Adultery Fathima - wife to slutty broker (With Pics)

[Cuckoldindian]

Update 8:

When the alarm jolted her from her tumultuous thoughts the next morning, it was with a sense of dread that she opened her eyes. The events of the previous day felt like a feverish dream, the kind that left you feeling both satisfied and guilty upon waking. But the ache between her legs was all too real, a constant reminder of the maid's touch and the promise of what was to come.

 
Fathima squinted at the clock, her heart racing as she realized it was already 6 AM. She had missed the show Lakshmi had mentioned, the one that was supposed to take place at 5:30. She couldn't help but feel a mix of relief and disappointment—relief that she had escaped the temptation, and disappointment that she had let the opportunity slip away.
 
With a heavy sigh, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, the fabric of her clothes clinging to her sticky skin from the day before. She had barely slept, her dreams haunted by visions of Lakshmi and Rahman, the sound of their passion echoing in her ears. Her body felt like a live wire, charged with an energy she couldn't quite explain.
 
Slipping into her slippers, she padded out into the hallway, her eyes scanning for any sign of life. The apartment was eerily quiet, the only sound the distant hum of the city below. As she approached the kitchen, the aroma of spices and sizzling oil grew stronger, and she knew Lakshmi was already up.
 
When she entered the kitchen, Lakshmi looked up from the stove, her eyes dark and knowing. "Madam," she said, her voice a smoky purr, "You missed today's show. Rahman was quite rough today." The words hung in the air like a challenge, a silent dare that made Fathima's pulse race.
 
"Lakshmi, don't talk like this," she managed, her voice shaking. "Don't go near Rahman." The command was firm, but it was belied by the tremor in her voice. She knew she had no right to be jealous, no right to feel this way about her own brother-in-law.
 
But Lakshmi only chuckled, the sound like a dark melody in the quiet kitchen. "Madam," she said, stepping closer, "why don't you come watch next time?" Before Fathima could react, Lakshmi's hand was on her chest, her fingers digging into the flesh above her breasts. "Or better yet," she whispered, her eyes flashing with a mischief that sent a shiver down Fathima's spine, "why don't you join us?"
 
Fathima felt the color drain from her face, her eyes locked on Lakshmi's. "What... what do you mean?" she stuttered, her voice barely audible over the sizzle of the frying pan.
 
With a knowing smirk, Lakshmi stepped closer, her movements slow and deliberate. Before Fathima could react, she had pushed her against the kitchen counter, her hands deftly unbuttoning and unzipping Fathima's trousers. The fabric slid down her legs, pooling at her ankles, leaving her exposed in nothing but her simple cotton panties.
 
Fathima's eyes went wide with shock and protest, but Lakshmi paid no heed, her gaze fixed firmly on the prize. She sank to her knees, her eyes never leaving Fathima's, the smugness in her expression making Fathima's blood boil. But even as she opened her mouth to protest, Lakshmi's hands were at her hips, gently guiding her to step out of the fabric that separated them.
 
The first touch of Lakshmi's tongue against her skin was electric, sending a bolt of pleasure through Fathima that made her gasp. She tried to push the maid away, her hands coming down to grip Lakshmi's shoulders, but instead of shoving her back, she found herself holding on for dear life as Lakshmi's tongue danced over her clit, flicking and teasing with an expertise that took her breath away.
 
Her knees felt like they would give out at any moment, so she gripped the counter tighter, her knuckles turning white. "Lakshmi," she managed to choke out, the protest sounding weak even to her own ears. "We can't do this." But the words were lost in the symphony of moans that filled the kitchen, the sweet agony of Lakshmi's mouth on her.
 
At first, the sensation was too intense, too foreign for Fathima to handle. Affter Marriage, She had never allowed anyone other than Aslam to touch her like this, and even then, their love-making was always gentle, almost perfunctory. But Lakshmi's mouth was like nothing she had ever felt before—hot and wet, her tongue moving with a skill that made Fathima's head spin. She tried to fight it, to push Lakshmi away, but every time she felt the maid's tongue on her clit, a jolt of pleasure shot through her, making her legs tremble.


 
Lakshmi's hands were everywhere—squeezing her breasts, teasing her nipples, sliding down to her wetness. And Fathima, against all her better judgment, found herself responding, her hips bucking against Lakshmi's mouth as she sought more of that sweet agony. Her moans grew louder, echoing through the kitchen, the sound of her pleasure blending with the sizzle of the breakfast she had so carelessly ignored.
 
