Adultery Born of Deceit

[untamable_rohini]

The Yamuna flowed black and indifferent beneath the ITO bridge, its surface catching fractured reflections of the city’s distant lights. It was past midnight on a bitter January night in Delhi, the kind where the fog clung to your skin and the cold seeped into bones no amount of wool could warm. Tulika Kapoor stood alone on the narrow footpath, her navy-blue cotton saree wrapped tightly around her as if it could hold her together. The pallu fluttered weakly in the wind, the only movement in a body that felt too heavy to belong to her anymore.

In her right hand, she held a small plastic strip—ten white tablets, the last of the sleeping pills she had been saving from sleepless nights. She had counted them twice on the auto-rickshaw ride here, then again while walking the empty stretch from the main road. Enough, she had decided. More than enough.

Her phone lay dead in her coat pocket. She had switched it off hours earlier, after dialing the same unreachable number again and again until the automated voice became a taunt. There was no one to call now. Not her mother in Hyderabad, who still believed her daughter’s marriage was a quiet success. Not Vikram, asleep on the sofa back in their Rohini flat with an empty whiskey glass beside him. Especially not Vikram.

Tulika sat on the cold concrete pabangt, legs dangling over the drop. The river smelled of diesel and decay, but it was quieter than the thoughts roaring inside her head. She thought of the life she had wanted—the government job, the postings abroad, the pride of standing on her own feet. She thought of the promises Vikram had made seven years ago under Hyderabad’s monsoon sky, his voice full of certainty and coffee-scented breath. She thought of how those promises had slowly curdled into debts, excuses, and finally something unspeakable.

Her fingers trembled as she pressed the first pill out of its foil. It was small, harmless-looking. She placed it on her tongue and swallowed dry. Then the second. The third. Each one went down with the weight of every compromise she had made to keep their fragile life afloat.

The city was asleep, or pretending to be. A lone truck rumbled across the bridge overhead, its headlights briefly sweeping over her before vanishing. Tulika closed her eyes and waited for the numbness to come, for the pills to pull her under like the river below.

A small sound broke the silence—a dry, rasping cough from the shadows beneath the bridge.

Tulika opened her eyes and looked down.

On the muddy bank, half-hidden by piles of garbage and discarded plastic, a child moved. A girl, wrapped in an oversized sweater that dragged in the dirt. She was poking through the refuse with a long stick, searching for bottles or anything sellable. Every few moments she stopped to cough again, a deep, chesty sound that should have belonged to someone much older. Yet when she pulled a crumpled water bottle free, she held it up to the faint streetlight with a quick, fierce smile—as if the night had just given her a gift.

The girl sensed she was being watched. She looked up, squinting into the darkness. For a long second, her eyes met Tulika’s across the distance. There was no fear in the child’s gaze, only curiosity. Then, almost shyly, she raised one small hand and waved.

Just once.

A simple, defiant wave that said: *I’m still here. The night hasn’t won yet.*

Something inside Tulika shattered—not into despair, but into a raw, aching clarity.

She lurched forward over the pabangt, retching violently. The pills came up in a bitter rush, splashing into the dark water below along with whatever surrender she had almost accepted. She heaved until there was nothing left, clinging to the concrete with fingers that felt suddenly, fiercely alive.

When it was over, she slid down to sit on the footpath, back against the cold wall, breath coming in ragged sobs. The little girl below watched for a moment longer, then shrugged and returned to her search, undefeated.

Tulika stayed there until the first pale hint of dawn touched the sky. The wind had dropped; the city was beginning to stir. Somewhere, a muezzin’s call drifted over the rooftops, thin and beautiful in the cold air.

She stood slowly, legs unsteady, and began the long walk home.

The pills were gone. The river had not taken her.

And tomorrow, the SSC results would come.

[PELURI]

excited to have you back dear rohini ji....I am sure this story will be as intriguing as the previous  two...shadows of diplomacy and it's sequel, bound by storm....all the best

[momass]

wow new story

[PELURI]

thanks for setting the story in hyderabad...bcoz that's my place...

