Adultery NAZRIN AN INNOCENT WIFE (With pics)

[Cuckoldindian]

Update 19:

 

Fahim recoiled as if struck again, pressing deeper into the peeling wallpaper. "That’s—that’s not true!" he stammered, blood smearing his chin. "I never meant—" But Nazrin was already rising, unfolding herself with predatory grace. She stepped over the shattered bonsai, ignoring the spilled soil, and moved toward the kitchen. "Truth?" she called over her shoulder, her laughter brittle as cracked ice. "You gambled our deed. You forged my name. You brought Ragavan here." She yanked open a cabinet, pulling out a cheap steel tumbler. "Truth is, Fahim, you sold us both. For nothing."
 
Fahim’s eyes darted wildly between Praveen’s protective stance and Muthu’s coiled aggression. "Fine!" he blurted, desperation sharpening his voice. He wiped his bleeding lip with a trembling sleeve. "Let the boys go, Nazrin. Please." His gaze locked onto hers, pleading. "I’ll disclose everything—all the details, the accounts, the contacts—in private. Just us." Behind Nazrin, Muthu snorted derisively. Praveen shifted his weight, rainwater pooling around his worn sneakers. "Madam," Praveen began, his voice low with warning, "he’s stalling. Trying to isolate you." Nazrin filled the tumbler at the sink, the water drumming loud in the sudden silence. She didn’t turn.
 
The storm lashed against the kitchen windowpane, wind howling through cracks in the frame. Nazrin shut off the tap, the abrupt quiet amplifying Fahim’s ragged breathing. She placed the tumbler on the counter with deliberate calm. "Boys," she announced, her voice slicing through the tension like a scalpel, "the storm hasn't settled." She turned, her gaze sweeping over Praveen and Muthu—drenched, vigilant, standing like sentinels between her and Fahim’s cowering form. "Stay for the night. Call your parents. Let them know." Praveen answered instantly, his tone flat, rehearsed: "Ma’am, our parents are on a business trip. Since mine and Muthu’s parents are partners." Fahim’s eyes widened—a flicker of suspicion cutting through his panic. Muthu nodded once, sharp and final, cracking his knuckles again. "Yeah," he added, his stare never leaving Fahim. "Dubai. Texted earlier."
 
Nazrin leaned back against the sink, rainwater dripping from her hairline onto her collarbone. She studied Muthu—his jaw set, shoulders squared beneath the soaked borrowed shirt. "How long?" she asked, her voice devoid of inflection. Muthu met her gaze, unwavering. "Two weeks," he stated. "Minimum. They’re negotiating contracts. Till then..." He paused, deliberately shifting his stance to block Fahim’s line of sight to Nazrin. "We’ll stay with you. Help sort this problem." Praveen echoed him, softer but firm: "We’ll stay, Madam. Help." Fahim choked out a protest, "You can’t—this is my house—" but Nazrin cut him off with a raised palm, her eyes still locked on Muthu.
 
"Good," Nazrin declared, pushing off the sink. She strode past Fahim without glancing at him, her damp silk whispering against her calves. "Praveen—fetch towels. Muthu—board up that broken kitchen window." She tossed Fahim the stained dish towel. "Clean your mess." Fahim stared at the cloth in his hands, blood blooming anew on his split lip. "Nazrin, please," he whispered, "we need to talk—alone—" Nazrin didn’t pause. She moved to the hallway closet, pulling out threadbare blankets and pillows. "Talk?" Her laugh was brittle as shattered glass. "You lost that privilege when you forged my signature."
 
Muthu dragged the splintered dining chair toward the kitchen, its legs scbanging like claws on linoleum. "Two weeks," he repeated, louder now, driving a fist into the plywood covering the shattered pane. The impact echoed through the cramped house. "Plenty of time." He didn’t look at Fahim, but the promise hung heavy: *Plenty of time to make you pay.* Praveen returned with towels, handing one silently to Nazrin. His knuckles brushed hers—deliberate, electric—as he kept his body angled between her and Fahim’s trembling form. "Madam," he murmured, "where should we sleep?"
 
Nazrin dbangd the thin towel over her damp shoulders. Her gaze swept the cramped hallway—the peeling wallpaper, the stained rug, Fahim hunched like a beaten dog beside the shattered bonsai. She pointed down the narrow corridor. "Bedroom," she announced, her voice stripped bare. Her eyes locked onto Praveen’s, then Muthu’s. "You boys. With me." She didn’t flinch. Didn’t soften. Then her finger jabbed toward the shadowed alcove beneath the stairs—a space barely large enough for a man to stand. "Fahim." The name dropped like a stone. "Store room." Fahim’s head snapped up, bloodied mouth agape. "Nazrin—you can’t—"
 
