At the faintest suggestion of dawn—a subtle gray light barely filtering through the curtains… I woke up, my body simultaneously fatigued and charged with unfamiliar energy. Bill lay beside me, his arm draped over my waist with possessive weight, his breathing steady and deep. In terms of physicality, he was markedly larger than Ronnie, both in stature and, quite unmistakably, in other attributes. The recollection of initial intimacy lingered—a brief moment of discomfort, quickly subsumed by a sense of transgression both exhilarating and irresistible.
With deliberate care, I extricated myself from his embrace just enough to retrieve my phone from the bedside table.
The mirror offered an unfiltered reflection: hair disheveled, skin bare, thighs still marked by the evident pressure of another’s grasp. My breathing was measured, the rise and fall of my chest a subtle testament to recent exertion. The physical aftermath lingered—nipples sensitive from prolonged attention, lips parted and swollen, a distinct bite mark marring the skin along my neck.
A faint, almost triumphant smile played at my lips. It was an expression rarely worn except by those who have experienced complete surrender to another’s desire. I had completely surrendered to another's passion, shedding any pretense of innocence or untouched purity. The persistent ache between my thighs was a tangible reminder of repeated intimacy, each movement recalling how he had driven himself into me again and again, emptying his seed deep inside until my body quivered around him, drunk on his release.
As I studied my reflection—the faint sheen upon my skin, the unmistakable evidence of passion along my thighs—I recognized a transformation. Though I appeared disheveled, even used, I felt a heightened sense of vitality and beauty. In this state, I perceived myself as entirely his, marked and possessed both physically and emotionally.
My heart responded with a familiar anxiety as the screen illuminated. Any messages from Ronnie? None. Relief mingled with a detached sense of unreality; he remained oblivious, ensconced in his predictable existence.
Yet there was a solitary message—from Rimi. Her communication, as always, was succinct and direct.
WhatsApp Chat – 5:17 AM IST
Rimi: Did you fuck?
A faint smile formed on my face. She possessed an uncanny intuition for such matters. My response was immediate.
WhatsApp Chat – 5:18 AM IST
Alta: Yes.
Her reply followed in rapid succession, suggesting either insomnia or an unusual anticipation for my confession.
WhatsApp Chat – 5:18 AM IST
Rimi: Go pee, wash and back to bed. Please fuck again.
Her words... unabashed and quintessentially Rimi... elicited a genuine laugh, low and uninhibited. I placed the phone aside, but her directive lingered.
Turning back to Bill, I observed his face in repose... his features softened in sleep, revealing a gentleness not typically visible in his waking state. Yet I was acutely aware of the intensity beneath the surface. Almost involuntarily, my hand found him, already aroused, and I began a slow, measured caress.
He responded with a low sound of pleasure, eyes fluttering open, a slow smile recognizing my touch. “Well, good morning, Bengali beauty,” he greeted, his voice roughened by sleep and desire.
Leaning over him, I allowed my hair to fall around his face. “Good morning, Bill,” I replied, preceding a deep, urgent kiss.
I positioned myself atop him, skin pressed to skin, the contact immediately electric. His arousal increased, evident against my thighs.
“You’re eager,” he noted, his hands anchoring my hips.
“I have a lot of lost time to make up for,” I admitted, voice thick with emotion. I lowered myself onto him, registering the fullness and the surrender inherent in the act. I began to move, gradually establishing a rhythm, guiding our progress. His groans grew in intensity as I quickened my pace, my urgency mounting.
Leaning back, I allowed him to watch... my posture uninhibited, hair damp with sweat, the early light catching on my skin. The persona of a reserved housewife was entirely abandoned; in this moment, I was unapologetically assertive, intent on fulfilling long-suppressed desires.
Our movements grew increasingly frenzied... a wordless exchange of need and release. His grip tightened, meeting my every motion. My nails left faint marks on his back as we moved together, the room filled with breathless sounds. The crescendo was overwhelming; I climaxed intensely, utterly enveloped in sensation.
He followed shortly after, his release marked by a deep, guttural groan. We collapsed together, limbs entwined, sharing in the aftermath.
