20-04-2025, 10:25 PM
The security should fuck her brains out inside the life and in all her holes and she should not feel another man cock inside her thereafter. She should come to him again and again.
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Adultery The Language of Her Heart
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21-04-2025, 10:59 AM
Thank you so much for following The Language of her Heart and being part of Pavitra’s journey. I know some of you are eagerly waiting for “action” to happen—and I truly appreciate your passion and excitement. ❤️
But I want to be very clear: this is a slow burn romance and erotica, told completely from Pavitra’s point of view. It’s not about jumping straight into explicit scenes. It’s about what she feels, thinks, and goes through—physically and emotionally. I’m keeping the story as natural and real as possible. Nothing is rushed, nothing is forced. This is not a cheap porn story or a fast-paced erotic fantasy. It’s rooted in realistic desire, hesitation, and the slow, raw build-up of intimacy. That’s the vision I’m committed to. If the pacing feels frustrating or if you’re on edge waiting—I’m truly sorry. But this is the journey I’ve chosen for Pavitra. Every moment, every brush, every thought matters. The story will simmer before it burns. Thanks for understanding, and for staying with me even when things move slow. Your support means everything. 
21-04-2025, 11:09 AM
(21-04-2025, 10:59 AM)yazhiniram Wrote: Thank you so much for following The Language of her Heart and being part of Pavitra’s journey. I know some of you are eagerly waiting for “action” to happen—and I truly appreciate your passion and excitement. ❤️ continue with you story bro no hurry please, we love slow paced erotic story this is one of my fav story in xossipy, please give regular updates love the story don't miss any detail!
21-04-2025, 09:32 PM
(This post was last modified: 21-04-2025, 09:32 PM by yazhiniram. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
He was halfway through dressing.
His briefs were on, clinging wet. Pants pulled up but unzipped, still sagging slightly from the waist. Shirt? Still in his hand. He didn’t even try to wear it. Just stood there, chest bare, skin sticky, lips parted. Sweating. Quiet. I didn’t speak. Didn’t look. I just stood near the panel, blouse folded in my hand, saree pulled tight across my chest, barely enough to hold my breasts in place. No pin. No hooks. Just a half-cover, clinging to sweat, slipping slightly with every movement. But I didn’t care. The floor number dinged softly. We’d reached. I felt my chest tighten. My eyes went to the seam of the door. And inside my head, I whispered: “God, if You’ve ever listened, now is the time. Don’t let anyone be outside.” The door opened. Light spilled in. Corridor empty. Nobody. Not even footsteps. I let out a sharp exhale. Not relief. Just survival. I turned to him, voice cold, sharp: “Take the box. Come behind me. Don’t waste time.” He nodded fast. Grabbed the box. Still shirtless. Still slightly bent at the waist — either from shame or heat or both. And me? I walked forward. Topless. Saree wrapped around my chest, blouse still in my hand, hair half stuck to my neck. Each step I took, I could feel the air hit the sweat on my breasts. My petticoat swayed behind me, loose, half-dried. I didn’t walk like a victim. I walked like I had burned the whole lift and was done with the fire. He followed. Box in both hands. Eyes on the floor. Steps cautious. I reached my flat. Opened the grill. Then the wooden door. Stepped in. He entered behind me, box still held like a shield between us. And the second his heel crossed the line— I shut the door. Firm. No slam. Just a clean, sharp click. No more light. No corridor. Just me. Just him. And a box of unknown weight. Inside my home. He stood near the entrance, box still in his hand, breathing just enough to not faint. I didn’t even have to look fully — I could feel him behind me. That awkward half-waiting posture men take when they don’t know if they’re dismissed or still owned. “Madam…” he spoke, barely loud, as if afraid the walls might hear. “Where to put this?” I didn’t turn. Just lifted my arm and pointed — toward the far right corner of the hall, near the shoe stand. “There. Against the wall. Carefully. If you scratch the wall or the box, I’ll throw both of you out.” He nodded like a college kid and walked over, arms slightly bent, back hunched like he was trying to be smaller. He placed it down gently, made sure it didn’t topple, then stood up slowly. And then… he didn’t move. He didn’t leave. He just turned around — and stood there. Hands still on his sides. Shirt still not worn. Pants wrinkled, button not even fastened fully. His body smelled of dried sweat and burnt heat. And worst of all — his eyes… were flickering again. Even now. Even after everything. Still trying to catch one more glimpse of me. My patience ended right there. I turned, sharp and fast. “WHAT are you waiting for?” I snapped. He flinched, chest stiffening. “You want me to remove the saree too? Huh? Stand fully naked for you to keep looking? Are you standing here to see if you get one more free peek?” He tried to stammer, but no words came. His eyes went down, like a whipped dog. I didn’t let it rest. “Put your shirt on. Right now. And LEAVE.” His hands jerked up like they were on autopilot. He grabbed the shirt from where he had hung it over his shoulder. Opened it. One sleeve already half-in. He started slipping it on, quickly — one hand, then the other, eyes still locked down at the floor tiles. Then, just as he started pulling the fabric over his chest— I said, coldly: “Stop.” He froze. Mid-motion. Shirt half open, arms halfway through. I walked a few slow steps forward, the blouse still in my hand, my bare chest still only half covered by the loosely thrown pallu. I could feel the air hit the sweat still sitting on my breasts. I didn’t care. I looked at him fully now. And said quietly, but clearly: “You want to go out like this?” He blinked. Confused. I nodded toward his body. “Wet shirt. Pants half buttoned. Whole body smelling like the bottom of a government bus seat. What do you think will happen when people see you walking like that from my flat?” His lips parted. No sound came out. “You think they’ll ask you what happened?” He shook his head. “They won’t,” I said. “They’ll ask me.” I took one more step. Now just a few feet away. “‘Madam, why did your watchman leave your house shirtless and shaking?’” His eyes went wider. I didn’t blink. I didn’t smirk. I simply delivered the final sentence. “So no. You don’t get to choose.” I pointed toward the washroom. Bathroom, small, half-wet, barely ventilated — but good enough for what I wanted. “Go freshen up.” He didn’t move. I tilted my head. “I’m not asking. I’m ordering. Go.” His voice was a whisper. “Not… not necessary, madam…” My eyes narrowed. “I said go.” Then slowly, I added: “Let your clothes dry. Remove everything. All of it. Stand under the fan for five minutes.” He nodded, mouth trembling slightly. Then turned, slowly, feet dragging, toward the direction I pointed. I stood behind him. Still topless. Still sweating. Still very much in charge. Because in this house? He wasn’t the man who entered the lift. He was the man I had stripped twice. And now I was telling him how to leave. Time: 11:40 AM This day had already stolen every drop of sanity from me. And now — standing in my own hall, topless, with a wet petticoat barely holding its shape, I watched a man — a low-class, sweaty, still-filthy man — start undressing for the third time today in front of me. But this time, there was no lift. No darkness. No accidental fall. This time? It was clear. My living room light was on, the fan above pushing air slowly. The dull hum of it echoed in the silence between us. And his hands? Were undoing his pants. First button. Then zip. The trousers dropped down his thighs, fell to the floor with a soft slap. He stepped out of them without fumbling, like this had become routine now — like he had surrendered fully to whatever this moment was. And then, his fingers went to his innerwear. He pulled it down. And there it was. That same cock. But more clear now. No flickering lift light. No shadows. Just that thick, ugly, angrily standing thing — harder than before, almost proud. It bounced lightly once as the elastic cleared it, and I could swear it was pointing at me. I didn’t blink. Didn’t react. Not on the outside. But inside? My body jolted. There was a tight clench between my legs — a shocking, shameful pull. My nipples hardened further — sensitive from sweat, touch, air, and now… memory. I looked at his cock. And I wanted. Just a touch. Just a light grip — maybe with two fingers — just to feel the weight. But I didn’t move. Didn’t twitch. I only said: “Bathroom’s to the right. Don’t dirty the floor.” His head nodded fast. Didn’t even look at me. He picked up his bundle of clothes in one arm, turned slowly — and started walking. His bare ass swaying, cock bouncing slightly with each step — that thick, veiny stalk now fully visible under steady lighting. He vanished into the bathroom. I stood in place. Still topless. Sweating. Burning. I looked down at the blouse in my hand — the same one I had thrown, worn, wiped with. It