13-06-2025, 02:42 AM
Lovely story...... I know it's going to be a hotter story ahead in the future updates
Adultery Fathima - wife to slutty broker (With Pics)
13-06-2025, 03:22 AM
Update 5:
Fathima sat up, the cold air of the room hitting her naked skin. She stretched, arching her back in a silent yawn, the soft curves of her body on display. Her breasts, full and firm, bounced slightly with the movement, the nipples puckered from the chill. Her hand trailed down her stomach, the softness of her belly a stark contrast to the tautness of her thighs. She remembered the unsatisfied ache from the previous night, the memory of her own hand bringing her to climax while Aslam in bathroom.
Her thoughts drifted to the office, to Mr. Dsouza and Rahul, and the way their eyes had lingered on her body. A blush crept up her neck as she recalled the thrill of their gazes, the way they had made her feel desired, powerful. It was a stark contrast to the man snoring softly beside her, the man she had promised to love and cherish until the end of her days.
Fathima reached for her phone, the screen glowing in the dark like a beacon of excitement. She opened WhatsApp and found the message from Rahul, complete with the location and a picture of the house she would be selling. It was a beautiful property, nestled in the upscale neighborhood of Adyar, surrounded by lush greenery and towering palm trees. The message read, "This is the house you will be going to sell. The businessman coming is an NRI, around 45 years old. The fixed price is 85 Lakhs, but if he negotiates, don't go under 78 Lakhs."
Her heart raced as she studied the image, her mind racing with thoughts of the challenge ahead. She had never sold a property before, but something about this assignment felt right—like it was tailor-made to push her out of her comfort zone and into the spotlight. She knew that selling this house would be a significant milestone in her career and a chance to prove herself to Mr. Dsouza and Rahul.
With a renewed sense of purpose, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, her feet hitting the cool tiles with a soft thud. The room was still, the only sound being the steady rhythm of Aslam's snores. She knew she had to get going, to start her day with the same determination that had fueled her the day before.
"Ok. Where can I find the key for the house?" she typed out, her thumbs moving swiftly over the phone's screen. Her heart was racing with excitement and a hint of nerves. It was a simple question, but one that held the key to her future at Elite Properties. She had never felt this way before, this thrill of the chase, the thrill of the unknown.
The reply came instantly: "There is a watchman, I have already informed your name to him. He will open the doors for you." The message was from Rahul, her senior agent and the man whose approval she craved. Fathima felt a shiver run down her spine, a mix of excitement and trepidation. This was it—her first real test at the job she had fought so hard to get.
With a renewed sense of purpose, she slipped into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over her body, washing away the last vestiges of sleep and doubt. The steam filled the room, a veil that shrouded her in a cocoon of warmth. She lathered herself with soap, her hands moving over her curves with a newfound sense of purpose.
When she emerged from the bathroom, the mirror reflected a woman who was no longer just Aslam's conservative wife but also a budding professional. She walked over to the wardrobe, her eyes scanning the neatly arranged rows of clothes. Gone were the days of hiding behind layers of fabric. Today, she would dress for success.
But as she rummaged through the garments, she realized with a pang of annoyance that she had none of the modern dresses that were the norm at Elite Properties. The best she could find was a blue color kurta with a deep neckline, something she had bought for a distant relative's wedding but never had the courage to wear before. She slipped it over her head, feeling the silky fabric brush against her skin, the neckline dipping lower than she was accustomed to.
![[Image: download-84.jpg]](https://i.postimg.cc/zVz33b02/download-84.jpg)
In the mirror, she saw a glimpse of the woman she had been in college, the one who had flirted without consequence, who had been confident in her sexuality. With a deep breath, she decided to embrace this side of herself, if only for the day. She applied a touch of makeup, her eyes smoldering with a hint of kajal, her lips painted a bold red. Her hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, a stark contrast to the usual bun she sported.
But as she stepped out of the room, she realized she couldn't face her in-laws looking like this. She quickly grabbed a dupatta, wrapping it around her shoulders and tying it in a way that artfully concealed the plunging neckline of her kurta. The fabric dbangd gracefully over her, creating an illusion of modesty that she knew was just for show. She took one last look in the mirror, her eyes meeting her own, and for a moment, she didn't recognize the woman staring back at her.
![[Image: download-87.jpg]](https://i.postimg.cc/Z9pJw4wy/download-87.jpg)
In the kitchen, she found the tea pot steaming on the stove, the aroma of cardamom and ginger filling the air. Lakshmi, their usual morning help, was nowhere to be seen, but Fathima didn't bother to look for her. She was used to her erratic behavior. Instead, she grabbed a cup, pouring herself a steaming cup of tea, the liquid a warm embrace against her palms. The sweetness of the chai was a comfort, a reminder of the home she had built here.
But just as she took a sip, the sound of shuffling footsteps made her freeze. She turned to see Lakshmi emerging from Rahman's room, her eyes wide and her face flushed. Fathima's hand trembled, the cup rattling in the saucer. She had never seen Lakshmi look like this—disheveled and nervous. Their gazes met, and Fathima felt a flicker of something unsettling pass between them—knowledge, guilt, or perhaps something more.
![[Image: download-48.jpg]](https://i.postimg.cc/qNY7mm0W/download-48.jpg)
"Why are you coming out of Rahman's room?" Fathima's voice was calm, but the question hung in the air, heavy with accusation. Lakshmi looked at her, a deer caught in headlights, her eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape.
"Rah-Rah-Rahman," Lakshmi stammered, her cheeks flushing a deep shade of red. "Rahman...he...he wanted me to clean his room," she finally managed to blurt out. Fathima's gaze narrowed, the sweetness of the tea on her tongue suddenly tasting bitter. She knew that look, had seen it on the faces of men who couldn't resist her charm back in college.
Forcing a smile, she set the cup down with a clatter. "I will talk to you about it later," she said, her tone measured. "Now come and help me make breakfast." The words hung in the air, a silent order that Lakshmi couldn't dare refuse. With a quick nod, Lakshmi scurried over, her eyes cast downward in deference.
The kitchen was a flurry of activity as they worked in silence, the sizzle of the dosa pan and the aroma of sambar filling the air. Fathima's mind raced with thoughts of Lakshmi and Rahman, her own secret desires at work, and the challenge that awaited her at the house in Adyar. She kneaded the dough with more force than necessary, her frustration seeping into every fold and turn.
As she served the crispy golden dosas onto the plates, she couldn't help but feel a sense of detachment from the mundane routine. The way Aslam's parents looked at her with fondness and expectation, the way Rahman's eyes lingered on her, even in his guilt—it was all just a facade. But she played her part, dishing out the food with a smile, filling their cups with tea, and asking about their plans for the day.
Aslam and Rahman left the house, their footsteps echoing down the hallway. Aslam, with his slightly paunchy belly and kind eyes, headed to the bank where he had worked for the past decade. Fathima knew he felt proud of his stable job, his ability to provide for his family. He had no idea of the tumultuous storm brewing within her, the desires that had been unlocked by the allure of her new career.
Rahman, on the other hand, walked out with a swagger that was incongruent with his usual demeanor. His eyes held a secret, a knowing glint that Fathima had never seen before. She watched from the kitchen window as he disappeared around the corner, her heart racing. The thought of his infidelity with Lakshmi was a slap in the face, a stark reminder that the world was not as simple as the neat, orderly rows of clothes in their wardrobe.
Fathima took a deep breath, the scent of sizzling dosas and the aroma of simmering sambar grounding her in the present. She glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall, the second hand ticking away like a metronome. It was 9 AM, and she had a meeting with destiny. She turned to Meera, her voice calm despite the tempest in her mind. "I'm going out for a bit," she said, her eyes not quite meeting her mother-in-law's gaze. "I have some work to do."
Fathima's heart hammered against her ribs as she slipped on her sandals and picked up her purse. The dupatta was still wrapped around her, a silent shield against the world outside. She didn't dare tell them where she was going or what she was about to do—they would never understand the fiery ambition that had been awakened within her. They would only see the scandalous neckline of her kurta and the boldness of her red lips.
As she stepped out of the apartment, the bright sunlight hit her eyes, making her squint. The corridor was empty, the only sound the distant hum of the elevator. She took the stairs, her heels clicking against the cement, echoing in the stairwell. When she reached the ground floor, she pushed the door open and stepped into the bustling street, the cacophony of Chennai's traffic assaulting her senses.
Fathima scanned the street, searching for the familiar yellow and black of Rajesh's autorickshaw. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and exhaust fumes, a symphony of the city's chaotic charm. Her eyes fell on the line of autos parked outside, each with a driver eagerly awaiting his next fare. But there was no sign of Rajesh's cheerful grin.
Just as she was about to give up hope, she heard his voice call out from the corner of the street. "Where to today, Madam?" He waved at her, the same infectious smile playing on his lips that had made her heart flutter during their first meeting. She felt a thrill run through her as she approached him, the memory of their shared flirtation a secret thrill.
"2nd Street, Adayar," she said, her voice steady despite the butterflies in her stomach. She slid into the back of the autorickshaw, the plastic seat sticky legs. The engine sputtered to life, and they were off, weaving through the chaotic tapestry of Chennai's streets.
As they drove, Fathima noticed Rajesh taking glances at her through the rearview mirror, his eyes flicking down to her chest. She felt a thrill of power at the knowledge that she could make him want her so easily. But she remained stoic, the dupatta still securely in place, covering her modest cleavage. Each time he looked, she could see the flicker of disappointment in his eyes, the realization that she was not the easy prey he had assumed.
The tension in the small vehicle grew palpable, the air thick with unspoken desires. Fathima's hand hovered over the fabric, her fingers itching to reveal more. Finally, as they turned onto a quieter street, she let one side of her dupatta slide down, the fabric caressing her skin as it fell away. Her clavicle was bared, the soft slope of her breast hinting at the treasure beneath. She watched his gaze in the mirror as it followed the movement, his pupils dilating with want.
![[Image: download-86.jpg]](https://i.postimg.cc/K3ZcKwr3/download-86.jpg)
Fathima sat up, the cold air of the room hitting her naked skin. She stretched, arching her back in a silent yawn, the soft curves of her body on display. Her breasts, full and firm, bounced slightly with the movement, the nipples puckered from the chill. Her hand trailed down her stomach, the softness of her belly a stark contrast to the tautness of her thighs. She remembered the unsatisfied ache from the previous night, the memory of her own hand bringing her to climax while Aslam in bathroom.
Her thoughts drifted to the office, to Mr. Dsouza and Rahul, and the way their eyes had lingered on her body. A blush crept up her neck as she recalled the thrill of their gazes, the way they had made her feel desired, powerful. It was a stark contrast to the man snoring softly beside her, the man she had promised to love and cherish until the end of her days.
Fathima reached for her phone, the screen glowing in the dark like a beacon of excitement. She opened WhatsApp and found the message from Rahul, complete with the location and a picture of the house she would be selling. It was a beautiful property, nestled in the upscale neighborhood of Adyar, surrounded by lush greenery and towering palm trees. The message read, "This is the house you will be going to sell. The businessman coming is an NRI, around 45 years old. The fixed price is 85 Lakhs, but if he negotiates, don't go under 78 Lakhs."
Her heart raced as she studied the image, her mind racing with thoughts of the challenge ahead. She had never sold a property before, but something about this assignment felt right—like it was tailor-made to push her out of her comfort zone and into the spotlight. She knew that selling this house would be a significant milestone in her career and a chance to prove herself to Mr. Dsouza and Rahul.
