Adultery Fathima - wife to slutty broker (With Pics)

[Cuckoldindian]

Update 9:
The conversation grew more heated, the air thick with unspoken desires. Robert leaned in closer, his hand finding its way to her knee and then slowly, inexorably, moving up her thigh. She could feel the heat of his palm through the thin fabric of the dress, and it was all she could do not to squirm with pleasure. The dress was a prison and a liberation, a declaration of her intentions that she both reveled in and feared.

 
Rahul's hand mirrored Robert's movements on her other leg, and she felt trapped between them, their touches setting her skin alight. The waiter approached, the sound of the bill being placed on the table a stark reminder of the reality that was trying to invade their intimate bubble. Robert's hand didn't pause as he reached for his wallet, his eyes never leaving hers as he extracted a wad of bills. He laid them on the table, the sound of money slapping against the wood echoing through the hushed whispers of the cafe.
 
"Come on, guys," he said, his voice low and filled with excitement. "Let's take this party upstairs."
 
Fathima felt the warmth of Robert's hand on her thigh, and the heat of Rahul's gaze as he leaned in closer. She knew that if she went with them, there would be no turning back. But the thrill of it all was too much to resist. With a nod, she stood, her legs wobbling slightly from the alcohol and the anticipation of what was to come. They made their way to the elevator, the tension palpable in the air, thick with unspoken desires.
 
But just as the doors slid open, revealing the plush carpeted confines of the hotel's private elevator, Rahul stopped. "Sorry, Robert," he said, his voice strained with what sounded like genuine regret. "Fathima and I have an early meeting with a client tomorrow. We really should get going."
 
Fathima felt a twinge of disappointment, mixed with relief, at Rahul's words. She had been about to say yes, to let the night unfold as it would, but something held her back—a sliver of the conservative upbringing that still clung to her, perhaps, or the fear of the unknown. Robert's eyes narrowed slightly, his hand still resting possessively on her ass.
 
"Very well," he said, his voice tight with frustration. "Another time, then." His hand slid off her body, and she felt the loss of his touch like a cold breeze on a warm night.
 
Robert nodded curtly before turning away, his footsteps echoing down the hallway as he disappeared into the night. Fathima felt a strange mix of relief and regret, the adrenaline of the evening's flirtation dissipating like mist in the morning sun.
 
Rahul, his eyes still dark with desire, placed his hands on Fathima's waist, guiding her towards the lobby. His touch was firm but gentle, a stark contrast to Robert's possessive grip. She found herself leaning into him, the scent of his cologne mingling with the whiskey on his breath. His closeness was comforting, familiar, yet the electricity of his touch was something new, something she hadn't felt before, not even with Aslam.
 
"Fathima," he whispered into her ear, his voice thick with concern. "What are you doing? Going to a room with an unknown person?"
 
Fathima's heart skipped a beat as she looked up at him, the reality of her actions crashing down upon her like a wave of cold water. The thrill of the evening's flirtation had clouded her judgment, and she hadn't thought through the consequences of her decision. She felt the weight of her marriage vows, the warmth of her home, and the love of her husband. But she also felt the siren's call of desire, the tantalizing promise of a side of herself she had never allowed to surface.
 
"Rahul," she murmured, her voice shaking slightly, "What were you doing to me when we were having drinks?" Her eyes searched his, looking for answers to questions she hadn't even fully formed in her own mind. He looked at her, his expression a mix of confusion and concern, his hands dropping from her waist as if she had burned him.
 
"Fathima," he began, his voice gentle but firm, "I was just...enjoying the moment." His thumb traced a line on the back of her hand, a gesture that seemed to speak volumes about his feelings. "But we should get you home. This isn't the time or place for..." His words trailed off, but the unspoken message was clear.
 
Fathima took a deep breath, the scent of the hotel lobby—a mix of expensive perfume and polished marble—filling her lungs. She nodded, the weight of her decision to leave suddenly feeling like a boulder she had to push uphill. She started to walk away, her legs feeling wobbly from the alcohol and the tumult of emotions crashing through her. But before she could take more than a step, Rahul's hand shot out, wrapping around her wrist and pulling her back to him.
 
