Adultery The Language of Her Heart

[sexypreeti]

Sorry but there is a big disconnect here...

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

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

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

When did he go from "standing" to "kneeling"?

Call me devils advocate but this does not make sense...total disconnect...

[Vijay42]

Therikka vidureenga....My request.....
Do not turn Pavithra into a public restroom

[Sage_69]

Nice!

[yazhiniram]

Sorry but there is a big disconnect here...

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

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

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

When did he go from "standing" to "kneeling"?

Call me devils advocate but this does not make sense...total disconnect...

Updated now. Thanks for noticing it.

[yazhiniram]

I stood still, just a step away from him.

He was lying down like a slave at rest — motionless, soaked, desperate.

His cock still stood tall.

Alive. Hungry. Unrelenting.

And I was done pretending I didn’t notice.

My fingers hovered in the air.

Close. Too close.

But I didn’t reach yet.

Instead, I spoke.

Softly.

My voice dropped to a tone I hadn’t used in years.

Not with my husband.

Not with anyone.

“Do you want me to use my hand, Prakash?”

I said his name for the first time.

Not as a scolding.

Not as a command.

But as something softer.

Something heavier.

He opened his eyes.

Shaking.

Like a fever had just passed through his body.

He nodded.

Fast.

Repeated.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

Like a child begging for sweets.

Like a man who’d been thirsty too long.

But that wasn’t enough.

I narrowed my eyes.

“No.”

He froze.

I stepped closer.

My toe pressed against his thigh.

“Open your mouth and say it. Beg for it.”

He looked up at me.

Gulped.

Then, with a crack in his voice, he whispered.

“Please, madam… I want it… your hand… please touch it… I beg…”

Still not enough.

I lifted my foot — the same one I’d used to tease him.

There was a drop still hanging.

Precum.

His.

I brought it to his mouth.

“Then lick it.”

He opened wide.

His tongue reached out.

I wiped the wetness over his lips, across his lower jaw.

He sucked on it. Licked every trace.

Like it was nectar.

I stared at him.

“It’s your cum. You should lick it. No one’s going to do it for you.”

He moaned softly — almost in shame, almost in submission.

But I saw what I wanted.

Obedience.

Desperation.

Control.

And I knelt.

For the first time.

I got on my knees beside him.

Water trickled from my chin. From my thighs. From the hair still clinging to my back.

My knees touched the stone floor of the tank.

Cold.

But I didn’t feel it.

All I saw was what I had never touched before.

A cock that wasn’t Kartik’s.

Longer.

Thicker.

Veiny.

Erect like it was fighting gravity.

I reached out.

One hand.

Fingers curled slowly.

Touched the base.

Warm.

Alive.

I wrapped my palm around it.

Rock solid.

But there was a softness to the skin. A tension beneath it. Like it was waiting to explode.

My fingers didn’t close fully.

So I brought the other hand.

Now both my palms held him.

He twitched.

I felt it.

The throb.

Like a heartbeat.

I looked down at it.

At him.

His chest rose. His eyes were shut again.

He knew this was not sex.

This was a gift.

From me.

And now…

I began to move.

Slowly.

Up.

Down.

Both hands sliding, gently twisting.

The water made everything glide.

And in that moment, I knew—

This wasn’t about him.

It was about me.

I owned him.

With my words.

With my legs.

And now…

With my hands.



My hands were around him.

Wrapped. Encircling. Claiming.

My knees dug into the cool stone of the tank, but I barely felt it.

All I felt was him — thick, full, rock-solid in my palms.

He twitched again.

Then again.

My fingers slid from the base upward, pressing the soft skin over that thick core.

Then back down.

Slow. No rush.

The water dripping from my elbows made it easier, made it smoother.

Like silk on stone.

He didn’t move. Not even his breath dared rise too high.

His eyes stayed shut, lips parted slightly. As if praying.

And I… was feeling something I hadn’t expected.

His skin. The heat.

The softness layered over that tight, pulsing hardness.

It was… addictive.

I swallowed.

The tip of his cock now glistened with a wet shine that wasn’t mine.

Precum.

The first bead slid down, brushed my thumb, and clung to the side of my index finger.

I froze for a moment.

That drop.

That taste.

I could smell it — raw, male, thick.

A dangerous part of me whispered—

Lick it.

But I didn’t.

No.

My dignity slapped that voice down like a fly.

Not now.

Not yet.

I let the wetness stay on my skin. Didn’t wipe it off.

Instead, I started again.

Fingers twisting slightly now.

My palms slid tighter.

I increased the rhythm.

Not much. Just enough.

Enough to feel how he reacted.

His thighs flexed once.

A tiny gasp left his mouth.

I looked up.

He was close.

I could feel it.

The way the veins thickened.

The way his head pulsed in my grip.

Another drop of precum smeared across my palm.

God.

This wasn’t about him. I reminded myself.

I was doing this… because I wanted to know what it felt like.

Not to be touched.

To touch.

To hold something so helplessly erect in my hands.

To make a man melt just from my fingers.

I stroked faster.

Slid my thumbs over his tip this time, rubbed them together like I was testing texture.

He whimpered.

His stomach locked.

His body tensed.

I knew that sound.

He was about to cum.

And that’s when I stopped.

Pulled my hands away.

Just like that.

Cold.

Clean.

Final.

He jerked up — instinctively.

His hand flew toward his cock.

“No.”

My voice cracked like thunder in the tank.

He froze.

His hand hovered, trembling.

I glared.

“You don’t get to touch it. Not infront of me.”

He dropped his hand. Like a collegeboy caught cheating.

I stood up.

Wet knees. Wet hair.

My hands still smelled like him.

But I didn’t wipe them.

I let the scent stay.

Let the ache between my thighs stay too.

Then I spoke — cool and clear.

“Stand up.”

He obeyed.

Wobbly.

His cock still stood.

Red. Swollen. Trembling.

Leaking more than ever.

I walked to the corner.

Turned the water pipe back up.

The full flow gushed out — splashing hard from above.

I didn’t look back at him.

Let him stand there.

Let him feel the water pour over his desperate body.

Let him cool down — but never release.



The water still poured.

The sound echoed around the tank walls—hard, steady, unbroken.

I didn’t say a word.

I simply lifted my hand, pointed to the side.

“Move.”

He obeyed.

No hesitation. No questions.

He shifted to the edge of the tank, his bare body wet, cock still twitching in half-painful silence.

And I walked forward.

Right into the stream.

Completely nude.

No towel. No blouse. No shame.

Only skin and sunlight.

His eyes followed. Of course they did.

That’s what he wanted, wasn’t it?

To watch.

To stand there helpless, body burning, while mine cooled under the running water.

So I gave it to him.

I let the water hit my shoulders, my breasts, my thighs.

I didn’t scrub. I didn’t soap.

I just let it fall.

Let it slide over every inch of me.

I tilted my head back.

Let the stream hit my forehead, then glide down my cheeks, my neck.

Between my breasts.

Over my navel.

Between my legs.

He could see everything.

And he didn’t move.

Didn’t dare breathe too loudly.

His hands stayed by his side.

Because he knew.

If he touched anything — himself, or me — it would all vanish.

I rinsed once.

Then again.

Not for cleansing.

For power.

To remind myself that I could be naked, vulnerable, exposed… and still the one in control.

I stepped back after a minute.

Water still dripping from my nipples, pooling in the curve of my lower back.

I looked at him.

He was still trembling.

“Take my clothes,” I said flatly.

His eyes shifted—searching for where I’d thrown them.

They were everywhere scattered on the tank — blouse, petticoat, saree, panty, bra.

He picked them up — one by one, like sacred items.

Then I said—

“Wash them. With water only. No soap. And come out.”

He nodded, still mute.

Turned to the tank corner and began.

I walked toward the ladder.

Climbed.

Each metal step was hot under my wet sole.

But I didn’t rush.

My hips moved naturally.

The sunlight outside was blinding.

As I stepped out onto the terrace, my skin glowed.

My body steamed slightly under the sun’s harsh eye.

I stood there.

Wet.

Bare.

Still.

Like a statue.

My nipples tightened in the heat.

Droplets slid down my stomach, off the tips of my breasts, off the edge of my thighs.

The breeze teased the curve of my ass.

And I waited.

Silent.

Not covering anything.

Because I didn’t need to.

That was his punishment.

To see the woman he couldn’t touch—like marble under the sun.

After a minute, I heard the steps.

Prakash climbing.

He appeared at the opening.

His eyes met mine.

Then dropped.

In his hands — my clothes.

Soaked.

Dripping.

But cleaner.

Rinsed.

Washed without soap.

He held them like they might burn him.

And I?

I didn’t thank him.

I didn’t smile.

I just stood.

Letting the sun dry what water couldn’t.



The sunlight was sharp, unforgiving.

It burned the terrace tiles, kissed my wet skin, and made every droplet on my body glow like pearls.

I stood there, completely nude.

No towel. No cover. No guilt.

Just me.

Hair dripping.

Breasts heavy.

Water sliding between my thighs.

And him.

My dog.

Still holding the bundle of my clothes, unsure where to place his eyes.

The gate was locked from the inside. No one could enter.

There were no cameras, no windows facing this side.

This moment was ours.

Mine.

“Dry my clothes.”

I said it without looking at him.

He obeyed.

Bent down, laid the wet pieces on the flat terrace floor, one by one.

First the blouse — spread it out carefully.

Then the petticoat — opened wide, pressed down to keep it flat.

The panty.

The bra.

The saree — he shook it gently, then placed it like a fresh bedsheet under the afternoon sun.

I didn’t help.

I didn’t move near him.

I just walked.

Bare feet touching the terrace tiles, still warm from the morning.

I moved slowly.

My arms sometimes lifted to fix my wet hair.

My breasts moved freely with every step.

He was watching.

He couldn’t help it.

His head stayed low — but I saw the eyes. Always stealing glances.

Let him.

He had stared at me every time I came downstairs.

Every time I passed the security cabin.

Every lift ride, every eye movement, every uncomfortable silence… I remembered.

So I walked past him once.

Then again.

Then paused.

He was standing near the saree now, hands on his sides, not knowing what next.

I called out.

“Hey.”

He turned immediately.

Eyes straight. Waiting.

“You were always staring at me whenever I came down, right?”

He stayed silent.

I took a step closer.

“Finally you achieved what you want.”

I let my body face him — full. Naked. Unfiltered.

His eyes dropped for half a second, then locked with mine again.

“Now you’ve seen me completely. Happy?”

He swallowed.

Didn’t speak.

“What are you going to do?”

Still silence.

The wind moved across my stomach.

My hair fell slightly across my shoulders, sticking wet against my skin.

“Whenever you touch your wife… do you remember me?”

He nodded slowly.

Eyes weak. Honest.

“Yes.”

That single word made my stomach twist.

Power. Control. Victory.

I walked toward him.

Closed the distance.

His cock was still semi-erect.

Still twitching from the memory of my hands, the pain of denial.