With a renewed sense of purpose, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, her feet hitting the cool tiles with a soft thud. The room was still, the only sound being the steady rhythm of Aslam's snores. She knew she had to get going, to start her day with the same determination that had fueled her the day before.
"Ok. Where can I find the key for the house?" she typed out, her thumbs moving swiftly over the phone's screen. Her heart was racing with excitement and a hint of nerves. It was a simple question, but one that held the key to her future at Elite Properties. She had never felt this way before, this thrill of the chase, the thrill of the unknown.
The reply came instantly: "There is a watchman, I have already informed your name to him. He will open the doors for you." The message was from Rahul, her senior agent and the man whose approval she craved. Fathima felt a shiver run down her spine, a mix of excitement and trepidation. This was it—her first real test at the job she had fought so hard to get.
With a renewed sense of purpose, she slipped into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over her body, washing away the last vestiges of sleep and doubt. The steam filled the room, a veil that shrouded her in a cocoon of warmth. She lathered herself with soap, her hands moving over her curves with a newfound sense of purpose.
When she emerged from the bathroom, the mirror reflected a woman who was no longer just Aslam's conservative wife but also a budding professional. She walked over to the wardrobe, her eyes scanning the neatly arranged rows of clothes. Gone were the days of hiding behind layers of fabric. Today, she would dress for success.
But as she rummaged through the garments, she realized with a pang of annoyance that she had none of the modern dresses that were the norm at Elite Properties. The best she could find was a blue color kurta with a deep neckline, something she had bought for a distant relative's wedding but never had the courage to wear before. She slipped it over her head, feeling the silky fabric brush against her skin, the neckline dipping lower than she was accustomed to.
In the mirror, she saw a glimpse of the woman she had been in college, the one who had flirted without consequence, who had been confident in her sexuality. With a deep breath, she decided to embrace this side of herself, if only for the day. She applied a touch of makeup, her eyes smoldering with a hint of kajal, her lips painted a bold red. Her hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, a stark contrast to the usual bun she sported.
But as she stepped out of the room, she realized she couldn't face her in-laws looking like this. She quickly grabbed a dupatta, wrapping it around her shoulders and tying it in a way that artfully concealed the plunging neckline of her kurta. The fabric dbangd gracefully over her, creating an illusion of modesty that she knew was just for show. She took one last look in the mirror, her eyes meeting her own, and for a moment, she didn't recognize the woman staring back at her.
In the kitchen, she found the tea pot steaming on the stove, the aroma of cardamom and ginger filling the air. Lakshmi, their usual morning help, was nowhere to be seen, but Fathima didn't bother to look for her. She was used to her erratic behavior. Instead, she grabbed a cup, pouring herself a steaming cup of tea, the liquid a warm embrace against her palms. The sweetness of the chai was a comfort, a reminder of the home she had built here.
But just as she took a sip, the sound of shuffling footsteps made her freeze. She turned to see Lakshmi emerging from Rahman's room, her eyes wide and her face flushed. Fathima's hand trembled, the cup rattling in the saucer. She had never seen Lakshmi look like this—disheveled and nervous. Their gazes met, and Fathima felt a flicker of something unsettling pass between them—knowledge, guilt, or perhaps something more.
"Why are you coming out of Rahman's room?" Fathima's voice was calm, but the question hung in the air, heavy with accusation. Lakshmi looked at her, a deer caught in headlights, her eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape.
"Rah-Rah-Rahman," Lakshmi stammered, her cheeks flushing a deep shade of red. "Rahman...he...he wanted me to clean his room," she finally managed to blurt out. Fathima's gaze narrowed, the sweetness of the tea on her tongue suddenly tasting bitter. She knew that look, had seen it on the faces of men who couldn't resist her charm back in college.
Forcing a smile, she set the cup down with a clatter. "I will talk to you about it later," she said, her tone measured. "Now come and help me make breakfast." The words hung in the air, a silent order that Lakshmi couldn't dare refuse. With a quick nod, Lakshmi scurried over, her eyes cast downward in deference.
The kitchen was a flurry of activity as they worked in silence, the sizzle of the dosa pan and the aroma of sambar filling the air. Fathima's mind raced with thoughts of Lakshmi and Rahman, her own secret desires at work, and the challenge that awaited her at the house in Adyar. She kneaded the dough with more force than necessary, her frustration seeping into every fold and turn.
As she served the crispy golden dosas onto the plates, she couldn't help but feel a sense of detachment from the mundane routine. The way Aslam's parents looked at her with fondness and expectation, the way Rahman's eyes lingered on her, even in his guilt—it was all just a facade. But she played her part, dishing out the food with a smile, filling their cups with tea, and asking about their plans for the day.
Aslam and Rahman left the house, their footsteps echoing down the hallway. Aslam, with his slightly paunchy belly and kind eyes, headed to the bank where he had worked for the past decade. Fathima knew he felt proud of his stable job, his ability to provide for his family. He had no idea of the tumultuous storm brewing within her, the desires that had been unlocked by the allure of her new career.
Rahman, on the other hand, walked out with a swagger that was incongruent with his usual demeanor. His eyes held a secret, a knowing glint that Fathima had never seen before. She watched from the kitchen window as he disappeared around the corner, her heart racing. The thought of his infidelity with Lakshmi was a slap in the face, a stark reminder that the world was not as simple as the neat, orderly rows of clothes in their wardrobe.
Fathima took a deep breath, the scent of sizzling dosas and the aroma of simmering sambar grounding her in the present. She glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall, the second hand ticking away like a metronome. It was 9 AM, and she had a meeting with destiny. She turned to Meera, her voice calm despite the tempest in her mind. "I'm going out for a bit," she said, her eyes not quite meeting her mother-in-law's gaze. "I have some work to do."
Fathima's heart hammered against her ribs as she slipped on her sandals and picked up her purse. The dupatta was still wrapped around her, a silent shield against the world outside. She didn't dare tell them where she was going or what she was about to do—they would never understand the fiery ambition that had been awakened within her. They would only see the scandalous neckline of her kurta and the boldness of her red lips.
As she stepped out of the apartment, the bright sunlight hit her eyes, making her squint. The corridor was empty, the only sound the distant hum of the elevator. She took the stairs, her heels clicking against the cement, echoing in the stairwell. When she reached the ground floor, she pushed the door open and stepped into the bustling street, the cacophony of Chennai's traffic assaulting her senses.
Fathima scanned the street, searching for the familiar yellow and black of Rajesh's autorickshaw. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and exhaust fumes, a symphony of the city's chaotic charm. Her eyes fell on the line of autos parked outside, each with a driver eagerly awaiting his next fare. But there was no sign of Rajesh's cheerful grin.
Just as she was about to give up hope, she heard his voice call out from the corner of the street. "Where to today, Madam?" He waved at her, the same infectious smile playing on his lips that had made her heart flutter during their first meeting. She felt a thrill run through her as she approached him, the memory of their shared flirtation a secret thrill.
"2nd Street, Adayar," she said, her voice steady despite the butterflies in her stomach. She slid into the back of the autorickshaw, the plastic seat sticky legs. The engine sputtered to life, and they were off, weaving through the chaotic tapestry of Chennai's streets.
As they drove, Fathima noticed Rajesh taking glances at her through the rearview mirror, his eyes flicking down to her chest. She felt a thrill of power at the knowledge that she could make him want her so easily. But she remained stoic, the dupatta still securely in place, covering her modest cleavage. Each time he looked, she could see the flicker of disappointment in his eyes, the realization that she was not the easy prey he had assumed.
The tension in the small vehicle grew palpable, the air thick with unspoken desires. Fathima's hand hovered over the fabric, her fingers itching to reveal more. Finally, as they turned onto a quieter street, she let one side of her dupatta slide down, the fabric caressing her skin as it fell away. Her clavicle was bared, the soft slope of her breast hinting at the treasure beneath. She watched his gaze in the mirror as it followed the movement, his pupils dilating with want.
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/images/bootbb/collapse_collapsed.png)
13-06-2025, 06:29 PM
Very good few chapters
Sexy too. Hope this story gives us an amazing ride.
As is the customary for writers to make wimp husbands that the wife willy nilly betray, which is nearly every story. Can we have one where the husband slowly is made aware by the wife the demand of the job, how she must dress sexy and act sexy? that once she is out of the house she will show her cleavage and wear sexy clothes and get felt up. Maybe have an inner turmoil down this path for this couple. Maybe he will slowly help her buy dresses and stuff as it seems he is good guy that wants what his wife wants. Maybe rahman can help Fathima make his brother understand that this new sexy fathima is best of her and maybe in this process also help fathima become sexy.
Just my two cents (maybe five cents)
best of luck
Sexy too. Hope this story gives us an amazing ride.
As is the customary for writers to make wimp husbands that the wife willy nilly betray, which is nearly every story. Can we have one where the husband slowly is made aware by the wife the demand of the job, how she must dress sexy and act sexy? that once she is out of the house she will show her cleavage and wear sexy clothes and get felt up. Maybe have an inner turmoil down this path for this couple. Maybe he will slowly help her buy dresses and stuff as it seems he is good guy that wants what his wife wants. Maybe rahman can help Fathima make his brother understand that this new sexy fathima is best of her and maybe in this process also help fathima become sexy.
Just my two cents (maybe five cents)
best of luck
13-06-2025, 08:05 PM
(13-06-2025, 06:29 PM)thunderblunder Wrote: Very good few chapters
Sexy too. Hope this story gives us an amazing ride.
As is the customary for writers to make wimp husbands that the wife willy nilly betray, which is nearly every story. Can we have one where the husband slowly is made aware by the wife the demand of the job, how she must dress sexy and act sexy? that once she is out of the house she will show her cleavage and wear sexy clothes and get felt up. Maybe have an inner turmoil down this path for this couple. Maybe he will slowly help her buy dresses and stuff as it seems he is good guy that wants what his wife wants. Maybe rahman can help Fathima make his brother understand that this new sexy fathima is best of her and maybe in this process also help fathima become sexy.
Just my two cents (maybe five cents)
best of luck
Yes, i have the same vision. But it will come into the story on later time. Now fathima is focussed on her career. I will not make the husband a whimp and i will surely involve rahman with fathima. All the characters will have their own slutty side.
13-06-2025, 11:11 PM
Fathima is like an onion. Revealing her secrets and thoughts one after another.
14-06-2025, 04:18 AM
14-06-2025, 01:29 PM
Will she get a house for her family in elite properties by adjusting with d'souza
15-06-2025, 02:47 AM
Update 6:
Rajesh's hand darted to his crotch, a swift, almost imperceptible movement. He was adjusting himself, his lungi straining against his burgeoning arousal. Fathima's eyes widened, a thrill racing through her. He was just as affected as she was, his body betraying his thoughts. She felt a strange sense of power, knowing that she had this effect on him—a man she had only just met. Her heart raced as she wondered how far this flirtation would go.
"Anna, any problem?" she asked teasingly, her voice a silky purr that she had never heard from herself before. The question hung in the air, loaded with innuendo. His eyes darted to hers in the mirror, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he grinned, showing off his crooked teeth.
"No, no, Madam," he replied, his voice stumbling over the words. "Just curious. What do you work as?" Fathima felt a thrill at his blatant interest, his gaze lingering on the now-exposed flesh of her neck and shoulders.