was half-dried now, patches of dampness turned to hardened sweat. I lifted it. Pressed it against my chest. Tried to wear it. The hooks stuck. The underarm fabric smelled like unwashed cotton and guard sweat. I gagged. Pulled it off immediately. Threw it on the sofa like it had insulted me. “Filthy bugger,” I muttered under my breath. Then louder: “Next time I’ll make you wash your mouth also.” I didn’t even know if I meant it. But from inside the bathroom, I heard movement. He heard me. Let him. Because this wasn’t over yet. Not while my body still remembered the feel of his cock against my chin. The bathroom door clicked open. Slowly. He stepped out — barefoot, dripping wet, droplets trailing down his chest like thin silver streaks. His hair was soaked, pushed back messily. Water clung to his neck, to the back of his ears, sliding down to his shoulders. He wasn’t dry. Not even a little. And worse? He was naked again. No attempt to wear the clothes he carried in. Just holding them — damp bundle under one arm, eyes slightly lifted, like he was waiting. I knew what he was waiting for. A towel. A cloth. Something to dry himself. Maybe even permission. I didn’t move at first. I stood there — blouse still discarded, saree hanging over the box. And the only thing left on my body? My red panty. Wet. Clinging. Exposing every curve, every line. I watched a single droplet roll from his chest down to his thigh. His cock had softened slightly, but not completely. Still long. Still heavy. Still twitching once in a while, like it was remembering its role. He looked at me once. Only once. Eyes half begging. Half blank. And I smiled — not out of amusement. But control. Power. Then, without a word, I reached behind me. Grabbed the tight knot of my petticoat, still clinging around my waist, soaked in sweat and need. Pulled once. The cloth loosened. Slid down my hips. Pooled around my ankles. Now I was bare except for the red panty — fully visible, soaked, tight enough to cut breath. I bent. Picked up the petticoat. Lifted it in one hand. Tossed it. Straight at his face. The wet cloth slapped across his cheek, slid down his chest, and fell into his hands. He flinched. Caught it. Still dripping. Still stunned. “Use that,” I said flatly. “Dry yourself.” He didn’t move. “What?” I snapped. “You thought I’d give you towel and coffee also?” He opened his mouth. Said nothing. I stepped toward the cupboard. Still topless. Still wet. Still burning. “You’re not a guest here,” I muttered. “You’re a mistake.” Then, casually, like I was picking a broom, I reached into the lower shelf, pulled out my old nighty — faded pink, thin, sleeveless, used only when I wanted to disappear in cloth. I didn’t rush. I didn’t cover. He had seen everything already. So let him. Let him see more. Let him know this heat was mine — and I was the only one who decided who got burned. I held the old nighty in my hands for a second longer than needed. It wasn’t fresh. It wasn’t even dry. But it was all I had right now that didn’t smell like his sweat or the lift. I unfolded it slowly, eyes not leaving him as he stepped out of the bathroom, his body dripping from head to toe — wet hair stuck to his forehead, chest gleaming, and water rolling off his thighs in slow, glistening streams. His cock? Still hard. Still rising like it didn’t get the message. Like it had made its own decision today. I pulled the nighty over my head. The cloth touched my skin, and I felt it — that cold, sudden sensation as it dragged over my breasts, sticking to the curves, sliding down my hips and resting just above my knees. The sweat between my breasts didn’t let it fall freely. It clung there, like the heat itself wanted to keep me bare. And for a second, I almost didn’t pull it all the way down. But I did. Let it fall. Let it settle. Let the illusion of being dressed return. Even though under that cloth, I was still a woman burning, leaking, throbbing, and very much not in control. I turned slowly, and caught his eyes. He wasn’t even pretending to look away anymore. He stood there, nude, not hiding anything, not apologising — just standing with my petticoat in his hands, using it to pat his arms, his back, and slowly… slowly reaching down toward his cock. His eyes met mine, then darted up — toward the ceiling, the fan, anywhere. But he was too late. I had already seen the way his cock pulsed when I looked at it. And that was the moment. That sharp, ugly, impossible moment. My mind screamed: This is wrong. This is disgusting. But my body? My body betrayed me. My thighs clenched together without me asking. A fresh warmth spread right through my red panty. I could feel it — that stickiness, that pressure, that need. It wasn’t him I wanted. It was that cock. That filthy, shameless cock that had touched my chin, that stood like it deserved to be touched. But I didn’t show it. I didn’t blink. I just turned and walked away. I reached the sofa, moved slowly, as if I had no urgency, even though inside me every nerve was pulsing. I bent slightly, pressed the button on the fan. It whirred to life — slow at first, then steady. The blades spun and the hot air began to move around the room, swirling our smells, our heat, our silence. “Come here,” I said. My voice wasn’t loud. But it was sharp. And he heard it like a command. He stepped closer, walked softly, still holding my petticoat — still naked. Now he stood near the fan, barely three feet from me. His chest was rising, his cock refused to soften, and even though he didn’t look directly at me, I knew. He wanted more. I turned, walked to the shelf, opened it, and pulled out two bottles of water. Handed one to him. Didn’t say a word. He took it, drank fast, water spilling slightly down his chin. Desperate thirst. I opened mine. Drank slowly. Felt the water travel down my throat, hit my chest, settle like a cold stone in my burning stomach. Even the water wasn’t enough to kill this heat. So I just stood there. In my old nighty. Soaked underneath. With a man in front of me, naked, with a cock that remembered every second of my body. And I? I was starting to remember too much. I leaned back slightly on the sofa, feeling the old nighty cling to my chest, damp from both my body and the heat trapped inside the room. My skin still felt sticky under the thin fabric, every movement reminding me of how bare I still was underneath. And in front of me, just a few feet away, he stood — still naked, still drying himself, and still hard. His body had begun to dry, yes — small patches of skin now matte, not shiny — but that cock? That cock had not softened. Not even a little. I let my eyes fall. No hesitation. No pretending to be polite. No act of dignity. I dropped my gaze and stared straight at his cock — not accidentally, not shyly — but deliberately, fully aware of how long I was letting my eyes linger. I let my stare begin at the base — where the skin was thick, slightly darker, pulled tight from arousal. My eyes climbed slowly, tracing the veins, noticing the slight shift each time he moved his foot or shifted his weight. The girth was the same — maybe thicker — than what had pressed against my chin in that lift. And the tip? The tip was red. Swollen. Moist at the end. Just slightly glistening, enough to know it was alive, awake, throbbing. He noticed. Of course, he noticed. A woman like me doesn’t stare at a man like that without his soul trembling. He stopped wiping for a second. Froze. Then, slowly, as if nothing had happened, he shifted the petticoat in his hand and continued dabbing at his side, avoiding touching the cock that he now knew I had seen — truly seen. I didn’t smile. I didn’t blink. I didn’t act coy. I simply let the hunger in my eyes settle — not screaming, not begging — just there, thick and quiet, like steam rising off a still-hot vessel. And inside? My body had already betrayed me. The red panty — already soaked an hour ago — had now begun to stick again, not from sweat, but from fresh wetness. I could feel the damp cloth hugging every fold between my thighs. Every slight shift of my hip dragged it across my slit, making my breath shorter — but not loud enough to show. I clenched my thighs. Just enough to apply pressure. To tame the throbbing. My chest rose slightly. Breasts brushed against the nighty fabric. And my nipples — already sore — hardened again. He looked up for a moment. Our eyes met. And for the first time in the entire day — he saw me. Not just as the madam. But as a woman. A body. A craving. It was barely a two-second glance. But it held weight. And I ended it first. Because I wasn’t ready to give that part yet. I stood up slowly. Let the nighty shift down, stretch, flow over my thighs. Pulled it tighter near my chest, adjusting casually. Then I spoke — cold, flat, like none of this ever happened. “You’re dry now. Enough standing around like a statue.” My voice didn’t shake. My tone didn’t betray. “Wear your clothes. And leave.” He nodded. Almost like a boy being sent out of class. He bent slightly, picked up his innerwear, stepped in — his cock still bouncing slightly as it slid under the cloth. And me? I just stood near the shelf, drinking water again. But my eyes? They dropped one more time. Just once. Just to remember. Because I hadn’t touched him. Not once. But my body? Was already mourning that decision.
