Adultery NAZRIN AN INNOCENT WIFE (With pics)

[Cuckoldindian]

Update 15:

 
The rest of the day was a blur of half-hearted lessons and furtive glances at her phone. The videos played on a loop in her mind, the images of Muthu and Praveen with the hooker a stark reminder of the world she was now a part of. She couldn't focus, her thoughts consumed by the impending rendezvous with Srinivasan, the thrill of the forbidden mixing with a hint of fear.
 
As the final bell rang, releasing the students into the cacophony of the college, the male teachers began to drift into the staff room. Each one approached her with a purposeful stride, their eyes lingering on the swell of her breasts beneath the flimsy shawl. They all had something to say, a question to ask, a comment to make, all thinly veiled excuses to get a closer look.
 
Nazrin excused herself, the words sticking to her tongue like a sweet, forbidden fruit. She gathered her bag, the weight of her phone a constant reminder of the fire burning within her. She walked towards the gate of the college, her hips swaying with a newfound confidence. The whispers of the students and the knowing glances of her colleagues seemed to only add to the thrill. She was the cobra, slithering through the tall grass, unseen but deadly.
 
"Okay, Srinivasan is your father's age," she whispered to herself, her breath hot against her skin. "Just go with him, choose a dress, and leave immediately." In her mind, it was a simple errand, a mundane task to complete before returning to the safety of her home, her marriage, her sanity. But the throb between her legs told a different story, a tale of desire that had been awakened by the two young men whose videos she couldn't stop watching.
 
As she approached the gate, the din of the college receded into the background, replaced by the steady thrum of anticipation in her veins. There he was, Srinivasan, sitting astride his motorbike, his eyes scanning the horizon as if searching for a mirage in the concrete jungle. His gaze settled on her, and the corner of his mouth quirked up in a knowing smile. He patted the seat behind him, the leather warm and inviting.
 
Nazrin took a deep breath, her chest rising with the effort. She corrected her shawl with trembling fingers, ensuring that the red lace remained hidden from view. With a confidence that she hadn't felt in years, she sailed towards him, the fabric fluttering around her like the wings of a fiery bird. The students' eyes followed her, their whispers like a siren's song in her ears, urging her closer to the flame.
 
"Srinivasan," she called out, her voice a blend of innocence and challenge. "How can I come in your bike?" She paused, the question hanging in the air like a ripe fruit, ripe for the picking. "It will not look appropriate. We will take an auto."
 
He looked at her, his eyes dark with understanding. "Nazrin," he said, his voice a gentle coax, "you're like my daughter. No one will think bad." His words were a warm embrace, a promise of familial comfort, yet the glint in his eyes told a different story. He leaned closer, his breath a whisper of temptation. "Besides, it's just a quick trip."
 
With a sigh that was more of resignation than anything else, she swung her leg over the bike, the fabric of her chudithar rustling as she settled into place. Her thighs gripped the seat, her body taut with the effort not to touch him, her hand clutching the metal bar at the side like it was the only thing keeping her afloat in a sea of desire. The bike roared to life beneath them, the vibration traveling up her spine and straight to her core. She felt the heat of his body against her back, the solidity of his form a stark contrast to the emptiness she felt next to Fahim.
 
They drove through the crowded streets, the bike weaving in and out of traffic with a practiced ease that had her clutching the bar tighter. Each bump in the road sent her body jolting forward, her breasts pressing against the firm planes of his back, the fabric of her blouse and the barrier of his shirt the only things separating them. With every jostle, she could feel her nipples tighten, the fabric of her bra a tease against the sensitive tips.
 
The warmth of his body seeped through the layers of clothing, the vibration of the engine a relentless drumbeat that matched the pulsing ache between her legs. Her eyes remained fixed on the road ahead, her breath coming in shallow gasps that she hoped he wouldn't notice. The city was a blur of color and sound, the mundane sights of her everyday life suddenly tinted with a veneer of the illicit.
 
Suddenly, the bike took a sharp turn, and she felt herself slipping to the side. Strong arms encircled her waist, pulling her closer to his body. "Hold me," Srinivasan instructed, his voice a low murmur against the cacophony of the street. "Or you will fall down."
 
Nazrin's hands obeyed without thought, reaching around to grasp his shoulders. Her breasts pressed against his back, the heat of his skin searing through the fabric of her blouse. This was the first time in years she had been so close to a man other than Fahim, and the sensation was intoxicating. The engine's purr between her legs grew louder, a physical echo of the need that pulsed through her. Her nipples tightened with every bump, the friction a sweet torment that had her biting her lip to stifle a gasp.
 