Leaning forward, she allowed the dupatta to slip further, her breasts pressing against the fabric of her kurta. "I'm a real estate broker," she said, her voice low and teasing. The words rolled off her tongue like a caress, leaving no doubt as to her intentions. "I help people find their dream homes."
Rajesh's eyes widened in the mirror, his breath hitching in his throat. He stumbled over his words, his cheeks coloring as he stared at her cleavage. "Ah, that's... that's very nice," he managed to croak out. His hand hovered over the gear shift, fingers trembling slightly.
The autorickshaw pulled up in front of the house, a sprawling bungalow that gleamed in the morning sun. Fathima stepped out, her heels sinking into the plush grass. She turned to Rajesh, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Could you wait for me, Rajesh?" she asked sweetly. "I might need a ride back."
He nodded, his eyes never leaving her. "Of course, Madam," he said, his voice a little too eager. She could see the desire in his eyes, the way his hand hovered over his crotch again. It was a silent understanding between them—a promise of something more to come if she played her cards right.
Fathima turned and began walking towards the gate of the house, her hips swaying with each step. The watchman, a boy of no more than eighteen, sat on a chair, his eyes glued to the screen of his phone. He looked up as she approached, his eyes widening at the sight of her. His T-shirt was stained, the words "Elite Security" barely legible against the faded fabric. His shorts were too tight, revealing the muscles in his legs that he probably thought were impressive.
As she drew closer, he quickly scrambled to his feet, his phone slipping from his grasp to land with a clatter on the cobblestone path. "Ma'am," he stuttered, his eyes darting to her chest before hastily averting them. "Rahul sir sent me the message. You're here to show the property?"
Fathima looked at him, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "Yes," she said, her voice a little louder than necessary. "Open the gate. I want to see the house before the guest arrives." She watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard, his gaze flicking back to the plunging neckline of her kurta. The fabric clung to her skin, the slight dampness from the morning air making it almost transparent. She knew what he was thinking, and she reveled in the power of it.
He fumbled with the keys, his hands shaking as he tried to unlock the gate. She took a step closer, the scent of her jasmine perfume enveloping him. His eyes darted up to meet hers, and she could see the war raging in them—desire and duty fighting for supremacy. With a final click, the gate swung open, revealing a path lined with blooming flowers that led to the house.
"Thank you," she said, her voice a seductive whisper that seemed to linger in the air. As she walked past him, she made sure her breasts brushed against his arm, the fabric of her kurta whispering against his skin. His eyes followed her hungrily, his breath hitching in his throat.
Inside the house, Fathima's heels clicked against the gleaming marble floor, echoing through the empty halls. The duplex was a testament to modern architecture, with high ceilings and vast, open spaces that seemed to stretch on forever. Each room was tastefully decorated, the walls painted in soothing pastels that made her feel both at home and in awe of the opulence she had never known.
The living room was a vision of luxury, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a stunning view of the lush garden outside. The walls were adorned with abstract art, and the light fixtures sparkled like diamonds in the sunlight streaming in. But amidst this grandeur, the absence of furniture was stark—like an untouched canvas waiting for an artist's brush.
Suddenly, the serenity of the moment was shattered by the distant rumble of a car engine. Fathima's ears perked up, her heart racing. She knew that sound—it was the client. She took one last look in the mirror, smoothing out her dupatta and ensuring her makeup was still in place. Her eyes searched the room for any signs of imperfection, any reason for the client to hesitate.
Her thoughts raced as she hurried out of the house, her heels clicking against the marble floor. As she stepped onto the porch, she caught her breath—there it was, a sleek black Jaguar parked right in front, gleaming under the midday sun. It was the kind of car that whispered money and power, the kind that made men like Men's eyes widen with envy.
And then, the door swung open, and out stepped the client. He was not the portly, middle-aged man that Rahul had described; instead, he was a vision of masculine beauty, his chiseled jaw and piercing gaze leaving Fathima momentarily speechless. Dressed in an impeccable navy blue suit that hugged his toned physique, he looked no more than 35, with not a single silver thread in his jet-black hair. He surveyed the property with the confidence of a lion claiming his territory, his eyes sweeping over the lush garden with a hunger that sent shivers down her spine.
"Fathima?" He called out, his voice deep and resonant, carrying the faint lilt of an American accent. She composed herself, her hand shooting up in a wave. "I'm here!" she called back, her voice steady despite the pounding in her chest.
As he approached, she noticed the way his eyes swept over her, taking in every inch of her transformed self. He was tall, with a commanding presence that made her feel both thrilled and intimidated. His handshake was firm, sending a jolt of electricity through her body as their palms met. "Am Robert," he said, a charming smile playing on his lips. "My brother couldn't make it today, so I came in his stead."
"Robert," she murmured, his name a secret she held onto, savoring the way it rolled off her tongue. She watched as he took in her attire, his eyes lingering on her bare neck and the fabric that clung to her body. It was clear he appreciated the effort she had put into looking appealing, and she felt a sense of victory at the way his gaze lingered. "That makes me clear something Rahul said," she began, her voice a low purr that seemed to resonate within her chest.
He raised an eyebrow, his eyes never leaving hers. "And what was that?"
Fathima felt a blush creep up her neck, but she held his gaze. "Rahul said that your brother preferred a more... conservative look for the broker." The words hung in the air, a silent challenge.
Robert's eyes snapped up to hers, and she watched the hunger in them flare into something more primal. He took a step closer, the heat from his body radiating towards her. "I think you look... exquisite," he murmured, his gaze dropping to her chest once again. "The dress suits you perfectly."
Fathima's pulse quickened as she felt his eyes on her, his desire palpable in the air around them. "Thank you," she replied, her voice a little breathier than she had intended. She was acutely aware of the way her breasts pushed against the fabric of her kurta, the slight rise and fall with each breath she took. She knew she had his full attention, and the power of it was intoxicating.
With a flick of her hair, she turned and led him into the house, her hips swaying with each step. "This is the living room," she began, her voice steady despite the tremble in her legs. "It's perfect for entertaining, don't you think?" She gestured to the large, empty space, her eyes never leaving his. As she spoke, her hand brushed against his, a subtle yet deliberate touch that sent a jolt of excitement through her body.
Robert nodded, his eyes following her movements as if mesmerized. "It's quite... spacious," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. Fathima could feel the tension building between them, a taut wire stretched to the breaking point. She stepped closer, her breasts brushing against his arm as she pointed out the intricate molding on the ceiling. His eyes dropped to her neckline, his gaze lingering there before he met her eyes again.
![[Image: download-95.jpg]](https://i.postimg.cc/HcF5XdZP/download-95.jpg)
They moved through the house, Fathima's hand on the small of his back, guiding him from room to room. She talked about the potential of the space, the en-suite bathrooms, and the state-of-the-art kitchen. But with every word she spoke, her mind was racing with thoughts of his touch, the way his fingers had grazed hers, the heat of his skin against her. The house was a backdrop to their silent dance of attraction, each room a new stage for their burgeoning connection.
Finally, they reached the master bedroom, the largest of all. The king-sized bed sat in the center, unmade and inviting. The windows were open, letting in a gentle breeze that played with the curtains. "This is the master suite," she said, her voice a little too loud in the quiet. "As you can see, there's plenty of room for... everything."
![[Image: download-2025-06-14-T233043-495.jpg]](https://i.postimg.cc/gXLLY1zy/download-2025-06-14-T233043-495.jpg)
Her words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Robert looked around, his gaze lingering on the bed before returning to her. "It does seem quite spacious," he said, his eyes darkening. "Perhaps too much for just one person."
Fathima felt her heart flutter, her breath catching in her throat. The implication was clear, and she knew that she was crossing a line. But she couldn't help it—the thrill of temptation was too strong. She took a step closer to him, her hand resting on his bicep. "Well," she began, her voice low and seductive, "that's the beauty of a place like this. There's always room for more."
The words hung in the air, and for a moment, it felt as if time had stopped. The only sound was the distant hum of the city, the occasional birdcall piercing the silence. Then, as if a spell had been broken, Robert took a step towards her, closing the distance between them. "You know," he murmured, his hand reaching out to trace the line of her jaw, "I had no idea that real estate could be so... interesting."
![[Image: download-2025-06-14-T232658-090.jpg]](https://i.postimg.cc/06QJ4bhB/download-2025-06-14-T232658-090.jpg)
Fathima swallowed hard, her heart racing. "Ah, well," she said, trying to keep her voice even, "we aim to please our clients in every way possible." Her hand found its way to his chest, her fingers playing with the buttons of his shirt. "So when can I send you the papers to your office for registration?"
Robert stepped back, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "How much for this property with a dinner with you?" he asked, his voice dropping to a murmur. She felt her cheeks heat up, his question a blatant invitation to step further into the murky waters of temptation. For a moment, she weighed the consequences of her actions—Aslam, her in-laws, her marriage. But the thrill was too strong to resist.
With a seductive smile, Fathima leaned in, her voice low and husky. "88 lakhs for the property, Mr. Robert," she purred, her eyes locked on his. "But if you'd like to add dinner with me to the deal, then we're looking at 90."
Robert's eyes narrowed, a mix of surprise and arousal playing across his features. He took in her words, his hand sliding down to her waist, pulling her closer. "A dinner with you is worth more than just two extra lakhs," he said, his voice a caress. "But if that's your price, I'm more than willing to pay it."
![[Image: download-2025-06-14-T234139-318.jpg]](https://i.postimg.cc/WdpDDdp1/download-2025-06-14-T234139-318.jpg)
Fathima's pulse raced as she felt the heat from his body, his closeness making her acutely aware of her own desires. "Very well," she murmured, her hand slipping into his. "But let's get the paperwork sorted first, shall we?" She stepped away from him, her hand lingering for just a moment longer before breaking contact. "I'll email the papers to you immediately. Once the transaction is completed, we can discuss the... details of our dinner."
Robert nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. "I look forward to it," he said, his voice thick with anticipation. "And the number, of course."
Fathima felt a thrill as she rattled off her phone number, watching the way his thumb danced over the screen of his phone as he typed it in. It was a simple act, but it was loaded with meaning—a promise of something more, a bridge built between their worlds.
With one final, lingering look, she turned and stepped back into the autorickshaw, the scent of Robert's cologne following her like a seductive whisper. She settled back into the seat, her body still buzzing with the electricity of their encounter. "Elite Properties," she instructed Rajesh, her voice firm and businesslike despite the tumult of emotions within her.
As the autorickshaw pulled away from the curb, she pulled out her phone, her thumbs flying over the screen. She sent the necessary papers to Robert, each tap echoing the racing of her heart. With every email that left her phone, she felt the noose of her double life tighten around her neck. Yet, she couldn't ignore the thrill it brought—the thrill of temptation, the thrill of power.
Once Fathima reached the office, she walked with newfound confidence, her shoulders back and her head held high. The receptionist's eyes widened as she saw Fathima's attire, but she said nothing, merely nodded as she strode past. The other employees in the open-plan office couldn't help but glance at her cleavage, which she displayed proudly. Fathima knew she was the subject of whispers, but she didn't care. This was the new her—bold and unafraid.
Her heels clicked against the floor as she approached Mr. Dsouza's office. The glass door was open, and she could see him inside, speaking on the phone with his back to her. She took a deep breath, her heart racing. She knew the power she wielded with her new look, and she was eager to see how he would react. As she entered, he turned, his eyes widening as he took in her ensemble.
