Adultery My Fiancee's Happiness

[sakurasan]

Chapter 3 Six Months

That Sunday morning, Isha went down to Savita’s door. Savita opened it, smiled, and pulled her inside.

“Come. Try now. Blouses and nauvari are ready.”

Isha tried the first blouse. Lower neck, high sleeves, real weight in the mirror. She liked what she saw. The second blouse sat the same. When she turned, the open back showed her old cotton bra cutting an ugly line across.

“That kills it,” Savita said. “These necks need one proper set. A silk push-up with a lace back and a modern cut, and a matching silk bikini with it. Try it in my bedroom. I’ll wait.”

Savita handed her the pair and stepped out. Isha changed in the bedroom. She came back in the new blouse. Her nipples had hardened against the thin cups. The open back showed no trace of bra.

She tried the nauvari next. The dbang sat low on her hip; cool silk brushed bare skin above the bikini line.

“Your work is lovely,” she said.

She bought five sets, ran upstairs for sarees, and came back with cloth for fresh blouse cuts.

“These next. More blouses.” Her voice thinned. “Can you go deeper in front? More push. Like—”

Savita slid both hands under her breasts through the blouse and pushed up until the cleavage deepened.

“Like this? The way they show in the movies?”

Isha nodded.

“I will cut deeper necks from these, with stronger cups, by the end of next week.”

She left with the packets against her chest, silk already on under her saree.

That evening her phone rang while she was still folding the new blouses into her cupboard.

“Isha,” Saroja said, brisk as always. “Listen carefully. The priests have found the wedding date. The next proper one is six months from now. Your father and his people have agreed. So this is the one. Start thinking of leave from college, and shopping.”

“Six months?” Isha asked. “Why so long, Ma?”

“As you know, your horoscope is complicated, right?” Saroja said, as if reminding a child of an old fact. “That is why we did not get a groom for you for so long. Dates are not easy either. This is what they found. We take it.”

“Okay, Ma,” she said. “I heard you.”

Isha sat down on the edge of her bed. Six months until the wedding. Six months before she could sleep with him. Her body already wanted him now.

Sleep gave her clarity. She wanted Rohan now, not after six months. In her mind she was already his. If that made her a bad girl, she would be one, and she would make him a bad boy too. Her hand went to Savita’s new blouse.

Isha walked into campus proud of the new blouse. To her it was modern. At break Rohan came near her desk and saw more skin than before. After the break she turned to walk back. The open back showed the shape of her and bare skin. Rohan stared. His cock twitched right there. Cool air moved over her breasts through the thin silk as she walked.

At her gate that evening his mouth stayed on hers longer. His hand went from her hip up her bare back. She went upstairs sure the blouse was working.

That night her fingers were not enough. She pressed the hard edge of her engagement ring against her clit and rubbed in small circles, then pinched it. Pussy hair caught in the ring. The tug stung, and even that felt good. She came, incomplete though.

Same night Rohan tried to find some sleep. His phone lay on his chest. He had finished watching porn with voluptuous women built like her.

Sleep took him. In the dream the clips played again.

A naked woman knelt on the floor, fair hips wide, heavy breasts hanging as she worked a thick black cock with both hands and her mouth. Spit shone on the shaft. Her lips stretched around the head, then slid deep until her throat took him. The man gripped her hair and fucked her mouth in short hard strokes. Then he lifted her clean off the floor and turned her around in the air. Her face swung into the light.

Rohan jolted. Soft oval. Dark eyes lifted at the corners. It was Isha.

The man stayed on his feet. He lined his cock to her pussy and drove in. She was fully airborne, held only by his hands under her thighs. He bounced her on the full length, wet flesh slapping each time she dropped. Her thighs pressed hard against her breasts, crushing them up toward her chin. Her bare back slid against his chest. Her eyes stared straight into the camera while her body took every stroke.

Rohan tried to call her name. He wanted it to stop. Other than her name, the word would not come. She did not hear him anyway. The man sped up, bouncing her harder, her breasts shaking between her thighs, her mouth falling open. They climaxed together. Cum filled her as her body locked and shook on his cock. Then Rohan saw it. The face of bliss. The satisfied look he had hunted on her since the engagement night and never found when he put himself inside her. Now he was not sure he should have tried to stop her.

