Adultery Fathima - wife to slutty broker (With Pics)

[Cuckoldindian]

Update 10:
The clock in the rickshaw's dashboard read 12:30 PM, the digits stark in the dim light. The realization hit her like a slap to the face, jolting her out of the haze of desire that had consumed her at the hotel. She looked down at the crimson fabric clinging to her body, feeling the stickiness of cum between her legs and the faint smell of their passion. The reality of her situation crashed over her like a cold shower, and she realized she couldn't face Aslam—or anyone from her life—like this.

 
"Rajesh," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, "it's late. No one will be around. Drop me home, please." Her eyes remained fixed on the passing streetlights, their glow casting an eerie pallor over the cityscape. She needed the sanctity of her own space to process what had happened, to figure out what this meant for her and her marriage.
 
Rajesh nodded, his expression inscrutable in the mirror. He knew better than to ask questions. He'd seen that look before, the look of a woman who had stepped out of the shadows of propriety and tasted the sweet, forbidden fruit of desire. He steered the rickshaw through the quiet streets, the only sound the hum of the engine and the distant wail of a siren. The silence was thick with unspoken words, each of them weighing heavily on Fathima's conscience.
 
The apartment complex loomed before them, a stark contrast to the opulence of the Sheraton Hotel. The stark white paint looked almost yellow under the streetlights, and the gate creaked open with a sound that seemed to echo through the night. Fathima got out of the rickshaw, the dress whispering against her skin as she moved. She turned to hand the cash to Rajesh, but his eyes were glued to her chest, his hands under his lungi, stroking his now-erect dick.
 
Her eyes widened in shock, and she took a step back. "What are you doing?" she whispered, her voice shaking. She had never seen this side of him before, the raw hunger in his gaze making her feel both exposed and powerful.
 
Rajesh looked up at her, his eyes dark and needy. "Madam," he said, his voice low and thick, "you look so beautiful tonight. It's hard not to want you." His hand didn't stop moving, the rhythmic motion mesmerizing despite her horror.
 
Fathima's mind raced. She had never encountered this side of Rajesh before, and she didn't know how to react. Part of her was repulsed, but another part, the part that had been so thoroughly aroused by Rahul just minutes ago, felt a strange thrill at the blatant desire in his gaze. She took a step back, her hand hovering over the autorickshaw's door. "Please, Rajesh," she murmured, her voice shaking, "not here. Not like this."
 
"Madam, please," he begged, his hand moving faster. His eyes never left hers, his breath coming in ragged pants. "Let me finish. I won't tell anyone, I swear." The desperation in his voice was palpable, and Fathima found herself torn between pity and fear. She knew that if she allowed this, she would be crossing another line, one that might be even harder to come back from.
 
Fathima swallowed hard, her eyes flicking to the empty street behind her. The darkness was almost comforting, offering a veil of anonymity to the chaos of her thoughts. Her hand trembled as she reached for the strap of her dress, the fabric slipping down with an almost silent whisper. Her heart hammered in her chest as she revealed her bare shoulder, the cool night air sending a shiver through her body.


 
Rajesh's eyes widened at the sight, his grip on his cock tightening as the fabric of her dress dipped dangerously low, revealing the upper swell of one of her breasts. The pale moonlight painted the exposed flesh with a silver glow, making it seem almost ethereal in the starkness of the night. The tension in the air grew palpable, a heady mix of lust and power.
 
Her hand hovered over her bare shoulder, her thumb brushing against the sensitive skin of her neck. She knew what she was doing, knew that she had the power to push him over the edge. With a flick of her wrist, she allowed the dress to slip even lower, exposing the peak of her left breast. The fabric clung to the wetness on her chest, a stark reminder of her earlier encounter.
 
Rajesh's breath hitched, and Fathima felt a thrill of power as she watched his hand move faster, his eyes glued to her exposed flesh. She could see the muscles in his forearm tense and release, the veins standing out in stark relief. His face was a study in concentration, his eyes glazed with need. She knew he was close, could sense it in the way his breath grew shallower, his movements more erratic.
 