In that split second, Fathima felt a surge of triumph—his surprise was unmistakable. But before she could say a word, his phone beeped with a message, and his expression changed from shock to elation. He saw her then, really saw her, and she watched as he stood up, his belly jiggling with excitement. "Fathima," he called out, rushing towards her. He was out of his chair and moving so quickly she thought he might trip over his own feet. He didn't, though, and within moments, he had her in a bear hug, lifting her off the ground.
"Amazon work, Fathima!" he boomed, his breath warm against her ear. "The accountant just called. You've done it!"
Her heart pounded as he set her back down, the thrill of the sale mingling with the heat from their bodies. The office fell silent around them, the air thick with curiosity and envy. She felt a smug satisfaction knowing that she had outdone herself, all the while keeping her secret rendezvous with Robert.
"Mr. Dsouza," she began, trying to compose herself, "I'm just doing my job."
He released her, a wide grin spreading across his face. "Your job, indeed," he said, his eyes twinkling. "I knew there was something special about you, Fathima." He gestured for her to take a seat in one of the plush leather chairs opposite his desk. "So, tell me, how did you manage to close the deal?"
Fathima sat down, crossing her legs and leaning back, the chair groaning slightly under her. She felt the weight of Robert's gaze from earlier, the way he had looked at her, and she couldn't help but smile to herself. "It was all about understanding the client's needs," she began, her voice smooth and professional. "And a little bit of... persuasion."
Mr. Dsouza leaned back in his chair, his eyes glinting with excitement. "Persuasion, eh?" He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, his belly pressing against the wood. "Tell me more, Fathima. I'm all ears."
Fathima's cheeks flushed, but she held his gaze. "Well," she began, "I showed him around the property, made him see its potential. And then, I... offered him something extra."
Mr. Dsouza's eyebrows shot up, and he leaned in even closer. "Do tell," he said, his voice low and hungry for the gossip. "What could you have offered that was worth an extra five lakhs?"
Fathima's smile grew wider, a knowing glint in her eyes. "Let's just say I have a way with words," she said, her voice a coy whisper that seemed to dance around the room. "And with people." She didn't elaborate, but the implication was clear.
Mr. Dsouza's eyes widened, his grin stretching from ear to ear. "Fathima," he said, his voice a mix of admiration and amusement, "you never cease to amaze me." He leaned back in his chair, his belly rolling with his laughter. "Your husband is a lucky man," he added, winking.
Fathima felt a flash of anger at his innuendo but quickly tamped it down. She knew how to play the game now. She had to keep her cards close to her chest. "Thank you, and can I get an advance from my salary?" she asked sweetly, changing the subject with practiced ease.
Mr. Dsouza's eyes lit up, and he nodded. "Of course, my dear," he said, his voice dripping with patronizing charm. He turned to his computer and began typing away, the clack of the keys the only sound in the otherwise silent office. Fathima watched him, her mind racing. The beep of her phone interrupted her thoughts, and she pulled it out of her bag to see what the message was.
Her eyes widened as she saw the notification from the bank—2,25,000 rupees had been credited to her account. She couldn't believe it. This was more than just an advance; it was a small fortune, a gesture that went beyond mere appreciation. Her heart raced as she thought of the implications. What had she gotten herself into?
Dsouza looked up from his computer, noticing her shock. "Is everything all right?" he asked, his expression a mix of concern and curiosity.
Fathima swallowed, trying to keep her voice steady. "Sir, but my salary is just 40,000 rs," she began, her voice shaking slightly. "But the amount credited is 2,25,000 rs."
Mr. Dsouza leaned back in his chair, his smile widening. "Ah," he said, "you've discovered the perks of being a top performer." He leaned forward, his eyes twinkling. "Fathima, the commission for a sale like that is 2.5% of the total value."
Her eyes widened in understanding. "So that's...?" she began, her voice trailing off as she did the mental math.
"Yes," Mr. Dsouza said with a chuckle, "that's your commission for the sale of the bungalow. 2.5% of 90 lakhs. Quite the payday, wouldn't you say?" He leaned back in his chair, watching her with a shrewd gaze. "It seems that your unique... persuasive techniques have paid off quite handsomely."
Fathima's heart pounded in her chest, the reality of her actions setting in. "Thank you, Mr. Dsouza," she managed, trying to keep her voice calm. She was about to stand up when he waved a hand, gesturing for her to stay seated. "Just sit there for two minutes more," he said, his tone still jovial but with an underlying firmness.
As she sat back, she noticed that Mr. Dsouza had gone suspiciously quiet. His eyes had glazed over, and his hands were moving furtively beneath his desk. Fathima's mind raced, her heart beating even faster. She realized with a start that he was jerking off, his gaze never leaving her. She could see the tension in his shoulders, the slight tremble of his fingers as they worked beneath his desk. A mix of disgust and excitement washed over her. This was the price of power, she thought.
Dsouza's eyes remained locked on hers, his breath coming in shallow pants. "Fathima," he murmured, his voice thick with desire, "move the dupatta a little further."
Her heart racing, Fathima obeyed without a word, her fingers trembling as they slid the dupatta aside, revealing more of her ample cleavage. The cool air of the office brushed against her exposed skin, sending goosebumps down her spine. She watched as Mr. Dsouza's eyes darkened, his hand moving faster beneath the desk. Though she couldn't see his erection, she could feel its presence, a silent third party in their transaction.
![[Image: download-2025-06-14-T235841-328.jpg]](https://i.postimg.cc/jWLLXB7V/download-2025-06-14-T235841-328.jpg)
Within a minute, she heard his sharp intake of breath, followed by a low moan. "You can go now," he murmured, his voice strained. She didn't move, though, frozen in place by the raw power she had over him. It was a heady feeling, one that made her feel alive in a way she hadn't in years.
But she got up and left. As she walked out of his office, she felt the weight of his gaze on her back, a silent demand for more. The other employees stared at her, their expressions a mix of shock and envy. She knew they were wondering what had just happened behind the closed doors, their imaginations likely running wild.
Rajesh's hand darted to his crotch, a swift, almost imperceptible movement. He was adjusting himself, his lungi straining against his burgeoning arousal. Fathima's eyes widened, a thrill racing through her. He was just as affected as she was, his body betraying his thoughts. She felt a strange sense of power, knowing that she had this effect on him—a man she had only just met. Her heart raced as she wondered how far this flirtation would go.
"Anna, any problem?" she asked teasingly, her voice a silky purr that she had never heard from herself before. The question hung in the air, loaded with innuendo. His eyes darted to hers in the mirror, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he grinned, showing off his crooked teeth.
"No, no, Madam," he replied, his voice stumbling over the words. "Just curious. What do you work as?" Fathima felt a thrill at his blatant interest, his gaze lingering on the now-exposed flesh of her neck and shoulders.
Leaning forward, she allowed the dupatta to slip further, her breasts pressing against the fabric of her kurta. "I'm a real estate broker," she said, her voice low and teasing. The words rolled off her tongue like a caress, leaving no doubt as to her intentions. "I help people find their dream homes."
Rajesh's eyes widened in the mirror, his breath hitching in his throat. He stumbled over his words, his cheeks coloring as he stared at her cleavage. "Ah, that's... that's very nice," he managed to croak out. His hand hovered over the gear shift, fingers trembling slightly.
The autorickshaw pulled up in front of the house, a sprawling bungalow that gleamed in the morning sun. Fathima stepped out, her heels sinking into the plush grass. She turned to Rajesh, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Could you wait for me, Rajesh?" she asked sweetly. "I might need a ride back."
He nodded, his eyes never leaving her. "Of course, Madam," he said, his voice a little too eager. She could see the desire in his eyes, the way his hand hovered over his crotch again. It was a silent understanding between them—a promise of something more to come if she played her cards right.
Fathima turned and began walking towards the gate of the house, her hips swaying with each step. The watchman, a boy of no more than eighteen, sat on a chair, his eyes glued to the screen of his phone. He looked up as she approached, his eyes widening at the sight of her. His T-shirt was stained, the words "Elite Security" barely legible against the faded fabric. His shorts were too tight, revealing the muscles in his legs that he probably thought were impressive.
As she drew closer, he quickly scrambled to his feet, his phone slipping from his grasp to land with a clatter on the cobblestone path. "Ma'am," he stuttered, his eyes darting to her chest before hastily averting them. "Rahul sir sent me the message. You're here to show the property?"
Fathima looked at him, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "Yes," she said, her voice a little louder than necessary. "Open the gate. I want to see the house before the guest arrives." She watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard, his gaze flicking back to the plunging neckline of her kurta. The fabric clung to her skin, the slight dampness from the morning air making it almost transparent. She knew what he was thinking, and she reveled in the power of it.
He fumbled with the keys, his hands shaking as he tried to unlock the gate. She took a step closer, the scent of her jasmine perfume enveloping him. His eyes darted up to meet hers, and she could see the war raging in them—desire and duty fighting for supremacy. With a final click, the gate swung open, revealing a path lined with blooming flowers that led to the house.
"Thank you," she said, her voice a seductive whisper that seemed to linger in the air. As she walked past him, she made sure her breasts brushed against his arm, the fabric of her kurta whispering against his skin. His eyes followed her hungrily, his breath hitching in his throat.
Inside the house, Fathima's heels clicked against the gleaming marble floor, echoing through the empty halls. The duplex was a testament to modern architecture, with high ceilings and vast, open spaces that seemed to stretch on forever. Each room was tastefully decorated, the walls painted in soothing pastels that made her feel both at home and in awe of the opulence she had never known.
The living room was a vision of luxury, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a stunning view of the lush garden outside. The walls were adorned with abstract art, and the light fixtures sparkled like diamonds in the sunlight streaming in. But amidst this grandeur, the absence of furniture was stark—like an untouched canvas waiting for an artist's brush.
Suddenly, the serenity of the moment was shattered by the distant rumble of a car engine. Fathima's ears perked up, her heart racing. She knew that sound—it was the client. She took one last look in the mirror, smoothing out her dupatta and ensuring her makeup was still in place. Her eyes searched the room for any signs of imperfection, any reason for the client to hesitate.
Her thoughts raced as she hurried out of the house, her heels clicking against the marble floor. As she stepped onto the porch, she caught her breath—there it was, a sleek black Jaguar parked right in front, gleaming under the midday sun. It was the kind of car that whispered money and power, the kind that made men like Men's eyes widen with envy.
And then, the door swung open, and out stepped the client. He was not the portly, middle-aged man that Rahul had described; instead, he was a vision of masculine beauty, his chiseled jaw and piercing gaze leaving Fathima momentarily speechless. Dressed in an impeccable navy blue suit that hugged his toned physique, he looked no more than 35, with not a single silver thread in his jet-black hair. He surveyed the property with the confidence of a lion claiming his territory, his eyes sweeping over the lush garden with a hunger that sent shivers down her spine.
"Fathima?" He called out, his voice deep and resonant, carrying the faint lilt of an American accent. She composed herself, her hand shooting up in a wave. "I'm here!" she called back, her voice steady despite the pounding in her chest.
As he approached, she noticed the way his eyes swept over her, taking in every inch of her transformed self. He was tall, with a commanding presence that made her feel both thrilled and intimidated. His handshake was firm, sending a jolt of electricity through her body as their palms met. "Am Robert," he said, a charming smile playing on his lips. "My brother couldn't make it today, so I came in his stead."