Fathima's mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions—disgust, anger, lust, confusion—but she couldn't bring herself to stop. Lakshmi's touch was a drug, a powerful cocktail that she had never known she needed. And as Lakshmi stood, her own desire evident in the way her hips swayed, Fathima knew that she was in too deep to turn back now.
 
"Madam," Lakshmi purred, her voice thick with arousal, "It's enough for today." She stepped back, allowing Fathima to catch her breath and pull her pants back up, the fabric sticking to her damp skin. "But remember," she added with a wink, "the door will be open tomorrow, 5.30 AM. And I promise you, the show will be worth it."
 
With shaking hands, Fathima pulled on her pants and stumbled back to her room, her legs feeling like they might not hold her. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The taste of Lakshmi was still on her lips, the sensation of her touch still lingering on her skin. She felt a mix of emotions—shame, anger, and an undeniable thrill that left her trembling.
 
As she entered her room, she saw Aslam, coming out of the bathroom, a towel slung low around his waist. His eyes widened in surprise at the sight of her, his own hunger clear in his gaze. "Fathima," he said, his voice thick with sleep, "What's wrong?"
 
Fathima took a shaky breath, trying to compose herself. She couldn't let him see the turmoil of emotions that raged within her, the raw need that Lakshmi had stirred up. "It's nothing," she said, her voice shakier than she would have liked. "Just couldn't sleep."
 
Aslam looked at her with concern, the lines on his forehead deepening. "Is everything okay?" he asked, stepping closer.
 
Fathima forced a smile, pushing the thoughts of Lakshmi's touch to the back of her mind. "Yes, yes," she said, her voice a tad too bright. "I just had a weird dream, that's all." She didn't dare tell him the truth—that she had been caught up in a whirlwind of desire that was both terrifying and exhilarating.
 
Aslam studied her for a moment, his eyes searching hers for any sign of trouble. "Okay," he said, his voice filled with doubt. "If you're sure." He leaned in to kiss her, but Fathima turned her face at the last second, offering him her cheek instead. He pulled back, a flicker of hurt crossing his face before he shrugged it off. "I've got an important meeting," he said, his tone business-like now. "I'll grab something on the way."
 
He walked over to the bed, his body still damp from the shower, and pulled on a crisp shirt and trousers. Fathima couldn't help but watch him, his movements so mundane yet filled with a new kind of allure. Her mind was a tumult of emotions—guilt for what she had allowed Lakshmi to do, fear of what might happen if Aslam found out, and a strange thrill at the thought of watching the maid and her brother-in-law together.
 
Once Aslam had left for work, Fathima couldn't wait any longer. She rushed into the bathroom, her body feeling sticky and used. The hot water from the shower pounded down on her, the heat doing little to wash away the conflicting feelings that swirled around her like a tornado. She scrubbed herself clean, her mind racing with thoughts of Lakshmi's touch and the way it had made her feel. It was wrong, she knew that. But the way Lakshmi had made her body sing was something she had never experienced before, not even with her husband.
 
As the water washed the last of the soap away, she stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a fluffy towel, the soft fabric a stark contrast to the harsh reality of her situation. She looked at herself in the mirror, her eyes searching for answers in the reflection that stared back at her. She saw the same conservative wife she had always been, but now there was something different—a spark of rebellion, a hint of the seductress she had become.
 
Shaking off the thoughts, she headed to the bedroom, the towel clutched tightly to her chest. Her heart raced as she contemplated Lakshmi's proposition. The maid had always been a source of intrigue for her, and now the line between servant and temptress had been irrevocably blurred. She sat on the edge of the bed, the softness of the mattress a stark contrast to the hardness of her own thoughts.
 
The sudden creak of the door made her jump. She tightened her grip on the towel as it swung open, revealing Rahman standing there with a box in his hand, his eyes wide with shock. His gaze roved over her damp body, his cheeks flushing a dark red as he took in the sight of her. It was clear from the way he stared that he had seen more than she had intended.


 
"What happen Rahman?" she asked calmly, her voice a mask over the turmoil of emotions churning inside her. She watched as his eyes darted away, focusing on the box as if it held the answers to all his questions.
 