And I leaned forward slightly.

Spit.

Right on it.

The spit landed with a wet string, sliding over his cock, mixing with the last drop of precum still clinging there.

He flinched.

I stared him down.

“You should not touch your wife with me in your mind.”

He nodded again.

No voice.

Just obedience.

Just submission.

Just truth.



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



The sun had done its job.

My clothes, spread across the terrace tiles like silk offerings, were almost dry.

Still a little warm.

Still carrying the scent of my body, of the tank water, of power.

I turned toward him and flicked my wrist lazily.

“Go. Bring them.”

He obeyed.

Barefoot, still nude, still leaking faintly, he walked to where my clothes lay — his own body burning under the sunlight.

One by one, he picked them up.

Blouse.

Bra.

Petticoat.

Saree.

Panty.

He brought them all to me, hands full of fabric, as if he were bringing treasure.

I didn’t say thank you.

I didn’t smile.

I just started dressing.

One piece at a time.

First, the bra.

Still warm from the sun. A little damp at the straps.

I slipped it over my arms. Pulled the hooks behind.

My breasts lifted, settled into the cups like they were coming home.

Next, the blouse.

I slid my arms in, slowly.

Buttoned it myself.

Not hurried. Not shy.

His eyes were down. He didn’t dare look directly.

Good. Let him suffer.

Then, the petticoat.

I stepped into it gracefully.

Tied the string around my waist.

Let it settle on my hips.

And finally… the saree.

I gathered the length, pleated it smoothly, and tucked it in.

One pleat. Two. Three.

Each one neat.

Sharp.

I covered the pallu over my shoulder — a queen’s robe over a conquering body.

But one piece remained.

My panty.

I hadn’t worn it.

And I had no intention to.

I held it in my hand for a moment — still warm, still holding traces of my scent.

Then I turned to him.

He was still standing bare.

Cock stiff.

Eyes low.

I tilted my head.

“Oh, Prakash…”

He looked up.

I took a step toward him.

My saree fluttered with the breeze.

“You lost your trouser, didn’t you?”

He nodded, hesitating.

I laughed.

“Are you going to wear your uniform like this? Half naked?”

He looked embarrassed.

My smile deepened.

I held the panty out — hanging from two fingers.

“Take this.”

He blinked.

Eyes widened.

“Madam…”

His voice cracked.

“It’s a woman’s one. How can I…”

My eyes narrowed.

The air thickened.

“I said—wear it.”

Silence.

He looked at it.

At me.

At his own nakedness.

Then, slowly…

He took the panty from my fingers.

Still slightly warm from the sun.

Still shaped from where it clung to my body.

Still carrying everything I was.

He stared at it like a cursed cloth.

I stepped closer.

“Don’t waste time.”

His hands trembled.

He bent down.

Slipped one foot in.

Then the other.

Pulled it up slowly — across his hairy legs, over his thick thighs.

The waistband stretched.

The fabric clung awkwardly.

His cock, too big for the dainty cloth, bent slightly as it settled inside.

The panty hugged him tightly.

Rode up into the crease between his buttocks.

He stood.

Humiliated.

Obedient.

Wearing my panty.

I folded my arms across my chest.

“Better,” I said softly.

“Now you look like what you are.”

A pet.

A plaything.

Mine.

[sexypreeti]

Awesome  clp); clp); clp);

Thanks also for providing such regular updates. It really takes time and effort to make it happen 

[yazhiniram]

I laughed.

Not softly.

Not kindly.

I laughed like a queen watching her jester trip over his own shoes.

He stood in front of me, wearing my panty like it was a crown — tight, awkward, humiliating.

But his cock… oh god.

Still hard.

Still pulsing against that thin fabric.

Still twitching every time the breeze touched it.

And his face?

Pretending to be innocent.

Eyes wide.

Lips tight.

Like he didn’t understand what was happening.

But I saw it.

In his eyes.

In the way his body stood.

In the way he didn’t want to move.

He was enjoying it.

The humiliation. The control.

The fact that it wasn’t a prostitute or a wild stranger doing this to him.

It was me.

A housewife.

A married woman.

His superior.

His fantasy.

He looked like a man living his deepest, dirtiest dream — and trying hard not to show it.

I crossed my arms and tilted my head.

“Do a catwalk for me.”

He blinked.

His mouth opened slightly.

Didn’t get it.

I grinned wider.

“Come on, walk like a model… in my panty.”

His face flushed red.

But his cock jerked once.

He liked it.

Even if he didn’t get the reference.

He stood frozen.

So I laughed again.

Shook my head.

“Leave it.”

Waved my hand like dismissing a naughty child.

“Dress yourself. Let’s leave.”

He nodded quickly.

Embarrassed. Relieved. Disappointed.

Turned around and began searching.

His pants and shirt lay where I had thrown them earlier — near the water tank base.

He bent down, picked them up slowly.

Still bare.

Still dripping with both sweat and submission.

I watched him.

Every muscle.

Every movement.

As he bent, the panty stretched across his ass like a joke that only I could understand.

He dressed quietly.

Pants first — covering up what I had denied again and again.

Then shirt — the same one stained from earlier.

And finally, he tucked it all in like he was going to stand outside the building again and pretend none of this happened.

But I wouldn’t let him leave with even that much comfort.

As he turned, ready to follow, I stepped forward.

Sharp. Calm.

“Whatever happened here…”

He looked up — alert.

“It stays with you.”

My tone was mock-casual, but the heat behind it was unmistakable.

I narrowed my eyes.

Let the silence build.

“If I hear even one word… if anyone finds out…”

He gulped.

I stepped closer.

Almost chest to chest.

“You’ll be dead meat.”

He blinked fast.

“No, madam… I won’t… I promise… I—”

I raised one eyebrow.

He shut his mouth.

Nodded hard.

“Yes, madam. I won’t say. Promise.”

I didn’t smile.

Didn’t respond.

I just looked at him.

Looked.

And in that look, I said it all.

Because I knew.

He could touch himself.

He could stroke that cock in the middle of the night, remembering every second of what happened here.

But that’s all he could do.

That’s all he would ever be allowed to do.



He moved first.

His hand reached for the bolt on the terrace gate.

His fingers—still damp, still trembling just a little—slid the metal latch free.

The gate creaked open.

Hot air rushed in, thick and quiet.

He stepped out into the narrow space beyond the tank enclosure, the cement under his feet already baking in the afternoon heat.

I followed him.

My saree was wrapped neatly, but I hadn’t worn my panty underneath.

I could still feel the breeze touch me between the legs as I walked.

The heat pressed on my back. The sun had no mercy.

But I did.

Just enough to let him walk first.

When we passed the grill door, I stopped.

He turned slightly, confused.

And then I spoke.

My voice was low.

Clear.

“Listen carefully.”

He froze.

“If you take this as an advantage…”

My words were slow, spaced.

“And do your stuff…”

He blinked.

Didn’t reply.

I stepped closer. Just one step.

“I’ll cut your cock and push it into your ass.”

He didn’t even breathe.

I tilted my head.

“Remember that.”

He nodded quickly.

Too quickly.

I knew he didn’t care.

Not really.

He’d go home.

He’d stroke himself.

He’d think about me.

Not his wife.

Not even my threat.

But I said it anyway.

Because I wanted to.

Because I needed to feel that moment — the feeling of towering over him, in words, in memory, in imagination.

It was for me.

We walked together toward the lift.

Silent.

The hallway echoed only our footsteps.

He pressed the button.

The lift door opened — an empty box of steel and memory.

We stepped inside.

He stood on the left.

I stood on the right.

The silence between us was alive.

He didn’t press anything.

I did.

7. And G.

The door closed.

It was just us.

And the air.

And the memory of every single second inside that tank.

I didn’t speak at first.

Didn’t look.

I just watched the floor number change.

12…11… 10…

Then, casually—almost like a joke—I reached out.

And touched his cock.

Over his pants.

My fingers rested on it like it belonged to me.

Because it did.

He flinched. Just a little.

Then stood still.

His breath caught. Shoulders tight.

I turned my face.

Looked him in the eyes.

“I don't need to say it. You already know who it’s meant for.”

She says it slowly, clearly.

“If you even think about giving this to your wife with me in mind…”

She steps closer. Her eyes sharp. Voice calm.

“…you won’t lose it. You’ll still have your cock.”

Pause. Smile.

“But you’ll never get hard again.”

“Not with her. Not with anyone. Not even with yourself, if I’m still in your mind.”

“Only when you forget me. Only then.”

I leaned slightly closer.

Whispered the last part with a smile.

“I’ll kill you.”

The words landed with no softness.

Like a blade gently dragged across his chest.

He nodded.

Of course he did.

What else could he do?

The lift slowed.

7.

The bell chimed.

The door opened.

I stepped out.

No words.

No turning back.

I walked forward.

Felt his eyes on my back.

Felt the air shift the edge of my saree near my legs.

And behind me, the lift closed.

The bell dinged again.

And he went down.

Alone.

[zulfique]

over soon

[yazhiniram]

I opened the door of our flat slowly.

The lock turned like usual. Nothing felt different — yet everything inside me had changed.

The fan buzzed. The curtains swayed softly. Kartik’s voice came from the other room — serious, steady, mid-call.

Time was just past 11.

He hadn’t moved from his seat, hadn’t paused to ask anything.

He didn’t even look.

Didn’t know his wife had just been naked under the sun, her clothes dried by another man, her panty missing in someone else’s pocket.

And I… didn’t care.

Let him work. Let him sit in that room and crunch his numbers.

He almost lost me.

But he never noticed.

And now, I was back.

Still his wife.

But no longer the same.

I walked into the bathroom. Quiet. Calm.

My fingers unhooked the blouse. Slid it off.

The bra next.

Then petticoat.

Then saree — the same one Prakash had washed with water and his obedience.

It fell in a soft circle at my feet.

I stood naked in front of the mirror.

One hand brushing damp hair behind my ear.

Then I paused.

Panty.

I looked near the bucket.

Checked the bathroom hook.

Nothing.

I scanned the floor.

I had left it here.

Before the bath.

It was here.

And now it wasn’t.

I didn’t panic.

I didn’t feel shame.

I smiled.

He took it. He wore it.

That dirty, silent dog wore my panty.

And I let him.

A chill passed through my chest. Not fear. Something else.

Power.

He would wore it to home. Hide it. Smell it. Keep it like treasure.

That thought alone made my stomach tighten.

I turned on the shower.

Stepped under it without a word.

Let the water run down my neck, between my breasts, across my back, through my thighs.

No soap.

No need.

I was already clean.

Already washed.

Already new.

I stepped out of the steam ten minutes later.

Wiped the mirror once.

My reflection stared back.

Not ashamed.

Not shaken.

Just… clear.

I took a fresh cotton saree — pale green, soft texture.

A clean cream petticoat.

A pink blouse.

New panty.

Bra.

Dressed one piece at a time.

Each cloth clinging differently after what had happened.

