Adultery Fathima - wife to slutty broker (With Pics)

[Cuckoldindian]

Update 1:

Fathima lay on her back, her body glistening with sweat, as the ceiling fan above them lazily spun its blades, casting shifting shadows across the room. The curtains, slightly ajar, allowed the early evening light to stream in, painting the scene with a warm, golden glow. Her eyes closed tightly, she whispered, "Ah, yes," as Aslam's weight pressed into her, his labored breaths hot against her neck. She felt his hands, a little more clammy than usual, gripping her hips firmly as he thrust into her.

 
Her mind wandered to the days of her youth, when she had been the one in charge, the one teasing and taunting her college conquests. Those days seemed so far away now, replaced by the comfort and predictability of her marriage. Yet, there was a part of her that craved the excitement, the passionate abandon she had once felt. As Aslam's thrusts grew quicker, she found herself urging him on, her voice growing louder, "Please, a little more," she begged, her body tensing in anticipation.
 
The mattress beneath them groaned in protest with each movement, a testament to the countless nights they had shared in this very spot. The headboard thumped rhythmically against the wall, a secret tattoo that echoed through the quiet apartment. In the next room, Fazul and Meera were engrossed in their evening prayers, oblivious to the carnally driven dance their son and daughter-in-law were engaged in.
 
Fathima's nails dug into Aslam's back, leaving a trail of half-moons as she tried to pull him deeper inside her. His chest heaved as he worked towards climax, his breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. The room was filled with the scent of their mingled sweat and the faint musk of desire, a scent that was uniquely theirs. Despite her own arousal, Fathima felt a pang of dissatisfaction. Aslam had always been a quick lover, and tonight was no exception. She craved the slow burn, the teasing that led to an explosion of ecstasy, but it seemed her husband had other plans.
 
Her eyes snuck open to find Aslam's face contorted in a grimace of pleasure. She watched as the veins in his neck bulged, and his body tensed before he finally collapsed beside her, his breaths slowing to a steady rhythm. He lay there, spent and panting, his hand resting heavily on her stomach. Fathima, on the other hand, felt a familiar ache of longing that had yet to be sated. She bit her lip, contemplating whether to voice her needs, but the quiet that had descended post-fuck felt too fragile to disrupt.
 
Instead, she reached out to stroke his damp forehead, her fingertips tracing the fine lines that had begun to etch themselves into his skin. "Are you okay?" she murmured, hoping that her voice didn't betray the frustration bubbling just beneath the surface.
 
Aslam looked over at her, a soft smile playing on his lips. "Yeah, I'm fine," he panted. "It's just been a long day at work."
 
Fathima nodded, her hand continuing to trace patterns on his forehead. She took a deep breath, gathering the courage to speak her mind. "About that, I was wanting to ask you about one thing," she began, her voice low and tentative. Aslam's eyes searched hers, a hint of curiosity flickering in their depths.
 
"What is it, my love?" he asked, rolling onto his side to face her. He propped himself up on one elbow and gently caressed her nude breasts, his thumbs flicking over her hardened nipples. "Anything for you," he murmured, his gaze never leaving hers.
 
Fathima took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I've been thinking," she began, her voice wavering slightly, "that I don't have much to do at home anymore. With the maids taking care of the cooking and cleaning, I feel... I don't know, a bit useless, I guess." She watched his expression closely, searching for any sign of disapproval, but found only concern.
 
Aslam's eyes widened, his hand pausing mid-caress. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice gentle. He had never seen her look so vulnerable, so unsure of herself.
 
"Well," Fathima began, her cheeks flushing a delicate shade of pink, "I've been thinking that maybe I should find a job. Something to keep me busy, to make me feel more... purposeful."
 
Aslam's expression grew thoughtful, and he leaned in closer to kiss her lightly on the forehead. "Fathima, I don't have any objection to you working," he said, his voice a warm, reassuring rumble. "But remember our religious values, okay?"
 
Fathima's eyes searched his, looking for any hint of doubt or disapproval. She knew that Aslam was a devout man, and she didn't want to disappoint him. "Of course," she murmured, her voice small. "I'll find something suitable, I promise."
 
With a nod, Aslam leaned back, his hand sliding away from her breasts. She watched as his eyes grew heavy with sleep, his breaths deepening. Carefully, she extracted herself from the tangle of their limbs and tiptoed naked to the attached bathroom, closing the door softly behind her. The cool tiles felt refreshing against her flushed skin as she padded over to the sink.
 
Staring at her reflection in the mirror, Fathima's eyes grew distant, recalling the days of her youth. The image of her college self flickered in the glass—sultry glances thrown at unsuspecting males, the thrill of their shock and desire when she flaunted her body in tight-fitting clothes. Her hands, almost of their own accord, began to wander down her stomach, the tips of her fingers grazing her still-sensitive clit.
 
The memory of her ex-boyfriend's touch flooded back to her, his strong hands exploring her body with a confidence that Aslam had never quite mastered. Fathima's breath hitched as she thought of the frequent, intense sessions they had shared, her moans filling their dingy hostel room. Her fingers grew more insistent, mimicking the rhythms of his past caresses.
 
Her eyes remained locked on the mirror, watching as her own hand slid in and out of her slick folds. She imagined the scandalized looks on the faces of her former teachers, the ones she had so expertly teased and flirted with. Her heart raced at the thought of their shock and arousal if they could see her now, a married woman, pleasuring herself with such fervor. Her cheeks burned with a mix of shame and excitement.
 
Her thoughts drifted to her ex-boyfriend's friends, the ones who had always ogled her cleavage when she wore those low-cut tops to college. How they had whispered about her behind her back, sharing lewd fantasies about what they would do if given the chance. Now, here she was, living out those very fantasies in the privacy of her marital home. Her breath grew ragged as her fingers danced across her clit, each touch sending a jolt of electricity through her body.


 
Her knees grew weak, and she had to brace herself against the sink to stay upright. The sensations grew more intense, coiling tightly in her core, building to a crescendo that had eluded her with Aslam. With a final, desperate thrust of her fingers, she climaxed hard, her body spasming as waves of pleasure crashed over her. Her moan of release echoed off the bathroom tiles, a stark contrast to the quiet purr of the fan outside.
 
Once the tremors had subsided, Fathima washed her hands and straightened up. She took a moment to compose herself, her reflection in the mirror a flushed, satiated version of the unsatisfied woman who had entered moments ago. With a sigh, she grabbed a towel and padded back to the bedroom, the chilly air of the apartment making her shiver.
 
Aslam lay on his back, snoring gently, oblivious to the world. Carefully, she slid back into bed, her skin sticky with sweat and her own arousal. She pulled the sheet over herself, feeling a twinge of guilt for taking her pleasure in such a clandestine way. Yet, she couldn't help the thrill that shot through her as she recalled the illicit thoughts that had driven her to climax.
 
The digital clock on the bedside table flickered to 6:00 am, the harsh red numbers piercing the darkness like an accusation. Fathima sat up with a start, the chilly air hitting her damp skin and jolting her fully awake. The shrill ring of the alarm pierced the silence, and she reached over to silence it before it could wake Aslam.
 
With a sigh, she slid out of bed, her legs feeling like jelly after her recent climax. She tiptoed into the en suite bathroom, the tiles cold against her bare feet. The sound of the showerhead being turned on was a comforting hiss, and she stepped under the spray, letting the warm water cascade over her body, washing away the remnants of her secret desires.
 
The shower revitalized her, the pulsating water acting as a balm to her weary soul. She took her time, her eyes closed, letting the droplets stream down her face and neck, as if cleansing her of the guilt she felt for her clandestine actions. Her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts—how could she tell Aslam what she truly needed? Would he understand? Or would he see it as a betrayal of their vows, of their shared beliefs?
 
As she stepped out of the shower, the cold floor tiles sent a shiver up her spine, and she hastily grabbed her bathrobe, tying it securely around her waist. The apartment was still shrouded in silence, the only sound the steady ticking of the clock in the living room. She padded over to the bed, where Aslam lay sprawled on his back, his chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths.
 
Gently, she placed a hand on his shoulder and whispered his name. "Aslam, it's time to wake up."
 
He grunted and rolled over, his eyes fluttering open. "Already?" he mumbled, the last vestiges of sleep clinging to him like a lover reluctant to let go.
 
