Previous Part: Driver Seduces His Boss’s Wife – Part 4
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Without thinking, she wiped her hands on a cloth and followed me, her steps quick and determined. Her saree brushed against the floor as she stormed down the hallway, her heart thudding. She reached my room and pushed the door open without knocking.
I stood by the window, my back to her, casually looking outside as if nothing had happened. My nonchalance only fueled her anger.
Madam (furiously): Don’t you dare touch me like that again. Who do you think you are?
I turned slowly, my face calm, almost amused. My eyes locked onto hers, and Madam felt the intensity of my gaze deep in her chest. I stepped toward her, closing the distance between us in one smooth motion.
Me (quietly): Or what? Will you stop me?
There was no aggression in my voice, just a quiet challenge, a teasing dare. I reached out and grabbed her wrist, holding it firmly but gently, pulling her a little closer. Madam’s anger faltered, replaced by something deeper, something dangerous.
She could feel the warmth of my hand on her skin, the strength of my grip, and the way my eyes bore into hers. For a moment, we stood there, and neither of us was saying a word. Madam’s breath quickened. She should have pulled away, should have screamed at me again.
But instead, her body betrayed her. Without thinking, she moved closer, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her eyes flicked down to my lips, and before she could stop herself, she leaned in. Her lips met mine, tentatively at first, but then with more hunger, more desperation.
I responded immediately, my grip on her wrist tightening slightly as he pulled her closer. My other hand moved to her waist, and Madam could feel her body pressing against me. The kiss deepened, turning urgent, as if we were both giving in to something we had been denying for too long.
Madam’s hands found their way to my chest, feeling the firmness of my muscles beneath my shirt. She pushed me lightly to remind me that she was still angry and in control. But her lips never left mine. I let out a low growl in response, pulling her even closer.
My hands roamed up her back, sending a shiver down her spine. The kiss was wild, unrestrained, fueled by the tension building between us for days. Madam’s mind raced — this was wrong, so wrong — but she didn’t stop. Instead, she melted into me, letting the heat consume her completely.
Our bodies pressed together as we stumbled toward the bed, never breaking the kiss. It was a moment of pure passion, of surrender, where nothing else mattered. Not the consequences, not the guilt, not the looming danger of our affair.
At that moment, there was only desire and the need to be close to each other. And as we tumbled onto the bed, breathless and tangled, Madam knew there was no turning back from this. She had crossed a line. Now, she was lost in me — in my touch, taste, and reckless, intoxicating energy.
The passion between us was undeniable. No matter how hard she tried to resist it, she finally gave in. Madam’s body pressed against mine. Our lips locked in a feverish kiss as we both gave in to the passion that had been simmering between us for days.
But as the moment intensified and she surrendered fully, I suddenly pulled away. My breath was ragged, my lips swollen, and my hands, which had been clutching her so tightly just moments ago, now pushed her back. Madam stumbled slightly, confusion clouding her mind.
She reached out instinctively, her body still craving my touch, her lips tingling from the kiss. But I stepped back, my eyes dark, my expression unreadable.
Madam (breathlessly): What, why are you stopping?
I didn’t answer. I ran my hand through my hair, pacing back and forth across the room. My chest rose and fell as I tried to calm myself down. Madam’s heart was still racing, her body aching from the abrupt interruption. She couldn’t understand why I had stopped, why I was leaving her in this state of torment.
Frustration surged within her. She was used to feeling unwanted, unsatisfied, and ignored — her marriage to my boss had left her starved for love, for passion. But with me, she had felt alive again, felt the thrill of being desired.
Now, just as she was about to drown in that pleasure, I ripped it away from her, leaving her empty once more. Madam moved toward me again. Her hand reached out to touch my chest. Her lips hovered near my neck as she tried to kiss me again.
But I pushed her back, more forcefully this time, my hand firm against her shoulder.
Me (gruffly): Stop it, Madam.
Madam’s eyes widened in shock at the rejection. She felt a surge of desperation rises in her chest. She couldn’t stop herself — the hunger and craving for my touch were overwhelming. She needed me more than she had ever needed anyone. Her fingers trembled as she reached for me again.
Madam (pleading): Please, don’t do this. Don’t leave me like this. I can’t take it.
But my expression hardened. My eyes were cold now, detached. With a sudden movement, I slapped her, the sharp sound echoing in the silence of the room. The slap wasn’t hard, but it stung — not her skin, but her pride. Madam gasped, the shock of the slap momentarily paralyzing her.
For a second, she stood there, frozen, her heart pounding in her chest. But then, something inside her broke. The walls of restraint she had tried to build crumbled. The only thing left was her raw, desperate need. Without thinking, Madam lunged toward me again.
Her arms wrapped around my body, her cheek pressing against my chest.
I stiffened in her embrace, my hands pushing at her, but she didn’t let go.
Tears welled in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Her voice was shaky, trembling with emotion as she whimpered into my shirt.
Madam (choking): I’m sorry for slapping you last time. I was so scared last time, thinking of everything we did. What if someone knew? And also, I am sorry for shouting at you earlier. I didn’t mean it. Please don’t push me away. Don’t leave me like this like your boss does. Don’t make me crave and walk away.
My hands were still on her shoulders, but my grip had loosened. I looked down at her, my jaw clenched, but I didn’t speak. My silence tore at her heart, and she pressed herself closer, clinging to me like I was her only lifeline.
Madam (her voice breaking): I can’t stand it anymore. I need you. I’ve needed you from the moment you walked into this house. You make me feel things I’ve never felt before. Don’t leave me craving. Don’t be like him, my husband.