The new panty hugged tight. Safe. But it didn’t feel victorious.

That feeling had already left with Prakash.

And it belonged to me.

I walked into the kitchen.

Switched the kettle on.

Walked toward the work room where Kartik sat — head down, phone to his ear, screen glowing.

I waited.

Then spoke lightly.

“Do you want tea?”

He shook his head without looking up.

“No, I’m good.”

That’s all.

No eye contact.

No question where I’d been.

No clue.

I returned to the kitchen.

Poured myself a cup.

Stirred it gently.

Took a sip.

Then walked to the balcony, holding the cup with both hands.

The breeze moved my saree edge.

And I sat.

Leg folded under me.

Elbow resting on the cushion.

Eyes watching clouds.

Waiting.

Not for someone.

But for what I would choose next.

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

It was around two o'clock. Saturday afternoon. Fan was spinning fast. The living room was quiet, except for the faint noise from the kitchen exhaust and the occasional street sound outside.

I had already bathed, dried my hair, changed into a soft blue saree, and had coffee an hour back. Saree pleats were tucked neatly. Blouse was dry, cotton type, simple. I was sitting near the window, wiping the tumbler with a cloth, when Kartik finally came out of the kids’ room — his temporary office.

Laptop in hand. Shirt loose. Hair messy from headphones.

He walked straight to the sofa and said, “I may have to fly to Singapore. Tomorrow evening. They want in-person presence this time. Might take a week.”

I looked at him from the kitchen.

“Can I go home for a few days then? Appa was saying to come.”

He sat down, switched on the match, and replied while increasing the volume.

“Better you stay, Pavi. Arjun doesn’t know Chennai well. He’ll need food, help to settle. You stay with him until he finds a house.”

He didn’t even look up. Just eyes on the TV, remote in one hand.

I stood there holding the towel, nodded once.

“Okay.”

Half-hearted.

Not because I wanted to fight. But because it felt like… no one asks me what I want.

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

He got busy watching the match. IPL. Yellow team (CSK). I sat for five minutes beside him, then got up. Didn’t feel like watching anything. Already bored.

I walked to the balcony, holding the railing. Warm air was moving through. That dry Chennai afternoon wind. Sticky but soft.

I stood quietly, letting the wind pass under my saree.

Then I saw her.

Anusha.

Standing on her own balcony, leaning on the rail. Her hair was shiny. She turned and saw me.

She smiled. A sweet, sudden smile.

I smiled back, lifted my hand.

She waved again — this time her fingers called me. “Come,” she was saying with her hand.

I raised my eyebrows slightly — asking if now?

She smiled and nodded again.

I waved like, “Wait, I’m coming.”

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

I turned back and went into the hall.

Kartik was still watching the match, remote in hand.

“I’m going to the neighbour's flat. She called me for help or something. Just for a bit.”

“Okay,” he said, without looking.

I locked the door behind me, wore my slippers, and adjusted my saree pleats once more. The blue one was soft, a bit slippery, but the pallu stayed if I placed it carefully.

I stepped out. Closed the door gently.

Walked to 703.

Pressed the bell.

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

She opened the door in five seconds.

Hair loose. Skin glowing. Some faint parlour smell still fresh. Light kajal. Small earrings — those chain ones that move when she talks.

Wearing a lavender t-shirt and black sports pants. Fitting, but not exposing. Nothing was visible. No cleavage, no waist. But still… she looked fresh. New. Confident.

“Hi akka! Come in,” she said.

“Hello. Hey, how are you?”

“Good good. How are you akka? Come akka, I just made juice. Tired after parlour.”

She stepped aside. I walked in slowly.

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

Her flat was neat. Small one-bedroom setup. Fan spinning. Some soft lemon-spray smell in the air. Curtains were drawn halfway. Sofa was plain grey. A bottle of water on the table. Her purse open, parlour bill sticking out.

I removed my slippers and stepped inside.

“Sit akka, I’ll just keep my phone on charge.”

I sat slowly on the edge of the sofa. My saree pleats spread slightly. I fixed them neatly. Pallu covered my chest well. Still, I pulled the blouse once near the shoulder, just to be safe.

She walked across and plugged in her charger.

“You go to parlour usually?” I asked.

“Hmm. Just clean-up and threading. But so much crowd, akka. One aunty was shouting because they gave her half eyebrow only.”

I laughed a little. “You go every week?”

“Once in two-three weeks. Else face gets dull. You should also come with me next time, akka. We can book same slot.”

I smiled but said, “Don’t call me akka so many times. Makes me feel old. Call me Pavitra. Or Pavi if you want.”

She paused for a second.

“Okay… Pavitra. Next time I’ll call like that.”

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

She sat across from me, one leg folded on the chair, casual. Comfortable.

She poured juice from a bottle into two glasses.

“Sugarless, but chilled,” she said.

“Nice,” I replied, holding the glass.

She was talking… something about work-from-home and one useless HR call.

But my mind was not there.

My eyes… had gone somewhere else.

Not with intention. Just naturally.

The curve of her neck. Her clean chin. The way her t-shirt sat on her chest — flat, but neat. No shape showing, but still… my eyes went there.

And I hated myself.

Why am I seeing her like this?

She’s just a girl.

My neighbour.

Friendly.

And still, something in my stomach twisted.

Not sexual. But something else.

Curiosity?

Maybe.

My eyes dropped once again — to her waist, the black waistband of her pant, the way her body moved when she sat back.

She looked modern. Easy. Comfortable in her skin.

And me?

Sitting in full saree, legs closed, blouse tight, trying to act like I’m just here for juice.

Inside… I could feel a warmth building. Not attraction. But awareness.

And it scared me a little.

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

She offered a tissue. “Too cold?”

“No no, it’s perfect,” I said, wiping the glass.

She leaned back, relaxed.

I kept my legs pressed together, holding the juice with both hands.

Inside my blouse, my nipples had stiffened slightly. Maybe from the AC. Or something else.

And deep inside my saree folds, between my thighs…

…a soft heat had started to grow.

And I didn’t know why.

To be continued…

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

We were just talking normally. Ten minutes passed like that.

She was telling about her office work. Some issue with a bank client. I asked if she cooks daily or orders. She said mostly she orders, but now she’s trying to cook little by little.

She offered some murukku from a dabba. I took one. It was soft. Homemade, maybe from her native place. I asked and she said, “My amma sent last week. From Hyderabad.”

I smiled. “It tastes like tamil style.”

“Same South India only,” she said with a grin.

We both laughed.

I was about to place the empty glass on the table and get up.

“Okay, I’ll go now,” I said. “His cricket match must be over halfway.”

“Wait Pavi,” she said, placing her hand gently on my arm. “Before you go…”

I looked at her. “What?”

“You’re looking really pretty today,” she said suddenly. “Just this simple cotton saree. But still… like angel only.”

I smiled. Laughed a little. “Aiyyo, you’re exaggerating now.”

“No I swear. I’ve seen aunty types wear sarees. But you… you wear it so clean and light. Not too much jewellery, nothing loud. Still… neat and beautiful.”

I shook my head. “You’re too kind. I just wear normal. Not anything special.”

But something in me… felt nice hearing it. Like she had seen something Kartik never even mentioned in years.

She smiled again. Looked a little hesitant. Then said, “Actually… can I ask you something?”

“Hmm?”

“I have a function today evening. Friend’s engagement. I’ve two sarees. I thought of wearing one. But…”

She looked at me shyly.

“Usually my mom helps me wear. If she’s not there, I’ll wear only chudi. Easy no. But now you’re here… can you help me wear my saree?”

I blinked. “Me?”

She nodded, face hopeful.

“I don’t know if I’m good at teaching others. I somehow manage mine. That too after so many years of practice,” I said.

“You’re wearing so nicely no, just now only I told,” she said quickly. “You help me this one time, please.”

I laughed. “Saree is different size for every person. Some body types won’t sit nicely.”

“You see mine and tell. Just help pleaaase,” she dragged the word like a child.

I looked at her.

She was still sitting there. Slim body. Clean face. Looking up at me like I was some expert aunty.

“Okay, I’ll help you,” I said, smiling.

“But one condition.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Don’t call me akka anymore.”

She blinked. “Why?”

“I’m just 27,” I said, lying by one year. “If you call me akka, I’ll feel like old aunty wearing nighty and shouting at kids.”

She laughed out loud.

“Okay okay, promise. Only Pavi. From now on.”

I smiled.

“Deal,” I said.

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

After we both laughed about the “akka” thing, the flat felt lighter. She had promised to call me only “Pavi” from now on, and that itself made me feel a little younger inside. Not that anyone was watching, but something about not being called “akka” felt nice. Like I was still... my own person. Not just someone’s elder, or someone’s wife.

We were sitting quietly for a minute. The fan kept spinning, and the lemony smell in her flat had started to settle on my skin too. Her juice glass was half full. Mine was empty.

I stood up slowly and stretched a little, just loosening my shoulders.

“Okay then,” I said, gently wiping my fingers on the pallu. “I’ll go. Before the match finishes.”

She looked up. “Now itself?”

I smiled. “I thought you wanted to get ready only in the evening?”

She tilted her head. Thought for a second.

“Actually… do you have any work now?”

I looked around. As if my answer was written in her curtain or clock. But truly… I didn’t have anything.

“Afaik, no. Kartik’s watching match. Arjun hasn’t come. Kids are with Appa. House is clean. So... mostly free.”

Her eyes widened a bit. That soft kind of excitement you can’t fake.

“Then… can we try now?”

I gave a half-laugh. “You want to practice wearing saree now?”

She nodded quickly. Her bun moved slightly with the motion. “Yes! Please? If I wait till evening, I’ll mess it up in hurry.”

I held my hip for a second, pretended to think. But I was already going to say yes.

“Why not?”

She clapped once, like a child. “Yay! Wait wait, I’ll get the saree!”

She jumped up, bare feet touching the tile lightly as she rushed toward her bedroom. Her anklet made a tiny jingle noise — just one — before she disappeared into the side room.

I stood near the sofa. Pulled my pallu a little tighter over my chest. Adjusted my waist pleats with one casual tug. I didn’t know how this was going to go, but something about the energy felt light. Fun, even.

Within half a minute, she came back.

Holding a neatly folded saree in both hands — almost like she was carrying something sacred.

“Here,” she said, with a proud smile, handing it to me.

I took it.

It was soft. Very soft.

Not like my daily cottons.

This was a modern saree — semi-transparent. Peach-pink in colour, with a soft shimmer that caught even the low light from her window.

I held it up slightly, checking the pallu edge.

The border was silver threadwork — thin but detailed. Like small drops of shine stitched across the edge.

The body of the saree was sheer. Not completely transparent, but close. I could easily see my fingers behind it when I held it open slightly.

“Nice one,” I said honestly. “Very trendy. Looks expensive.”

She smiled proudly. “I bought it last year. From a Diwali sale. It was around 8K. Actual price was 10 plus, but I got a deal.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Worthy one. Color suits your skin also.”

