Adultery The Language of Her Heart

[sexypreeti]

This is simply outstanding  clp); clp); clp);

[Hotyyhard]

Prakash will carry her and touch her body where ever he wants its getting hotter episode by episode

[Vijay42]

[yazhiniram]

Who is the Ram?
Who is the Ram?
Who is the Ram?

I doubt that probably the writer's ram?

Its a mistake. It should be Raj, the neighbour, Radhika Husband. I've addressed the mistake now.

[Vijay42]

Its a mistake. It should be Raj, the neighbour, Radhika Husband. I've addressed the mistake now.

sorry....i understand ...continue  

[yazhiniram]

I turned toward him with fire in my eyes.

“What the hell are you talking?” I snapped.

My voice echoed slightly in the narrow stairwell.

“I just went to temple… and you want to carry me? What do you think I am? A child?”

My chest was rising and falling with every breath.

“Stupid! Idiot!”

He stepped back a little, not saying anything.

His mouth moved once, but no words came.

I didn’t wait.

“Get lost,” I spat and turned away.

Gathered my strength.

One more step.

Then another.

And slowly, I pushed myself up one more floor.

Fourth floor.

My knees were gone.

Back starting to ache.

Sweat dripping down my spine under the saree blouse.

My hand clutched the railing so tightly, the skin near my thumb turned white.

But I made it.

Somehow.

I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes for a second.

No wind. No sound.

I opened my eyes and looked down.

He was still there.

Standing near the third floor landing.

Head bent down.

Not looking.

Not speaking.

Just standing.

Like a dog who got beaten.

I looked around.

Staircase empty.

No footsteps.

No doors opening.

Nobody was watching.

I pressed my lips together.

Then called—“Hey. Come up.”

He looked up.

Surprised.

Slowly started climbing again.

Stopped two steps below me.

I didn’t smile.

Didn’t soften.

Just asked flatly, “How are you going to lift me?”

He showed with his hands.

Bent his knees slightly. One hand showing behind the back, one under the knees.

Like some scene from old movie.

I narrowed my eyes.

“Don’t even dream.”

“If you drop me—”

I took one step closer.

Lowered my voice.

“I’ll cut your cock and put it in a mixer…”

“…grind it nicely and give it as juice to a street dog.”

His eyes widened.

I didn’t blink.

Then I said, softly but firmly—

“Carry me.”



He stood still for a second.

Then slowly stepped forward.

No questions.

No smirk.

No shame.

Just… quiet readiness.

His shadow merged with mine under the dim corridor tube light.

He bent down slightly.

One hand went under my knees.

Right at the bend, just above the ankle, fingers brushing the cotton saree.

The other hand moved to the side of my waist.

Not directly touching skin, but the way his palm curved over the saree, I could feel the pressure through every layer.

My breath held.

Not because of fear.

Not because of pleasure.

Just… because.

His grip around my waist was firm. Not too tight.

But strong.

Very strong.

Like the hand of a man who’s carried heavy bags his whole life.

Not gentle like Kartik’s touch.

Not smooth like Raj anna’s teasing press.

This one…

Was made to lift. Not to feel.

The skin on his fingers was rough. Like dried coconut shell. Or burnt towel edge.

Calloused.

Not from gym.

From years of gate keys, dust mopping, day heat, night mosquito slaps.

That hand cupped the curve of my hip without sliding.

No movement. No shame.

Just settled there.

Like it belonged.

And then—

He lifted me.

My body tilted. Saree folded up near my knees.

My left hand shot to his shoulder, out of instinct.

He straightened his knees and pulled me close.

My feet left the floor.

My stomach clenched.

I was off the ground.

Floating.

Held.

Carried.

My cheek almost brushed his.

I turned my head away quickly.

Didn’t want to be that close.

But even without contact—

The smell hit me.

God.

It wasn’t light.

It wasn’t mild.

It was raw.

Sweat. Shirt. Dust.

Like he had worn that uniform for three full shifts.

Like rain had hit it once, then dried in a dirty room.

It smelled of skin.

Of iron railing. Of plastic chair. Of unwashed pride.

I almost coughed.

But didn’t.

Held it inside.

My nose scrunched softly.

But at the same time—

Something weird.

Something deep inside—

Liked it.

No logic.

Just feeling.

Like my body knew the scent of hard men. Rough living. Dirty sweat.

And still respected it.

Still allowed it.

Still… wanted to understand it.

And maybe—

He was smelling me too.

Because I had just bathed.

Skin still soft. Slight glow from the powder I’d used.

Jasmine flowers in my hair.

Soap. Towel-dried. Clean.

Temple smell.

Homely smell.

High-class.

He must’ve felt it.

His face was right near my shoulder.

But he didn’t bury into it.

Didn’t sniff like a dog.

He stayed still.

Eyes forward.

Steps slow and steady.

His hand under my knees never trembled.

His arm around my waist didn’t slide.

But I felt the warmth.

Of palm.

Of fingers.

Of wrist.

I was in his arms completely.

My breast was softly pressed against his chest.

Not hard.

Just resting.

But I knew he could feel it.

Knew he knew it was there.

Still—he didn’t shift.

Didn’t adjust for more contact.

He just climbed.

One step.

Then another.

The staircase echoed under his sandals.

I looked at his shoulder.

Strong.

Not gym strong.

Work strong.

Like lifting gas cylinder strong.

Dustbin carrying strong.

My thigh was resting across his arm.

And I felt the way his skin met mine, even through the saree.

His hand didn’t tremble.

But my stomach was tight.

My heart was beating faster now.

Not because of love.

Not even desire.

Just heat.

Just awareness.

This was real.

He was carrying me.

Up the stairs.

Seventh floor.

And I was letting him.

My left arm slowly tightened around his neck—for balance.

The pallu had shifted slightly.

My saree pleats folded over my thigh.

I didn’t fix it.

Couldn’t.

His hand shifted slightly higher on my hip as he adjusted his grip.

Not groping.

Just anchoring.

My waist curved into his palm perfectly.

And I knew he felt it.

I felt his breath once.

Hot. Quick. Against my neck.

He was walking slower now.

Not from tiredness.

From caution.

Like he didn’t want to disturb the moment.

Didn’t want to fall.

Didn’t want to let go.

I stayed silent.

But my thigh muscles were tense.

My breath shallow.

The entire stairwell was quiet.

Only the sound of our steps.

And our bodies.

Moving.

Together.

Up.

Toward the seventh floor.

[Vijay42]

Prakash mind ...


upload images

[Vijay42]

Pavithra  ....

" I'll cut your cock and put it a mixer "

" Grind it nicely and give it as juice to a street dog "....

Prakash....

[Sarran Raj]

Great update

[StoryReader1]

Please continue

[Sage_69]

Another new character.

[yazhiniram]

We reached the 7th floor landing.

He didn’t even slow down near the sixth.

Just kept climbing.

Step after step.

Not even one grunt. Not a sound from his mouth.

I kept watching his face from the side.

Not a drop of strain.

Not even a twitch on his forehead.

His hold stayed steady. Arms firm.

Like carrying me was nothing.

Not special.

Not difficult.

Just another weight.

