Adultery Fathima - wife to slutty broker (With Pics)

[Cuckoldindian]

Update 1:

Fathima lay on her back, her body glistening with sweat, as the ceiling fan above them lazily spun its blades, casting shifting shadows across the room. The curtains, slightly ajar, allowed the early evening light to stream in, painting the scene with a warm, golden glow. Her eyes closed tightly, she whispered, "Ah, yes," as Aslam's weight pressed into her, his labored breaths hot against her neck. She felt his hands, a little more clammy than usual, gripping her hips firmly as he thrust into her.

 
Her mind wandered to the days of her youth, when she had been the one in charge, the one teasing and taunting her college conquests. Those days seemed so far away now, replaced by the comfort and predictability of her marriage. Yet, there was a part of her that craved the excitement, the passionate abandon she had once felt. As Aslam's thrusts grew quicker, she found herself urging him on, her voice growing louder, "Please, a little more," she begged, her body tensing in anticipation.
 
The mattress beneath them groaned in protest with each movement, a testament to the countless nights they had shared in this very spot. The headboard thumped rhythmically against the wall, a secret tattoo that echoed through the quiet apartment. In the next room, Fazul and Meera were engrossed in their evening prayers, oblivious to the carnally driven dance their son and daughter-in-law were engaged in.
 
Fathima's nails dug into Aslam's back, leaving a trail of half-moons as she tried to pull him deeper inside her. His chest heaved as he worked towards climax, his breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. The room was filled with the scent of their mingled sweat and the faint musk of desire, a scent that was uniquely theirs. Despite her own arousal, Fathima felt a pang of dissatisfaction. Aslam had always been a quick lover, and tonight was no exception. She craved the slow burn, the teasing that led to an explosion of ecstasy, but it seemed her husband had other plans.
 
Her eyes snuck open to find Aslam's face contorted in a grimace of pleasure. She watched as the veins in his neck bulged, and his body tensed before he finally collapsed beside her, his breaths slowing to a steady rhythm. He lay there, spent and panting, his hand resting heavily on her stomach. Fathima, on the other hand, felt a familiar ache of longing that had yet to be sated. She bit her lip, contemplating whether to voice her needs, but the quiet that had descended post-fuck felt too fragile to disrupt.
 
Instead, she reached out to stroke his damp forehead, her fingertips tracing the fine lines that had begun to etch themselves into his skin. "Are you okay?" she murmured, hoping that her voice didn't betray the frustration bubbling just beneath the surface.
 
Aslam looked over at her, a soft smile playing on his lips. "Yeah, I'm fine," he panted. "It's just been a long day at work."
 
Fathima nodded, her hand continuing to trace patterns on his forehead. She took a deep breath, gathering the courage to speak her mind. "About that, I was wanting to ask you about one thing," she began, her voice low and tentative. Aslam's eyes searched hers, a hint of curiosity flickering in their depths.
 
"What is it, my love?" he asked, rolling onto his side to face her. He propped himself up on one elbow and gently caressed her nude breasts, his thumbs flicking over her hardened nipples. "Anything for you," he murmured, his gaze never leaving hers.
 
Fathima took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I've been thinking," she began, her voice wavering slightly, "that I don't have much to do at home anymore. With the maids taking care of the cooking and cleaning, I feel... I don't know, a bit useless, I guess." She watched his expression closely, searching for any sign of disapproval, but found only concern.
 
Aslam's eyes widened, his hand pausing mid-caress. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice gentle. He had never seen her look so vulnerable, so unsure of herself.
 
"Well," Fathima began, her cheeks flushing a delicate shade of pink, "I've been thinking that maybe I should find a job. Something to keep me busy, to make me feel more... purposeful."
 
Aslam's expression grew thoughtful, and he leaned in closer to kiss her lightly on the forehead. "Fathima, I don't have any objection to you working," he said, his voice a warm, reassuring rumble. "But remember our religious values, okay?"
 
Fathima's eyes searched his, looking for any hint of doubt or disapproval. She knew that Aslam was a devout man, and she didn't want to disappoint him. "Of course," she murmured, her voice small. "I'll find something suitable, I promise."
 