The bike pulled to a stop in front of a small shop, the neon lights casting a garish glow over the mannequins in the window. She felt his body stiffen beneath her arms, his breath hitching as she slid off the bike. Her shawl had slipped down, the red lace of her bra clearly visible in the harsh light. She straightened, her cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and excitement. Srinivasan's eyes followed her descent, lingering on the exposed swell of her breasts before meeting her gaze with a look that was unmistakable.
 
"I want the same dress for my daughter," he said, his voice a gruff whisper that sent a shiver down her spine. His eyes remained glued to her chest, his expression a blend of hunger and something that looked suspiciously like pride. Nazrin felt a thrill of power, her hand rising to adjust the shawl with a deliberate slowness that made his gaze follow the movement.
 
As they stepped into the coolness of the shop, the doorbell jingling a greeting, she was aware of the heat of his body so close to hers. The scent of his cologne mingled with the sweet aroma of fabrics, a heady mix that made her feel light-headed. She took a step away, the coolness of the air-conditioned space a stark contrast to the warmth of the outside world. Srinivasan followed, his eyes never leaving hers.
 
The man behind the counter was in his late 30s, with a balding head and a paunch that stretched the buttons of his shirt. His eyes widened when he saw them, his gaze flickering between Nazrin's flushed face and Srinivasan's unreadable expression. "How can I help you?" he asked, his voice a nasal whine that seemed to pierce the tension in the air.
 
Nazrin took a deep breath, the chilly air of the shop making her nipples peak beneath the red lace. She could feel the dampness between her legs, the fabric of her chudithar clinging to her skin. "I need a dress," she said, her voice a whisper of need. "Something for a special occasion."
 
The shopkeeper's eyes grew greedy as he took in her appearance, his gaze lingering on the sliver of exposed skin between her shawl and her blouse. Srinivasan stepped closer, his hand coming to rest on her waist. It was a possessive gesture, a declaration of ownership that had her pulse racing. "For my daughter," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate in her very bones. "Something that will make her feel as beautiful as she truly is."
 
The shopkeeper nodded, his eyes darting from Srinivasan's hand to Nazrin's face. "Of course," he said, his voice a sycophantic purr. "This way, please." He led them through racks of colorful saris and salwar kameez, the fabrics whispering against their legs as they passed. When they reached the adult section, tucked away in the corner like a dirty little secret, Nazrin felt a thrill of excitement mingled with dread. This was it, the moment she had been dreading and craving all at once.
 
"What size do you need?" the man asked, his eyes flicking to Nazrin's chest before dropping to her hips.
 
"Large," she murmured, her voice thick with desire. The simple word felt like a declaration of rebellion, a shout into the void that she was taking up space, that she was more than the sum of her parts. The shopkeeper nodded, his gaze lingering on the red lace peeking out from beneath her shawl before he turned away to rummage through the racks.
 
Moments later, he returned with a black chudithar that had a grand design of gold thread woven through it, the material shimmering like a dark pool of water under the harsh lights of the shop. He laid it on the table with a flourish, the fabric whispering against the wood like a secret shared between lovers. The sight of it made Nazrin's stomach flip, the color and style a stark contrast to the traditional garments she usually wore. It was a declaration of her newfound sexuality, a manifesto of desire that she hadn't even known existed within her.
 
Slowly, she reached out and touched the fabric, the softness sending a shiver of anticipation down her spine. "What do you think?" she asked Srinivasan, her voice a soft caress that seemed to hang in the air, thick with meaning.
 
Without taking his hands from her waist, Srinivasan leaned in, his breath a warm whisper in her ear. "I think a white chudithar in size medium will be perfect for my daughter," he said, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver of excitement through her. The shopkeeper nodded, his eyes flicking from Srinivasan's hand on Nazrin's waist to her face, which was now a mask of innocence.
 
Nazrin felt a thrill of power at the blatant lie. "Mr. Srinivasan, my size is large," she said, her voice a silken purr that seemed to caress the words. "You said your daughter is the same size as me." She turned to look at him, her eyes wide and innocent, a challenge in the tilt of her head. The air grew heavier, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.
 
Srinivasan's gaze dropped to her chest, his eyes lingering on the red lace that peeked out from her shawl. He took a step closer, his hand moving to her shoulder, his thumb brushing the bare skin above the fabric. "Ah, but my daughter's chest is smaller," he murmured, his voice a dark promise. "This one will be perfect."
 