That made something twist inside me.

I wasn’t expecting to feel so… small.

He reached the landing.

Stopped neatly near the staircase gate.

My back brushed against the wall behind the door.

His grip adjusted slightly near my hip, maybe just to balance—but again, nothing indecent.

Still, that rough hand was there.

Right on my waist.

My saree clung a little, and I could feel the way his fingers touched the edge of the knot line.

That pressure.

Not sliding. Not grabbing.

But present.

I turned slightly, enough to face him.

My voice came out immediately.

“Hey…”

He looked at my face but not into my eyes.

“Put me down.”

He nodded.

No questions.

No delay.

Just lowered me gently.

His knees bent softly.

One hand slid away from under my thigh. The other from my waist.

I was back on the floor.

But for a moment… my balance wasn’t perfect.

My feet touched down, but my knees bent slightly, not ready.

My hand went quickly to the railing beside the gate.

Held it.

Took one breath.

Then straightened.

I stood tall.

Blouse clinging at the back, soaked from sweat and warmth.

I pulled my pallu tight.

Dbangd it flat across my chest. Tucked the edge deeper.

One flick of my fingers to fix the pleats near my thigh.

Slight rub under the bust to push the blouse back into place.

I wasn’t fixing for beauty.

I was sealing everything again.

Then I turned to him.

His head was down.

Eyes still not meeting mine.

“Don’t think this is some chance,” I snapped.

“Just because I said okay… doesn’t mean anything.”

He didn’t reply.

Not even a blink.

I took a step forward, my voice sharper.

“Don’t even dream of taking this as advantage.”

His body didn’t shift.

Hands by his side.

Still.

Just breathing lightly.

“Now go,” I said finally, my tone low and final.

He didn’t argue.

Didn’t nod.

Just turned.

Took one step.

Then another.

Back down the stairs.

I stood still.

Watched his shoulders disappear around the curve of the staircase.

His slippers made soft, dragging sounds on the cement.

Not rushed.

Not loud.

He didn’t look back.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t smile.

Just left.

I turned back toward the gate.

Pressed the latch.

Pushed it open.

The corridor was quiet.

Evening breeze came from the small window near the lift shaft.

I stood there for a second.

My body still warm from the lift.

My waist still carried that pressure.

My right hand slowly moved to my hip… pressed once on the spot he held.

Not thinking.

Just reacting.

I let out a quiet breath.

Then walked.

Each step slow.

The sound of my anklet rang lightly across the empty hallway.

As I neared my flat, I adjusted my hair once—flowers had loosened. I plucked one jasmine strand and held it between my fingers.

And then… that thought came.

I didn’t even say thank you.

He carried me all the way.

Didn’t drop.

Didn’t touch wrong.

Didn’t speak a single vulgar word.

Not once.

And still—

I scolded.

I warned.

I chased him away.

What kind of woman am I…?

I reached my door.

Took the keys out from my blouse.

Stood there for a second.

Not unlocking.

Just standing.

My forehead leaned slightly against the wooden door.

The steel key cold in my fingers.

I closed my eyes once.

Inhaled.

His smell was gone now.

My scent had returned—flowers, sweat, powder, soap.

Home.

I unlocked the door.

Pushed it open.

Stepped inside.

And gently shut the door behind me.









I turned the latch slowly.

The main door clicked shut.

The hallway outside was quiet. Slight echo from someone opening a distant balcony grill.

Inside the house, the light from the ceiling fan cast soft circles on the floor.

Arjun was still inside the bedroom, on call.

His voice came through the wall—low, focused.

“…yes, I’ll drop that draft tomorrow morning…”

Sounded like office again.

I didn’t bother going in.

Instead, I walked slowly toward the sofa and sat down.

Right under the fan.

My body let out a tired breath.

It was still hot.

Even in the night.

The ceiling fan above spun fast, but the air was only moving—not cooling.

My saree stuck to my lower back. I felt it cling as I leaned.

The pallu had shifted again. Folded wrong.

I didn’t adjust it.

Just pulled my legs up onto the cushion and rested one ankle over the other.

The cotton saree stretched over my thighs. It wrinkled near the knee.

I leaned back fully.

My head rested against the sofa.

Eyes slowly closing.

Just for a second.

I needed that pause.

Not just from walking stairs.

Not just from being carried.

But from everything.

My chest rose and fell slowly.

The blouse still had a sweat patch near the underarm.

Sticky. Slightly cold now.

But I stayed like that.

Not caring.

Let it be.

Around 7:30, I heard the sound of Arjun’s footsteps.

He came out of the bedroom.

T-shirt. Loose pants.

Holding his phone in one hand, rubbing his eyes with the other.

Looked like he had ended the call just now.

He glanced toward the kitchen.

I looked up.

Our eyes met for one second.

“Shall we eat?” he asked softly.

I nodded.

No words.

I got up slowly.

Walked to the dining table and uncovered the plates.

We sat opposite each other.

He served himself rice and curry.

I watched him quietly.

That same neatness in the way he scooped food.

No hurry.

Always calm.

Halfway through the meal, he looked up and asked, “Kartik anna?”

I shrugged. “Usual. Late.”

He nodded.

Didn’t ask further.

Didn’t joke.

We ate silently after that.

The only sound was the spoon touching the plate, and the fan above whirring fast.

After dinner, I cleaned up the kitchen.

Still in the same saree.

Didn’t change.

Didn’t tie my hair.

Just rolled up my pallu once, tucked it over my shoulder, and began washing.

The water felt cold against my fingers.

Soap smell rose from the dishcloth.

I cleaned each plate slowly, dried the sink basin, wiped the counter with one clean towel.

Every corner. Every tile.

Habit.

By the time I finished everything, it was close to 8:30.

I looked at the wall clock once.

Then walked back to the hall.

Arjun was already on the single sofa.

TV remote in hand.

He had set up something on the screen.

Not music.

Not sports.

Some American series.

Dark shadows. Low lighting. Blue tones.

A man with spectacles was standing in a lab.

White shirt.

Middle-aged.

Arjun was watching intently.

I sat down near the opposite end of the room.

Legs stretched slightly.

Hands resting on my lap.

I turned to him and asked, “What is this?”

He looked at me. “Breaking Bad.”

I raised one eyebrow. “What?”

He smiled lightly. “It’s a series. English. About a chemistry teacher. Around fifty years old. He’s very smart. But stuck as a college teacher. Underpaid. Life not going anywhere. One day he finds out he has cancer.”

I blinked.

“And then?”

He leaned forward a bit.

“And then he decides to break bad. Like… change completely. He starts making drugs. Becomes a drug lord. But it’s slow. Very slow. One step at a time.”

I turned my head toward the TV.

That man—balding, thin moustache, heavy spectacles—stood in a lab holding a small flask.

Not shouting.

Not evil.

Just still.

Just calm.

Like something was waiting inside him.

Ready to come out.

My eyes stayed on the screen.

But my mind…

Went somewhere else.

Isn’t that me?

I looked down at my lap.

My hands folded.

My blouse slightly crumpled from sitting.

Waistline still holding the tightness from the saree knot.

My body was tired.

But inside… something else was happening.