Fathima nodded and gave him a small, understanding smile. "Yeah, you have an early meeting today, remember?"
 
Aslam groaned but managed to pull himself out of bed. He shuffled over to the bathroom, his bare feet slapping against the cold floor tiles. Fathima watched him go, feeling a pang of regret for waking him so abruptly. She knew he needed his rest, especially with his demanding job at the bank.
 
Once he was out of sight, she slid out of bed and picked up a long top and leggings from the chair beside her. She slipped them on, the fabric clinging to her still-damp skin. Then, she took a deep breath and reached for her veil. She wrapped it around her head, securing it with a practiced ease that had become second nature to her over the years.
 
Looking at herself in the mirror, Fathima felt the weight of her choices settle heavily on her shoulders. The conservative attire was a stark reminder of the life she had chosen, the life her family had expected her to lead. Her eyes searched her reflection for any hint of the wild, passionate girl she used to be, but all she saw was a married woman, playing the role she had been cast in.


 
With a sigh, she walked out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, where their maid, Lakshmi, was already busy preparing breakfast. Lakshmi looked up and offered a warm smile, the smell of sizzling spices and the aroma of freshly brewed chai filling the room. "Good morning, Fathima," she chirped, her plump cheeks dimpling.
 
Fathima returned the smile, her eyes lingering on the steaming cups of tea and the platter of crispy dosas that Lakshmi had laid out. It was a familiar routine, one that had been playing out almost every morning since they had moved in together. Lakshmi had become an integral part of their lives, a silent witness to their marital moments, both mundane and intimate.
 
As Fathima took her place at the breakfast table, she heard the shuffling of feet from the hallway. Meera (Alam' mother) emerged first, her eyes still puffy from sleep. She wore a simple salwar kameez, her graying hair pulled back into a neat bun. Her plump figure was a testament to the years she had spent cooking and caring for her family, and she moved with a grace that belied her age. Fathima watched as Meera filled Aslam's plate with a generous serving of food, her hands deftly maneuvering the spatula with the ease of long practice.
 
Fazul (Aslams father) followed shortly after, his tall frame bent slightly with age, but his eyes still sharp and alert. His white beard was neatly trimmed, and he offered Fathima a warm smile as he took his seat. "Good morning, beta," he said, his voice deep and comforting. Fathima returned the smile, feeling a warmth spread through her. Despite the occasional tension in their marriage, she had grown to love Aslam's parents. They had accepted her as their own daughter, showering her with affection and respect.
 
Rahman, Aslam's younger brother, was the last to join them. He was a stark contrast to his brother, tall and lean, with a mischievous glint in his eye. He was still in his college sweatpants, his hair sticking up in every direction. "Morning," he mumbled sleepily, reaching for the newspaper that lay folded on the table.
 
Aslam emerged from the bedroom, his own eyes bleary with fatigue. He pulled out a chair and sat heavily, his gaze lingering on Fathima before dropping to the steaming plate of food in front of him. He knew that look, had seen it countless times. It was the look of a man who had given his all, physically and mentally, and was now paying the price. But there was something different in his eyes today, something that made Fathima's heart race.
 
Meera placed a cup of tea in front of him, her gaze shrewd despite the early hour. "You two seem a bit... tired," she said, her voice laden with knowing. Fathima felt her cheeks color, hoping that her recent activities in the bathroom had gone unnoticed. Aslam took a sip of his tea, his eyes not leaving Fathima's.
 
"It's nothing, Amma," he said, his voice gruff. "Just a bit of work stress, that's all."
 
Fathima nodded, avoiding Meera's knowing gaze. She knew that the truth was far more complex than simple work stress, but she didn't have the words to explain the tumult of emotions that had been bubbling inside her. Aslam had always been the stoic one, the rock of the family, but she couldn't help but wonder if there was something more to his exhaustion.
 
Once the men had finished their breakfast and left for their respective destinations, Fathima cleared the table and washed the dishes with Lakshmi. The rhythmic clinking of plates and the comforting warmth of the kitchen were soothing, offering a temporary reprieve from her racing thoughts. The apartment felt eerily quiet without their male presence, and she found herself missing the energy they brought with them.

[Cuckoldindian]

Update coming today:
Fathima goes for a interview

[Cuckoldindian]

Update 2:

With the kitchen gleaming and the aroma of breakfast lingering in the air, Fathima retreated to her room. She closed the door behind her, the soft click echoing through the emptiness. The room was a testament to their marriage—his side of the bed neatly made, her side still rumpled from their earlier activities. She sat on the bed, her thoughts a tumultuous storm of desire and doubt.

 
Her gaze fell upon her laptop, a sleek device that had been a wedding gift from Aslam. It had been her window to the outside world, her sanctuary where she could escape into the realms of social media and online shopping. But today, it would serve a different purpose. With a sense of determination that she hadn't felt in years, she opened it and began searching for job listings. Her fingers danced over the keyboard, typing in a flurry as she scoured the internet for opportunities that would grant her the independence she craved.
 
The job market was a desert for someone with a degree in Business Administration. The IT boom had swallowed up every conceivable opening, leaving her with a barren landscape of coding languages and software development positions. Fathima sighed, her frustration growing with each job posting that she read. Her heart sank as she realized that despite her qualifications and aspirations, her world was confined to the narrow scope of what the market deemed valuable.
 
Her mind drifted back to her college days, to the friends she had left behind when she had chosen to marry Aslam. They had all moved on, building their careers, exploring the world. Some had even found love outside the boundaries of their arranged marriages. Yet, here she was, a prisoner in her own home, her spirit as stifled as her sexual desires.
 
With newfound resolve, she focused on the job listings again, her eyes scanning over the requirements and responsibilities. The secretary position was at a local college, which would be easy enough to handle, but it didn't stir her soul. The receptionist role was at a small doctor's office, the mundane nature of the job a stark reminder of the life she had been living. Then, her eyes fell upon the third listing—a real estate broker. The thought of it sent a thrill through her. It was a world of power and prestige, of dealing with people and making deals. It was a world where she could be more than just a wife and daughter-in-law.
 
Fathima leaned in closer, her eyes devouring every word. The role required someone with strong communication skills, someone who could navigate the cut-throat real estate market of Chennai. It was a challenge, yes, but one she knew she could rise to. Her heart pounded in her chest as she noted down all the details of the three vacancies on a small notepad she kept by her bedside. The words "part-time" and "flexible hours" stood out like beacons of hope, offering her the chance to balance her responsibilities at home with her burgeoning career aspirations.
 
For the first time in a long while, Fathima felt a spark of excitement, a glimmer of hope that maybe she could find something that would bring meaning to her days beyond the walls of her apartment. She knew that the path ahead would be fraught with challenges, but she was ready to face them. After all, she had once been the girl who had strutted through college with a swagger, leaving a trail of whispered rumors and envious glances in her wake.
 
With trembling fingers, she dialed the number listed for the real estate job. Each ring echoed in the quiet of the room, amplifying her anxiety. The phone was picked up on the third ring by a smooth, professional-sounding voice. "Good morning, this is Suresh from Elite Properties. How may I assist you?"
 
Fathima took a deep breath, pushing aside the doubt that whispered in her ear. "Hi, this is Fathima," she said, her voice steady. "I saw your job posting for a part-time real estate broker. I'm interested in applying."
 
"Ah, yes," Suresh responded, the sound of shuffling papers audible through the phone. "The interview is going on today, and it will end at 3:00 PM."
 
Fathima's heart skipped a beat. "Today?" she echoed, her voice a mix of surprise and excitement. "Could I possibly come in for a quick interview?"
 
"Of course," Suresh said, his tone brisk yet welcoming. "We're always looking for motivated individuals to join our team. Can you make it to our office by 2:30 PM?"
 
Fathima glanced at the clock on the wall. It was 11 AM, leaving her with just a few hours to prepare. Her stomach fluttered with nerves, but she knew she had to seize this opportunity. "Yes, I'll be there," she said firmly, her voice a declaration of intent. She scribbled down the address he provided before ending the call.
 
Rushing to the living room, she found Lakshmi folding laundry. "Lakshmi," she called out, her tone urgent. "Could you please make sure lunch is ready sooner today? I have an important appointment."
 
Lakshmi looked up, her eyes wide. "But, memsahib," she protested, "I still have much to do."
 
"I know, Lakshmi," Fathima said, her voice filled with urgency. "But this is important. I need to be there by 2:30, and I have to get ready."
 
