Adultery The Language of Her Heart

[yazhiniram]

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.

I have used some filthier and harsher language for the security character because it was important to show Pavitra’s dominance over him.

The idea is to show clearly how a high-class woman like Pavitra treats a low-class man — with complete control, no respect, and full humiliation.

Since the entire story is from Pavitra’s point of view, everything is written based on her feelings and her way of looking at these men.

Some readers might find those scenes uncomfortable or too harsh, so I added a warning just to set expectations clearly.

It’s not accidental or unnecessary — it’s fully intentional to match Pavitra’s emotional journey and character growth.

[StoryReader1]

Please continue

[Vijay42]

[yazhiniram]

He was still scrubbing.

His palms brushing the curved inside wall, one side to the other, rubbing in circles.

His naked back was now covered in droplets. His shoulder muscles moved with each motion, slow and tired. The sides of his waist were red from the water and the constant friction.

His cock, which had started to rise before, was now barely there — shrinking again, hanging lifeless between his thighs.

I noticed it.

Shrunk smaller than earlier.

Like a snail that had touched salt.

Was it fear?

Was it shame?

Or did he simply not expect me to be this much?

I smirked silently.

Didn’t say anything at first.

Then, in a voice calm but firm—

“Turn around.”

He froze mid-rub.

I saw his shoulders tighten.

Then slowly… he turned.

Face first. Then chest. Then the rest.

His eyes lifted once—hesitating.

And that’s when he saw me.

Standing.

Inside the tank.

Saree gone.

Holding the wet cloth rolled in my left hand.

Wearing only a tight blouse and petticoat.

My blouse was stuck to my chest, completely soaked, its cotton turning almost sheer under the sunlight above.

Every curve of my breast was outlined. The blouse's neckline dipped low, exposing my upper chest and the start of my cleavage like a shadow between peaks.

The petticoat had turned soft from water, clinging to my thighs, my hips, my lower belly. The knot at my waist had slipped slightly, revealing the green band of my panty through the gap — just for a second.

His eyes moved like they were being pulled.

First to my navel.

Then slowly upward.

Then sideways toward that tiny gap below the petticoat knot.

His cock twitched.

I noticed.

He didn’t even realize that his erection was responding faster than his face.

I stood still.

Lifted my arm.

And with no warning, threw the wet saree directly at his chest.

It hit him with a soft splatter and dropped down across his stomach, sticking for a moment before sliding into the water.

He caught it, fumbled.

“Use that,” I said coldly. “Clean properly.”

His face was caught between confusion and guilt.

But his cock… it had its own mind.

It was rising again.

Not full.

But more than before.

Growing slowly, slightly upward now, twitching in tiny pulses.

I didn’t speak.

But my eyes did.

I stared at him, sharp.

One single glare.

That was enough.

He lowered his head immediately.

His hands gripped the saree.

And he turned back around.

Face to the wall again.

Cock still semi-erect, bouncing slightly with each step he took back into position.

He resumed scrubbing.

Now using my saree.

Dragging it across the algae patches, soaking it in green-tinted water, squeezing and wiping.

And I… stood behind him.

Still watching.

Still in control.

Still completely, deliberately silent.

And inside me…

That quiet fire wasn’t burning out.

It was just beginning to take shape.



He was working hard now.

Sweat mixed with water, his dark skin gleaming with effort, and the last bits of algae surrendering to his bare hands.

Every motion was focused.

Scrub. Stretch. Wipe.

His posture had changed. He wasn’t standing straight anymore. He was bending, reaching into corners, leaning over the lower edges of the tank — and with every stretch, his bare backside moved.

And I saw everything.

There was no cloth now to hide it.

No shame covering it.

Just the raw, dark skin of a man who’d stopped caring — or maybe had started caring too much.

His buttocks flexed as he moved. Round and broad, jiggling slightly every time he shifted weight from one foot to the other. There was something ugly about it. Something so… real. Like watching a laborer bathe behind a shed, unaware a queen was observing him.

And that’s exactly what it felt like.

I sat back a little on the tank’s inner ledge, letting my blouse cling freely against my wet skin. The fabric was sticking more now, tighter. My petticoat string had slipped just a little, but I didn’t fix it.

I wanted to feel undone.

And I wanted him to keep being seen.

Then, without planning it, I lifted one leg.

Raised it high over the water—

And kicked.

A strong splash of water flew across the tank—

And landed right on his ass.

He jerked.

Not violently. Just a full-body flinch, like cold water had touched a secret part of his soul.

He turned slightly, just his head, eyes peeking from the side.

I didn’t wait for questions.

“What are you looking at? Scrub properly.”

My tone was casual.

As if I’d just flicked water at a child who forgot to wipe the table.

He blinked.

Looked away again.

And resumed scrubbing.

Now faster.

Now more controlled.

His fingers dug into the tank wall, using my saree cloth to wipe in circles. Water splashed softly beneath his feet as he stepped from one side to the other. His balls moved slightly now, swinging beneath him in small, wet motions.

And I… just sat there.

Legs inside the water, blouse soaked, petticoat slipping just enough to make me feel seen, though I knew he hadn’t turned back.

Not yet.

But I could tell — his body knew I was behind him.

Even if his eyes didn’t dare look.

He reached the final stretch of the tank, the far end corner near the outlet pipe.

I could hear the sound of his palms — faster now, rubbing harder, water sloshing loudly.

Finally, after what felt like minutes of this rhythmic cleaning, he turned, water running down his arms.

“Madam…”

I looked at him slowly.

He stood still, wet chest rising and falling, droplets on his nose.

His cock was smaller now — I noticed it immediately.

Shrunken again.