The moment of his climax was almost anticlimactic. A low groan rumbled through his chest, his eyes squeezing shut as he spilled his seed into the night. His hand paused for a moment, the sticky warmth of his cum hitting the floor of the autorickshaw with a soft thud. Then, as if coming out of a trance, he looked up at her, his expression a mix of shock, embarrassment, and gratitude.
 
Fathima felt a wave of revulsion wash over her, but she collegeed her features into something resembling calm. She quickly adjusted her dress, making sure it was back in place, hiding the evidence of her earlier tryst. Her heart hammered in her chest, the sound of it echoing in the quiet night air. She reached into her purse and pulled out the crumpled bills, her hand shaking slightly as she held them out to him.
 
Rajesh took the money, his cum-stained fingers briefly brushing against hers as he accepted the payment. The sticky residue clung to her skin, a tangible reminder of the power she now wielded over him. Fathima forced a smile, trying to keep the encounter as professional as possible despite the intimacy they had just shared.
 
The autorickshaw pulled away from the curb, the engine's putter fading into the night as Fathima watched it disappear around the corner. She stood there for a moment, the cool breeze whispering around her, the crimson dress feeling like a second skin. The cum on her hands felt like a brand, marking her as something other than the respectable wife she had been just hours ago.
 
With a trembling hand, she reached for the elevator button, her thoughts racing. The doors slid open with a soft ding, and she stepped inside, the sterile scent of the enclosed space a stark contrast to the heady aroma of sex that clung to her. The walls of the elevator closed in around her, the mirrored surface reflecting her flushed face and the smudged lipstick that told the story of her betrayal.
 
Her eyes fell to her trembling hands, the sticky residue of Rajesh's desire a stark reminder of the lines she had crossed. In a moment of boldness born from the tumult of her emotions, Fathima brought her hand to her mouth, her eyes never leaving her own gaze in the mirror. She licked her thumb, the salty tang of his cum hitting her taste buds, making her stomach twist with a mix of disgust and fascination.
 
The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, revealing the empty hallway that led to her apartment. She stepped out, her heels clacking against the cold, hard tile, the only sound in the silent night. The hall was a stark contrast to the vibrant life outside, the walls lined with unadorned white doors, each hiding its own secrets.
 
Fathima's heart felt like it was in her throat as she approached her own door, the key trembling in her hand. She slid it into the lock, turning it with a quiet click that seemed to echo down the corridor. Pushing the door open, she stepped into the dimly lit living room, the soft glow of the TV casting flickering shadows across the floor.
 
Her eyes adjusted to the light, and she saw Rahman in the kitchen, his lean body partially obscured by the open fridge door. He was dressed only in his black V-shaped underwear, the elastic band digging into his waist and emphasizing the size of his bulge. A chill ran down her spine at the sight of him, her thoughts immediately racing back to the restroom in the hotel, to the way Rahul's cock had felt in her hand.


 
The fridge light cast a cool blue glow over his bare chest, illuminating the dusting of hair that trailed down from his navel to the waistband. She couldn't help but wonder what he looked like completely naked, his cock fully erect. The image was so vivid in her mind that she could almost feel it pressing against her again, the memory of his passion making her legs feel weak.
 
But then he turned, the fridge door swinging closed with a thud that seemed to shatter the silence. His eyes widened when he saw her, and Fathima felt a cold sweat break out across her forehead. She had forgotten about him, lost in her own world of desire and guilt.
 
"Anni, I thought you were sleep," he said, his voice tight with surprise. He quickly reached for the hem of his T-shirt, which was hanging over the back of a chair, and pulled it on over his head, hiding his bare chest. The bulge in his underwear was now more pronounced, and Fathima couldn't help but feel a twinge of arousal despite the situation.
 