Lakshmi nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. She had seen the way Fathima's eyes had lit up at the mention of the job, the way her voice had become more alive. Lakshmi assured her that she would manage everything.
 
With a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and walked into the living room. Meera looked up from the TV, her eyes narrowing slightly when she saw the determined look on her daughter-in-law's face. "Fathima, is everything alright?" she asked, her voice filled with concern.
 
"Amma, where is Appa?" Fathima inquired, her tone more assertive than it had ever been in Meera's presence.
 
Meera looked up from her chai, a hint of surprise in her eyes. "He's out to walk," she replied, her voice steady.
 
Fathima nodded, her heart racing. She took another deep breath before speaking again. "Amma, I have a job interview today," she announced, her voice clear and firm.
 
Meera's eyes widened in surprise. "A job interview?" she repeated, setting down her tea cup with a clink.
 
Fathima nodded, her heart racing. "Yes, it's part-time, and I've already spoken with Aslam," she said, her voice steady despite the butterflies in her stomach. "He's okay with it."
 
Meera's eyes searched hers for a moment before she offered a warm smile. "If he is okay with it, then so am I," she said, her voice filled with genuine happiness for her daughter-in-law. "You should do what makes you happy, Fathima. I know how much you've given up for this family."
 
Fathima felt a weight lift off her shoulders. She had been bracing for resistance, for the lecture about the importance of family and her role as a wife. But Meera's words were like a balm to her soul, soothing the doubt that had been festering. "Thank you, Amma," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "I have to get ready. I have to leave at 1:00 PM so that I can beat the traffic."
 
Meera nodded, her eyes gleaming with pride. "Of course, beta," she said, her voice filled with affection. "But remember to wear something conservative. It's important that you represent our family well."
 
Fathima felt a twinge of annoyance at the reminder, but she knew Meera's intentions were pure. "I will, Amma," she replied, her voice calm. "I'll wear something appropriate." She knew that Meera's words were steeped in tradition and concern for her reputation, but she also understood that this was a battle she would have to fight on her own terms.
 
With Meera's nod of approval, Fathima retreated to her bedroom, her heart racing with a mix of excitement and nerves. She locked the door behind her, the click sounding like the starting gun at a race. She approached the wardrobe, her eyes scanning over the rows of colorful fabrics. The scent of her mother-in-law's sandalwood perfume clung to the air, a gentle reminder of the life she had chosen.
 
Her gaze fell upon the hanging array of traditional wear—sarees and churidars that had been a staple of her married life. Yet today, she reached for something different—a soft pink salwar kameez that she had bought for Eid but had never had the occasion to wear. It was modest, yet the material clung to her curves in a way that made her feel both sexy and powerful.
 
With trembling hands, Fathima slipped out of her dress, her skin feeling alive with anticipation. She slid the silky kameez over her head, the fabric whispering against her skin like a secret lover's caress. The salwar was snug, hugging her hips and thighs, leaving just enough to the imagination to make her feel both covered and alluring. She took a moment to admire herself in the full-length mirror, her eyes lingering on the swell of her breasts and the way the fabric fell in a waterfall of color over her narrow waist.
 
With the grace of a gazelle, she wrapped the dupatta around her shoulders, letting it fall to cover her chest and neck. The pink was a stark contrast to the sea of black and brown that usually surrounded her, and she felt a rebellious thrill at the sight. The veil was next, a soft whisper of fabric that she pulled over her head, tucking her hair neatly beneath it. The material was sheer enough to let the light play with the strands that framed her face, giving her an air of mystery and allure she hadn't felt in years.


 
Her hand trembled slightly as she picked up the folder containing her meticulously prepared CV and certificates. Each page was a testament to her past achievements, a silent plea for the chance to build a new future. She took a deep breath, willing her nerves to calm before she stepped out into the hallway.
 
The sun streamed in through the windows, casting a warm glow over the marble floors of the apartment. The sounds of the bustling city of Chennai filtered in through the open balcony doors—honking horns, chattering pedestrians, the distant cries of street vendors. Fathima felt a sudden urge to run back into the safety of her room, but she pushed it aside. This was her chance, and she wouldn't let fear hold her back.
 
With her heart racing, she slipped on her sandals and picked up her purse. She walked to the main door, pausing briefly to ensure she had everything she needed. The hallway was quiet, save for the distant hum of the TV in the living room. She took a deep breath and stepped out into the corridor, the cool breeze brushing against her skin like a whisper of encouragement.
 
The sun's warm embrace greeted her as she made her way to the elevator, the light reflecting off the gleaming marble and bouncing off the gold-plated railings. She could feel the eyes of the other residents on her, the whispers that trailed in her wake. Fathima held her head high, her posture straight and proud, as she descended to the ground floor.
 
Outside the apartment complex, the street was a cacophony of activity. Autorickshaws honked impatiently, jostling for space alongside the larger vehicles. She spotted a rickshaw with a friendly-looking driver, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror. He flashed her a toothy grin, and she felt a twinge of excitement as she approached him.
 
"Elite Properties," she said firmly, her voice carrying over the din of the street.
 
The rickshaw driver nodded, his eyes flicking over her attire before he turned to navigate the chaotic maze of Chennai traffic. The journey was a blur of honking horns and the occasional shouted curse as the driver deftly weaved through the cars and pedestrians. Fathima's heart thudded in her chest, a mix of excitement and nerves as she clutched the handle of the rickshaw.
 
As the vehicle jolted along, she couldn't help but steal glances at the driver in the mirror. He was older, perhaps around 45, with a thick mustache that curled around the corners of his mouth and a hint of gray in his hair. His eyes were kind, yet sharp, as if he had seen more of the world than she had ever dared to. Despite his age, he was surprisingly fit, his biceps flexing as he manhandled the rickshaw through the congested streets.
 
The driver caught her looking and offered a small smile. "You're going to a job interview, aren't you?" he asked, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror.
 
Fathima felt a blush creep up her cheeks. "How did you know?" she murmured, feeling suddenly self-conscious.
 
The rickshaw driver chuckled, his eyes twinkling in the mirror. "I've seen that look before," he said, his voice kind. "You're dressed to impress, but there's also something... hopeful in your eyes."
 
Fathima felt a strange sense of camaraderie with this stranger. He had seen right through her façade, had recognized the longing for change that she had been trying to hide. She nodded, unable to find the words to express her feelings. The driver's gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before returning to the road ahead. "You're going to do great," he said, his voice filled with conviction.
 
The rickshaw jolted to a stop in front of a nondescript office building, the words "Elite Properties" emblazoned in gleaming gold letters across the top. Fathima's heart skipped a beat as she took in the sight, her stomach doing a series of flips. She knew that walking through those doors would be the first step in a new chapter of her life, one that she had been dreaming of for years.
 
With a deep breath, she handed the driver the fare, his calloused hands brushing against hers as he accepted the money. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice shaky with anticipation. He offered her a gentle smile before driving off, leaving her standing alone on the sidewalk.
 
Fathima squared her shoulders and approached the building, her eyes scanning the gleaming glass façade that reflected the bustling street. She pushed open the heavy door, the cool air of the lobby washing over her. The scent of polished wood and fresh flowers greeted her as she stepped onto the plush carpet, her sandals whispering against the floor. The reception desk was a sleek monolith of chrome and glass, a stark contrast to the warmth of the apartment she had just left.
 
Behind the desk sat a man with a broad smile, his eyes lighting up as she approached. "Good afternoon, madam," he said, his voice a harmonious blend of professionalism and kindness. "Welcome to Elite Properties. I'm Suresh. You must be Fathima."
 
Fathima nodded, her heart pounding in her chest. The man she had spoken to on the phone was indeed before her, his presence more dynamic than she had imagined. Suresh was impeccably dressed in a crisp white shirt and dark trousers, his hair neatly combed back.
 
"Yes, I am," she replied, her voice steady despite the butterflies dancing in her stomach.
 
"Fantastic," Suresh said, gesturing to the elevator. "The interview is on the second floor. I'll escort you there."
 
Fathima took a deep breath and followed him, her heart thumping in her chest with every step they took. The elevator doors opened with a soft ding, and they stepped inside. The ride was a silent one, the only sound the muffled hum of the elevator as it ascended. She could feel his eyes on her, taking in her conservative yet elegant attire, and she hoped it conveyed the right mix of professionalism and cultural respect.
 