The force of his pull spun her around, and before she could protest, his mouth was on hers. It was a kiss unlike any she had ever felt before—desperate, hungry, filled with a passion that was both surprising and terrifying. For a moment, she stood there, unmoving, the shock of his actions freezing her in place. But then, something within her stirred. It was as though a dam had broken, and a flood of long-repressed desires rushed forth, demanding to be felt.


 
Her body responded to his touch, her lips parting slightly, allowing him to deepen the kiss. His tongue sought hers, and she found herself kissing him back with an intensity that matched his own. It was as though she had been waiting for this moment, for this fiery connection that seemed to burn away all her inhibitions. The taste of whiskey mingled with the sweetness of his breath, sending waves of pleasure crashing through her.
 
Breathless, they broke the kiss, their eyes locked together in a silent conversation of need and want. Without a word, Rahul took her hand and led her through the hotel lobby, the sound of their heels echoing through the opulent space. They passed the surprised glances of hotel guests and staff, the crimson dress leaving a trail of scandal in their wake. Fathima felt a thrill of excitement mingled with fear as they approached the restroom sign, the neon glow illuminating their path.
 
He pulled her into the deserted women's restroom, the stark white tiles and gleaming chrome fixtures a stark contrast to the passionate scene unfolding. The second the door clicked shut, Rahul spun her around, his hands cupping her face as he crushed his lips to hers again. His hunger was palpable, his grip tightening as his tongue explored her mouth with a fervor that left her knees trembling. She could feel her own desire building, a slow burn that had been simmering all evening now threatening to engulf her entirely.
 
As their kiss grew more urgent, Rahul's hands slid down to her waist, then up to the soft mounds of her breasts. He caressed them gently at first, his thumbs brushing over the hardened nipples that strained against the fabric of her dress. Fathima gasped into his mouth, the sensation shooting straight to her core, making her wet and needy. The dress had been a declaration of intent, but now it was a barrier that she desperately wanted to shed.


 
With a swift motion, Rahul lifted the crimson fabric up to her waist, exposing her drenched panties. The coolness of the air conditioning against her heated skin made her shiver, her pussy throbbing with anticipation. His eyes darkened with desire as he took in the sight of her, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Without breaking the kiss, he reached down and slid his hand into her panties, his fingers finding her slick folds. Fathima's hips bucked against his hand, her legs threatening to give way as he stroked her clit with a gentle yet firm touch.
 
Meanwhile, her own hands were busy unbuttoning Rahul's pants, the sound of each button popping open echoing in the quiet bathroom like a gunshot. His cock sprang free, thick and erect, standing proudly against the fabric of his boxers. The sight of him made her stomach clench with need, her mouth watering with the urge to take him in. She reached out, her hand shaking slightly, and pushed the boxers down. His cock bobbed up, a testament to his desire for her.


 
Without a word, he lifted her onto the edge of the sink, the cold porcelain sending a shock through her body that only heightened her arousal. He stepped closer, positioning himself between her legs, and she felt the head of his cock brush against her swollen clit. He paused for a moment, their eyes locked together in a silent question. And then, with a groan that was equal parts passion and desperation, he thrust into her, filling her completely.



 
Fathima's moan was muffled by their kisses, their teeth clashing together as they sought to deepen the connection. His hands squeezed her breasts, his thumbs teasing her nipples to hardened peaks that sent jolts of pleasure through her body. Each thrust was hard and deep, his cock claiming her in a way that made her feel both violated and cherished. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, urging him to go deeper, faster.


 
Her nails dug into his back, the fabric of his shirt giving way under the pressure as she sought purchase, anything to anchor herself to reality. The world outside the bathroom door ceased to exist, replaced by the rhythmic slap of their bodies coming together, the harsh breaths that filled the space between them. The cold of the sink bit into her back, a sharp counterpoint to the heat of their passion.
 