Praveen stepped forward, blocking Fahim’s view of Nazrin. "Madam," he began, low and urgent, "is that wise? He could—" Nazrin cut him off with a sharp gesture. "He signed away this house," she stated, her voice icy calm. "He signed away *me*. Tonight?" Her laugh was brittle as cracked porcelain. "He sleeps with the brooms and buckets." She turned, silk whispering against her thighs. "Muthu—bring the extra mattress." Behind her, Fahim scrambled to his feet. "Nazrin! Listen! Ragavan’s men—they know people at the college! They’ll—"
 
Nazrin didn’t pause. She strode into the bedroom, ignoring Fahim’s choked protests echoing from the hallway. The cracked vanity mirror reflected her damp silk, smudged kohl, the tremor in her hands masked by forced stillness. She pulled a thin cotton nighty from the bottom drawer—pale blue, frayed at the hem, bought years ago for humid Chennai nights. It felt flimsy, almost cheap against her skin. She shut the bathroom door, locking it with a decisive click. The shower hissed, steam rising like ghosts as she scrubbed Ragavan’s threat, Fahim’s cowardice, the mud-streaked rug from her skin. Water sluiced down her spine, pooling at her feet. She didn’t hurry.
 
She emerged ten minutes later, skin flushed pink, hair dripping onto bare shoulders. The nighty clung—translucent where wet, outlining the dark triangle between her thighs, the hard peaks of her breasts. Water darkened the thin fabric across her stomach, plastering it like a second skin. She didn’t towel dry. Didn’t cover herself. She walked barefoot into the living room, where Fahim hunched on the splintered chair, Muthu hammering the last board over the kitchen window, Praveen folding towels with rigid precision. The dripping faucet echoed. Three pairs of eyes snapped to her—Praveen’s widening, Muthu’s hammer freezing mid-swing, Fahim’s jaw slackening. Silence thickened, broken only by her wet footsteps on linoleum.


 
“Nazrin,” Fahim choked out, scrambling upright, his gaze darting between her near-nakedness and the students. His voice cracked. “What is this? The boys—they’re *here*!” He gestured wildly at Muthu and Praveen, who stood paralyzed, towels forgotten, tools hanging limp. Muthu swallowed hard, his knuckles white on the hammer handle. Praveen’s breath hitched—a sharp, audible intake. Nazrin ignored Fahim. She moved to the center of the room, water pooling around her feet, and turned slowly, deliberately, letting the damp silk outline every curve, every shadow. Her gaze swept over Muthu’s frozen stance, Praveen’s locked stare, before finally settling on Fahim’s horrified face.
 
“Boys,” she announced, her voice crisp as snapping ice, slicing through the humid air. She gestured dismissively at their soaked trousers and shirts clinging to their bodies. “Your clothes are wet. I know you don’t have spares.” She paused, letting the implication hang—heavy, deliberate. Her eyes held theirs—unyielding, commanding. “Sleep in your undies.” Fahim gasped, a strangled sound. Praveen’s cheeks flushed crimson; Muthu’s jaw tightened, a muscle twitching beneath his skin. Nazrin didn’t waver. She turned, the thin fabric of her nighty clinging obscenely as she walked towards the bedroom door, leaving wet footprints like accusations on the linoleum.
 
Without hesitation, Praveen obeyed. His fingers trembled slightly as he unbuttoned his borrowed shirt, the damp fabric peeling away to reveal lean muscle and smooth brown skin beneath. He folded it neatly, placing it on the splintered chair beside Fahim’s trembling form. Then came his trousers, pooled around his ankles. He stepped out, clad only in simple grey boxer briefs clinging low on his hips. Muthu followed, movements rougher, defiant. He tore off his soaked shirt, tossing it carelessly onto the muddy rug. His trousers followed, kicked aside. He stood tall in dark blue trunks, shoulders squared, glaring at Fahim—a silent challenge etched in every tensed sinew. Fahim stared, mute horror twisting his bloodied face.


 


Nazrin watched from the bedroom doorway, steam still curling from her damp skin beneath the sheer nighty. Her gaze swept over the students’ near-naked forms—Praveen’s disciplined stillness, Muthu’s coiled aggression—then flicked to Fahim’s crumpled posture. “Bedroom,” she commanded, her voice low and resonant. Praveen moved first, bare feet silent on the worn linoleum. Muthu lingered a heartbeat longer, his stare drilling into Fahim before turning to follow. Nazrin stepped aside, allowing them passage into the dimly lit room behind her. The air crackled with unspoken tension—victory, defiance, raw exposure.
 
Fahim scrambled forward as Muthu crossed the threshold. “Stop!” he choked out, one hand outstretched toward Nazrin. “You can’t—” But the bedroom door swung shut with deliberate finality, cutting off his plea. The latch clicked—a small, sharp sound that echoed through the suddenly hollow hallway. Fahim stood frozen, palm pressed against cheap plywood, listening to the muffled rustle of bodies shifting beyond it. Rain lashed the boarded-up window. In the silence, the dripping faucet sounded like a countdown.