As the doors slid open, Suresh led her down a hallway lined with framed photos of luxurious properties and happy families standing outside their new homes. Each image was a silent testament to the success of the company, and Fathima felt a twinge of hope that she could soon be a part of creating similar moments of joy.
 
They arrived at a small waiting area, where a plush sofa beckoned. "Please, take a seat," he said, gesturing to the sofa. "Someone will come to collect you when it's your turn."
 
Fathima sat down, her eyes scanning the room. There were three other women already waiting, all younger than her and dressed in modern Western attire that showcased more skin than she had ever dared to expose in public. Her cheeks flushed at the sight of their plunging necklines, their bare arms and legs. They were all chatting away, their laughter light and airy, the kind that came from confidence and comfort in their own skin.
 
The minutes ticked by, each second feeling like an eternity as she waited. The air conditioner hummed a low tune, the only constant in the otherwise silent room. She could feel the fabric of her salwar sticking to her thighs, the coolness of the leather chair a stark contrast to the warmth of her skin. The room felt too small, too suffocating. She wished she had worn something else, something that didn't scream 'conservative housewife' quite so loudly.
 
Just as she was about to stand up and ask for a glass of water to ease her dry mouth, a deep male voice pierced the silence. "Fathima, is it you?"
 
Fathima looked up, her eyes widening as she saw a man in a clean and perfect-fit black suit smiling at her. For a moment, she didn't recognize him, then it dawned on her. It was Rahul, her college mate and ex boyfriend Basheer's best friend. A flood of memories rushed through her—laughter-filled evenings, secret whispers in the library, and the heart-wrenching goodbye that had marked the end of her youthful romance.
 
Her heart skipped a beat as she took in the sight of him, his smile as charming as ever, though now it was framed by a hint of maturity that came with age.  "Rahul," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
 
He approached her, his eyes twinkling with a mischief that was all too familiar. "It's been ages, Fathima," he said, extending his hand.
 
Fathima took it, the warmth of his grip sending a shiver down her spine. "Yes, it has," she replied, her voice barely more than a murmur.
 
Rahul sat down beside her, his eyes searching hers. "What brought you here?" he asked, his voice a soft caress that seemed to echo in the silent room.
 
Fathima took a deep breath, willing herself to remain composed. "I saw the job posting for a part-time real estate broker," she said, her voice a little shakier than she had intended. "I thought it was the perfect opportunity to start anew."
 
Rahul's smile grew wider, a hint of something unreadable in his eyes. "Ah, I see," he said, his tone playful. "How desperate are you for this job, Fathima?"
 
Fathima felt a blush creep up her neck, but she met his gaze steadily. "Rahul, for the past six years of marriage, I've felt so...bored," she admitted, her voice low and earnest. "I need this job. I need something that's mine, that challenges me and lets me grow."
 
Rahul leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving hers. "Mr. Dsouza is an interesting man," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He believes that the key to a successful sale is the ability to connect with people, and for that, you need to be beautiful and expressive."
 
Fathima's stomach tightened at the implication. "But what about my qualifications?" she asked, her voice laced with a hint of desperation.
 
Rahul's smile grew knowing. "Don't worry," he assured her, his eyes never leaving hers. "Your qualifications are impressive. But, in Mr. Dsouza's eyes, beauty and charm are the secret weapons of the real estate world."
 
Fathima felt a shiver of uncertainty run down her spine. Was she beautiful enough? Expressive enough? Her mind raced back to her college days, to the flirty banter she had once mastered so easily. Could she channel that part of herself again, after so many years buried beneath layers of conservative clothing and societal expectations?
 
Rahul stood up, his chair scbanging against the tiles. "I know you understand what I'm saying," he said, his voice a seductive purr that sent a thrill through her. He winked at her, the mischief in his eyes unmistakable, before sauntering away.
 
Fathima's thoughts raced as she sat there, her hand still tingling from his touch. She had never been one to flaunt herself, not since her college days. But if this was what it took to get the job, to regain a semblance of the life she had lost, she would do it.
 
Her trembling fingers reached for the edge of her veil, her heart pounding as she slowly unwrapped it from her neck. The cool air of the room kissed her skin, sending a shiver down her spine. With a deep breath, she let the fabric fall into her lap, her hair spilling out around her shoulders. She could feel the eyes of the other women in the room on her, their curiosity piqued by the sudden transformation.
 
Fathima took a moment to compose herself, her eyes scanning the room. The plush carpet was a stark contrast to the gleaming marble of the apartment complex, the quiet murmur of the air conditioner a stark contrast to the cacophony of the street outside. With a determined look, she took the shawl that had been neatly dbangd around her shoulders and pushed it aside, letting it cascade down one arm to reveal the soft swell of her breasts. The fabric pooled around her like a second skin, the pink of her kameez a stark contrast to the starkness of the room.
 
As if on cue, a sharp knock echoed through the hallway, and a stern female voice called out, "Fathima?"
 
Fathima's heart jumped into her throat. She took a deep breath, steeling herself before standing up and walking to the door, her sandals clicking against the marble floor. She paused for a moment, her hand hovering over the doorknob. Then, with a silent prayer, she pushed the door open and stepped into the office.
 
The room was smaller than she had anticipated, yet it managed to exude an air of power. The walls were lined with shelves of books and awards, and a large mahogany desk took center stage. Behind it sat a man in his early fifties, Mr. Dsouza, with a well-tailored suit and a pen in his hand. He looked up from the paperwork and offered her a warm smile, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk. "Fathima, please, have a seat," he said, his voice a smooth blend of authority and kindness.
 
Her legs felt like jelly as she made her way across the room, the sound of her sandals echoing off the polished floors. She sat down, her palms damp against the cool leather of the chair. Mr. Dsouza studied her, his eyes lingering on the exposed neckline of her kameez before meeting hers. "Thank you for coming in today," he said, his gaze intense. "I've read your CV, and you seem to have quite the background."

[Cuckoldindian]

Guys i know that this is aslow burn but trust me, it will get sluttier once fathima starts working! your comments will realy help to shape this story

[Fuckstar]

What happened to Naznin story?

[Yash121]

Nice update

[Cuckoldindian]

What happened to Naznin story?

Hit a wall, but not stopped tginking about it.. have a idea, will continue once finalized.

[magneticpersonality]

You stopped the story - "Nazrin An Innocent Wife" & started this one !!!

Like the story of Narin, in this story also you had "hit the usual wall".

I lost trust in the writing continuity of your stories.

[Cuckoldindian]

You stopped the story - "Nazrin An Innocent Wife" & started this one !!!

Like the story of Narin, in this story also you had "hit the usual wall".

I lost trust in the writing continuity of your stories.

Like i said brother, hitting a wall doesnt mean i stopped the story, you have to focus in something else adn you will kknow how to continue the previous one.

I started Nazrin story without the end and the flow. But this one iknow how to match it to the finish. Trust me brother, i will continue the Nazrin story. If you have any ideas please do let me know. Nazrin is not ready for a fuck yet.

[Heythere]

Amazing beginning, looking forward to it

[Sage_69]

Good start. Will be waiting for next part.

[Cuckoldindian]

Update 3:

Fathima nodded, her throat dry as she tried to swallow. "Thank you, sir," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm eager to put my skills to good use."

 
Mr. Dsouza's gaze lingered on the V-neck of her kameez, his eyes flickering with something that was unmistakably hunger. Fathima felt a knot form in her stomach, the realization of what he was hinting at dawning on her. "While your certifications are quite impressive," he began, leaning back in his chair, "what we really need is someone with experience. Someone who can handle the...pressures of the job."
 
Fathima felt a flash of anger at his blatant objectification, but she swallowed it down, focusing instead on the opportunity before her. "Sir," she said, her voice firm, "while I may not have experience in real estate, I assure you that I am a quick learner and I am more than capable of handling any situation."
 
Mr. Dsouza stood up from his chair, the leather protesting against his weight. He approached the table, his gait slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving hers. He leaned in, placing his hands on the desk and leaning over it slightly. His cologne was strong, a mix of spices and sandalwood that filled her nostrils. "Expressive, Fathima," he repeated, his voice a low purr. "To sell a house, you have to make the client feel like it's not just a building, but a home. You have to make them want it. Do you think you can do that?"
 
