Adultery Fathima - wife to slutty broker (With Pics)
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Update 2:

With the kitchen gleaming and the aroma of breakfast lingering in the air, Fathima retreated to her room. She closed the door behind her, the soft click echoing through the emptiness. The room was a testament to their marriage—his side of the bed neatly made, her side still rumpled from their earlier activities. She sat on the bed, her thoughts a tumultuous storm of desire and doubt.

 
Her gaze fell upon her laptop, a sleek device that had been a wedding gift from Aslam. It had been her window to the outside world, her sanctuary where she could escape into the realms of social media and online shopping. But today, it would serve a different purpose. With a sense of determination that she hadn't felt in years, she opened it and began searching for job listings. Her fingers danced over the keyboard, typing in a flurry as she scoured the internet for opportunities that would grant her the independence she craved.
 
The job market was a desert for someone with a degree in Business Administration. The IT boom had swallowed up every conceivable opening, leaving her with a barren landscape of coding languages and software development positions. Fathima sighed, her frustration growing with each job posting that she read. Her heart sank as she realized that despite her qualifications and aspirations, her world was confined to the narrow scope of what the market deemed valuable.
 
Her mind drifted back to her college days, to the friends she had left behind when she had chosen to marry Aslam. They had all moved on, building their careers, exploring the world. Some had even found love outside the boundaries of their arranged marriages. Yet, here she was, a prisoner in her own home, her spirit as stifled as her sexual desires.
 
With newfound resolve, she focused on the job listings again, her eyes scanning over the requirements and responsibilities. The secretary position was at a local college, which would be easy enough to handle, but it didn't stir her soul. The receptionist role was at a small doctor's office, the mundane nature of the job a stark reminder of the life she had been living. Then, her eyes fell upon the third listing—a real estate broker. The thought of it sent a thrill through her. It was a world of power and prestige, of dealing with people and making deals. It was a world where she could be more than just a wife and daughter-in-law.
 
Fathima leaned in closer, her eyes devouring every word. The role required someone with strong communication skills, someone who could navigate the cut-throat real estate market of Chennai. It was a challenge, yes, but one she knew she could rise to. Her heart pounded in her chest as she noted down all the details of the three vacancies on a small notepad she kept by her bedside. The words "part-time" and "flexible hours" stood out like beacons of hope, offering her the chance to balance her responsibilities at home with her burgeoning career aspirations.
 
For the first time in a long while, Fathima felt a spark of excitement, a glimmer of hope that maybe she could find something that would bring meaning to her days beyond the walls of her apartment. She knew that the path ahead would be fraught with challenges, but she was ready to face them. After all, she had once been the girl who had strutted through college with a swagger, leaving a trail of whispered rumors and envious glances in her wake.
 
With trembling fingers, she dialed the number listed for the real estate job. Each ring echoed in the quiet of the room, amplifying her anxiety. The phone was picked up on the third ring by a smooth, professional-sounding voice. "Good morning, this is Suresh from Elite Properties. How may I assist you?"
 
Fathima took a deep breath, pushing aside the doubt that whispered in her ear. "Hi, this is Fathima," she said, her voice steady. "I saw your job posting for a part-time real estate broker. I'm interested in applying."
 
"Ah, yes," Suresh responded, the sound of shuffling papers audible through the phone. "The interview is going on today, and it will end at 3:00 PM."
 
Fathima's heart skipped a beat. "Today?" she echoed, her voice a mix of surprise and excitement. "Could I possibly come in for a quick interview?"
 
"Of course," Suresh said, his tone brisk yet welcoming. "We're always looking for motivated individuals to join our team. Can you make it to our office by 2:30 PM?"
 
Fathima glanced at the clock on the wall. It was 11 AM, leaving her with just a few hours to prepare. Her stomach fluttered with nerves, but she knew she had to seize this opportunity. "Yes, I'll be there," she said firmly, her voice a declaration of intent. She scribbled down the address he provided before ending the call.
 
Rushing to the living room, she found Lakshmi folding laundry. "Lakshmi," she called out, her tone urgent. "Could you please make sure lunch is ready sooner today? I have an important appointment."
 
Lakshmi looked up, her eyes wide. "But, memsahib," she protested, "I still have much to do."
 
"I know, Lakshmi," Fathima said, her voice filled with urgency. "But this is important. I need to be there by 2:30, and I have to get ready."
 
Lakshmi nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. She had seen the way Fathima's eyes had lit up at the mention of the job, the way her voice had become more alive. Lakshmi assured her that she would manage everything.
 
With a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and walked into the living room. Meera looked up from the TV, her eyes narrowing slightly when she saw the determined look on her daughter-in-law's face. "Fathima, is everything alright?" she asked, her voice filled with concern.
 