[untamable_rohini]

[untamable_rohini]

Tulika Kapoor pushed open the door to their cramped Rohini flat just as the first rays of morning sun filtered through the smoggy Delhi skyline. The air inside smelled stale—of last night's half-eaten dal-roti and Vikram's lingering whiskey breath. He was still sprawled on the sofa where she had left him hours ago, one arm dangling off the edge, his face slack in uneasy sleep. The empty glass had tipped over, leaving a dark stain on the threadbare carpet.

She paused in the doorway, watching him. Vikram looked smaller in repose, his sharp features softened by exhaustion, the premature gray at his temples more pronounced in the dawn light. At 32, he carried the weight of unfulfilled ambitions like a poorly tailored suit—his lean frame starting to sag around the middle from too many skipped meals and stress-fueled binges. His fair skin was sallow now, marked by faint lines around his eyes from squinting at loan documents and failed investment apps. He snored softly, oblivious to the storm that had nearly claimed her.

Tulika slipped off her shoes quietly, not wanting to wake him yet. Her own reflection caught her in the small mirror by the entrance: 29 years old, wheatish skin flushed from the cold walk, long black hair disheveled from the wind, almond-shaped eyes red-rimmed and hollow. Her body, once slim and unassuming, had filled out over the years into soft curves—a voluptuous hourglass that turned heads in the ministry corridors she dreamed of walking. But tonight, she felt every inch of it like a burden, heavy with secrets and the life stirring faintly inside her.

She moved to the bathroom, turning on the tap with a creak. The water was icy, but she stripped off her saree anyway, letting it pool on the tiled floor. Under the dim bulb, her figure was a map of quiet changes: full breasts that strained against her blouse hooks, a rounded belly that hinted at more than just recent indulgences, wide hips that swayed with unintended grace. She scrubbed her skin raw with the cheap soap, as if she could wash away the night's despair along with the river's chill. The orphan girl's wave replayed in her mind—a small hand cutting through the darkness like a lifeline.

Dressed in a fresh pink salwar kameez, Tulika brewed chai on the gas stove, the familiar ritual grounding her. The aroma filled the flat, stirring Vikram awake. He sat up groggily, rubbing his eyes. "Tulika? Where were you? I waited up..."

She set a cup in front of him without a word, her expression unreadable. "Out. Thinking."

He reached for her hand, but she pulled away. "About us? The results are today. It'll change everything, you'll see."

Tulika stared into her own cup, the steam rising like forgotten promises. Her mind drifted back, unbidden, to a time when "everything" had seemed possible. To Hyderabad, seven years ago, when she was still Tulika Rao—a typical college girl, all sharp angles and youthful energy, far from the woman she had become.

It was the monsoon season of 2019, the air thick with petrichor and the promise of renewal. Tulika Rao, 22 and in her final year of Master's in Political Science at Osmania University, navigated the crowded campus with a backpack slung over one shoulder. She was the epitome of a college-going girl back then: slim and lanky at 5'6", with a boyish figure that hadn't yet blossomed into curves—flat-chested enough to borrow her roommate's T-shirts without issue, narrow hips that made jeans hang loose, and a waist that disappeared into straight lines rather than dipping into an hourglass. Her wheatish skin glowed from daily walks to class, free of makeup except for a quick swipe of kajal around her almond eyes. Long black hair was always tied in a practical ponytail, swinging as she hurried between lectures on governance and international relations. She had that fresh-faced innocence—full lips often curved in a thoughtful smile, cheeks dimpling when she laughed at her friends' jokes about boys and exams.

Life was simple: mornings in the library poring over UPSC prep books (even then, her dream of a government job burned bright), afternoons debating politics in the canteen over idli-sambar, evenings helping her widowed mother run their modest two-room home in Begumpet. Tulika's motivation was rooted in survival—her father's early death had left them scbanging by on her mother's tailoring gigs. She vowed to break the cycle, to secure a stable job that meant independence, travel, respect.

The engagement party changed everything. It was her friend Priya's sister's bash in Banjara Hills, a splashy affair with fairy lights strung across the lawn and a DJ blasting Telugu hits. Tulika had come straight from a group study session, dressed in a borrowed green anarkali that hung a bit loose on her slender frame, her ponytail slightly frizzy from the rain. She was on tray duty, balancing glasses of kesar badam milk, when disaster struck.