“Thanks Pavi,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

The saree had a faint scent. Something floral. Maybe from the cupboard. Maybe her perfume.

I gently folded it back in half and looked at her.

“Where’s the blouse and petticoat?”

“Oh ya ya, wait! It’s in my suitcase. I didn’t take it out.”

She handed the saree to me — as if she trusted me more than her own cupboard — and turned quickly.

This time, she didn’t walk. She ran.

Literally.

Light, bouncy steps across the floor, feet slightly lifted, heels touching last.

And when she ran…

I saw it.

Her ass.

Moving.

Jiggling, softly — inside that black sports pant.

It wasn’t huge. Not attention-seeking.

But there was bounce.

One cheek, then the other, slightly late. That natural ripple when a woman runs free, without tension.

My eyes followed.

Automatically.

From the curve near her waist, to the motion of each cheek.

Soft. Real. Alive.

The pant was tight enough to hold shape, but loose enough to let her move.

And I noticed.

Fully.

The shape of her ass. The way it moved. The casual freedom of it. Not sexual. Just... natural.

And still, it hit something inside me.

I looked away.

Pressed my lips.

She’s a girl.

A woman.

Same as me.

Why am I watching her run like this?

Not like a pervert. But still… aware.

That she has a body.

That her backside bounces.

That I — Pavitra, wife, mother — just saw it… and didn’t hate it.

In fact, something deep in my chest clenched.

Softly.

Quietly.

My thighs pressed together slightly.

More out of habit than desire.

But I noticed it.

And I stood there — still holding her 8,000 rupees saree — thinking…

What the fuck is going on with me?

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

She came running back holding the blouse and petticoat in her hand, smiling brightly. Her steps were fast, careless, like a collegegirl coming from tuition.

I stood there waiting, my palms dry and ready.

She came near and handed them to me carefully.

I took the bundle in my hands and unfolded it once.

The petticoat was good — soft cotton, matching the pale peach colour of her saree.

The blouse was nice too, but my eyes immediately caught one thing —

The back was hardly covered.

Only one thin strip of cloth holding both sides.

Modern, revealing design.

It would show most of her back once worn.

I smiled lightly inside.

Today’s young girls had a different kind of boldness.

Not bad. Just different.

I held the blouse between my fingers. It was so light, it felt like it would fly away if I blew on it.

Without wasting time, I asked, “Shall we start?”

“Yes!” she nodded excitedly, almost bouncing.

Without waiting for me to say anything more, she went to the main door and locked it carefully.

Then she walked quickly to the balcony and drew the curtains fully, adjusting even the corners so that no gap was left.

Her movements were quick, full of that young energy.

I stood near the sofa, calmly holding her saree, blouse and petticoat, watching.

She came back — barefoot — her anklets making a tiny jingle once.

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

She stood right in front of me, just one small step away.

Then she started.

Her fingers went to the waistband of her sports pant first.

Without any shyness, she pulled it down slowly.

Her thighs came into view.

Slim. Smooth. Fair.

There wasn’t a single hair visible.

Maybe parlour treatment, maybe regular care.

The skin had that freshly waxed glow — the same polish her face had.

But I didn’t feel jealous.

No.

I simply observed, as a woman noticing another woman.

I had my own beauty.

Fuller thighs.

More flesh.

The richness of a body that had loved, carried, and birthed.

Her body was younger, yes.

But mine was deeper.

More... complete.

I didn’t feel lesser.

I simply felt different.

A small proud smile played at the edge of my lips.

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

She bent, folded the pant neatly, kept it on the side chair.

Now she was standing in a long loose t-shirt and panties.

Without waiting, she pulled the t-shirt upwards in one quick movement.

In a second, it was off.

And she stood there —

In her bra and petticoat.

Her skin glowed under the fan breeze.

Her arms were smooth, her collarbone clean.

Her breasts were small, perky, nicely shaped inside her soft peach-coloured bra.

I noticed —

Young body.

Tight curves.

Soft belly.

But my heart didn’t sink.

Instead —

A small pride rose inside me.

At 28, after marriage, kids, and life —

I could still stand beside any girl and hold my head high.

I had curves she didn't.

I had ripeness she didn't.

I had a woman's scent, not a girl's perfume.

And no matter how young or polished she was,

I was Pavitra.

Complete in my skin.

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

Anusha looked at me innocently, lifting the petticoat slightly.

“Shall I wear this first, Pavi?” she asked.

I nodded, voice calm. “Yes.”

She bent forward slightly, stepping one foot into the petticoat, then the other.

Her breasts wobbled slightly inside the bra with the movement.

I noticed.

I’m a woman. My eyes notice everything.

But there was no dirty thought yet.

Just... warmth building quietly in my chest.

She pulled the petticoat up and tied the string properly around her slim waist.

Now standing in bra and petticoat, she adjusted the petticoat gathers once.

Then looked up at me.

"Now blouse?"

"Turn around," I said softly, stepping forward.

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

She turned obediently, showing her bare back.

The thin bra strap lay across her shoulder blades.

I stepped close.

My fingers brushed her skin first — soft, warm.

No scars. No marks.

But my own fingers — stronger, practiced hands — moved with a steady, graceful touch.

I placed the blouse over her back gently.

The cloth was so thin, it almost felt like I was just covering mist.

My hands moved to the hooks, aligning them properly.

Her body shivered lightly when my fingers touched her.

Fan air, maybe.

Or something else.

I didn't react.

I was composed.

I was Pavitra.

Mature. Steady.

I hooked the first clasp neatly.

Then the second.

My palm brushed her bare lower back lightly.

And a small pulse jumped inside my belly.

Deep between my thighs, a warmth was spreading.

Not dirty.

Just... real.

Alive.

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

"Done," I said, stepping back.

She turned, smiling brightly.

The blouse hugged her chest, showing her young, tight curves.

Pretty.

But somewhere inside, I knew —

Mine would fill a blouse differently.

Softer, heavier, more womanly.

And without even thinking, a small victorious pride bloomed inside my chest.

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

She adjusted the blouse front once.

“Shall we do saree now, Pavi?” she asked sweetly.

“Of course,” I said, smiling.

I bent slightly, holding the soft peach saree.

The cloth was flowing like river water.

As I gathered the pleats, my fingers brushed against her lower belly.

Her skin was cool under my touch.

A small, black mole sat just beside her navel.

Perfect little spot.

My fingers paused for one second —

long enough to feel the heat rising between us —

but not long enough to be obvious.

I tucked the pleats into her petticoat slowly, carefully.

My hand brushed against her hipbone lightly.

She sucked a small breath but said nothing.

Neither did I.

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

Inside my body, a slow fire was building.

Under my saree layers, my panty had gone damp.

My nipples were hard inside my blouse, rubbing with every small movement.

And yet, on my face —

Only calm.

Only that small, secret smile.

Because I was Pavitra.

And I was still the most desirable woman in that room.

No matter what.

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

I took my time.

I didn’t rush through it like I do when dressing myself in a hurry.

I carefully adjusted the pleats — one by one — making sure they fell neatly, not sticking out awkwardly.

Her saree material was soft, slippery.

Needed patience.

I tucked it properly into her petticoat, making sure the fall looked straight and clean.

Then I lifted the pallu, brought it around her body.

Pulled it gently over her left shoulder.

Adjusted the pallu height — not too low, not too high.

Folded the border neatly and pinned it, just the way I would pin my daughter’s college badge — carefully, lovingly.

The saree hugged her slim waist, the pallu flowing lightly.

Once done, I stepped back.

"All done," I said, brushing a small imaginary crease from her shoulder.

She smiled wide — like a child seeing herself after dressing up for fancy dress.

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

She walked quickly to the mirror near her dressing table.

Turned this side, that side.

Looked at the front.

Looked at the back.

Tilted her head.

Flipped her hair to one side.

Checked the pallu border fall.

Then looked at herself once fully — head to toe — smiling with satisfaction.

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

She turned back to me, eyes shining.

"Pavi!" she called excitedly, running back toward me.

Before I could react properly, she came close and hugged me tightly.

Her arms went around my waist easily — she was slightly shorter than me — and her cheek pressed against my chest.

"Thank you, Pavi! Even my mom can’t wear saree this perfect. Seriously!"

I froze for a second.

My hands stayed at my sides.

Then slowly — naturally — I brought them up and placed them lightly on her back.

Soft.

Warm.

Real.

Her body pressed against mine — her small breasts pushing lightly against my lower chest.

Her waist fitting snugly under my arms.

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

I laughed a little, awkwardly.

"You're exaggerating," I said.

"No, really! I'm so happy," she said, hugging tighter for one second before letting go.

I smiled, adjusting my pallu again.

"Happy for you," I said softly.

She looked at me, her face open, pure, full of genuine joy.

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

But inside me…

Something had shifted.

Something small.

Something dangerous.

When she hugged me —

when her body pressed against mine —

when her skin brushed my saree-covered stomach —

when I smelled her light jasmine-and-body-cream scent up close —

Something had… turned on.

Not like hunger.

Not like need.

Just a slow, lazy coil of arousal — starting deep in my belly.

Warmth had rushed down between my legs.

My nipples, already a little tight from before, became sharper, poking against my bra.

My thigh muscles had clenched.

And even now, as I stood there smiling at her,

inside my saree folds,

inside my panty,

I was growing wetter by the second.

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

I blinked.

Looked away quickly.

Picked up the remaining safety pins from the table, pretending to arrange them.

Inside, my mind was shouting:

"What the hell, Pavitra?"

"She's just a girl."

"Your neighbor. Your friend. She's trusting you."

But my body…

My traitor body…

Was alive.

Awake.

Wanting.

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

"Am I bad?" I asked myself silently.

"Am I some filthy woman now?"

"Am I crossing some line that shouldn’t even exist?"

I wiped my palms on my pallu lightly, pretending it was because of sweat.

Anusha was still looking at herself in the mirror, adjusting the saree, pinning one side properly.

Completely innocent.

Completely trusting.

And me?

Standing behind her.

Chest heavy.

Thighs pressing tightly.

Panty wet.

Just from a hug.

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

"No."

"No, Pavitra. Nothing wrong."

"You’re human."

"It’s just… body reaction. Nothing bad."

I convinced myself.

I folded her t-shirt and pants neatly on the chair to distract myself.

Breathing slower now.

Smile fixed on my face.

I had survived worse temptations.

I would survive this too.

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

She turned then, smiling brightly.

"Thanks, Pavi. I’ll change now and keep this ready for evening. You saved me!"

I nodded calmly.

"Anytime," I said.

Even though inside...

Nothing was calm anymore.

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

I glanced at the wall clock.

2:30 PM.

Still early.

She said the engagement was at 6 PM.

If she stayed fully dressed in saree from now, by evening the pleats would get crushed, blouse might loosen, and the fresh look would fade.

Not just that.

As she turned around near the dressing table —

Adjusting her hair —

I caught it.

Her blouse backside.

The slim cloth strip wasn’t hiding much.

