I never thought of myself as the kind of woman who would cheat.

I am Sarika Aggarwal. Thirty years old today, though I feel neither young nor old—just existing, like a photograph that has hung on the same wall for so long that no one remembers when it was first placed there.

Let me describe myself honestly, the way I see my reflection when I lock the bathroom door and stand before the mirror: My body is plump, soft in ways my mother always warned against. Full breasts that strain against the silks of my sarees, a lean stomach that my husband never caresses, thick thighs that rub together when I walk. My skin is the color of warm honey, and my hair falls to my waist in a thick black river that I oil and braid every morning.

But no one notices.

At twenty, I was married to Vikram Aggarwal—a successful businessman, fourteen years my senior, from a family that commanded respect in our south Bombay community.

My parents were overjoyed. A sanskari girl like me, plucked from our modest home and placed into the lap of luxury. I was grateful. I am grateful.

For ten years, I have been the perfect wife.

I wake before sunrise, prepare Vikram's meals with my own hands, keep the house spotless, greet his business associates with folded hands and downcast eyes, attend temple every Tuesday, and wear only the sarees his mother selects for me. I do not complain. I do not question. I do not want.

Vikram is... adequate. He provides. He returns home each night by nine, eats his dinner while watching the news, and then retires to his study for "work" that I know is whiskey and online poker. Twice a month, he comes to my bed. He takes what he needs—three minutes, sometimes five—his breath heavy, his body pressing mine into the mattress. When he finishes, he rolls over and falls asleep. He never kisses my mouth. He never touches me otherwise throughout the month.

oorsh did I want more?

I didn't think so.

I had accepted that desire was for other women—the ones in films, the bold ones, the loose ones. Not for a sanskari vadhu like me.

That was before last Saturday.

Vikram told me at breakfast that an old friend from his college days would be visiting.

"Rohit," he said, not looking up from his newspaper. "Used to be on the wrestling team with me. He's passing through Mumbai for some construction job. He is here for a few months. I told him he could crash here for a few nights."

I nodded, pouring his tea. "How many for dinner?"

"Just him. Make something good. Chicken, maybe."

That was all.

I spent the afternoon preparing—marinating the chicken in yogurt and spices, rolling out fresh parathas, cleaning the guest room. I didn't think much about Rohit. Just another of Vikram's acquaintances, probably gray-haired and paunchy like all his other friends, talking loudly about stocks and politics.

When the doorbell rang at seven, I was still in the kitchen, wiping my hands on my apron.

"I'll get it," Vikram called from the living room, where he had already opened his whiskey bottle.

I heard the door open, heard Vikram's booming laugh, heard the thud of what sounded like a heavy bag being dropped. But it was the other voice that made me stop mid-motion.

Deep. Warm. With a rough edge, like gravel rolled in honey.

"Vikram, bhai! Kaiseho? Ten years, boss. TEN years."

I stepped out of the kitchen and saw him.

And for the first time in ten years, my breath caught in my throat.

Rohit was... not what I expected.

He was tall—easily six feet—with shoulders that seemed to fill the entire doorway. His arms were bare, thick with muscle corded like ropes of steel under sun-darkened skin. A tight t-shirt clung to his chest, outlining every ridge of what I could now see was a spectacularly built body. Not gym-muscle, but real muscle—the kind earned through years of physical labor.

His face was handsome, almost ruggedly beautiful, with a strong jaw shaded by a day's stubble and eyes so dark brown they were nearly black.

He looked exactly my age. Exactly.

And when his gaze found me standing in the doorway of the kitchen, something shifted.

He saw me.

Not as Vikram's wife. Not as a servant passing through. Not as furniture.

He saw me.

His eyes traveled slowly, deliberately, from my face down to my feet and back up again. It took only two seconds—maybe three—but it felt like an eternity. I felt my skin prickle, felt heat rise to my cheeks, felt my saree suddenly feel too thin, too revealing.

"Yeh toh... Sarika hai na?" he said, his voice softer now. "Vikram tumhari bahut tareef karta tha."

Vikram used to praise you a lot.

But the way he said it—the way his eyes lingered on my lips, my neck, the curve of my hip where my saree fell—told me that he was doing his own assessment.

I lowered my gaze, pressing my palms together in a namaste.

"Namaste. Aap Rohit hain? Vikram ne bataya tha."

And though I kept my eyes down, I felt his gaze still on me, burning, wanting.

Something fluttered in my stomach—something I hadn't felt in so long that I almost didn't recognize it.

Desire.

Dinner was torture.

I served the food, keeping my eyes fixed on the plates, but I could feel Rohit's presence across the table like a physical weight. Every time I moved to refill the water or bring more roti, I caught him watching me—not staring, exactly, but observing, as though he was memorizing every detail of how I moved.

Vikram drank. And drank. And drank.

By nine, he was slurring his words. By ten, he could barely keep his eyes open.

"Arre, yaar," he mumbled, leaning heavily on the table. "Thodi aur... thodi aur pi loon..."

