Adultery The Making of a Slut from a Wife - Shazia

[HotLove339]

Part 17: The Dance of the Devil and The Abandonment
 
The Invitation to Hell
 
Mr. Verma wasn't ready to sign anything. He knew exactly what his signature was worth, and he knew precisely how to stretch his absolute power over the two desperate corporate men sitting across from him.
 
He casually picked up the thick Metro tender file Iqbal had so pathetically placed before him, weighed it in his hands for a mocking second, and then carelessly tossed it back onto the cluttered glass coffee table. It landed with a heavy thwack next to a half-empty bottle of Black Label.
 
"Arey yaar, kya jaldi hai?" (Man, what is the ultimate hurry?) Verma grunted, his voice thick, heavy, and slurred with expensive whiskey. "My flight back to Delhi is tomorrow at 9 AM. I am not running away anywhere."
 
The silent, terrifying warning hung heavily in the freezing air-conditioned air of the suite: Don't kill my vibe, or you kill your multi-crore deal.
 
Iqbal instantly retreated into a pale, suffocating silence, completely castrating himself. To ensure Mr. Verma’s instructions are followed, Singhania smoothly reached for the TV remote and turned the volume up. The late-night Bollywood music channel was playing a highly sensual, incredibly fast-paced item number. The heavy, thumping bass vibrated through the floorboards, filling the luxurious suite with a raw, primal energy.
 
Verma stood up slowly, his massive, heavy frame swaying slightly. He closed his heavy-lidded eyes, moving his thick hips side-to-side, lost for a moment in a drunken, rhythmic haze. But every few seconds, his dark eyes would snap open to check on his ultimate prize—watching Shazia sit, breathe, and simply exist in that highly transparent, sheer black chiffon saree.
 
The Pull
 
Suddenly, without any warning, Verma reached out his massive hand. He didn't ask for permission. He didn't offer a polite request. He aggressively grabbed Shazia’s delicate, bare wrist.
 
"Come on," he commanded, pulling her arm. "Aao, mere saath dance karo." (Come, dance with me.)
 
"Sir... I... I don't..." Shazia gasped, her entire body stiffening in pure shock. She physically resisted, her other hand desperately gripping the velvet armrest of her single-seater sofa.
 
She looked frantically to her right, her wide, terrified eyes locking onto Iqbal, silently, desperately begging for her husband's immediate intervention. Stop him. Tell him your wife doesn't dance.
 
Iqbal’s face twitched violently, his jaw clenching, but he completely avoided her gaze. He looked down at the carpet, a pathetic portrait of a broken man. Shazia’s eyes darted to Singhania who offered a subtle, almost imperceptible micro-nod, a cold, calculated signal: Let it happen. Do not ruin this.
 
Shazia felt her heart violently sink into her stomach. Although Iqbal did not say no, he neither said yes, leaving her to decide. It was evident to her that her own husband wasn't going to stop this. He was actively allowing another man to put his hands on her. Her boss, Singhania, approved on husband’s behalf.
 
Verma pulled her wrist much harder, his grip bruising. "Sharmate kyun ho? Aao!" (Why are you feeling shy? Come!)

 
 
The Erotic Choreography
 
Shazia was forcibly pulled to her feet. She stood incredibly unsteady, a terrified, breathtaking statue dbangd in sheer black netting.
 
"Move, baby, move," Verma whispered hoarsely. He completely ignored all boundaries of personal space. He stepped right in, closing the gap between them until there wasn't a single inch of air left. He grabbed her bare, exposed waist with both of his massive, hot hands, his thick fingers aggressively digging into her soft, milky-white love handles, manually forcing her wide hips to sway to the heavy bass beat.



Seeing absolutely no escape, and with the sheer terror, and the dark, dirty adrenaline buzzing heavily in her system, Shazia began to move. She slowly, reluctantly matched his heavy rhythm.
 
It started as a gentle, awkward sway, but the loud music and Verma’s suffocating, highly physical proximity instantly turned the dance into pure, unadulterated erotica. Verma didn't keep a respectful, formal dance hold. He used her body like his own personal playground right in front of her husband.


 

• The Frontal Crush: He pulled her torso entirely flush against his. The sheer, transparent black chiffon of her pallu was completely crushed between them. Shazia felt the intense, radiating heat of his broad chest pressing violently against her massive, milk-swollen breasts. Through the incredibly thin black silk of her backless blouse, she could feel his heart hammering.
  

 

• The Spin and The Grind: With a sudden, forceful twist of his thick wrist, Verma spun her around. The sheer black pallu flew off her shoulder, leaving her deep cleavage fully exposed to the room. He caught her forcefully from behind, his massive chest slamming into her completely bare, naked back. He hugged her tight, spooning her while standing up.
  