Yet the morning’s narrative did not conclude there. In the wake of our initial encounter, after soft exchanges and affectionate gestures from Bill, the desire resurfaced... deeper and more insistent. I repositioned myself above him once more, my body still resonant with the aftershocks, prepared for another encounter. The monsoon’s persistent drumming provided a backdrop to our own tempest, as I sought each moment of sensation and the liberation that accompanied it, asserting a freedom previously unknown.
By 7:30 AM, the aftermath of our morning encounter had dissipated, leaving me in a state of pleasant exhaustion and heightened vitality. I had already taken my shower, the residual warmth of the water lingering on my skin, erasing the last traces of our intimacy. As Bill entered the washroom, I reached for my phone, a subtle smile betraying my anticipation.
WhatsApp Chat – 7:31 AM IST
Alta: Twice.
I sent the message, confident that Rimi would interpret its meaning. Her response arrived swiftly.
WhatsApp Chat – 7:32 AM IST
Rimi: Good. Now, get creative. If he initiates anything further... such as oral sex... accept it. Don’t restrain yourself, Mishti.
A flush rose to my skin, not from embarrassment but from a sense of challenge and excitement. Rimi was urging me to explore new boundaries and experiences, encouraging a spirit of creativity and abandonment. I quickly replied, “Promised,” and set the phone aside.
Clad in the hotel’s luxurious bathrobe, I proceeded with my morning routine, appreciating the sensation of rich face cream as I applied it to my skin, neck, and décolletage. The mirror reflected a woman who seemed transformed... radiant, exuding a vitality that sleep alone could not account for.
Bill soon emerged from the shower, a towel resting low on his waist, his hair damp and tousled. The steam accentuated his physique, emphasizing his virility. He approached the vanity, focusing intently on my reflection.
“Alta,” he said, his tone low and resonant, “I want you to get undressed. Complete your makeup. Comb your hair.”
I hesitated, my hands momentarily stilled, my heart racing with a mixture of anxiety and anticipation. The request was unconventional, yet the admiration in his gaze suggested appreciation rather than demand. He sought to witness my transformation, unfiltered and authentic.
Deliberately, I removed the bathrobe, allowing it to fall away. The cool air heightened my awareness, yet I experienced an unexpected sense of empowerment. I began combing my damp hair, detangling the remnants of our earlier passion, then turned to my makeup: eyeliner, blush, and the bold lipstick Rimi had recommended.
Throughout, Bill remained behind me, observing in silence. Eventually, he spoke, his voice sincere and contemplative.
“Your skin,” he remarked, his eyes tracing my back, “is like silk. And your hair... I remember it from that photograph, wild and untamed. It seems to possess a life of its own.”
He stepped closer, his hands lightly resting on my shoulders, his breath warm against my neck. “Your body,” he continued, “every curve and line, the way you moved this morning... it exceeded all my expectations.”
Our eyes met in the mirror. “And your eyes, Alta. Even before meeting you, your voice suggested a certain intensity... a hunger. Now, seeing you, witnessing your response... you make me feel invigorated in a way I haven’t experienced in years. From the beginning, it has always been you.”
His words, imbued with genuine emotion, resonated deeply. It was not merely a physical compliment but an acknowledgement of my entire persona... the woman he had perceived from afar and now cherished intimately. I felt myself blush, not out of shyness, but with a newfound confidence. The timid housewife I once was had vanished; in her place stood Alta... unadorned, self-assured, and wholly herself, validated by Bill’s gaze and affirmation.
As Bill spoke, I experienced a sudden, unexpected warmth—a sensation that seemed to radiate outward, engaging every nerve. His gaze, strikingly direct and brimming with admiration, functioned almost therapeutically, soothing parts of me that had long gone neglected.
Involuntarily, a tear traced its way down my cheek. It became clear that Ronnie had never offered such affirmations, nor had he ever truly acknowledged me in this manner; the depth of desire and appreciation Bill so readily expressed had previously been absent from my experience.
At that moment, I recalled the promise made to Rimi; her directive echoed in my consciousness: “If he tries to make things more carnal… agree.”
It seemed an appropriate time to act upon that advice—to reciprocate William’s openness and to explore the uninhibited dynamic unfolding between us. Meeting his eyes in the mirror, I conveyed silent consent.