Maybe three inches.

His balls hung low beneath it — heavy, sagging slightly with gravity, a soft patch of dark hair clinging to the base.

He didn’t hide it.

Maybe he’d given up trying.

Maybe he didn’t realize how much I was enjoying the full view.

He said, “Tank is clean. But water dirty now…”

I nodded once. “How will you remove it?”

“There’s a bucket outside,” he said softly. “I’ll take water out, throw it on terrace floor.”

“Then do it.”

He didn’t delay.

Climbed over the edge.

Dripping.

His cock bounced once with the climb.

He stepped onto the terrace, water pooling beneath his feet as he picked up the old orange plastic bucket.

He leaned down to fill it again.

That position — bent forward — his ass, his dangling cock, all fully exposed.

He scooped the muddy water from the tank, lifted it, and walked barefoot to the corner of the terrace to throw it.

Then returned.

Repeated.

Scoop. Walk. Throw.

Each time, more of his dignity washed away.

And I didn’t stop watching.

I watched his body, not like a woman watches a man…

But like a woman watches her servant.

And he?

He was forgetting my state.

Or pretending to.

The blouse. The petticoat. My wet chest. My panty line visible in the slip between folds.

It didn’t matter.

I was enjoying every minute of his nakedness.

His wet pubic hair.

His jiggling backside.

His shrunken cock.

Because the more I saw…

The less human he looked.

And the more goddess-like I began to feel.



-----------------------------------------------



This… was bliss.

The heat outside was unbearable. The kind that drains you from the back of your neck and makes every movement feel like you’re dragging your own skin.

But inside this tank?

Even with the water gone, with just mud and thin wetness beneath my feet, it felt like heaven.

Better than any AC.

The cement walls around me still held the chill from the early morning water. Every gust of terrace wind blew past the tank’s edge and dropped inside like a blessing. My sweat had dried without me even realizing.

I pressed my palm gently against the tank wall.

Cold.

The kind of cold that hugged my skin, kissed it in places Kartik never even noticed.

I closed my eyes briefly.

I could live here.

Come here every day.

Just sit in this tank, this big concrete box — 7 by 6 feet of forgotten privacy — and let the world melt away outside.

No kids.

No calls.

No guilt.

Just a woman, her thoughts, and silence.

Prakash was still cleaning.

Crouched at the far end, rubbing the last remaining smudges near the outlet pipe. His body moved without sound. His naked back rising and falling. His buttocks tight as he bent forward to stretch. His cock, now small again, just dangled there — forgotten, shrinking, insignificant.

And I… didn’t even look at it like a woman anymore.

It was part of the setting now.

Just like the moss. Just like the brick. Just like the mud at my feet.

I turned slightly, my blouse sticking under the arms.

That’s when I snapped.

“Hey. Call your assistant. Tell him to turn on the motor.”

He paused.

Looked back, half-bent.

“Madam… let’s come out. I’ll inform him—”

I cut him off instantly.

“You do what I say. Don’t tell me what to do.”

The silence after that was longer than expected.

He nodded without words.

Turned around and climbed up — his feet splashing softly over the tank floor, then tapping against the metal ladder.

His bare back disappeared above the rim.

I didn’t watch.

I waited.

And the moment his footsteps faded across the terrace floor—

I moved.

My hands went behind me, finding the damp hooks of my blouse.

It was soaked completely now.

Clinging like skin.

I slipped one finger under the fabric line and pulled.

Click.

The first hook loosened.

The blouse shifted slightly — my chest suddenly breathing free.

I took a deeper breath.

Pressed on the second.

Click.

And the third.

Then the fourth.

I didn’t rush.

I didn’t look down.

The blouse fell open, held only by my arms now. My cleavage, sweaty and slightly marked by the tightness, caught the cooler air inside the tank. Goosebumps rose — not from nerves, but relief.

I slipped the blouse off one arm.

Then the other.

And now I was standing there — blouse in hand, still in my petticoat, still barefoot in the sticky mud. My bra underneath stuck to me like memory — taut, damp, and waiting.

Above me, I heard his voice.

“Hello? Raju? Turn on the motor… 7th floor needs water.”

His tone had changed.

That fake respect tone.

“It was blocked due to plastic container…”

I heard every word.

Every careful sentence.

The way he was still scared of me — even in his report.

He had no idea I was standing inside the tank without my blouse.

No idea my chest was almost bare, my stomach streaked with cooling droplets, and my hair tied loosely now like a girl too lazy to comb.

He finished his call.

And I heard the faint creak of his feet returning.

He was coming back.

Still thinking I was standing there in full dress.

Still trying to do what I told him.

But this time…

I wasn’t going to remind him who I was.

I would let him find out.



I heard the soft slap of feet returning across the terrace.

One step.

Then another.

Each one lighter than before.

Like even he wasn’t ready to step back into the tank.

The edge above me darkened as his body blocked the sunlight again.

His hands gripped the rim.

And then — his head appeared.

Face flushed. Sweaty. Wet hair sticking to his forehead.

He looked down—

And froze.

The moment his eyes met me…

Everything about him paused.

I was standing in the exact center of the tank.

Not hiding.

Not adjusting.

Just there.

In my bra.

Nothing else above.

My blouse was hanging on a small corner pipe nearby, forgotten. My hair was still wet from earlier, but strands had come loose and were now clinging to my shoulders and neck.

My bra — cotton, faded beige — hugged my breasts tight, the cups shaped perfectly around the curves. Damp lines formed beneath the straps, and the fabric itself was just beginning to show the outline of skin beneath.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

I let his eyes stay.

They stayed longer than he expected.

Longer than he could control.