 
In this highly compromising position, her feet naturally forced her body to be raised slightly standing on her toes and her lower back to arch deeply. This caused her massive, fleshy, satin-clad buttocks to stick out prominently. Verma didn't hesitate. He pulled her hips violently backward, perfectly slotting her heavy ass directly into his groin.


Shazia let out a sharp, breathless gasp. She felt it instantly. The rock-hard, massive, undeniable ridge of his thick erection pressed aggressively against the deep cleft of her buttocks, separated only by the thin black fabric and his expensive trousers. As they swayed side-to-side to the music, he deliberately ground his hardness deep into her soft flesh, using her heavy ass cheeks to furiously massage his arousal.
 

• The Wandering Hands: While his lower body claimed her from behind, his hands roamed with absolute, terrifying boldness. One hand slid around her front, completely bypassing the saree fabric, his rough palm resting entirely on the naked, goosebump-covered skin of her flat stomach. His middle finger deliberately, slowly traced the rim of her deep navel, dipping into the hollow right in full view of Iqbal. His other hand slid down her hip, his wide palm aggressively, possessively cupping the side of her heavy thigh and squeezing the soft flesh.
  

 
The Internal Surrender
 
Shazia closed her eyes, her head falling back weakly against Verma’s thick shoulder. A few short hours ago in her cramped apartment, she would have violently pushed his hands away in absolute horror. She would have screamed.
 
But now? Here?
 
Iqbal was sitting right there, watching another man physically grind an erection into his wife's ass, and he was doing absolutely nothing. The "possessive, traditional husband" who violently judged her every single move was functionally dead. There was absolutely no one to protect her. No one to scold her. No one to stop her.
 
She felt a sudden, massive, incredibly intoxicating rush of pure, filthy freedom. She leaned her entire body weight back against Verma. She let him touch her bare skin. She let him squeeze her hips.
 
Let him do it, a dark, wet voice in her head whispered, completely shocking her. I want it too.
 
Her thoughts violently shifted from the trauma of marital betrayal to the overwhelming, intoxicating flood of pure physical sensation. She focused entirely on the rough, hot hand aggressively massaging her bare stomach, the thick finger teasing the rim of her navel, and the rock-hard, throbbing erection grinding rhythmically against her ass. Her body betrayed her conditioning completely. She was dripping wet. Her hips began to move in a slow, highly deliberate, circular rhythm—not just trying to dance, but actively, sluttily rubbing back against him, silently encouraging the billionaire to touch more, to squeeze harder, to aggressively take exactly what her cowardly husband once owned.
 
The Breaking Point
 
Iqbal physically couldn't take it anymore.
 
Sitting on the plush velvet sofa, watching another man openly grope his beautiful wife's bare waist and grind against her ass was brutally testing the absolute outer limits of his pathetic cowardice. His face was flushed a dark, dangerous purple. His hands were balled into tight fists, his knuckles completely white. He looked like he was either going to violently vomit or finally snap and throw a punch.
 
Singhania, ever the master observer, noticed Iqbal’s face twitching violently. He knew instantly that the rubber band was about to snap. It was time to pull the plug and leave before his weak CFO did something incredibly foolish that would cost them the multi-crore Metro tender.
 
Singhania stood up abruptly from the sofa, adjusting his suit jacket.
 
"Okay Sir!" Singhania announced loudly, his booming voice cutting cleanly through the heavy Bollywood music. "We will leave now. You take rest. It has been a very long day."
 
The Devil’s Bargain
 
Verma stopped moving his hips, but he absolutely did not let go of Shazia’s bare waist. He kept her pinned tightly against his erection. He looked highly annoyed at the interruption.


 
"Arey yaar... abhi toh main enjoy karna shuru kiya tha," (Man... I was just starting to enjoy myself,) Verma complained, his grip on Shazia’s flesh tightening possessively. "Why are you guys leaving me all alone so early?"
 
"It is quite late, Sir," Singhania said smoothly, tapping his expensive Rolex watch. "By the time I navigate traffic and reach home, it will be past 11:30 PM."
 
"Not fair, Singhania," Verma grumbled, his face darkening with a sudden, dangerous threat. "Yeh koi tareeka hai mehman nawazi ka?" (Is this how you treat a guest?)
 
The unsaid threat hung thick in the room: If you leave and ruin my mood, the tender is completely gone.
 
Singhania laughed—a loud, highly artificial, completely hollow sound. "I have to go, Sir. Please understand, I have a nagging family too."
 
Then, looking directly at Verma, Singhania dropped the absolute, ultimate nuclear bomb of betrayal.
 