21-04-2025, 10:02 PM
I thought she will fuck him and make him lick and clean her leaking pussy. The more she control the more desireful she gets. great one.
(21-04-2025, 10:59 AM)yazhiniram Wrote: Thank you so much for following The Language of her Heart and being part of Pavitra’s journey. I know some of you are eagerly waiting for “action” to happen—and I truly appreciate your passion and excitement. ❤️ Ohh Yazhini I am already started to feel the heat of this slow burn. Please don't rush it, make this burn as slow and deliberate as possible and don't worry I won't go anywhere. I'll be here reading and watching this kindle of passionate writing slowly burning and igniting to becoming a huge fire! ... and I'll be here in the center of it, waiting patiently ready to be engulfed by this Inferno! 
22-04-2025, 07:54 AM
This woman has been suppressing the fire for a long time. At some point, she will start burning everything.
22-04-2025, 08:48 AM
(21-04-2025, 10:59 AM)yazhiniram Wrote: Thank you so much for following The Language of her Heart and being part of Pavitra’s journey. I know some of you are eagerly waiting for “action” to happen—and I truly appreciate your passion and excitement. ❤️ You way of narrating is just superb. Keep it up... clp); Go with what you have in mind...slow burn stories have a different charm... -Preeti
23-04-2025, 01:12 AM
(This post was last modified: 23-04-2025, 01:37 AM by xossissippi. Edited 2 times in total. Edited 2 times in total.)
(21-04-2025, 10:02 PM)Dorabooji Wrote: I thought she will fuck him and make him lick and clean her leaking pussy. The more she control the more desireful she gets. great one. She's not completely done with him yet! She might stop him from sending him away at any last minute ;) She knows she wants it. He has witnessed the hunger in her eyes, so did she in his eyes. She witnessed the fiery lust in his eyes, this time he has no hesitation, this time it was she who backed her eyes away, as a means of caution maybe?. But she knows he wants it, she knows exactly what he wants... waiting for her to strip completely naked. to capture all of her glory maybe one last time, she knows it, she knows it well too well. His eyes waiting for one last scene to witness it without any inhibition without any darkness or any luck to take it away from him, any piece of cloth blocking it. Too see her everything. She might as well allow it... allow the poor man stare at her completely and she fully allowing it, fully acknowledging his lustful stares without her stopping him, scolding him, just allowing him to see as much as possible as long as possible as some means of compensation for all the hard work she put him through & all insults hurled at him. A deep eye contact while she being fully naked and his erection gloriously towering tall teasing her, testing her temptation... She also wants to touch it... at least once and this maybe the only chance she can get....
23-04-2025, 09:50 AM
He had finished dressing.
His shirt was still half-wrinkled, damp in places, sticking to his back near the shoulder blades. His pants were creased at the knees, belt tightened one loop tighter than it needed to be. He looked smaller now. Not physically — but in presence. He had been nude, hard, sweating, shameless — and now? He looked like a boy who had been scolded by his college principal. He stood near the door, head slightly lowered, one hand on the handle, waiting to be dismissed. But I wasn’t letting him leave like that. Not without hearing me. Not without understanding who held the leash here. I walked forward. One step. Then another. Stopped just a couple feet behind him. He didn’t turn. But I knew he could feel my breath on his neck. I spoke — calm, low, steady: “Whatever happened in the lift…” “Whatever you saw…” “Whatever you felt... when your body fell against mine…” “Don’t ever dream about it.” I saw his shoulders stiffen slightly. He didn’t speak. I didn’t let him. “Don’t even think of it again. Don’t imagine. Don’t replay it. Erase it.” “Because if I even hear a whisper about this…” I stepped a bit closer. Let my words pierce. “You’ll be dead meat.” He finally turned slightly. His eyes were wide. Scared. Sweat began forming near his temple again. He spoke — voice shaky: “Madam… I swear… I won’t tell anyone. Not a word.” “It was… it was all accident. Just… just mistake. I promise.” I stared at him for a second longer. Then gave one slow nod. Turned away. Said nothing. He opened the door. Looked once over his shoulder. I didn’t return the look. He stepped out. And I closed the door. No slam. Just a sharp click. Lock engaged. Silence returned. I didn’t move for a few seconds. My legs were tired. My chest still sticky under the nighty. The fan spun lazily above, pushing warm air against my face. I walked to the sofa, not fast. Sat down, legs slightly apart, letting the fabric cool my thighs. And then… almost without thinking… I touched my chin. Right at the spot where his cock had pressed earlier. Where the weight of it had rested when I fell in that suffocating lift. I ran my fingers across that patch of skin. Closed my eyes for a second. Felt the faintest tingle. His cock wasn’t here anymore. But its shape still was. And my skin? Had already memorised it. I sat on the sofa. Door closed. Fan whirring softly above. The sound of his footsteps had faded from the corridor. He was gone. But inside me — it wasn’t over. I was still topless under the nighty. My chest still sticky. Thighs still clamped. And my mind? It wasn’t running wild. It was sharp. Focused. Quiet. My hand moved without permission. Fingers brushing my chin. The exact spot. That one place where the head of his cock had pressed against me. Soft at first. Then full. Heavy. Warm. Even now, I could feel the shape — that thick base, the swollen tip, the skin against my skin. Not a fantasy. A real, solid memory. I sat back, my palm sliding down my chest, fingertips tracing sweat lines under the nighty, and that’s when the thoughts began. Not guilt. Not panic. Just comparison. Just truth. Kartik. My husband. My partner. My children’s father. The man who, even during our best days, had never given my body anything close to fire. His cock? At most, five inches. Not thick. Not filling. Just… there. Quick in. Quicker out. He made me feel like I was being used — not touched. Even now, if I close my eyes, I can’t picture it clearly. Because I’d never really seen it. Never truly held it. Never felt full. Raj. Now him? I hadn’t seen it. But I had felt it. Twice. Once during that bike ride — when I slipped and fell into him. I had landed right against his lap. My thigh had pressed down. I felt it even through his jeans. And again during the buttermilk accident. That second… when he tried lifting me. One hand cupping my breast. The other at my waist. And in between? That thick pressure. Soft… but big. Not hard. But even soft, it felt larger than Kartik ever was during sex. It stayed in my mind longer than it should’ve. Arjun. That one glimpse. One careless morning. Him sleeping on the living room mattress, blanket slipped. Track pant stretched. The shape was there. Clear. Morning wood — thick, long, slightly curved toward his thigh. Bigger than Kartik. No doubt. But I hadn’t touched. Hadn’t even looked for long. Just enough to know. But Prakash? He was the only one I had fully seen. Open. Bare. Rock hard. And I hadn’t just seen it. It had touched my face. My chin. Pressed like a punishment. And now? That memory had burned a shape into my skin. I let my hand drift lower. Palm rested just above my stomach. Underneath? Red panty soaked. Not just from sweat. But from ache. From need. From remembering three men my husband would never allow me to mention. And one man he didn’t even know existed in this story. This wasn’t cheating. This wasn’t love. This wasn’t emotion. This was my body refusing to starve anymore. My fingers pressed down. Over the panty first. Then slowly… slipped under the fabric. And I thought: “This isn’t for him. This isn’t for anyone.” “This is mine.” I was still sitting on the sofa. The air from the fan was still spinning above me, but the heat hadn’t left my body. My breath was heavier now. The nighty had started sticking to my stomach and under my breasts, damp with sweat that had never fully dried since morning. My hairline was wet again, strands falling along the sides of my