That happiness lifted a weight off his chest. For the first time since that night, he slept deep.

The rest of the week she wore the new blouse. On campus his eyes stayed on her open back, and at her gate his hand found that bare skin again but never went further.

From Monday the dreams kept coming. In different clips he saw her face on the women, and big cocks fucked her to finish. The first night he had tried to call her name and make it stop. Through the week that resistance faded. He still flinched when another man took her, then less, then barely at all. By the end of the week he let the pictures run, and sleep came easier for him.

For Isha the opposite happened. Her body wanted more than fingers and a ring, so some nights she stood before the mirror still in her blouse, one hand inside her panty and the other pulling a nipple free of the silk to play with it until her legs shook, still unfinished.

By the weekend Savita delivered the deeper Bollywood blouses Isha had ordered.

Monday morning Isha stepped out of her room dressed for college in one of the new cuts. Riya stopped mid-sip and looked her over, grinning.

“Savita finally got you,” Riya said. “That blouse is dangerous.”

Sneha whistled once, soft. “Madam is serious now.”

Isha shrugged and reached for her keys. “It is comfortable.”

They laughed. She left before the laugh could turn into questions.

That week on campus the new cut hit Rohan harder than the first batch. Until now every blouse she wore had held her breasts close against her chest. These cups did the opposite. They lifted her breasts and pointed them forward, as if a hand had gathered them and aimed them at a mouth, and even when she stood straight or walked the corridor the shape stayed full and clear under the silk until his mouth went dry. No other woman on campus came close.

At night the dreams changed with her. The porn studios faded, and the fucking moved onto campus.

One night the dream put her alone at her lab desk after hours, still in saree. A big man walked in, taller and fitter than Rohan, and Isha looked up at him the way she looked at Rohan when she wanted a kiss.

The man pulled her out of the chair by the waist and kissed her hard. She opened for him at once. He shoved the pallu aside, got both hands under her blouse, and squeezed her breasts through the silk cups until she moaned into his mouth. Then he yanked the blouse open, tore the bra down, and took a nipple between his teeth. He stripped the saree to the floor next, dragged her petticoat up her thighs, and pushed two thick fingers into her panty. She was already wet. He fucked those fingers into her against the desk edge until her knees dipped.

He lifted her onto her own desk and pulled the panty off her ankles. Her heavy breasts sat bare under the tube lights, nipples wet from his mouth. He spread her thighs wide with his palms, spat on her open pussy, and rubbed the head of his thick cock through the spit and her wetness until she tried to pull him in with her heels.

He drove into her in one long push. She took the head with a broken breath, then the full length as her cunt stretched around him. He held her hips and fucked her on the desk hard enough that papers slid and a pen rolled to the floor, her breasts bouncing with every thrust. When her head tipped back he caught her hair, pulled her mouth to his, and kept pounding while he kissed her.

Then he laid her flat, pinned both breasts under his palms, and crushed them as he drove faster. Wet sounds filled the empty lab. He pulled out, flipped her onto her stomach across the desk, dragged her hips back, and sank into her from behind so deep her cheek pressed the wood. One hand stayed in her hair. The other reached under and rubbed her clit while he fucked her. Her mouth fell open against the desk. When they came, his cock pulsed deep inside her and her body locked and shook under him, that bliss face open against the desk.

He woke with no urge to push the dream away. He let the next nights run the same way, and sleep came easy.

Saturday afternoon Isha sat at her desk while a practicals class ran in her lab. She worked through forms and watched without speaking.

At another desk her senior colleague was checking a PG student’s work. He was in his forties, quiet, a friend she respected. The girl stood bent over the papers in a low-neck T-shirt, arguing that her assignment was correct. He tried to explain where she had gone wrong. From Isha’s seat the whole picture was clear. Each time he spoke, his eyes dropped to the girl’s cleavage and stayed a beat too long. He pulled them back to the page, then lost them again. He was trying hard, and he still could not keep them off her chest.

Cleavage worked on men even when they tried to look away, and Isha wondered if she could use that on Rohan.