"Bhai, nahi," Rohit said, his eyes meeting mine briefly. "Aaram karo. Main iska khyal rakhta hu."

But Vikram was already stumbling to his feet, waving his hand drunkenly. He turned to me with glazed eyes. "Sarika... sula do mujhe... room mein..."

I helped him to the bedroom—our bedroom—and laid him on the bed. He was snoring before I even pulled the covers over him.

I stood there for a moment, looking at my husband's sleeping face. The man who had taken my virginity, who had given me this house, this life, this name. The man who hadn't touched me with real desire in years.

And I felt... nothing.

No guilt. Not yet.

But also no loyalty pulling me back to his side.

I walked out of the bedroom and closed the door behind me.

Rohit was standing in the living room, near the window, looking out at the city lights. He had removed the t-shirt—I didn't know when or how—and was wearing only a thin vest that clung to his chest like a second skin.

He heard my footsteps and turned.

We looked at each other.

The air between us felt thick, charged, like the moment before a storm breaks.

"Uske sone ka time ho gaya," I said quietly, stating the obvious.

"Lag bhi raha hai," Rohit replied, his voice low. "Poori bottle.

His eyes were on me again—that same look from earlier, but intensified now that we were alone. The whiskey had made his eyes slightly glassy, but his focus on me was sharper than ever.

"Tumhari shaadi ko das saal ho gaye, Sarika?"

"Haan."

"Happy ho?"

The question hit me like a slap.

I didn't answer.

He took a step closer. Then another. And another, until he was standing so close that I could smell him—sweat, whiskey, and something masculine that made my head spin.

"Maine zindagi mein pata nahi kitnite laadkiyan dekhi hain," he said softly, his eyes boring into mine. "But tumhari tarah koi nahi hai."

I've seen countless beautiful women in my life. But no one like you.

I should have stepped back. I should have said something—anything—to stop this. To preserve my honor, my marriage, my sanskari identity.

But I didn't.

I couldn't.

Because for the first time in ten years, someone was looking at me like I was desirable. Like I was worth wanting.

"Rohit..." I whispered, and my voice came out shaky.

"I'll tell you the truth, Sarika." He reached out—slowly, giving me time to pull away—and his fingers brushed a strand of hair from my face. The touch sent electricity through my entire body. "From the moment I saw you today, I haven't been able to think of anything else."

"I'm married," I said, but the words felt hollow, robotic.

"I know."

"I'm not that kind of woman."

"I know that too."

His hand moved from my hair to my cheek, cupping it gently. His palm was rough, calloused, but his touch was impossibly tender.

A broken part of me—somewhere I didn't even know still existed—woke up and cried out in recognition. This is what it feels like to be touched like you matter.

"But you're also a woman," he said, his voice barely a whisper now. "And a woman deserves to be seen. Desired. Fucked the way she deserves."

The word—so crass, so direct—hit me in the gut. No one had ever spoken to me like that. No one had ever dared.

I should have been offended.

Instead, I felt a wetness bloom between my thighs.

"Aap drunk hain," I managed to say, but even I could hear how weak the protest sounded.

"Maybe," he said, leaning in until his lips were a breath away from mine. "But tum bhi toh kuch chahti ho na?"

But you want something too, don't you?

The question hung in the air between us.

And I couldn't deny it.

The kiss—when it finally came—was not gentle.

His mouth crashed against mine with a hunger that shocked me, his free hand tangling in my hair, pulling my head back to give him better access. His tongue pushed past my lips, and I tasted the whiskey on him, mixed with something purely male.

I should have pushed him away. I should have remembered my sanskar, my duties, my vows.

But my body had been starved for a decade.

My hands—seemingly of their own accord—rose to his bare shoulders, gripping the hard muscle there. His skin was hot beneath my fingertips, and I felt the raw power coiled in his frame.

"I want you, Sarika," he growled against my lips. "I've never wanted a woman this badly."

And then his hands were everywhere.

He pulled at the pleats of my saree, and the fabric loosened, falling around my hips. His mouth left mine and traveled down my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin, tongue darting out to soothe the sting.

I gasped—a sharp, animal sound I didn't recognize.

"This is wrong," I breathed, but my fingers were digging into his back, pulling him closer.

"It's only wrong if you don't want it," he said, looking up at me with those dark, burning eyes. "And you want it. I can feel your body shaking, baby."

He called me baby.

No one had ever called me anything but Sarika.

He pushed me backward until my back hit the wall, and then his knee was between my thighs, pressing upward, finding the damp heat hidden beneath my petticoat.

I cried out, then clapped my hand over my mouth.

"Don't worry about him," Rohit whispered, his lips finding my ear. "He's dead to the world. It's just you and me now."

His hands found the edge of my blouse, and he pulled it down, exposing my breasts—heavy, full, the nipples dark and already peaked. He groaned at the sight.

"God, you're perfect," he said, and then his mouth was on them, sucking, licking, biting with just the right amount of pressure.

I think I stopped thinking then.