"Robert," she murmured, his name a secret she held onto, savoring the way it rolled off her tongue. She watched as he took in her attire, his eyes lingering on her bare neck and the fabric that clung to her body. It was clear he appreciated the effort she had put into looking appealing, and she felt a sense of victory at the way his gaze lingered. "That makes me clear something Rahul said," she began, her voice a low purr that seemed to resonate within her chest.
He raised an eyebrow, his eyes never leaving hers. "And what was that?"
Fathima felt a blush creep up her neck, but she held his gaze. "Rahul said that your brother preferred a more... conservative look for the broker." The words hung in the air, a silent challenge.
Robert's eyes snapped up to hers, and she watched the hunger in them flare into something more primal. He took a step closer, the heat from his body radiating towards her. "I think you look... exquisite," he murmured, his gaze dropping to her chest once again. "The dress suits you perfectly."
Fathima's pulse quickened as she felt his eyes on her, his desire palpable in the air around them. "Thank you," she replied, her voice a little breathier than she had intended. She was acutely aware of the way her breasts pushed against the fabric of her kurta, the slight rise and fall with each breath she took. She knew she had his full attention, and the power of it was intoxicating.
With a flick of her hair, she turned and led him into the house, her hips swaying with each step. "This is the living room," she began, her voice steady despite the tremble in her legs. "It's perfect for entertaining, don't you think?" She gestured to the large, empty space, her eyes never leaving his. As she spoke, her hand brushed against his, a subtle yet deliberate touch that sent a jolt of excitement through her body.
Robert nodded, his eyes following her movements as if mesmerized. "It's quite... spacious," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. Fathima could feel the tension building between them, a taut wire stretched to the breaking point. She stepped closer, her breasts brushing against his arm as she pointed out the intricate molding on the ceiling. His eyes dropped to her neckline, his gaze lingering there before he met her eyes again.
They moved through the house, Fathima's hand on the small of his back, guiding him from room to room. She talked about the potential of the space, the en-suite bathrooms, and the state-of-the-art kitchen. But with every word she spoke, her mind was racing with thoughts of his touch, the way his fingers had grazed hers, the heat of his skin against her. The house was a backdrop to their silent dance of attraction, each room a new stage for their burgeoning connection.
Finally, they reached the master bedroom, the largest of all. The king-sized bed sat in the center, unmade and inviting. The windows were open, letting in a gentle breeze that played with the curtains. "This is the master suite," she said, her voice a little too loud in the quiet. "As you can see, there's plenty of room for... everything."
Her words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Robert looked around, his gaze lingering on the bed before returning to her. "It does seem quite spacious," he said, his eyes darkening. "Perhaps too much for just one person."
Fathima felt her heart flutter, her breath catching in her throat. The implication was clear, and she knew that she was crossing a line. But she couldn't help it—the thrill of temptation was too strong. She took a step closer to him, her hand resting on his bicep. "Well," she began, her voice low and seductive, "that's the beauty of a place like this. There's always room for more."
The words hung in the air, and for a moment, it felt as if time had stopped. The only sound was the distant hum of the city, the occasional birdcall piercing the silence. Then, as if a spell had been broken, Robert took a step towards her, closing the distance between them. "You know," he murmured, his hand reaching out to trace the line of her jaw, "I had no idea that real estate could be so... interesting."
Fathima swallowed hard, her heart racing. "Ah, well," she said, trying to keep her voice even, "we aim to please our clients in every way possible." Her hand found its way to his chest, her fingers playing with the buttons of his shirt. "So when can I send you the papers to your office for registration?"
Robert stepped back, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "How much for this property with a dinner with you?" he asked, his voice dropping to a murmur. She felt her cheeks heat up, his question a blatant invitation to step further into the murky waters of temptation. For a moment, she weighed the consequences of her actions—Aslam, her in-laws, her marriage. But the thrill was too strong to resist.
With a seductive smile, Fathima leaned in, her voice low and husky. "88 lakhs for the property, Mr. Robert," she purred, her eyes locked on his. "But if you'd like to add dinner with me to the deal, then we're looking at 90."
Robert's eyes narrowed, a mix of surprise and arousal playing across his features. He took in her words, his hand sliding down to her waist, pulling her closer. "A dinner with you is worth more than just two extra lakhs," he said, his voice a caress. "But if that's your price, I'm more than willing to pay it."
Fathima's pulse raced as she felt the heat from his body, his closeness making her acutely aware of her own desires. "Very well," she murmured, her hand slipping into his. "But let's get the paperwork sorted first, shall we?" She stepped away from him, her hand lingering for just a moment longer before breaking contact. "I'll email the papers to you immediately. Once the transaction is completed, we can discuss the... details of our dinner."
Robert nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. "I look forward to it," he said, his voice thick with anticipation. "And the number, of course."
Fathima felt a thrill as she rattled off her phone number, watching the way his thumb danced over the screen of his phone as he typed it in. It was a simple act, but it was loaded with meaning—a promise of something more, a bridge built between their worlds.
With one final, lingering look, she turned and stepped back into the autorickshaw, the scent of Robert's cologne following her like a seductive whisper. She settled back into the seat, her body still buzzing with the electricity of their encounter. "Elite Properties," she instructed Rajesh, her voice firm and businesslike despite the tumult of emotions within her.
As the autorickshaw pulled away from the curb, she pulled out her phone, her thumbs flying over the screen. She sent the necessary papers to Robert, each tap echoing the racing of her heart. With every email that left her phone, she felt the noose of her double life tighten around her neck. Yet, she couldn't ignore the thrill it brought—the thrill of temptation, the thrill of power.
Once Fathima reached the office, she walked with newfound confidence, her shoulders back and her head held high. The receptionist's eyes widened as she saw Fathima's attire, but she said nothing, merely nodded as she strode past. The other employees in the open-plan office couldn't help but glance at her cleavage, which she displayed proudly. Fathima knew she was the subject of whispers, but she didn't care. This was the new her—bold and unafraid.
Her heels clicked against the floor as she approached Mr. Dsouza's office. The glass door was open, and she could see him inside, speaking on the phone with his back to her. She took a deep breath, her heart racing. She knew the power she wielded with her new look, and she was eager to see how he would react. As she entered, he turned, his eyes widening as he took in her ensemble.
In that split second, Fathima felt a surge of triumph—his surprise was unmistakable. But before she could say a word, his phone beeped with a message, and his expression changed from shock to elation. He saw her then, really saw her, and she watched as he stood up, his belly jiggling with excitement. "Fathima," he called out, rushing towards her. He was out of his chair and moving so quickly she thought he might trip over his own feet. He didn't, though, and within moments, he had her in a bear hug, lifting her off the ground.
"Amazon work, Fathima!" he boomed, his breath warm against her ear. "The accountant just called. You've done it!"
Her heart pounded as he set her back down, the thrill of the sale mingling with the heat from their bodies. The office fell silent around them, the air thick with curiosity and envy. She felt a smug satisfaction knowing that she had outdone herself, all the while keeping her secret rendezvous with Robert.
"Mr. Dsouza," she began, trying to compose herself, "I'm just doing my job."
He released her, a wide grin spreading across his face. "Your job, indeed," he said, his eyes twinkling. "I knew there was something special about you, Fathima." He gestured for her to take a seat in one of the plush leather chairs opposite his desk. "So, tell me, how did you manage to close the deal?"
Fathima sat down, crossing her legs and leaning back, the chair groaning slightly under her. She felt the weight of Robert's gaze from earlier, the way he had looked at her, and she couldn't help but smile to herself. "It was all about understanding the client's needs," she began, her voice smooth and professional. "And a little bit of... persuasion."
Mr. Dsouza leaned back in his chair, his eyes glinting with excitement. "Persuasion, eh?" He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, his belly pressing against the wood. "Tell me more, Fathima. I'm all ears."
Fathima's cheeks flushed, but she held his gaze. "Well," she began, "I showed him around the property, made him see its potential. And then, I... offered him something extra."
Mr. Dsouza's eyebrows shot up, and he leaned in even closer. "Do tell," he said, his voice low and hungry for the gossip. "What could you have offered that was worth an extra five lakhs?"
Fathima's smile grew wider, a knowing glint in her eyes. "Let's just say I have a way with words," she said, her voice a coy whisper that seemed to dance around the room. "And with people." She didn't elaborate, but the implication was clear.
Mr. Dsouza's eyes widened, his grin stretching from ear to ear. "Fathima," he said, his voice a mix of admiration and amusement, "you never cease to amaze me." He leaned back in his chair, his belly rolling with his laughter. "Your husband is a lucky man," he added, winking.
Fathima felt a flash of anger at his innuendo but quickly tamped it down. She knew how to play the game now. She had to keep her cards close to her chest. "Thank you, and can I get an advance from my salary?" she asked sweetly, changing the subject with practiced ease.
Mr. Dsouza's eyes lit up, and he nodded. "Of course, my dear," he said, his voice dripping with patronizing charm. He turned to his computer and began typing away, the clack of the keys the only sound in the otherwise silent office. Fathima watched him, her mind racing. The beep of her phone interrupted her thoughts, and she pulled it out of her bag to see what the message was.
Her eyes widened as she saw the notification from the bank—2,25,000 rupees had been credited to her account. She couldn't believe it. This was more than just an advance; it was a small fortune, a gesture that went beyond mere appreciation. Her heart raced as she thought of the implications. What had she gotten herself into?
Dsouza looked up from his computer, noticing her shock. "Is everything all right?" he asked, his expression a mix of concern and curiosity.
Fathima swallowed, trying to keep her voice steady. "Sir, but my salary is just 40,000 rs," she began, her voice shaking slightly. "But the amount credited is 2,25,000 rs."
Mr. Dsouza leaned back in his chair, his smile widening. "Ah," he said, "you've discovered the perks of being a top performer." He leaned forward, his eyes twinkling. "Fathima, the commission for a sale like that is 2.5% of the total value."
Her eyes widened in understanding. "So that's...?" she began, her voice trailing off as she did the mental math.
"Yes," Mr. Dsouza said with a chuckle, "that's your commission for the sale of the bungalow. 2.5% of 90 lakhs. Quite the payday, wouldn't you say?" He leaned back in his chair, watching her with a shrewd gaze. "It seems that your unique... persuasive techniques have paid off quite handsomely."
Fathima's heart pounded in her chest, the reality of her actions setting in. "Thank you, Mr. Dsouza," she managed, trying to keep her voice calm. She was about to stand up when he waved a hand, gesturing for her to stay seated. "Just sit there for two minutes more," he said, his tone still jovial but with an underlying firmness.
As she sat back, she noticed that Mr. Dsouza had gone suspiciously quiet. His eyes had glazed over, and his hands were moving furtively beneath his desk. Fathima's mind raced, her heart beating even faster. She realized with a start that he was jerking off, his gaze never leaving her. She could see the tension in his shoulders, the slight tremble of his fingers as they worked beneath his desk. A mix of disgust and excitement washed over her. This was the price of power, she thought.
Dsouza's eyes remained locked on hers, his breath coming in shallow pants. "Fathima," he murmured, his voice thick with desire, "move the dupatta a little further."
Her heart racing, Fathima obeyed without a word, her fingers trembling as they slid the dupatta aside, revealing more of her ample cleavage. The cool air of the office brushed against her exposed skin, sending goosebumps down her spine. She watched as Mr. Dsouza's eyes darkened, his hand moving faster beneath the desk. Though she couldn't see his erection, she could feel its presence, a silent third party in their transaction.