That night she stood at her mirror still in her saree. The blouses were already doing their work. Only the pinned pallu still hid her cleavage. She thought about the PG girl bent over those papers, and about Rohan sitting across from her the same way. She did not need a big fall. Only a few inches. She unpinned the pallu and practiced a small slip: a slight turn of her shoulder, a soft shift of cloth, enough for the upper curve of her breasts to show, then a calm catch so it looked natural. She timed it until the few inches looked like nothing. She wanted him to look at her the way her senior colleague had looked at that student.

Monday morning she replaced the safety pin with a saree clip. At her desk she waited. When she saw Rohan walking toward her lab, she removed the clip and set it in her drawer. He sat across from her and they talked about the day’s work. As she spoke she moved a little in her chair, turned her shoulder once, reached for a file. The loose pallu slipped a few inches. Cleavage opened to him across the desk.

He froze, eyes wide, like a deer caught in headlights. She loved that look. The cloth did not fall the way it had in her mirror though. Half her cleavage stayed hidden under the fold, and no small shift would free the rest.

Through the next days she tried again whenever he sat near her. Sometimes the pallu gave her more. Sometimes it barely moved. Once it slipped enough that his mouth went dry mid-sentence. Never once did she get the full clear show she had practiced alone in her room.

In those same days, when Rohan stared at her across a desk or in the corridor, the dream bled into daylight. For a second he saw her bare and taken right there in the lab, the same way she was in his nights, while students walked past. He blinked and the room returned. The heat in his body did not.

Their goodnight kisses grew longer, and the hugs grew tighter. With her full breasts pressed into his chest she felt every breath he took.

---

Late one afternoon the next week Rohan sat in the canteen waiting for her. She came from the counter with two coffees, walking straight toward him, hips easy under the saree, breasts pointed forward in the blouse, eyes on his face. He watched every step.

She set her cup down at the seat across from him, then leaned over the table to place his. As she bent she drew the pallu down on purpose, enough for the full cleavage she had practiced for in her room. The cloth did not hold. It ran past her hands and fell open down her chest, and for a clear stretch of seconds she stood over him like that: the deep line between her breasts, the soft upper swell held forward by the cups, and the lower curve where silk met bare skin. Warm canteen light sat on that skin. Anyone behind him could have seen it too, but she did not seem to care.

Rohan’s eyes locked on her chest and stayed there. His mouth fell open. A thread of saliva gathered at the corner of his lips, shone, and slipped before he swallowed hard. Another bead formed while he still stared, pupils wide, breath stuck.

Weeks ago that much skin in a public place would have burned her with shame for days. She would have yanked the pallu up with shaking hands and hated herself. Now she felt none of that. She had meant to give him cleavage. The fall had given him more. He was looking. That was enough. Heat moved through her belly instead of embarrassment, and she kept her eyes on his wet mouth.

Then she laughed softly, drew the pallu back over her breasts, and sat down across from him.

“Sorry,” she said. “The cloth slipped.”

“It is fine,” he managed. “Fine.”

She kept seeing the drool at the corner of his mouth. Under the table his cock was hard and straining, and he kept his knees tight so the cloth would not show it. They drank the coffee. When the cups were empty she stood.

“Come,” she said. “We should walk back.”

He fumbled with his empty cup and did not rise. “You go ahead. I will follow in a bit.”

She gave him a questioning look, then turned for the path back to their departments. She knew he would watch from the chair. She put extra sway into her hips as she walked.

At once the dream bled over her. Two hunks appeared at her sides, walking with her as if they owned the corridor. The hunk on her left had his hand on her right ass. The hunk on her right held her left ass. Her hands rested on their hips, steering them along like she was taking them somewhere private. Rohan sat frozen and watched until the picture broke and only Isha remained, hips still moving, already farther down the path.

He stayed in the chair another fifteen minutes, waiting until his cock had gone soft, before he trusted himself to stand and leave.

That evening he parked near her building. For a moment they sat still. Then Rohan leaned across and kissed her, and this time his tongue pushed into her mouth.