cheek. And without realising it… My hand had started moving. It had slipped down somewhere between silence and memory. Somewhere between sitting still and drowning in thoughts I didn’t ask for. My fingers weren’t shaking. They weren’t slow either. They were just… moving. Without effort. Without decision. Just brushing lightly across my lower belly first, pressing against the thin fabric of the nighty — then slowly resting on top of my panty. Right over that one spot. That burning, wet, ignored place between my legs that hadn’t been truly touched in God knows how long. It started as just pressure. No rhythm. No push. Just one hand… gently resting, rubbing in slow circles… through the soaked red cotton. And almost instantly, the first wave of guilt came. Loud. Harsh. Direct. “What are you doing, Pavitra?” “You’re married. You have children. You’re cheating.” “That man was a stranger. A guard. A filthy, low-class man. And you’re touching yourself remembering him?” My teeth pressed against each other. I shut my eyes. But my hand didn’t stop. It pressed again. A little firmer this time. And the pressure lit something under my stomach. Another voice came up inside me. Softer. More painful. “Kartik never made you feel like this.” “You’ve never once finished from his touch.” “He never cared if you were satisfied.” That voice came from my heart. And it hurt more than the guilt. My fingers dug a little harder now. Still over the panty. I was leaking — I could feel it. The fabric had already started to slide slightly between my folds from all the wetness. And then came the craving. The ache. From my own body. Raw. Unfiltered. Shameless. “I want a thicker cock.” “I want to be filled — fully.” “I want to know what it feels like to be taken, stretched, owned.” That thought? That was when I broke. I slipped my hand to the side of my panty. Hooked one finger. Then two. Lifted it. And pulled it down slowly. The elastic scbangd along my thighs. Sticky. Slick. Warm. I pushed it down to my knees. Then off completely. Dropped it to the floor. Didn’t care where it landed. Didn’t even glance down. I lifted the nighty up. Both hands gripping the sides of the cloth. Pulled it all the way to my waist. Bunched it just under my stomach. Now I was fully bare. My thighs were wide. My pussy was exposed to the fan air. Sticky. Wet. Hungry. And still, no part of me thought about love. Or passion. Or romance. This was need. Pure, unmet, shameful, burning need. My fingers slipped in between. Touched the outer lips first. Slid easily. Soaked. Dripping. I pressed again. Middle finger finding the slit, rubbing gently in circles. Then lower. Then inside. Just a little. As I rubbed, the memories hit harder. One by one. Raj — the first touch. That accidental fall on the bike — how his cock had pressed against my thigh even through his jeans. It had felt wide. Long. Even when soft. And again — the buttermilk day. His cock brushing against my stomach as he held me. Not hard. But still… large. Much more than what I had known with Kartik. Arjun. Morning wood. Track pants tight. Blanket half off. Cock pushing upward like a pole. Didn’t even notice I had seen. But I had. And that shape? That size? It was no joke. Prakash. The cock I had truly seen. Naked. Hard. Veiny. Throbbing. Pointed at me like it belonged in my mouth. Pressed against my chin like it wanted to brand me. The thickness. The length. Double Kartik. More than eight inches, at least. And Kartik? Five. Skinny. Shy. Quick. Unseen. Forgotten. My fingers moved faster. Rubbing now. Up and down. Breathing harder. Legs shaking. My head tilted back. And I whispered to no one: “I’m not cheating…” “I’m just… finally full.” I couldn’t even remember when it started. How my hand had reached down. How the nighty had lifted. How my fingers had slipped beneath the fabric without asking for permission. All I knew now was that my pussy lips were open — slowly spreading under my own fingers, wet, soft, aching — like they were welcoming something they hadn’t tasted in years. My middle finger was already halfway in. Not pushing. Just resting. Getting used to the feel. And my body? Had already accepted it. I shifted slightly on the sofa. My bare thigh stuck for a second on the cotton cushion before peeling off with a light pull. I didn’t even look down. Didn’t need to. I could feel it all. The warmth between my legs had grown heavier. Thicker. Wetter. Like I was melting from the inside. And my hand? Was moving again. Just small strokes at first. One finger rubbing up and down. Then circling. Then pushing in, just a little more. Each time I pulled out and re-entered, my lips opened wider. Pussy lips — soft and slick now, parting slowly with every stroke. Not from desire. Not from fantasy. From hunger. “You’re a married woman.” “You have children.” “This is wrong, Pavitra.” My mind repeated it like a chant. But my hand? Didn’t stop. I wasn’t fantasizing about love. I wasn’t thinking about passion or candlelight or kisses. I was thinking about Raj — when his cock rubbed against my stomach as he lifted me. How heavy it felt even through jeans. How big it felt in soft state. I was thinking about Arjun — how that morning wood pushed out from his pants as he slept, making me swallow my breath and turn away before I saw too much. I was thinking about Prakash — the only cock I had ever seen in full. Naked. Hard. Thick. Almost angry with how it stood up. I had felt it on my chin. The shape still lived on my skin. And now? It lived under my fingers. I slipped a second finger in. Deeper this time. Slower. My body clenched around it. Tight. Needy. Welcoming. My hand was wet. Slippery. The inner walls pulled me in with every push. I gasped once. Mouth slightly open. Not because of a moan. But because of the pressure. My pussy lips were twitching now. Shaking slightly with every rub. That small nub above the entrance — the one Kartik never found — now felt like it was going to explode. My palm pressed over it. Not soft. Firm. I began rubbing again. Small, tight, circular movements. Faster. Harder. Fingers still inside. Palm working the top. My legs opened wider. My breath got stuck. And I could feel it. Not joy. Not romance. Not anything soft. Just something deep, raw, angry. And coming fast. I bit my lip. Not to control a moan. But to survive the weight of what was building. And then— It hit. The orgasm came not like a wave. Not like a shiver. But like a slap. Like a dam bursting after years of holding. My legs jerked once. My back arched hard. My fingers curled inside me. And my hips froze. No scream. No word. Just one long, hard, wet release that shot through my thighs, soaked my hand, and made my whole body pause. I came. Not for anyone. Just for me. And when it was over? I didn’t smile. Didn’t blush. I just sat there. Breathing. Slowly. Heavily. Chest rising and falling under the old nighty. Hair stuck to my forehead. Thighs still parted. Wetness dripping down one leg. And in that stillness… came a voice. Not loud. Not urgent. But calm. Almost curious. “What now?” “You needed this.” “But where is this going?” “You love Kartik.” “You want to protect that.” “But your body… it’s not done.” “This will come again.” I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Not yet. I didn’t have a plan. Not today. But I knew something had shifted. Something inside me had changed. I slowly pulled my fingers out. Stared at them. Soaked. Shiny. Sticky. My smell, my ache, my truth. I wiped them on the petticoat that still lay near the corner. Folded my legs in. Pulled the nighty back down. Sat there quietly. Still hot. Still messy. Still unsure. No rules were made today. But I had taken the first step. And somewhere deep in my breath, I knew: “Next time, I need control.” “Next time… I’ll decide the line.” I stood under the shower. The water wasn’t cold. It wasn’t hot either. Just enough to remind me I was still here — still real. Still Pavitra. Still a mother. Still a wife. Still the woman who cleaned the kitchen twice a day and folded uniforms for two kids before 8:00 a.m. And yet… Just one hour ago, I was sitting on that sofa. Fingers soaked. Thighs open. Panty tossed on the floor. Thinking about another man’s cock. The water hit the back of my neck and flowed slowly over my shoulders. Down my breasts. Down my belly. Between my legs. I didn’t rub hard. I didn’t scrub. I just let the water rinse