And as his eyes scanned me, I looked lower.

His cock… was responding.

Slowly.

Naturally.

Almost like it had a memory of how this woman had spoken to it… spat on it… laughed at it.

From soft and hanging, it lifted.

Just a little.

Maybe three inches.

Then four.

Then slowly thickening.

Five.

It wasn’t hard. But it wasn’t ignoring me either.

He didn’t say anything.

Instead, as if trying to hide his shock inside words, he began speaking.

Voice low. Unsteady.

“Madam… I called. Told him it was blockage. He said he’ll turn motor now. So… water will come…”

I didn’t answer.

I watched his lips move.

His words were floating somewhere near my ear, but I wasn’t listening.

Not really.

Because my hands…

My hands had moved to my waist.

And his eyes noticed that instantly.

I placed two fingers casually on the knot of my petticoat.

The knot was sitting slightly above the band of my panty.

One small tug.

That’s all it would take.

I waited for the right moment.

As he was still speaking, still distracted, still forcing his voice to remain respectful—

I pulled.

Soft.

Clean.

The knot gave way without resistance.

The fabric slipped.

First over my hips.

Then past my thighs.

And finally down — crumpling near my ankles with a light, wet drop.

I stood still.

Now in just my bra and panty.

The petticoat pooled around my feet like old skin shed quietly.

And he saw it all.

His mouth didn’t open.

But his cock did.

Open. Expand. Rise.

Not violently.

But with raw tension.

It was now fully semi-erect — curved upward, thick, brown, and alive.

The head was beginning to peek out, glistening softly from leftover tank sweat and the faint remaining moisture.

I looked straight into his eyes.

No smile.

Just quiet stillness.

And in that stillness…

I watched him lose control.

Not with words.

Not with touch.

But with a body that forgot how to obey silence.



---------------------------------------------------------



I didn’t even feel the heat anymore.

Not because it became less.

It was still summer, and the sun above was hot enough to melt tiles. But inside the tank, even though it was dry now, just sticky mud left around my feet, the coolness of this cement was better than any fan, any cooler, any AC.

It was like being inside a fridge.

The kind of cold that touches the skin and slowly goes inside bones. The kind of cold that feels like a secret.

I stood still in it.

Wearing just my bra and panty.

No saree.

No blouse.

My petticoat was lying on the floor near the corner of the tank. Wet and wrinkled. Forgotten.

I didn’t want to come out. Not now.

I told myself, “If this was my own house, I’d keep a chair here and sit every day like this.”

He was standing opposite me.

Prakash.

Fully nude.

His skin was glistening. Slightly shaking from the cool floor. His feet were apart. His cock was hanging down again—maybe three inches now—soft because he was confused.

He didn’t know what I was doing.

And truth is, even I wasn’t sure what I was doing.

But I didn’t want to stop.

This was something else. Not about sex. Not about teasing. It was about power. About seeing how far someone will go if I don’t say no.

I looked at his face.

He didn’t blink.

Then, I said—calmly, not too loud—

“This is what you were staring at all these days, right?”

He looked confused.

I took a step forward.

“From the first day you joined here. When you opened the gate for me. When I walked past you in saree. You looked at me. Don’t lie.”

He didn’t reply.

Just kept his head low.

But his cock?

It twitched.

Started lifting again.

Like a dog wagging tail after hearing his name.

I stepped closer. There was maybe only four feet between us now.

His cock had reached maybe five inches.

Still not fully hard.

Still ashamed.

But trying.

I looked at him directly and asked again, firmer this time—

“You wanted to see this, right? My body. My breasts. My thighs. All this.”

He blinked. Still didn’t say anything.

I didn’t need his answer.

I moved my hands to my back.

He noticed immediately.

My fingers reached the bra hooks.

I stood straight. Chin up. My eyes on his face.

He was watching.

Not blinking.

Not breathing properly.

I unhooked the first clasp.

My bra loosened a bit.

Then the second.

Then the third.

Now only my hands were holding it in place.

My chest felt light.

Air touched the top of my breasts.

I didn’t drop it.

Just stood like that—barely covered.

His cock jumped again.

From five inches, it was becoming more.

Six.

Then seven.

It pointed upward now. Not resting anymore.

His breathing had changed. I could see his chest moving faster.

But he didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

And I liked that.

He was scared to even breathe loud. But his cock had its own brain.

I felt heat between my legs.

That sudden stickiness inside the panty.

Not from sweat.

This was different.

My thighs were touching each other softly. I could feel the fabric rubbing where it shouldn’t.

Still I didn’t speak.

I took another small step forward.

Now we were just two feet apart.

I could see his balls.

His pubic hair was wet and stuck to the skin.

His cock was now fully hard.

Maybe 8 inches. Maybe more. Slight bend toward the left. Dark brown head, fully out.

I stood there, still holding the bra with both hands.

He looked like a man who didn’t know if he was dreaming or dying.

And I?

I stood calmly.

In bra and panty.

Nothing else.

Inside a tank, with mud under my feet.

No husband.

No kids.

No neighbors.

Just me.

And this man.

And his cock.



I looked straight into his eyes.

My bra still in place, but unhooked, loose.

My hands still holding it—barely.

And I asked—

“Do you want me to remove this?”

His eyes widened.

His cock twitched again.

His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came.

Just his head…

He nodded once.

Then again.

Quickly.

Like a dog begging for food.

I laughed.

A soft, slow laugh from the back of my throat.

Not girly. Not shy.

Mocking.

“Look at you,” I said.

“What are you going to do if I remove it?”

He froze.

Didn’t answer.

His cock was already standing like a flag. Eight inches, curved up, the head almost looking up at the sky.