A young man backed into her path, his elbow knocking the tray. Hot filter coffee splashed across her dupatta, soaking through to her skin.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry!" He spun around, hands outstretched. Vikram Kapoor, 25 and fresh from Punjab, was in Hyderabad chasing a property deal that promised quick riches. He was lean and energetic then, 5'9" with fair skin, short black hair styled with gel, and sharp features that lit up with a boyish grin. Dressed in a crisp white kurta-pajama that screamed "out-of-towner trying hard," he looked mortified but charming.

"Let me help," he insisted, pulling out a handkerchief and dabbing at the stain with gentle pats. "I'm Vikram. And apparently, a walking hazard."

Tulika couldn't help but laugh, her dimples flashing. "Tulika. It's fine, really. Coffee washes out."

But Vikram wouldn't hear of it. He spent the evening making amends—fetching her a fresh dupatta from Priya's wardrobe, regaling her with tales of Delhi's chaos and his grand plans. "One big deal, and I'm set. Flats in posh areas, cars, the works. You should see it—Delhi's where dreams happen."

She was intrigued. No boy had ever talked to her like that, with such fire. Over the next weeks, he pursued her with the persistence of a monsoon storm: daily texts turning into coffee dates at old Irani cafés, where they'd share chai and dreams. Vikram listened to her ambitions—the SSC exam, ministry postings abroad, escaping the grind. He painted their future in vivid strokes: "You'll be the officer, I'll handle the business. Together, we'll conquer Delhi."

Long drives along Necklace Road became their ritual, windows down, rain pattering on the roof as they held hands. Tulika, with her slim fingers intertwined in his, felt seen for the first time. Her friends teased her about the "Delhi boy," but her mother worried: "He promises too much, beta. Be careful."

One rainy evening by Hussain Sagar Lake, under the shadow of the massive Buddha statue, Vikram knelt in a puddle with a simple gold ring. "Marry me, Tulika. Let's build that life. I promise it'll be everything we want."

Her heart raced. At 22, with her lanky frame leaning into his embrace, she said yes. The world felt full of possibility.

The wedding was modest—a temple ceremony in Secunderabad, garlands of marigolds, her mother wiping tears as Vikram tied the mangalsutra around Tulika's neck. She wore a red silk saree that dbangd awkwardly over her slim figure, but her eyes shone with hope. Two weeks later, they boarded the train to Delhi, Tulika clutching her new surname like a talisman.

Back in the present, the chai had gone cold. Vikram's voice pulled her from the reverie. "Tulika? You okay?"

She met his eyes, the weight of seven years between them. "The results are today," she said flatly. "We'll see what changes."

[mahamatherchod]

both of your stories are still incomplete and you started another thread to left incomplete

[Kedibillaa]

Super start

[PELURI]

gd mrng ji...the opening is restrained...lots to come open i suppose...

[momass]

both of your stories are still incomplete and you started another thread to left incomplete

actually both are completed according to writer ,but its you who dont want to accept and want story to continue 

i know writer can extended the story but its her choice to end ,and we should respect her decision

[PELURI]

actually both are completed according to writer ,but its you who dont want to accept and want story to continue 

i know writer can extended the story but its her choice to end ,and we should respect her decision

you are spot on bro...Rohini ji the author has come back to conclude both the stories, though very unfortunate....but lots of scope to carry forward the second story i.e. bound by storm....its a wonderful erotic story, much enriched with a touch of family drama through marriage of Pallavi.... and subsequently both the daughters and the DIL becoming pregnant and giving birth to babies....it infact metamorphed into a erotic family drama full of warmth and family secrets....sincerely wish that our dear author Rohini ji continues this highly engaging saga of three liberated females....

[fuckandforget]

excellent start

[PELURI]

namasthe rohini ji...kya hoga...gone mute....astra sanyaas kardiyo hai kya...like bhishma pitamaha ...half way through the battle ....plz don't...plz continue bound by the storm and this born of deceit....

[untamable_rohini]

Back to flashback, when they arrived Delhi as a married couple.