" Sir... agar rath ke liye aapko ek khoobsoorat company chahiye tho…” (Sir... if you really want some beautiful company for the night...) Singhania paused, his eyes flicking to the half-naked woman trapped in Verma's arms. "Toh Shazia hai na aapke paas." (You have Shazia for your company.)
 
The luxurious suite went dead silent, save for the thumping bass of the TV.
 
Verma looked down at the breathtaking, voluptuous woman pinned against his body. He squeezed her bare waist incredibly tight, his thick fingers digging so deeply into her soft flesh it almost hurt. A slow, highly predatory, incredibly dirty grin spread across his face.
 
“Fir teek hai… agar ye mere saath rahegi " (Then it’s fine, If she is staying with me...) Verma purred, his heavy eyes raking aggressively over her massive, exposed cleavage and her milky-white shoulders, "tho narak bhi swarg bann jayega” (then even Hell will seem exactly like Heaven.)
 
The Panic and The Lock
 
Shazia completely froze. The dirty, intoxicating fog of lust that had clouded her brain evaporated in a split second, replaced by a massive, blinding spike of pure, unadulterated terror.
 
Was that a joke? she thought frantically. Or was that a direct corporate command?
 
"Let it be so, then," Singhania said quickly, seizing the opportunity to finalize the deal. "We will leave you to thoroughly enjoy your heaven, Sir. Goodnight."
 
Just as Iqbal opened his mouth to provide an excuse for Shazia and himself to also leave, “Sir...”, Singhania aggressively grabbed Iqbal’s arm, physically pulling the frozen, broken husband toward the suite's foyer.
 
Shazia panicked completely. Her survival instinct finally overrode the shock. She violently broke free from Verma’s heavy grip, practically tearing herself away from his body.
 
"Iqbal?" she cried out, her voice cracking.
 
She saw them rapidly moving toward the heavy wooden door. She realized with absolute, horrifying clarity that they were actually, physically leaving her behind in this room.
 
"My sandals..." she gasped breathlessly.
 
She turned and rushed frantically to the far corner near the fridge where she had kicked off her black stilettos earlier. Her hands shook so violently she could barely function. She dropped to her knees, desperately trying to thread the tiny, fiddly metal straps through the small buckles. Hurry, hurry, hurry, her mind screamed. I have to leave with him.


 
She finally managed to clasp the second buckle. She scrambled to her feet, the sheer black chiffon saree tangling around her legs, her chest heaving violently.


 
She turned and ran toward the foyer, fully expecting Iqbal and Singhania to be waiting impatiently in the corridor for her.
 
But before she even reached the edge of the seating area, she stopped dead in her tracks.
 
The heavy wooden door of the suite was completely closed.
 
And standing right in front of it, entirely blocking her path, was Mr. Verma. He was casually walking back from the door.
 
Click.
 
The sound of the heavy brass deadbolt locking from the inside echoed through the silent suite like a gunshot.
 
The Reality of Abandonment
 
"He... he left?" Shazia whispered, her voice trembling so hard it barely made a sound. Her wide, terrified doe eyes stared at the locked door, her mind completely unable to process the absolute, monumental magnitude of her husband's betrayal.
 
Verma entirely ignored her question. He didn't care about Iqbal. He smiled—a slow, incredibly dark, fully unmasked smile of pure, victorious lust. The pretense of the corporate dinner was entirely over.
 
"Yes, baby," Verma murmured, his voice dropping to a gravelly, highly sexual growl. He walked straight toward her, closing the distance, completely invading her personal space. "Now, it is just us. You don’t need to be shy anymore. Let's really enjoy."
 
He didn't wait for her to process it. He didn't ask for her consent. He reached out with his massive arms and pulled her violently into a tight, incredibly suffocating, entirely possessive hug. The overwhelming, raw smell of expensive whiskey, stale cigarette smoke, and potent male sweat completely enveloped her senses.

  
 
Shazia stood absolutely rigid, frozen like a statue. Her hands hovered uselessly in the air between them, completely confused and broken. Why did he leave? Is he waiting downstairs? Is this some sort of sick, twisted loyalty test?
 
Verma took her paralyzed silence for total, ultimate submission. He buried his heavy face deep into her exposed neck, planting wet, sloppy, aggressive open-mouthed kisses directly onto her warm skin of neck, collarbone and shoulder. His large, hot hands immediately dropped past her waist, completely bypassing the sheer black chiffon, and perfectly, greedily cupped her massive, heavy ass cheeks through the saree.

Shazia stood there, towering in her four-inch heels, wrapped in transparent black netting, completely trapped in the crushing embrace of a powerful stranger. The horrifying, incredibly arousing truth finally settled into her bones: Her husband had left, not just leaving her alone but left her to spend the night with his corporate client. She was now completely, utterly the property of the billionaire for the night.