Nazrin felt the heat of his body against her back, the pressure of his hand a silent reminder of the power he held. Her eyes fell to the black chudithar on the table, the shimmering fabric whispering seductively to her. "Whatever," she thought, "let's just buy what he says and get out of here."
 
The shopkeeper, seemingly oblivious to the tension, disappeared into the depths of the store, returning moments later with a white chudithar in a medium size. The fabric was adorned with a delicate pattern of flowers that seemed to bloom against the starkness of the color. He laid it out with a flourish, his eyes lingering on the garment before flicking back to Nazrin's face. There was a knowing smile on his lips, a silent acknowledgment of the game being played.
 
"It's perfect," Nazrin said, her voice a seductive purr that made Srinivasan's grip on her waist tighten. "Let's take this one." She turned to look at him, her eyes hooded and filled with a desire that was no longer just for the dress. His gaze met hers, and for a brief moment, she thought she saw a flicker of something darker in his eyes. Something that mirrored the need that had taken root within her.
 
"Nazrin," Srinivasan said, his voice a velvet command that had her heart skipping a beat. "Try this chudithar in the trial room."
 
Her eyes widened in shock. "But, Srinivasa," she protested, her voice trembling, "it will be a bit small for me, won't it?" She took a step back, trying to put some distance between them, but his hand on her waist was like an iron band, unyielding.
 
Srinivasan leaned in closer, his breath hot against her ear. "Just try it, Nazrin," he murmured, his voice a silky command. "For me." His eyes held hers, the challenge in them unmistakable. She felt a thrill of excitement and fear mingle, a potent cocktail that made her knees go weak.
 
With trembling hands, Nazrin picked up the white chudithar, the fabric whispering against her palms like the promise of a lover's touch. She slipped into the cramped trial room, the walls closing in around her like a lover's embrace. The mirror reflected her flushed face, her eyes dark with desire and trepidation.
 
Her current chudithar dropped to the floor, the fabric pooling around her ankles like a forgotten secret. She stepped out of it, her skin feeling the coolness of the air-conditioned room like a caress. The red lace of her underwear stood out starkly against her olive skin, a stark reminder of the woman she had become.
 
The white chudithar was indeed smaller than she had anticipated, the fabric clinging to her curves like a second skin. She tugged it up, the tightness causing her breasts to spill over the top. Her hands trembled as she tried to adjust the hooks, the mirror's reflection showing her the image of a woman on the edge of a precipice. The dress hugged her in all the right places, accentuating her hips and highlighting the small of her waist. It was a size too small, and she knew it, but the thrill of wearing something so tight, so revealing, was intoxicating.
 
The fabric of the dress was so fine that she could see the outline of her red lace bra, the color a stark contrast against the purity of the white. Her breasts swelled, the lace cutting into her flesh in the most delicious way. She took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling with the effort, the fabric straining against her skin. The feeling was exquisite, a sweet agony that had her biting her lip to keep from crying out.
 
With trembling hands, she reached for her shawl, the soft fabric wrapping around her like a lover's embrace. She pulled it over her shoulders, the light material barely covering the swollen mounds of her breasts. The shawl clung to the curves of her body, the sheer fabric doing little to hide the evidence of her arousal. She looked at herself in the mirror, the sight of her own desire reflected back at her in the glass.
 
With a deep breath, Nazrin stepped out of the trial room, her eyes locking with Srinivasan's. The look in his eyes was one of pure hunger, a hunger that she hadn't seen in a man's gaze since her college days. The shopkeeper's jaw had gone slack, his eyes bulging as they took in the sight of her. The fabric of the white chudithar clung to her body, the red lace of her bra clearly visible through the thin material.
 
"It's... it's too tight," she managed to say, her voice a tremulous whisper.
 
Srinivasan stepped closer, his gaze never leaving hers. "No," he said firmly, "it's perfect." He reached out and took the shawl from her before she could react, his fingers brushing against her bare shoulder. "The shawl does suit the color," he murmured, his eyes dark with a hunger that she recognized all too well. "But it doesn't do justice to your beauty."
 
The shopkeeper nodded, his eyes unable to tear away from the swell of her breasts that threatened to spill over the top of the white chudithar. "Yes, ma'am," he agreed, his voice thick with desire, "you look... incredible." His gaze dropped to her chest, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. Nazrin felt a thrill of power at the way both men were looking at her, their eyes devouring every inch of her exposed skin.
 
Srinivasan's hand came to rest on her shoulder, his grip firm but not painful. "Turn around," he said, his voice low and commanding. It was a simple instruction, but the way he said it made her stomach flip. With trembling legs, she did as she was told, the fabric of the dress whispering against her thighs as she moved.
 