Their first home was the single-room barsati in Rohini Sector 16—tin roof that rattled in the rain, one small window facing a blank wall, and a shared toilet downstairs that always smelled faintly of phenyl. But to Tulika, it was freedom. No mother asking when she’d come home, no aunties commenting on her weight or her ambitions. Just her, Vikram, and the promise of tomorrow.
Vikram had found her a coaching institute in Mukherjee Nagar. The very next day she enrolled, paid the first installment with money they had borrowed from his chacha, and bought a second-hand notebook with a blue cover. She wrote “Tulika Kapoor – SSC CGL 2020” on the first page in neat black ink.
The nights belonged to them.
In those early months, sex was daily, almost ritualistic. After she returned from coaching—exhausted, hair damp from sweat, kurta sticking to her back—Vikram would wait. Sometimes he’d have made dinner: aloo paratha, curd, mango pickle. Sometimes he’d just pull her into the room before she could even change.
He’d kiss her slowly at first, tasting the salt on her neck, untying her dupatta with practiced fingers. Tulika, still new to this intimacy, would tense then melt. He’d undress her piece by piece—salwar first, then kameez, then bra—murmuring how beautiful she was, how he couldn’t get enough of her. She believed him because the way he looked at her felt like worship.
On the narrow bed, he’d lay her down, spread her legs gently, and enter her with a slow thrust that made her gasp every time. He was attentive, almost reverent. His fingers would circle her clit in steady rhythms while he moved inside her, watching her face for every small reaction. Tulika had never known her body could respond like this. In Hyderabad, she’d only ever touched herself furtively under the blanket, quick and guilty. Here, with Vikram’s mouth on her breasts, his hips rocking in a steady rhythm, she discovered what it felt like to climb toward something inevitable.
She came once each night—always once, but deeply. Her back would arch, fingers digging into his shoulders, a soft cry escaping before she bit her lip to muffle it against the thin walls. The orgasm would roll through her like a slow wave, leaving her trembling and boneless. Vikram would follow soon after, groaning her name, collapsing beside her with a satisfied sigh.
They would lie there afterward, sweat cooling on their skin, fan creaking overhead. He’d trace lazy circles on her belly and say things like, “We’re going to have the best life, jaan. You’ll see.”
And for a while, she did.
The daily intimacy began to change her body in small, noticeable ways. The constant release of endorphins, the regular calories from late-night meals Vikram cooked to celebrate “good days,” the way he loved touching her—kneading her breasts, gripping her hips, kissing the soft skin of her inner thighs—started to soften her edges. Her breasts grew fuller, nipples darkening slightly. Her hips widened just enough to make her old jeans snug. A gentle curve appeared at her waist, her belly softening from the way she lay on her back night after night, legs wrapped around him. She wasn’t voluptuous yet, but the sharp college-girl angles were rounding, her body blooming under consistent attention and affection.
Vikram noticed. “You’re filling out so beautifully,” he’d whisper against her neck, hands roaming possessively. “I love every inch of you.”
In the second year, luck turned for a moment. Vikram cracked three decent real-estate deals in quick succession—two small plots in Noida and one commercial space in Rohini. The commissions were enough to clear some debts and put down a booking amount for a 2BHK flat in Sector 7, Rohini—a modest but proper apartment with two bedrooms, a small kitchen, and a balcony that overlooked a park.
They moved in on a rainy September afternoon. Tulika stood in the empty living room, barefoot on the cool tiles, arms wrapped around herself as she looked out at the drizzle. Vikram came up behind her, chin on her shoulder.
“This is it,” he said. “Our real beginning.”
She turned in his arms, kissed him deeply, and that night they christened every room—kitchen counter, bathroom shower, even the balcony under the cover of rain and darkness.
For the first time since moving to Delhi, Tulika felt something close to security. Her coaching notes were spread across the new dining table. Her body, now softer and more womanly, moved with a quiet confidence she hadn’t known she possessed. Vikram’s deals were flowing again. The future, for a brief shining moment, felt within reach

[untamable_rohini]

[untamable_rohini]

