and swollen. A thick bandage was wrapped around his head. This wasn’t the man who snored in his recliner; this was a broken doll kept alive by machines.
Sumu stood a step behind her, his face pale. He was still wearing the stolen polo shirt, and Moli could now see a small, faded stain on the collar from their first frantic coupling on the stairs. The sight of it here, in this sterile room, felt like a desecration. He shoved his hands in his pockets, as if to hide them.

They didn’t speak. Words were impossible. The weight of what they had been doing while this happened to him pressed down on them, a physical force. The memory of her own cries of pleasure echoed in her mind, a grotesque soundtrack to the image of metal and glass.
A doctor approached, her face professionally neutral. “He has a severe head trauma and several broken ribs. The next twenty-four hours are critical. We won’t know the full extent of the damage until the swelling goes down.” She looked between them, Moli in her hastily thrown-on salwar kameez, Sumu looking like a guilty child. “You should go home. Get some rest. There’s nothing more you can do here tonight.”
They drove back to the silent house in Sumu’s beat-up car. The journey was wordless, the air thick with unspoken recrimination. Every corner they turned was a landmark from their secret map of the house—the street that led to the market where they’d brushed hands, the turn that brought the house into view, the site of so many transgressions.

He killed the engine in the driveway. The house loomed, dark and full of ghosts.
“I should stay,” Sumu said, his voice rough. He wasn’t looking at her. He was staring at the front door, at the marble landing just inside visible through the glass. “In case… in case there’s news.”
Moli just nodded, numb. She led the way inside, the click of the lock sounding far too final. They did not touch. They did not look at each other. The fire that had burned so fiercely in every room was now just cold, choking ash. The master bedroom awaited, its door standing ajar, the rumpled, stained sheets a testament to the precise moment their world had fractured.

The house was a cavern of shadows, the fading evening light doing little to pierce the gloom that had settled in Subimol’s absence. It felt different now, the silence not of peace but of judgment, every familiar piece of furniture a stark reminder of the man lying broken in a sterile room. They moved through it like ghosts, not speaking, the weight of the day pressing down on them.
Moli went straight upstairs, needing to shed the hospital’s clinging scent from her skin. She emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, her body feeling both heavy and numb. She dropped the towel and did not reach for a bra. Instead, she pulled on a pair of simple black panties and then the familiar, well-worn light yellow saree with its thin green cotton blouse. The fabric, softened by countless washes, was nearly sheer, the dark circles of her areolas visible shadows against the green cloth.

Downstairs, Sumu moved on autopilot, filling the kettle, the mundane task a anchor in the swirling chaos. He too had changed, stripping off the clothes that smelled of hospital and fear, pulling on a soft, old t-shirt and a pair of shorts from his uncle’s drawer. The cotton carried Subimol’s faint, familiar scent, a ghost on his skin. He carried two steaming mugs of green tea into the study, the place that was most unequivocally his uncle’s domain.
He found her there, standing motionless against the massive oak desk. She was clutching Subimol’s shirt, the one he’d worn that morning, holding it to her face. Her shoulders shook with silent, wrenching sobs. She didn’t hear him approach.