Bill’s demeanor shifted perceptibly; a knowing gleam appeared in his eyes. He observed as I approached, and I carefully unwrapped the towel from his waist, allowing it to drop to the floor, joining my discarded bathrobe.
His arousal was evident. Kneeling before him, I maintained eye contact while reaching toward him, my hand registering the heat and texture of his skin. His reaction—a deep, unrestrained groan—signaled pleasure. I inclined forward, with an intent on proceeding, when—
A sudden, persistent knock at the door interrupted us. “Room service!” a cheerful voice declared. “Complimentary breakfast!”
The abrupt intrusion startled me; instinctively, I bolted to the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind me. I could hear Bill moving quickly, rewrapping the towel around his waist.
Shortly thereafter, the door opened. Through a slight gap in the bathroom door, I observed the room service attendant, impeccably attired, as she pushed in a breakfast trolley. She was evidently aware of the events that had unfolded the previous night.
A flush crept across my skin—an uneasy blend of embarrassment and, perhaps, a touch of rebellious exhilaration.
“This is for you, sir,” she announced, her tone composed and impassive. “A special delivery.”
The faint sound of paper being handled reached my ears—an envelope, apparently, and addressed to Bill. My curiosity sharpened. The door closed with a quiet click, and soon after, I heard the cart’s soft wheels receding down the hallway.
Silence settled over the room.
I found myself waiting, breath suspended. Then a low chuckle broke the stillness.
“Alta?” Bill called amusement unmistakable in his tone.
Once she departed, the silence in the room stretched for a moment, punctuated only by the distant sounds of the city.
Then, Bill and I caught each other's eyes, and in a shared, absurd moment of relief and hilarity, we burst out laughing. My sides ached with it, a genuine, unburdened laugh that cleared the tension.
“Well,” Bill remarked, still amused, “that was a close call.”
“Indeed,” I replied, stepping out of the bathroom and hastily securing my bathrobe. The intimate moment had passed, but the shared laughter had introduced a new sense of camaraderie.
"Breakfast first, I think," Bill chuckled, gesturing to the cart. "And this," he added, picking up a thick envelope from the table and handing it to me. "This was addressed to you."
My brow furrowed. Addressed to me, here? I tore it open, pulling out two small packets and a folded note. My eyes scanned the familiar handwriting.
The note read
Alta,
Pills to make sure there for spills
and condoms, dotted and ribbed for fun.
Regards,
Rimi
Yes, the envelope had condoms and morning after pills.
A slow, amused smile spread across my face as I glanced up at Bill. With a question in his eyes, he arched an eyebrow.
"My fairy godmother." I held up the contents of the envelope and said, "Always ready."
With a sly smile, he laughed. Our shared adventure seemed to gain an additional layer of bold humor from the unexpected delivery and the brief interruption. The day had only just begun.
Suddenly I realized, there I was, standing stark naked in front of William—hair tumbling everywhere, not a stitch on me, not even pretending to cover up.
The craziness of the night, Rimi’s little “gift” (if you could call it that), all of it started to hit me. You would think I would be mortified or at least a little sheepish, right?
Nah. Not even close. Honestly, I felt this wild rush of freedom, like I had just kicked down a door somewhere inside myself. I looked at him, actually saw him seeing me, and instead of freaking out, I just… admired him.
And I, too, for actually going through with this whole mad thing. It was not shame bubbling up—nope, nothing like that. It was this electric jolt of “hell yes”—like I had just remembered how damn good it feels to be alive. Especially, with a deep well of self-worth blooming in my chest. This was not shame. This was exhilaration.
The suite was permeated by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and toast... a familiar, almost domestic scent, rendered incongruous by the luxurious and clandestine setting. Through the expansive windows, the city revealed itself gradually, the rain having dissipated to a mere drizzle, imparting a sense of renewal to the air.
Bill, seated across from me, engaged in the ritual of breakfast with a composure that suggested confidence and ease.
“Rimi always has it handled,” he remarked, his tone lightly teasing and his gaze conspiratorially warm.
There existed between us a shared understanding, an implicit acknowledgment of the unusual circumstances that fostered a sense of intimacy.
I responded with a wry smile, gesturing to the items scattered across the table... condoms and birth control pills... symbols of both preparation and spontaneity.