With a nod, Aslam leaned back, his hand sliding away from her breasts. She watched as his eyes grew heavy with sleep, his breaths deepening. Carefully, she extracted herself from the tangle of their limbs and tiptoed naked to the attached bathroom, closing the door softly behind her. The cool tiles felt refreshing against her flushed skin as she padded over to the sink.
 
Staring at her reflection in the mirror, Fathima's eyes grew distant, recalling the days of her youth. The image of her college self flickered in the glass—sultry glances thrown at unsuspecting males, the thrill of their shock and desire when she flaunted her body in tight-fitting clothes. Her hands, almost of their own accord, began to wander down her stomach, the tips of her fingers grazing her still-sensitive clit.
 
The memory of her ex-boyfriend's touch flooded back to her, his strong hands exploring her body with a confidence that Aslam had never quite mastered. Fathima's breath hitched as she thought of the frequent, intense sessions they had shared, her moans filling their dingy hostel room. Her fingers grew more insistent, mimicking the rhythms of his past caresses.
 
Her eyes remained locked on the mirror, watching as her own hand slid in and out of her slick folds. She imagined the scandalized looks on the faces of her former teachers, the ones she had so expertly teased and flirted with. Her heart raced at the thought of their shock and arousal if they could see her now, a married woman, pleasuring herself with such fervor. Her cheeks burned with a mix of shame and excitement.
 
Her thoughts drifted to her ex-boyfriend's friends, the ones who had always ogled her cleavage when she wore those low-cut tops to college. How they had whispered about her behind her back, sharing lewd fantasies about what they would do if given the chance. Now, here she was, living out those very fantasies in the privacy of her marital home. Her breath grew ragged as her fingers danced across her clit, each touch sending a jolt of electricity through her body.


 
Her knees grew weak, and she had to brace herself against the sink to stay upright. The sensations grew more intense, coiling tightly in her core, building to a crescendo that had eluded her with Aslam. With a final, desperate thrust of her fingers, she climaxed hard, her body spasming as waves of pleasure crashed over her. Her moan of release echoed off the bathroom tiles, a stark contrast to the quiet purr of the fan outside.
 
Once the tremors had subsided, Fathima washed her hands and straightened up. She took a moment to compose herself, her reflection in the mirror a flushed, satiated version of the unsatisfied woman who had entered moments ago. With a sigh, she grabbed a towel and padded back to the bedroom, the chilly air of the apartment making her shiver.
 
Aslam lay on his back, snoring gently, oblivious to the world. Carefully, she slid back into bed, her skin sticky with sweat and her own arousal. She pulled the sheet over herself, feeling a twinge of guilt for taking her pleasure in such a clandestine way. Yet, she couldn't help the thrill that shot through her as she recalled the illicit thoughts that had driven her to climax.
 
The digital clock on the bedside table flickered to 6:00 am, the harsh red numbers piercing the darkness like an accusation. Fathima sat up with a start, the chilly air hitting her damp skin and jolting her fully awake. The shrill ring of the alarm pierced the silence, and she reached over to silence it before it could wake Aslam.
 
With a sigh, she slid out of bed, her legs feeling like jelly after her recent climax. She tiptoed into the en suite bathroom, the tiles cold against her bare feet. The sound of the showerhead being turned on was a comforting hiss, and she stepped under the spray, letting the warm water cascade over her body, washing away the remnants of her secret desires.
 
The shower revitalized her, the pulsating water acting as a balm to her weary soul. She took her time, her eyes closed, letting the droplets stream down her face and neck, as if cleansing her of the guilt she felt for her clandestine actions. Her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts—how could she tell Aslam what she truly needed? Would he understand? Or would he see it as a betrayal of their vows, of their shared beliefs?
 
As she stepped out of the shower, the cold floor tiles sent a shiver up her spine, and she hastily grabbed her bathrobe, tying it securely around her waist. The apartment was still shrouded in silence, the only sound the steady ticking of the clock in the living room. She padded over to the bed, where Aslam lay sprawled on his back, his chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths.
 
Gently, she placed a hand on his shoulder and whispered his name. "Aslam, it's time to wake up."
 
He grunted and rolled over, his eyes fluttering open. "Already?" he mumbled, the last vestiges of sleep clinging to him like a lover reluctant to let go.
 