Fathima felt a bead of sweat form on her upper lip as she nodded, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her. "Yes, sir," she murmured. "I understand what you're saying."
 
Mr. Dsouza's eyes searched hers for a moment before he straightened up, his smile widening. "Good," he said, his tone approving. "Now, let's see if you truly have what it takes to be part of the Elite Properties team."
 
He gestured to the space around them, the walls lined with diplomas and certificates of his own. "I want you to stand up and sell me this office room," he said, his voice a challenge. "Convince me that I should buy it, that it's the perfect space for my needs."
 
Fathima's heart hammered in her chest, but she took a deep breath and pushed herself to her feet. She walked to the center of the room, her sandals echoing on the marble floor. The office was indeed impressive, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a breathtaking view of the cityscape. She spun around, her eyes taking in the sleek lines of the furniture, the plush leather chair that Mr. Dsouza sat in, and the way the light played off the polished surface of his desk.
 
With a confident smile, she extended her hand towards him. "Hi, Mr. Dsouza," she said, her voice steady despite the quaking in her limbs. "I'm Fathima from Elite Properties."
 
Mr. Dsouza took her hand, his grip firm but not overpowering. His touch sent an electric current up her arm, making her pulse race. He held her gaze as he took her measure, his eyes sweeping over her from head to toe. "Welcome, Fathima," he murmured, his voice a blend of professionalism and something else—desire, perhaps? Fathima's heart fluttered in her chest, but she collegeed her features to remain calm.
 
Taking a deep breath, she began her sales pitch. "This office," she purred, her fingertips lightly brushing against the fabric of Mr. Dsouza's arms as she emphasized each word, "is a sanctuary of productivity and style." Her voice grew warmer, more seductive, as she continued, her eyes never leaving his. "The natural light flooding in through the windows is the perfect backdrop for the rich mahogany of your desk, don't you think?"
 
Mr. Dsouza's gaze grew heated, his arms sliding around her waist without her realizing it. She gasped slightly, but his grip was firm, holding her in place. "It is," he murmured, his eyes traveling down her body before returning to her face. "But, Fathima, it's a bit...large for my taste."


 
Fathima felt a thrill run through her, the boldness of her words surprising even herself. She leaned closer, her breasts pressing against his chest, and whispered into his ear, "Large is always good, isn't it?" The words came out in a breathy purr, her heart racing as she waited for his reaction.


 
Mr. Dsouza's eyes widened for a fraction of a second before a knowing smile curled his lips. He stepped back, his hands dropping to his sides. "Fathima," he said, his voice a low rumble of amusement. "You're quite the saleswoman."
 
Fathima felt a blush rise in her cheeks, but she didn't let it show. She held his gaze, her own smile never wavering. "Thank you, sir," she said, her voice still carrying the seductive lilt she had used in her pitch. "I believe that's the kind of energy that makes Elite Properties the success it is."
 
Mr. Dsouza's smile grew, his eyes glinting with something she couldn't quite read. He sat back down in his chair, his expression thoughtful. "You're right," he said, his tone more measured now. "We are a successful company. But success requires more than just the right words."
 
Fathima felt a sudden sinking feeling in her stomach. Had she gone too far? Had she misjudged the situation? She took a step back, her hands clutching at the fabric of her kameez. "Sir," she began, her voice shaky, "I apologize if I overstepped—"
 
Mr. Dsouza's smile grew wider, cutting her off. "Not at all, Fathima," he said, his eyes glinting. "I was simply testing your ability to think on your feet. And, I must admit, I'm quite impressed."
 
Fathima's heart was racing as she tried to read his expression. "I'm...glad I could impress you," she murmured, her cheeks still flushed.
 
"Impress me, indeed," Mr. Dsouza said, his smile never leaving his face. He gestured towards the chair opposite his desk. "Please, sit down."
 
Fathima perched on the edge of the chair, her heart racing. He leaned back in his seat, his gaze still lingering on her. "As you know," he began, "Elite Properties is all about results. And to be part of this team, you need to show that you can deliver."
 
"Mr. Dsouza," she said, her voice firm despite the tremor in her chest, "I'm fully committed to this opportunity. I'm willing to work hard to prove myself."
 
Mr. Dsouza's eyes lit up, and he nodded, leaning back in his chair. "Very well," he said, his smile growing broader. "This job will begin as a part-time position, with a base salary of 40,000 rupees. However, the real earnings come from the commission." He paused, his eyes glinting with excitement. "You'll get a percentage of every property you sell. And, Fathima, the sky's the limit with commissions."
 
Fathima felt a rush of adrenaline. A full-time job at Elite Properties would give her the financial independence she had been craving. It would be the perfect escape from the stifling routine of her life. "I understand, sir," she said, her voice steady despite the racing of her heart. "I'll do everything in my power to succeed."
 
Mr. Dsouza leaned back in his chair, his gaze still intense. "Good," he said, his tone satisfied. "But remember, Fathima, performance is key. You'll be judged on your sales figures, your ability to close deals, and your willingness to go the extra mile." His eyes traveled down her body once more, and she felt a shiver run through her.
 
Fathima took a deep breath, pushing aside the anxiety that had been building inside her. She knew what he was hinting at. She had seen the way men looked at women in the real estate world, the way they valued their beauty and charm over their brains. But she was determined to prove herself, to show that she was more than just a pretty face. With a deliberate move, she leaned forward, her kameez gaping slightly to reveal more of her ample cleavage. "Thank you," she said, her voice a soft purr. "I'm ready for the challenge."


 
Mr. Dsouza's eyes flickered with approval as he took in the view she had so carefully presented. Fathima felt a surge of power as she watched him react to her. It was a heady feeling, one she hadn't felt in years. She knew that by playing this game, she was giving him a piece of herself, but it was a piece she had chosen to give. And in that moment, she felt more in control than she had in a long time.
 
"Excellent," Mr. Dsouza said, his voice a low rumble. "I'll have the offer letter sent to Rahul's office on the first floor. He'll be your senior marketing agent. Go to him and sign the papers. He'll also be giving you your first assignment."
 
Fathima's heart skipped a beat at the mention of Rahul. She hadn't expected to see him again, especially not so soon. She nodded, her mind racing with thoughts of what the future might hold. "I'll do that right away," she said, her voice a soft murmur.
 
As she turned to leave the office, she felt Mr. Dsouza's gaze on her, his eyes lingering on the sway of her hips. She knew that she had played the game well, but she also knew that she would have to be careful. This was a delicate dance, one that could lead to her dreams coming true or shattering before her eyes.
 
Her sandals echoed down the hallway as she made her way to the elevator, her mind racing with excitement and apprehension. This was it, the start of a new chapter in her life. A chapter where she could finally spread her wings and soar.
 
The doors slid open, revealing a sleek, modern space, a stark contrast to the traditional attire that clung to her body. As she stepped out onto the first floor, she thought of Rahul's mischievous smile, the way his eyes had danced with unspoken promises. She told herself that he was her ex's friend, that he wouldn't dare to bother her in a professional setting like this. But the memory of his words lingered in her mind, a tantalizing whisper of what could be.
 
Fathima's eyes searched the hallway for the room number she had been given. Finally, she found it: 'Rahul Rao, Senior Marketing Agent'. She took a deep breath and knocked, the sound echoing through the quiet corridor. A moment later, the door swung open to reveal Rahul, his eyes widening slightly as he took in her newfound confidence.
 
He stepped aside, allowing her to enter. The room was smaller than Mr. Dsouza's office, but it was no less impressive, with a wall of windows that offered a breathtaking view of the bustling city below. The scent of his cologne filled the space, a familiar scent that brought back a rush of memories she had buried long ago.
 
Rahul looked her up and down, his eyes lingering on her chest. "That's the Fathima I know," he murmured, a smug smile playing on his lips. She felt a twinge of embarrassment but held his gaze, her chin up.


 
Fathima reached for the shawl that was still dbangd around her, the fabric whispering against her skin as she wrapped it back around her neck, covering her cleavage. The room grew warmer as she felt his eyes on her, his gaze appreciative.
 
"Come on, Fathima," Rahul said, his voice a low, seductive rumble. "Don't cover up. I've seen it many times during college." His words sent a shiver down her spine, a reminder of the carefree days when she had been the object of desire, not the devoted wife.
 