"Anni," he stuttered, his gaze lingering on her exposed skin before snapping back to the task at hand. "This box came addressed to you. Mom told me to give it to you." He held out the package, his knuckles white from gripping it too tightly. "Lakshmi said no one was inside, so I didn't knock." His voice trailed off, and she could almost see the cogs turning in his head, piecing together the scene he had walked in on.
 
Fathima took a deep breath, willing herself to remain calm. She knew that the sight of her like this, in nothing but a towel, was something entirely new for Rahman. She had always been the picture of modesty around him, her clothes never revealing more than a hint of the woman she had once been before marriage. Now, she felt both vulnerable and powerful, the towel clutched to her chest feeling like a flimsy barrier between her newfound desires and the judgment in his eyes.
 
"Rahman," she said, her voice steady and composed despite the racing of her heart. "You can put the box on the bed."
 
Her brother-in-law nodded, his eyes still averted as he placed the parcel on the bed before quickly retreating from the room. She heard the click of the door as he closed it, and the sound of his footsteps fading down the hallway. Fathima let out a sigh of relief and leaned back against the bedpost, her body trembling. The encounter with Lakshmi was still fresh in her mind, and the way Rahman had looked at her had only served to intensify the storm of sensations coursing through her.
 
With trembling hands, she reached for the box, her curiosity piqued by the unassuming brown paper and the neat scrawl of the note that lay atop it. She picked it up and read the words, feeling her heart skip a beat. "Today 6.00 PM Sheraton Hotel Cafe, Just a coffee - Robert." It was an invitation, simple yet loaded with meaning. Fathima knew that it was not just about coffee.
 
The dress inside was a vivid shade of red, a stark contrast to her usual conservative attire. It was short, revealing, and clung to the body like a second skin. As she held it up, the fabric whispered promises of excitement, of a world outside her usual confines. It was the kind of dress that screamed temptation, the kind that would make heads turn. The thought of wearing it both thrilled and terrified her.
 
Fathima's hands trembled as she lifted the dress out of the box. The delicate material slid through her fingers like water, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. The note was simple, yet demanding—a silent order that sent a thrill of anticipation through her. She knew what Robert was asking of her, the implications of donning such an ensemble for their meeting. It was a declaration of intent, a symbol of the role she was about to play.
 
With a sigh that was equal parts excitement and trepidation, she laid the dress aside and slipped into her usual conservative attire. The fabric was a stark contrast to the seductive whispers of the red dress, a comforting embrace that felt almost suffocating in the light of Lakshmi's recent advances. She stepped into the kitchen, where Lakshmi was already busy with the day's chores, her eyes gleaming with a knowing look that spoke volumes of the night before.
 
Fathima tried to ignore the maid's smoldering glances as she went about her morning routine, her every movement feeling exaggerated and exposed. Lakshmi's fingers brushed against her ass as she handed her a cup of tea, and Fathima's cheeks flushed, her body reacting in ways she didn't quite understand. The silence between them was charged, each knowing what the other had done, and what was yet to come.
 
Throughout the day, Lakshmi made sure to find moments when no one was looking to touch her, to caress her in a way that was both intimate and infuriatingly casual. Fathima felt a strange mix of anger and arousal each time it happened, unsure if she should slap the maid's hand away or if she even wanted to. It was as if Lakshmi owned her, and Fathima was powerless to resist the silent demands of her body.


 
As the day dragged on, the anticipation grew heavier with each passing hour. The red dress lay on the bed, taunting her with its siren call. She knew that once she put it on, there would be no going back. It was a declaration of her intentions, a surrender to the seductive dance that Lakshmi had so skillfully choreographed.
 
The silence between the two was a living entity, pulsing with the electricity of unspoken desires and the tension of the impending rendezvous. Lakshmi's glances grew bolder, her touch more insistent, as she went about her duties, and Fathima found herself both craving and resenting the attention. It was a confusing maelstrom of emotions that she had never felt before, and she wasn't sure how to navigate it.
 
As the clock struck four, Fathima retreated to her room, the red dress whispering its allure from the bed. She took a deep breath and reached for it, feeling the softness of the fabric against her fingertips. It was a declaration of war, a declaration of intent to claim what she had been denied. She slipped it over her head, the material caressing her skin like a lover's embrace.
 