“Jethima?” he said softly, his voice rough.
She jumped, recoiling from his touch on her shoulder as if burned. Her eyes, when they met his, were red-rimmed and swimming in tears. “Don’t.”
“I made tea,” he offered, holding out a mug.
The simple kindness shattered her completely. A raw, guttural sob broke from her chest. “It’s our fault,” she choked out, the words wet and broken. “This happened because of us. Because of what we did in this house, on these stairs… while he was… The universe is punishing me.”
“No, that’s not true,” Sumu said, setting the mugs down on the desk with a clatter. He tried to pull her into an embrace, but she shoved him away, her hands weak against his chest.
“It is! Don’t you see? We were in his bed, Sumu. We were fucking in his bed while he was… while that truck…” She couldn’t finish, her body trembling violently.
“It was an accident,” he insisted, his voice low and urgent. He moved closer again, his hands finding her shoulders, rubbing slow circles on her back. “A stupid, random accident. It has nothing to do with us. Nothing to do with you seeking a little happiness.”
“Happiness?” she spat the word out like poison. “This is not happiness. This is sin. I am his wife.”
“And what is a husband?” Sumu countered, his hands moving more firmly down her spine, feeling the tension in every vertebra. “Is it only providing a house and money? Doesn’t he have a duty to you, to your body? To make you feel alive?” His voice dropped to a persuasive whisper. “You are young, Moli. Your life shouldn’t be wasted. Wanting to feel wanted isn’t a crime. It doesn’t mean you don’t love him. It means you love yourself, too.”
His words were a seductive poison, seeping through the cracks in her resolve. Her resistance was crumbling, the physical need for comfort overwhelming the guilt. When he pulled her against him this time, she didn’t fight it. She melted into the embrace, her face burying in his neck, her full breasts pressing against the familiar fabric of his—Subimol’s—t-shirt.
He could feel it immediately, the hard points of her nipples through the thin layers of cotton. The sensation sent a jolt of pure, primal heat straight to his groin. His hands, which had been offering comfort, began to change their intent. They slid from the small of her back down to the swell of her hips, gripping her through the silk of her saree.

“We can’t,” she whispered, but it was a breathy, weak protest, her body arching into his of its own volition. “Not here. Not in his study.”
“He won’t know,” Sumu murmured, his mouth hovering inches from hers. His breath was warm on her lips. “What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.”
Then his mouth was on hers, not gentle or questioning, but a crashing, desperate claim. The shirt fell from Moli’s limp fingers, discarded on the polished floor. All thought, all guilt, was incinerated in the furnace of that kiss. Her hands came up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, her tongue meeting his with a frantic hunger.

He walked her backward until the edge of the solid oak desk dug into her thighs. Lifting her, he sat her on the cleared surface, sending a pen holder clattering to the floor. He stood between her spread legs, his mouth devouring hers, his hands ripping the pallu of her saree away. He yanked the thin blouse up to her neck, exposing her breasts, their weight swaying, nipples dark and taut.
“So beautiful,” he groaned, before his mouth descended, sucking a nipple deep, his tongue lashing the stiff peak. She cried out, her head falling back, her fingers scrambling against the wood, knocking over a stack of papers. Her hips began to grind against the hard ridge of his erection straining against his shorts.

He unbuttoned his shorts, freeing his cock, already slick at the tip. He pushed her back until she was lying across the desk, her head near his uncle’s computer monitor. He shoved her saree and petticoat up around her waist, his fingers hooking into the sides of her black panties. With a sharp tear, he ripped them from her body.

“I need to taste you,” he growled, dropping to his knees before the desk. He pushed her thighs apart, his breath hot on her inner skin. His tongue, flat and rough, licked a long, wet stripe from her entrance to her clit.
Moli gasped, her back arching off the wood. “Sumu…”

He didn’t answer with words. He buried his face in her, his tongue plunging inside her, then circling her clit with relentless, focused pressure. He ate her with a starved intensity, his hands holding her hips down, his nose pressed against her, inhaling her musky, aroused scent right there in his uncle’s chair. The obscene, wet sounds of his mouth on her filled the quiet room.

“I’m going to come,” she whimpered, her legs trembling. “Oh god, I’m coming on his desk!”
Her climax ripped through her, a violent, shaking wave that made her buck against his mouth. He didn’t stop, drinking her down, licking and sucking until she was pushing his head away, oversensitive and spent.

He rose, his lips and chin glistening with her. He pulled her up into a sitting position, then lifted her entirely, her legs wrapping around his waist, her arms around his neck. Their mouths found each other again in a messy, wet kiss as he carried her out of the study and up the stairs, her saree trailing behind them like a banner of their betrayal.
He didn’t bother with the light in the bedroom. The dim glow from the streetlights outside was enough. He laid her on the bed, on the same sheets they had defiled that morning, and finally stripped off his t-shirt and shorts. She was only in her torn blouse now. They were both reduced to their most primal selves.