The coolness of the shop floor seeped through the thin material of the chudithar, sending a shiver down her spine. In the mirror, she could see his eyes travel down her body, lingering on the curve of her ass. The dress was so tight that it left nothing to the imagination, the fabric hugging her curves like a second skin. The red lace of her panties peeked out from the bottom, a sultry smile in the sea of white.
 
"I will get changed," she murmured, her voice a barely audible whisper. She knew what he wanted, what they both wanted. But she had to maintain some semblance of control, some shred of dignity in this twisted dance they were engaged in.
 
With a shaky hand, Nazrin opened the door to the trial room, the bell tinkling a farewell. She stepped inside and took a deep breath, the coolness of the room a stark contrast to the heat that was building within her. The white chudithar fell to the floor, pooling at her feet like a discarded shroud. She stood before the mirror, the red lace of her underwear stark against the paleness of her skin. The dress had been like a second skin, a declaration of her rebirth into this world of desire and lust. But now, she needed to shed it like a snake shed its skin, to reveal the creature beneath.
 
Nazrin closed the door and stepped out of the dress, the fabric slithering down her legs like a lover's reluctant goodbye. She was left standing in nothing but her red lace bra and panties, the light from the single bulb casting shadows that played across her skin. Her heart pounded in her chest, the beat echoing in her ears like a drum that grew louder with every passing second. She knew what she wanted, what she needed, and it was a hunger that could no longer be ignored.
 
Her eyes dropped to the panties, the wetness seeping through the fabric like a dark secret. The sight sent a jolt of lust through her, making her knees weak. She reached down, her fingers tracing the dampness, the fabric sticking to her skin. It was a reminder of the fire that burned within her, a fire that had been smoldering for weeks, fueled by the illicit exchanges with Muthu, Praveen, and now, Srinivasan. The urge to touch herself, to ease the ache, was overwhelming, the need to feel something, anything, more intense than ever before.
 
Nazrin took a deep breath and pushed the thoughts away, focusing instead on the task at hand. She slipped back into her own chudithar, the fabric feeling foreign against her sensitized skin. The dress she had been wearing to the store was a safe cocoon, a barrier that she had worn as armor against the world. But now, it was a reminder of her mundane existence, the life she was slowly leaving behind.
 
Her eyes searched the tiny room for the shawl she had brought, the one that had been her shield of modesty. But it was nowhere to be found. A cold fist of panic clenched her stomach. It had to be with Srinivasan, the one man whose eyes she hadn't wanted to see her so exposed. She stepped out of the trial room, her heart racing as she met his gaze.
 
Srinivasan's eyes roved over her, the hunger in them unmistakable. He held her shawl in his hand, the fabric a silent reminder of his power. "You forgot this," he said, his voice low and seductive. The shopkeeper had retreated behind the counter, his eyes glued to the floor, pretending not to see the drama unfolding before him.
 
Nazrin took the shawl, her hands shaking as she wrapped it around her shoulders, the fabric feeling like a lifeline in the storm of desire that raged within her. She pulled it tight, the material a flimsy shield against Srinivasan's gaze. His eyes never left hers as she took the packed dress from the shopkeeper, his hand brushing against hers, sending a jolt of electricity up her arm.
 
"Thank you," she murmured, the words feeling heavy and thick on her tongue. The shopkeeper's eyes flicked to their joined hands before dropping to the floor again, his cheeks flushed with what could only be embarrassment or arousal. She could feel Srinivasan's eyes on her, his gaze like a brand that seared her skin, leaving a mark of ownership she hadn't felt in years.
 
They stepped out into the brightness of the day, the sun's glare a stark contrast to the darkness of the shop's interior. The heat washed over her, a stark reminder of the world outside their bubble of desire. He led her to his motorbike, the black beast gleaming in the sunlight. Without a word, Srinivasan swung his leg over the seat, the bike's engine rumbling to life beneath him. Nazrin took a deep breath, her heart racing, as she climbed onto the back, the vibration of the bike sending a shiver through her.
 
As they pulled away, she clutched at the white plastic bag containing the dress, the fabric of the chudithar whispering against her thighs, a silent promise of what was to come. She wrapped the shawl tighter around herself, the fabric a flimsy shield against the wind that whipped at her hair, trying to pull her back to reality. But she didn't want reality, not now, not when she was on the edge of a cliff that promised so much more.
 
"Drop me near the bus stand," she murmured, her voice barely audible over the roar of the bike's engine.
 
