Adultery NAZRIN AN INNOCENT WIFE (With pics)

[Cuckoldindian]

Update 20:

Inside the cramped bedroom, Nazrin leaned back against the closed door, her damp nighty plastered to her hips. Praveen stood rigid near the sagging mattress, gaze fixed on a water stain blooming across the ceiling. Muthu prowled the narrow space between bed and wall, bare feet silent on cracked tiles. He stopped before the cracked vanity mirror, staring at his own reflection—the borrowed blue trunks clinging low, the coiled tension in his shoulders. “He’s listening,” Muthu muttered, not turning. “At the door. Like a fucking cockroach.” Praveen’s jaw tightened. Nazrin didn’t move. Her eyes traced the path of a single drop sliding down Muthu’s spine toward his waistband. The air thickened—wet cotton, sweat, the sharp scent of hammered nails lingering on Muthu’s skin.

 
Nazrin pushed off the door. She crossed to the bed—a narrow cot barely wide enough for two—and sank onto its edge. The cheap mattress springs groaned. She patted the space beside her. “Sit,” she ordered, her voice stripped of its earlier ice, leaving only exhaustion and raw command. Praveen obeyed instantly, perching stiffly on the edge near the headboard, knees drawn together. Muthu hesitated, watching Nazrin’s damp silhouette against the thin fabric clinging to her breasts. He finally sat heavily on her other side, thigh pressing against hers through the sheer cotton. The bed dipped dangerously. Nazrin didn’t flinch. She leaned forward, elbows on knees, the nighty gaping slightly at the neckline. “Twenty-five lakhs,” she stated flatly. “By Tuesday. Ideas. *Real* ones.”
 
Muthu shifted, his bare shoulder brushing hers. He stared at the peeling paint on the opposite wall. “Madam,” he began, voice low and rough. “If we want to acquire that huge sum…” He paused, swallowing hard. “…we’ll have to do something illegal.” The words dropped like stones into the humid silence. Praveen stiffened beside her. Outside the door, Fahim’s ragged breathing hitched—a sharp, audible gasp against the plywood. Nazrin didn’t move. Her gaze remained fixed on the water stain spreading across the ceiling. “Illegal,” she repeated softly, tasting the word. Not a question. An acknowledgment. Her thumb traced a loose thread on the frayed hem of her nighty. “Specifics, Muthu.”
 
Praveen leaned forward, elbows on knees mirroring Nazrin’s posture. His voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper, yet carried the precision of a scalpel. “We don’t know anything for certain,” he cautioned, eyes darting to the door. He lowered his voice further. “But last week? When Muthu and I went to buy cocaine from our peddler? He was complaining.” Praveen’s gaze locked onto Nazrin’s. “Said he overheard some suppliers talking—big players. They were frustrated. Having difficulty moving their product. A lot of it. Stuck somewhere.” He paused, letting the implication hang. Muthu nodded grimly beside her. “He didn’t say *what* product,” Praveen added quickly. “Or where. Just… difficulty selling.”
 
Nazrin remained utterly still, the damp cotton of her nighty clinging coldly to her skin. Only her eyes moved, sharpening as they fixed on Praveen. “Difficulty selling,” she echoed flatly, not a question. Her thumb stopped tracing the frayed hem. “Meaning… surplus. Meaning… price drops for desperate sellers. Or…” She tilted her head slightly, the movement predatory. “…opportunity for desperate buyers.” She shifted her gaze to Muthu. “This peddler. How much trust does he have in you? Enough to talk?” Muthu snorted, a harsh sound in the quiet room. “Trust? With that guy? Madam, he sells us coke. We pay. That’s the relationship. Friendly? No. Useful? Maybe.” He cracked his knuckles, a sharp pop echoing Fahim’s muffled gasp outside. “We can try. Ask questions. Pretend we’re looking to buy bulk ourselves. See what spills.”
 