In the mirror, she saw a stranger—a woman whose eyes sparkled with rebellion, whose cheeks were flushed with the excitement of the forbidden. The dress clung to her curves like a lover's hand, accentuating every dip and swell. Her usually modest breasts were pushed up and together, the neckline plunging in a way that was both thrilling and terrifying. She felt naked, exposed, yet oddly powerful.
 


But the world outside her bedroom was a minefield of judgment and expectation. So, with trembling hands, Fathima stuffed the red dress into a bag and slipped back into her conservative attire. She knew the game she had to play—the role of the devoted wife and daughter-in-law who had no time for the scandalous whispers that would follow her if she were to step out in such a bold fashion.
 
With the bag hanging from her elbow, she walked into the living room where Meera was engrossed in her soap opera, the TV blasting the dramatic melodies of a love triangle gone awry. "I'm going to a meeting," she said, her voice a practiced calm. "I'll be back later."
 
Meera glanced up, her eyes flicking over Fathima's conservative outfit before nodding. "Be safe," she called out, her attention quickly returning to the TV.
 
Fathima stepped into the lift, the walls closing in around her as the descent to the ground floor began. The air was thick with the scent of the evening meal cooking in nearby apartments—spices and aromas that had always been comforting, but today seemed suffocating. The ding of the elevator reached her ears, and the doors slid open to reveal the bustling lobby. She stepped out, her heart racing as she made her way to the main gate, the bag with the red dress feeling like a secret lover's embrace hidden beneath her arm.
 
Outside, the evening was alive with the sounds of Chennai's relentless traffic, the honking of cars and the chatter of pedestrians mixing with the distant calls of street vendors. She scanned the line of autorickshaws, looking for the familiar face of Rajesh. And there he was, leaning against his yellow and black auto, a beedi hanging from his lips, a small plume of smoke curling upwards like a silent invitation. The sight of him brought a rush of memories—his knowing smirks, the way his eyes had lingered on her body when she had flirted with him earlier in the day.
 
Fathima felt a strange thrill at the thought of what was to come, the dress in her bag a silent testament to the game she was about to play. She approached him, her hips swaying in a way that was both deliberate and unfamiliar. "Rajesh," she called out, her voice softer than she had intended. He turned, his eyes lighting up as he took her in, the beedi bobbing between his teeth.
 
"Madam, no work today?" he asked, his tone teasing. His eyes raked over her conservative attire, missing the telltale signs of the seductive garment hidden beneath.
 
Fathima offered a coy smile, feeling the weight of the red dress in her bag like a guilty secret. "Just a meeting, Rajesh," she replied, her voice a purr that belied the storm of nerves raging within her.
 
The driver's eyes narrowed as he took in her attire, his gaze lingering for a moment too long on the bag she clutched to her side. He knew her usual style—the tailored skirts and blouses that hugged her curves just right—and this change was as out of place as a peacock in a pigeon coop. "Okay, Madam," he said, his voice holding a hint of skepticism. "Where to?"
 
Fathima took a deep breath, the words feeling heavy on her tongue. "Sheraton Hotel, Rajesh. But before that, I need to make a quick stop. Is there a place around here where I can change?"
 
Rajesh's eyes widened slightly before a knowing smirk played at the corners of his mouth. He nodded, his gaze lingering on her bag. "I know just the place, Madam," he said, his voice filled with an unspoken question. "A quiet spot, not far from here."
 
Within ten minutes, the autorickshaw pulled up in front of a small house nestled in a narrow, grimy alley. The walls were made of chipped bricks, and the paint was peeling off in large flakes, revealing the gray concrete beneath. The smell of stale garbage and urine filled the air, a stark contrast to the clean, orderly world of the apartment complex she had just left behind. Fathima felt a flicker of doubt as she stared at the unassuming building. Was this really where she wanted to go?
 
"Madam," Rajesh called out, interrupting her thoughts. "This is my place. You can change here, no problem. No one's home, I promise." He winked at her, and she couldn't help but feel a shiver of excitement run down her spine. The idea of changing into that daring red dress in this seedy, hidden corner of Chennai was both thrilling and terrifying.
 
With a nod, she stepped out of the autorickshaw, the sound of her heels clicking against the broken concrete as she approached the house. The door creaked open, and she stepped inside, the musty scent of old clothes and forgotten dreams enveloping her. The room was small and sparsely furnished, with a single bed pushed against the far wall and a tattered curtain that separated the living area from what she assumed was the kitchen.
 