away the last one hour — drop by drop. But the memory? Didn’t go. It stayed. Pressed like a thumbprint into the back of my mind. I stepped out of the shower. Didn’t take the towel right away. I stood in front of the mirror. Completely naked. Wet. Chest rising and falling slowly. Hair flat against my cheeks. Water still running down the curve of my waist. And I looked at myself. Not ashamed. Not proud. Just tired. Just thinking. “What am I doing?” “This can’t become a habit…” “I love Kartik.” “I love my family.” I wiped the fog off the mirror gently with my palm. My reflection became clearer. And my thoughts… started to settle. Not like a lecture. Not like a plan. Just soft promises to myself. “This doesn’t mean I don’t love him.” “I’m still a good wife… I just didn’t ask for this ache.” “As long as no one knows, no harm is done.” “One time is weakness. That’s not who I am.” “I won’t go looking for it… if anything happens, it should come to me.” “My kids shouldn’t see even a single change in me.” “Let them look, let them stare — I won’t say yes unless I want to.” “I can stop anytime… I still have control.” “My heart is still home. I haven’t left it.” “Maybe this is just for now… maybe this will pass.” I breathed out softly. And whispered aloud to myself: “I won’t let this ruin my name. Or my house. Or my life.” I wiped my body dry. Took the towel and slowly dried my arms, then chest, then between my legs. Not roughly. Just gently. As if I was calming my skin. Telling it: enough for today. I walked to the cupboard. Took out a soft cotton T-shirt. Plain. Loose. Pulled it over my head. Then pulled out a pair of black shorts — knee-length, old, comfy. Wore it. No bra. No panty. Just fabric. Air. And quiet. And when I looked back at the mirror again… I saw the same Pavitra. Same face. Same eyes. Same bindi. But inside her? A line had been drawn. A soft, shaking line. That only she could see. I switched off the lights in the bedroom. Laid down. Just for a few minutes, I thought. Just to give my spine some rest. The fan above spun lazily, and I pulled the bedsheet just over my legs. Not because of cold. Just out of habit. And slowly… My eyelids dropped. Sleep didn’t come like a punch. It came slowly. Softly. Wrapping around my skin like steam. And inside my chest — those ten quiet rules I told myself started whispering again. Over and over. Like a prayer. Like comfort. Like a wall between me and everything I’d done. I slept.
23-04-2025, 10:50 AM
marvelous update...
Prakash is a sin that includes Pavithra
23-04-2025, 10:57 AM
(23-04-2025, 09:50 AM)yazhiniram Wrote: He had finished dressing.Just superb...Brilliant clp); clp); clp); yr):
23-04-2025, 11:27 AM
Too much build-up. I hope it doesn’t become boring at the main scene
23-04-2025, 07:29 PM
The alarm rang at 4.
Soft vibration first, then the ringtone. I opened my eyes, slowly. Didn’t get up. Just stared at the ceiling fan above. I didn’t feel like moving. The light from the window had that evening glow. Soft, orange, like it had been filtering through dust all day. My hand reached under the pillow. I turned the alarm off. I could hear the usual sounds outside. A child crying somewhere. A scooter passing. Some metal gate closing loudly in the next block. Then came the other sound. Not from outside. From inside my head. That memory. The lift. That tight, sweaty darkness. That thick air filled with my own breath and his. Prakash. That moment I’ll never be able to forget, even if I want to. His body pressed near me. That rough voice. That long silence. And most of all… his cock. I closed my eyes tighter. Why now? Why again? I could feel the skin of my cheek warm up just from the thought. I turned my head to the side and cursed under my breath. “Why am I like this…” I sat up slowly. Tied my hair up in a small bun and stood near the mirror. I didn’t even look at my reflection. Just wiped the corner of my mouth and walked out to the hall. Two minutes later, I heard the van. The usual van horn. Kids were back. Same time every day. The door opened fast. Bags thrown inside. Water bottles rolled across the floor. “Ammaaaaaaaa!” The younger one came running, already pulling his socks out. The older one just said, “I’m tired,” and dropped his bag near the shoe rack. “Wash your hands first,” I said. “No Amma. First juice,” he begged. “Go. Wash. Then come.” They grumbled, but went. That was Tuesday. Wednesday was the same. Alarm. Wake up. Kids came back. Exams still going. One was scared of maths. The other didn’t care. I gave them snacks. Boost. Rava dosa. Later some mixture. Wiped the floor three times that day. Thursday, I had headache. But still followed routine. By now, I could do it with my eyes closed. Three full days passed like that. Same alarm. Same kids shouting. Same towels flung over the sofa. Same socks on the floor. But inside my mind… things were not the same. Small things kept coming back. Like when I folded clothes, I remembered Raj anna’s hand brushing mine near the steel tray. That pause. That grip. Not long, but enough for my skin to remember. Or when I bent down to pick a toy, I remembered Arjun standing at the doorway, eyes holding just a second too long. Or when I opened the cupboard, I saw a towel—and suddenly, that flash of Prakash’s cock jumped into my mind again. I shut the cupboard and scolded myself. “Why are these things still coming up?” But no answer. Because I didn’t want to admit that I liked the feeling. Not what happened. But how I felt after. That heat. That guilt. That rush. And now… Friday. Morning was quiet. Kids had college. I woke up early. Gave them pongal. Packed lunch. Appa called around 12. “I’ll come fo lunch,” he said. He wanted to take the boys to hometown. For holidays. If they start around 4:30, They’ll reach by dinner. Appa came around 2:20. I opened the door. Gave him water. He drank and smiled. He was tired, because of climbing stairs. Lift is not working. So he takes a rest. I packed kids bags. Kept everything ready. Even packed their favourite snacks in a tiffin box. One had mixture. Other had banana chips. I checked their undergarments. One towel each. Extra toothbrush. Odomos. Everything was packed and zipped. At 4 PM sharp, kids came. Same energy. Same mess. Same shouting. But this time, they were excited. “Amma! Is thatha came?” “Did you pack my Avengers t-shirt?” “I want to take Beyblade!” I told them to calm down. Gave them warm milk. They drank fast. Appa also ready, came out prepared to leave. “All ready?” he asked. “Everything’s inside.” Kids jumped and hugged him. I handed over the bags. “Is driver around?” I asked. “Yes, he is waiting at parking. We’ll reach home by 9.” “Eat at the on the way. Don’t wait till village.” He nodded. Kids wore slippers and ran to the lift. “Bye Ammaaaaaaa!” “Be good!” I shouted. And then the door closed. They were going on stairs again. And the house became… Silent. Totally silent. I locked the door. Turned around. Walked slowly to the hall. One sock was still on the floor. I bent down and picked it. Wiped the dining table. Biscuit crumbs. The steel tumbler was on the floor mat. I picked that too. Then just stood in the middle of the house. Fan spinning slowly. No sound. Even the fridge hum felt louder now. I looked around. Nobody. Nothing. Just me. It was 4:45 PM. I sat on the bed for five minutes. Then stood up. Today was Friday. And I had already decided—I’ll take proper bath and go to temple. It’s been a while. I went to the cupboard. Took out my temple saree. Soft blue cotton with small border. I kept it on the hanger for after bath. My maroon saree was already sticking. I had worn it since morning. Sweat near the back. Petticoat string too tight. I entered the main room bathroom. Turned on the water. Let it run. Came out. Closed the bedroom door. Untied the saree. It slid off easily. I folded it roughly and kept it on the chair. Now I was in blouse and petticoat only. No bra. Removed it after lunch. Blouse was front open. Simple hooks. Slightly damp under the chest. The petticoat knot had loosened slightly near the side. Just a small gap. Enough to show a thin strip of green panty if I moved. I looked in the mirror. Yes—it was visible. One small triangle of fabric peeking from the knot. I thought of fixing it. Then left it. Who’s going to see? Nobody. I ran my hand across my waist once. My skin was warm. The blouse was hugging more than