Praveen leaned closer, his bare knee pressing against Nazrin’s thigh. The contact was deliberate, grounding. “It’s a big risk, Ma’am,” he murmured, his voice taut with suppressed urgency. His eyes flickered towards the thin plywood door separating them from Fahim’s listening ear. “If we probe too deep, ask the wrong things… these suppliers aren’t college professors. They don’t give warnings. They give bullets. Or worse.” He swallowed, the muscles in his jaw working. “One wrong word, one suspicious glance… and we vanish. Or end up in pieces dumped near the Marina.” His gaze locked onto Nazrin’s, searching for understanding, for caution. “We’d be stepping into a snake pit blindfolded.”
 
Nazrin didn’t flinch. She reached out, her damp fingers brushing lightly over Praveen’s clenched fist resting on his knee. Her touch was cool, deliberate. “I understand,” she said, her voice low and surprisingly soft, stripping away the earlier command. She looked from Praveen’s worried eyes to Muthu’s hardened stare. “You are college-going boys. Smart boys. You have futures. Degrees. Families expecting something… respectable.” She paused, letting the weight of their potential paths hang in the humid air. “If you want to move away from this… this filth I’ve dragged you into… walk out that door right now…” Her gesture encompassed the cramped room, the boarded window, the listening husband beyond. “…I would not think bad of you. Not for a second.” Her gaze held theirs, utterly sincere, devoid of manipulation. “Go home. Forget Ragavan. Forget me. Save yourselves.”
 
Muthu leaned back sharply against the protesting mattress springs, his bare shoulder bumping hers harder than intended. A harsh, humorless laugh escaped him, startlingly loud. “Madam,” he scoffed, shaking his head, rainwater droplets still clinging to his dark hair flying. He gestured broadly at his own near-naked torso, clad only in damp boxers, then swept a hand indicating Praveen’s tense posture and Nazrin’s sheer, clinging nighty. “Look at us. Seriously, *look*. Do you ever think,” he continued, his voice thick with bitter amusement, “that Praveen and I will actually pass out of college with degrees? That we’ll ever wear ties and sit in air-conditioned offices?” He snorted again, the sound sharp against the drumming rain. “That ship sailed long before Ragavan knocked.”
 

Praveen shifted beside Nazrin on the sagging mattress, his bare thigh pressing warm against hers through the thin cotton. He didn’t look at Muthu, his gaze fixed instead on Nazrin’s damp profile etched against the dim lamplight. His voice, when it came, was softer than Muthu’s, yet carried a chilling certainty. “He’s right, Madam,” Praveen murmured, leaning closer, his breath warm on her shoulder. “We never saw our lives working like that. Never imagined pushing papers. Even before we started selling coke, before we met you…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “We knew. The streets, the hustle, the… *other* kinds of business? That’s where we were headed. Always.” He lifted a hand, not quite touching her arm. “This? Ragavan? It just… accelerated things. We’d have ended up here eventually.”
 
Nazrin studied them both—Praveen’s quiet resignation, Muthu’s defiant glare—then slowly turned her head towards the thin plywood door. Beyond it, Fahim’s ragged breathing rasped against the wood like sandpaper. She raised her voice slightly, cold and clear. “Are you guys sure?” The question hung heavy, not directed at the boys alone, but flung like a knife towards the listening ear outside. “Really sure? Once we start asking questions… there’s no stepping back onto some clean path.” She kept her eyes on the door, imagining Fahim’s flinch. “This isn’t tutoring. This isn’t flirting in the ECE lab. This is… something else entirely.”
 
Muthu leaned forward, elbows digging into his thighs. A fierce grin slashed across his face, bright and reckless against the gloom. “Madam,” he declared, voice rough-edged and loud enough to carry through the cheap wood. “We weren’t born for clean paths. We were born *ready*.” He shot a sharp glance at Praveen, who gave a single, solemn nod. “Ready for whatever comes. Ready for Ragavan. Ready for the peddler. Ready for *this*.” He gestured sharply around the cramped room, encompassing the damp nighty, the boarded window, the listening husband—the entire tangled mess. His grin widened, predatory. “Born ready.”


