Adultery The Making of a Slut from a Wife - Shazia

[HotLove339]

Rohan’s powerful arms were wrapped around her waist. He lifted her entirely off the floor. Suspended in the air, her body reacted purely on deeply ingrained feminine reflex. Her legs immediately tried to part and wrap securely around his waist for support while craving the friction of his body against hers. But the narrow petticoat and pleats of her saree ruthlessly restricted her movements. Her thighs struggled against the fabric, her high heels blindly scbanging against his calves as she desperately, instinctively tried to open herself for him and cling to him.
 
Through the thin chiffon of her saree, through his expensive trousers, she felt it. The thick, rigid, unmistakable shape of his erection, pressing against her hip with the insistence of a demand. It was hot—she could feel the heat of it even through their clothes—and it was massive. Much thicker, much longer than Iqbal's. The realization sent a violent, involuntary pulse of arousal straight to her pussy.
 
Shazia broke the kiss, gasping for air. Her chest was heaving, her breasts straining violently against the tight blouse. Her lips felt swollen, bruised, wet with his saliva and her own.
 
"Rohan... mmm... nahi!" (Rohan… mmm… no!) she managed, but her voice was weak, breathless, utterly unconvincing. "Kya kar rahe ho... Iqbal wait kar rahe honge hamara..." (What are you doing... Iqbal must be waiting for us...)
 
Rohan didn't put her down. Instead, he buried his face in the crook of her neck—that sensitive, exposed column of skin where her pulse beat wildly against the surface. His lips parted against her flesh. He kissed her. Then his teeth grazed her skin—a sharp, electric scbang that made her gasp. Then his mouth sealed over the spot and sucked, hard, drawing the blood to the surface, marking her. Simultaneously, his large hands moved down, grabbing handfuls of her saree and petticoat, slowly and deliberately lifting them up, bunching the fabric up her thighs, freeing her trapped legs.
 
His breath was hot and uneven against her ear. "Don't worry, baby. Usse maalum hai time lagega. Woh wait karega… tum maza lene tak woh wait karega… woh chahta hai ki tum maza lo… varna humein akela kyon chhodta…" (He knows that it will take time. He will wait… He will wait until you enjoy yourself. He wants you to enjoy. If not, why would he leave us alone…)
 
The words detonated in her brain. He knows? He wants me to enjoy?
 
The memory of Room 508 crashed over her with the force of a tidal wave. Iqbal, leaving her with Verma, walking out with Singhania with his face pale and sweating. Iqbal knew then. He had known then. And he had let it happen.
 
Was this the same? Was he sitting in that restaurant right now, knowing exactly what his wife was doing in this darkened cottage? Was he waiting, not with anger, but with that sick, twisted, cuckold arousal that she had seen flicker in his eyes so many times before?
 
If he knows. If he allows it. If this is what he wants... then why should I resist? Why should I lose?
 
Shazia, completely intoxicated by the rich man's hands squeezing her waist and her own dripping wet arousal, felt a blinding spark of electricity shoot straight to her clitoris. The very thought that her husband might be sitting in the restaurant, willingly waiting, actively allowing this wealthy man to ravage his wife, completely short-circuited her brain. The moral barrier entirely shattered. She bit her glossy lower lip, looking up at him through her thick lashes. Yielding to the desires of her clit rather than debating further in her mind, she assumed it to be true. Yes… Iqbal is aware of this. He will be aroused when I say this to him…
 
Meanwhile, Rohan had grabbed handfuls of the sheer chiffon and the satin petticoat beneath, bunching the fabric upward, lifting it inch by inch. The cool air of the room hit her bare legs—first her calves, then her knees, then the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. She felt exposed, vulnerable, and perversely, exhilaratingly alive.
 
Shazia’s legs, trapped until now by the restrictive dbang of her saree, suddenly found their freedom. They rose—parting, lifting, wrapping—and locked around his waist. Her feet with her high-heeled sandals crossed behind his back. Her inner thighs clamped against his hips. Her soft thighs rubbing on the man’s denims. Her weight was supported by the wall at her back and the solid pillar of his body at her front. The movement pressed her crotch directly against the hard ridge of his erection, the thin, soaked fabric of her panties the only barrier between her aching, empty vagina and the thick length of his manhood.