But I remained silent, unmoved by her plea. My eyes flickered with something — frustration, maybe, or guilt. But my face remained impassive. I shook my head, trying to pull away again, but Madam wasn’t ready to let go. Not yet.
Her breath hitched as she stepped back, her chest heaving with emotion.
She reached up to her shoulder, her fingers trembling as they gripped the edge of her saree. In one swift movement, she pulled it off her shoulder, the fabric sliding down her arm and exposing her tits. She stood before me, vulnerable, desperate, her eyes filled with tears she had tried so hard to hold back.
Madam (barely a whisper): This is all yours. You are my owner now. Please take me. Use me. Treat me like a woman.
Her voice cracked on the last word as she stepped forward, closing the distance between us again. Her saree lay loosely around her, half draped, her body exposed and trembling. She wrapped her arms around me again, her face pressing against my chest, her voice shaking as she spoke.
Madam (sobbing softly): Please, don’t leave me like this. I’m begging you. Take me. I’m yours. All of me. Just don’t walk away.
She felt my body stiffen in her embrace, my muscles tensing beneath her touch. For a long, agonizing moment, I didn’t move. I just stood there, my breath shallow. My hands were still against her shoulders as if unsure whether to push her away or pull her closer.
Then, slowly, my grip tightened on her shoulders. My fingers dug into her skin. I pulled her back slightly, my gaze locking onto hers. My eyes burned with something intense, something dark, but it wasn’t affection. It was control. Desire, yes, but something colder too.
Me (low and firm): You think you can just offer your body to me, and I’ll take you, just like that?
Madam’s breath hitched, but she didn’t break eye contact. Her boobs rose and fell with each ragged breath, but she nodded, her lips trembling.
Madam (desperately): Yes, if that’s what it takes. I’ll do anything. Just don’t leave me craving like this.
My eyes darkened, and I let out a soft, mocking laugh. I leaned in, my lips hovering just above hers, so close she could feel my breath on her skin.
Me (whispering harshly): You’re in control here, Madam. Don’t ever forget that.
I paused, watching the way her body trembled against mine. Then, with a rough pull, I yanked her closer. My lips crashed against hers in a kiss that was raw and filled with frustration. Madam responded with equal desperation. Her fingers gripped my shirt’s fabric as if she were holding onto me for dear life.
Our kiss deepened and turned wild. Our bodies pressed tightly together as we gave in to the dangerous, intoxicating pull that had been building between us for so long. Madam’s mind swirled in a haze of desire and confusion. We were lost in the overwhelming sensation of being wanted and claimed.
But even as I kissed her, my touch had a lingering coldness. A reminder that this wasn’t love but possession. I had made her crave, and now, she was in control.
After kissing, I told her, “We might get caught. It is daytime, and your husband is down. We will have a long week once your husband goes on the trip this weekend.”
She agreed, and as she was about to leave my room.
Me: Can you make me a cup of tea, will you? And hey, while you’re at it, how about some breakfast? I’ve been craving something homemade. Maybe you can cook me something good.
Madam raises her eyebrows, slightly taken aback by my audacity. My boldness amuses her, but there’s also something irritating in my assumption that she’ll do it. She adjusted her clothes and gave me a sarcastic look.
Madam (playfully): Oh, now I’m your chef too? What do you want, Me? Or something more exotic to match your adventurous soul?
I chuckle, leaning back against the bed, clearly enjoying the flirtatious banter. My eyes twinkle as I meet her gaze.
Me: Mmm, How about something special?
Madam: Then let’s eat me.
Me: I will take you most erotically, don’t worry. For now, make some mutton curry for today. I’m sure you can whip it up, right? You look like you know your way around the kitchen.
Madam scoffs, getting up from the bed and walking over to me. She stands close, her arms folded, looking up at me with defiance and amusement.
I, unbothered, give her that grin of mine, like I know I am testing her limits and enjoying every second of it.
Madam (mocking): Mutton curry? Really? I am a full bitch here. Instead of eating me, you demand tea, breakfast, and now mutton? Anything else, Your Highness? Should I feed you with my hands, too?
My grin widens.
Me: Well, now that you mention it, that doesn’t sound like a bad idea.
Madam laughs despite herself, shaking her head at my shamelessness. But there’s something in my audacity that’s also intoxicating. The way I move through life — without care, without hesitation — is so different from what she’s used to.
She turns away from me, heading toward the kitchen, rolling her eyes as she grabs the kettle.
Madam (over her shoulder): Fine. I’ll make your tea and mutton. But don’t get too used to it. You’re still a servant here.
After a few minutes, I went down to the kitchen. As she busies herself with the tea, I watch her, clearly pleased. I stroll over to her side, leaning on the counter, my gaze never leaving her. There’s a palpable tension in the air, as always between us, but it’s laced with a sense of impending danger.
Madam is well aware of the boundary she’s walking along, but with me around, it’s a boundary she’s willing to push.
Me: You know, I could get used to it. A woman like you cooking for me, it’s a luxury.
Madam glances up at me from the stove, narrowing her eyes.
Madam: Don’t flatter yourself. This doesn’t mean anything.
But even as she says it, her tone has an underlying spark. She pours the tea into a cup, sliding it across the counter toward me.
Me (teasing): Of course, it doesn’t. But still, there’s something about the way you do it. Special touch, maybe.
Madam rolls her eyes, her heart beating a little faster despite herself. She turns back and heads to the kitchen.
And as the day unfolds, Madam knows that my flirtation, my casual request for tea and food, is just a small part of the larger, dangerous game we’ve begun to play.
Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story, and I look forward to sharing the next part with you. For chat and meetup, aunty, and unsatisfied ladies, feel free to reach out by mail: [email protected].