Fathima's heart raced as she closed the door behind her, the bag with the red dress feeling heavier than it had been moments ago. The walls were stained with water marks, and a single bulb cast a dim, yellow light over the space, flickering erratically as if to match the tempo of her pulse. She took a deep breath and pulled the dress from the bag, her hands trembling with a mix of excitement and fear.
 
Slipping out of her conservative clothes, she stepped into the crimson fabric, the material whispering against her skin like a lover's sweet nothings. The dress hugged her curves with an obsessive determination, leaving nothing to the imagination. Her ample cleavage was displayed for the world to see, and she felt a strange thrill as she zipped it up, her breath hitching as it tightened around her waist. The fabric was cool against her bare skin, a stark contrast to the heat that was building in her core.
 
With trembling hands, she checked herself in the small, dusty mirror hanging on the wall. The reflection staring back at her was a woman she barely recognized—a siren in scarlet, a creature of desire and temptation. The dress had transformed her, and she knew that once she stepped back out into the alley, there would be no turning back. The door creaked open, and she stepped out, her heart hammering in her chest like a drum at a wedding procession.
 
The moment she appeared, Rajesh's jaw dropped, his eyes ogling her like a starving man at a feast. He took in the sight of her in the red dress, the fabric hugging her curves like a second skin, the neckline plunging so deeply it was practically begging for attention. Fathima felt a thrill of power at his reaction, a heady rush that was both exhilarating and a little bit terrifying.


 
"Madam," he breathed, the word coming out thick with desire. His eyes never left her body as she approached the autorickshaw, the dress swaying with each step she took, revealing the promise of what lay beneath. She could see the hunger in his gaze, the way his eyes devoured every inch of her exposed skin, and she felt a strange satisfaction knowing that she had this kind of power over him.
 
With a sense of newfound bravado, she climbed into the backseat, the dress hiking up slightly to reveal her shapely legs. She watched as Rajesh tried to compose himself, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror every few seconds to steal glances at her. She leaned back against the seat, her heart racing with excitement as they pulled away from the grimy alley and merged into the chaos of the Chennai streets. The wind whipped through the open sides of the autorickshaw, the fabric of her dress fluttering around her like a crimson flag announcing her intentions to the world.
 
Fathima enjoyed the feeling of power that came with Rajesh's hungry gaze. It was a heady sensation, one she had never experienced before in her life. She had always been the one to be desired, the one who played by the rules—now, she was the one setting the pace. The dress had transformed her, and she reveled in the attention it brought. Her breasts felt heavy and sensitive, the fabric of the dress clinging to them in a way that made her acutely aware of every breath she took.


 
As they pulled up in front of the Sheraton Hotel, the grandeur of the building seemed to reflect the tumult of emotions raging inside her. The lights of the hotel spilled out into the street, casting a warm glow over the polished marble and gleaming chrome of the entrance. The doorman looked at her with a mix of surprise and admiration, his eyes lingering on her bare legs as she stepped out of the autorickshaw.
 
"Madam, I will wait for you?" Rajesh's voice was thick with desire, his eyes never leaving the sway of her hips as she walked away.
 
Fathima tossed a glance over her shoulder, a coy smile playing on her lips. "No, Rajesh, you can go back. But," she added, pausing to let the words hang in the air, "give your number. I'll call you if I need you."
 
The driver's eyes lit up with hope, and he rattled off his number, his hand hovering over the notepad where he had scribbled it down. Fathima took the paper, her fingers brushing against his, the touch lingering just a moment too long to be innocent. "Thank you, Rajesh," she said, her voice a sultry whisper that seemed to wrap around him like the scent of jasmine in the night air.
 
With a nod, she turned and sashayed towards the hotel's grand entrance, her hips rolling in a way that was both mesmerizing and deliberate. The red dress was like a beacon in the sea of muted tones, drawing glances from the hotel staff and guests alike. She felt the weight of their gazes on her, a mix of envy and desire that made her walk a little taller, her back a little straighter.
 
The heads of businessmen and socialites swiveled to watch her progress, their eyes lingering on her long legs, the swell of her breasts, and the fiery confidence that seemed to radiate from her very pores. She felt their stares like a physical touch, a caress that left her skin tingling and her pulse racing. It was intoxicating, this power she had over them—these strangers who knew nothing of the storm raging in her heart.
 