This time, there was no frantic rush. The empty house granted them a terrible, expansive freedom. He kissed her slowly, deeply, his hands mapping every curve of her body as if memorizing it. He licked the sweat from the hollow of her throat, sucked on her fingers, worshipped the inside of her thighs.
He entered her with a slow, inexorable push, sheathing himself completely in her wet, clutching heat. They both groaned, a long, shuddering sound of profound connection. He moved in a deep, rhythmic cadence, his eyes locked on hers. She wrapped her legs high around his back, taking him deeper, her hips meeting each of his thrusts.
They moved together for what felt like hours, changing positions, exploring. He on top, driving into her with slow, powerful strokes that made her whimper. Then her on top, riding him with a lazy, rolling grind, her breasts swaying above him, her head thrown back in pleasure. Their bodies were slick, glistening in the faint light, the air thick with the smell of sex and sweat.
Down in the study, on the oak desk now smeared with Moli’s arousal, her phone began to vibrate. The screen lit up with the name of the hospital. It buzzed, skittering in a small circle on the wood, the ringtone a muffled, insistent plea in the empty room. Upstairs, the sound was swallowed by the thick walls, by the wet, sliding noise of Sumu’s cock moving in and out of Moli’s pussy, by their low, elongated sighs and the soft, sucking sounds of their kisses.

Subimol had stirred, his fingers twitching on the stiff hospital sheets. His eyes had fluttered open for a brief, disoriented moment, his mind grasping for his wife’s name. A nurse, seeing the movement on the monitor, had hurried in. “He’s trying to speak,” she’d said to the colleague outside. “Try his wife again.”
The phone rang until it went to voicemail. Subimol, exhausted by the effort, slipped back into a medicated sleep, waiting for a wife who would not come. Above him, in the dark of his own bedroom, that wife was wrapped naked around his nephew, their limbs entangled, their breathing finally evening out into the deep, satiated rhythm of sleep. They were lost to the world, and to the man who was, for now, waking up alone.

[Givemeextra]

 . . . . . . . . . . 


Subimol had stirred, his fingers twitching on the stiff hospital sheets. His eyes had fluttered open for a brief, disoriented moment, his mind grasping for his wife’s name. A nurse, seeing the movement on the monitor, had hurried in. “He’s trying to speak,” she’d said to the colleague outside. “Try his wife again.”


The phone rang until it went to voicemail. Subimol, exhausted by the effort, slipped back into a medicated sleep, waiting for a wife who would not come. Above him, in the dark of his own bedroom, that wife was wrapped naked around his nephew, their limbs entangled, their breathing finally evening out into the deep, satiated rhythm of sleep. They were lost to the world, and to the man who was, for now, waking up alone.

Thank you for posting with line gaps between para's.  This update was hot hot hot - especially the last para

What an wonderful update.

Hope to read what happens next soon.

[Sherlocked]

The smell of antiseptic and despair clung to the linoleum floors. Moli followed the familiar path to Room 314, her heels clicking a rhythm that felt both funereal and illicit. Sumu walked beside her, close enough that the back of his hand occasionally brushed against hers, a spark of electricity in the sterile silence.

Subimol lay in the bed, a network of tubes and wires tethering him to the beeping, blinking machines that kept him company. His face was pale, a patchwork of bruises fading to a sickly yellow at the edges. His eyes, when they opened, were cloudy with pain and medication.
“You’re here,” he breathed, the words a dry rustle.

“Of course we are,” Moli said, setting her purse down. She leaned over to kiss his forehead, her large breasts brushing against his arm. She caught Sumu watching the movement, his dark eyes hungry. She straightened up, a flush warming her neck.
“How are you feeling today?” Sumu asked, pulling a chair close to the bed. His knee bumped against Moli’s as she sat, and they let the contact linger for a moment too long.