Fathima paused, her hand hovering over her neckline. His eyes, dark and hungry, held hers captive. She knew he was baiting her, but she couldn't resist the urge to play along. With a smoldering look, she let the shawl fall away, exposing her soft, bare skin to the cool office air. His gaze lingered on the swell of her breasts, a silent challenge that she met with a coy smile.
 
"Mr. Rao," she said, her voice a soft chastisement, "it's quite unprofessional to peek at your best friend's girlfriend's cleavage, let alone your colleague's."
 
Rahul's grin widened, not a hint of embarrassment to be seen. "Call me Rahul," he said, his eyes never leaving hers. "And as for that, it's all in the past, isn't it? Besides, I've always had a knack for appreciating beauty."
 
Fathima felt a blush rise in her cheeks, but she held her ground. "Well, now that you know I'm married," she said, her voice steady, "you'll keep that in mind."
 
Rahul's smile never faltered, his eyes still roaming over her body. "Of course," he said, his voice dripping with insincerity. "But marriage doesn't mean you can't be appreciated for your beauty."
 
Fathima felt a knot in her stomach, her mind racing. She knew that she had to keep things professional, especially with the job on the line. She took a deep breath and held out her hand. "My offer letter?" she said, her voice firm despite the blush that stained her cheeks.
 
Rahul took his time, his eyes never leaving hers as he reached into the drawer and pulled out a manila envelope. He held it out to her, his fingers brushing against hers as she took it, the electricity of their touch sending a jolt through her body. "Welcome to the team, Fathima," he said, his smile knowing.
 
Fathima took a deep breath and opened the envelope, her eyes scanning over the contract. The words blurred together in her excitement, but she focused on the important parts: the job title, the salary, the commission structure. It was all there, just as Mr. Dsouza had promised. With trembling hands, she took out a pen from her purse and signed her name on the dotted line.
 
As she handed the contract back to Rahul, he leaned back in his chair, his gaze still lingering on her. "Give me your phone number," he said, his tone casual, yet commanding. "I'll call you tomorrow with your first assignment."
 
Fathima felt a jolt of excitement and a hint of nervousness. She had hoped that her performance in the interview had been enough, but she knew that the real test was just beginning. She recited her number, watching as he typed it into his phone with a smug smile. "Thank you," she murmured, trying to keep her voice professional.
 
As she turned to leave, Rahul called out, "Oh, and Fathima?" She paused, looking over her shoulder. "Don't worry, I'll make sure to keep your little secret," he said, his eyes glinting with mischief. Fathima's stomach twisted at the thought of what he could be referring to, but she kept her expression neutral and nodded before walking out of the room.
 
The elevator ride down felt like an eternity, her thoughts racing with what had just transpired. The way Mr. Dsouza's eyes had lingered on her, the way Rahul's smile had sent shivers down her spine—it was all a game she hadn't signed up for. But she had played it well, she reminded herself. It was just business.
 
As the doors slid open, Fathima stepped out into the lobby, her sandals clicking against the marble floor. The bustle of the street outside the glass doors was a stark contrast to the hushed whispers of the office space. She took a deep breath, the scent of the city filling her lungs. It was time to go home, to process this whirlwind of a day.
 
Her eyes scanned the row of autorickshaws lined up outside the gleaming office building. And there it was—the same brightly colored vehicle that had brought her here, the same driver with the knowing smile. He caught her eye, and she felt a wave of familiarity wash over her. It was almost comforting, like a silent acknowledgment of the transformation she had undergone within the walls of Elite Properties.
 
Fathima approached the driver, his nameplate reading "Rajesh." She offered a small smile, and he nodded in recognition. "Madam, you found me again," he said with a grin, his teeth flashing in the sun. "Where to?"
 
Her thoughts swirled with the events of the day, but she managed to murmur, "Home, please." As the autorickshaw pulled away from the curb, the wind in her hair feeling like freedom, she couldn't help but feel a pang of excitement for what lay ahead. The job was hers, and with it, the possibility of a new life.
 
But as the city streets grew more familiar, the reality of her situation began to settle in. She had played a risky game with Mr. Dsouza and Rahul, using her sexuality to gain the upper hand. As the vehicle stopped at a red light, she caught the driver's reflection in the mirror, his eyes lingering on her cleavage. It was a peeking glance, a silent acknowledgment of the power she had wielded in the office.


 
Fathima felt a mix of pride and guilt. She had never been one to flaunt herself so blatantly, not since she had gotten married to Aslam. But she had done it today, and she had enjoyed the way it had made her feel—powerful, desired, and in control. As the light turned green, she gave the driver a knowing smile, letting him see that she was aware of his interest. It was a small victory, a way to assert herself in a world that so often made her feel invisible.
 
When she looked into the rearview mirror and caught the driver's eyes, she felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to assert the control she had just tasted in Mr. Dsouza's office. She bit her bottom lip, the plump flesh between her teeth, and let her eyes darken with desire. The driver's gaze flickered back to the road, then back to her, his eyes wide with surprise and a hint of excitement. Fathima held his gaze for a beat longer, the corner of her mouth tilting up in a knowing smile before she turned away, leaving him to stew in his thoughts.

[Sage_69]

Fathima is horny.

[Cuckoldindian]

update tomo

[xboard1986]

Update next plzz

[Cuckoldindian]

Coming soon

[Cuckoldindian]

Update 4:

The autorickshaw's journey home was a blur of traffic and honking horns, but Fathima's mind was racing with the implications of her newfound confidence. She had crossed a line today, and she wasn't entirely sure if she liked the feeling or if she was just using it as a crutch to fill the void in her life. Yet, as they pulled up to her apartment complex, she couldn't help but feel a thrill of anticipation at the thought of facing her new job challenges tomorrow.
 
Before getting down from the autorickshaw, Fathima took the shawl and corrected herself over her head with veil. It was a deliberate move, a reminder of the life she was returning to. The cool fabric felt like a cocoon, shielding her from the prying eyes of the world outside the office walls. She got down, the chilly evening air a stark contrast to the warmth that had suffused her in the office.
 
"Rajesh anna," she said, her voice soft as she paid him the fare, "I got the job."
 
Rajesh's eyes lit up, his weathered face breaking into a wide smile. "Congratulations, Madam," he said, his grip tightening briefly around the steering wheel before he handed her the change. "You looked so confident today. I knew you'd get it."
 
Fathima felt a flush of pleasure at his words. It was strange, but his approval meant something to her, more than she wanted to admit. "Thank you, Rajesh anna," she murmured, sliding the extra note into his palm. His eyes widened briefly before he pocketed it with a nod.
 
As she watched the autorickshaw pull away, she felt a thrill at the thought of her secret admirer waiting for her. It was a small rebellion, a way to claim something for herself in a life that often felt suffocating. She took a deep breath, the scent of jasmine from the garland around her neck mixing with the aroma of street food and diesel fumes. The evening was cooler now, the sun a fiery ball of light sinking into the horizon.
 
The parking lot was mostly empty, the cars of the office employees slowly disappearing into the chaos of Chennai's evening traffic. But amidst the shadows, she spotted a figure that made her heart stop. It was Rahman, Aslam's brother, his arms wrapped around a girl she didn't recognize, their mouths locked in a passionate kiss. Fathima felt a sudden jolt of surprise, her eyes widening as she took in the scene.
 
The girl was petite, her hair a cascade of dark curls that fell around Rahman's shoulders. Her hands were tangled in his shirt, her body pressed against his as if they were two halves of a whole. Fathima had never seen Rahman like this before, so openly affectionate and uninhibited. It was a stark contrast to the shy, studious boy she knew from home.
 

Her heart racing, Fathima forced herself to look away, turning towards the elevator with a new sense of urgency. She didn't want to be caught spying on her brother-in-law, especially not like this. She hurried across the parking lot, the click of her sandals echoing off the concrete as she approached the gleaming metal doors. The coolness of the evening had turned into a cold sweat on her brow, a mix of excitement and fear coursing through her veins.
 
The lift doors slid open with a whisper, revealing the empty space within. Fathima stepped inside, her hand shaking slightly as she pressed the button for her floor. Just as the doors began to close, she felt a gust of wind and a set of hands pushing against them, holding them open. She gasped, looking up to see Rahman, his eyes wide with surprise. He stumbled into the lift, the doors closing behind him with a soft thud.
 
"Hi, Anni," he said, his cheeks flushed. "You went out today?"
 
