Adultery Fathima - wife to slutty broker (With Pics)

[Cuckoldindian]

Update 6:

Rajesh's hand darted to his crotch, a swift, almost imperceptible movement. He was adjusting himself, his lungi straining against his burgeoning arousal. Fathima's eyes widened, a thrill racing through her. He was just as affected as she was, his body betraying his thoughts. She felt a strange sense of power, knowing that she had this effect on him—a man she had only just met. Her heart raced as she wondered how far this flirtation would go.

 
"Anna, any problem?" she asked teasingly, her voice a silky purr that she had never heard from herself before. The question hung in the air, loaded with innuendo. His eyes darted to hers in the mirror, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he grinned, showing off his crooked teeth.
 
"No, no, Madam," he replied, his voice stumbling over the words. "Just curious. What do you work as?" Fathima felt a thrill at his blatant interest, his gaze lingering on the now-exposed flesh of her neck and shoulders.
 
Leaning forward, she allowed the dupatta to slip further, her breasts pressing against the fabric of her kurta. "I'm a real estate broker," she said, her voice low and teasing. The words rolled off her tongue like a caress, leaving no doubt as to her intentions. "I help people find their dream homes."
 
Rajesh's eyes widened in the mirror, his breath hitching in his throat. He stumbled over his words, his cheeks coloring as he stared at her cleavage. "Ah, that's... that's very nice," he managed to croak out. His hand hovered over the gear shift, fingers trembling slightly.
 
The autorickshaw pulled up in front of the house, a sprawling bungalow that gleamed in the morning sun. Fathima stepped out, her heels sinking into the plush grass. She turned to Rajesh, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Could you wait for me, Rajesh?" she asked sweetly. "I might need a ride back."
 
He nodded, his eyes never leaving her. "Of course, Madam," he said, his voice a little too eager. She could see the desire in his eyes, the way his hand hovered over his crotch again. It was a silent understanding between them—a promise of something more to come if she played her cards right.
 
Fathima turned and began walking towards the gate of the house, her hips swaying with each step. The watchman, a boy of no more than eighteen, sat on a chair, his eyes glued to the screen of his phone. He looked up as she approached, his eyes widening at the sight of her. His T-shirt was stained, the words "Elite Security" barely legible against the faded fabric. His shorts were too tight, revealing the muscles in his legs that he probably thought were impressive.

 
As she drew closer, he quickly scrambled to his feet, his phone slipping from his grasp to land with a clatter on the cobblestone path. "Ma'am," he stuttered, his eyes darting to her chest before hastily averting them. "Rahul sir sent me the message. You're here to show the property?"
 
Fathima looked at him, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "Yes," she said, her voice a little louder than necessary. "Open the gate. I want to see the house before the guest arrives." She watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard, his gaze flicking back to the plunging neckline of her kurta. The fabric clung to her skin, the slight dampness from the morning air making it almost transparent. She knew what he was thinking, and she reveled in the power of it.
 
He fumbled with the keys, his hands shaking as he tried to unlock the gate. She took a step closer, the scent of her jasmine perfume enveloping him. His eyes darted up to meet hers, and she could see the war raging in them—desire and duty fighting for supremacy. With a final click, the gate swung open, revealing a path lined with blooming flowers that led to the house.
 
"Thank you," she said, her voice a seductive whisper that seemed to linger in the air. As she walked past him, she made sure her breasts brushed against his arm, the fabric of her kurta whispering against his skin. His eyes followed her hungrily, his breath hitching in his throat.
 
Inside the house, Fathima's heels clicked against the gleaming marble floor, echoing through the empty halls. The duplex was a testament to modern architecture, with high ceilings and vast, open spaces that seemed to stretch on forever. Each room was tastefully decorated, the walls painted in soothing pastels that made her feel both at home and in awe of the opulence she had never known.
 
The living room was a vision of luxury, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a stunning view of the lush garden outside. The walls were adorned with abstract art, and the light fixtures sparkled like diamonds in the sunlight streaming in. But amidst this grandeur, the absence of furniture was stark—like an untouched canvas waiting for an artist's brush.
 
Suddenly, the serenity of the moment was shattered by the distant rumble of a car engine. Fathima's ears perked up, her heart racing. She knew that sound—it was the client. She took one last look in the mirror, smoothing out her dupatta and ensuring her makeup was still in place. Her eyes searched the room for any signs of imperfection, any reason for the client to hesitate.
 
