That night, Sonia recounted the incident to Rohan, straddling him on the couch in a white sleeveless t-shirt, its hem at her ass cheeks, her 34DD breasts bouncing freely. “Priya caught us,” she whispered, grinding against him, detailing Vikram’s hands, the photo, the threat. Rohan’s eyes darkened, his arousal evident. “You’re such a fucking whore,” he growled, his hands gripping her thighs, pulling the t-shirt up to expose her. “Tomorrow, the Diwali festival. Pick a stranger on the dance stage. I’ll watch from the car.”
Friday, the Diwali festival lit up the town square, a riot of colors, lights, and music. Sonia wore a sheer gold saree with silver zari, the fabric shimmering like liquid moonlight, paired with a noodle-strap red blouse that barely covered her 34DD breasts. No undergarments left her vulnerable, her nipples and bare hips hinted at through the saree. Rohan’s car was parked near the dance stage, his eyes locked on her.
Sonia joined the crowd, her saree catching the festival lights. A vendor, around 25, with a lean frame and bold eyes, approached, offering a trinket. She leaned close, her pallu slipping to expose her blouse’s neckline, her breasts straining against the fabric. His hand brushed her hip, then slid to her thigh, hidden by the crowd. “Beautiful saree,” he murmured, his fingers grazing where the saree tucked in, feeling the absence of panties. Sonia’s core tightened, her eyes flicking to Rohan’s car, knowing he was watching. She swayed closer, letting his hand explore, his fingers slipping just under the saree’s edge, brushing her bare skin.
Arjun and Nia, playing nearby, saw her and waved. “Mom’s being silly again,” Nia giggled, unfazed. Sonia adjusted her saree, winking at the vendor before rejoining her family, her body alive with the thrill. Later, she visited Mrs. Gupta again, still in her festival saree, the pallu slipping as she chatted on their porch. Aryan, the teenage son, was there, his eyes wide as the saree revealed her blouse’s neckline. Sonia bent to pick up a dropped key, flashing her thigh, her smile teasing as Mrs. Gupta prattled on, oblivious. Aryan’s flush was her reward, the risk of his mother noticing a delicious edge.
That night, with the kids asleep, Sonia wore a black camisole, its thin straps and sheer fabric ending at her ass cheeks, her 34DD breasts bouncing freely. She straddled Rohan on the living room couch, her body pressed against his, recounting the festival dare. “His fingers were so close,” she whispered, detailing the vendor’s touch, the crowd’s obliviousness, Aryan’s stare. Rohan’s hands gripped her ass, pulling the camisole up to expose her entirely. “You’re a fucking slut,” he said, his voice thick with desire, his jealousy stoking their rhythm. “Tomorrow, the train again. Pick two guys. I’ll be outside.”
Sonia nodded, her craving insatiable, the kids’ acceptance and Rohan’s dares a twisted freedom. Priya’s threat loomed, but it only fueled her, each risk a step deeper into her addiction. The week had been a blur of exposure, touch, and confession, and she knew it was only the beginning.