“You can’t touch me,” I said, voice calm. “You can’t come near. You can’t do anything.”

He still didn’t speak.

I tilted my head.

“What next? You’ll go tell your friends? In the security shed? Talk about my boobs over tea?”

He looked scared.

Shook his head side to side.

Fast.

“Hmm,” I murmured.

“Good dog.”

He blinked.

Confused.

I stepped closer. The bra still pressed against my chest with my hands. Just inches away from him now.

“You want it?” I asked. “Then beg.”

His eyes widened.

“Get down.”

He didn’t move at first.

“Down,” I repeated. “Like a dog.”

Slowly… he dropped to the floor.

His knees hit the cold cement.

Then his hands.

He was now on all fours.

His cock still stood proudly between his legs.

“Beg,” I said again.

And he did.

Not with words.

But with eyes.

With body.

With slow, lowered head, like an animal before his owner.

I stood above him.

And then…

I removed my hands from the bra.

Let it fall.

It dropped like a curtain.

My breasts were now fully visible.

Nipples hard.

Dark.

Erect.

Pushed slightly upward from the chill.

He gasped softly. His face was just below my chest height, still kneeling like a beast.

I didn’t hide.

Didn’t move.

Just let him see.

For the first time.

A married, homely woman—

Completely topless.

In full daylight.

In a cement tank.

With a security guard kneeling naked like a slave.

I stood like that for a moment.

Then said—

“Stand up.”

His body reacted faster than his brain.

He rose.

His cock now almost brushing against my belly.

Heavy. Stiff. Completely up.

I looked down.

Then, without changing my expression—

I lifted my right leg.

Bent my knee slightly.

And touched his cock.

With my foot.

The skin of his cock was hot.

Pulsing.

Alive.

I placed my toes gently against the underside, let them press, then slide slightly down and around.

He didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

But I saw his stomach flinch.

His balls tighten.

And inside me?

The wetness had become a stream.

My panty was soaked.

And I wasn’t done.

[sexypreeti]

You Are Awesome... You have me hooked so much to your story that I keep waiting for the next part... Keep it up  :) clp);

[Sage_69]

She should lay him on the floor and start fucking on top of him.

[sexypreeti]

Just my thoughts...You shouldn't have changed the title...

I think the previous title was much better...

Just my thoughts...

[yazhiniram]

“Stand in the center,” I said.

My voice was plain. Like I was telling someone to pick up a dropped spoon.

He looked confused for a second. Then slowly stepped forward.

His feet touched the small muddy spots around the tank floor. His toes curled a little, nervous. But he obeyed.

He stood exactly where I wanted him—right in the middle of the tank.

Fully nude.

His arms stayed down, but I noticed it immediately—his fingers were itching to touch.

He looked down once.

And just as his hand moved—slowly, carefully—toward his cock…

I snapped.

“No.”

He stopped like someone had hit him on the head.

I didn’t shout.

I didn’t raise my hand.

Just one word. Firm. Flat.

“You cannot touch it.”

His hand dropped to his side like a collegeboy hiding stolen chalk.

I walked slowly toward him.

Not close. Just enough to make him freeze.

His cock was still standing strong—thick, fully erect, the head pointing up like a small snake ready to strike. I could see the slight swell of the veins around the cock. The skin was darker now, more reddish-brown. Alive.

And under that, hanging heavily, were his balls—hairy, thick, slightly swinging with every breath he took.

I didn’t stare for long.

Because I had more important things to do.

I started circling him.

One step.

Then another.

My feet made soft wet sounds against the tank’s cement floor.

I walked slowly.

Like a woman walking around a tree before tying a thread.

Only this tree was shaking.

I moved behind him.

His back was strong. Not gym body. Not six pack. But that tough, worker back. Burnt by sun. Skin rough like used wood.

I saw his shoulders—broad but slightly uneven. And a small mole near the left side of his neck.

His spine dipped in the center, and I followed the line down with my eyes—until I reached it.

His butt.

Round. Flat. Naked.

I looked without shame.

Then I narrowed my eyes.

Lifted my face slightly.

And then…

I spat.

The spit landed just slightly to the right of his left butt cheek.

A sharp wet sound. Then a slow sliding line of saliva going down toward the curve.

He flinched.

Not loudly.

Just a small reaction. Like someone being pinched in sleep.

He didn’t turn.

Didn’t complain.

I walked again. Came back to the front.

His face was red now. His eyes trying not to meet mine.

I didn’t ask anything.

I just looked down.

His cock was still hard.

No, harder.

Like it liked what I did.

“Hmm,” I said softly.

“What do you want to do now?”

He didn’t speak.

His lips opened slightly.

But I didn’t let him talk.

“You think you’re going to touch me?” I said. “Kiss me? Put this cock inside me?”

His face looked shocked.

Ashamed.

But that cock?

It stood like it was proud of my words.

I laughed. Once.

“Don’t think too much,” I said. “This is the max you’ll get.”

I paused.

Then added, “My saliva. That’s all.”

Still, his cock didn’t go down.

If anything, it pulsed again.

I looked down at it.

It was thick. Fully swollen. Long. The head almost angry red now.

Below, his balls looked tight. Ready.

And that hair…

So much.

Thick black curls around his cock base. Wet in some places. Stuck to his thigh. Raw. Animal.

And I?

I started breathing differently.

I could feel my chest going up and down slowly.

I could feel my nipples—fully out now—standing hard.

I could feel my panty sticking to me.

I didn’t even know how wet I had become.

It wasn’t sweat.

It wasn’t tank water.

It was me.

Inside.

Wanting.

And this bastard—this filthy, low-class man—his cock was the reason.