Within a minute, she heard his sharp intake of breath, followed by a low moan. "You can go now," he murmured, his voice strained. She didn't move, though, frozen in place by the raw power she had over him. It was a heady feeling, one that made her feel alive in a way she hadn't in years.
But she got up and left. As she walked out of his office, she felt the weight of his gaze on her back, a silent demand for more. The other employees stared at her, their expressions a mix of shock and envy. She knew they were wondering what had just happened behind the closed doors, their imaginations likely running wild.
15-06-2025, 11:56 AM
Dont have affair with rahman. Let her have the desires outside and earn more.
15-06-2025, 12:49 PM
As long as person like Robert exist, she can sale even 20L worth property to 1 crore
15-06-2025, 02:38 PM
A good beginning so far. Kindly fix the Update number. It should be 6 and not 5.
16-06-2025, 12:33 AM
17-06-2025, 06:14 PM
Tonight!! Making it hotter ,, and fathima making a unexpexcted encounter.. any guesses?
18-06-2025, 01:59 PM
Update 7:
Fathima's heels clicked against the marble floor as she made her way to the main door of the office, her thoughts a tumultuous storm. She couldn't believe what she had just allowed—what she had just encouraged. Yet, as she stepped into the elevator and the doors slid closed behind her, she felt a strange sense of exhilaration. Her cleavage had become a weapon, a tool to be wielded in the cutthroat world of real estate. It was a heady power, one that she hadn't experienced before.
The elevator descended, and she stared at her reflection in the gleaming chrome, her eyes dark with the knowledge of what she had done. She had played the game, and she had won—but at what cost? Her marriage, her dignity? Fathima took a deep breath, pushing the thoughts aside. This was her world now, and she had to navigate it as best she could.
As she stepped out of the elevator and into the lobby, her heels echoed off the marble floors, the sound bouncing around the grand space like a declaration of her newfound power. She walked towards the main door, her eyes straight ahead, refusing to meet the curious gazes of her colleagues. She knew they were whispering about her, their eyes lingering on her exposed cleavage, their thoughts full of speculation and envy.
And there it was, parked right outside, the autorickshaw that had become a symbol of her double life. The same one she had stepped into just a few hours ago, feeling like a different woman. The same one that had borne witness to her flirtations and the beginnings of her affair with temptation.
"Home, Fathima madam?" Rajesh's voice was thick with the same hunger she had noticed earlier, the same hunger that had made her feel alive. But now, it just made her feel cheap.
Fathima nodded, her throat tight. "Yes, please," she murmured, her voice barely audible over the rumble of the autorickshaw's engine. She slid onto the back seat, her legs pressed together, her arms wrapped tightly around her midsection. She needed space, she needed to think. The leather of the seat was sticky with the heat of the day, and the scent of stale sweat and diesel filled her nostrils. But she didn't care. She had made her choice, and now she had to live with it.
As the autorickshaw pulled away from the curb, she felt Rajesh's eyes on her. Glancing up, she saw his gaze flick to her cleavage, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. A strange feeling grew in the pit of her stomach, a mix of disgust and excitement. She had played this game before, but it had never felt quite like this. With a deep breath, she leaned back, her breasts pushing against the fabric of her kurta.
Her heart raced as she watched the desire in his eyes grow. The power was intoxicating—the power to make a man want, to make him ache with need. Slowly, she reached up to adjust the neckline of her top, revealing more of her ample breasts to the warm evening air. The fabric of her kurta slid down, exposing more of her creamy skin, the lace of her bra peeking out.
![[Image: Rl3nvm.jpg]](https://imagizer.imageshack.com/v2/xq70/923/Rl3nvm.jpg)
Rajesh's gaze snapped to her, his eyes hungry. "Your... family," she began, her voice a low murmur that seemed to resonate in the enclosed space of the autorickshaw. "How are they? Do you have children?"
He shook his head, his eyes never leaving her cleavage. "No Madam," he said, his voice gruff. "I don't have a family. Never married."
Fathima's heart skipped a beat. The weight of his gaze was intense, and she felt a shiver run down her spine. "Oh," she murmured, her voice a soft purr. "That's too bad."
Rajesh's eyes remained glued to her chest, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "It has its... perks," he said, his voice strained.
Fathima felt a thrill run through her as she realized the effect she was having on him. "Perhaps," she said, her voice a soft coo, "you're not looking in the right places."
Rajesh's eyes snapped up to meet hers in the rearview mirror, his gaze intense. "What do you mean, Madam?" he asked, his voice thick with desire.
Fathima's smile grew wider, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "Well," she began, her voice a seductive murmur, "sometimes, people need... companionship." She let the word hang in the air, the unspoken implications heavy between them.
Rajesh's grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles white. "Madam," he stammered, his voice thick with a hunger that went beyond the physical, "I have my hands for the needs."
Fathima's smile grew more alluring as she leaned closer to the partition, her eyes never leaving his in the mirror. "Rajesh," she purred, "sometimes hands are not enough." Her words hung in the air like a seductive whisper, hinting at the unspoken desires that simmered between them.
The autorickshaw pulled up to their apartment complex, the engine sputtering to a stop. Fathima reached up to adjust her dupatta, the fabric gliding over her warm, flushed skin as she covered the tempting expanse of her cleavage. She stepped out of the vehicle, her legs feeling unsteady. The scent of their shared desire lingered in the air as she turned to pay him.
Rajesh's gaze was unabashedly fixed on the spot where her breasts had been revealed moments ago. He took her money, his hand brushing against hers in a way that was definitely not accidental. She felt a shiver of excitement run down her spine, the same thrill that had consumed her in Mr. Dsouza's office. This was new territory for her, and she wasn't sure if she liked the way it made her feel—powerful yet somehow vulnerable.
Fathima stepped out of the autorickshaw, her legs feeling like jelly beneath her. She took a deep breath, willing herself to be calm as she approached the apartment complex. She knew that her heart was racing, and she could feel the heat in her cheeks as she adjusted her dupatta, ensuring that her cleavage was no longer on display. She didn't need the neighbors to see her like this—half-undressed, half-wild with desire.
Inside the cool, silent lobby of the building, she took the elevator up to the third floor, the doors sliding closed with a soft whoosh that seemed to echo her racing thoughts. The mirrored walls reflected her image, and she couldn't help but notice the smudges of lipstick on her teeth, the slight messiness of her hair. She looked like she'd been ridden hard and put away wet, and she felt a strange sense of pride at the sight. She was living a double life now, and it was thrilling.
As the elevator ascended, Fathima's thoughts swirled like the patterns in the marble floor—Robert, Mr. Dsouza, even Rajesh. The way they had all looked at her today, the way their desire had been so palpable, it was like a drug. Her hand hovered over the button to call the elevator back down, wondering if she should go back out, find more men to feed her new addiction. But she knew she couldn't—not yet. She had a husband to face, a life to maintain.
With a deep breath, she stepped out onto the third floor, the soles of her heels clacking against the cold, hard tiles. She reached into her purse for her keys, her hand shaking slightly. The house was silent, the emptiness echoing through the hallway as she unlocked the door.
The moment she entered, she heard it—a low, guttural moan that sent a shiver down her spine. It was coming from Rahman's room, the door slightly ajar. Her heart hammered in her chest, a mix of fear and excitement. Was he in trouble? Was he okay?
Fathima took tentative steps down the hallway, her heels clicking against the cold tiles. The moan grew louder, and she recognized it—it was the sound of passion. Her mind raced as she approached the open door. What was she going to do? Walk in and pretend she hadn't heard?
Her hand hovered over the doorknob, her heart hammering in her chest. The door was ajar, and she couldn't resist the urge to peek inside. What she saw made her freeze in shock. Lakshmi, the maid, was stark naked, her chocolate-colored skin gleaming with sweat as she rode atop Rahman, Aslam's younger brother. His eyes were closed, lost in ecstasy, his hands gripping her hips as he thrust up into her.
Fathima's breath hitched in her throat. The sight of them together was like a slap in the face, a stark reminder of the secret lives that could unfold right under one's nose. Lakshmi's breasts bounced with every movement, her moans filling the room as she ground herself down on Rahman's erection. His own moans matched hers in intensity, the muscles in his arms and back tensing with every stroke.
![[Image: Q6iByN.gif]](https://imagizer.imageshack.com/img923/6642/Q6iByN.gif)
Her hand had slipped into her pants almost of its own accord, her thumb finding her clit and rubbing it in slow, deliberate circles. The fabric of her panties was already damp with arousal, the friction sending waves of pleasure through her body. She couldn't look away from the scene in front of her, her mind racing with a mix of anger and desire.
![[Image: Smn0Xr.jpg]](https://imagizer.imageshack.com/v2/640x480q70/922/Smn0Xr.jpg)
Lakshmi's breasts bounced in time with her hips, the sight of them making Fathima's mouth water. She felt her own nipples harden, straining against the confines of her bra. The moans grew louder, more urgent, and she couldn't help but wonder if she should join them, if she could satisfy the desires that her husband's brother clearly had. But she knew it was wrong, that it would only lead to more heartache and pain.
As if sensing her presence, Lakshmi turned her head and looked straight at Fathima, her eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made Fathima's knees go weak. The maid's smile grew wider, her eyes sparkling with a mischief that was almost taunting. And then, she did the unthinkable—she began to hunch her hips more vigorously, grinding down on Rahman's cock with a ferocity that was almost animalistic.
Fathima's hand flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp. The sight of Lakshmi, her body moving in such a wanton, shameless way, was more arousing than she could have ever imagined. And yet, she felt a stab of jealousy—this woman, this servant, was experiencing the passion and desire that she herself craved.
Her fingers moving with a newfound urgency. She watched Lakshmi's every move, her eyes locked on the maid's face as she felt herself getting closer to the edge. Lakshmi's moans grew louder, her eyes never leaving Fathima's, and Fathima could feel the heat building in her core, her body begging for release.
Her breath came in ragged gasps as she matched Lakshmi's rhythm, her own hips moving in time with the couple's silent symphony. The walls of the hallway seemed to close in around her, the only sound the slap of skin on skin and the muffled cries of pleasure that filled the air. She knew she should be disgusted, that she should be outraged—but all she felt was a desperate, primal need to come.
The sound grew louder, Lakshmi's moans reaching a crescendo as Rahman's thrusts grew more frantic. Fathima watched, her own body responding to the raw, carnality of it all. And then, with a final, guttural cry, Lakshmi threw her head back, her body tensing as she came. The sight of the maid's ecstasy was too much, and Fathima felt her own orgasm crash over her, her knees buckling as she stumbled backward, her hand still buried in her pants.
Lakshmi's eyes had never left hers, and as she came down from her high, she met Fathima's gaze with a knowing smile. Fathima felt a blush spread across her cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and anger. How could she have been so careless? But the woman's smile was infectious, and she found herself smiling back despite the situation.
Withdrawing her hand from her pants, Fathima took a deep breath and turned away, walking down the hallway as if she hadn't just caught her brother-in-law in the throes of passion. Each step was a battle against the desire to run back and join them, to revel in the raw sexual energy that still hummed in the air. But she knew that would only lead to more trouble.
