Adultery The Making of a Slut from a Wife - Shazia

[HotLove339]

The Huntress and Her Prey
After almost an hour of exhausting play, Shazia's children were beginning to tire. The younger one clung to her neck, his eyelids drooping, while the elder boy was still attempting to convince his father for "just five more minutes." Shazia's own limbs ached pleasantly from the exertion, and her skin was beginning to prune. It was time to return to the air-conditioned sanctuary of their cottage.
 
But she wasn't ready to leave without one final performance.
 
She waded toward the shallow end of the pool, near the metal steps. As she climbed out, the water cascaded down her body in gleaming rivulets, plastering the pink kurti even more tightly against her skin. The fabric was now so wet, so utterly transparent, that it was practically useless as clothing. Her breasts swung freely beneath the soaked cotton, her dark nipples clearly outlined against the fabric. The white leggings, dripping and glistening, hugged every inch of her thighs and her wide hips, leaving nothing to the imagination.
 
She stood on the pool deck, the warm afternoon sun hitting her wet skin, and casually wrung out her long, dark hair. The motion was slow, deliberate, and incredibly sensual. She raised both arms above her head, twisting the wet strands, and the upward stretch pulled the pink kurti tight across her chest. Her breasts lifted, the deep valley of her cleavage visible through the transparent fabric, and her dark, stiff nipples poked prominently against the soaked cotton.
From the corner of her eye, she saw him. Amar was walking along the pool deck with an empty tray in his hand, ostensibly returning from serving some guests at the far end of the pool. His steps were slow, his posture stiff, and his eyes—his hungry, desperate eyes—were locked onto her.
 
Shazia didn't raise her hand. She didn't call out. She simply stood there, her wet body glistening in the sunlight, and waited. She looked directly at him, her dark eyes holding his gaze with a quiet, commanding intensity. She knew—with the absolute, unshakable confidence of a woman who had just discovered the lethal power of her own flesh—that he would come to her. He had no choice. He was a moth, and she was the flame.
 
As expected, Amar slowed his pace. His feet seemed to move of their own accord, veering off his intended path and steering him directly toward the wet, glistening siren standing by the pool's edge. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly in his throat. His uniform suddenly felt too tight, too hot, too restrictive.
 
He stopped a respectful few feet away from her, bending slightly at the waist. "Ji madam.." (Yes madam..) His voice came out as a hoarse, barely controlled whisper.
 
Shazia took her time. She let her eyes travel slowly over his face—the sweat beading on his forehead, the rigid tension in his jaw, the way his pupils were dilated with unmistakable lust. Then she let her gaze drop, just for a fraction of a second, to the front of his uniform trousers. The bulge was impossible to miss. It strained against the cheap fabric, a thick, hard ridge that pointed directly toward her.