usual. I took the towel and wiped my neck. Fan was blowing across my back. The bathroom light was still on. I stepped in again. Bucket almost half. Still not full. I came out again. Walked to the shelf for my shampoo sachet. And then— ding-dong. One bell. Just one. Sharp. Loud. And then… Silence. I stood still. Not a step forward. Still inside the bedroom. Only blouse and petticoat. Towel in hand. Panty edge still showing near the knot. I didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just… waited. I didn’t move for a few seconds after that first bell. My ears were sharp now. No voice. No footsteps. Just one bell, and then nothing. I felt it coming. That same irritation. Every time I’m in the middle of something private, someone has to disturb. Why this timing? I stood still, my fingers holding the edge of the towel. Maybe it’s the watchman. That Prakash. Always standing around, watching silently like he’s measuring something. Or maybe Raj anna. He also has that habit of appearing quietly. Friendly face, but always somehow showing up at the wrong time. I didn’t like either option. Then— Ding-dong. Second ring. Longer. And now I was sure. “Must be that Prakash fellow,” I muttered. “He needs one tight slap. Idiot.” My eyes rolled automatically. I pulled the towel from my shoulder and placed it across my blouse. Not full coverage—just enough to hide the top line. Still, my chest shape was clear. The blouse was front-hook, and it had already darkened under the bust line with dampness. My petticoat knot had shifted. Slight triangle gap near my left hip. That green panty inside was faintly showing if someone stood in front. I was aware. I knew. But I didn’t fix it. I was already annoyed. Walked straight to the door. No questions. No “who is it?” I just unlocked the bolt, slid the door open slightly, and showed only my face. And then— My eyes met his. Arjun. He stood calmly. Wearing a light blue shirt, sleeves rolled halfway. Office bag on one shoulder. Face looked slightly tired, but his smile came the moment he saw me. “Hi anni,” he said, like always. Soft voice. Like every evening. I didn’t return the smile. Just opened the door fully and stepped slightly aside. As he entered… His head turned slightly downward. Not fast. Not clearly staring. But I felt it. That one look. From my eyes to my shoulder. Then my chest. Then the petticoat. And that hip. That small knot gap. His eyes moved there for just one second. Maybe even less. But I caught it. And in that second, he might’ve seen the green line. The panty. I didn’t cover. Didn’t move. Just stood there with towel loosely placed, body facing inside. He stepped in slowly. Quiet. His right hand reached back and clicked the door lock. I didn’t turn. Just said, “I’ll finish bath and come.” He didn’t reply. Didn’t ask anything. Didn’t look directly. But that one second... That was enough. I turned away and walked fast toward the bathroom. My back was fully visible to him. Blouse had small wet patches under the shoulder blades. Towel had slipped slightly toward the side. Petticoat sat low on my hips, hugging tight. I didn’t fix it. Just opened the bathroom door, entered, and closed it behind me. Clicked the latch. I stood there for a moment. Didn’t touch anything. Just stood facing the sink. My heart was beating a little faster than normal. I reached and turned off the pipe. Water had filled. Bucket almost full. I placed the towel on the hanger and leaned forward. Palms on the edge of the sink. Blouse stuck to my chest. Both nipples were pressing softly against the fabric. My skin was warm. My hip was sweating slightly under the petticoat. I stared at the tile wall. Didn’t speak. Just thought— “He saw.” I’m sure he saw. And I… I let him. Not directly. Not openly. But I didn’t cover. Didn’t adjust anything. And his eyes… they didn’t lie. Even if his mouth was silent. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t scared. But I was— Aware. That’s all. Too aware. I closed my eyes. Pressed my forehead gently against the cool tile. Breathed in. And whispered softly, just to myself— “Why always like this…” I let the water run down my body one last time. Neck to thigh. Cool. Heavy. Clean. The oil and sweat were all gone. I felt fresh. Calm. Eyes closed, I tilted my head back slightly under the bucket pour. Let it soak the last part of my hair. Then reached out to the hook. My hand stopped. The hook was empty. No towel. I blinked. Once. Twice. Then suddenly remembered— “I left it on the bed.” My heart skipped. My chest was dripping. Drops slid down from my breasts to my stomach. My thighs were soaked. The small pink face towel I used earlier was hanging, but that couldn’t even cover half my chest. My mind started racing. I can’t wear the same old dress now. It’s sweaty. Dusty. Still lying in the corner. And Arjun is outside. Sitting in the hall. Or maybe in the kitchen now. My blouse and petticoat are on the chair in the bedroom. And the towel is on the bed. Just few steps away. But wide open space in between. “What should I do now?” I whispered to myself. I stared at the door. Thought of wrapping the small towel around my chest. Tried. It barely held. One movement and it would fall. My fingers played with the edge of the bathroom latch. No other option. I had to ask him. Ask Arjun. “God…” I closed my eyes and took a breath. Then called softly, “Arjun…” My voice was low. Maybe he didn’t hear. I waited five seconds. No reply. I called again. Slightly louder. Still nothing. My hand went to the latch. Fingers trembling slightly—not from fear, just from how awkward this was. I unlocked it. Opened the door just one inch. Peeped out. Didn’t see anyone. I moved a bit more. My entire head was outside now. And my left shoulder too. Bare. Wet. Nude. The water was still dripping from my collarbone. I whispered again, “Arjun…” This time he heard. I saw him stand up from the chair. He turned and saw me. He didn’t react suddenly. Just walked toward me. His eyes stayed on my face. Then moved slightly lower. He could only see my shoulder. But he must have understood. I was completely nude inside. No towel. Nothing. I didn’t look into his eyes directly. Just kept my chin down and said, “Can you bring my towel… It’s on the bed.” He didn’t speak. Just turned. Went to the bedroom. I pulled the door back gently. Closed it fully. My hand was still damp from the knob. I waited. He didn’t take long. Maybe ten seconds. “Anni…” he called softly from outside. I opened the door just enough to put my hand out. He placed the towel in my palm. Soft. Big. Still warm from the room. I pulled it in immediately. “Thank you,” I said. Barely audible. Click. I locked the door again. My breathing was uneven now. I opened the towel. Dbangd it fully around my body. Pressed it gently over my chest. My nipples were stiff. Skin still wet. I wiped my face. My neck. My arms. Then down to my thighs. But my mind? Still standing at that half-open door. Still hearing his footsteps walking toward me. Still seeing the way his eyes didn’t look away in fear… Or shame. Only silence. That silence said everything. I stood there near the mirror, towel in hand. Body almost dry now. I had wiped my arms, shoulders, stomach, thighs. Even ran the cloth under my breasts once to soak the water stuck beneath. The big towel was still wrapped around me. I reached for the smaller one and wrapped it around my head. Quick twist and knot. Hair secured. Then I paused. Looked at myself. I can’t step out like this. Just one towel around the body? That too barely holding? It had slipped once already while I wiped. If I even bend slightly, it’ll show everything. I looked down. The towel just touched the upper part of my thighs. Just above the line where my petticoat normally rests. If I walked fast, it might shift. If I sat, it would rise. And if I bent forward— My pussy would be clearly visible. No doubt. No cloth inside. Just bare. Skin to air. I stepped back from the mirror and whispered, “Why are you testing me like this…” I bit my lip. Stood still. Thought hard. Should I call Arjun again? Ask him to bring my blouse, petticoat, and saree from the chair? No. Impossible. That blouse is loose. Petticoat twisted. Saree folded in half. And worse—my bra and panty are also there, mixed with the set. I can’t let him carry all that. Even if I ask nicely, even if he doesn’t react… It’s not right. He’s Kartik’s