 
Nazrin’s gaze snapped back to Muthu, sharp and assessing. The exhaustion vanished, replaced by a cold, focused intensity. Her thumb stopped worrying the frayed hem. “Good,” she stated, crisp as breaking glass. “The peddler. The one who overheard the suppliers. What’s his name?” She leaned in slightly, the damp silk neckline gaping, revealing the shadowed swell of her breast. Her eyes held Muthu’s, demanding an answer—not a detail, but a key. Praveen shifted beside her, drawing her attention momentarily. His voice was low, deliberate. “Kannan. Calls himself ‘Kannan Anna’. Runs out of a tea stall near the old Perambur railway yard. Sells mostly to college kids and bus drivers.” He paused, his gaze flicking to the door. “He’s paranoid. Always has two thugs nearby. Thin guy. Missing front tooth. Smells like cheap rum and stale betel.”\
 
Nazrin absorbed this, her expression unreadable. The humid air felt charged, thick with the scent of wet cotton and Praveen’s lingering soap. Outside, Fahim’s ragged breathing hitched again. Nazrin ignored it. Her focus was absolute. “Kannan Anna,” she repeated, testing the name. She looked from Praveen’s tense profile back to Muthu’s hardened stare. Her next question sliced through the silence, practical and ice-cold. “When can we meet him?” Muthu blinked, momentarily thrown by the directness. “Tomorrow?” he ventured, rubbing the back of his neck. “Afternoon? He’s usually there after three, when the yard shift changes.” Praveen nodded confirmation, his knee pressing tighter against Nazrin’s thigh. “We’d need a reason to ask about bulk,” he murmured. “A believable buyer. Fast.”
 
A sudden wave of exhaustion crashed over Nazrin, profound and bone-deep. The adrenaline seeped away, leaving her limbs heavy as lead. The sheer blue cotton felt like sandpaper against her flushed skin. She pushed herself upright from the sagging mattress, the springs groaning in protest. Her voice, when it came, was stripped bare, the command replaced by raw fatigue. “Good. That’s… something.” She ran a trembling hand through her damp hair, pulling it back from her forehead. “We will plan tomorrow,” she announced, her words slightly slurred, the crispness dissolving. “I need… mi mind to ssleep.” The deliberate lapse into broken English underscored her utter depletion. “Now. Silence.”
 
Without another word, Nazrin pivoted towards the bed. She didn’t glance at the door where Fahim listened. She didn’t look at Praveen or Muthu. She simply crawled onto the narrow cot, pushing herself towards the wall, her back pressing against the cool, peeling paint. She pulled the thin sheet up over her damp nighty, covering herself to the waist, leaving her bare shoulders exposed. The space beside her yawned—a narrow strip of worn mattress ticking. She patted it once, a weary gesture. “Praveen,” she murmured, her voice thick with impending sleep. “Here.” Then, shifting slightly, she patted the space against the wall, the cramped spot she’d just vacated. “Muthu. There.” The implication was stark, undeniable: she lay between them. The thin sheet was the only barrier separating her damp silk from their bare skin.
 
Praveen moved first, silent as smoke. He slid onto the mattress beside her, his body rigidly respectful, leaving inches of space. He lay flat on his back, staring at the water-stained ceiling, hands clasped over his stomach above the sheet. Muthu hesitated, his gaze darting from Nazrin’s closed eyes to Praveen’s tense posture. He finally climbed over her legs, careful not to touch her, and wedged himself into the narrow space against the wall. He curled onto his side, facing the peeling plaster, his back a solid wall inches from Nazrin’s shoulder. The bed groaned under the combined weight. Nazrin didn’t open her eyes. Her breathing deepened almost instantly, a ragged exhaustion claiming her. Praveen remained statue-still. Outside the door, Fahim’s ragged breathing grew louder, punctuated by a muffled sob. No one spoke. The only sounds were the drumming rain, the dripping faucet, and Nazrin’s slow descent into oblivion.
 
Sunlight, sharp and intrusive, clawed through a gap in the boarded window, painting a hot stripe across Nazrin’s eyelids. She stirred, groggy, her body heavy. Heat pressed against her back—the solid furnace of Muthu’s chest, his arm dbangd loosely over her waist beneath the thin sheet. Against her front, Praveen’s lean form curved into her, his face buried in the damp silk covering her shoulder, one leg hooked possessively over her thigh. Something thick and insistent nudged against the cleft of her buttocks through Muthu’s boxers. Simultaneously, Praveen’s morning hardness pressed insistently against her lower belly through the damp nighty and his briefs. A low groan escaped Nazrin, half-sleep, half-arousal. She shifted minutely, and the twin pressures intensified, rubbing firmly against her in the humid stillness.
 