I cursed myself inside.

But I didn’t stop.

I walked around him again.

Once more.

Just to feel that control.

And with every step, my eyes scanned him again.

Neck.

Shoulders.

Spine.

Butt.

Legs.

Cock.

Balls.

Hair.

Back to the chest.

And his eyes—those small, brown, worker eyes—still staring at the ground.

Ashamed.

But his cock had no shame.

It stood tall.

For me.

And I hadn’t even touched.

Not once.

But inside?

Inside I was already touching. Licking. Biting. Swallowing.

Everything I had never done.

Everything my husband never deserved.

Everything this watchman had never earned.

And still—I wanted.

I wanted it like a thirst that wouldn’t go.

But I held myself.

I clenched my fingers.

I gritted my teeth slightly.

I said nothing.

I just stood there—topless, breathing slowly, watching his cock bounce with every scared breath he took.

My legs were trembling a bit.

Not from weakness.

From the heat inside my thighs.

From the stickiness in my panty.

I knew one thing—

If I touched now, I wouldn’t stop.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

He was standing like I told him to.

Straight.

Still.

Naked.

Cock fully erect.

Breathing carefully like every breath might disturb me.

And then—suddenly—

Beep. Beep. Beep.

That ugly, soft ringtone of an old phone echoed from above.

He looked up. Confused.

Then at me.

I saw it—the instinct in his leg. He wanted to step out. Go grab it.

He thought I would let him.

But I didn’t.

“Stand straight.” I snapped.

His leg stopped mid-shift.

I raised my chin toward the tank edge. The sound was coming from just above.

“Don’t move,” I said again. “I’ll check.”

He stood like a statue.

I walked to the side. Grabbed the ladder bar. Climbed just halfway.

Pushed my head out.

The breeze hit me.

Strong sun hit my forehead, but I squinted and looked around.

There it was.

His phone.

Old. Grey. Plastic buttons rubbed white. Some cheap local model.

I picked it up.

The screen said: “Wife Calling”.

I laughed inside.

But didn’t show it.

I turned back, bent a little, and handed it to him from above.

“Talk.” I said.

No expression.

Just order.

He looked up. Shocked again.

Held the phone with both hands.

“Hello…” he said, voice low.

I stood just above him now—still topless, still in panty.

Listening.

“Tell me, I’m in a meeting with association” he said.

“Lot of work with association”

“…its very important…”

“…can’t come now,… wait, or I’ll come evening…”

He cut the call.

Still looking down.

Still holding the phone like it was gold.

I burst into a soft laugh.

“Meeting?” I said, stepping down slowly.

He looked like a collegeboy caught forging his father’s signature.

“What kind of association meeting is this?”

I spread my arms for a second, like presenting a stage.

His eyes fell to my bare chest again. But quickly looked away.

He tried to explain. “what… madam… what should i teli—”

“I didn’t ask,” I cut him.

“Give me the phone.”

He gave it like a servant giving a broom.

I walked to the corner. Placed it carefully on the thick metal water pipe attached to the tank wall.

Then I turned around.

Walked back slowly.

And stopped just a few inches from him.

His cock was now trembling.

Standing proud. Full.

The head was red. Shining.

The cock heavy.

Balls round and hairy.

And I had enough.

I bent forward slightly—still topless—and picked up my bra from where it lay on the tank edge.

Then, looking into his eyes—

I threw it.

Straight at his face.

It hit his nose and dropped onto his chest.

He held it, confused.

I said calmly:

“Touch it. This is the maximum you’ll ever touch.”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t say anything.

I stepped forward.

Now standing right in front of his cock.

Just one breath away.

I looked at it—up and down.

Then raised my face.

Met his eyes.

And then—

I spat.

Direct.

Sharp.

Wet.

Right on the shaft.

On his cock.

It hit the side and slowly dripped down to the base.

He froze.

His eyes flinched.

His cock jerked slightly in shock.

But I didn’t react.

I stood calmly.

Topless.

In panty.

Sweat forming under my breasts.

Hair tied loose and wet behind me.

Legs bare. Thighs trembling slightly from the heat below.

And my saliva?

Now resting on his cock.

Mixing with his own body.

Making him mine—without touch. Without permission. Without asking.

And inside me?

I was no longer just wet.

I was aching.

Holding myself with more strength than ever.

Because one more step—

And I would drop to my knees.

And take that filthy, thick, low-class cock into my mouth.

And that was not my plan.

Not yet.


-----------------------------------------------------------------------------


I was still standing.

Topless.

Only one thing left on my body—my panty.

Everything else—my saree, petticoat, blouse, bra—gone. Tossed. Left on the cement edge or drowned in mud.

And he?

Prakash.

Still standing in the center of the tank like a naked dog waiting for a command.

His cock was no longer just hard—it was angry. Full, stiff, twitching. And leaking.

I was waiting for water to come.

I wanted to bathe.

Right here.

In front of him.

Let him see everything.

Let him know what it feels like to be in the presence of something he can never truly have.

And then I asked.

I moved my fingers to my waistband.

Just placed them there.

Not pulling yet.

And looked straight at him.

“You want me to remove this?”

He didn’t nod softly.

He shook his head quickly—yes. Yes. Yes.

Like a hungry dog.

His eyes were wild now.

Mouth slightly open.

His fingers tightened into fists.

But he didn’t move from his position.

Still standing straight.

Still obeying.

I laughed.

It came out naturally.

From deep inside my chest.

Then I tilted my head and mocked—

“What are you going to do if I remove it?”

He blinked.

Didn’t answer.

I stepped a little closer.

His cock jumped.

“Are you going to masturbate? Right in front of me?”