“She plans for everything,” I quipped, noting the unexpected convenience of an early morning delivery service.
The ensuing conversation during breakfast was notably unforced, traversing topics as disparate as Bill’s business ventures, my own experiences in the corporate sphere, literature of mutual interest, and formative memories from our respective childhoods. The interaction was striking in its authenticity, a marked departure from the often-stilted exchanges characterizing my relationship with Ronnie.
With Bill, I experienced a sense of being genuinely heard; he demonstrated an attentiveness to both my explicit statements and the subtler nuances in my tone and demeanor.
Following breakfast, the day unfolded without the imposition of a predetermined schedule. We occupied the suite at a leisurely pace, the demarcations between us diminishing with each shared experience. Another prolonged shower ensued, characterized by an atmosphere of playful intimacy and mutual exploration, heightened by the absence of external pressures.
Several hours were devoted to conversation and shared reflection, whether sprawled on the sofa or reclining on the bed.
Bill shared photographs from his travels... vivid depictions of remote landscapes and bustling marketplaces... and articulated aspirations extending beyond material success. I found myself increasingly engaged by his worldview, which resonated unexpectedly with aspects of myself that had long remained dormant.
Periods of comfortable silence punctuated our time together, filled only by the ambient sounds of the city and the quiet rhythm of our breathing. These intervals facilitated a deeper sense of connection, transcending mere physical attraction to encompass intellectual and emotional affinity.
As afternoon light softened, the resurgence of desire became palpable. Our subsequent intimacy was characterized by a spirit of inquiry and reciprocity; the experience was both liberating and transformative, revealing previously uncharted facets of my own capacity for pleasure and vulnerability.
Bill’s approach was attuned and respectful, fostering an environment in which I felt both safe and exhilarated.
Yet, as daylight faded and the city’s lights emerged, a sense of impending loss began to intrude upon my consciousness. The ephemeral nature of our interlude became increasingly evident; the knowledge that Bill’s departure was imminent cast a shadow over the day’s earlier exuberance.
I found myself cherishing each moment with heightened awareness, acutely conscious of the transient nature of the freedom and connection we had so briefly enjoyed.
The awareness of our imminent separation subtly permeated the atmosphere, introducing a bittersweet gravity to the closing hours of the third day. Both of us remained engaged... conversing, exchanging touch, and making love... yet a heightened intensity underscored these interactions, as if we sought to preserve every fleeting moment. The implicit question of “what comes next?” lingered quietly, unaddressed, as neither of us wished to risk the fragile equilibrium of our shared present. Instead, we consciously chose to remain grounded in the immediate, extracting as much meaning and sensation as possible from the time remaining.
As the evening progressed, Bill arranged for a modest meal to be brought to our room. We dined beside the window, the illuminated Kolkata skyline providing a contemplative backdrop. Our conversation shifted: less concerned with past experiences, more attentive to presenting sensory details... the flavor of the meal, the gentle chill of the air conditioner, the reassuring warmth of his hand atop mine. I found myself memorizing his features, aware that soon these impressions would exist only in memory.
The final act of intimacy that night was distinctly different from earlier encounters. Absent was the urgency of the morning or the exploratory passion of the afternoon; instead, there was a deliberate tenderness, almost reverence, in our actions. We undressed each other slowly, maintaining eye contact that conveyed emotional depth beyond language. Lying together on the crisp sheets, our embrace was characterized by profound gentleness.
His kisses were unhurried, lingering on my lips, neck, and chest. His hands traced my form with care, eliciting sensations that were as emotional as they were physical.
When he finally entered me, it was a gradual, mindful joining... less an expression of raw desire and more a symbolic farewell. Our movements became synchronized, each carrying the weight of impending separation. The climax was gentle and protracted, a mutual exhalation that enveloped us with a sense of closure.
Afterward, he held me close... my head on his chest, attuned to the steadiness of his heartbeat. We remained silent, the quiet suffused with emotions difficult to articulate: joy, connection, and the sorrow that accompanies parting. He pressed a soft kiss to my hair, a gesture of silent benediction.
Sleep came to me in his embrace, the warmth of his body a final comfort that I recognized as unique and unrepeatable. The dreamless rest provided only a brief respite from the reality awaiting us.