And through the thin saree material, I could clearly see her bra strap line.

Light peach colour shining against her smooth back.

She hadn’t noticed it yet.

Maybe excitement. Maybe inexperience.

I stepped closer and said gently,

"You might want to remove the bra when you wear this saree in evening."

She turned, blinking. "Why?"

I pointed lightly at her back.

"Bra strap is fully showing. The blouse design is too open. Either wear a backless bra… or go without."

Her eyes widened slightly — like the thought hadn’t occurred to her at all.

Then she laughed, touching the back of her blouse lightly.

"Thanks, Pavi! Otherwise I would've gone looking like clown only," she said, giggling.

I smiled calmly.

"Better change now. Else saree will get crushed too."

"True true," she nodded, already reaching for the pallu.

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

She turned once toward the mirror.

Checked herself.

Then, slowly, carefully —

she started removing the saree.

First, she unpinned the shoulder gently.

Then unwound the pallu.

I stood silently, watching.

The saree flowed off her body like water slipping from a smooth surface.

She folded it expertly, without ruining the pleats I had set so carefully.

I noticed that.

Despite being modern, careless sometimes —

she had learned something about saree respect from her mother.

That small thing made me smile privately.

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

Now she was standing there again.

In just her peach-coloured bra and matching panties.

Slim waist.

Smooth thighs.

Soft young body.

Standing casually in front of me —

without shame, without hesitation —

trusting me fully.

I looked — openly now — taking it all in.

Not like a pervert.

Not like a fool.

Just a woman observing another woman’s young beauty.

And inside my body, the same soft, stubborn arousal kept humming.

Not violent.

Not urgent.

Just… there.

Alive under my skin.

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

She reached for the clothes I had folded neatly earlier — her black sports pant and lavender t-shirt.

First, she wore the pants.

Lifting one smooth leg, then the other.

Pulling the waistband up over her panties with a small adjusting hop.

The pant hugged her slim hips quickly.

Then she grabbed the t-shirt, slipping one arm through, then the other.

Pulling it down, covering herself again fully.

When she adjusted the t-shirt hem over her pants, I noticed how slim her wrists were.

How smooth the skin around her neck was.

Small, small details that somehow stayed inside my mind longer than necessary.

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

Once she was dressed, she turned to me, smiling happily.

"Pavi, you saved me today."

I smiled, adjusting my pallu once.

"Anytime. Now you relax, get ready properly by 5 PM."

I picked up my phone from the sofa where I had kept it.

"Give me your number, Anusha," I said.

"Of course," she said, grabbing her own mobile from the table.

We exchanged numbers quickly.

I saved hers as Anusha (703).

She saved mine as Pavi akka first —

then giggled, corrected it to Pavi.

We both laughed lightly.

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

I checked my keys.

Everything okay.

"Alright then," I said, walking toward the door.

"If you need anything… call me."

"Thanks, Pavi," she said, waving from inside.

I opened the door, stepped out into the slightly hotter corridor.

Closed the door behind me gently.

My heart was beating slower now.

But my panty was still damp.

My bra still rubbing against my nipples with every step.

I took a deep breath, walked back toward my flat —

feet light, saree swishing quietly around my legs.

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

Inside my mind...

Anusha’s hug, her skin, her smile...

were still lingering.

And somewhere deep inside me —

a truth I didn’t want to say loudly —

I had changed today.

In a way that could never fully be undone.

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

Saturday evening was quiet.

Nothing special happened after lunch.

Kartik was in front of the TV, watching IPL as usual — remote in one hand, his leg bouncing slightly when a boundary was hit. He didn’t speak much. I didn’t either.

Around six, Arjun came back.

He had been out the whole afternoon. I didn’t ask where.

He walked in casually, tossed his helmet on the shoe rack, and came straight to the hall.

“I found one room anna,” he said, standing near the kitchen door, looking at both of us.

“It’s far. Bit outskirts. But rent is decent. Owner is okay. I’ll shift in two weeks maybe.”

Kartik nodded without turning.

“Hmm. Good.”

I didn’t say anything.

Just stirred the rasam slowly and wiped my hands on the towel.

Arjun didn’t sit down. Just went into the bathroom, washed his face, came out, and entered the kids’ bedroom — the one he’d been using.

That was it.

No questions. No small talk. No one asked him anything more.

The house felt like a bus stand.

People passing. Nothing sticking.

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

Later that night, after dinner and cleaning, I was lying on the bed, checking my phone lazily.

The house was dark. One small night lamp glowing in the corner.

That’s when I saw it.

Anusha (703) — message with one photo.

I opened it.

She had clicked a picture in the mirror, in full saree — the same one I helped her wear.

Her eyes were lined. Lips had soft lipstick. Smile gentle.

But what caught my attention most…

The saree.

It was exactly how I had covered/put it.

Pallu angle, pleat spacing, even the slight lift at her ankle — all perfect.

She had kept it like that.

And now she was showing me proudly.

I stared at the photo for a few seconds.

Then tapped the heart emoji. Sent.

She replied immediately.

“Love you, Pavi. Seriously. No one ever helped me like this.”

I didn’t reply after that.

Just smiled softly, locked the phone, and lay on my back, staring at the ceiling.

Something inside my body was still remembering her hug.

Her skin.

Her breath.

But I closed my eyes and said to myself, “Enough.”

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

Sunday passed like any other.

I started early — bathed, washed the bedsheets, chopped chicken, and began cooking by noon.

The masala stuck to the pan well. I took time with it.

Bone pieces, small onions, heavy pepper.

Kartik always liked it that way — said outside food is okay, but “only your chicken gives real taste.”

He didn’t praise me directly, but I knew. He’d eat in silence, and that was his style of thanks.

Around 4:45 PM, he zipped his bag, wore his jeans, and came to the hall.

“I’ll leave,” he said, grabbing his laptop.

“Okay,” I said, wiping my hands.

I didn’t go to the door. I didn’t ask if he packed his brush or socks.

I knew he’d done it.

He didn’t look back.

Opened the door.

And walked out.

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

Arjun was already wearing jeans and a t-shirt.

He walked past me while tying his shoelace.

Looked at me once and said, “Bye, I’ll drop anna outside and comback anni.”

No warmth.

No questions.

Just words.

And he left too.

Door closed.

Lock clicked.

And the house went still.

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

Arjun back after sometime.

Now it’s past 5:30 PM.

The fan is spinning.

Chicken curry is still warm on the stove.

Table is clean. Plates are stacked.

I’m sitting on the sofa, legs bent, one hand resting on my thigh.

Wearing my old maroon saree — the cotton one that fits well even without adjusting.

Blouse is plain. Hooks tight. Pallu sitting comfortably on my chest.

I didn’t feel like changing. Didn’t feel like opening the windows.

Arjun is on the other sofa — legs on the centre table, watching some Hindi movie.

One hand behind his head.

The remote lying beside him.

He’s not talking. Not checking his phone. Just… staring at the screen.

I’m not watching the movie.

I’m watching him.

Not openly. Just… observing.

His jaw moves slightly when he swallows.

His t-shirt is stretched across his chest.

One crease in his track pant is pointing right to his thighs.

I look away.

Then look again.

Not because I want to do anything.

Just because it’s quiet.

And he’s the only thing moving in this house now.

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

[WriterPK]

Excellence my bro... you are giving regular updates. Really you are one of the best writers

[Vijay42]

Pennukku peraasai verondrum illai
   Sonnadhai seidhaale nigar yedum illai....w

Continue

[Hotyyhard]

One of the greatest story of xossipy, with out a doubt excellent narration and updates thanks bro keep ur readers very engaging and edge off their seats.

[Sage_69]

It seems Arjun will be leaving soon. Will he get some farewell gifts before leaving?

[yazhiniram]

Sunday evening, around 5:45 PM

I was sitting on the sofa, watching the TV screen — but nothing was going inside my head.

Some random action movie was playing. Big noise, guns, shouting. Arjun was watching it like something important was happening.

But I was just... bored.

My saree pallu had slipped halfway off my chest. I didn’t bother fixing it. The blouse underneath was holding, and anyway, it wasn’t like he was looking.

My back was sticking to the sofa. It was warm against the cotton.

My legs were folded up, one foot tapping the floor slowly.

The fan was running. Speed 2. No coolness, just air.

I glanced at him again.

He hadn’t moved.

One leg on the table. One hand behind his head. The remote near his thigh. His chest rising gently with his breathing. T-shirt stretched lightly across the middle.

He looked too calm.

Like he forgot I was here.

Like this was his space.

That thought sat strangely in my chest. Not angry. Just… aware.

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

I wanted to do something.

Not housework. Not scrolling. Not sitting like this.

Something that would stir the air a bit.

I called him.

“Arjun…”

He turned just slightly, not fully. “Yes, anni?”

“This is really boring da. That movie is not even interesting.”

He smiled a little, without turning fully. “Then what to do, anni?”

I rubbed my palm once on my thigh, then said — soft and slow —

“We used to play cards in hostel during holidays. I remembered it suddenly.”

He turned his head now, eyebrow raised. “Cards-aa? That’s for old people or kids, anni. It’ll be boring also.”

I smiled. “Not if we change the rules.”

He paused the movie.

The sound stopped suddenly. Room went quiet.

He looked at me properly now. “What rules?”

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

I sat up slowly. My pallu had slid down even more. I caught it with my fingers and placed it across my chest again. Didn’t pin it. Just let it rest.

My eyes were calm. But inside, something was slowly starting to move.

“Like... instead of normal win-lose, we can bet something. Maybe small money,” I said.

He smirked. “You’ll take my whole salary like that, anni.”

I grinned. “Then suggest something better. Something not boring.”

He leaned back, resting his arm again.

Voice slower now. Not serious. But something different inside it.

“What if… winner can ask loser to do one thing?”

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

I tilted my head. “One thing?”

He shrugged. “Anything. Could be silly. Could be serious. Whatever the winner wants.”

I looked at him for one second.

His face looked casual. But his tone was not.

And suddenly… that same warm feeling came low in my stomach. That quiet stretch… like something was pulling slightly from inside.

But I smiled like normal.

“I like that rule,” I said.

He nodded once.

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

“Okay then,” I said, standing up.

The cotton had pressed deep into my thigh from sitting so long. I brushed it flat.

My saree pleats had shifted, so I adjusted them at my hip.

My pallu had slipped again — I gathered it slowly and let it cover better across the front.

My blouse felt warm on my skin. I didn’t change it. Didn’t want to.

Even the warmth felt nice.

I walked towards the bedroom.

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

As I passed the mirror, I glanced once.

Not long. Just a small look.

But it was enough.

The maroon saree was clinging gently to my sides. Not too tight. But enough.

The blouse held firm across the back — the U-cut showing more than it should, but not openly.

A few hair strands had come loose near my cheek. I didn’t tuck them.

I looked at myself without expression.

Just noticed how I looked.

Then walked on.

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

The hallway was quiet.