"Madam?" Praveen’s sleep-roughened murmur vibrated against her collarbone. His hips flexed unconsciously, grinding his erection against her softness. Behind her, Muthu grunted, his own hips pushing forward, pinning her tighter between them. The sheet tangled around their legs. Nazrin kept her eyes closed, feigning deeper sleep, letting the twin sensations wash over her—the delicious friction, the illicit warmth, the sheer *ownership* of their bodies bracketing hers. Fahim’s muffled cough echoed from beyond the door, a harsh intrusion. Muthu’s arm tightened around her waist possessively. "Ignore the cockroach," he muttered, his voice thick with sleep and something darker. His hips rocked again, slow and deliberate, grinding himself against her backside. Praveen mirrored the movement against her front.
 
Nazrin finally opened her eyes. Sunlight glared off the peeling paint. She didn’t recoil. Instead, she arched her back subtly, pressing herself more firmly into Praveen’s hardness while pushing her hips back against Muthu’s persistent nudge. A low hum vibrated in her throat. "Enough," she commanded, her voice raspy but clear. Not rejection. Instruction. She twisted slightly, freeing an arm. Her hand slid down Praveen’s chest, over the waistband of his briefs, and wrapped firmly around his straining cock. Simultaneously, she reached back behind her, fingers finding the thick ridge tenting Muthu’s boxers and gripping it through the damp cotton. Both boys froze, breaths catching. "Silent," Nazrin hissed, her gaze fixed on the boarded window. "Fast."


 
She began moving her hands in sharp, efficient strokes. Her grip was firm, demanding. Praveen gasped, hips jerking involuntarily into her fist. Behind her, Muthu bucked against her palm, a choked groan escaping his lips. Nazrin tightened her hold on Praveen. "Fahim," she breathed, the name barely audible above the frantic rustle of sheets and ragged breathing. "He listens." She increased her pace, her own breath quickening. "Make sounds," she ordered, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Loud ones. He should hear it." Her eyes flicked towards the thin plywood door, imagining Fahim pressed against it. "He *needs* to hear it."
 
Praveen obeyed instantly. "Ahhhh... *yesss*, Ma'am!" he cried out, the words ragged and loud, pitched high with genuine pleasure mixed with performance. His hips pistoned faster against her hand. Beside her ear, Muthu growled, low and guttural. "Fuck," he snarled, thrusting harder against her palm trapped between his hips and her backside. "Fuck... *yeah*... Madam!" His voice was a rough counterpoint to Praveen's strained cry. The sounds filled the cramped room—gasps, groans, the slick slide of skin against damp cotton, the rhythmic creak of the protesting bedsprings. Nazrin kept her movements relentless, her gaze fixed on the boarded window slit where dawn light bled through. She pictured Fahim’s face contorted in agony just beyond the flimsy barrier.
 
The climaxes hit them fast and brutally, spurred by her demanding hands and the illicit thrill of the audience. Praveen came first with a choked, high-pitched whine, his body convulsing against her front. Warmth gushed thickly over Nazrin’s knuckles and wrist. Almost simultaneously, Muthu bucked violently, pinning her hand against herself as he groaned, a deep, shuddering sound that vibrated through her spine. Heat pulsed against her palm through his boxers, soaking the thin fabric. The room filled with the sharp, musky scent of release and the frantic panting of spent breath. Nazrin didn’t pause, maintaining her grip until both boys sagged against her, trembling.
 
Warmth bloomed across Nazrin’s skin. A thick stripe of Praveen’s cum coated her inner thigh, sticky and cooling. Another splash landed high on her hipbone, gleaming in the intrusive sunlight. Below her, Muthu’s release had soaked through his boxers onto the thin sheet beneath them, leaving a dark, wet patch. Nazrin slowly withdrew her hands, fingers slick and glistening. She held them up, examining the mess clinically, ignoring the shuddering breaths against her skin. Praveen’s head lolled weakly against her shoulder; Muthu’s forehead pressed damply between her shoulder blades. Outside the door, silence had fallen – thick, absolute, and heavy.
 