The next five years in Delhi passed like monsoon seasons—intense bursts of hope followed by long stretches of humid waiting.
Tulika threw herself into her SSC preparation with a discipline that bordered on obsession. She upgraded from the Mukherjee Nagar institute to a premium online-plus-offline course, waking at 5 a.m. every day to revise current affairs before the city stirred. Her notes filled three large ring binders, color-coded: green for Polity, blue for Economy, red for Quantitative Aptitude. She attempted the exam every year—Tier-I cleared four times in a row, Tier-II twice—but the final merit list always slipped away by a handful of marks.
Each failure was a bruise, but she never stopped. “Next attempt will be the one,” she told herself in the mirror every morning. She joined online forums, watched YouTube toppers’ strategy videos until 2 a.m., practiced mocks under timed conditions. The pressure of repeated near-misses only sharpened her focus.
Meanwhile, Vikram’s real-estate career rode its own rollercoaster. The first two years after moving into the 2BHK were golden: three more solid deals in Noida and Dwarka, enough commission to pay off the remaining loan from his chacha and buy a second-hand Maruti Swift. He strutted around the flat like a man who had finally cracked the code. “See? I told you—persistence pays,” he’d say, pulling her into a celebratory hug.
But the market cooled after COVID. Lockdowns killed footfalls, buyers vanished, projects stalled. Vikram’s phone, once buzzing with client calls, grew silent. He pivoted to smaller deals—reselling flats in under-construction societies, brokering rentals in Rohini—but the commissions shrank. Debts crept back in, quieter this time: credit card bills, personal loans from apps, EMIs on the car. He started drinking more—first one peg after a bad day, then two, then three. The late nights returned, though now they were spent staring at property portals rather than chasing clients.
Through it all, their physical intimacy remained the one constant rhythm. Almost every night, even on the days when words between them were scarce, Vikram would reach for her. And Tulika, tired as she was, would let him. It had become their unspoken truce—a way to feel connected when everything else felt fragile.
Her body responded to the years of consistent love-making, good food (when they could afford it), and the natural settling of maturity. By 2024, at twenty-eight, Tulika had transformed in ways she barely noticed at first.
Her skin, once a warm wheatish tone, had lightened to a soft, glowing fairness—partly from staying indoors for long study hours, partly from the fairness creams her mother sent from Hyderabad “just to try.” Her face had acquired a refined beauty: high cheekbones more defined, full lips naturally pinker, almond eyes brighter from the quiet confidence that comes with surviving repeated setbacks.
Her figure had ripened fully into womanhood. The daily intimacy, the way Vikram’s hands and mouth worshipped her breasts night after night, had encouraged them to grow into a lush 34D—firm yet heavy, nipples darkening to a deep rose. Her waist had narrowed slightly from stress and skipped meals, settling at 28 inches, while her hips flared out to a generous 36, creating the classic hourglass that turned heads when she walked through the market or the coaching center corridors. Her belly remained softly rounded, a gentle curve that Vikram loved to trace with his fingers after they finished.
She had become more beautiful than she had ever been in college—elegant, sensual, quietly magnetic. When she wore a fitted saree to family functions or a simple anarkali for rare outings, people stared. Women asked for her skincare routine; men lingered a second too long on her walk. Tulika noticed, but she didn’t preen. Beauty, to her, was secondary to the job she still hadn’t secured.
Vikram noticed too. On the nights when deals went well, he’d pull her close and whisper, “You’re getting more gorgeous every year, jaan. Once you get the posting, everyone will be jealous of me.” On the bad nights, he’d look at her with a mixture of pride and something darker—resentment, perhaps, that her beauty and brains hadn’t yet translated into the financial security he craved.
By early 2024, the 2BHK flat felt both like home and like a cage. The balcony plants she had nurtured had grown wild; the walls bore faint marks from shifting furniture; the bed still creaked under their nightly rhythm. Tulika’s study table in the second bedroom was piled high with fresh mock-test papers, her laptop screen glowing late into the night.
Vikram’s phone would buzz occasionally with a lead, and hope would flicker again.
Tulika would smile at him across the room, still believing—just barely—that the next attempt, the next deal, would finally change everything.

[chellaporukki]

Time to look out for new cock for Tulika

[untamable_rohini]

[PELURI]

Tulika here reminds me of Rashi of Diplomacy/Storm .....hopefully, the spirit too will be similarly free will, explorative n bold enough to seek n possess and sensually alluring...small consolation for us, your faithful readers is that the essence of the main protagonist continues here as well....you never disappoint us...thank you

Ps : plz continue "bound by storm"...there's lot to unravel and long way to conclude...few unfinished issues to be given a decent closure...

[Samadhanam]

Who is going to come in their lives