Fathima's heart hammered in her chest, the guilt from witnessing his secret tryst still fresh. She forced a smile. "Yes, I had a job interview," she replied, hoping her voice didn't betray the turmoil of emotions she felt.
 
Rahman's eyes lit up with curiosity. "Really?" he asked, "How did it go?"
 
Fathima took a deep breath, her heart still racing from the shock of seeing him with the girl. "It went well," she said, her voice shakier than she had intended. "I got the part."
 
Rahman's eyes grew even wider. "Congratulations, Anni!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with genuine enthusiasm. "That's amazing!"
 
Fathima felt a pang of something akin to sadness. This was the most enthusiastic he had ever been towards her. In six years of marriage, she and Rahman had barely exchanged more than a handful of meaningful words. They had always existed in a strange, stilted limbo—siblings by law but strangers by choice. Yet here they were, sharing a moment of unbridled happiness in the confines of the elevator.
 
"Thanks, Rahman," she managed to say, her voice still quivering slightly.
 
"It was a tough day in college," he said, his eyes shifting to the floor. The sudden change in topic caught Fathima off guard. She studied him, noticing the way his hands fidgeted with the strap of his backpack. He looked so much younger, so much more vulnerable than the composed man who had walked her home from the office.
 
Fathima felt a strange mix of anger and pity. She had no right to judge him, not after what she had done today. "Did not seem like it the way you were with the girl in the parking lot," she said, her voice cool and measured.
 
Rahman's eyes snapped up to meet hers, a look of horror crossing his features. "Anni, she is just a friend," he stammered, his cheeks turning a darker shade of red. "I-I didn't mean to..."
 
Fathima's smile grew, a knowing glint in her eyes. "This is how you will kiss a friend?" she teased, her tone light but with an undercurrent of something more. The elevator's ascent seemed to slow as the silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken truths and the sudden awareness of the chemistry that had always simmered just beneath the surface.
 
The lift dinged, signaling their arrival at their floor. As the doors slid open, she stepped out, turning back to him. "Your secret is safe with me," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "For now."
 
Rahman's eyes searched hers, desperation flickering in the depths of his gaze. He knew she had the power to shatter his world with a single word, to reveal the side of him that he had so carefully hidden from his conservative family. "Thank you, Anni," he breathed, his voice a mix of relief and something else, something deeper that sent a shiver down her spine.
 
They both stepped into the apartment, the familiar sights and smells washing over them—the faint aroma of Meera's cooking, the hum of the air conditioner, the soft glow of the TV in the living room. Fathima could see Aslam's parents sitting cross-legged on the floor, engrossed in a Tamil soap opera. They barely glanced up as she and Rahman entered.
 
"How was the interview?" Meera asked, not bothering to hide the curiosity in her voice. Fathima felt her heart skip a beat, her hand tightening around the strap of her purse.
 
"I got the job," she said, her voice filled with a mix of excitement and relief. The words felt strange on her lips, a declaration of victory in a battle she had been fighting for so long.
 
Meera looked up, her eyes shining with pride. "Good Fathima," she said, her voice warm and genuine. It was a simple phrase, but it contained a world of approval and encouragement. Fathima felt a weight lift from her shoulders, the burden of her mother-in-law's expectations suddenly not so heavy.
 
But it was Father in law's reaction that surprised her the most. He looked up from his newspaper, a rare smile lighting up his stern features. "Congradulation, Fathima," he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Aslam is inside, go tell him the good news."
 
Fathima felt a strange warmth spread through her chest. It was the first time her father in law had ever shown any kind of positive emotion towards her, and she wasn't quite sure how to respond. She nodded, her mouth opening and closing like a fish before she managed to squeak out a "Thank you."
 
With a shaky smile, she walked down the hallway to the bedroom she shared with Aslam, her heart thundering in her ears. The door was open a crack, allowing the sounds of the TV to spill into the corridor. She pushed it open, the coolness of the air conditioning greeting her like a reprieve. Aslam was in the balcony, his back to her, speaking animatedly on the phone. The sight of his bulging stomach spilling over the waistband of his shorts made her bite her lip in annoyance.
 
Fathima stepped further into the room, the soft carpet muffling her footsteps. She removed her veil, letting her hair fall around her shoulders in a cascade of darkness. The weight of the fabric was a stark contrast to the newfound weight of her secrets. With a determined stride, she approached the balcony, the curtains fluttering in the breeze.
 
Aslam's voice grew louder as she approached, his back to her as he spoke into the phone. He was oblivious to her presence, his concentration solely on his conversation. Fathima took a moment to study him, the way his T-shirt strained against his bulging midsection, the way his shorts hugged his thick thighs. It was a stark reminder of the difference between the man she had married and the ones who had looked at her with hunger in their eyes today.
 
With a quiet determination, she stepped closer, the curtains fluttering around her like a dance of shadows. She reached out, her arms wrapping around his waist from behind, her breasts pressing into his broad back. His words stuttered to a halt as he felt her embrace, his breath catching in surprise. He turned, his eyes widening when he saw her.


 
He cut the phone call and turned towards her, his eyes widening slightly. "Ammà said you went for an interview," he said, his voice filled with curiosity.
 
Fathima felt a rush of excitement, a thrill coursing through her body at the thought of sharing her victory. "Yes," she said, her voice filled with a newfound confidence. "And I got the job."
 
Aslam's eyes grew wide, a smile breaking out across his face. "That's fantastic, Fathima," he said, turning to face her fully. He reached out, his arms wrapping around her in a warm embrace. She felt his love, his pride, and the weight of his expectations pressing down on her.
 
But as she reached up to kiss him, her hand hovering just millimeters from his lips, she stopped. "We're in the balcony," she murmured, her eyes darting over his shoulder to the open door. "Anyone could see us."
 
Aslam's arms tightened around her, and she felt his breath on her neck as he chuckled. "They're all busy," he said, his voice low and reassuring. "You worry too much."
 
With that, he dragged her inside, the door closing with a soft click behind them. His kiss was eager, his tongue slipping into her mouth as he backed her towards the bed. Fathima's body responded instinctively, her hands reaching up to tug at his shirt, pulling it over his head. His chest was hairy, the smell of his deodorant mingling with the scent of his skin. She ran her hands over his chest, feeling the softness of his belly, the warmth of his body.


 
Their passion grew, a wildfire that had been dormant for too long. Fathima felt alive, her heart pounding in her chest as she pushed him onto the bed. She slid down his body, her eyes never leaving his, the thrill of the day's events adding fuel to the flame. As she reached the waistband of his shorts, she paused, her hands trembling with anticipation.
 
With a swift motion, she removed his shorts, revealing his medium-sized cock, already standing at attention. She took a deep breath, her eyes drinking in the sight of him, so vulnerable and eager. With a seductive smile, she leaned in, her hot breath ghosting over his skin.
 
Fathima wrapped her soft, plump lips around the head of his cock, her tongue swirling around the tip. Aslam's eyes rolled back in his head, a low groan escaping his lips. His hands found their way into her hair, gripping the strands as she took him deeper, her cheeks hollowing out as she sucked. She felt a thrill of power, a reminder of her own desires and needs, long ignored in the shadow of her conservative marriage.
 
Her movements grew more confident, more practiced than she had ever been with Aslam. She could feel him tensing beneath her, his hips bucking slightly as he grew closer to climax. His breathing grew ragged, his voice urgent. "Ah, Fathima, am about to cum," he grunted, his voice thick with lust.


 
But Fathima wasn't done yet. She pulled away, his cock slipping from her lips with a wet pop. Straddling him, she reached down, her hand guiding his erection to her entrance. She watched his face, a mix of shock and excitement as she lowered herself onto him, taking him inch by inch until she was fully seated. His eyes never left hers as she began to rock her hips, a silent challenge in her gaze.
 
Aslam's hands found their way to her breasts, his thumbs circling the hardened nipples as she began to move faster. The bed frame creaked in protest, the sound a symphony of passion in their ears. Fathima's moans grew louder, her breath coming in gasps as she felt the beginnings of an orgasm building within her. It had been so long since she had felt this alive, this powerful.
 
In her mind's eye, she saw the faces of Mr. Dsouza and Rahul, their eyes hungrily devouring her during the interview. And she thought of Rajesh, the autorickshaw driver, who had seen her at her most vulnerable and had been her silent confidant today. Their faces merged with Aslam's, creating a heady cocktail of desire and rebellion that fueled her movements.
 
