Adultery Pakistani wife on an Indian Submarine by nandinimathur

[sarit11]

I remembered seeing that tattoo, that night I’d met her. She’d explained to me that it was a symbol of purity, that it indicated that she’d save herself for the man that she’d marry—and she told me, shyly, that she thought that man was me. I’d been secretly delighted that I was her first.


As I watched, she stripped off the bra, changing it for a sexy push-up one. In truth, her full breasts didn’t need any help. They were ripe and pert, yet with just enough size and weight to make them bounce alluringly—perfect. Her skin there was beautifully smooth, her nipples a delicate rose pink, and my eyes were glued to them until the bra went on.

With the push-up bra, her breasts were transformed, becoming overtly sexual—the first thing you noticed about her. She put on a low-cut top and then a scoop-neck black sweater, since it would be getting chilly outside. A figure-hugging gray skirt followed, and this one finished well above her knees. The final touch was a pair of smart, three-inch heels. She looked just classy enough to be a presenter, but sexy enough to make any man gasp. When she added a little more make-up, it was impossible not to stare at her pouting, pink lips or those gorgeous blue eyes. She looked breathtaking…and very much the perfect Indian woman, all blonde hair, blue eyes and sex appeal.

This time, when we walked back through the bunks, she got a lot more attention. Without the captain to scare them into silence, there were wolf whistles almost constantly, and a few hands reached out toward her. None of them actually touched her, but there were a few obscene gestures and some comments in Indian that made her blush more than she had before. The men seemed…hungry. I had more time to get a look at them, this time, and they all had that same Indian look—the handsome kind, not the surly kind. Military muscle, I guessed—they weren’t allowed to be fat. Still, it was a little intimidating to see just how many strong jaws and blue eyes were on show. Many of the men were between shifts and were lounging around in vests, and I saw Nandini’s eyes flick to their bulging muscles more than once.

Outside, she stood on the shore and we shot an introduction piece with the submarine in the background. I noticed that, as she talked, sailors gradually filled the small standing area at the top of the conning tower, some of them climbing down to the deck. They weren’t waving in an I’m on TV way—they just seemed to be trying to get a look at her. Nandini didn’t mention it, but I found it a little unnerving.

As we were returning aboard, the fresh food for the galley arrived and we had to stand and wait until the corridors cleared. Nandini was off talking to a sailor in Hindi, asking him how we felt about the voyage. The sailor next to me motioned to my camera rig. “Pretty cool,” he said in heavily-accented Punjabi.

It was the first time anyone had spoken directly to me since we’d come aboard. I showed him how it worked and, when it seemed polite, I nodded to Nandini and said, “The men seem to like her.”