"Amma, where is Appa?" Fathima inquired, her tone more assertive than it had ever been in Meera's presence.
 
Meera looked up from her chai, a hint of surprise in her eyes. "He's out to walk," she replied, her voice steady.
 
Fathima nodded, her heart racing. She took another deep breath before speaking again. "Amma, I have a job interview today," she announced, her voice clear and firm.
 
Meera's eyes widened in surprise. "A job interview?" she repeated, setting down her tea cup with a clink.
 
Fathima nodded, her heart racing. "Yes, it's part-time, and I've already spoken with Aslam," she said, her voice steady despite the butterflies in her stomach. "He's okay with it."
 
Meera's eyes searched hers for a moment before she offered a warm smile. "If he is okay with it, then so am I," she said, her voice filled with genuine happiness for her daughter-in-law. "You should do what makes you happy, Fathima. I know how much you've given up for this family."
 
Fathima felt a weight lift off her shoulders. She had been bracing for resistance, for the lecture about the importance of family and her role as a wife. But Meera's words were like a balm to her soul, soothing the doubt that had been festering. "Thank you, Amma," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "I have to get ready. I have to leave at 1:00 PM so that I can beat the traffic."
 
Meera nodded, her eyes gleaming with pride. "Of course, beta," she said, her voice filled with affection. "But remember to wear something conservative. It's important that you represent our family well."
 
Fathima felt a twinge of annoyance at the reminder, but she knew Meera's intentions were pure. "I will, Amma," she replied, her voice calm. "I'll wear something appropriate." She knew that Meera's words were steeped in tradition and concern for her reputation, but she also understood that this was a battle she would have to fight on her own terms.
 
With Meera's nod of approval, Fathima retreated to her bedroom, her heart racing with a mix of excitement and nerves. She locked the door behind her, the click sounding like the starting gun at a race. She approached the wardrobe, her eyes scanning over the rows of colorful fabrics. The scent of her mother-in-law's sandalwood perfume clung to the air, a gentle reminder of the life she had chosen.
 
Her gaze fell upon the hanging array of traditional wear—sarees and churidars that had been a staple of her married life. Yet today, she reached for something different—a soft pink salwar kameez that she had bought for Eid but had never had the occasion to wear. It was modest, yet the material clung to her curves in a way that made her feel both sexy and powerful.
 
With trembling hands, Fathima slipped out of her dress, her skin feeling alive with anticipation. She slid the silky kameez over her head, the fabric whispering against her skin like a secret lover's caress. The salwar was snug, hugging her hips and thighs, leaving just enough to the imagination to make her feel both covered and alluring. She took a moment to admire herself in the full-length mirror, her eyes lingering on the swell of her breasts and the way the fabric fell in a waterfall of color over her narrow waist.
 
With the grace of a gazelle, she wrapped the dupatta around her shoulders, letting it fall to cover her chest and neck. The pink was a stark contrast to the sea of black and brown that usually surrounded her, and she felt a rebellious thrill at the sight. The veil was next, a soft whisper of fabric that she pulled over her head, tucking her hair neatly beneath it. The material was sheer enough to let the light play with the strands that framed her face, giving her an air of mystery and allure she hadn't felt in years.

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Her hand trembled slightly as she picked up the folder containing her meticulously prepared CV and certificates. Each page was a testament to her past achievements, a silent plea for the chance to build a new future. She took a deep breath, willing her nerves to calm before she stepped out into the hallway.
 
The sun streamed in through the windows, casting a warm glow over the marble floors of the apartment. The sounds of the bustling city of Chennai filtered in through the open balcony doors—honking horns, chattering pedestrians, the distant cries of street vendors. Fathima felt a sudden urge to run back into the safety of her room, but she pushed it aside. This was her chance, and she wouldn't let fear hold her back.
 
With her heart racing, she slipped on her sandals and picked up her purse. She walked to the main door, pausing briefly to ensure she had everything she needed. The hallway was quiet, save for the distant hum of the TV in the living room. She took a deep breath and stepped out into the corridor, the cool breeze brushing against her skin like a whisper of encouragement.
 
The sun's warm embrace greeted her as she made her way to the elevator, the light reflecting off the gleaming marble and bouncing off the gold-plated railings. She could feel the eyes of the other residents on her, the whispers that trailed in her wake. Fathima held her head high, her posture straight and proud, as she descended to the ground floor.
 
Outside the apartment complex, the street was a cacophony of activity. Autorickshaws honked impatiently, jostling for space alongside the larger vehicles. She spotted a rickshaw with a friendly-looking driver, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror. He flashed her a toothy grin, and she felt a twinge of excitement as she approached him.
 
"Elite Properties," she said firmly, her voice carrying over the din of the street.
 