I stepped into the bedroom. Sunlight was still coming in through the side. The bedsheet was neat. Pillow slightly pressed in the middle where I had rested earlier.

I walked to the cupboard.

Opened the top drawer — only bills and safety pins.

Second drawer — there it was.

That old card box. Plastic cracked on one edge. Rubber band faded. Still holding.

I picked it up.

The box felt cool in my hand.

And I didn’t move immediately.

I stood there.

Holding it.

My thumb ran once across the edge of the box.

And somewhere inside…

I was already thinking what I’ll make him do when I win.

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

I stood there for one more second, holding the card box in my hand.

My thumb was pressing against the lid softly.

I didn’t open it. I just held it.

Then I turned and walked out of the bedroom.

The hallway felt cooler now. Maybe because the kitchen burner was off. Maybe because my body had gone a little lighter.

I crossed the mirror again, but this time I didn’t look.

The TV was still paused. The room was half-lit from the outside light. Evening had settled properly now. A golden kind of light was falling on the centre table.

Arjun was still on the sofa, scrolling something on his phone.

I didn’t say anything.

I sat down on the floor mat. Pulled my pleats aside neatly so I could sit cross-legged.

"Come down," I said softly, placing the cards beside me.

He looked up, smiled, and got off the sofa.

His t-shirt crumpled slightly as he bent his knees. He sat opposite me, folding his legs lazily, like he was still stretching from sitting too long.

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

I opened the box and removed the rubber band slowly. The cards had that faint powdery smell. I tapped them into one stack. Started shuffling.

I didn’t show off. But I shuffled well. Fast. Smooth.

One, two, three, four bridges. Then a neat cut.

He raised one eyebrow.

“You’ve played properly before, anni?”

I smiled. “Hostel time. We used to play full day sometimes.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay okay…”

His eyes looked like he was already planning something.

We started the game.

Rummy.

Each round was slow. Careful. Ten minutes minimum to get a winner.

He was watching the discard pile like an exam question.

But he won the first one.

He gave a proud smile and rubbed his palm once.

“Ready, anni?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Tell.”

He thought for one second. “You have to sing one song.”

I blinked. “What song?”

He smiled wider now. “Recent Tamil movie. That Dhanush one… Aathi Aathi.”

I stared at him. “Are you serious?”

“Hey, rules are rules, anni,” he said, trying not to laugh.

“I don’t even remember the lyrics.”

“Even humming is okay,” he said. “But you have to try.”

I shook my head once and looked away. Then looked back.

He was waiting.

I didn’t know where to look. But I remembered the tune. Half lyrics. Mostly the chorus.

I took a small breath.

And started singing.

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

Low volume. Head slightly turned away.

But I sang.

My voice was a little shaky at first, then settled into the tune.

The words were coming — not perfect, but enough.

My throat felt dry halfway, but I didn’t stop.

He didn’t laugh.

He was just watching.

Slight smile on his face. Eyes steady. Arms resting on his knees.

When I finished, I didn’t say anything. I just looked down and picked up the cards.

He clapped softly. “Very good anni.”

“Shut up,” I said, without anger.

“Your voice is good,” he said, still smiling.

“Your dare will come now,” I said.

He nodded, still relaxed.

We shuffled again.

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

Second round.

This time I was faster. More focused.

He tried to bluff with a discard, but I caught it. Picked up the right card. Closed the game.

He looked at my spread and sighed. “Okay okay…”

I cracked my fingers once.

“Now you get punishment.”

“Tell.”

“Twenty pushups. Non-stop.”

He looked at me like I slapped him. “Pushups-aa? Here?”

“Here only. Centre mat.”

He laughed once, loud. “You planned this revenge?”

“Go,” I said, pointing to the mat.

He sighed dramatically and dropped to the floor.

Then got into position.

His t-shirt rose slightly as he bent down. His arms straightened, palms flat on the mat.

He started.

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

One...

Two…

Three…

His shoulders moved slow. Controlled.

The muscle near his biceps was flexing each time.

The back of his t-shirt was riding up more now. Exposing part of his lower back.

His face was calm till seven. After that, slight struggle started.

Eight… nine… ten…

I didn’t say anything. I was just watching.

His breathing changed around fifteen.

He paused a bit, then continued.

Seventeen… eighteen… nineteen…

Last one, he gritted his teeth slightly. Finished.

Then dropped down on the mat, chest flat, arms stretched out.

I didn’t laugh.

I was just… aware.

Of how warm the room had become.

Of how his back was rising and falling.

Of how my own chest was moving a little faster.

He turned his face towards me from the floor.

“Happy?”

I smiled.

“Next round?”

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

We reshuffled the cards.

This time, I went a bit slower, just to see what he was doing with his eyes.

He didn’t look away.

The fan was still going. The room had settled into that quiet comfort. No other sound. Just our own voices, our breathing, the small plastic clack of cards being moved.

We started the next round.

He won.

Again.

He didn’t smile this time. Just looked at me for a second.

Then said casually, “Anni… do catwalk once. In your saree.”

I blinked.

“What da? No. Go away,” I said, brushing his nonsense off.

He was already grinning. “Eh, come on. It’s my turn.”

“You’re taking revenge,” I said, half laughing.

“You only said winner gets to ask anything.”

I looked at him. He wasn’t letting it go.

I stood up slowly. Not smiling much. Just getting it over with.

“Only one round. I’m not doing fashion show.”

He nodded, sitting there like a judge.

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

I walked to the far end of the room.

Turned.

And started walking back.

One step. Then another.

The cotton pleats brushed against my legs as I moved. My hips swayed without trying. The pallu shifted lightly with every step. The blouse tightened against my back.

I didn’t overdo it.

But I didn’t hide either.

Midway, the saree slipped just enough to show part of my navel. The way it usually happens when I’m bending or reaching. I didn’t pull it up. Just kept walking.

His eyes were fixed.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t laugh.

Didn’t say anything.

I reached the end. Turned.

Sat down like nothing happened.

I looked at him.

Still staring.

I snapped my fingers once.

“Hello?”

He blinked. “Oh. Sorry.”

“Keep your tongue inside,” I said.

He laughed. Looked away, scratching his head.

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

Next round.

He won again.

Now he was full confidence.

“Okay anni. Now tell something about your college days. Before marriage.”

I looked at him. “What you want to know?”

“Anything. How you were. What you did.”

I leaned back on my palms. Thought for a second.

“Nothing special. I was normal. Little strict. Hostel rules. Morning prayers. Lab work. Group studies. We used to go for masala dosa every Saturday. That was our fun.”

He was listening quietly. Nodding along.

“You had any crush?” he asked.

I gave one sharp look.

“Don’t stretch your luck.”

He held his hands up. “Okay okay. Normal only.”

I shuffled the cards.

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

This round, I won.

I smiled while picking my cards up.

“Your turn now,” I said. “Tell about your girlfriends.”

He gave one small wince-smile. “There was one girl.”

“Oh ho,” I said.

“College time only. She was nice. Studious. Good in writing.”

“Then?”

“She went to UK for further studies. Things just… stopped.”

I raised my eyebrows. “She dumped you?”

He laughed. “She went abroad, anni. Nobody dumped anyone.”

I laughed too.

He rubbed the back of his head, looking a little shy now. “Your revenge done?”

“For now.”

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

Next round.

He won. Again.

I gave him a look. “Don’t get used to this winning.”

He didn’t answer.

He just leaned forward a bit, looking straight at me.

And said softly, “Untie your hair.”

I blinked. “No.”

“Rule is rule,” he said. Smiling like a small boy asking for extra dosa.

“I already walked like a model for you.”

“Now just open your hair. That’s all.”

I didn’t answer.

I just looked at him.

His face had gone still. Not serious-serious. But waiting.

I reached behind my head.

Pulled the clip out.

The knot loosened in one soft tug.

My hair fell around my shoulders — warm, a little tangled from being tied all day.

A few strands stuck near my cheek. I didn’t brush them back.

I looked at him.

He had leaned back again.

Eyes on me.

Face calm.

But his mind had gone somewhere else. I could see it.

His stare had changed.

Not open. Not dirty. Just lost. Quiet.

He didn’t even realise he was staring.

And I sat there, feeling my own hair on my neck.

Feeling that quiet weight in the room.

Waiting for the next round.

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



I snapped my fingers again.

"Arjun... come back to earth."

He blinked once, then rubbed his chin like he just woke up from a nap.

“Sorry, anni,” he said. “Bit gone off track.”

“Bit-aa?” I gave him a look. “Your soul left the house.”

He grinned and picked up the cards again.

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

We started the next game.

Something had changed now. The air felt tighter. Not awkward… but serious.

Like we both wanted to win. For real. No more light laughs.

Each card was watched closely. Every discard checked twice.

I could feel it. He was trying.

But then — small mistake.

He passed me a joker card without noticing.

My eyes widened slightly. I picked it up, quietly.

Built my hand. Closed it.

He stared at the table like he’d missed a step.

“Anni… did I—?”

“Yes,” I said, smiling. “You gave me joker.”

He sighed, dropped his cards, leaned back. “Okay. Hit me.”

I tried to keep a straight face.

“You have to do catwalk. Like aunty style.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You heard.”

He laughed softly. “Anni… really?”

“Yes,” I said. “I did it. Now your turn.”

He stood up slowly, stretching his arms like warming up.

Then started.

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

He exaggerated everything.

Hips swinging left and right, one arm flying slightly, legs crossing like a model, stomach pulled in like he was trying too hard.

He turned at the end like those beauty show contestants and placed one hand on his waist.

I burst out laughing.

Couldn’t stop.

I bent forward, face down, laughing into my palm.

He did one more round.

“Enough! Stop! I’ll die,” I said.

He sat back down, smiling. “You asked for it.”

“That was worth it,” I said, still catching my breath.

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

We shuffled again.

I could feel my cheeks were warm now. Not from blushing. Just laughing too much.

This round — I won again.

I didn’t show excitement. But I was feeling it.

He looked at me. “What now, anni?”

I pretended to think.

Then looked at him sharply. “Remove your t-shirt.”

He raised both eyebrows. “Gym pose aa?”

“Exactly. Like Arnold style.”

He gave that boyish face again. “My body is not like that, anni.”

“Still. Pose is pose.”

He got up.

Took the hem of his t-shirt. Pulled it off in one go.

Then stood in the centre, fists on his hips, arms slightly bent.

He tightened his stomach. Not abs — but flat. Clean.

His arms had soft lines. Shoulders shaped. Not big muscle, but young and firm.

He did one fake flex.

I smiled. “Okay okay. Decent try.”

He laughed once and bent to wear the t-shirt again.

“No,” I said.

He stopped. “What?”

“You’re not allowed.”

“Anni, that wasn’t in the rule.”

“Still. You removed. That means, now you stay like that.”

He looked at me.

Then nodded slowly. “Okay. If you say so.”

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

Next game.

He shuffled quickly this time, like trying to take revenge.

And he won.

I raised my eyebrows. “Let’s see.”

