Adultery The Making of a Slut from a Wife - Shazia

[HotLove339]

A long, deep withdrawal until just the tip remained inside her, followed by a smooth, powerful plunge that filled her vagina completely. The second was faster. The third faster still. Within moments, he had established a rhythm—a steady, deep, relentless pounding that made the bedframe creak and the headboard knock against the wall.
 
Slap. Squelch. Slap.
 
The wet, obscene sounds of their fucking filled the room. The slap of his groin against her spread thighs. The squelch of her soaking pussy gripping and releasing his thick shaft. Her own breathless, desperate moans, growing louder with each thrust. His guttural, animal grunts, escaping his throat in rhythmic bursts.
 
Her legs were still pinned by the panties around her calves, her ankles pressed together, her knees spread wide. The position made her feel helpless—unable to close her legs, unable to control the depth or pace of his thrusts, completely at his mercy. And that helplessness, that absolute surrender, was the most arousing thing she had ever experienced.
 
Rohan fucked Shazia with a steady, punishing rhythm. His cock drove into her cunt hole again and again, each thrust bottoming out against her cervix, each withdrawal dragging the thick ridge of his head against her G-spot. His hands gripped her thighs, spreading her wider, holding her open. His mouth found her breasts again—sucking, biting, leaving wet, bruising marks on her pale skin. His chest pressed against hers, his weight pinning her to the mattress, his hips working like a piston.
 
She wrapped her arms around his back, her fingers clawing at his skin, her nails leaving red trails down his spine. Her hips rose to meet his thrusts, her pelvis tilting to take him deeper, her inner walls clenching and releasing around his shaft in rhythmic, involuntary spasms. She was no longer a passive recipient; she was an active participant, matching his rhythm, riding his cock, fucking him back with the same desperate, animal hunger with which he was fucking her.
 
She opened her eyes and looked at him. His face was inches from hers—flushed, sweating, his jaw clenched with effort, his eyes dark and glazed with lust. With every brutal thrust, she found an incredibly filthy, intoxicating high in getting fucked by the exact same man who her husband bitterly resented. She completely abandoned her marital vows, eagerly spreading her legs. Her dress, restricting her movements, was on the verge of being torn by their chaotic shifting. She kept her thighs spread wide, letting her vagina bear the pressure of each thrust of his groin against it, the dark sac of his balls slapping loudly against her vaginal folds. Rohan fucked her hard, using her pussy as his own, with deep, powerful thrusts.
 
Continuing to moan and enjoy, she turned her head to the side on the pillow. Her eyes looked at the mirror. She could see herself in the mirror lying on bed and Rohan fucking her. She saw the place where they were joined—saw his thick, glistening cock sliding in and out of her wet, swollen pussy, saw her own juices shining over his shaft, saw the dark, heavy sac of his balls slapping against her ass with each thrust.
 
The visual was devastating. She was watching herself being fucked. Watching another man's cock disappear into her body. Watching her husband's rival claim her, use her, possess her. The taboo, the filth, the sheer, breathtaking wrongness of it—it pushed her over the edge.
 
"Ahhh! Rohan! Main... main aarahi hoon!" (Ahhh! Rohan! I'm... I'm coming!)
 
Her orgasm crashed through her with the force of a tidal wave. Her vaginal walls clamped down on his shaft—hard, rhythmic, uncontrollable spasms that milked him with each contraction. Her back arched off the bed. Her legs strained against the panties binding her calves. Her nails raked down his back, leaving deep, stinging furrows. A raw, guttural scream tore from her throat—a sound she didn't recognize as her own.
 
The sensation of her pussy convulsing around his cock pushed Rohan over the edge. With a loud, hoarse roar, he drove himself balls-deep and erupted his cum. Wave after wave of hot, thick semen flooded her womb, coating her vaginal walls, filling her completely. His hips ground against hers in slow, deliberate circles, emptying every last pulse of his cum inside her heated pussy.
 
Rohan collapsed on top of Shazia. His weight pressed her into the mattress. His face was buried in her neck. His breathing was ragged and uneven. His heart hammered against her chest. His softening cock was still buried inside her—still pulsing with the aftershocks of his climax.
 
For a long, suspended moment, neither of them moved. They lay tangled together—clothes askew, sweat-slicked, panting—two bodies temporarily fused into one. The air was thick with the smell of sex and sweat and expensive cologne.
 
Then, as the haze of lust began to clear, reality crashed down on Shazia like a bucket of ice water. The image of Iqbal's face—pale, furious, humiliated—flashed in her mind. Her children, alone at the table. The restaurant. The waiting.
 
Her eyes snapped open. The sheer adrenaline of what she had just done—letting another man raw-dog her while her family sat in the same resort—sent a terrifying jolt of pure panic through her.