The rickshaw driver nodded, his eyes flicking over her attire before he turned to navigate the chaotic maze of Chennai traffic. The journey was a blur of honking horns and the occasional shouted curse as the driver deftly weaved through the cars and pedestrians. Fathima's heart thudded in her chest, a mix of excitement and nerves as she clutched the handle of the rickshaw.
 
As the vehicle jolted along, she couldn't help but steal glances at the driver in the mirror. He was older, perhaps around 45, with a thick mustache that curled around the corners of his mouth and a hint of gray in his hair. His eyes were kind, yet sharp, as if he had seen more of the world than she had ever dared to. Despite his age, he was surprisingly fit, his biceps flexing as he manhandled the rickshaw through the congested streets.
 
The driver caught her looking and offered a small smile. "You're going to a job interview, aren't you?" he asked, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror.
 
Fathima felt a blush creep up her cheeks. "How did you know?" she murmured, feeling suddenly self-conscious.
 
The rickshaw driver chuckled, his eyes twinkling in the mirror. "I've seen that look before," he said, his voice kind. "You're dressed to impress, but there's also something... hopeful in your eyes."
 
Fathima felt a strange sense of camaraderie with this stranger. He had seen right through her façade, had recognized the longing for change that she had been trying to hide. She nodded, unable to find the words to express her feelings. The driver's gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before returning to the road ahead. "You're going to do great," he said, his voice filled with conviction.
 
The rickshaw jolted to a stop in front of a nondescript office building, the words "Elite Properties" emblazoned in gleaming gold letters across the top. Fathima's heart skipped a beat as she took in the sight, her stomach doing a series of flips. She knew that walking through those doors would be the first step in a new chapter of her life, one that she had been dreaming of for years.
 
With a deep breath, she handed the driver the fare, his calloused hands brushing against hers as he accepted the money. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice shaky with anticipation. He offered her a gentle smile before driving off, leaving her standing alone on the sidewalk.
 
Fathima squared her shoulders and approached the building, her eyes scanning the gleaming glass façade that reflected the bustling street. She pushed open the heavy door, the cool air of the lobby washing over her. The scent of polished wood and fresh flowers greeted her as she stepped onto the plush carpet, her sandals whispering against the floor. The reception desk was a sleek monolith of chrome and glass, a stark contrast to the warmth of the apartment she had just left.
 
Behind the desk sat a man with a broad smile, his eyes lighting up as she approached. "Good afternoon, madam," he said, his voice a harmonious blend of professionalism and kindness. "Welcome to Elite Properties. I'm Suresh. You must be Fathima."
 
Fathima nodded, her heart pounding in her chest. The man she had spoken to on the phone was indeed before her, his presence more dynamic than she had imagined. Suresh was impeccably dressed in a crisp white shirt and dark trousers, his hair neatly combed back.
 
"Yes, I am," she replied, her voice steady despite the butterflies dancing in her stomach.
 
"Fantastic," Suresh said, gesturing to the elevator. "The interview is on the second floor. I'll escort you there."
 
Fathima took a deep breath and followed him, her heart thumping in her chest with every step they took. The elevator doors opened with a soft ding, and they stepped inside. The ride was a silent one, the only sound the muffled hum of the elevator as it ascended. She could feel his eyes on her, taking in her conservative yet elegant attire, and she hoped it conveyed the right mix of professionalism and cultural respect.
 
As the doors slid open, Suresh led her down a hallway lined with framed photos of luxurious properties and happy families standing outside their new homes. Each image was a silent testament to the success of the company, and Fathima felt a twinge of hope that she could soon be a part of creating similar moments of joy.
 
They arrived at a small waiting area, where a plush sofa beckoned. "Please, take a seat," he said, gesturing to the sofa. "Someone will come to collect you when it's your turn."
 
Fathima sat down, her eyes scanning the room. There were three other women already waiting, all younger than her and dressed in modern Western attire that showcased more skin than she had ever dared to expose in public. Her cheeks flushed at the sight of their plunging necklines, their bare arms and legs. They were all chatting away, their laughter light and airy, the kind that came from confidence and comfort in their own skin.
 
The minutes ticked by, each second feeling like an eternity as she waited. The air conditioner hummed a low tune, the only constant in the otherwise silent room. She could feel the fabric of her salwar sticking to her thighs, the coolness of the leather chair a stark contrast to the warmth of her skin. The room felt too small, too suffocating. She wished she had worn something else, something that didn't scream 'conservative housewife' quite so loudly.
 
Just as she was about to stand up and ask for a glass of water to ease her dry mouth, a deep male voice pierced the silence. "Fathima, is it you?"
 