“The doctors say… the internal bleeding has stopped. For now.” Subimol winced as he shifted. “It’s a waiting game. They say I’m not out of the woods.”

“But you’re a fighter,” Moli said, her voice soft. She reached out and smoothed the hair back from his brow, her wedding band catching the fluorescent light. A symbol of everything she was betraying just a few feet away.

“I have to be,” Subimol whispered. He turned his head slowly, his gaze settling on Sumu. “I don’t know what we’d do without you, son. Looking after Moli. Holding everything together at the house. It means… everything.”

Sumu’s jaw tightened. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” Subimol insisted, his voice gaining a fragment of strength. “I lie here, and my only peace is knowing you’re there for her. That she’s not alone.”

Moli let her hand fall from Subimol’s hair to his shoulder, her fingers tracing idle circles on the hospital gown. She looked directly at Sumu, her eyes dark and knowing. “Oh, he’s been incredibly attentive, Bimol. Really. I’ve never felt so… looked after.”

Sumu held her gaze, a slow, dangerous smile playing on his lips. “I’m just doing my duty. Making sure all your needs are met.”

“Every single one,” Moli purred, her voice dropping to a intimate register that was entirely inappropriate for the room. “He’s been very thorough. Especially in the evenings. When the house is quiet.”

Subimol nodded, a feeble, grateful motion. “Good. That’s good. He’s a good boy.”
Moli had to bite the inside of her cheek to stop the hysterical laugh that threatened to bubble up. A good boy. If only he knew. If only he could see the way Sumu’s “thorough” care involved pinning her against the wall of their hallway, his hand shoved into her panties before they’d even made it to the bedroom.

“He’s been sleeping in the guest room, of course,” Subimol continued, oblivious.
“Of course,” Sumu echoed, his eyes never leaving Moli’s. “But I often hear her… stirring. Restless. So I check on her. Make sure she’s comfortable.”

“He’s very good at comforting me,” Moli said, her voice thick. She let her foot slide forward under the bed until the tip of her shoe connected with Sumu’s ankle. She pressed down. “He knows exactly how to… ease the tension. He finds all the right spots.”

Subimol’s eyes fluttered closed. “You’re both… so good to me.” He was fading, the medication pulling him under.

They sat in silence for a moment, listening to his breathing even out. The moment he was asleep, the air in the room changed. It became charged, thick with a secret understanding. Sumu reached over, his fingers brushing against the bare skin of Moli’s arm, a deliberate, slow caress.

“We should let him rest,” Moli whispered, her body already humming with anticipation.
Sumu just nodded, his gaze dropping to the swell of her breasts beneath her blouse. He stood, his erection already evident in his tight jeans. Moli’s mouth went dry.

[Sherlocked]

The car ride home was a silent, throbbing tension. The scent of the hospital – that sterile, lemon-and-bleach smell – still clung to their clothes, but underneath it was something else, something raw and animal. Moli kept her hands clenched in her lap, feeling the ghost of Sumu’s knee against hers, hearing the echo of her own double-edged words. He’s been very thorough. Subimol’s grateful, hazy smile flashed in her mind, and a fresh wave of shame-soaked desire twisted in her gut.

Sumu drove with one hand, the other resting on his thigh, his knuckles white. He didn’t look at her, but the energy between them was a live wire, humming and dangerous.

The moment the front door clicked shut, the silence shattered.

He was on her before she could drop her purse. His body slammed her against the door, the wood solid and unyielding at her back. His mouth crashed down on hers, not a kiss but a claiming, all teeth and desperate tongue. She met his ferocity with her own, her hands flying to his hair, yanking his head back to bite at his lower lip.

“Oh jethima,” he growled against her mouth, his hands already at the waist of her sari. “The way you talked to him. ‘He finds all the right spots.’ You were fucking me with your words while he lay there.”