Her thoughts raced as she hurried out of the house, her heels clicking against the marble floor. As she stepped onto the porch, she caught her breath—there it was, a sleek black Jaguar parked right in front, gleaming under the midday sun. It was the kind of car that whispered money and power, the kind that made men like Men's eyes widen with envy.
 
And then, the door swung open, and out stepped the client. He was not the portly, middle-aged man that Rahul had described; instead, he was a vision of masculine beauty, his chiseled jaw and piercing gaze leaving Fathima momentarily speechless. Dressed in an impeccable navy blue suit that hugged his toned physique, he looked no more than 35, with not a single silver thread in his jet-black hair. He surveyed the property with the confidence of a lion claiming his territory, his eyes sweeping over the lush garden with a hunger that sent shivers down her spine.
 
"Fathima?" He called out, his voice deep and resonant, carrying the faint lilt of an American accent. She composed herself, her hand shooting up in a wave. "I'm here!" she called back, her voice steady despite the pounding in her chest.
 
As he approached, she noticed the way his eyes swept over her, taking in every inch of her transformed self. He was tall, with a commanding presence that made her feel both thrilled and intimidated. His handshake was firm, sending a jolt of electricity through her body as their palms met. "Am Robert," he said, a charming smile playing on his lips. "My brother couldn't make it today, so I came in his stead."
 
"Robert," she murmured, his name a secret she held onto, savoring the way it rolled off her tongue. She watched as he took in her attire, his eyes lingering on her bare neck and the fabric that clung to her body. It was clear he appreciated the effort she had put into looking appealing, and she felt a sense of victory at the way his gaze lingered. "That makes me clear something Rahul said," she began, her voice a low purr that seemed to resonate within her chest.
 
He raised an eyebrow, his eyes never leaving hers. "And what was that?"
 
Fathima felt a blush creep up her neck, but she held his gaze. "Rahul said that your brother preferred a more... conservative look for the broker." The words hung in the air, a silent challenge.
 
Robert's eyes snapped up to hers, and she watched the hunger in them flare into something more primal. He took a step closer, the heat from his body radiating towards her. "I think you look... exquisite," he murmured, his gaze dropping to her chest once again. "The dress suits you perfectly."
 
Fathima's pulse quickened as she felt his eyes on her, his desire palpable in the air around them. "Thank you," she replied, her voice a little breathier than she had intended. She was acutely aware of the way her breasts pushed against the fabric of her kurta, the slight rise and fall with each breath she took. She knew she had his full attention, and the power of it was intoxicating.
 
With a flick of her hair, she turned and led him into the house, her hips swaying with each step. "This is the living room," she began, her voice steady despite the tremble in her legs. "It's perfect for entertaining, don't you think?" She gestured to the large, empty space, her eyes never leaving his. As she spoke, her hand brushed against his, a subtle yet deliberate touch that sent a jolt of excitement through her body.
 
Robert nodded, his eyes following her movements as if mesmerized. "It's quite... spacious," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. Fathima could feel the tension building between them, a taut wire stretched to the breaking point. She stepped closer, her breasts brushing against his arm as she pointed out the intricate molding on the ceiling. His eyes dropped to her neckline, his gaze lingering there before he met her eyes again.
 


They moved through the house, Fathima's hand on the small of his back, guiding him from room to room. She talked about the potential of the space, the en-suite bathrooms, and the state-of-the-art kitchen. But with every word she spoke, her mind was racing with thoughts of his touch, the way his fingers had grazed hers, the heat of his skin against her. The house was a backdrop to their silent dance of attraction, each room a new stage for their burgeoning connection.
 
Finally, they reached the master bedroom, the largest of all. The king-sized bed sat in the center, unmade and inviting. The windows were open, letting in a gentle breeze that played with the curtains. "This is the master suite," she said, her voice a little too loud in the quiet. "As you can see, there's plenty of room for... everything."


 
Her words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Robert looked around, his gaze lingering on the bed before returning to her. "It does seem quite spacious," he said, his eyes darkening. "Perhaps too much for just one person."
 
Fathima felt her heart flutter, her breath catching in her throat. The implication was clear, and she knew that she was crossing a line. But she couldn't help it—the thrill of temptation was too strong. She took a step closer to him, her hand resting on his bicep. "Well," she began, her voice low and seductive, "that's the beauty of a place like this. There's always room for more."
 
The words hung in the air, and for a moment, it felt as if time had stopped. The only sound was the distant hum of the city, the occasional birdcall piercing the silence. Then, as if a spell had been broken, Robert took a step towards her, closing the distance between them. "You know," he murmured, his hand reaching out to trace the line of her jaw, "I had no idea that real estate could be so... interesting."