Fathima nodded and gave him a small, understanding smile. "Yeah, you have an early meeting today, remember?"
 
Aslam groaned but managed to pull himself out of bed. He shuffled over to the bathroom, his bare feet slapping against the cold floor tiles. Fathima watched him go, feeling a pang of regret for waking him so abruptly. She knew he needed his rest, especially with his demanding job at the bank.
 
Once he was out of sight, she slid out of bed and picked up a long top and leggings from the chair beside her. She slipped them on, the fabric clinging to her still-damp skin. Then, she took a deep breath and reached for her veil. She wrapped it around her head, securing it with a practiced ease that had become second nature to her over the years.
 
Looking at herself in the mirror, Fathima felt the weight of her choices settle heavily on her shoulders. The conservative attire was a stark reminder of the life she had chosen, the life her family had expected her to lead. Her eyes searched her reflection for any hint of the wild, passionate girl she used to be, but all she saw was a married woman, playing the role she had been cast in.


 
With a sigh, she walked out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, where their maid, Lakshmi, was already busy preparing breakfast. Lakshmi looked up and offered a warm smile, the smell of sizzling spices and the aroma of freshly brewed chai filling the room. "Good morning, Fathima," she chirped, her plump cheeks dimpling.
 
Fathima returned the smile, her eyes lingering on the steaming cups of tea and the platter of crispy dosas that Lakshmi had laid out. It was a familiar routine, one that had been playing out almost every morning since they had moved in together. Lakshmi had become an integral part of their lives, a silent witness to their marital moments, both mundane and intimate.
 
As Fathima took her place at the breakfast table, she heard the shuffling of feet from the hallway. Meera (Alam' mother) emerged first, her eyes still puffy from sleep. She wore a simple salwar kameez, her graying hair pulled back into a neat bun. Her plump figure was a testament to the years she had spent cooking and caring for her family, and she moved with a grace that belied her age. Fathima watched as Meera filled Aslam's plate with a generous serving of food, her hands deftly maneuvering the spatula with the ease of long practice.
 
Fazul (Aslams father) followed shortly after, his tall frame bent slightly with age, but his eyes still sharp and alert. His white beard was neatly trimmed, and he offered Fathima a warm smile as he took his seat. "Good morning, beta," he said, his voice deep and comforting. Fathima returned the smile, feeling a warmth spread through her. Despite the occasional tension in their marriage, she had grown to love Aslam's parents. They had accepted her as their own daughter, showering her with affection and respect.
 
Rahman, Aslam's younger brother, was the last to join them. He was a stark contrast to his brother, tall and lean, with a mischievous glint in his eye. He was still in his college sweatpants, his hair sticking up in every direction. "Morning," he mumbled sleepily, reaching for the newspaper that lay folded on the table.
 
Aslam emerged from the bedroom, his own eyes bleary with fatigue. He pulled out a chair and sat heavily, his gaze lingering on Fathima before dropping to the steaming plate of food in front of him. He knew that look, had seen it countless times. It was the look of a man who had given his all, physically and mentally, and was now paying the price. But there was something different in his eyes today, something that made Fathima's heart race.
 
Meera placed a cup of tea in front of him, her gaze shrewd despite the early hour. "You two seem a bit... tired," she said, her voice laden with knowing. Fathima felt her cheeks color, hoping that her recent activities in the bathroom had gone unnoticed. Aslam took a sip of his tea, his eyes not leaving Fathima's.
 
"It's nothing, Amma," he said, his voice gruff. "Just a bit of work stress, that's all."
 
Fathima nodded, avoiding Meera's knowing gaze. She knew that the truth was far more complex than simple work stress, but she didn't have the words to explain the tumult of emotions that had been bubbling inside her. Aslam had always been the stoic one, the rock of the family, but she couldn't help but wonder if there was something more to his exhaustion.
 
Once the men had finished their breakfast and left for their respective destinations, Fathima cleared the table and washed the dishes with Lakshmi. The rhythmic clinking of plates and the comforting warmth of the kitchen were soothing, offering a temporary reprieve from her racing thoughts. The apartment felt eerily quiet without their male presence, and she found herself missing the energy they brought with them.