Adultery Fathima - wife to slutty broker (With Pics)

[Cuckoldindian]

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.


 
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.