Upon waking several hours later, I found the room still cloaked in dimness. Bill was awake, observing me with a perceptive, gentle gaze. He drew me closer, and I felt a surge of emotion... an acute awareness that the fourth day had begun, and with it, the progression toward our inevitable farewell.
The early moments of Day Four entered with a subdued quietness, almost hesitant in its intrusion. Upon awakening, I found myself enveloped in Bill’s arms... a scene marked by a sense of security and intimacy that lingered before the inevitable return of reality. For a brief period, we remained motionless, allowing ourselves to exist within that fleeting sanctuary.
Bill addressed me softly... “Alta” ... his voice lowered in a manner that conveyed intimacy and gravity. As he adjusted his position to face me more directly, his demeanor reflected a tenderness that rendered the forthcoming conversation weighty with significance. “I need to tell you something,” he said, indicating the seriousness of his intent.
Anticipation of a farewell was palpable; the subtle cues in his tone and mannerisms suggested the conversation would be pivotal.
He began by recalling the early stages of our connection. Bill admitted to experiencing intense anticipation and curiosity prior to meeting me, attributing this to the uniqueness of my voice and the dynamic of our interactions. Yet, he also confessed to skepticism... expressing doubts about whether I would appear at all or, if I did, whether the encounter might devolve into superficiality or a transactional experience devoid of genuine connection.
Contrary to his expectations, Bill articulated that what transpired between us surpassed all prior assumptions. He described the encounter as deeply meaningful, emphasizing that the connection extended beyond physical attraction to encompass emotional and even spiritual dimensions. His sincerity was palpable, and he acknowledged the vulnerability and authenticity that characterized our interactions. He noted that the mutual recognition and understanding we experienced was rare and profoundly significant. In closing, he expressed gratitude for my authenticity and presence.
This confession functioned as both a validation of my own emotional risk and a testament to the depth of our connection. The exchange elevated our experience beyond the boundaries of a clandestine affair, imbuing it with significance and authenticity.
In response, I experienced a surge of emotion... my reaction was marked by visible tears and a constriction in my throat.
It was, by all accounts, my opportunity to articulate an internal transformation catalyzed by his presence. I addressed him directly: “Bill,” I began... my initial vocal uncertainty giving way to increased confidence. “I experienced everything you just described. The emotions, the significance... all of it.” I referenced the enduring influence of social and personal expectations: the role of the dutiful spouse, the competent professional, and the individual conditioned to suppress inconvenient or disruptive feelings.
A tear escaped... an involuntary but telling physiological response. I continued, “Ronnie, my husband, is a decent man by most standards, yet he ceased to perceive my authentic self long ago.
He never inquired about the concealed dimensions of my identity... those seeking adventure, passion, or novelty.
Over time, I lost sight of those aspects as well, presuming contentment was found in stability and routine. Your presence, however, disrupted that assumption profoundly.”
I reached for his hand, seeking tactile connection to underscore my words. “Our dialogues... even those mediated by technology... offered a sense of being truly seen. You evoked emotions I had not encountered since adolescence.
It was as if you reawakened a dormant part of me. This encounter, though anxiety-provoking, has also been the most vivid and authentic experience I have had in years. I was unaware that I could experience such vitality, desirability, and recognition.
My gaze met his, communicating vulnerability and sincere appreciation. “You did not merely engage with me physically, Bill; you reached the core of my being. You have reminded me of who I am... or could be... and I will retain this insight moving forward. The confession concluded, leaving me somewhat breathless from the act of disclosure.
Yet, despite the profundity of our exchange, I was acutely aware of its temporal limitations. The unique, almost insulated environment we had constructed was approaching its inevitable dissolution.
The H-Hour of Day Four unfolded with a palpable sense of finality, underscoring the imminent separation that lay ahead.
My actions were marked by a subdued efficiency; I donned the Bengali saree and blouse I had brought from home. The vivid colors, so celebratory in essence, seemed to carry the weight of both festivity and mourning. As I methodically arranged the saree, I realized... almost with embarrassment... that I had neglected to pack a bra amidst the hurried preparations with Rimi. My undergarments, particularly my panties, appeared to have vanished, casualties of the previous days’ emotional tumult. In their absence, I wrapped the saree as best I could, the fabric resting loosely and freely against my skin. I left my hair unbound, aware that William had always preferred it that way... a subtle, final gesture acknowledging the intensity of the days preceding this departure.