Nazrin shoved Praveen’s spent body aside with her elbow, the movement brisk and devoid of tenderness. She swung her legs off the bed, her damp nighty clinging obscenely to her thighs. Cum smeared onto the mattress ticking as she stood. “Up,” she commanded, her voice flat, devoid of the previous night’s exhaustion or arousal. She strode towards the bedroom door, ignoring the sticky trails on her skin, the pungent musk hanging thick in the humid air. Behind her, Praveen groaned softly, pushing himself up on trembling arms. Muthu rolled onto his back, wiping a hand across his face. Nazrin didn’t look back. Her hand closed on the cheap brass doorknob. It felt cold against her palm.
 
She yanked the door open. Fahim wasn’t just listening. He was kneeling. Hunched directly before the threshold on the grimy hallway tiles, his forehead pressed against the splintered wood frame where it met the floor. His shoulders shook silently. A small pool of saliva or tears darkened the concrete beneath his face. He flinched violently as the door opened, scrambling backwards like a startled crab, his bloodshot eyes wide with horror, fixed on the sticky mess coating Nazrin’s inner thigh and the gleaming patch high on her hipbone. His gaze darted past her into the room, taking in Muthu stretching lazily on the stained sheets and Praveen stumbling towards his discarded underwear. A choked sound escaped Fahim’s throat.
 
Nazrin stepped over him, the damp hem of her nighty brushing his shoulder. “Get up,” she commanded, crisp as a snapped twig. Her voice carried none of the night’s exhaustion or the morning’s ragged arousal. It was pure, cold utility. She walked towards the kitchen sink without looking back. “Let’s get our day started.” Water hissed from the tap as she scrubbed her hands, the scent of cheap soap momentarily overpowering the musk clinging to the air. Behind her, Fahim remained frozen on the floor, a crumpled monument to humiliation.
 
“Make breakfast and tea for all,” Nazrin ordered, rinsing her wrists. She didn’t specify who. The command hung in the humid stillness, aimed squarely at Fahim’s hunched form. Her gaze flicked towards the bedroom doorway where Muthu and Praveen now stood, watching silently. “Eggs. Toast. Strong tea. Enough for four.” She turned off the tap, shaking droplets from her fingers. “I will take a bath.” She strode past Fahim again, heading for the cramped bathroom. At the threshold, she paused, her eyes sweeping over the students. “You two,” she added, her tone softening fractionally, “sit. Let him serve you.”
 
Fahim scrambled to his feet. His movements were jerky, mechanical. He avoided looking at the bedroom—at the crumpled sheets, the damp stains. He shuffled towards the kitchenette, shoulders slumped. Behind him, Praveen hesitated, then nudged Muthu. They moved to the small plastic table, sitting stiffly. Fahim cracked eggs into a chipped bowl, the shells snapping like tiny bones. The rhythmic scbang of butter on burnt toast filled the silence. Outside, Chennai roared awake—the blare of auto-rickshaws, the distant clang of temple bells. Inside, the air remained thick with the aftermath. Fahim’s hands trembled as he poured tea into mismatched cups. Steam curled upwards, carrying the scent of cheap dust-leaf brew. He placed a plate of greasy eggs before each boy, his eyes fixed on the stained linoleum. Praveen murmured a hesitant “Thank you, sir.” Muthu just grunted, stabbing an egg yolk with his fork. It bled yellow across the plate.
 
The bathroom door clicked open. Nazrin emerged, water-darkened hair slicked back from her temples. A threadbare cotton towel wrapped tight around her torso, tucked securely above her breasts. Another smaller towel turbaned her head. Droplets traced paths down her collarbones, disappearing into the terrycloth valley between her breasts. She padded barefoot across the gritty floor, ignoring Fahim’s hunched form at the stove. The damp towel clung to her hips, outlining the curve of her waist, the flare of her thighs. She walked with deliberate calm, the slap of her wet soles echoing in the cramped space. Fahim froze, a spatula hovering over the pan. Muthu’s fork paused mid-stab. Praveen’s gaze snapped upwards, tracking her progress. Only the distant hawse pipes’ metallic groan broke the silence.