He swallowed.

“Or you want to touch me?”

He looked at my thighs for a second.

Then back to the floor.

“Or what…” I said slowly, “you want to bend down and kiss me there?”

His knees wobbled slightly.

But he didn’t move.

“And maybe… maybe even insert this cock inside me?” I asked softly.

His cock jerked.

Big jump.

The head was shining now. Precum forming. Thick and slow.

I stepped even closer.

We were now just inches apart.

The tip of his cock was only a breath away from my lower stomach.

I stared at it.

Then looked at his face.

“You were just in an association meeting, no?” I said with a half smile. “Now planning to fuck a married woman?”

He didn’t reply.

His mouth opened and closed once. No sound.

I brought one hand back to my panty line.

My fingertips touched the elastic.

I rubbed slowly.

Just pressing down and gliding across the top.

Teasing.

His eyes dropped down.

I saw it.

That hunger.

That filth.

That need.

“Should I?” I asked.

My voice was low now.

Almost a whisper.

He didn’t answer.

But his body did.

He nodded again.

His cock leaked more.

The drop of precum was now thick—ready to fall.

I placed my fingers right under the band.

And slowly pulled—

Just a little.

The panty lowered by one inch.

Enough to show the start of my pubic hair.

Thick, black curls just above the lips.

He saw it.

His mouth opened again.

Cock jerked once more.

That drop fell.

Straight onto the cement.

Between his feet.

I didn’t look away.

I didn’t stop.

I kept my hand there.

Holding the waistband.

Hovering at the edge of full reveal.

And inside me?

My body was burning.

The fabric of the panty had turned into a wet, warm rag. It was clinging to my skin. Rubbing every time I shifted.

My thighs were slippery.

And I knew…

One more second—

And I would do it.

Pull it down.

Let him see everything.

Let him know what power really looks like.

But not yet.

I let the air grow heavier.

Let him wait.

Let myself burn.

Because I still wanted to bathe.

Right here.

Right in front of him.

And now?

Now I wanted the water to come more than anything.

He was standing exactly where I told him. In the center of the tank. Bare. Stiff. Not just in posture—but everything about him was stiff. Controlled. Pretending.

But I knew better.

I could see it in his eyes.

And I could see it in his cock.

He was enjoying every second.

Every breath I took. Every pause. Every slow move of my hand.

He tried to act innocent. Like he was standing there just because I said so. But that cock didn’t lie. It pulsed. It dripped. It pointed at me like it had no shame.

So I mocked him.

“What? You're already leaking? Are you a teenager or what?”

It was around 10:30 AM. The whole building silent. Not a single soul anywhere nearby.

Just me.

And him.

My voice echoed slightly off the tank walls.

I laughed. A full laugh. From my belly. The kind of laugh you let out when you own someone completely.

He didn’t react.

Didn’t reply.

But he didn’t need to.

His cock twitched.

A single drop formed at the tip.

So I leaned forward.

Bent a little. Let my breast hang slightly from my chest. Let him see it shake.

And I spit.

One more time.

Right on his cock.

It landed right at the head. Slid down the right side. Paused at the base.

He flinched.

Not much. But I saw it.

His knee jerked slightly.

His toe curled.

But his eyes stayed stuck on the floor.

And his hands? Still tight fists.

I smiled.

Turned around.

Slowly.

Let him see my back.

My spine. My hair sticking slightly to the middle from tank heat. My blouse was already gone. My bra too.

Only the panty was left.

It was tight. Clung to my ass. And I knew he’d been staring at it since the moment I turned.

So I gave him what he wanted.

My hands reached behind me.

I slid both palms down my back. Slowly. Until they touched the waistband.

And I pulled.

Not fast. Not suddenly.

Just a gentle pull.

The elastic stretched.

And then the top of my butt crack came into view.

Just a small curve.

Soft. Brown. Glistening from sweat.

I heard it then—his breath.

He was holding it.

I turned my head.

Just slightly.

Glanced over my shoulder.

He was still standing.

Same place.

Same posture.

But now? His cock was dripping more.

He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t even blinked.

But that tip was wet.

Shining.

Another drop forming.

He couldn’t hide it.

I turned forward again.

And pulled more.

Now the panty slid halfway down my butt.

And finally—fully.

My entire ass was visible to him.

Round. Wide. Firm.

The lower back curved into it perfectly. The upper thighs separated just enough to deepen the center line.

The fabric of the panty was now sitting just above the backs of my thighs.

And I stood like that.

Let the air touch my bare skin.

Let his eyes burn.

I turned slightly again.

Not my full body. Just my face.

Saw him.

Still holding.

But shaking now.

His knees locked. Chest moving faster.

And that cock?

Still leaking.

That one fat drop finally fell to the floor of the tank.

I smiled.

And asked—

“You want to touch this?”

[Sage_69]

So hot!

[sexypreeti]

What was this? - Idhayathin Mozhi – Episode 31 – Part 22 (Full Raw Detail)

[Divosg2k]

Wow. Superb Write Up. Congrats. Expecting your next pisodes soon

[yazhiniram]

What was this? - Idhayathin Mozhi – Episode 31 – Part 22 (Full Raw Detail)

It's my personal note for each episode to narrate. I've remvoved it now. Thanks for notifying me

[Arul Pragasam]

Excellent update. How can He or she be so control. is she expecting him to turn many and pounce on her and take her and eat her from top to toe.

[Kartikjessie]

Now she must urinate in his mouth and make him lick and eat her ass hole.

[Jajinakajanare]

He didn't do anything in the entire story, except for staring for a second and yet he is getting all best gifts from her.....