When she reached her room, she closed the door with a quiet click, the sound echoing through the apartment like a gunshot in the stillness. Locking the door behind her, she leaned against it, her body still trembling from the intensity of the scene she had just witnessed. The room was a sanctuary, a place where she could be herself without fear of judgment or consequence.
Her eyes fell on the clock—it was 6 PM, the sun setting outside, casting a warm orange glow through the curtains. She thought back to early that morning, when she had seen Lakshmi sneaking out of Rahman's room. Had she known then what was happening, she might have felt differently—but now, the image of them together was burned into her brain, a constant reminder of the hidden desires that lurked beneath the surface of their everyday lives.
Just as she was about to slip into the shower to wash away the day's grime and the sticky residue of her illicit pleasure, there was a knock on her bedroom door. Fathima froze, her heart racing.
The door swung open, and there stood Lakshmi, her usually pristine sari a disarray of wrinkles and folds. The maid's makeup was smudged, her hair disheveled, and there was an unmistakable glow to her skin. The same glow that Fathima had seen on her own reflection just moments ago.
![[Image: QPxC14.jpg]](https://imagizer.imageshack.com/v2/640x480q70/922/QPxC14.jpg)
Lakshmi sailed into the room without a word of apology or embarrassment, her eyes dancing with a mischief that made Fathima's stomach flip-flop. She couldn't help but feel a twinge of resentment towards this woman who had just claimed what she had been secretly craving for so long—the raw, unbridled passion that had eluded her in her own marriage.
"Madam," Lakshmi said, her voice low and smoky, "How was it? Did you enjoy?"
Fathima's eyes snapped to Lakshmi, her heart racing. "What are you talking about?" she demanded, her voice shaking slightly.
Lakshmi's smile grew wider, her eyes sparkling with a knowing look that made Fathima's cheeks burn. "I saw you in the hallway," she said, her voice a sultry purr. "Your little... performance."
Fathima felt the color drain from her face. "What are you talking about?" she asked again, her voice barely above a whisper.
Lakshmi walked closer, her hips swaying with a confidence that seemed almost predatory. "Don't play coy with me, Madam," she said, her voice a low purr. "I saw the way you looked at us. I saw the hunger in your eyes."
Fathima's cheeks flushed hotter than the spicy curries she had eaten for lunch. "Ok, fine," she admitted, her voice strained. "But what you did was wrong. And Rahman is young, he's still in college."
"Wrong?" Lakshmi echoed, her smile never wavering. "Or perhaps it is that you are jealous, Madam."
Fathima's eyes flashed with anger at the accusation. "How dare you?" she spat out, her voice trembling with barely contained rage.
Lakshmi shrugged, her dark eyes unflinching. "It is the truth," she said simply, her voice devoid of any remorse or apology. "Rahman, he is a man with needs. And who can blame him for looking?"
Fathima felt the anger bubbling up inside her, but she knew Lakshmi wasn't entirely wrong. Rahman had always had a wandering eye, and she had often caught him staring at her before she had even started working at Elite Properties. But she had never dreamed he would act on those desires, especially with their servant.
As if sensing the storm of emotions churning within her, Lakshmi took a step closer, her hand sliding up Fathima's arm in a way that was both comforting and possessive. Before she could react, Lakshmi's other hand slipped into the waistband of her pants, her fingers brushing against the damp fabric of her panties.
![[Image: 4iW0GS.gif]](https://imagizer.imageshack.com/img922/8043/4iW0GS.gif)
Fathima's eyes widened in shock, her body tensing as Lakshmi's touch grew bolder. But she couldn't deny the way her breath hitched, the way her body responded to the maid's touch. She tried to push Lakshmi away, her voice a strangled protest, but her muscles refused to cooperate. Lakshmi's fingers moved with a confidence that spoke of experience, her touch sure and steady as she found Fathima's slick center.
"Madam, you are soo wet," Lakshmi murmured, her breath hot against Fathima's ear. "Does watching us make you want more?"
Fathima's body betrayed her, a soft moan escaping her lips as Lakshmi's fingers danced over her sensitive flesh. She felt a mix of shame and excitement, her mind racing with the implications of what was happening. Lakshmi's hand was unyielding, her touch unmistakable in its intent as she explored Fathima's arousal.
"Madam," Lakshmi whispered, her voice a seductive caress, "Did you see Rahman's dick?" The question was so blunt, so unexpected, that Fathima could do nothing but gasp in shock. The thought of her brother-in-law's nakedness was still fresh in her mind, the image of him and Lakshmi together burned into her retinas.
Fathima's breath caught in her throat as Lakshmi's fingers continued to work their magic, her eyes fluttering shut as she felt the beginnings of another orgasm build. "No," she managed to choke out, her voice thick with lust. "I couldn't see properly since you were above him."
Lakshmi chuckled, her breath warm against Fathima's ear. "Tomo morning," she whispered, her voice a siren's call, "5.30 AM. The door will be ajar." And before Fathima could protest, Lakshmi leaned in and pressed her full, lush lips to hers.
![[Image: G3ds2Q.gif]](https://imagizer.imageshack.com/img924/7001/G3ds2Q.gif)
For a moment, Fathima was frozen, her mind racing with the implications of this brazen act. But then, something shifted within her, something primal and uncontrollable. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she kissed Lakshmi back, her mouth moving with a hunger she didn't know she had. The maid's lips were soft and insistent, her tongue dancing against Fathima's in a way that made her knees weak.
Lakshmi's hand slipped out of her pants, and Fathima felt the loss like a cold emptiness. But before she could protest, Lakshmi was gone, leaving Fathima standing there, her body trembling with need. The door clicked shut behind her, and she heard Lakshmi's retreating footsteps as she left the room.
Fathima stumbled to the bed, her legs barely able to hold her up. She collapsed onto the mattress, her body feeling like it was on fire. Her mind raced with the memory of Lakshmi's touch, the taste of her lips, and the promise of what was to come the next morning. She knew it was wrong, that she should feel nothing but disgust and anger. But she couldn't shake the feeling of excitement that was bubbling up inside her.
As she lay there, the room grew darker, the shadows playing across the ceiling as the sun disappeared beyond the horizon. The air grew thick with anticipation, the silence of the apartment only broken by the distant sounds of the city outside. She couldn't bear to look at herself in the mirror, couldn't face the woman she had become. Instead, she curled into a ball, her eyes squeezed shut tightly as she tried to push the images from her mind.
But the taste of Lakshmi's kiss lingered, a heady mix of sweetness and spice that seemed to cling to her like the scent of jasmine that wafted through the window. Fathima had never kissed a woman before—never even considered it. Yet, as she lay there, she found herself replaying the moment over and over, the softness of Lakshmi's lips, the way she had moaned into her mouth, the heat of her breath. It was a sensation she had never felt, one that both scared and excited her.
Fathima's heels clicked against the marble floor as she made her way to the main door of the office, her thoughts a tumultuous storm. She couldn't believe what she had just allowed—what she had just encouraged. Yet, as she stepped into the elevator and the doors slid closed behind her, she felt a strange sense of exhilaration. Her cleavage had become a weapon, a tool to be wielded in the cutthroat world of real estate. It was a heady power, one that she hadn't experienced before.
The elevator descended, and she stared at her reflection in the gleaming chrome, her eyes dark with the knowledge of what she had done. She had played the game, and she had won—but at what cost? Her marriage, her dignity? Fathima took a deep breath, pushing the thoughts aside. This was her world now, and she had to navigate it as best she could.
As she stepped out of the elevator and into the lobby, her heels echoed off the marble floors, the sound bouncing around the grand space like a declaration of her newfound power. She walked towards the main door, her eyes straight ahead, refusing to meet the curious gazes of her colleagues. She knew they were whispering about her, their eyes lingering on her exposed cleavage, their thoughts full of speculation and envy.
And there it was, parked right outside, the autorickshaw that had become a symbol of her double life. The same one she had stepped into just a few hours ago, feeling like a different woman. The same one that had borne witness to her flirtations and the beginnings of her affair with temptation.
"Home, Fathima madam?" Rajesh's voice was thick with the same hunger she had noticed earlier, the same hunger that had made her feel alive. But now, it just made her feel cheap.
Fathima nodded, her throat tight. "Yes, please," she murmured, her voice barely audible over the rumble of the autorickshaw's engine. She slid onto the back seat, her legs pressed together, her arms wrapped tightly around her midsection. She needed space, she needed to think. The leather of the seat was sticky with the heat of the day, and the scent of stale sweat and diesel filled her nostrils. But she didn't care. She had made her choice, and now she had to live with it.
As the autorickshaw pulled away from the curb, she felt Rajesh's eyes on her. Glancing up, she saw his gaze flick to her cleavage, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. A strange feeling grew in the pit of her stomach, a mix of disgust and excitement. She had played this game before, but it had never felt quite like this. With a deep breath, she leaned back, her breasts pushing against the fabric of her kurta.
Her heart raced as she watched the desire in his eyes grow. The power was intoxicating—the power to make a man want, to make him ache with need. Slowly, she reached up to adjust the neckline of her top, revealing more of her ample breasts to the warm evening air. The fabric of her kurta slid down, exposing more of her creamy skin, the lace of her bra peeking out.
Rajesh's gaze snapped to her, his eyes hungry. "Your... family," she began, her voice a low murmur that seemed to resonate in the enclosed space of the autorickshaw. "How are they? Do you have children?"
He shook his head, his eyes never leaving her cleavage. "No Madam," he said, his voice gruff. "I don't have a family. Never married."
Fathima's heart skipped a beat. The weight of his gaze was intense, and she felt a shiver run down her spine. "Oh," she murmured, her voice a soft purr. "That's too bad."
Rajesh's eyes remained glued to her chest, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "It has its... perks," he said, his voice strained.
Fathima felt a thrill run through her as she realized the effect she was having on him. "Perhaps," she said, her voice a soft coo, "you're not looking in the right places."
Rajesh's eyes snapped up to meet hers in the rearview mirror, his gaze intense. "What do you mean, Madam?" he asked, his voice thick with desire.
Fathima's smile grew wider, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "Well," she began, her voice a seductive murmur, "sometimes, people need... companionship." She let the word hang in the air, the unspoken implications heavy between them.
Rajesh's grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles white. "Madam," he stammered, his voice thick with a hunger that went beyond the physical, "I have my hands for the needs."
Fathima's smile grew more alluring as she leaned closer to the partition, her eyes never leaving his in the mirror. "Rajesh," she purred, "sometimes hands are not enough." Her words hung in the air like a seductive whisper, hinting at the unspoken desires that simmered between them.
The autorickshaw pulled up to their apartment complex, the engine sputtering to a stop. Fathima reached up to adjust her dupatta, the fabric gliding over her warm, flushed skin as she covered the tempting expanse of her cleavage. She stepped out of the vehicle, her legs feeling unsteady. The scent of their shared desire lingered in the air as she turned to pay him.
Rajesh's gaze was unabashedly fixed on the spot where her breasts had been revealed moments ago. He took her money, his hand brushing against hers in a way that was definitely not accidental. She felt a shiver of excitement run down her spine, the same thrill that had consumed her in Mr. Dsouza's office. This was new territory for her, and she wasn't sure if she liked the way it made her feel—powerful yet somehow vulnerable.
Fathima stepped out of the autorickshaw, her legs feeling like jelly beneath her. She took a deep breath, willing herself to be calm as she approached the apartment complex. She knew that her heart was racing, and she could feel the heat in her cheeks as she adjusted her dupatta, ensuring that her cleavage was no longer on display. She didn't need the neighbors to see her like this—half-undressed, half-wild with desire.