Everything became sensation—the scrape of his stubble against my soft skin, the wet heat of his mouth, the hardness of his body pressing into mine bringing life to my neglected womanhood. My hips bucked against his leg, rubbing, needing.

"Please," I heard myself say—the first time I had ever begged for anything in my entire married life.

"Please what, Sarika? Tell me what you want."

"You," I gasped. "I want... I want you inside me."

And I meant it.

He carried me to the guest room—the guest room I had prepared just hours ago, never imagining this would happen—and laid me on the bed with surprising gentleness.

Then he undressed me.

Piece by piece.

He removed my blouse, my petticoat, my sari—my identity as a married woman stripped away in careful layers. When I was completely naked, he stepped back and looked at me.

I had never felt so exposed. So vulnerable.

But his eyes held only worship.

"Beautiful," he said. "So fucking beautiful."

He undressed himself quickly, and I watched—fascinated, scared, aroused beyond belief—as his body emerged. The muscles I had glimpsed earlier were even more defined in the dim light. His chest was broad, covered in a light sprinkling of dark hair that trailed down his stomach to... there.

His cock stood thick and hard, the head dark and glistening.

I had never seen one so big. Vikram's was... functional. This was something else entirely.

Rohit crawled onto the bed, his body covering mine, and kissed me again—slower this time, deeper.

"I'm going to take my time with you," he said. "I'm going to make you feel things you've never felt."

And he did.

His mouth travelled down my body, kissing, licking, biting—paying attention to every inch as though he had all the time in the world. When he reached the junction of my thighs, he paused.

"Delicious," he murmured, inhaling

deeply.

And then his tongue was inside me.

I screamed—a strangled, broken sound that I muffled with the bedsheet. His tongue moved with expert precision, finding every nerve, every hidden spot of pleasure I didn't know I had. He ate me like I was the most exquisite meal he'd ever tasted, groaning against my flesh as though he was the one being pleasured.

It took less than a minute for the first orgasm to hit me—a violent, crashing wave that left me gasping and trembling.

"That's it," he said, his voice rough. "That's one. I want more."

Before I could recover, he was above me, positioning himself at my entrance.

"Look at me," he commanded.

I obeyed.

"Tell me you want this."

"I want this," I whispered. "I want you."

And then he pushed inside.

The feeling of him entering me was... overwhelming.

He was so thick that I felt stretched, filled, claimed in a way I had never been before.

My body resisted for a moment, then opened to him like a flower finally allowed to bloom.

He paused when he was fully inside, letting me adjust.

"Okay?" he asked, his voice strained with control.

I nodded, unable to speak.

And then he began to move.

Slow at first—long, deep strokes that reached places inside me I didn't know existed. He kissed me as he moved, swallowing my moans, his tongue mimicking the rhythm of his hips.

"Look at me, Sarika," he said again, and I did.

Wrapped in a cocoon of darkness and shame and ecstasy, I saw a desire so intense it should have burned me.

"Ab main tumhein pelne wala hu," he growled, switching to the cruder, more intimate Hindi.

And then he fucked me.

His pace increased to something

animalistic, primal. His hips slammed into mine, each thrust driving him deeper, harder, more. The wet sounds of our bodies echoed in the room, mixing with my muffled screams and his guttural groans.

I came again—and again—I lost count.

He flipped me over, pulling me onto my hands and knees, and entered me from behind. This angle was even deeper, and I buried my face in the pillow as he fucked me relentlessly.

"Tumhari chut utni hi tight hai jitni maine sochi thi," he panted, slapping my ass hard enough to make it jiggle.

"Ekdum kamaal."

Each slap sent a jolt of pleasure-pain through me. I pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, my body acting on instinct I didn't know I possessed.

I was no longer Sarika Aggarwal, the sanskari wife.

I was just a woman—his woman—being fucked the way she deserved.

His hand moved to my clit, rubbing in circles timed with his thrusts.

"Cum for me," he commanded. "Cum on my cock."

And I did—a massive, shattering orgasm that tore through me and made me scream his name.

That pushed him over the edge. He slammed into me one last time, buried deep, and I felt him release—hot, thick, so much—pumping into me as he groaned my name like a prayer.

We collapsed together, breathing heavily, coated in sweat and the evidence of our sin.

Neither of us spoke for a long time.

He held me, his hand stroking my hair, my back. And I let him.

I didn't think about Vikram, passed out in the next room. I didn't think about tomorrow, or the guilt that was surely waiting for me.

All I knew, in that perfect moment, was that I had felt something.

For the first time in ten years, I had felt alive.

"What happens now?" I finally whispered.

Rohit was silent for a moment. Then he pressed a kiss to my forehead.

"Whatever you want, Sarika. I'm not going to push you into anything."

I turned in his arms and looked at his face—this man who had seen me when no one else had.

"I don't know what I want," I admitted.

But even as I said it, I knew it was a lie.

I knew exactly what I wanted.

I wanted more.

And for the first time in my life, I was ready to take it.

To be continued...?