He leaned forward slightly.

“Stand up and twirl, anni.”

I looked at him for one second. “That’s it?”

He nodded. “Easy one.”

I stood up.

Pulled my pleats in once. Adjusted my pallu across my chest. Not tight. Not loose. Just normal.

Then slowly turned.

One soft twirl.

My saree lifted slightly with the spin. Pallu floated across his face.

My hair, untied now, rose in the air and came down gently across my back.

I turned again. Then stopped.

He was still watching.

I sat back down like nothing.

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

His hand was still resting on his knee. But he didn’t deal the next round.

He was just… sitting.

And I didn’t say anything either.

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

The cards were shuffled again.

The air between us had changed. It wasn’t light anymore.

Still fun, still laughing — but now we were both… sharper.

Watching each other’s hands. Watching the moves.

Each round was taking longer. No distractions. Just cards and silence.

We both wanted to win.

And this time, he won again.

He leaned back slowly and stretched his arms behind him.

His bare chest rose slightly as he did. He wasn’t showing off — but I noticed.

He looked at me.

“Anni…”

I stared at him. “Don’t even think.”

He smiled softly. “Remove your pallu. And keep it on your lap.”

I blinked once. “What da? No no. That’s too much.”

“You told me to remove shirt. I’m sitting like this. You said winners make rules.”

I looked away. “That’s different.”

“Anni, come on. Now you’re cheating,” he said, his voice still soft. “I agreed to every dare. You’re backing out.”

My heart was already beating a little fast. I wasn’t expecting this.

“But… pallu means…” I started, then stopped.

I looked at my chest once. The cotton was wrapped neatly. Hooked properly. Not tight. Not loose.

But still. That was my pallu.

That was my shield.

He didn’t push. Just sat there, shoulders relaxed.

But then he looked down at himself — bare chest, still breathing a little from the earlier rounds — and said:

“I’m sitting topless, anni. You asked me to do it. I did it.”

Then he looked up again. “But now when I ask, you’re saying no.”

That line sat heavy inside me.

Because he was right.

He didn’t shout. Didn’t force.

Just gave that one sentence — quiet, simple, but full of meaning.

I swallowed.

I didn’t smile. I didn’t speak.

I reached behind my shoulder.

Opened the small hook that was holding the pallu tight.

The cotton slipped.

I caught it softly, folded it once, and placed it on my lap.

Now only my blouse was there. Thankfully I had worn a bra that day — not always, but today I had.

Even then, the blouse was shaped. And the neckline was low.

Not deep. But enough.

And now, without the pallu, it was just… exposed.

My cleavage was clearly visible.

Not fully. But more than I’d ever shown in front of him.

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

I looked down.

My hands were pressed on the pallu in my lap.

I could feel his eyes flicking towards me. Then back to the cards. Then again.

He wasn’t staring nonstop.

He wasn’t saying anything.

But I could feel it.

One second at a time.

His gaze coming and going like waves.

Not loud. Not greedy.

Just… curious.

And I was sitting there.

Back straight. Eyes on the floor once. Then at him.

Breathing slightly deeper.

Not from running. Just… sitting.

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

Next round started.

I had to win this one.

Not just for score. But to balance the moment.

I played carefully. Focused.

My fingers moved with more control now. I wasn’t trying to be fast — just smart.

I built my hand. Used his discard. Closed.

“Won,” I said, placing my cards flat.

He leaned forward to see.

“Ah… nice one, anni.”

I smiled — only with my eyes.

“Your turn now.”

He stretched his arms above his head, then looked at me.

“What now?”

“Fifty squats.”

He blinked. “What?”

“In this condition. Without shirt. Full squats. Count loud.”

He smiled. “Easy, anni. I’ll do hundred if you want.”

“Fifty is enough,” I said.

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

He got up from the mat.

His chest was already glistening slightly — from sitting under the fan, from playing.

Not heavy sweat. Just that summer stickiness.

He stood in the middle of the room.

Feet apart. Arms forward.

And started.

“One… two… three…”

His knees bent with perfect rhythm. Not slow. Not fast.

He was doing it like warmup. Like nothing.

But still… every downward bend made his body flex. Every upward motion made his stomach pull in.

His jeans sat low on the waist. The belt buckle pressed just above the bone.

Around twenty, his breathing changed.

Around thirty, I noticed the curve of his shoulders more.

At forty, his thighs were shaking a little. But he was smiling.

“Forty-nine… fifty.”

He stood straight.

Clapped his palms once and looked at me.

“Done, anni.”

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

I didn’t clap.

I just looked at him.

His chest rising. Arms loose now.

His hair had stuck slightly to his forehead.

And he didn’t go to wear the shirt.

He just stood there, watching me watch him.

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

[WriterPK]

Excellent bro... waiting for watchman part

[Sage_69]

Very hot! The game should continue till they have no clothes on them.

[yazhiniram]

We shuffled again.

I could feel my skin cooling where the fan hit.

But under the blouse, my chest was warm. That kind of warmth that doesn't go away quickly.

Arjun was still sitting without his t-shirt. Relaxed.

His back was leaning on the sofa. One knee bent. Breathing slightly heavier than before.

The pallu was still on my lap. I hadn’t touched it.

We started the round.

This time, I won.

I placed the cards slowly, neatly on the mat.

He raised his eyebrows. “Your turn, anni.”

I tapped my chin with one finger.

There were a few dares still pending. But if I asked him now to remove something, he might come back in the next round and ask double. I knew his style now.

So I thought for a second more.

Then looked at him, straight.

“Tell one poem,” I said.

“Poem?”

“Yes. About me.”

He smiled. “About you-aa?”

“Yes,” I said, acting casual. “One poem. One line also okay. But it should be about me.”

He exhaled once, softly. “Okay anni…”

He looked at me for two seconds.

Then said, in that soft, slow way that didn’t sound like a joke:

“You’re not wearing jasmine.

You’re not wearing gold.

But still, anni…

you look like a Queen today.”

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

My smile dropped slightly.

Just for a second.

Then came back.

I didn’t say anything.

Just looked down and started picking the cards for the next round.

But inside — somewhere low in my belly — I could feel that heat he said.

Not just in my eyes.

Everywhere.

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

Next round.

He won.

He leaned forward this time, palms on his knees, eyes sharp.

“Anni… you’ve seen Sivaji movie?”

I narrowed my eyes. “Why?”

“That scene where Shreya stops the train. Running towards Rajnikanth.”

I stared at him.

He smiled.

“You have to do that.”

“What?”

“You have to stop the train. Like her.”

“Arjun…” I said, voice low. “You’re doing too much now.”

He folded his hands. “Rules are rules, anni.”

I gave one fake angry look.

He didn’t flinch.

I sat there, holding my breath, then stood up.

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

I walked to the far end of the hall.

Took a soft breath.

Opened one side of my pallu, just slightly, letting it fall from the shoulder again.

My blouse was tight. My chest felt full.

I wasn’t running hard. Just soft jogging. But still… I could feel the movement.

The cotton brushed my stomach. My hips moved. My breasts bounced slightly with every step.

He didn’t laugh.

He didn’t cheer.

He just watched.

Eyes fixed. Mouth closed.

I came near and stopped, pallu flying once, then falling down.

I stood still for a moment. Then sat back on the mat.

And pulled the pallu over my chest again, just to cover.

But he raised his hand. “Anni…”

I looked at him.

“Four rounds back, I said — once removed, can’t wear again.”

He smiled like a proper collegeboy. Innocent face, but fully ready.

“You’re using my rules against me?” I asked.

He nodded. “Fair is fair.”

I sighed once. Looked down.

Then took the pallu. And placed it back in my lap.

Chest open again.

Blouse tight again.

His eyes didn’t stare now. But they stayed.

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

I won the next round.

My fingers were already tingling before I said anything.

He was sitting cross-legged, shirtless, looking calm. But I wasn’t. Not fully.

My chest was out in the open. My pallu still in my lap. His eyes were doing their quiet glancing.

Now it was time.

“Get up,” I said.

He looked at me. “What now, anni…”

“Remove your pant.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Take off your pant. Sit down in your inner.”

He rubbed his forehead once. “Anni… just think about it.”

“I don’t want to think. Do first, then we’ll talk,” I said, acting casual — but my heart was doing some Olympic event already.

He stood up slowly.

Slid his thumbs into the waistband.

And pulled his track pants down.

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

That was the moment.

First time I saw him like that.

Fully bare on top.

Only one thin inner at the bottom.

V-cut. White. Not tight-tight. But enough to see everything.

And what I saw…

My eyes didn’t blink.

His cock.

It wasn’t hard-hard.

But it was getting there.

A full semi.

Pushed to one side, resting heavy inside that cloth.

The head was shaping clearly. The length was almost half outlined.

That stupid cotton was doing zero job hiding it.

He sat down again — fast — like he knew what I saw.

Crossed one leg.

Then changed it.

Then just brought his knee up and kept a hand across his crotch like a collegeboy.

I smiled.

Didn't say anything.

But in my head…

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

So that’s his cock.

That’s what’s sitting inside his body this whole time.

Thick… heavy… already swelling like it wants to come out and say hello.

I looked away.

Then looked back.

I couldn't stop myself.

His palm was sitting there like a useless lid on a boiling pot.

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

Next round. I was still riding the last win.

He shuffled slower now. Eyes not meeting mine fully.

We started.

I played fast. Focused.

Won again.

“Get up,” I said.

He sighed. “Scared to ask.”

“You should be.”

“Tell, anni.”

“Ten rounds. From this wall to that wall. Running. Hands up.”

He gave a fake groan. “This is punishment round, anni.”

“These are your rules, remember?” I said sweetly.

He stood up.

Raised both hands.

And started jogging.

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

That’s when it got worse.

Or better.

For me.

Because now, with each step — his cock was bouncing.

That inner was holding on for dear life.

But I could see it.

Slapping lightly. Bouncing against his thigh.

Thick. Full. Swollen at the middle.

It was getting harder — not fully up, but fattening.

I was watching.

Like a pervert.

Like some sick desperate woman.

But I couldn’t stop.

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

He finished and came back, panting.

Sat down.

I glanced down once more.

His cock was right there. Pushing into the fabric.

Almost no space left.

I could see the shape. The cock. The curve.

And one small wet spot forming on the front.

Fuck.

I stared.

One extra second.

Then I heard it.

“Hmmm…”

A small sound from him.

Not a word.

Just that one hum.

And I snapped my eyes up.

My face went hot.

My thighs pressed together.

The fan was suddenly not enough.

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

In my head:

That’s a cock.

That’s a young man’s cock. Sitting hard in his underwear, right in front of me.

And I’m looking at it like I paid for it.

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

I straightened up. Pretended to fix my blouse.

He didn’t say anything.

Still calling me anni.

Still pretending like we were playing.

But he knew.

I knew.

That line?

We crossed it.

Five dares ago.

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

He sat back down. Not saying much.