 
Fathima swallowed hard, her heart racing. "Ah, well," she said, trying to keep her voice even, "we aim to please our clients in every way possible." Her hand found its way to his chest, her fingers playing with the buttons of his shirt. "So when can I send you the papers to your office for registration?"
 
Robert stepped back, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "How much for this property with a dinner with you?" he asked, his voice dropping to a murmur. She felt her cheeks heat up, his question a blatant invitation to step further into the murky waters of temptation. For a moment, she weighed the consequences of her actions—Aslam, her in-laws, her marriage. But the thrill was too strong to resist.
 
With a seductive smile, Fathima leaned in, her voice low and husky. "88 lakhs for the property, Mr. Robert," she purred, her eyes locked on his. "But if you'd like to add dinner with me to the deal, then we're looking at 90."
 
Robert's eyes narrowed, a mix of surprise and arousal playing across his features. He took in her words, his hand sliding down to her waist, pulling her closer. "A dinner with you is worth more than just two extra lakhs," he said, his voice a caress. "But if that's your price, I'm more than willing to pay it."


 
Fathima's pulse raced as she felt the heat from his body, his closeness making her acutely aware of her own desires. "Very well," she murmured, her hand slipping into his. "But let's get the paperwork sorted first, shall we?" She stepped away from him, her hand lingering for just a moment longer before breaking contact. "I'll email the papers to you immediately. Once the transaction is completed, we can discuss the... details of our dinner."
 
Robert nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. "I look forward to it," he said, his voice thick with anticipation. "And the number, of course."
 
Fathima felt a thrill as she rattled off her phone number, watching the way his thumb danced over the screen of his phone as he typed it in. It was a simple act, but it was loaded with meaning—a promise of something more, a bridge built between their worlds.
 
With one final, lingering look, she turned and stepped back into the autorickshaw, the scent of Robert's cologne following her like a seductive whisper. She settled back into the seat, her body still buzzing with the electricity of their encounter. "Elite Properties," she instructed Rajesh, her voice firm and businesslike despite the tumult of emotions within her.
 
As the autorickshaw pulled away from the curb, she pulled out her phone, her thumbs flying over the screen. She sent the necessary papers to Robert, each tap echoing the racing of her heart. With every email that left her phone, she felt the noose of her double life tighten around her neck. Yet, she couldn't ignore the thrill it brought—the thrill of temptation, the thrill of power.
 
Once Fathima reached the office, she walked with newfound confidence, her shoulders back and her head held high. The receptionist's eyes widened as she saw Fathima's attire, but she said nothing, merely nodded as she strode past. The other employees in the open-plan office couldn't help but glance at her cleavage, which she displayed proudly. Fathima knew she was the subject of whispers, but she didn't care. This was the new her—bold and unafraid.
 
Her heels clicked against the floor as she approached Mr. Dsouza's office. The glass door was open, and she could see him inside, speaking on the phone with his back to her. She took a deep breath, her heart racing. She knew the power she wielded with her new look, and she was eager to see how he would react. As she entered, he turned, his eyes widening as he took in her ensemble.
 
In that split second, Fathima felt a surge of triumph—his surprise was unmistakable. But before she could say a word, his phone beeped with a message, and his expression changed from shock to elation. He saw her then, really saw her, and she watched as he stood up, his belly jiggling with excitement. "Fathima," he called out, rushing towards her. He was out of his chair and moving so quickly she thought he might trip over his own feet. He didn't, though, and within moments, he had her in a bear hug, lifting her off the ground.
 
"Amazon work, Fathima!" he boomed, his breath warm against her ear. "The accountant just called. You've done it!"
 
Her heart pounded as he set her back down, the thrill of the sale mingling with the heat from their bodies. The office fell silent around them, the air thick with curiosity and envy. She felt a smug satisfaction knowing that she had outdone herself, all the while keeping her secret rendezvous with Robert.
 
"Mr. Dsouza," she began, trying to compose herself, "I'm just doing my job."
 
He released her, a wide grin spreading across his face. "Your job, indeed," he said, his eyes twinkling. "I knew there was something special about you, Fathima." He gestured for her to take a seat in one of the plush leather chairs opposite his desk. "So, tell me, how did you manage to close the deal?"
 
Fathima sat down, crossing her legs and leaning back, the chair groaning slightly under her. She felt the weight of Robert's gaze from earlier, the way he had looked at her, and she couldn't help but smile to herself. "It was all about understanding the client's needs," she began, her voice smooth and professional. "And a little bit of... persuasion."
 