Fathima's orgasm washed over her like a tidal wave, sudden and overwhelming, leaving her gasping for air. Yet, even as her body convulsed around him, Rahul did not stop. His eyes bore into hers, dark with hunger, his strokes never faltering. She could feel him, thick and unyielding inside her, pushing her to the brink again, even as the aftershocks of her climax still rippled through her core.
 
And then, just as she thought she could take no more, he pulled away, his cock slick with her arousal. He stepped back, panting heavily, his eyes never leaving hers. His hand worked his shaft, his movements jerky and desperate. Fathima watched, her own desire rekindled by the sight of him, her body still quivering with need.
 
"Look what you've done to me," he groaned, his hand moving faster and faster. And then, with a roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the bathroom, he came. The first shot hit her square in the chest, a hot streak that sent a shiver through her. The second splattered across her neck, and the third landed on the swell of her left breast, a perfect white comma against the crimson of her dress.


 
Fathima watched, transfixed, as the final drops of cum painted her skin, a silent declaration of his desire. The sight was both erotic and overwhelming, a visual representation of the power she held over him. The dress, which had started as a symbol of temptation, was now a canvas for their shared passion.
 
With trembling hands, she reached for the tissue dispenser beside the sink, her body still pulsing with the aftermath of her climax. She gently wiped away the remnants of their tryst, her movements deliberate and almost tender. When she was done, she looked up at Rahul, her eyes filled with a mix of longing and regret.
 
"Rahul," she whispered, her voice hoarse from their passionate exchanges, "this never happened, okay?" It was a question wrapped in a statement, a desperate plea to hold onto the shreds of her shattered world. His gaze softened, the lust slowly receding, replaced by something that looked like understanding.
 
He nodded, his hand still wrapped around his now-flaccid cock, and took a step back. "Okay," he murmured, his voice thick with a mix of regret and need. "It never happened." He tucked himself back into his pants, his movements jerky and uncoordinated, as if he couldn't quite believe what had just transpired between them.
 
Fathima took a deep breath, the scent of their passion still heavy in the air. She adjusted the dress, smoothing out the wrinkles and tucking herself back in, the fabric feeling both suffocating and liberating at the same time. Her hands trembled as she fixed her hair in the mirror, her reflection a flushed and disheveled stranger. With one last glance at Rahul, she turned away, the decision to leave the bathroom feeling like a monumental effort.
 
As she stepped into the cool hotel corridor, the sound of her heels on the marble floor seemed to echo through the quiet space. The lights were dimmer here, casting a soft glow that painted everything in a warm, seductive hue. The plush carpet underfoot was a gentle caress against her bare legs, a stark reminder of what had just transpired. The anticipation of facing the consequences was almost too much to bear.
 
But as Fathima approached the hotel entrance, her heart skipped a beat. There, standing under the grand chandelier, was Rajesh, his eyes scanning the crowd with an expression of mild concern. The sight of him was like a beacon of familiarity in a sea of unknowns. She felt a surge of relief wash over her, tempered with a hint of guilt. He was a reminder of her responsibilities, of the life she had left behind just moments ago.
 
"Take me home, Rajesh," she murmured, slipping into the autorickshaw, the crimson dress a stark contrast to the dullness of the vehicle's interior. The engine sputtered to life, and they pulled away from the hotel's opulent embrace, the wind from the open sides of the rickshaw cooling her overheated skin.
 
As they navigated the crowded streets of Chennai, the fabric of her dress fluttering with each breeze, Fathima felt the weight of her actions settle heavily upon her. She couldn't bring herself to look at Rahul, his hand still resting on her waist as if to claim her once again. The silence between them was a heavy blanket, filled with the echoes of their passionate encounter.
 
"Madam," Rajesh's voice cut through the quiet, "don't you want to change to your normal dress?" His eyes flickered to the red fabric in the rearview mirror, a question in their gaze. Fathima took a deep breath, her hand resting on the zipper that held the dress in place. The dress felt like a second skin now, a symbol of the woman she had become tonight—bold, seductive, and powerful. Yet, it was also a prison, a reminder of the lines she had crossed.