I’m like him.

A simple woman.

Routine life.

Kids. Husband. Groceries. Saree pleats.

But slowly…

Something is changing.

Not into crime.

But into something…

Unseen.

Unsaid.

I bit my lower lip softly.

Then looked at Arjun.

He was watching the next scene.

Focused.

His face calm. But eyes following every shift.

He didn’t notice me watching.

I turned away.

Looked at the screen again.

The man was washing blood from his hands.

Slowly. Quietly. As if he didn’t feel anything anymore.

I leaned back.

Closed my eyes for two seconds.

And whispered in my head—

“I’m not bad yet. But I’m not the same anymore.”





Time was around 9.

I heard the sound of the door unlocking.

Kartik.

Finally.

He stepped in, dusting his shoulder, removing his shoes slowly.

He looked at me once.

His eyes stayed for a second longer.

“Wearing saree after how many days?” he asked casually.

I gave a soft smile. “Felt like it.”

He nodded and washed his face in the washbasin.

I served him dinner without a word.

Arjun was still in the hall, watching his series quietly. Volume low. Respectful as always.

I sat opposite Kartik as he ate.

He didn’t talk much, but asked a few things in between bites.

“When did Appa come?”

“Afternoon.”

“Kids?”

“Left around 4:30. Reached before dinner it seems.”

“Okay,” he said, chewing.

His eyes drifted to the kitchen shelf once, then to my pallu.

I knew that look.

That quiet interest that comes when you’ve seen your wife in old t-shirts too many times, and suddenly she’s in saree.

After dinner, he washed his hands.

I wiped the table.

He stretched slightly. “Shall we sleep?”

I nodded.

We turned to Arjun.

“Good night,” Kartik said.

Arjun waved from the sofa. “Good night anna… anni.”

I smiled faintly and turned off the hall light.

We entered the bedroom.

Kartik closed the door behind.

And locked it.

I could hear Arjun’s series still playing—soft voices, no music.

I didn’t speak.

Walked to the corner, undid my pallu, and began undressing.

Untied the knot of my saree slowly.

The soft cotton fell in a coil near my feet.

I stepped out.

Now I was in bra, petticoat, and panty.

The blouse had already been removed.

I pulled open the nighty from the drawer.

Old. Comfortable. Faded green.

Worn-out shoulders. Soft cotton near the chest.

I slipped it over my head and let it fall down over my hips.

Didn’t tie the top button.

Let it stay loose.

Kartik turned off the bathroom light and came near the bed.

He didn’t say anything.

Just removed his shirt and lay down.

I lay beside him.

A small pause.

Our arms didn’t touch.

Then he shifted closer.

His hand slid under the blanket and touched my thigh.

I didn’t stop him.

Maybe because of the whole week.

Maybe because my body was still warm from so many silent moments.

So I let him come close.

He kissed my cheek.

Tried to pull the nighty up.

I helped a little.

But as usual…

It didn’t last.

Just three minutes.

That same hurried movement.

That same quick release.

No build-up. No whisper. No rhythm.

I felt it end.

Just like that.

He let out a small breath and moved away.

I turned slightly.

He didn’t look at my face.

He just got up, took the towel, cleaned himself, and came back.

I followed.

Wiped between my thighs. No mess, but still that wetness that had nothing to do with pleasure.

Just routine.

I lay down again.

He was already turned the other side.

Sleeping.

I looked at the ceiling fan.

It turned slowly.

My body was still hot.

But not from him.

My legs stayed pressed together.

And I let out a small sigh.

No one heard.

I adjusted the blanket near my waist.

Pulled my nighty up slightly near the thighs to cool down.

Then turned toward the window.

Closed my eyes.

I acted like I liked it.

But inside…

I was still awake.

[yazhiniram]

⚠️ Reader Warning:
The upcoming part contains intense themes, including verbal humiliation, power play, spitting, and dominant behavior.
This is intentional and consensual within the story’s tone and character arc.

If these elements make you uncomfortable, please skip this part.

[yazhiniram]

Saturday morning.

No alarm.

No college bag packing.

No dosa batter rush.

Just the soft, lazy hum of the ceiling fan and sunlight cutting through the curtain slit onto the sofa.

Kartik was inside his room—typing something. His door half-closed. No sounds from him except the occasional mouse click.

Arjun had left early. Said he had to go check a few rentals.

Took his bag, one water bottle, and disappeared.

The house felt mine again.

I was in my old saree. Pallu tucked tight. Hair rolled in a bun. Cleaning cloth still in my hand.

After mopping the hall, I grabbed the garbage bag and tied it tightly. Vegetable skin smell. Tissue. Milk packet corners. All packed.

I slipped into my slippers and walked out.

The corridor was quiet.

And the lift light was on.

My eyebrows raised automatically.

Working?

That filthy Prakash fellow had actually kept his word?

For once?

I stepped into the lift. Pressed G. Leaned slightly against the metal bar.

The walls still had fingerprints.

But the ride was smooth.

Too smooth.

No shaking.

No stopping.

The memory came instantly.

His hands under my knees.

That grip on my hip.

That lift ride, in his arms.

Sweat. Skin. Smell.

I looked down and cursed inside.

“Pavi. Please.”

Reached ground floor. Walked out quickly. Tossed the bag in the common bin and wiped my hand with tissue.

The smell of morning sun mixed with yesterday's heat.

A few aunties drying clothes on their balcony. One boy watering the roadside plant.

I turned, came back, and entered the lift again.





Door closed.

Breathed out.

No Prakash. No drama.

Good.

The lift stopped on 7 with a soft ding.

I stepped out, fixing the pallu corner.

And just before I could unlock my flat—

I saw her.

Anusha.

She stepped out of her 1BHK flat, locking the door behind her.

I paused.

Her dress was nothing dramatic—just a light baby pink kurti, smooth and flowing, with black leggings that hugged her thighs properly.

No dupatta.

Just a small leather side-sling bag on her shoulder.

Hair open.

Straight. Brushed neatly. Fresh blow-dry maybe.

The moment she turned and saw me—she smiled instantly.

“Good morning, akka.”

I smiled. “Morning, Anusha.”

We stood there in the corridor.

Sunlight from the window at the corner was hitting the floor between us.

“I was just heading out,” she said, adjusting her bag.

“Parlour?” I asked, cocking one eyebrow playfully.

She laughed lightly, brushing her hair back with one hand. “Yes. Eyebrows. Little haircut. Just touch-up.”

“Self-care,” I said. “Nice. I’ve not gone in months.”

“You don’t need,” she said with a small wink. “Some people just look fresh.”

I laughed softly.

But I felt a small flutter inside.

I watched her more closely.

Her body was slender—but not thin.

That young fullness that stays even without workout.

The kurti didn’t hide much—the soft curve of her waist, the sharp drop of her hip, the way the leggings drew a neat line along her thighs down to her calves.

Even her feet—painted nails, flat sandals.

Everything looked sorted. Modern. Confident.

We spoke for a few minutes.

About lift problems.

Power backup timing.

Parlour stories.

Her bank shifts.

She even asked about the kids.

“So quiet here now,” she said.