Bill had organized transportation to the airport, and the drive was characterized by a profound silence, broken only by his intermittent, reassuring squeezes of my hand.
Each passing minute seemed to heighten the sense of loss, as though time itself was eroding what little remained of our shared experience.
Upon arriving at Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose International Airport, I was immediately struck by the abrupt transition from the intimate seclusion of the hotel suite to the bustling, impersonal public space.
Our progress toward the departure gate was slow, weighed by the unspoken gravity of impending farewell.
At the security checkpoint, Bill turned to face me. His typically assured demeanor was replaced by an unmistakable sadness.
“Alta,” he began, his voice strained by emotion, “this isn’t goodbye. It’s... until we meet again.” He drew me into an embrace, a gesture that seemed to encapsulate all that could not be articulated.
Bereft of words, I held onto him, overcome by grief. Tears streamed down my face, blurring my vision in a way that seemed to mirror my internal tumult.
The intensity of my emotional response rendered me speechless; words felt inadequate. Bill’s arms tightened around me, and I could sense his own struggle. He pressed his lips to my hair, a silent recognition of the pain we both shared.
He eventually withdrew, meeting my gaze for a final, lingering moment before turning toward the security gate and disappearing into the crowd.
I remained in place, tears continuing to fall, as the ambient noise of the airport became overwhelming... a jarring contrast to the emotional intimacy I was leaving behind.
In time, as the acute pain of parting subsided into a dull ache, I instinctively gathered and secured my hair into a neat bun.
This small act offered a measure of comfort, a way of re-establishing composure and signaling a return to the familiar conventions of daily life. I picked up my duffle bag which had my things in it.
The journey back to Rimi’s, and then ultimately home, now loomed ahead. In a very real sense, the world and I had both changed. The woman leaving the airport was fundamentally different from the one who had arrived; reconciling these two versions of myself would be the next challenge.
The journey from the airport to Rimi’s unfolded with agonizing slowness. Each moment in the cab seemed to stretch into an eternity, contrasting sharply with the intense, exhilarating experiences I had just left behind.
Kolkata, a city typically alive with vibrant sound and color, now pressed in on me, its familiar chaos transformed into a stifling force. The neat bun I wore felt less like a hairstyle and more like an attempt at self-restraint, as if carefully containing the multitude of conflicting emotions within me. Outside, the air hung thick and humid, underscoring the stark disparity between my current reality and the cool, intimate sanctuary of Bill’s suite.
Every passing landmark, every street vendor, served as an unmistakable reminder of the life I was returning to... a life that now seemed irrevocably altered.
My phone, gripped tightly in my hand, remained silent. Bill had not messaged. I had not expected immediate contact, yet some newly awakened part of me still longed for that digital affirmation, a signal that our connection had not simply dissipated with his departure. I had intentionally avoided any discussion about future communication, fearing that such practicalities might diminish the authenticity of our shared experience.
When the cab finally arrived at Rimi’s Makeover, the salon felt like an anchor amidst emotional turbulence. The scent of jasmine and sandalwood, once merely comforting, now carried a weightier significance. The warm light spilling into the dusk signaled a place of safety.
Rimi was waiting at the counter, a partially finished glass of lime soda in hand. She did not immediately speak or offer a hug, but her gaze was attentive and searching, as if reading the emotional turmoil written across my face. I felt tears threaten once more, a renewed surge of grief rising within me.
Her voice was gentle: “Oh, Alta, come here.” This time, she reached out, embracing me with a fierce, grounding hug. My composure dissolved, and I wept... deep, wrenching sobs that seemed to strip away something essential. It was not only Bill’s absence that pained me, but also the end of an extraordinary, improbable dream and the weight of returning to a reality that now appeared diminished and ordinary.
“Let it out, darling,” Rimi whispered soothingly as she loosened my tightly bound hair. “Let it all out.”
She led me to a small, private room at the back of the salon... a quiet, familiar refuge. I sat on a low daybed, surrounded by soft cushions. Rimi brought me water and the morning-after pills, followed by a cup of ginger tea, the warmth of which provided modest comfort amid my emotional exhaustion.