younger brother. And I’m not shameless. No choice. Have to go like this. Just towel. I pulled it tighter around my chest. It barely held. Top edge pressed just above my nipples. Any shift, they’ll show. My cleavage was already visible from the center. I looked down at my thighs. Smooth. Shaved two days back. Skin shining slightly from the bath. I placed one palm on my stomach. Took a deep breath. Stood near the door. Listened. Fan sound. No footsteps. He must be outside. Waiting. I turned the latch. Opened the door slowly. And saw him. Arjun. Sitting on the dining chair. Not scrolling phone. Not reading paper. Just… looking. Looking directly at the bathroom door. Like he was waiting. Or maybe just curious. Or maybe… Waiting for me to show this drama? My inner voice spoke without filter. “Is he expecting a show?” I smiled softly. Not because I was happy. But because I was stuck. And he was watching. I stepped out. Slowly. One foot, then the other. My left hand held the towel near my chest. Right hand held the edge near my thigh. I walked past the kitchen counter. Then past the dining table. His eyes were on me. I felt it. From my legs— Clean, smooth, still damp— To my hips— Wrapped tight but curve still visible— To my chest— Where the towel pressed against my breasts. He didn’t blink. Didn’t look down in shame. Didn’t turn away. He just watched. Calm face. Steady gaze. And that scared me more than if he had stared with hunger. Since when did he become this confident? Where did that shy boy go? I didn’t stop. Just walked fast. But not too fast. My thigh muscles moved naturally with each step. The towel moved slightly with each breath. I didn’t look at him. But I knew. He saw everything. And I… Let him. I reached the bedroom door. Opened it. Stepped in. And closed it softly behind me. The lock clicked. And I leaned back against the door for a second. Breathing normal. But skin… Burning. I leaned back on the door for a second. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. Then cursed myself softly. “Why like this, always?” Opened the cupboard. Pulled out the clothes from the top shelf one by one. Bra first. Strapped it on quickly. Tightened the hooks. Adjusted once. Felt better. Then panty. Simple cotton. Light green. Same as before. I ran the towel once down my legs. Skin still damp, but clean. Blouse next. Pink front-hook. Slightly loose. I tucked the inner edge properly under the bra. Then petticoat. Tied it tightly this time. Double knot. No chance for gaps. Finally, the saree. Blue cotton with thin silver border. Simple. Clean. Perfect for Friday temple. I wrapped it around slowly. Pleated it neatly. Pallu over the left shoulder. Adjusted it once so that the border sat flat on my chest. Hair still wet. Didn’t bother drying it fully. Let it fall loose down my back. Picked up the small dabba of talcum powder. Dusted a little on neck and collarbone. Then looked at myself in the mirror. Took the bindi from the shelf. Placed it between my brows. Stepped back. Looked again. Yes. Perfect. Simple. But sharp. Soft. But graceful. Even I paused at the reflection for a moment. “Gorgeous,” I thought, without guilt. Just then— Raj anna’s voice came to mind. That day when he said, “You don’t need lipstick, you know? You look complete as you are.” I don’t know why I thought of that now. Shook my head. “Forget him.” I picked up the towel from the bed and opened the door. There he was. Arjun. Still sitting at the dining chair. But this time… his eyes were fixed on the bedroom door. Exactly where I stepped out. I raised my eyebrow. “Sir… no plans to refresh or what?” I said mockingly, soft teasing in my voice. He blinked. Looked slightly shocked. Maybe mesmerized. His eyes took one second too long to reach mine. I saw it. That delay. His gaze had already moved over my waist, the curve under the pallu, the freshly washed hair sticking to my collar. He snapped out of it. “Sorry anni!” he said suddenly, standing up. I smirked. “Don’t forget to take towel,” I added casually as he stepped forward. He paused. Smiled sheepishly. “I won’t,” he said. I laughed. Short, soft, but genuine. He walked fast toward the bathroom, holding his clothes. I turned and went to the kitchen. Took out the vessel. Poured milk into the small pan. Lit the stove. Slow flame. Evening tea. The smell of fresh boiled milk always calmed me. I added ginger and crushed elaichi. Waited till the bubbles formed at the edges. He came out ten minutes later. Wearing a white t-shirt and black trousers. Casual. Neat. But that boyish look was there. Hair towel-dried. Face slightly flushed from the bath. Like a college student after sports hour. I handed him the cup. “Tea,” I said. He nodded. “Thanks anni.” I poured one for myself too. Leaning against the counter, sipping quietly. The two of us stood in the kitchen. Not speaking much. Just tea. Fan sound. Light clinks of the spoon inside the cup. Time on the wall clock said 5:50. I looked once toward the puja shelf. Then at my bag near the shoe rack. Temple. I had to go. Inside my head, that quiet thought formed— “Time to go now.”
24-04-2025, 10:15 AM
I took the last sip of tea slowly.
Still warm. I turned to Arjun, who was finishing his cup near the sink. “I’m going to temple,” I said casually. He nodded without much expression. “Okay anni. I have some office calls anyway. I’ll finish that.” He wiped his hands and walked toward the hall. I placed the empty cups in the sink and took ₹100 from the purse. Folded it into my blouse corner and tied the pallu over it. Took my phone and keys. Checked once more. Gas off. Main light off. Then stepped out and locked the door. The evening was calm. Slight breeze. Corridor smelled like someone had just cleaned with phenyl. I walked toward the lift. Pressed the button. Nothing. Pressed again. Still nothing. I sighed. Looked at the small digital display above. Blank. Not even showing numbers. “Useless association…” I muttered. I turned and looked down the stairs. All seven floors. I stood for a second, then whispered, “Oh god…” But no other choice. I started walking down. One step. Two steps. Saree caught near my ankle. Adjusted and continued. The steps felt endless. By third floor, I was already feeling the tightness in my knees. By second floor, I was wiping my forehead. I didn’t speak. Didn’t curse loudly. Just breathed heavier and pushed on. By the time I reached the ground floor, my chest was rising and falling faster. Sweat had started forming under my blouse. I stepped into the corridor, still adjusting my pallu. And then— I saw him. Prakash. That filthy man. Security dress unbuttoned slightly. Belt loose. Sitting with one leg over the other. The moment he saw me— Big smile. Teeth yellow. Eyes shameless. His head lifted a little, like he was happy to see me. Like he was waiting. My eyes narrowed. I didn’t say a word. Just gave him a look. But not ordinary. That look. The one that says, I’ll pluck your eyes out and feed them to a dog if you even think something dirty. He straightened up slightly. But the smile didn’t vanish. I walked past him. Didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. But… My hand went to my chin. Without thinking. Just touched it. That same spot. Where his cock had brushed that day in the lift. Soft. Thick. Unwanted. But unforgettable. I cursed myself silently. “Why am I like this?” “Why is that filthy thing coming to my mind again?” I shook my head. “No. Not today.” “Today I’m going to temple.” Straight. Clean. Focused. I stepped outside the gate. The temple was just three lanes away. I walked slowly. Bought flowers from the usual lady. Gave her ₹50. She gave a small smile. “Was expecting you, ma? Today is friday right” she asked. I nodded. Didn’t say anything more. I took the flowers. Plucked two strands. Placed one neatly in my hair. Just above the clip. The other portion I kept folded in the packet for offering. The temple was calm. Evening light inside. Bells ringing softly. Few people standing near the idol. I walked in, adjusted my pallu again. Gave the flowers at the counter. Folded my hands and bowed. Whispered a simple prayer. No big wishes. Just quietness. Asked for peace. Health. Strength to keep moving. Then sat in the side corner. Back against the cool temple wall. Closed my eyes. No thoughts. Just the smell of agarbatti. The sound of bell every few seconds. One small kid ran past me. His