Adultery The Making of a Slut from a Wife - Shazia

[HotLove339]

She looked up. They were standing before a cottage—one of the premium units, its porch dark, its windows unlit. She had been so lost in the haze of his touch that she hadn't noticed where they were going. This was not the parking lot. This was not the path to the main entrance.
 
"Hum gaadi dekhne ke liye aaye the na? Fir yahan kahan aa gaye hum?" (We came to see the car, didn't we? Then where are we now?) she stammered, her voice suddenly thin with alarm.
 
Rohan didn't answer. He walked up the few short steps to the cottage door, his arm still wrapped around her waist, compelling her to follow. Her feet moved without her permission, her body dragged along by his momentum and her own paralyzing indecision. She watched, frozen, as he pulled a sleek plastic key card from his pocket and tapped it against the sensor.
 
Beep.
 
The lock disengaged with a sharp, mechanical click.
 
Shazia's heart stopped. "Nahi... yahan theek nahi..." (No... it's not right here...)
 
But his hand on her waist tightened—a grip of bruising, undeniable possession—and he pulled her inside. The door slammed shut behind them. The lock clicked back into place.
Silence. Darkness. The faint, cool hum of air conditioning.
 
Total darkness enveloped them, broken only by a single dim light near the bathroom door, its glow casting long, distorted shadows across the unfamiliar room. Before Shazia's eyes could adjust, before her mind could process what was happening, she felt herself being pushed backward—firmly, deliberately—until her spine hit the cold, unyielding surface of the wall.
 
"Aah—"
 
Her gasp was swallowed whole.
 
Rohan's mouth crashed down on hers with a force that was less a kiss and more a conquest. There was no gentleness in it, no tentative exploration—only raw, consuming, ravenous hunger. His lips mashed against hers, parting them by sheer force, and his tongue plunged into her mouth like an invader claiming territory. The taste of him flooded her senses—expensive vodka, mint, and something darker, muskier, the unmistakable flavor of male desire.
 
Shazia's hands flew up—whether to push him away or pull him closer, she didn't know. They landed on his shoulders, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, and she felt the hard, sculpted muscle beneath. His body pressed against hers, pinning her to the wall, and she felt everything—the broad, solid plane of his chest crushing her breasts, the flat, ridged wall of his abdomen pressing into her soft stomach, the hard, jutting ridge of his belt buckle digging into her flesh.