 
Nazrin stopped beside the plastic table. The scent of cheap coconut soap and damp skin cut through the lingering musk and grease. She didn’t glance at Fahim. Her eyes swept over Muthu and Praveen. “Move,” she commanded softly. Praveen instantly shoved his chair sideways, scbanging loudly against the linoleum. Nazrin lowered herself onto the vacated seat. The towel tightened across her lap as she sat, riding up high on her thighs. The damp fabric offered scant coverage; the pale skin of her upper legs gleamed wetly in the harsh overhead bulb light. She reached forward, plucking a piece of toast from Praveen’s plate. She took a deliberate bite, crumbs scattering onto the towel. “Eat,” she ordered the boys, her voice muffled by bread. “Don’t let it get cold.” Fahim stared, spatula trembling. A bead of egg slid off its edge, sizzling onto the hot burner.
 
Nazrin swallowed the toast. Her gaze remained fixed on Muthu and Praveen, ignoring Fahim’s hunched silhouette by the stove. “After this,” she announced, crisp and efficient, “I will go to college. Speak to Srinivasan.” She paused, picking a stray crumb from her thigh. “Apply leave for the next week.” Her eyes flicked between them. “I will tell them your parents also applied leave for you both.” Praveen nodded instantly, his spoon clattering against his plate. Muthu grunted through a mouthful of egg. “Good,” Nazrin stated. She leaned back slightly, the towel straining dangerously low across her chest. A droplet traced a path down her collarbone, disappearing beneath the terrycloth. “You two,” she continued, her tone shifting to command, “go to your houses. Get clothes. Two weeks’ worth.”
 
Muthu wiped yolk from his chin with the back of his hand. “Me and Praveen will go,” he confirmed, pushing his plate away. His eyes met Nazrin’s, hard and assessing. “Get our dresses. Two weeks.” Praveen shifted beside him, his fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on the plastic tabletop. “Yes, Madam,” he murmured, his gaze darting towards the silent Fahim. “We’ll be quick. Back before noon.”
 
Nazrin nodded once, a sharp dip of her chin. She took a final sip of lukewarm tea, the tannins bitter on her tongue. “Good.” Her gaze shifted to Praveen, pinning him. “And you?” Praveen swallowed, his throat working visibly. “I will connect with Kannan Anna,” he stated, forcing his voice steady. “Confirm the meeting. Today at two.” He hesitated, then added, “I’ll tell him… a buyer. Serious. Needs bulk.” Nazrin’s eyes narrowed fractionally, a flicker of something cold moving behind them. “See that you do,” she said, her voice low. “No mistakes.” Praveen nodded, a bead of sweat tracing his temple despite the fan’s weak breeze.
 
Nazrin stood abruptly, the plastic chair scbanging harshly against the linoleum. The sudden motion loosened the towel tucked precariously above her breasts. It slipped, sliding downward an inch, revealing the damp swell of cleavage before she caught it with a swift, practiced jerk of her elbow. She didn’t flinch, didn’t react beyond the swift correction. Her eyes, sharp and utterly devoid of warmth, snapped towards Fahim, who still stood frozen by the stove, spatula dangling uselessly. “The bedsheets in the bedroom,” she stated, her voice slicing through the humid air, crisp as shattered glass. “They’re stained.” She paused, letting the implication hang thick and pungent. “Change them. Then clean the house. Thoroughly.”


 
Fahim flinched, his gaze darting towards the bedroom door, then back to Nazrin’s damp, towel-clad form. His voice cracked, pleading. “Nazrin, please… I can help you. Whatever you guys are doing—with Kannan Anna, the money—I can help. I know things, I have contacts…” He took a hesitant step forward, desperation etching lines around his eyes. “Let me fix this. Let me—”
 
Nazrin’s hand snapped up, palm out like a blade. “What you have done,” she cut in, her voice glacial, precise, “is *enough*. More than enough.” Her eyes didn’t waver from his crumpled posture. “You gambled away our roof. You forged my name. You brought Ragavan’s knife to our door.” She paused, letting the weight of each failure land like a hammer blow. “Now? You clean the stains *you* enabled.” Her chin tilted slightly, dismissing him utterly. “Fetch fresh linen. Scrub every corner. Make this filth disappear. That is your contribution.” She turned sharply, the damp towel shifting dangerously low again before she cinched it tighter with a swift, contemptuous jerk.
 