Mr. Dsouza leaned back in his chair, his eyes glinting with excitement. "Persuasion, eh?" He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, his belly pressing against the wood. "Tell me more, Fathima. I'm all ears."
 
Fathima's cheeks flushed, but she held his gaze. "Well," she began, "I showed him around the property, made him see its potential. And then, I... offered him something extra."
 
Mr. Dsouza's eyebrows shot up, and he leaned in even closer. "Do tell," he said, his voice low and hungry for the gossip. "What could you have offered that was worth an extra five lakhs?"
 
Fathima's smile grew wider, a knowing glint in her eyes. "Let's just say I have a way with words," she said, her voice a coy whisper that seemed to dance around the room. "And with people." She didn't elaborate, but the implication was clear.
 
Mr. Dsouza's eyes widened, his grin stretching from ear to ear. "Fathima," he said, his voice a mix of admiration and amusement, "you never cease to amaze me." He leaned back in his chair, his belly rolling with his laughter. "Your husband is a lucky man," he added, winking.
 
Fathima felt a flash of anger at his innuendo but quickly tamped it down. She knew how to play the game now. She had to keep her cards close to her chest. "Thank you, and can I get an advance from my salary?" she asked sweetly, changing the subject with practiced ease.
 
Mr. Dsouza's eyes lit up, and he nodded. "Of course, my dear," he said, his voice dripping with patronizing charm. He turned to his computer and began typing away, the clack of the keys the only sound in the otherwise silent office. Fathima watched him, her mind racing. The beep of her phone interrupted her thoughts, and she pulled it out of her bag to see what the message was.
 
Her eyes widened as she saw the notification from the bank—2,25,000 rupees had been credited to her account. She couldn't believe it. This was more than just an advance; it was a small fortune, a gesture that went beyond mere appreciation. Her heart raced as she thought of the implications. What had she gotten herself into?
 
Dsouza looked up from his computer, noticing her shock. "Is everything all right?" he asked, his expression a mix of concern and curiosity.
 
Fathima swallowed, trying to keep her voice steady. "Sir, but my salary is just 40,000 rs," she began, her voice shaking slightly. "But the amount credited is 2,25,000 rs."
 
Mr. Dsouza leaned back in his chair, his smile widening. "Ah," he said, "you've discovered the perks of being a top performer." He leaned forward, his eyes twinkling. "Fathima, the commission for a sale like that is 2.5% of the total value."
 
Her eyes widened in understanding. "So that's...?" she began, her voice trailing off as she did the mental math.
 
"Yes," Mr. Dsouza said with a chuckle, "that's your commission for the sale of the bungalow. 2.5% of 90 lakhs. Quite the payday, wouldn't you say?" He leaned back in his chair, watching her with a shrewd gaze. "It seems that your unique... persuasive techniques have paid off quite handsomely."
 
Fathima's heart pounded in her chest, the reality of her actions setting in. "Thank you, Mr. Dsouza," she managed, trying to keep her voice calm. She was about to stand up when he waved a hand, gesturing for her to stay seated. "Just sit there for two minutes more," he said, his tone still jovial but with an underlying firmness.
 
As she sat back, she noticed that Mr. Dsouza had gone suspiciously quiet. His eyes had glazed over, and his hands were moving furtively beneath his desk. Fathima's mind raced, her heart beating even faster. She realized with a start that he was jerking off, his gaze never leaving her. She could see the tension in his shoulders, the slight tremble of his fingers as they worked beneath his desk. A mix of disgust and excitement washed over her. This was the price of power, she thought.
 
Dsouza's eyes remained locked on hers, his breath coming in shallow pants. "Fathima," he murmured, his voice thick with desire, "move the dupatta a little further."
 
Her heart racing, Fathima obeyed without a word, her fingers trembling as they slid the dupatta aside, revealing more of her ample cleavage. The cool air of the office brushed against her exposed skin, sending goosebumps down her spine. She watched as Mr. Dsouza's eyes darkened, his hand moving faster beneath the desk. Though she couldn't see his erection, she could feel its presence, a silent third party in their transaction.


 
Within a minute, she heard his sharp intake of breath, followed by a low moan. "You can go now," he murmured, his voice strained. She didn't move, though, frozen in place by the raw power she had over him. It was a heady feeling, one that made her feel alive in a way she hadn't in years.
 
But she got up and left. As she walked out of his office, she felt the weight of his gaze on her back, a silent demand for more. The other employees stared at her, their expressions a mix of shock and envy. She knew they were wondering what had just happened behind the closed doors, their imaginations likely running wild.