Inside the cool, silent lobby of the building, she took the elevator up to the third floor, the doors sliding closed with a soft whoosh that seemed to echo her racing thoughts. The mirrored walls reflected her image, and she couldn't help but notice the smudges of lipstick on her teeth, the slight messiness of her hair. She looked like she'd been ridden hard and put away wet, and she felt a strange sense of pride at the sight. She was living a double life now, and it was thrilling.
As the elevator ascended, Fathima's thoughts swirled like the patterns in the marble floor—Robert, Mr. Dsouza, even Rajesh. The way they had all looked at her today, the way their desire had been so palpable, it was like a drug. Her hand hovered over the button to call the elevator back down, wondering if she should go back out, find more men to feed her new addiction. But she knew she couldn't—not yet. She had a husband to face, a life to maintain.
With a deep breath, she stepped out onto the third floor, the soles of her heels clacking against the cold, hard tiles. She reached into her purse for her keys, her hand shaking slightly. The house was silent, the emptiness echoing through the hallway as she unlocked the door.
The moment she entered, she heard it—a low, guttural moan that sent a shiver down her spine. It was coming from Rahman's room, the door slightly ajar. Her heart hammered in her chest, a mix of fear and excitement. Was he in trouble? Was he okay?
Fathima took tentative steps down the hallway, her heels clicking against the cold tiles. The moan grew louder, and she recognized it—it was the sound of passion. Her mind raced as she approached the open door. What was she going to do? Walk in and pretend she hadn't heard?
Her hand hovered over the doorknob, her heart hammering in her chest. The door was ajar, and she couldn't resist the urge to peek inside. What she saw made her freeze in shock. Lakshmi, the maid, was stark naked, her chocolate-colored skin gleaming with sweat as she rode atop Rahman, Aslam's younger brother. His eyes were closed, lost in ecstasy, his hands gripping her hips as he thrust up into her.
Fathima's breath hitched in her throat. The sight of them together was like a slap in the face, a stark reminder of the secret lives that could unfold right under one's nose. Lakshmi's breasts bounced with every movement, her moans filling the room as she ground herself down on Rahman's erection. His own moans matched hers in intensity, the muscles in his arms and back tensing with every stroke.
Her hand had slipped into her pants almost of its own accord, her thumb finding her clit and rubbing it in slow, deliberate circles. The fabric of her panties was already damp with arousal, the friction sending waves of pleasure through her body. She couldn't look away from the scene in front of her, her mind racing with a mix of anger and desire.
Lakshmi's breasts bounced in time with her hips, the sight of them making Fathima's mouth water. She felt her own nipples harden, straining against the confines of her bra. The moans grew louder, more urgent, and she couldn't help but wonder if she should join them, if she could satisfy the desires that her husband's brother clearly had. But she knew it was wrong, that it would only lead to more heartache and pain.
As if sensing her presence, Lakshmi turned her head and looked straight at Fathima, her eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made Fathima's knees go weak. The maid's smile grew wider, her eyes sparkling with a mischief that was almost taunting. And then, she did the unthinkable—she began to hunch her hips more vigorously, grinding down on Rahman's cock with a ferocity that was almost animalistic.
Fathima's hand flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp. The sight of Lakshmi, her body moving in such a wanton, shameless way, was more arousing than she could have ever imagined. And yet, she felt a stab of jealousy—this woman, this servant, was experiencing the passion and desire that she herself craved.
Her fingers moving with a newfound urgency. She watched Lakshmi's every move, her eyes locked on the maid's face as she felt herself getting closer to the edge. Lakshmi's moans grew louder, her eyes never leaving Fathima's, and Fathima could feel the heat building in her core, her body begging for release.
Her breath came in ragged gasps as she matched Lakshmi's rhythm, her own hips moving in time with the couple's silent symphony. The walls of the hallway seemed to close in around her, the only sound the slap of skin on skin and the muffled cries of pleasure that filled the air. She knew she should be disgusted, that she should be outraged—but all she felt was a desperate, primal need to come.
The sound grew louder, Lakshmi's moans reaching a crescendo as Rahman's thrusts grew more frantic. Fathima watched, her own body responding to the raw, carnality of it all. And then, with a final, guttural cry, Lakshmi threw her head back, her body tensing as she came. The sight of the maid's ecstasy was too much, and Fathima felt her own orgasm crash over her, her knees buckling as she stumbled backward, her hand still buried in her pants.
Lakshmi's eyes had never left hers, and as she came down from her high, she met Fathima's gaze with a knowing smile. Fathima felt a blush spread across her cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and anger. How could she have been so careless? But the woman's smile was infectious, and she found herself smiling back despite the situation.
Withdrawing her hand from her pants, Fathima took a deep breath and turned away, walking down the hallway as if she hadn't just caught her brother-in-law in the throes of passion. Each step was a battle against the desire to run back and join them, to revel in the raw sexual energy that still hummed in the air. But she knew that would only lead to more trouble.
When she reached her room, she closed the door with a quiet click, the sound echoing through the apartment like a gunshot in the stillness. Locking the door behind her, she leaned against it, her body still trembling from the intensity of the scene she had just witnessed. The room was a sanctuary, a place where she could be herself without fear of judgment or consequence.
Her eyes fell on the clock—it was 6 PM, the sun setting outside, casting a warm orange glow through the curtains. She thought back to early that morning, when she had seen Lakshmi sneaking out of Rahman's room. Had she known then what was happening, she might have felt differently—but now, the image of them together was burned into her brain, a constant reminder of the hidden desires that lurked beneath the surface of their everyday lives.
Just as she was about to slip into the shower to wash away the day's grime and the sticky residue of her illicit pleasure, there was a knock on her bedroom door. Fathima froze, her heart racing.
The door swung open, and there stood Lakshmi, her usually pristine sari a disarray of wrinkles and folds. The maid's makeup was smudged, her hair disheveled, and there was an unmistakable glow to her skin. The same glow that Fathima had seen on her own reflection just moments ago.
Lakshmi sailed into the room without a word of apology or embarrassment, her eyes dancing with a mischief that made Fathima's stomach flip-flop. She couldn't help but feel a twinge of resentment towards this woman who had just claimed what she had been secretly craving for so long—the raw, unbridled passion that had eluded her in her own marriage.
"Madam," Lakshmi said, her voice low and smoky, "How was it? Did you enjoy?"
Fathima's eyes snapped to Lakshmi, her heart racing. "What are you talking about?" she demanded, her voice shaking slightly.
Lakshmi's smile grew wider, her eyes sparkling with a knowing look that made Fathima's cheeks burn. "I saw you in the hallway," she said, her voice a sultry purr. "Your little... performance."
Fathima felt the color drain from her face. "What are you talking about?" she asked again, her voice barely above a whisper.
Lakshmi walked closer, her hips swaying with a confidence that seemed almost predatory. "Don't play coy with me, Madam," she said, her voice a low purr. "I saw the way you looked at us. I saw the hunger in your eyes."
Fathima's cheeks flushed hotter than the spicy curries she had eaten for lunch. "Ok, fine," she admitted, her voice strained. "But what you did was wrong. And Rahman is young, he's still in college."
"Wrong?" Lakshmi echoed, her smile never wavering. "Or perhaps it is that you are jealous, Madam."
Fathima's eyes flashed with anger at the accusation. "How dare you?" she spat out, her voice trembling with barely contained rage.
Lakshmi shrugged, her dark eyes unflinching. "It is the truth," she said simply, her voice devoid of any remorse or apology. "Rahman, he is a man with needs. And who can blame him for looking?"
Fathima felt the anger bubbling up inside her, but she knew Lakshmi wasn't entirely wrong. Rahman had always had a wandering eye, and she had often caught him staring at her before she had even started working at Elite Properties. But she had never dreamed he would act on those desires, especially with their servant.
As if sensing the storm of emotions churning within her, Lakshmi took a step closer, her hand sliding up Fathima's arm in a way that was both comforting and possessive. Before she could react, Lakshmi's other hand slipped into the waistband of her pants, her fingers brushing against the damp fabric of her panties.
Fathima's eyes widened in shock, her body tensing as Lakshmi's touch grew bolder. But she couldn't deny the way her breath hitched, the way her body responded to the maid's touch. She tried to push Lakshmi away, her voice a strangled protest, but her muscles refused to cooperate. Lakshmi's fingers moved with a confidence that spoke of experience, her touch sure and steady as she found Fathima's slick center.
"Madam, you are soo wet," Lakshmi murmured, her breath hot against Fathima's ear. "Does watching us make you want more?"
Fathima's body betrayed her, a soft moan escaping her lips as Lakshmi's fingers danced over her sensitive flesh. She felt a mix of shame and excitement, her mind racing with the implications of what was happening. Lakshmi's hand was unyielding, her touch unmistakable in its intent as she explored Fathima's arousal.
"Madam," Lakshmi whispered, her voice a seductive caress, "Did you see Rahman's dick?" The question was so blunt, so unexpected, that Fathima could do nothing but gasp in shock. The thought of her brother-in-law's nakedness was still fresh in her mind, the image of him and Lakshmi together burned into her retinas.
Fathima's breath caught in her throat as Lakshmi's fingers continued to work their magic, her eyes fluttering shut as she felt the beginnings of another orgasm build. "No," she managed to choke out, her voice thick with lust. "I couldn't see properly since you were above him."
Lakshmi chuckled, her breath warm against Fathima's ear. "Tomo morning," she whispered, her voice a siren's call, "5.30 AM. The door will be ajar." And before Fathima could protest, Lakshmi leaned in and pressed her full, lush lips to hers.
For a moment, Fathima was frozen, her mind racing with the implications of this brazen act. But then, something shifted within her, something primal and uncontrollable. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she kissed Lakshmi back, her mouth moving with a hunger she didn't know she had. The maid's lips were soft and insistent, her tongue dancing against Fathima's in a way that made her knees weak.
Lakshmi's hand slipped out of her pants, and Fathima felt the loss like a cold emptiness. But before she could protest, Lakshmi was gone, leaving Fathima standing there, her body trembling with need. The door clicked shut behind her, and she heard Lakshmi's retreating footsteps as she left the room.
Fathima stumbled to the bed, her legs barely able to hold her up. She collapsed onto the mattress, her body feeling like it was on fire. Her mind raced with the memory of Lakshmi's touch, the taste of her lips, and the promise of what was to come the next morning. She knew it was wrong, that she should feel nothing but disgust and anger. But she couldn't shake the feeling of excitement that was bubbling up inside her.
As she lay there, the room grew darker, the shadows playing across the ceiling as the sun disappeared beyond the horizon. The air grew thick with anticipation, the silence of the apartment only broken by the distant sounds of the city outside. She couldn't bear to look at herself in the mirror, couldn't face the woman she had become. Instead, she curled into a ball, her eyes squeezed shut tightly as she tried to push the images from her mind.
But the taste of Lakshmi's kiss lingered, a heady mix of sweetness and spice that seemed to cling to her like the scent of jasmine that wafted through the window. Fathima had never kissed a woman before—never even considered it. Yet, as she lay there, she found herself replaying the moment over and over, the softness of Lakshmi's lips, the way she had moaned into her mouth, the heat of her breath. It was a sensation she had never felt, one that both scared and excited her.
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