“He has no idea,” she panted, her head spinning as his fingers worked deftly at the folds of her sari. “His good boy. His devoted nephew.” The elaborate pleats of the silk came undone with a whisper, the pallu sliding from her shoulder. Sumu grabbed a handful of the fabric and pulled, the entire six yards of material unraveling from her body in a rustling heap at their feet, leaving her in just her blouse and petticoat.

He devoured the sight of her, his eyes dark and wild. “He told me to look after you. To make sure you weren’t lonely.” His hands cupped her heavy breasts through the thin choli, his thumbs roughly circling her nipples until they were hard pebbles against the fabric. “Tell me, Jethima. Are you lonely?”
“You know I am,” she gasped, arching into his touch.

“Show me,” he commanded, pulling her by the hand, stumbling down the hall towards the master bedroom – their bedroom, hers and Subimol’s.
He pushed her onto the vast bed, the familiar floral duvet cover cool against her bare back. He stood over her, stripping off his own clothes, his gaze never leaving her body. “He’s lying in that sterile bed, and I’m about to fuck his wife in his.” The vulgarity was a deliberate weapon, and it hit its mark, making her clench with need.

He didn’t gentle her. He covered her body with his, his mouth finding hers again in a searing kiss as his hands ripped at the hook of her blouse. The fabric gave way, and her breasts spilled free. He groaned, lowering his head to take one taut nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue lashing it until she cried out.

“Is this how he takes care of you?” Sumu muttered, his mouth moving down her stomach, his tongue dipping into her navel. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her petticoat and dragged it down her legs, tossing it aside. He spread her legs, his hot breath hitting her core. “Does he lick your cunt like this? While he’s thanking you for being a good wife?”

His tongue was on her then, a flat, brutal stroke that made her back bow off the bed. He devoured her, his hands pinning her hips down as he licked and sucked, his stubble rough against her inner thighs. He talked between laps, his voice thick and muffled. “He said… I was a good boy… for looking after you.” He plunged his tongue inside her, and Moli screamed, her fingers tangling in the sheets. “Is this… what he meant?”

“Yes,” she sobbed, her hips bucking against his face. “Oh god, yes.”

He moved up her body, his cock, hard and insistent, pressing against her entrance. He didn’t enter her. Not yet. He looked down at her, his face flushed, sweat already beading on his forehead. “Tell him,” Sumu breathed, his voice a low, vicious command. “Tell your husband what his nephew is doing to you.”
Moli turned her head to the side, towards Subimol’s pillow, the scent of him faint but still there. A fresh, brutal thrill shot through her. “Subimol,” she moaned, her voice cracking. “Your boy… he’s taking such good care of me. He’s filling me up. He’s fucking the emptiness right out of me.”

That was all the permission Sumu needed. He drove into her with a single, brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. She cried out, her nails digging into his back. He set a punishing rhythm from the start, each snap of his hips a deliberate profanity in the sanctity of the marital bed.

He fucked her with a raw, possessive anger that she met thrust for thrust. The headboard slammed against the wall in a steady, rhythmic beat. Sweat slicked their bodies, making their skin slide together, glistening in the dim light filtering through the curtains.

Then, with a guttural sound, he rolled them over, pulling her on top of him without ever slipping out. “Ride me, Jethima,” he demanded, his hands gripping her hips. “Show him how his nephew takes care of his wife’s needs.”

Moli rose above him, her body sheened in sweat, her breasts swaying. She moved on him, a slow, grinding roll of her hips that made him curse. She looked down at his face, at the blatant lust and triumph there.
“He thinks you’re in the guest room, Subimol,” she whispered to the ceiling, her voice trembling with the effort of her movement. “But your cock is buried so deep inside me I can’t remember his face.”

The words hung in the air, a final, blasphemous confession. Sumu’s eyes widened, then darkened with a feral approval. He gripped her hips harder, his fingers digging into her soft flesh, guiding her frantic rhythm as she rode him on his uncle’s side of the bed.
 