anklet made a soft jingle. I smiled slightly. Sat for ten minutes like that. Calm. Breathing. Balanced. Then slowly stood up. Wiped the corner of my eye with my saree. And whispered to myself— “Time to go.” I stood up slowly from the temple wall. Straightened my saree pleats. Took one last glance at the lamp and folded my hands briefly toward the idol. Then turned. As I walked toward the gate, I noticed someone standing near the entrance pathway. Slim figure. Blue chudi. White leggings. It was her. Anusha. Our new neighbor. She had moved into the 1BHK next to ours around a month back. I had seen her a few times in the lift, once in the corridor. Polite girl. Always with a faint smile. She never looked in a hurry. Never had loud phone calls. Never brought friends home. Only quietness. Today she was standing alone, holding a small flower packet. Her face looked fresh—no makeup, just natural skin with that soft pink flush. Hair tied in a clean ponytail, with two small strands loose near her cheeks. She looked younger than I had imagined. Maybe 24? And now that I stood closer—I realised she was a little shorter than me. Her chudi top hugged her softly. Not tight, not loose. Just fitted enough to show the small curve of her chest, and the line of her waist. Her dupatta was thrown carelessly around one side, almost sliding. Her legs—fair, toned under the white leggings—were neatly placed together. She noticed me. Lifted her face. And smiled. That small, gentle smile we always exchange in the corridor. But today, I smiled back and took one step forward. “You came to the temple?” I asked softly. She nodded. “Yes… actually, first time. I didn’t know it’s this peaceful in the evenings.” Her voice was sweet. Soft-spoken. The kind of voice that doesn’t push. I nodded and looked at her again. There was something… composed about her. The way she stood. The way she tilted her head slightly while talking. She wasn’t nervous. But also not overly confident. Just… calm. Her top shifted slightly as she adjusted her bag strap. The neckline moved just a bit, and I noticed her collarbone. Smooth. Sharp. That thin chain resting between her curves. I looked away for a second, not realising how long my eyes had stayed. Then asked, “You’re in 703, right?” She smiled again. “Yes. Just joined the Chennai branch last month. They gave this flat.” I nodded. “Must be tiring, living alone?” She shrugged softly. “Sometimes… but I like the quiet.” I understood that line. Exactly. We stood like that for a moment. Two women. One married. One alone. Different lives. But same silence. “Come home sometime…” I said, with a half-smile. “Whenever you’re free.” Her eyes lit up a little. “Sure,” she said. She adjusted her dupatta again—this time it fell forward and rested softly across her chest. My eyes instinctively went there again. Then quickly shifted to her bangles. She nodded politely and walked into the temple. I watched her walk for a second. Steps light. Body straight. Hips moving just enough to show confidence, not intention. I turned back, adjusted the edge of my pallu, and started walking back. The evening breeze was soft. Flowers in my hair moved gently with each step. My slippers made a dry sound on the pavement. My mind was quiet. My body felt light. As I turned the corner and reached near our apartment gate, I slowed down. The building stood ahead. Calm. Still. I didn’t enter yet. Just stood a few steps before the gate. One breath in. One step forward. I reached the gate. Soft light from the compound bulb fell across the concrete path. And there he was. Prakash. Sitting like he owned the entire building. Legs spread. Leaning back on the plastic chair like a king. Security cap thrown on the side hook. Shirt loose. Belly showing. One hand holding his mobile. Other one resting on his thigh, fingers moving slowly. The moment he saw me—he straightened up a bit. But only a bit. Not because he respected me. But because he enjoyed what he saw. His smile came without shame. Full teeth. Eyes wide. As if I was some temple goddess arriving just for him. Bloody bastard. I walked straight toward him. Didn’t slow down. Didn’t flinch. And stopped exactly in front of him. He looked up at me. His eyes— They didn’t stay on my face. No. First they scanned my pallu. Then my waistline. Then lower. Then up again. And I saw it. That lust. That open, disgusting heat in his eyes. The same eyes that looked at my bare chest inside that dark lift. The same eyes that had watched my petticoat stick to my hips when I had no blouse on. I didn’t blink. I snapped my fingers once, sharp. He looked startled. “Hey,” I said, voice low but firm. “What happened to the lift?” He adjusted his sitting posture like he was just waking up. “Madam… as you know… it’s been giving problem since last week.” I narrowed my eyes. That tone. That casual line. He wasn’t just saying it for information. He was reminding me. Reminding me of that day. That moment. That silence. That heat. That naked, disgusting closeness. I clenched my jaw. “Problem, ah?” I said sarcastically. He nodded. “Yes madam. Actually… that day also—” I raised my hand. “Don’t even say one more word.” He shut up. Swallowed. Then tried again. “Technician will come tomorrow. Fix it pakka. Already informed.” I didn’t answer immediately. Just looked at him. Let him sweat for one second. Then leaned slightly forward. “So you want me to climb seven floors now?” He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Didn’t know what to say. I smirked slightly. “Very good. Excellent service.” Then turned. Didn’t wait. Didn’t say bye. Just started walking. My sandals made a sharp sound against the gate floor. And I knew. His eyes were on my hips. My back. Maybe imagining again what he saw in the lift. But this time— He won’t get anything more. Not a single glimpse. I walked straight to the stairs. And started climbing. I placed one foot on the first step. Then the second. Each step felt harder than the last. My slippers slapped against the rough cement, and my saree swayed around my legs, pulling with every move. By the time I reached the first floor landing, my back was already damp again. And then I heard him. Footsteps behind. “Madam… madam, sorry madam…” I didn’t turn. Didn’t slow down. He was climbing behind me—his voice trying to sound soft, innocent. “Unexpected only madam… what to do… very old system… technician—” “Enough,” I snapped, still climbing. Didn’t even look back. He quietened for a second, then spoke again. “I just want to tell, I informed committee also… I told last week…” I turned my head slightly, not fully. “If anyone sees you following me up like this, what will they think?” I asked sharply. “Go down.” “But madam, I—” “Go!” I said louder, stopping one step. He slowed down behind me. I didn’t wait. Started again. Second floor. My legs were starting to ache now. The pain ran from the side of my thighs to the back of my knees. The stairs felt longer than usual today. Third floor. My saree blouse was sticking at the back. Sweat collected near my shoulder blades. The flowers in my hair had already loosened. I reached the landing and paused. Placed one hand against the railing. My legs were shivering. Three more floors left. “God…” I whispered, looking up. Then I heard his footsteps going back down. Good. But I couldn’t move. I was still breathing hard. I looked down once more. He had just reached the second floor. “Hey!” I called. He turned, surprised. “Come back.” He came up quickly. Stood near the wall, one hand behind his back like some college boy. I stared at him. Breathing still heavy. “See how you all make us suffer?” I said it through gritted teeth. He kept quiet. Then said softly, “Sorry madam…” My head was spinning a bit now. I pressed one hand against my waist. My chest was moving up and down with each breath. He looked at me. Silent. Then his eyes moved to my feet. My sandals were loose. Toes slightly red from strain. He looked up again. Then paused. His lips parted. “Madam…” he said slowly, “Can I… carry you?” My eyes widened. “What?” I said, still panting. He hesitated, then said again— “Madam… if you want… I can carry you upstairs…” My mouth stayed open for a second. Was he serious? This filthy Prakash? Asking to carry me? Up to the seventh floor? My mind went blank for a moment. Then it started to race. |
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