I nodded. “They went to hometown yesterday. With my father.”

She smiled. “Peaceful break?”

I chuckled. “Temporary.”

She glanced at her watch and said, “I should rush…”

Then I realised.

We were still standing in the corridor like colony gossip aunties.

“Oh! Sorry! Come in. At least drink water.”

She hesitated.

“I’ll be late…”

“Just one glass. Two minutes.”

She smiled. “Okay, akka.”

She stepped in behind me.

Her scent brushed past—something mild, maybe peach or rose body mist.

I noticed how she walked inside confidently.

No awkwardness.

Looked around once. Took everything in.

I walked to the kitchen and poured water.

She stood near the sofa and sipped slowly.

“This flat is big,” she said. “You’ve arranged everything nicely.”

“Thank you,” I said.

Her eyes scanned the shelf, the pooja corner, the cushion covers.

Simple. But clean.

She drank the water in two gulps.

“Thanks, akka.”

“You can call me Pavitra.”

She paused.

Then smiled. “Okay. Pavitra.”

That moment.

Something soft lingered.

Her voice saying my name.

Her eyes meeting mine.

No awkwardness. No discomfort.

But no extra smile either.

She walked to the sink, placed the glass herself.

I liked that.

Then adjusted her kurti hem and said, “Okay, I’ll run. Parlour lady will kill me.”

I nodded. “Come whenever.”

She turned and walked to the door.

I followed her slowly.

She stepped into her sandals.

And walked.

I stood at the door and watched.

Her back was straight.

Her hips moved gently under the kurti.

Not exaggerated. Not shy.

Just natural.

Her legs curved in the leggings like they were stitched for her.

She reached the lift.

Pressed the button.

Waited.

Her face was calm. Not rushed.

Not shy that I was watching.

Then the door opened.

She stepped in.

Lift closed.

Gone.

I stood there.

Hand still on the edge of the door.

The breeze from the corridor touched my blouse sleeve.

I exhaled.

These girls…

They don’t hesitate.

They don’t overthink.

And yet… they carry more depth than we imagine.

I stepped in.

Closed the door.

And locked it.



The house was quiet again, but not peaceful. Just... still. The kind of stillness that feels like it’s waiting to burst.

Kartik had returned to his usual posture—half involvement, half detachment. He was scrolling something on his phone as I served breakfast.

The upma had already gone a little dry, but he didn’t comment. Not a complaint, not a compliment. He just sat down and started eating, one hand still holding the phone.

I sat across him, serving myself with the steel spoon, the handle slightly bent. We ate without much talk. Just the sound of the ceiling fan above and our spoons tapping the plates. I was chewing, but my thoughts were already wandering—to the laundry, the half-mopped bedroom, and my sticky blouse.

After he finished, Kartik wiped his hands, got up, said, “I have a call now,” and walked off.

Click.

He locked the bedroom door behind him.

Just like that.

No second look, no “thanks,” no “do you need help with anything?”

Gone.

I looked at my plate. The upma was still warm. I finished it slowly, scbanging up the last bits with the spoon, chewing without tasting.

My whole body was already itching with sweat. The saree I had worn since morning had become heavy, dull, and damp with heat. I could feel the neckline of the blouse sticking near my shoulder blades. My petticoat was tight across my waist, and the fabric had bunched near my knees while sitting.

I needed a bath.

Badly.

After rinsing the plate and drying my hands, I walked into the bathroom. The main one near the hall.

The tube light was already on from earlier. The water tap was silent. I turned it open, and a narrow stream began to fill the plastic bucket.

Relief. I let out a quiet breath.

I pulled the pallu over my shoulder and began unwrapping the saree. It didn’t slide like usual. It stuck in places. The edge of the petticoat had rubbed against my thighs, leaving marks I could feel without even seeing.

Blouse off.

Petticoat untied.

Now only in my panty, I leaned down and touched the water.

Still cold. Still flowing.

I tied my hair up, tucked the end into the coil, and stood beside the bucket. The mirror on the wall was foggy with age, but I saw myself.

Bare skin. Drops of sweat still on my collarbone. A thin line of dust near my ankle where the saree had dragged on the floor.

Just as I leaned to test the water again—

It stopped.

The pipe gave a soft cough and died.

I turned the knob back and forth. Nothing.

Tried the shower tap.

Not a sound.

The entire bathroom went still. Just like that.

My breath got caught.

I looked into the bucket. It wasn’t even half full.

Not enough.

My towel was hanging on the hook. I grabbed it and tried to wipe the sweat down. Chest. Underarms. Inner thighs. Rushed wipes, dry hands. Still didn’t feel clean.

And I couldn't stay like that. Not in just a panty.

So I reached for the same clothes I had just removed.

No choice.

I wore them again.

Not like a woman dressing for comfort.

Not like someone going to meet a guest.

But like someone who was defeated.

First, I pulled the petticoat on. It felt heavier, more wrinkled. I tied it quickly, didn’t check the knot.

Next, the blouse. I hooked it without adjusting. The neckline sat wrong, slightly twisted. I didn’t fix it.

Then the saree.

No pleats.

No smooth tuck.

Just grabbed it, wrapped it around, tucked it at the side.

Pallu was thrown over the shoulder. Didn’t even look in the mirror.

I felt like a labour woman. Not the classy kind of tired. Just… burnt out. The kind of woman people don’t look at twice.

I stepped out.

The hall was silent. I walked to the bedroom door.

Kartik was inside.

The faint sound of his voice came through—his “professional” tone.

I knocked once and pushed the door halfway open.

He turned, headphones on, eyebrows raised like I was interrupting something major.

I didn’t speak. Just used my hand.

Pointed at the floor. Then rotated my fingers like water running. And then made a circle with my fingers and tapped the wrist—association.

He understood.

He gestured: “I’m in a call.”

Then added in whisper, “I can’t come for one hour. You check.”

He turned back to the laptop.

I stared at his back for two seconds.

Then shut the door quietly.

Inside my mind, I cursed.

You can’t pause your call for two minutes? Can't lift a phone and ask?

I picked up my phone and tried calling the association number.

Ringing.

No answer.

Tried again. Again.

Switched to the WhatsApp group. Typed “No water in flat 703. Anyone else?” and sent it.

No replies.

Typical.

I looked down.

My blouse was already showing the wet patches from underarm sweat. The petticoat string had slipped slightly. I didn’t care.

I pulled a small cotton towel from the clothesline, threw it across my shoulder, and tightened the saree’s tuck with one quick tug.

Didn’t comb hair.

Didn’t recheck appearance.

Just walked to the door.

Opened it.

The heat outside punched my face.

I stepped out.

Lift light was on.

I pressed the button, my finger slightly trembling.

I was going to the security gate myself.

And if that Prakash fellow looked at me sideways, even once…

I wouldn’t be responsible for what I’d say.







The lift opened with a dry click.

The corridor on the ground floor was hot, the kind that sticks to your face like smoke from a roadside idli stall. I stepped out with my towel still across my shoulder, my saree still creased and uneven, and my mind burning hotter than my skin.

I didn’t even wait a second. Walked straight past the pillars and toward the security gate.

But—

No one.