“Sumu!” Moli cried out, her voice breaking as she slammed down onto him, over and over. “Sumu! Sumu!”

With a sudden, powerful roll, he pinned her beneath him, the damp sheets tangling around their legs. He entered her from behind, one arm wrapping around her waist, his hand finding and roughly squeezing her large, heavy breast. His other hand pressed her face down into the pillow that smelled of her husband.

She was mewling, a continuous, desperate sound. She couldn’t take it anymore. She turned her head, straining against his grip, her tongue extending in a silent, lewd invitation.

Sumu released her breast and grabbed her jaw, his fingers pressing into her cheeks. He pulled her face toward his, capturing her extended tongue with his own mouth. He sucked on it, hard, drinking the sweet, warm saliva from his Jethima’s mouth.
“How does that feel?” he mumbled against her lips, his hips never stopping their relentless piston. “How does your nephew’s cock feel inside your married pussy?”

“So good,” she slurred, her words distorted by his grasp. “So fucking good.”

He released her suddenly, rolling away. The cold air hit their glistening bodies. “Wait.”

Moli lay panting, confused, watching his shadowy form move across the moonlit room. He returned a moment later, a small, ornate container in his hand. Her sindur.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his expression unreadable. “To the world, I'm just your husband's nephew,” he said, his voice low and intense. “But just for the two of us, tonight, I want to put this on your sinthi.”

Moli pushed herself up on her elbows. “What? Sumu, what are you doing?”

“It’s symbolic,” he explained, his eyes burning into hers. “I don’t want to marry you. I want to fuck you. But knowing I’ve marked you with this, that I’ve put this right here,” he touched the parting in her hair, “where only he should… it makes it more forbidden. It makes you more mine.”
A fresh, shocking wave of arousal washed through her, so potent it made her dizzy. The depravity of it was the most potent aphrodisiac she’d ever known. “Put it on me,” she breathed.

He opened the container. Using his fingers, he carefully filled the part in her hair with the vibrant red powder. It was messy, intimate. Grains of it spilled over, dusting her forehead and the tip of her nose like crimson freckles. With her disheveled hair, her puffy, well-kissed lips, and the bright red sindur, she looked utterly debauched. A sacred symbol profaned.
Sumu stared, his chest heaving. He could not control himself any longer. He mashed his lips against hers, tasting the metallic hint of the sindur, and pushed her back down onto the bed.

[Sherlocked]

In the hospital, Subimol lay awake. A deep, grinding pain in his abdomen kept sleep at bay. The nurses said it wasn't time for more medication. He stared at the ceiling, thinking of Moli, of her softness and her smile. A faint smile touched his own lips. He hoped she was sleeping peacefully in their bed, safe and unaware of his suffering. He had no idea that her sinthi was at this very moment bright red with sindur applied by his nephew. He had no idea that his nephew’s tongue was deep in his wife’s mouth, licking and sucking every possible place, or that his dick was buried deep inside her vagina, and that she was cooperating eagerly, her body gripping the young cock like a vice. Their hands were roaming, clutching, claiming.

Sumu started to fuck her hard again, the slapping sound of their sweat-slicked skin echoing in the room.

“See, Subimol?” Moli screamed, her voice raw with a pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. “See how your nephew is taking care of my needs? It’s your fault! If only you’d taken care of me, of this, and not just given me food and a roof, we wouldn’t be here! But what happens is for good only! Now I get to enjoy this young cock! You take your sweet time in the hospital! Let Sumu take care of me for a few more days!”

Her words, her complete and utter surrender to the taboo, broke the last of Sumu’s control. With a guttural roar, he drove into her one last time, unleashing himself deep inside his aunt. Moli screamed, her back arching violently off the bed as she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him impossibly deeper as her own climax ripped through her.

They collapsed, spent, a tangled mess of limbs and sweat and the stark, sweet smell of sex. For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. Then Sumu found her mouth again in a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss, exchanging their mixed saliva.
“That was so hot,” Moli panted between kisses.

