Adultery The Making of a Slut from a Wife - Shazia

[HotLove339]

The upward stretch was a revelation. Her ribcage expanded. Her spine arched. The tight, backless blouse—already strained to its limit by the sheer volume of her breasts—pulled violently across her chest. The deep U-neckline gaped open, exposing the full, pale swell of her cleavage to the moonlight. Her breasts, lifted and thrust forward, bounced heavily as she worked the clip into her hair, the dark shadows of her nipples faintly visible through the straining silk.






And her midriff—the low-slung saree, already sitting dangerously below her navel, offered no concealment. The entire expanse of her belly was laid bare: the soft, inward curve of her waist, the fleshy love handles that spilled slightly over the satin waistband, and in the center of it all, that deep, dark, perfectly round navel—a hollow that seemed designed by nature to draw a man's gaze and hold it captive.
 
Rohan watched. His eyes swept over her body with the slow, deliberate hunger of a man who had been starving for hours and was finally being offered a feast. He saw the way the moonlight pooled in the hollow of her navel. He saw the faint, silvery stretch marks on her belly—the badges of motherhood that only made her seem more real, more womanly, more desirable. He saw the way the sheer brown chiffon clung to the wide flare of her hips and the massive, rounded curve of her buttocks.
 
When she lowered her arms, he moved.
 
His arm tightened around her waist, pulling her closer. But this time, instead of walking beside her, he shifted behind her—his chest pressing against her bare back, his hips nestling against the soft, fleshy cushion of her buttocks. Both his hands came around to her front, settling on her bare midriff. His palms were warm and slightly rough against the smooth, sensitive skin of her stomach. His fingers traced the rim of her navel—slow, deliberate circles that made her breath hitch.
 
Shazia's body responded before her mind could object. Her spine relaxed against his chest. Her hips swayed into the rhythm of his guidance. The warmth of his hands on her stomach, the gentle pressure of his fingers exploring her navel, the solid, masculine presence of him at her back—it was overwhelming and intoxicating and utterly, devastatingly right.
 
"Koi dekh lega..." (Someone will see...) she murmured, but her voice was a breathless giggle, not a protest. She didn't push his hands away. Instead, she reached down and grasped the edge of her sheer brown saree, pulling the fabric across her midriff—covering his hands, yes, but keeping them there. Concealing his fingers that were still gently, insistently, tracing the deep hollow of her navel beneath the chiffon. She loved the touch of his hands on her body.
 
They walked on through the dark, silent paths, their bodies intertwined, their breath mingling in the cool night air. Shazia floated in a haze of moonlight and jasmine and the impossible, giddy thrill of being so openly, brazenly desired.
 
Then Rohan stopped.