Chair was there. Fan running. The newspaper was half open on the table. But the seat was empty.

“Where the hell…”

I stood still, turned left and right.

Nothing.

Not even a slipper sound from the corner bathroom.

I pulled out my phone and opened the security number saved from the association group.

Dialled.

It rang once. Twice.

No answer.

Third time.

Still ringing.

I cut the call and let out a curse under my breath.

That filthy bastard. Sitting here like a king the whole day, and when we need him, gone without a trace.

I was about to turn and go back—

When I saw him.

Prakash.

Standing near the diesel generator corner, halfway behind the wall. Talking to another man. Laughing about something.

He didn’t see me yet.

I didn’t wait.

I raised my voice just enough.

“Oye! Security!”

His head jerked.

He saw me.

His whole body changed. Like some stray dog spotting a biscuit in a god’s hand.

He started jogging—almost running—toward me.

Straightening his shirt while running.

His hand came up to adjust his waistband.

I stood still, watching him approach.

Inside, I smirked once.

That reaction.

Like a dog seeing his owner after a full day of hunger.

Even the man he was talking to turned, confused. Watching this grown man suddenly run mid-conversation toward a saree-clad woman.

I didn’t care what that man thought.

My eyes were on Prakash.

He reached me, panting a little.

“Madam, madam, I’m here,” he said, stopping just two steps away, standing straight.

I didn’t wait.

“Where the hell were you?”

He blinked.

“Uh… generator, madam. I was checking—”

“You have a chair there, you have a table there. You have a phone. I called you just now. Didn’t even pick up?”

“No madam, I didn’t hear—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

My voice was low but sharp.

“That’s your number, right?” I held up my phone.

He looked and nodded, head down.

“Sorry, madam…”

“Duty means sitting on that chair. Not gossiping near the wall. Understand?”

“Yes madam.”

“I had to come all the way down, in this heat, can’t even bath properly, because you’re not doing your job.”

He was sweating now.

Whether from heat or shame, I didn’t care.

He kept nodding. “Very sorry, madam. Won’t happen again.”

I folded my arms.

Looked him from head to toe.

His shirt was already half untucked. One slipper was loose. And I could smell a faint mix of talcum and yesterday’s sweat.

I didn’t say anything more.

Just stood, letting the silence sit on his head like a weight.



I didn’t wait for him to explain.

“Not a drop of water is coming,” I snapped, wiping the sweat from my forehead with the edge of my loose pallu.

Prakash stood silent, eyes confused. His hands were still half-raised from the awkward run he did toward me, breath slightly heavy.

“Morning I filled and checked, madam… all tanks were okay…” he said cautiously.

I gave a sharp look.

“Are you trying to say I’m lying?”

“No madam,” he said immediately, head shaking. “Not at all.”

I stared at him, hard.

He looked down. Took out his phone.

Without asking or giving excuses, he dialled someone. I could hear his voice change into that desperate tone men use when they know they’re seconds from getting slapped.

“Raju… come to gate. Now. Water complaint.”

He cut the call.

Then turned, pulled open the drawer below his desk, and picked up a single long key.

“I’ll go check, madam. Must see on terrace.”

I was still burning. Not just with sweat.

I didn’t even think before speaking.

“I’ll also come.”

He turned back, surprised. But said nothing.

Just nodded slightly.

I followed him.

We walked together, side by side.

My blouse had already surrendered to the heat—it was clinging tight under my arms, completely soaked at the back. My petticoat knot had slipped once earlier, and the cotton saree was hanging lazily across my chest.

No pin. No tightness.

I wasn’t walking like a lady.

Just walking.

We reached the lift. He pressed the button.

The small red light flicked on.

The hum inside grew louder.

I stood behind him, my arms folded under my pallu, holding the wet fold against my chest.

The door opened.

He stepped in.

I stepped in behind him.

He pressed 12—the topmost floor.

The door closed.

The moment the lift jerked upward, I felt something shift in me.

Not outside.

Inside.

The silence of the lift. The metallic warmth of the walls. The sound of the floor counter beeping.

It all triggered something.

Something I had locked up.

But now it came back.

That morning.

The power cut.

Pitch darkness.

Me, wearing only a petticoat.

That sharp jerk when the lift stopped.

I had lost my balance.

And fallen.

On him.

Topless.

And he…

He was nude.

I didn’t know it then. But when I fell forward, I felt it.

His cock.

Warm. Long. Wet with sweat.

It hit my chin directly.

My breath caught even now, remembering it.

I had jumped back, shocked, ashamed, humiliated.

He didn’t even touch me.

Not with his hands.

But that moment—

His cock on my skin.

My chin.

My lips just inches below.

The smell.

The sweat.

The rawness.

It had burned me from the inside that night.

And now, inside this same lift, everything was coming back.

The cabin was smaller than I remembered.

Or maybe it was just my breathing.

Tighter.

I didn’t look at him.

He didn’t look at me.

The numbers kept ticking.

4… 5… 6…

My blouse was still soaked.

My chest still sticking under the fabric.

But now my skin was hot for a different reason.

Not anger.

Not heat.

Just memory.

Alive again.







The lift stopped with a final jerk.

Floor 12.

Prakash stepped out first. I followed.

Just a few feet ahead, the terrace gate stood like a metal spine—tall, black, chained from the inside. The sunlight beyond it was sharper, hotter. It poured in through the narrow grills like white knives on the floor tiles.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out the key again, and unlocked the gate with a familiar click.

Then stepped through.

I was right behind him, wiping sweat from my forehead with the same towel that had been sitting across my shoulder for the last hour.

I hadn’t said anything.

Until I heard the click again.

He had locked the gate from inside.

I turned sharply.

“What are you locking it for?”

He glanced back casually, still walking forward.

“Madam, association rule. Kids sometimes come up without permission and run around. They said always lock—either from inside or outside. So no one gets in.”

I looked at the gate again.

Steel. Strong. Thick lock.

Nobody could open it without the key now.

And the key was in his pocket.

I nodded, without speaking.

He didn’t wait.

Just walked ahead toward the far end of the terrace.

I followed him, a little slower, adjusting my blouse once near the shoulder.

The wind on the terrace hit different.

Stronger. Drier.

It lifted my pallu slightly. I pressed it down against my stomach.

We passed a few scattered pipes, an old rusted grill, and some coils of cable lying twisted in the corner like dead snakes.

The tank for my floor was just ahead.

Not one soul on the terrace.

No voices. No children. No aunties drying clothes.

Only sun, wind, and open sky.

The kind of silence that hums in your ears after a few seconds.

I turned my head and looked around.

From the 13th floor—technically the rooftop above the 12th floor—I could see everything.

The dusty main road.

The fields behind the layout.

A few scooters parked far below looked like matchboxes.

And the world… looked tiny.

Too tiny to notice what happens up here.

No one could hear a thing.

No one could see anything either.

Not from balconies.

Not from windows.

Not even from the other block.

And the gate behind us?

Locked.

No one could come in without the key.

I looked back at Prakash.

He had already reached the tank.

I walked forward—slowly.

Still wiping my chest with the towel, trying to ignore how tight my blouse felt across my back.