"Nazrin," he said, his voice a gentle command, "I want to drop you at your house."
 
Her heart skipped a beat at his words. "No," she said, her voice firm. "The bus stand is fine."
 
"Nazrin," he said, his voice a velvet rumble that seemed to resonate through her entire being. "Let me take you home."
 
As they approached a speed bump, she braced herself, her grip on the plastic bag tightening. But the bike jolted more than she had anticipated, sending her lurching forward. Instinctively, her arms snaked around Srinivasan's waist, her boobs pressing against his back as she clung to him. The fabric of her shawl fluttered in the wind, a crimson flag of surrender. She felt the heat of his body through his shirt, the muscles tensing beneath her fingertips. The bike's engine roared as it cleared the bump, and she couldn't help the little gasp that escaped her lips.
 
Srinivasan glanced over his shoulder, his eyes meeting hers. For a moment, she was lost in the dark depths of his gaze, the wind playing with the strands of hair that had escaped her ponytail. "Where do you live?" he asked, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to vibrate through her chest.
 
Nazrin took a deep breath, her breasts pressing against his back with the movement. She could feel the heat of his body seep into her, the fabric of his shirt a scant barrier between them. She recited her address, her voice a breathless whisper that seemed to be swallowed by the roar of the engine. The words felt like a confession, a secret shared between lovers in the throes of passion.
 
As they approached her house, the bike's engine grew quieter, the rumble a gentle purr that seemed to echo the racing of her heart. She was acutely aware of every bump and curve of the road, the sensation of his body against hers, the way his muscles tightened and released with each shift of the gears. The world around them was a blur, a mosaic of color and sound that faded into the background as she focused solely on the feel of his warmth and the scent of his cologne.
 
When they pulled up to her house, the bike's engine cut off, the sudden silence a stark contrast to the symphony of desire that had filled her ears. She felt his body tense as he turned to look at her, the heat of his gaze making her skin tingle. She knew what was coming, the moment of truth where she had to decide if she was going to invite him in or if she was going to step away and pretend that none of this had ever happened.
 
Nazrin's legs felt like jelly as she swung them over the side of the bike, the concrete beneath her feet a cold shock after the heat of their bodies. She handed him the plastic bag with the dress, their fingers brushing for a second that felt like an eternity. She watched as he took it, his gaze never leaving hers, the promise of what lay within the bag a silent understanding between them.
 
"Nazrin," Srinivasan said, his voice low and gruff, "I've never seen you like this before." His eyes searched hers, the hunger in them unmistakable. "Two weeks ago, you were a different woman."
 
She met his gaze, a defiant spark in her eyes. "I've always been the same woman," she said, her voice steady despite the tumult of emotions churning within her. "It's just that now, you're finally seeing me."
 
Srinivasan's hand reached up to her chin, tilting it so she had to look at him. "I like it," he said, his voice a low growl that sent a shiver down her spine. "Don't change." His thumb traced the line of her jaw, his eyes never leaving hers.
 
Nazrin's breath hitched in her throat. "Ok," she murmured, the word a soft surrender. "Now it's time. I will go." She stepped back, breaking the contact, the absence of his touch leaving her feeling cold.
 
With a nod, Srinivasan started the bike again. "Take care, Nazrin," he said, the engine rumbling between them. She turned to walk inside the house. The door was a heavy weight against her hand, the coolness of the metal a stark contrast to the heat of her skin.
 
As she locked the door behind her, the reality of what had just happened crashed down around her. She leaned against it, her eyes closed, trying to catch her breath. The house was quiet, a stark contrast to the maelstrom of emotions that swirled within her. Her heart raced, her pulse pounding in her ears like a drum that demanded she acknowledge the truth of her desires.
 
She needed a fuck tonight.
 
The words echoed through Nazrin's mind as she moved through the quiet house, the emptiness of the rooms a stark reminder of Fahim's absence. The walls seemed to close in around her, the air thick with the weight of her desire. She couldn't ignore it anymore, couldn't pretend that the simmering need within her would just go away. It was a hunger that gnawed at her, a hunger that had been growing ever since she had started her secret life with Muthu, Praveen, Arun and now, Srinivasan.
 
Srinivansan was her father's age, a thought that should have repulsed her, but instead, it only added to the allure. He was a man of experience, of power, and of control, and she craved that more than she cared to admit. His touch had been like a brand, leaving a mark on her soul that she couldn't ignore. The way he had looked at her in the shop, the way his eyes had devoured her body, had made her feel alive in a way that Fahim hadn't in years.