"Ah, yes," she moaned, her voice echoing through the quiet apartment, "yes, like that." Her hips moved faster, her breasts bouncing with the rhythm. She had never been this brazen, this openly sexual with Aslam before. It was as if she had discovered a new side to herself, a side that craved attention and pleasure.


 
But just as she felt the peak of her orgasm approaching, Aslam's grip on her hips tightened, halting her movements. She looked down at him, her eyes questioning. He met her gaze, his own dark with desire, and she could see the effort it took for him to hold back. "Fathima," he breathed, his voice strained, "I'm going to cum."
 
With a final thrust, he spilled himself inside her, the warmth of his release filling her up. Fathima felt the pulse of his cock as he emptied himself, but even as she felt the intimacy of the moment, she couldn't help the feeling of disappointment that washed over her. She had needed more—more time, more passion, more of everything that she hadn't been getting in her marriage.
 
As Aslam lay panting beside her, she took a deep breath, trying to hide the frustration that bubbled up within her. "Aslam," she whispered, her voice a mix of love and sadness, "I needed more time."
 
Aslam looked at her, his eyes filled with a mix of confusion and concern. He had never seen this side of Fathima before, the side that craved more, that was unafraid to express her desires. "More time for what, Fathima?" he asked, his voice tentative.
 
Fathima took a deep breath, her hand resting on his chest. The thud of his heart was a steady beat against her palm. "For everything," she murmured. "For us."
 
Aslam's eyes searched hers, a flicker of understanding crossing his features. He knew she was unhappy, had felt the distance growing between them, but he had always thought it was just a phase, something that would pass with time. He reached up, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. "We can make it work," he said, his voice filled with a new determination. "We'll plan a tour together, just the two of us."
 
Fathima felt a pang of guilt. She hadn't told him about the way she had secured the job, about the flirtatious dance she had performed in Mr. Dsouza's office. She knew it would hurt him, that he would see it as a betrayal of their vows. But she also knew that she couldn't keep this new side of herself hidden away forever.
 
Fathima's heart tightened. She hadn't told him the full story—how she had flirted, how Mr. Dsouza had leered at her, and how she had played along, all for the sake of a paycheck. "Thank you," she murmured, feeling a mix of excitement and guilt. "They offered a good salary and flexible hours."
 
Aslam's eyes lit up. "That's wonderful, Fathima," he said, his voice filled with pride. "You're going to be so successful." He leaned in, kissing her forehead gently, his hand tracing the line of her jaw. She felt a warmth spread through her at his touch, a reminder of the love they had once shared.
 
But as he pulled away, the reality of their situation crashed down on her once again. She watched him get up, his heavy frame moving with surprising grace as he padded towards the bathroom. His back was to her, giving her a moment to study his naked form. The rolls of fat that spilled over his waistband, the way his buttocks jiggled with every step—it was a stark contrast to the lean, muscular bodies she had seen today.
 
Fathima lay there, her hand trailing down her body, her fingers finding their way to the ache between her legs. She began to rub herself, her other hand cupping her full breast, her thumb flicking over the sensitive nipple. Her breath grew ragged, her eyes slipping shut as she imagined the hands of the men from the office, the way they would have touched her if she had let them.
 
Her moans grew louder, filling the room with a symphony of need and want. "Oh my," she gasped, her hips bucking against her own touch. "Oh yes," she whispered, her voice a plea to the empty room. She had never been so openly sexual before, not even with Aslam. But the events of the day had awakened something in her, a hunger that she hadn't realized had been dormant for so long.
 
As her hand worked faster, her breath grew ragged, her eyes squeezed shut. She felt the tension in her core coil tighter and tighter, a spring ready to snap. And then, with a final, desperate push, she reached her climax, her body arching off the bed as waves of pleasure crashed over her. She cried out, her voice echoing in the quiet apartment, and then she lay there, panting heavily.

 
The sound of the ringing phone was a jarring interruption, cutting through the silence like a knife. Fathima's eyes flew open, her hand shooting out to grab the device from the bedside table. The screen displayed an unknown number, but she knew who it was. She took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart before she answered.
 
"Hello?" she said, her voice a soft, sultry whisper.
 
"Fathima, it's Rahul," he said, his voice low and smooth. She could hear the sound of traffic in the background, the honks and chatter of Chennai's streets a stark contrast to the quiet of her bedroom.
 
Her pulse quickened as she sat up in bed, her hand still between her legs, the aftermath of her solo pleasure still tingling through her body. "Hi," she said, trying to keep her voice even. "What's up?"


 
"We have a potential client," Rahul said, his voice business-like despite the intimate tone of their conversation just moments before. "A businessman who's looking to purchase a property in Adyar. He's coming in tomorrow. I need you to go to the location I sent you and make sure he wants the house."
 
Fathima nodded, already sitting up in bed, the excitement of the new challenge pushing away the lingering guilt of her recent thoughts. "Tell me details about the house and its price," she said, her voice firm and professional.

 
Rahul's chuckle was a warm rumble in her ear. "I'll send you all the details in WhatsApp," he said, his tone suggestive despite the innocence of the words. "Make sure you go through it thoroughly."
 
Fathima felt a thrill at the implication, her hand still resting on her damp skin. "I will," she promised, her voice a seductive whisper that she hadn't even realized she was capable of.
 
"Good," Rahul said, the line going silent for a moment before he added, "And, Fathima?"
 
Fathima's pulse quickened as she held the phone to her ear, the coolness of the device a stark contrast to the heat that still lingered in the room. "Yes?" she responded, her voice a soft whisper.
 
"This is an important client, Fathima," Rahul said, his voice dropping an octave. "I would have done it personally, but I have a management meeting tomorrow. Don't lose this one." There was something in his tone, a hint of urgency that made her stomach flutter. "He could be the one to show everyone what you're truly made of."
 
Fathima felt a jolt of excitement. This was it, the moment she had been waiting for—a chance to prove herself, to show that she was more than just Aslam's conservative wife. "I won't let you down," she murmured, her voice thick with determination.
 
The line went dead, and Fathima was left in the quiet of their room, her heart still racing from the intensity of her call with Rahul. She lay back down, the sheets cool against her overheated skin. Her hand trailed down her body, the ghost of her own touch still lingering on her swollen clit. She couldn't shake the feeling that she was on the brink of something new, something dangerous.
 
Just then, Aslam emerged from the bathroom, his towel slung low around his waist. "Fathima, come," he called out, "dinner might be ready." His voice was casual, unaware of the tumult of emotions and desires that were swirling within her.
 
Fathima looked at him, her heart aching with a mix of love and frustration. She had always been the one to put his needs first, the one to take care of him. But tonight, she felt drained, her body still craving the release she hadn't fully received. "Aslam," she said, her voice firm, "you go and eat. I'm tired. I'll sleep."
 
He frowned, concern etching his features. "Are you okay?" he asked, taking a step towards her.
 
Fathima forced a smile, pulling the blanket up to her chin. "Yes, I'm fine. Just tired after a long day. You go ahead." She watched as he hesitated, his eyes searching hers for any sign of distress. Finally, with a nod, he turned and walked out of the room, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
 
As the sound of their plates clattering in the kitchen faded away, Fathima felt the weight of her decision settle heavily on her chest. She had never denied Aslam like that before, never put her needs—or lack thereof—before his. But she couldn't ignore the restlessness that stirred within her, the hunger for something more that had been awakened today.
 
The digital clock by her bedside blinked 6:00 AM, the red numbers a stark reminder of the day that lay ahead. The alarm blared, a shrill sound that pierced the silence of the early morning. With a groan, she reached over to shut it off, the room still bathed in shadows. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine from the garland that hung on their bedroom door, the same one Meera had placed there the day she had moved in, a symbol of purity and marital bliss.

[tweeny_fory]

The initial impression of Fatima was quite different from what she eventually revealed about herself. At first glance, she appeared to be conservative, following the traditional norms. However, as she became more comfortable, her personality evolved, showcasing a more dynamic and sensual side.

One of the most surprising aspects of getting to know Fatima was uncovering her past. Wondering what is the backstory, making her journey all the more interesting.

As we move forward, curiosity arises about her first assignment and the effort she will need to put in to make it a success.

Eagerly waiting for the next update fren.

[Cuckoldindian]

Want anothe update

[vids81]

Great Story, loved it. Waiting for an update.