[WriterPK]

Excellent bro

[vishuvanathan]

Superb

[Vijay42]

What is Prakash going to do for this?

[zulfique]

Awesome, Did she not compare the size with her husband. Will she use condom and give a blow job or good fuck.

[yazhiniram]

I stood with my back to him.

My panty was halfway down, my full ass exposed.

I knew his eyes were eating it up.

But I also knew what was coming next.

I could feel it — in the silence.

His breath shifted.

His weight shifted.

Then I saw it — just from the side of my eye.

His hand.

Slowly rising.

Just an inch.

Coming toward my backside.

That filthy bastard.

I didn’t even flinch.

But my voice cut through the tank like a whip.

“No.”

He froze.

His hand still in the air.

I turned my face — no expression. Cold.

“You cannot touch this.”

“Not today. Not ever.”

I saw his fingers trembling.

He pulled his hand back.

Took a step backward.

Returned to his original standing position — like a soldier who had dared to blink during a parade.

I stood straight.

Didn’t say another word.

I reached down.

Pulled the panty all the way off.

Still not facing him.

Still not letting him see what he really wanted.

I held the wet cloth in my hand for a second.

Dripping.

Heavy with sweat, with heat, with the weight of what I just denied him.

Then I turned just my head — and flung it.

Hard.

Straight.

It landed directly on his cock.

The wet slap echoed.

The panty hung there for a second — Wore like an offering on a shrine — then slid down and dropped to the tank floor.

He didn’t move.

He didn’t even twitch.

Good.

That’s what I wanted.

I took one breath.

Then, slowly…

I turned.

Fully.

Let him see.

My chest was bare.

My stomach glowing with a thin film of sweat.

And lower…

My pussy.

Shaved.

Soft.

Glistening under the tank’s sky light.

His eyes widened.

Not just his eyes.

His cock reacted.

It got angry.

Tensed. Twitched. Thicker than ever.

He bit his lip.

I didn’t move.

I didn’t cover.

I just stood — fully revealed, fully untouchable.

And right then…

Water.

A sudden splash — from above.

The tank pipe hissed, then gushed.

A full stream of water burst downward, hitting me square on the top of my head.

It felt like a summer storm.

Cold.

Sharp.

Pure.

My hair flattened instantly.

The water slid down my scalp, my face, my neck.

Over my shoulders.

Across my breasts.

And down…

Into every curve between my legs.

He watched.

He couldn’t blink.

I didn’t smile.

I didn’t speak.

I just stood there.

Bathing. In front of him.

Like a goddess who let the temple doors open for one man only — just so she could show him what he would never hold.



I stood under the water, bare and still.

His eyes were on me — not blinking, not shifting.

And his cock…

Still pointing like a compass to everything I refused to give.

But something in me shifted.

Not weakness.

Not sympathy.

Just… control.

That wicked kind of control where you give your dog a bone and watch him thank you like it’s a feast.

I looked down at the wet cloth near his feet.

My panty.

Drenched with sweat.

And my scent.

Still warm from my body.

He hadn’t moved since it landed.

I smirked.

Then said, calmly, without looking at him:

“Take it.”

He didn’t move.

I turned my face, eyes sharp.

“I said take it. Do what you want.”

And that’s all it took.

Like someone had cut his leash, he bent forward instantly — picked it up with both hands.

Held it like a sacred object.

Like it was something holy.

He didn’t even look at me anymore — he just stared at the cloth.

And then…

He sniffed it.

Deep.

Long.

Closed his eyes while doing it.

The cloth collapsed in his hands, soaked and heavy, and he crushed it gently near his nose.

I burst out laughing.

“What are you doing, filthy bastard?”

He didn’t stop.

He was sniffing it like it had magic.

Like I had given him jasmine flowers from my hair, not the last cloth that covered my pussy.

He was trembling.

His chest shook as he inhaled again.

I leaned slightly forward.

Scooped a palm full of cold water.

And flung it.

Splash!

Straight on his cock.

He jerked.

His body stiffened.

But he still didn’t stop.

Now, I saw something else.

He was moving his lips.

His tongue.

His tongue was…

Licking.

The edges of the panty.

My wetness.

He was licking it. Tasting it. Like he was trying to drink me from a cloth.

And I…

I felt it.

I leaked.

Right there, under the water.

Between my legs — warmth, sliding through the chill of the shower.

My pussy twitched, pulsed.

Not from his cock.

From watching what he was doing with a cloth that had touched mine.

His cock stood harder than ever.

He still hadn’t touched himself.

But it was twitching now. Leaking again.

And I?

I just stood. Watching.

Feeling my body respond to the sight of this man — this low-class, sweaty, filthy man — sucking my panty like it was the first food he’d had in days.

And knowing…

He’d never get the real thing.

But he’d never forget the taste of that cloth.



---------------------------------------------



He was still standing, head bowed, panty crushed in his hands, lips damp from licking.

My body was still dripping, my nipples stiff, and a slow ache forming between my legs.

I could feel the urge — that small traitor whispering, “Touch him. Feel him. Use him.”

But I didn’t want him to win.

Not even for a second.

If I touched him with my hands…

If I gave him that closeness…

It would feel like permission.

And he hadn’t earned that.

So instead, I gave a single, sharp word:

“Lie down.”

His head snapped up.

His face blinked once — not sure if he heard right.

I said again, slowly.

“Lie. Down.”

He didn’t ask why.

He didn’t resist.

He went into kneeling postion, then he dropped backward immediately.

Onto his back.

His legs slightly apart.

His arms resting beside him.

He lay there — like a canvas, waiting for the painter’s first stroke.

He must’ve thought I was going to climb on top.