Her cheeks flushed with both guilt and desire, she raised her hand to cover her cleavage. "Rahman," she began, her voice shaking slightly, "I was in a meeting—so I had to dress like this." The lie came out more naturally than she had expected, the words slipping from her lips as if they had been rehearsed.
 
His eyes lingering on her bare shoulders. "You've never worn anything like this before," he said, his voice dropping to a murmur. "It suits you, anni. You look...hot." The word hung in the air, a silent admission of the thoughts that had been swirling in his mind.


 
Fathima felt a rush of heat flood her cheeks, her hand moving to self-consciously cover her exposed skin. She had never thought of herself as "hot," not in the way that word was used to describe the kind of women who flaunted their bodies and chased after men. She had always been the good girl, the faithful wife, the one who wore the conservative clothes her family approved of. But standing there, in that crimson dress, she felt the power of attraction in a way she never had before.
 
"Don't tell Aslam," she said quickly, her voice barely above a whisper, "or your parents. They wouldn't understand." The words hung in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the secrets she had been keeping from everyone she loved. She could see the curiosity in Rahman's eyes, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. He knew she was hiding something, and she could feel the beginnings of a dangerous attraction unfurling between them.
 
"What's got you all dressed up like this?" he asked, his eyes dropping to the dress that clung to her body like a second skin. Fathima felt the weight of his gaze, the hunger in it making her feel both exposed and desired. "It's just...work," she stuttered, her mind racing for an excuse. "A last-minute client dinner, and I had to look the part."
 
Rahman nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving hers. "I will not tell anyone, anni," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate through her very bones. It was a promise, but it also felt like a threat, a silent understanding that he was now a part of her secret. Fathima felt a strange mix of relief and dread, knowing that she had just shared a piece of herself with her brother-in-law that she had never intended to.
 
With trembling hands, she turned and made her way to the bedroom, the crimson dress whispering seductively as she walked. The room was a sanctuary, dimly lit by the glow of the streetlights filtering through the curtains. Aslam lay on the bed, his deep snores a stark contrast to the tumult in her heart. The sight of him was both comforting and suffocating, a reminder of the life she had chosen and the passion she had left behind in that hotel room.
 
Fathima closed the door behind her with a quiet click, the sound echoing through the room like the final nail in a coffin. She reached behind her, her fingers fumbling with the zipper of the dress that now felt like a prison. With a shiver, she shimmied out of the fabric that had been the stage for her infidelity, letting it pool at her feet. Her body was flushed, the air conditioning cold against her overheated skin.
 
The bedroom was a sanctuary of normalcy amidst the chaos of her thoughts. Aslam lay there, oblivious to the tempest raging within her. His chest rose and fell with the rhythm of his deep snores, the sound a stark contrast to the erratic beat of her heart. She approached the bed slowly, the floor cold under her bare feet. The smell of his cologne lingered in the air, mingling with the faint scent of sex that clung to her skin, a potent reminder of her betrayal.
 
Fathima slid into bed beside him, her body tense with guilt and desire. She lay there, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, her mind racing with the events of the evening. The cool fabric of the bedsheets against her skin brought a small measure of comfort, a semblance of purity to counteract the sticky residue of her indiscretions. Yet, as she listened to Aslam's steady breathing, she found herself unable to find the peace she so desperately sought.
 
Her eyes drifted closed, and she slipped into a fitful sleep, haunted by the faces of the men who had kissed her, touched her, made her feel alive in ways she hadn't felt in years. It was a restless, tumultuous sleep, filled with fevered dreams of passion and betrayal that left her feeling both guilty and exhilarated. When she finally awoke, she had no idea how long she had been unconscious.
 
Fathima's eyes shot open as she felt a pair of lips pressing against hers, the sensation so real it took her a moment to realize she wasn't dreaming. The kiss was deep and demanding, the kind that stole her breath and made her heart race. She gasped, her body responding instinctively, her arms wrapping around the broad shoulders of the person above her.