The sweat hadn’t stopped.

And neither had my thoughts.



The tank stood tall at the edge of the terrace. Dull grey, with rust lines near the edges, and water stains down the side like an old tear trail.

Prakash walked up to it in his full security uniform. Faded navy blue shirt tucked into matching pants, with that cheap synthetic belt hanging slightly loose around his waist. His back was sweaty. I could see the damp patches even from behind.

He reached the base of the tank and stepped up onto the small built-in ladder—just four or five narrow iron steps fixed into the side.

I followed, standing behind him, not too close—just a foot away. Close enough to see everything, far enough not to make it awkward.

As he climbed, his body shifted slightly with each step.

His backside—thick, broad, barely contained by the stretched fabric of his uniform pants—moved as he ascended. The waistband of his underwear was faintly visible above the pants. The cloth between his thighs looked too tight. Like it hadn’t been washed properly. Maybe not even today.

I stood behind, sweating inside my blouse, wiping my forehead with the towel. My thoughts were not clean, but not dirty either. Just restless.

He reached the top, stood on the narrow ledge near the tank mouth, and leaned over. The metal lid was already half open, pushed to the side.

He bent forward and looked inside.

“Blocked, madam,” he said, without turning. “Some plastic—bag or cover. Stuck in the inlet.”

I stared up.

Blocked?

That’s it?

That’s what’s making me stand like this, half bathed, sweating, with dust on my skin and soap on my back?

I raised my voice. “So this is what I’m bathing with? What I’m drinking? Plastic garbage?”

“No madam… sorry madam. Someone must’ve thrown from terrace side or it flew in…”

“Don’t give me stories,” I snapped. “Is this how you maintain it? You people sit near gate, scratch balls, and here we are drinking plastic soup?”

He kept quiet, still bent forward.

Then I saw his hand go in.

He reached in, pinched something, pulled out a piece—looked like part of a biscuit packet or some torn shopping bag.

He dropped it to the side of the tank.

Reached in again.

Pulled more.

But during the third attempt, a piece slipped from his hand and fell inside.

He turned slightly. “Some fell in…”

I was already shaking my head.

“Take it out.”

“Madam, already cleared most—”

“I said, take it out. Even that one piece. If it stays in, it’ll get stuck in outlet, or stink later. Get inside and clean it completely.”

He turned his head. Slight hesitation in his eyes.

I didn’t blink.

“You want me to report it to the association? Then go explain why I’m drinking plastic?”

He nodded slowly.

Turned fully toward the tank again.

Began unbuttoning the top two buttons of his uniform shirt.

And I stood there, a foot away from the tank, arms folded across my sticky chest, watching him prepare to go inside. Still fuming. Still sweating. And still… aware.





I stood still, arms folded, watching as Prakash unbuttoned the top of his shirt.

One.

Then two.

His fingers were slow, unsure.

My eyebrows narrowed immediately.

“Why are you undressing?” I asked sharply.

He paused, looked back at me with half a face of confusion, half hesitation.

“Mam… I thought—it’ll get wet inside—”

“So what? Someone might come. What if someone sees you half-naked inside the tank?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but didn’t speak.

Just turned his head toward the locked terrace gate and said softly, “Nobody can come, madam… It’s locked.”

The words didn’t sit right.

I took a step forward. My foot landed just beside a small puddle of water near the tank base.

“So that’s why you locked it? So no one can come?” I asked, voice sharper now.

He didn’t answer.

Just looked away.

That was enough.

“Wear your full dress and get in.” I snapped. “Don’t try anything.”

“Yes, madam.” His voice was quick, lowered.

He buttoned back the top, then turned and slowly stepped onto the tank’s edge.

In one awkward movement, he lifted his leg and jumped inside the tank—clothes and all.

The splash was soft.

Inside, water came up just above his thighs. The fabric of his pants clung to his legs. His shirt started sticking across his chest. He bent forward and pulled out the remaining pieces of plastic—one black wrapper, a crumpled yellow cover, and something that looked like wet paper.

He turned and handed them up to me.

I stretched my hand down and took them, using just two fingers. Sticky. Slimy.

I dropped them into a small plastic bag beside me and wiped my fingers on the edge of my pallu.

“Is the tank clean now?” I asked, still standing at the ledge.

He looked up, brushing hair away from his forehead. His shirt had begun sticking completely now. His body was soaked, and water rippled around his knees.

“Yes, madam. Clean.”

I wasn’t satisfied.

I stepped forward. Climbed up on the small ledge beside the tank and looked in.

He was standing inside, shirt floating slightly at the waist, eyes down. The water was not very deep.

I looked around inside the tank.

Walls were not fully clean.

Black patches.

Dark green streaks in some corners. Faint rings where water had stood still.

“Are you blind?” I asked. “There are marks. Look at that corner. That’s algae.”

He turned and looked where I pointed.

“Oh… yes madam.”

“Is this what we are drinking?”

“No madam. It’s common. All tanks will have like that…”

“Clean it.”

He looked up again. “Do you have any cloth, madam?”



“Do you have any cloth, madam?” he asked again, eyes blinking up from inside the tank.

I stared at him.

Then narrowed my eyes.

“What do you want me to do? Remove my saree and throw it down to you?”

I said it flat.

No smile. No laugh.

His face froze.

For a second, he didn’t even breathe.

His hands gripped the tank wall, still dripping water.

I didn’t wait.

“Remove your shirt and clean with that.”

He looked at me with hesitation.

“Madam… it’ll get wet…”

“So?” I cut him off. “You’re already inside. What are you trying to save? Prestige?”

He didn’t argue.

Just nodded once.

And slowly began unbuttoning his uniform shirt.

One.

Two.

Three.

All the way.

The fabric peeled off his soaked body.

And I saw him properly.

Dark skinned.

Not gym-built.

But a hardworking body. The kind you don’t get in AC rooms or health clubs.

Broad shoulders with dust marks. A chest that was flat but not tight. Muscles shaped by labour, not protein shakes.

And a small belly.

Soft curve below his ribs. Something I hadn’t seen earlier through his shirt.

It jiggled slightly as he moved.

He pulled the shirt off completely and squeezed it once near the tank edge.

Water dripped off the cloth like old sweat.

Then he began cleaning.

Bending forward, scrubbing with the shirt. Using the edge of the wet cotton like a mop, rubbing it across the green-black lines running along the tank walls.

His back bent. Muscles shifting.

The sun was beating down from above. It made the water shimmer.

I stood above, watching him.

Not blinking.

Then I said it.

Calmly. Like it was nothing.

“Remove your pants too. Clean better.”

He stopped.

Looked up.

Didn’t ask “why.”

Didn’t say “no.”

Just understood.

He turned around.

Unzipped.

The sound was soft but loud in that silent terrace.

He pushed the pants down, past his hips, down his thighs, and stepped out.

Now he stood in the tank, in water, wearing only his dark inner brief.

It was old.

Clinging to his thighs. Slightly stretched. And wet from thigh to waistband.

His legs were strong. Hairy. His belly was now more visible—soft but round, pushing forward slightly.

I didn’t speak.

Just watched.

He bent again and continued cleaning.