The cafe was nestled in a quiet corner of the hotel lobby, a cozy nook with plush velvet chairs and the faint sound of a pianist playing a sultry tune on a grand piano. The air was thick with the scent of expensive coffee and the promise of illicit whispers. Fathima's heels clicked against the marble floor, each step a silent declaration of her intent. She knew that once she entered the cafe, there would be no turning back.
 
Her eyes scanned the room, looking for the man who had orchestrated this meeting. She spotted Robert, lounging in a chair by the window, his dark eyes watching her with a predator's intensity. He was dressed in a tailored suit that made him look both powerful and dangerously attractive. The sight of him sent a shiver down her spine, and she felt a thrill of excitement mingled with fear.
 
But as she approached, she realized that he was not alone. Opposite him sat a man in the shadows, his features obscured by the dim lighting and the angle of the chair. Her steps faltered for a moment, the sight of the stranger throwing a wrench in the plans she had concocted in her mind. Who was he? A colleague? A friend? Or something more?
 
Her heart hammered in her chest as she continued towards them, the red dress a silent declaration of the boundaries she was about to cross. Robert's eyes locked on hers, and she felt a jolt of electricity as he stood, his gaze never leaving her as he stepped around the small round table.
 
The stranger remained in the shadows, his features obscured, adding a layer of intrigue to the already charged atmosphere. Fathima's breath caught in her throat as Robert approached, his arms outstretched. He hugged her gently, the soft fabric of his suit brushing against the velvety red of her dress, sending a shiver down her spine. His touch was firm but respectful, the kind of embrace that promised more but held back.
 
"You look...sexy," he murmured into her ear, his breath warm and tickling. His words sent a jolt through her body, a mix of excitement and fear. The dress had been a bold choice, one that screamed of desire and intent. His reaction was exactly what she had hoped for, and yet, the reality was more intense than she had ever imagined. She felt like prey caught in the sights of a hunter, and she couldn't decide if she wanted to fight or surrender.
 
Robert stepped aside, allowing the man from the shadows to come into view. It was Rahul, looking more handsome than she had ever seen him, in a tailored shirt that clung to his muscular frame. His eyes were dark with desire as they took in her transformation. The sight of her colleague in such close proximity, in such a setting, made her pulse race even faster.
 
"Fathima," he murmured, closing the distance between them. His arms encircled her waist, pulling her close, and she felt the heat of his body against hers. "Oh my god, you look absolutely fabulous," he whispered into her ear, his breath sending shivers down her spine. His voice was a caress, his words a declaration of his admiration for her newfound allure. She had never felt so desired, so wanted by a man who had once been just a friendly face in the office.
 
Robert and Rahul led her to a dimly lit corner of the cafe, where a plush sofa and a low table awaited them. Fathima felt her heart pounding as she allowed herself to be guided between them, the dress whispering its seductive secrets with every step. They settled into the cozy nook, the sofa's velvet embrace enveloping her as she sat down, flanked by the two men whose eyes seemed to devour her. The table was adorned with a bottle of whiskey and three tumblers, the golden liquid glinting in the soft light like liquid fire.


 
The conversation flowed easily, a mix of work banter and personal anecdotes that grew increasingly flirty as the evening progressed. Fathima found herself leaning into their laughter, her body responding to their touches like a moth drawn to a flame. Every time their fingers grazed hers or their thighs brushed against her, she felt a spark of excitement that made her skin tingle. The beers were cold and crisp, sliding down her throat and loosening her inhibitions with every sip.
 
As the evening grew darker outside, the tension between the three of them grew thicker than the tropical air. Fathima's hand slipped from her own thigh to rest on Robert's leg, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the fabric of his trousers. He didn't flinch, just gave her a knowing smile that made her feel as though he could see straight through her. The touch was innocent, yet it was loaded with the promise of something more, something she wasn't quite ready to admit she wanted.
 
But as the whiskey loosened her tongue and her inhibitions, she found herself touching Rahul too. It started with a casual brush against his thigh, but when she felt the muscle tense beneath her fingertips, she didn't pull away. Instead, she let her hand rest there, feeling the warmth  seep into her. And then, as if on cue, he took her hand and placed it closer to his crotch, the fabric stretching taut over his growing arousal. Fathima felt a thrill of power, her pulse quickening as she realized she had the power to elicit such a response from these two men.