Exhaustion claimed them. They fell into a heavy, sated sleep there in Subimol’s spot, the red powder smeared across her skin like a war paint.
In the silent, sterile hospital room, sleep still eluded Subimol. He shifted, wincing against the pain, and thought of his loving wife, a man completely at peace with the loyalty of the two people he trusted most.


The ten days that followed were a fever dream of sweat-slicked skin and muffled moans. With the master bedroom officially theirs, they desecrated it with a systematic hunger. The first time Sumu fucked her from behind against the same door Subimol had carried her over a decade ago, Moli came so hard she saw stars, her forehead pressed against the cool wood. They did it on the floor, her sari pooled beneath her like a fallen flag of surrender. They did it in the shower, the water sluicing over their entangled bodies as he lifted her against the tiles, her legs wrapped around his waist, his thrusts echoing in the small, steam-filled space.

He took her on the kitchen counter at dawn, a bowl of fruit rattling precariously as he drove into her, his hand clamped over her mouth to silence her cries. He bent her over the sofa in the drawing-room one afternoon, the sheer curtains doing little to hide their frantic movements from the empty street outside. Each room of the house became a new chapter in their secret history, each surface a testament to their betrayal. The scent of their sex seemed to permeate the very walls, a secret perfume only they could smell.


The day Subimol was discharged, the house was filled with the chaotic, warm energy of family. Aunts, uncles, cousins—they all flowed through the rooms, their voices a cheerful cacophony. The center of it all was Subimol, propped up in his bed, looking frail but smiling. Moli sat at the head of the bed, gently adjusting his pillows, the picture of a devoted wife. Sumu sat near his feet, the attentive nephew.

“I tell you,” Subimol said, his voice still weak but filled with emotion, his face glowing with a pure, unadulterated pride. He looked from Moli to Sumu. “I had no worries. None. Knowing my Sumu was here, looking after my Moli, taking care of the house… it let me focus on healing. He is such a good boy. A pillar.”
Moli’s hand, which had been stroking Subimol’s shoulder, stilled for a fraction of a second. Her eyes met Sumu’s over her husband’s prone body. It was a fleeting glance, a crack in the perfect facade. In that look, the entire ten days flashed between them. The memory of Sumu’s mouth between her legs on this very bed, the taste of him on her lips in the kitchen, the sound of his grunts as he took her from behind in the garage, her palms flat against the cold windshield of Subimol’s car.

The family buzzed around them, chatting, laughing, oblivious. But in the silent space between Moli and Sumu, the air was thick with the ghosts of their debauchery. They looked at each other, and they saw the future laid out before them like a feast. Subimol was bedridden, helpless. He wouldn't be walking without assistance for weeks, maybe months.

They could see it all, clear as day. A quick, frantic coupling in the kitchen while Subimol napped just rooms away. His hands up her skirt in the study, his breath hot on her neck as they listened for any sound from the bedroom. The risk of taking her on the drawing-room sofa in the dead of night, the television mumbling upstairs to mask their sounds. The sheer, terrifying convenience of it.

A slow, knowing smile curved Moli’s lips. Across the bed, Sumu’s mouth mirrored the expression exactly. For the future.

-- The end --

[Givemeextra]

The End? So suddenly?

What a beautiful set of updates. Just lovely reading these.

Why not extend to situation like Hubby at home from hospital but unable to go upstairs. Only Wifey and Nephew go upstairs and do things etc

Please write more to this saga.

[Sherlocked]

The End? So suddenly?

What a beautiful set of updates. Just lovely reading these.

Why not extend to situation like Hubby at home from hospital but unable to go upstairs. Only Wifey and Nephew go upstairs and do things etc

Please write more to this saga.

Glad you liked it. There not much to tell in this story other than repeating different sex scenes, or extending with additional locations or characters. So I thought it's best to finish this here and let the readers draw their own conclusions.