And then—

Without thinking, without even deciding—

I sat.

Not on the ground.

But right on the tank edge.

I lifted my right leg and placed it inside the tank opening.

Then the left.

I was sitting now, both legs inside.

My saree folded behind me.

My knees bent forward, feet dipped just into the edge water inside.

He could see my knees.

Through the gap in the saree, the skin under the folds, the slight shine of sweat on my legs.

I didn’t pull the saree down.

Let him see.

Let him look.

Let him pretend he’s not.

But let it stay.

Because I was tired of pretending too.

[Sarran Raj]

Is this bitch gonna humiliate this man and fuck him to her satisfaction. Why she is teasing so much. Prakash should teach her a lesson by making her nude and fuck her in open sun and inside water tank

[yazhiniram]

He continued cleaning.

His back bent.

His hands moving slowly, rhythmically, tracing the inside curve of the tank wall.

Each rub of the shirt against the algae-stained surface made a soft, wet scbanging sound.

The water sloshed gently around his calves, darkened now with bits of green and dirt swirling near his legs.

And still—he was standing there, in nothing but his innerwear.

Soaked, clinging to his thighs like a second skin.

Tight from the water, exposing every curve, every outline.

That’s when I noticed it.

Not the way he was moving.

But the fabric itself.

The brief.

It had holes.

Tiny ones near the thigh seam.

A slightly bigger one on the waistband.

And worst—one almost right below the crotch fold.

I stared for a moment, lips pressing together.

Then spoke.

“You don’t have a better one?”

He paused, confused.

Looked up.

I pointed directly at the brief.

“Your inner. So many holes. Can’t even buy new one?”

His face turned red instantly.

He dropped his head like a college boy scolded in front of class.

And what did he do?

He turned around.

As if that would hide it.

Turned his back to me like that would change anything.

I laughed. Not loud. Not gentle.

A dry, flat sound.

“Oh, now hiding? Didn’t know it had holes before?”

He didn’t reply.

But I saw his hand move—trying to pull the fabric tighter around his thigh, trying to cover.

It made it worse.

I didn’t stop.

“If this is your condition, what will your wife do? Wash the same piece every night and pray it doesn’t tear?”

Still no reply.

Just soft splashing sounds as he turned slightly and kept cleaning.

The shirt he was using was torn now too—scrubbing too hard against the rough wall.

But I didn’t care.

My eyes were fixed on him.

His dark skin was glistening. Water dripping from his elbows. Back muscles moving slowly, covered in patches of greenish water.

And suddenly…

I don’t know why.

I don’t know what switched inside me.

But I spat.

Not far.

Just one strong spit, landing right next to his leg in the water.

He jerked.

Paused.

Looked down.

Then looked up at me.

That face.

Confused.

Scared.

Still acting innocent.

Still pretending he didn’t understand.

But I could see through him.

He was enjoying this.

The scolding. The silence. The stare.

The humiliation.

I didn’t speak.

Just looked at him.

My expression plain.

But my eyes…

“What?” I asked in my head.

“What are you going to do?”

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

And then I said it.

“Remove it. Clean properly. That dirty cloth can’t scrub anything.”

He blinked.

“Madam?”

I didn’t repeat.

Just stared.

He turned slightly, pretending to be confused.

Acting.

Still holding that same fake-shame expression.

But I knew it.

He wasn’t innocent.

He liked this.

Liked being spoken to like that.

Liked the way I ordered.

And I? I didn’t like it.

I needed it.

“Clean properly,” I said again. “Remove that too.”

He looked around once.

As if checking if someone was watching.

As if the locked terrace hadn’t already told him—no one was coming.

And then slowly…

His hands moved to the waistband.

His fingers found the elastic.

And pulled.

Down.

Over the belly.

Past the thigh.

Down into the water.

He stepped out of it completely.

Now standing naked in front of me.

His cock…

Soft.

No erection.

Just hanging.

Low.

Small.

Maybe five inches, at best.

Dark brown. The skin wrinkled, hanging like a tired creature just woken up. The head barely visible under the foreskin.

It wasn’t proud.

Wasn’t big.

Just there.

Damp. Shrinking from the water.

He didn’t cover.

He just stood there.

And I…

Sat above him.

Both legs dipped inside the tank opening.

My saree folded up.

My knees fully visible now.

Shiny with sweat and light reflection.

The cloth behind my thighs wet from the tank’s edge.

And I didn’t move.

I let the scene stay.

Let him stay like that.

Let him feel what I wanted him to feel.

Because sometimes power doesn’t come from touching.

Sometimes…

It comes from watching.



He had gone quiet again.

Standing there inside the tank, fully naked now, his dark body dripping with patches of green-tinged water.

I was still sitting on the edge, legs inside the tank opening, knees bent and visible beneath the folds of my saree. My palms rested beside my thighs, pressing the stone edge, holding me steady.

I tilted my head.

Stared at his cock.

It just… hung there.

Soft.

Lifeless.

Like it didn’t know it was being watched.

Like it had forgotten what it did to my chin that day.

I narrowed my eyes and asked—

“What happened to you?”

His head lifted.

His face was blank.

I leaned forward a little, elbows resting on my knees.

“Last time it was standing tall. Today… it’s like a wet rope. What happened?”

My voice wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t loud either.

Just… plain.

Straight.

His lips parted.

He was about to say something, but no words came.

He looked down at himself.

Then back at me.

“Water is cold, madam…”

I smirked.

Excuses.

That was always their line.

“Cold water.”

Like the body responds only to warmth.

I waited one beat.

Then without another word—

I spat.

Direct.

Accurate.

A single, thick drop of spit landed right on his cock.

He flinched.

Not like a man scared.

Like someone hit by reality.

His thighs shifted slightly.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

He looked up at me with wide eyes, completely caught.

And I?

I leaned back.

Rested my palms again.

Let him stand there.

“Clean it.”

The words left my mouth like an order from a queen.

No tone. No emotion.

Just fact.

He blinked.

Then nodded once, slowly.

Bent forward.

Scooped water in both hands.

And began rinsing.

Washing the spit off.

His palms brushed over his cock.

From base to head.

Rubbing.

Not hard.

Just cleaning.

But I saw it.

That first small twitch.

The skin shifting forward.

The cock was changing.

Coming alive.

It wasn’t soft anymore.

Still hanging, but fuller.

Thicker.

He tried to act normal.

Continued scooping water.

I kept watching.

His cock was now rising.

Slowly.

Curving upward like it remembered what it once did.

Like it wanted to prove something.

I didn’t speak.

Just observed.

And then I said it—

“Hand over your clothes.”

He froze.

His hands still wet.

Face confused.

“Madam?”

Like a child being told to give up his pencil.

“Your clothes,” I repeated. “Shirt. Pant. Inner. All of it. Give it here.”

He didn’t move.

His lips moved. But no sound.

I could see the question in his eyes.

Why?

But I didn’t answer.

Because this moment—

This was mine.



___________________________________________________________________________



He stood still, eyes fixed on mine.

His cock had risen now—no doubt about it.

It wasn’t proud or confident. Just alive.