She answered harder than he expected. Her hands came up, caught his head on both sides, and held him there while she kissed him back deep and wet, sucking at his tongue, pulling his mouth open wider. Her full breasts crushed into his chest. The pallu slid off her shoulder and pooled in her lap. She did not pull it up. Cleavage pressed bare against him and she only dragged him closer, biting his lower lip, then the corner of his mouth, then the soft skin of his cheek, then his mouth again as if she could not get enough of the taste. Her breath broke against his face. She kissed him like hunger with no patience left, tongue and teeth and wet sounds in the small car, until he was shaking under her hands.

“Isha,” he breathed when she finally let him go.

She smiled, pulled the pallu back over her chest, and went upstairs with his mouth and the canteen drool still in her head.

That night alone in her room the hunger turned sharp. She stripped to her panty, took the hard back of her hairbrush, and beat it against her clit in rough strikes until the sting met the wet cloth and made her jerk.

“What is wrong with you,” she whispered, and hit again. “I showed you everything I could today. You looked. You drooled. You kissed me like you wanted me. Then you sent me upstairs like a gentleman.” Her hips jerked into the brush. “I am your fiancée. I was asking with my body. You could have taken me somewhere closed, taken this saree off, and fucked me until I stopped shaking. Instead you are still caring about your good boy image.” She beat faster, eyes wet, angry at him and at herself. “How many signs do you need, Rohan. I am already yours. Just take me.”

She came hard on the brush, shaking, still angry, the wanting not gone.

In the evenings that followed, the moment the car engine cut near her building she did not wait for him to speak. She climbed over the gear into his lap, the pallu sliding off her shoulder and hanging forgotten between them, and kissed him like the hunger had been waiting all day. For long stretches she stayed there, crushing her breasts into his chest, mouth hungry on his, while his hands stayed on her back.

He locked his legs under her so his cock would not rise hard against her ass. He still feared his size. If she felt him and found him small, it would break her heart. So he kissed her carefully while she kissed him like she wanted a locked door behind them.

Between the kisses she dropped small hints. Shame still stopped her from saying the full thing.

“You said your friend travels a lot,” she murmured against his mouth. “Is the house empty when he goes?”

Another night, after a long suck at his lower lip: “Must be quiet there. Just you.”

Another: “I still don’t know what your place looks like.”

She smiled as if she were only curious. Her pussy had been treating her badly since the engagement, waking her unfinished, punishing her for every soft goodbye.

He heard what she was really asking. The raw hunger was plain on her. Her nipples pressed into his chest hard as diamonds through the thin blouse, and he knew her body was suffering for a need he kept refusing. He did not want her to pay for his size fear. Keeping her happy was his job. He wanted to help her soon.

One night sleep put him in a decorated bedroom. It brightened until he knew it was his native home. It was his first night. He faced the closed door and waited for Isha to walk through it as his bride.

The door never opened. He waited longer. The silence went on so long he stood and left the room.

He walked the house in a slow line. The hall was empty. The verandah was empty. The other bedrooms had beds made and no one in them. His footsteps were the only sound until he stopped at the kitchen doorway.

Sound reached him first. Gold on gold, bangles and chains beating together in a hard rhythm, mixed with wet skin. Then Isha’s moans, close and raw.

Under the tube light a huge naked Black man stood with his back turned, hips rolling into someone bent over the counter. Rohan stepped closer and saw her. She was completely naked except for full bridal jewellery and bridal makeup, mehandi dark on her hands and feet. Both hands gripped the counter edge. The man held her up by the hips and fucked her with a thick black cock, stretching her open on every stroke, balls slapping as he sank deep and pulled back shining with her wetness. Her bare breasts swung under her. The mangalsutra hung from her neck and swung with them.

Rohan came around to her face. Bridal makeup was still perfect except where tears had started. He tried to speak her name. No sound came.

“Please keep going,” she begged. “Please. Harder. Don’t stop. My husband does not know how to fuck.”

Tears fell from her eyes as she said it. He lifted his hand and wiped them. She did not see him. She did not know he was there. She only shoved back onto the cock and begged again.

“Please. Please. Keep fucking me.”

The man sped up. Jewels crashed on her wrists. Her pussy took him to the root. More tears ran while she asked for more. Rohan’s mouth opened and still no words came.

He woke in his bed shouting into the dark.

“I know how to fuck. I know how to fuck. I will fuck you. Please.”

Sweat ran down him. His cock stood hard. Her wet face would not leave him.