Fathima looked up, her eyes widening as she saw a man in a clean and perfect-fit black suit smiling at her. For a moment, she didn't recognize him, then it dawned on her. It was Rahul, her college mate and ex boyfriend Basheer's best friend. A flood of memories rushed through her—laughter-filled evenings, secret whispers in the library, and the heart-wrenching goodbye that had marked the end of her youthful romance.
 
Her heart skipped a beat as she took in the sight of him, his smile as charming as ever, though now it was framed by a hint of maturity that came with age.  "Rahul," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
 
He approached her, his eyes twinkling with a mischief that was all too familiar. "It's been ages, Fathima," he said, extending his hand.
 
Fathima took it, the warmth of his grip sending a shiver down her spine. "Yes, it has," she replied, her voice barely more than a murmur.
 
Rahul sat down beside her, his eyes searching hers. "What brought you here?" he asked, his voice a soft caress that seemed to echo in the silent room.
 
Fathima took a deep breath, willing herself to remain composed. "I saw the job posting for a part-time real estate broker," she said, her voice a little shakier than she had intended. "I thought it was the perfect opportunity to start anew."
 
Rahul's smile grew wider, a hint of something unreadable in his eyes. "Ah, I see," he said, his tone playful. "How desperate are you for this job, Fathima?"
 
Fathima felt a blush creep up her neck, but she met his gaze steadily. "Rahul, for the past six years of marriage, I've felt so...bored," she admitted, her voice low and earnest. "I need this job. I need something that's mine, that challenges me and lets me grow."
 
Rahul leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving hers. "Mr. Dsouza is an interesting man," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He believes that the key to a successful sale is the ability to connect with people, and for that, you need to be beautiful and expressive."
 
Fathima's stomach tightened at the implication. "But what about my qualifications?" she asked, her voice laced with a hint of desperation.
 
Rahul's smile grew knowing. "Don't worry," he assured her, his eyes never leaving hers. "Your qualifications are impressive. But, in Mr. Dsouza's eyes, beauty and charm are the secret weapons of the real estate world."
 
Fathima felt a shiver of uncertainty run down her spine. Was she beautiful enough? Expressive enough? Her mind raced back to her college days, to the flirty banter she had once mastered so easily. Could she channel that part of herself again, after so many years buried beneath layers of conservative clothing and societal expectations?
 
Rahul stood up, his chair scbanging against the tiles. "I know you understand what I'm saying," he said, his voice a seductive purr that sent a thrill through her. He winked at her, the mischief in his eyes unmistakable, before sauntering away.
 
Fathima's thoughts raced as she sat there, her hand still tingling from his touch. She had never been one to flaunt herself, not since her college days. But if this was what it took to get the job, to regain a semblance of the life she had lost, she would do it.
 
Her trembling fingers reached for the edge of her veil, her heart pounding as she slowly unwrapped it from her neck. The cool air of the room kissed her skin, sending a shiver down her spine. With a deep breath, she let the fabric fall into her lap, her hair spilling out around her shoulders. She could feel the eyes of the other women in the room on her, their curiosity piqued by the sudden transformation.
 
Fathima took a moment to compose herself, her eyes scanning the room. The plush carpet was a stark contrast to the gleaming marble of the apartment complex, the quiet murmur of the air conditioner a stark contrast to the cacophony of the street outside. With a determined look, she took the shawl that had been neatly dbangd around her shoulders and pushed it aside, letting it cascade down one arm to reveal the soft swell of her breasts. The fabric pooled around her like a second skin, the pink of her kameez a stark contrast to the starkness of the room.
 
As if on cue, a sharp knock echoed through the hallway, and a stern female voice called out, "Fathima?"
 
Fathima's heart jumped into her throat. She took a deep breath, steeling herself before standing up and walking to the door, her sandals clicking against the marble floor. She paused for a moment, her hand hovering over the doorknob. Then, with a silent prayer, she pushed the door open and stepped into the office.
 
The room was smaller than she had anticipated, yet it managed to exude an air of power. The walls were lined with shelves of books and awards, and a large mahogany desk took center stage. Behind it sat a man in his early fifties, Mr. Dsouza, with a well-tailored suit and a pen in his hand. He looked up from the paperwork and offered her a warm smile, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk. "Fathima, please, have a seat," he said, his voice a smooth blend of authority and kindness.
 
Her legs felt like jelly as she made her way across the room, the sound of her sandals echoing off the polished floors. She sat down, her palms damp against the cool leather of the chair. Mr. Dsouza studied her, his eyes lingering on the exposed neckline of her kameez before meeting hers. "Thank you for coming in today," he said, his gaze intense. "I've read your CV, and you seem to have quite the background."

[Image: download-27.jpg]
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RE: Fathima - wife to slutty broker (With Pics) - by Cuckoldindian - 11-06-2025, 06:12 PM



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