Soft curves replaced by that slow upward bulge. Thicker, fuller. Not towering, but enough to be noticed. A man couldn’t fake that, no matter how innocent he acted.

I didn’t say anything.

I extended my hand silently.

He blinked.

Then reached over the tank edge and handed up his shirt first—still soaked, heavy, dripping.

I held it between two fingers, swung it once to the side, and dropped it on the terrace floor. It landed with a splat, water spraying in a small circle.

Next, he gave the pants—still damp from when he removed them earlier. I threw that too, without a word.

Then came the innerwear.

He hesitated.

Held it in both hands.

I simply looked at him.

One glance.

He lowered his head… and stretched it toward me.

I took it.

The cloth was warm. Wet. Still holding the shape of his thighs.

I looked at it for a moment.

Not like a woman holding someone’s undergarment.

But like someone holding power in the shape of cotton.

The holes I’d mocked earlier were now visible up close.

One at the waistband, where the elastic was hanging by threads.

One near the seam.

And one right in the middle—just under where the fabric cupped his cock.

That one had thinned so much, the light passed through.

My fingers moved slowly.

I slipped two fingers into the biggest hole.

He saw it.

And panicked.

“No, madam… please… no… not that…”

His voice trembled.

But my fingers were already curling, catching the edge.

And then—

I pulled.

The sound was soft.

Not a full tear. But that fabric stretch that screams weakness.

I pulled again.

This time, harder.

Rrrrippp.

He flinched.

“Please… madam… no…”

But I didn’t even look at his face.

I just kept tearing.

Right across the middle.

Pulled the cloth until it split fully from the waistband to the thigh hem.

Now it was nothing but threads.

Scraps.

A broken piece of whatever pride he thought he had.

And then—without expression—I threw it.

Out of the tank.

Onto the terrace floor.

Gone.

I didn’t laugh.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t speak.

Just looked down at him.

He stood in the water, naked, dripping, holding nothing to hide himself. Not even shame.

His cock was still growing—rising slower now. Tensed slightly upward, twitching once in the air. The head was peeking now.

But I wasn’t thinking about that.

I was thinking about Kartik.

About how he sat on his calls, locked inside.

How he wouldn’t ask where I was.

Even if I vanished for an hour.

Or two.

He wouldn’t notice.

He wouldn’t come looking.

I felt that silence grow inside me—deeper than anger.

And that’s when I stood up.

Still on the tank’s edge.

Feet balanced.

Wind brushing my back.

Prakash was looking at me—confused. Unsure what was happening.

I didn’t speak.

Just looked at the inside of the tank.

Measured the space.

It was big.

Wider than it looked from above.

Maybe seven feet long.

Six feet wide.

Deeper than a bath tub.

Definitely bigger than that lift.

I took one step forward.

And jumped in.

The splash was quiet.

The water embraced me at once—cool, shocking, everywhere.

My saree floated.

The pleats opened like petals.

My blouse clung tighter.

My petticoat pulled at my legs.

The edge of my towel fell away.

I didn’t care.

I was in the tank.

With him.

Inside.

Alone.

Locked terrace.

One man.

One woman.

One moment.

No world outside.



The water clung to my petticoat.

Heavy.

Tugging down.

Every step I took inside the tank, the soaked cotton dragged at my waist like it was trying to anchor me. My saree pleats, which had floated moments ago like soft waves, were now wrapping around my legs, pulling tight across my calves and thighs.

I didn’t adjust them.

Didn’t need to.

Prakash was still frozen.

Standing inside the tank, chest deep in water, eyes wide, mouth slightly parted — like he couldn’t believe I had actually jumped in.

But I didn’t give him time to process.

“What are you looking at?” I snapped, staring directly into his eyes.

He blinked.

Turned his face away instantly, looking down into the water like a scolded child.

“I didn’t come here for you,” I added coldly. “I came to see how well you’ve cleaned.”

My voice echoed off the tank walls.

The words bounced in the silence.

He nodded quickly. “Yes, madam…”

I stepped forward slowly, my feet splashing gently as I moved across the shallow curve of the tank floor.

The water was cold, yes. But my body was hotter.

Hotter from sweat.

From memory.

From the power I had over this moment.

I stopped near one side of the tank.

Bent slightly.

Looked closely at the wall.

Black streaks.

Algae.

Not everywhere, but enough.

Sticky, faint patches, scattered along the inside like neglected corners of a kitchen sink.

“This is your cleaning?” I said sharply. “This is what we’re drinking?”

He turned toward me, eyes already flinching.

I didn’t stop.

“You call this clean?”

I slapped the tank wall once with my palm.

The sound was sharp.

Echoed.

“Sorry, madam,” he mumbled, stepping closer.

“See there.” I pointed. “Small ones. There. And near the bottom too. All this will stink if left.”

He turned, scanned the wall.

His body was dripping again, water running down from his shoulders, tracing along his spine. The line of his lower back had water beads forming one after the other. His ass was fully visible, round, dark, completely bare now. Just out in the open, wet and shining under the filtered terrace light.

He turned to me and said, “Madam, cloth?”

“Use your hand,” I snapped.

He hesitated.

Then nodded, turned again.

Started scrubbing with his bare palm.

The sound was different now.

Wet flesh against wet cement.

He rubbed slowly, both hands, using the side of his fingers to scbang.

I could see him struggling.

His hands weren’t strong enough to remove the dried patches without friction. His skin began turning red from the effort. But he didn’t stop.

And I…

I stayed where I was for a moment.

Watching him work.

Then my hand went to my waist.

I hooked my fingers into the side knot of the saree.

Softly tugged.

The knot slipped.

My blouse was still on.

My petticoat still tight.

But the saree — the long, soaked, clinging fabric — began to come away.

He had his back turned.

Facing the other side of the tank.

Rubbing, bent slightly forward, elbows rising and falling.

I slowly unwrapped the pallu from my shoulder.

Let it fall over my left arm.

Then wound the rest around my palm and started pulling.

Inch by inch.

I didn’t rush.

The wet cotton made a soft schhhhkk sound as it dragged across my blouse, then my petticoat.

I pulled it free.

And held it for a second.

Just in my hand.

Heavy.

Dripping.

One side of the saree touched the water again, soaking fresh weight.

I twisted it once.

And let it fall over the tank edge behind me.

Now…

I stood in blouse and petticoat.

Inside the tank.

With him.

And he had no idea.

He was still facing the wall.

Still rubbing with his palm.

His cock — still half-erect — swung slightly with each motion.

I watched him.

Watched how he moved.

How he obeyed without questions.

And inside me…

Something started to smile.

[samcoolpatil007]

Please upload next part.. Can't stand it...

[samcoolpatil007]

What a story... Amazing.. Feel like it shouldn't end.. Please upload more

[Vijay42]

Adipoli...Wonderful narrative...

I see new, read ..Despite reading a lot of housekeeper stories, this story is a new form

Super continue

[Vijay42]

Don't understand what this update is 


 yazhiniram⚠️ Reader Warning:The upcoming part contains intense themes, including verbal humiliation, power play, spitting, and dominant behavior.
This is intentional and consensual within the story’s tone and character arc.

If these elements make you uncomfortable, please skip this part.