“Was he good?” Rimi asked.
I could not speak for a moment.
Rimi asked again, “Was he good when he was fucking you, Mrs. Alta Bose?”
“Yes…” I finally said, “we did it for two full days, but… he was… he was… really good.”
“Did you like it?” Rimi wanted it all out from me.
“Yes…” I burst into tears.
Once my sobs subsided, Rimi spoke with gentle humor, “The prodigal daughter returns. Tell me everything. Or nothing. Whatever you need.”
Despite my raw emotions, her words elicited a faint smile. “He was… everything, Rimi. More. It was not only physical... though, honestly, that was transformative.”
Rimi responded with understated amusement, validating my experience.
I confessed, “He saw me. Not just in appearance, but wholly. He said he never imagined such a connection was possible, that he feared it would be superficial or transactional.” The recollection brought renewed emotion. “And I felt it, too. The bond was genuine. Now he is gone.”
Rimi took my hand, her tone serious. “This is the normalization... the return to reality. It hurts because it was real. Do not minimize it by calling it a simple fling. It was profound, and it has changed you.”
“But what now?” I asked, glancing around the familiar room, the scents grounding me. The idea of returning to Ronnie, whose presence felt distant, seemed unbearable.
Rimi’s reply was resolute: “You do not go back. You move forward. What you learned, what you became with Bill... you carry that forward. That woman is now a part of you.”
She paused, with her gaze intent. “The question is, what will you do with her?”
I could not help but let the deluge of emotions pour out uncontrollably. “Discussing this isn’t exactly easy, but since you’ve asked, I must admit it openly. The question of why women like me—specifically Indian women—pursue extramarital affairs is far from straightforward. It’s a complex interplay of emotional, societal, and personal factors, each weaving into the next, forming something almost impossibly tangled.
Personally, the predominant feeling was a persistent sense of emptiness. It wasn’t a literal absence but rather an emotional void—a profound disconnect within my marriage. Over time, the relationship devolved into a set of obligations.
Mealtimes, for example, became routine exercises rather than moments of genuine connection. Communication dwindled until it was nearly nonexistent, leaving me feeling invisible in my own home.
Intimacy, when it occurred, felt mechanical or entirely absent. This longing for authentic connection—someone to truly see and value me—grew steadily. The monotony of daily life began to feel oppressive, making the prospect of excitement and emotional engagement elsewhere extraordinarily appealing.
As I grew up, just like any other young woman in India, I had to endure overwhelming expectations: to marry, bear children, and fulfill prescribed roles as wives and daughters-in-law. Often, these life choices aren’t entirely one’s own. Many women, me included, find themselves following a predetermined path, only to realize later that their autonomy was limited from the start. In recent times, increased visibility of independent women in media and daily life introduces the possibility of agency—of making choices for oneself, even if those choices defy traditional norms. This exposure often leads to a reevaluation of internalized values and expectations.
I needed validation. As one ages, it’s common to question one’s desirability and relevance, especially if a partner becomes inattentive. Recognition and appreciation from another person can be powerfully affirming, reigniting feelings of self-worth. Sometimes, all it takes is a chance encounter—either at work or online—with someone who perceives and appreciates aspects of you that your spouse overlooks.
In my case, it was just the opportunity—I met someone at work or online, someone who understands a part of me that my spouse doesn't, and one thing led to another. The experience is often fraught with guilt and secrecy, and yes, a thrill that I had not known… till now. Thus, in moments of profound isolation, the impulse to seek connection elsewhere can become overwhelming.”
Rimi held me in her embrace and said, “I know… you are not the only one. As far as William Saxton is concerned, he is not gone. He will be back, but the next time you will meet him as a friend and a lover whom you already know… that thrill, and excitement of the unknown will be missing. As of now, you need to ground your feelings and be the normal you. At this time, it is advisable to remain composed and maintain your usual level of professionalism.”
Thus began the process of normalization, not with dramatic transformation, but through the steady presence of a true friend. The pain remained, but beneath it, a new sense of possibility emerged... a question and a challenge, signaling the beginning of a new chapter.
The end