That I was going to ride him.

Stupid dog.

I had other plans.

I walked toward the edge of the tank.

Reduced the water pipe — just a trickle now.

Soft. Like a summer rain, not a downpour.

Then I reached to the corner — where I’d thrown my saree earlier.

It was still damp.

I took it and walked back.

Not with my hands — not yet.

I used my feet.

Tossed the fabric near his face.

Slid it gently until it lay under his cheek.

And then…

I used my toe.

Pressed softly near his thighs.

His eyes followed me, unsure.

I gave one gentle push.

“Close your eyes,” I said.

He obeyed.

I stood over him now.

Looking at the full length of him.

His cock — still upright — like a flagpole in heat.

Thick. Dark. Angry.

It curved slightly to the right, veins alive, the tip shining again.

And I did nothing for a moment.

Just stood over him.

Watching.

Then I stepped forward.

Placed one foot on the floor beside his thigh.

Then the other.

I was now standing on both sides of him.

Over his pelvis.

Like a queen over her altar.

I held the pipe for balance.

Tight grip.

Let the trickle of water run down my wrist.

And slowly…

I lowered one foot.

Let my sole hover above his cock.

Close.

Close enough for him to feel the shadow of it.

Then, I touched it.

With the soft arch of my foot.

A small graze — not pressure.

Just presence.

His cock twitched.

I smiled.

He didn’t open his eyes.

Good.

I placed my other foot on his upper thigh — steadying myself.

Now, my left foot rested on his body.

My right foot…

On his cock.

It was bigger than the width of my foot.

The head peeked out from one side.

The base pressed against my heel.

I adjusted slightly.

Curved my toes in.

Pressed the head gently between them.

And I started.

Not rubbing. Not stroking.

Playing.

Light movements.

Toes spreading. Closing.

Sliding over the cock.

Letting the sole roll forward.

His body stiffened.

I heard his breath catch.

He didn’t dare move.

His eyes were still closed.

His fists clenched at his side.

I looked down at him — from my throne of wet stone and control.

And I whispered.

“You thought I’d ride you?”

I bent forward just slightly.

“You thought I’d let you inside me?”

I slid my foot upward — pressing the tip against the inside of my toes.

“This is all you get.”

His cock pulsed.

A fat drop escaped.

Landed on his stomach.

I didn’t stop.

I began to rub now.

More rhythm.

Using the arch of my foot to push, drag, tease.

It was hot against my skin — warmer than the water, harder than I expected.

And it excited me.

Not because I wanted him.

But because I could do this with just my foot — and he was melting like butter.

I stood taller.

Pressed harder.

Slid my toes along his cock, wrapped around his tip.

He was shaking.

His thighs twitched.

His stomach muscles locked.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t reach out.

Because he knew—

One wrong move and I’d walk away.

So I kept going.

Slow. Unhurried.

One woman. One foot.

Owning one man completely.



My foot was still wrapped around him.

My heel pressed near the base. My toes holding his head gently but firmly.

The pipe above me dripped slowly, letting cold water trace down my spine, between my breasts, across my stomach.

But the heat between my legs…

That was something else.

I was still standing on him.

Full weight. Both feet on his body. One on his thigh. One on his cock.

Holding the pipe with one hand to steady myself. The other free — clenched in air.

His eyes were supposed to be shut.

But I saw it.

That tiny gap between the folds of my saree I placed under his face.

He was peeking.

His lashes fluttered. His eyes — wide, dark, drunk on the sight of me.

I didn’t stop.

I didn’t scold him.

Let the dog stare.

Let him see what he would never touch.

I moved my foot again.

Pressed.

Rolled.

Slid slowly from base to tip, toes dragging over his cock with precision.

He twitched.

But he didn’t thrust.

Not yet.

He wasn’t desperate.

He was savouring.

And I realised something.

He wasn’t trying to finish.

He was trying to prolong it.

He wanted the tease to last forever.

He was not just enjoying it — he was living inside it.

My leg started to ache.

The arch of my foot burned.

My thighs trembled slightly.

But I didn’t stop.

Not yet.

I looked down.

His cock was pulsing.

Thicker now. Slight curve to the left.

Still hard. Still proud. Still untouched by anything but my foot.

My foot that had now turned wet too — water and his leaking mixing on my skin.

And I was… liking it.

The way his skin felt under my sole.

The way he didn’t resist.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t even breathe too loud.

He lay still.

Like a mattress made of flesh and filth.

Ready to absorb anything I gave.

But my calves were hurting.

My balance was shifting.

I could feel it — the wobble in my right knee.

I can’t keep this up.

If I stayed standing any longer, I’d fall — either beside him… or on top of him.

And that?

That would be surrender.

So I stepped back.

Carefully.

Lifted my foot off his cock. Slowly. Let the skin part like two lovers being pulled apart.

Then the other foot — down on the wet stone floor.

I was off him.

Finally.

I stood there, breathing deep.

Not from arousal.

From effort.

My legs were shaking slightly.

I bent forward, braced my palms on my thighs, closed my eyes.

God.

What kind of man was he?

How did he let me press down on him with full weight — not a word, not a wince, not even a flex?

And still his cock was hard.

Still leaking.

Still pointing.

Like he wanted more.

My foot had done more than most men get from mouths.

And yet… he wanted more.

I looked at my hands.

Still dry.

Still unused.

Still clean.

Should I?

Should I use them now?

Would it be defeat?

Or… would it be control, if I used them my way?

I stood upright again.

Took a step forward.

My eyes locked on his cock — waiting, shining, untouched.

I didn’t have to decide yet.

But my hands…

They were no longer behind me.

They were now hovering in front.