She strode into the bedroom, the cheap plywood door clicking shut behind her. Inside, the humid air still clung thickly with musk and the metallic tang of Fahim’s dried blood near the doorway. Ignoring the rumpled, stained sheets, she moved directly to the battered steel wardrobe. The hinges screamed protest as she yanked it open. Inside, past faded saris and Fahim’s neglected shirts, hung the garment she needed: a deep plum salwar kameez, the silk heavy and cool against her fingers. She pulled it out, the fabric whispering promises. The kurta’s neckline plunged deliberately low, the thin fabric designed to dbang, to reveal. The accompanying dupatta was sheer chiffon, useless for modesty. Perfect.
 
Nazrin shed the damp towel, letting it pool on the gritty floor. She pulled on the soft cotton salwar pants first, tying the drawstring tight at her waist. Then came the kurta. She slid it over her shoulders, the silk cool against her flushed skin. The deep V-neck settled snugly, framing the swell of her breasts, the cleft deliberately exposed. She adjusted the fabric, pulling it lower still, ensuring the soft curve of cleavage was unmistakable, undeniable. A quick glance in the wardrobe’s cracked mirror confirmed the effect: professional lecturer transformed into a proposition wrapped in silk. Srinivasan wouldn’t just agree to leave; he’d be desperate to grant it. She dbangd the sheer dupatta loosely over her shoulders, a transparent veil over the invitation.


 
She emerged from the bedroom, the silk whispering against her thighs. Fahim was scrubbing furiously at the kitchen counter, his back rigid. Muthu and Praveen sat slumped at the plastic table, their damp boxers clinging uncomfortably. Nazrin’s gaze swept over them. "Boys," she announced, crisp and efficient. "I think your clothes are dry. Wear them." She gestured towards the balcony where their jeans and shirts hung limp on a sagging line. "We’ll leave. Drop me at college on Fahim’s bike. Then go to your houses." Her eyes flicked towards Fahim, still scrubbing. "We take his bike."
 
Muthu pushed back his chair instantly, the legs scbanging concrete. Praveen followed, rising stiffly. Without hesitation, they hooked thumbs into their waistbands and peeled the damp boxers down their legs. They stepped out of them, kicking the crumpled cotton aside. Naked, they walked towards the balcony door—Muthu’s stride purposeful, Praveen’s slightly hesitant. Fahim froze mid-scrub, his knuckles white around the sponge. His eyes locked onto Praveen’s exposed erection, still half-swollen, then darted to Muthu’s flaccid state. A choked gasp escaped him. The boys ignored him entirely, retrieving their jeans from the line.


 
“Hurry,” Nazrin commanded, her plum silk clinging as she slid Fahim’s bike keys from the hook by the door. She didn’t glance at Fahim, now slumped against the countertop. Muthu zipped his jeans roughly, shirt untucked. Praveen fumbled with his belt buckle, eyes avoiding Nazrin’s plunging neckline. Nazrin flung the front door open. “Move,” she snapped. The humid street air rushed in—traffic fumes, frying oil, the distant scent of temple flowers. Muthu brushed past Fahim without a word. Praveen hesitated, murmured “Sir…” then followed Nazrin into the stairwell. Fahim remained motionless, staring at the abandoned boxers on the floor.
 
Nazrin tossed the keys—a heavy brass Honda emblem—to Muthu. “Drive.” She swung her leg over the pillion seat, settling her silk-clad hips back. The deep plum fabric stretched taut across her thighs. Praveen squeezed behind her, his knees pressing into her hips, hands hovering awkwardly near her waist. Muthu kicked the starter. The engine roared, a raw, impatient sound that drowned out Fahim’s muffled sob drifting from the doorway. Nazrin didn’t look back. Her fingers curled loosely around Muthu’s waistband. “College. Fast,” she ordered into his ear. Muthu nodded, gunned the throttle. The bike lurched forward, weaving into the chaotic Chennai morning traffic—autos, cycles, lumbering buses. Nazrin leaned into the turn, her silk dupatta whipping behind her like a defiant flag.