His skin had a soft sheen now. All that running and squatting had left a glow across his chest and arms. That inner — still tight, still helpless — looked a little more stretched than before.

He started shuffling the cards. Calm. Focused. No rush.

I sat opposite. Petticoat creased at my thighs. Blouse pulling at the edges. No pallu. No saree.

Just cloth and skin.

The room was silent except for the shuffle.

We played.

I tried to focus, but my fingers weren’t steady. I was watching his hands more than my cards.

He played clean.

He won.

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

He placed the cards down slowly. Looked at me.

“Anni…”

He said it so gently.

Like he was saying it for the first time.

“Now… remove your saree.”

My breath caught.

I blinked once.

“What?”

“Remove your saree. That’s the rule, anni.”

I gave a small laugh. Nervous. Fake.

“Arjun… don’t start again…”

But he stayed still.

Didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease.

“You said it,” he replied. “You made me do every dare. Every silly thing. Now it’s your turn.”

I looked at him.

His eyes were not forceful.

But they weren’t backing off either.

I had no more excuses left.

No more tricks.

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

I sat up straighter.

My fingers touched the edge of the saree at my hip — already loosened earlier, just tucked in casually now.

My pallu had been off since before.

This was it.

I pulled once.

The pleats dropped in a soft fall.

The fabric slid down my side, pooling on the mat.

Then I stood up slowly, holding what was left of the cloth, and let it fall completely to the floor.

Now I was just standing there.

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

Blouse. Petticoat. Panty line.

That was all.

The blouse was a deep brown — cotton with a little stretch.

It hugged me. Tight around the chest.

The neckline was wide, cut low near the collarbone. Not deep, but wide enough to pull the eyes there.

My breasts were full, curved, sitting high in the blouse. The hook line between them pressed in a soft V — a clear cleavage line.

The petticoat was old. Off-white. Tied low on my waist. The knot dipped below my navel.

And just under that bow — in that gap between folds — my panty was showing.

Black.

Thin band.

The centre triangle resting soft against my skin.

I wasn’t fully shaved down there. Not trimmed either. Just… natural.

And I knew — he could see that too.

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

I stood there.

Breathing normal. Face expressionless.

But inside…

My skin was burning.

Not hot.

Not wet.

Just… burning.

My thighs pressed slightly.

My back was stiff.

My nipples had hardened. I could feel them now. Sharp against the inside of the blouse.

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

He didn’t say a word.

He was just looking.

From my toes… up my shin… past my knees… my thighs… the space between… the stomach… the blouse… my chest.

And then finally… my face.

I didn’t meet his eyes fully.

But I saw the tension in his throat as he swallowed.

I saw the rise and fall of his chest.

I saw his cock.

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

That inner was failing now.

His cock was sitting thick inside it — no longer soft.

It wasn’t standing up.

But it was big now.

The full shape of it — from base to head — was pushing into the cloth, resting along his thigh.

One small patch of pre-cum had dampened the spot near the tip. Just a coin-sized wetness.

He adjusted his thigh once.

Not because it was falling — but because it was growing.

And I watched.

Every second of it.

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

Then I sat down.

Crossed my legs. Adjusted the petticoat. Let the blouse sit naturally.

Didn’t cover anything.

Didn’t pull anything up.

Let him see.

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

We started the next round.

I won.

“Your turn,” I said, softly.

He was already bracing for something.

“Get up,” I said.

He looked up. “What now, anni…”

“Do that same walk again.”

His face dropped.

“Anni…”

“Same style. Like aunty. Like before.”

He stood up.

The inner was sticking now — not loose like before.

The fabric clung to his cock. Moulded around it.

He walked.

Hips moving.

Thighs rubbing.

Cock swinging.

It bounced gently with each step — slow, deliberate, heavy.

I saw the way the head pressed against the cloth — thick roundness pushing forward.

Every bounce was a statement.

And I watched.

Eyes locked.

No hiding.

He caught it.

Mid-walk, his eyes looked down — saw where my gaze was.

And then looked back up.

He saw it.

That I was watching his cock.

Not by accident.

Not by mistake.

But fully.

Intentionally.

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

And I didn’t blink.

Didn’t laugh.

Just watched it swing one more time.

Then settle.

Then I looked up.

He sat down.

And we didn’t speak.

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

The clock on the wall showed 7:30.

The fan was still running in the hall. The light outside had dimmed. Yellow from the streetlamp was leaking in through the half-drawn curtain.

I looked at him.

His legs were stretched out. His chest was still bare. Inner still tight. Still hiding and failing.

And I was just sitting there — in my blouse and petticoat, without saree, without shame.

“I think we should stop now,” I said softly. “It’s enough no… time for dinner.”

But he shook his head, smiling. “Anni… please. Let’s do one more. It’s getting interesting.”

I gave one small laugh. “Then come eat first. I’m not playing with hungry boy.”

He gave a dramatic sigh. “Okay okay. Dinner first.”

I stood up slowly, brushing my petticoat flat over my thigh.

Bent once to pick up my saree from the floor.

As I was about to wrap it around, he said:

“Anni… wait.”

I looked at him.

He was still sitting on the floor mat.

“Let’s be in same state,” he said, eyes innocent. “It’ll help for next round also.”

I raised one eyebrow. “Same state?”

He nodded, acting serious. “I mean… whatever we’re wearing now. Let’s just stay like that till the game finishes.”

I smiled. “I’m fully covered. Saree is just missing. You’re the one in inner only.”

He shrugged. “I’m okay, anni. If you are.”

I looked at him.

His cock was still there — heavy, relaxed, sitting like a patient student under the cloth.

He wasn’t hiding anymore.

And I wasn’t pretending to look away.

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

We walked to the dining table.

He pulled the chair and sat — just like that. In his inner. Bare chest. Legs wide.

I went to the kitchen. Opened the rice pot. Stirred the sambar. Checked the pickle bottle. My blouse stuck to my back as I moved — sweat and fabric.

My petticoat pulled across my hip every time I turned.

I was serving food with my breasts sitting openly inside the blouse — no pallu, no saree. Just cotton hugging flesh.

And he was sitting behind me. Watching.

Maybe not openly.

But I could feel it.

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

We ate in silence.

I sat opposite him. Scooped rice with fingers. Sipped rasam. Tried not to drop anything.

My thighs were sticking to the plastic seat.

Every time I leaned forward, the blouse pulled tighter against my chest.

Every time he leaned back, his cock shifted under the inner.

He didn’t speak much.

He ate slow.

But his eyes were moving.

Once on my collarbone.

Once on my navel.

Once on that small band of panty still showing under the knot.

He didn’t say a word.

But he didn’t miss anything.

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

After eating, he wiped his mouth, drank water, and stood up.

“I’ll be in the hall,” he said softly. “You come when ready.”

I nodded.

He walked away, bare back disappearing around the corner.

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

I turned to the sink.

The vessels were still there — oily, sticky, smelling of sambar and masala.

I stood there, blouse slightly wet at the hem, and started rinsing.

The tap was slow. The plates kept slipping. The sink splash hit my petticoat and made it cling to my leg.

My mind was half in the sink, half on him.

Still waiting in the hall.

Still shirtless.

Still in inner.

Still hard?

I didn’t know.

But I wanted to.

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

By the time I wiped my hands, the clock said 8:50.

I checked myself once in the fridge reflection.

Hair a little loose.

Neckline a little lower.

One breast slightly more shaped now. The blouse had stretched after all that bending.

I didn’t fix anything.

I walked back to the hall.

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

He was already sitting.

Cards in hand.

Shuffling.

Eyes serious.

No jokes now.

He looked at me once. Then continued shuffling.

And I sat down in the same spot.

Petticoat creased.

Panty line still showing.

Chest still full in blouse.

And I said nothing.

Because I was ready.

For the next round.

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

He was quiet now.

Cards in his hand. Bare chest catching the fan breeze. Inner pulled tight over his thighs. His cock was sitting sideways, still swelling from whatever he was imagining.

I shuffled mine, pretending to act cool.

But in my head?

If he wins this round, I don’t know what else is left to remove.

But I couldn’t stop now.

And he won.

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

He grinned. Softly. Not loud.

“Anni…”

I looked up, already suspicious. “Now what?”

“Do hip dance.”

I blinked. “What hip dance?”

“Like Arabian dance. Hip side to side. Like belly dancer.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Are you okay? What movie did you see now?”

He did a small gesture with his hand. “Like this. Small movement only. Little sexy types.”

I gave one playful slap on my own thigh. “You’ve lost it.”

But he smiled.

“You made me do catwalk, pushups, squats. I did everything. Now my turn, anni.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re becoming too naughty, da.”

“Rules are rules,” he said, hiding his grin behind his hand.

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

I stood up.

Petticoat sitting low. Blouse tight.

I placed my hands on my hips. “If I fall, your fault.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, hands up.

I started slowly.

Right hip.

Left hip.

Small circles.

Back. Forth.

The movement was natural — too natural.

The petticoat shifted with each roll.

My blouse stretched over my chest with the turns.

My braid swung against my back.

I looked at him mid-dance.

He was sitting still.

But his eyes?

Staring.

And between his legs, inside that already tight inner — his cock was now rock hard.

It wasn’t hiding anymore.

Stuck against the cloth. Pressed flat.

The head was outlined. The shaft was fat.

He was pretending to sit calm — but there was a tent in his lap now.

I bit my lip and turned away.

Finished the last hip swing.

And sat back down, breathing a little faster — not from dancing.

From watching.

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

Next round started.

I focused. I had to win.

But no use.

He won again.

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

He looked at me, acting too sweet.

“Anni…”

I gave him one warning look.

“Unhook your blouse.”

I paused. “Arjun…”

“Just the back hook. Not removing. Just opening.”

I stared at him. “You’ve gone mad.”

He raised both palms. “Anni, I didn’t say remove anything. Just unhook. Like a dare.”

I crossed my arms. “Let’s wrap this game now. Getting too much.”

He smiled, tilted his head like a puppy. “Please… rules are rules.”

That line again.

God, this boy.

I turned slowly.

Reached behind.

Fingers found the hooks.

And I opened them.

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

The moment they popped, I felt the weight shift.

The blouse loosened.

It fell slightly forward, hanging open.

My bra was now fully visible — simple beige cotton, no padding, no frills.

But my breasts were fully shaped inside. Tight, full, skin pressing into the cups.

The cleavage was deep now.

The blouse hung open on both sides. I didn’t pin it. I didn’t close it.

I just sat like that.

Pretending to act normal.

But my heart?

Banging like anything.

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

He looked once.

Then looked again.

He was still sitting with his legs crossed, but his cock was now throbbing under the inner.

I saw it.

I knew he saw me seeing it.

And we both didn’t say anything.

I looked at him.

He smiled.

Like it was just another game.

And I smiled back.

Like I wasn’t sitting in an open blouse and visible bra in front of my husband’s younger brother.

Because that’s what we were doing.

Just playing.

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

[WriterPK]

Waiting for the next

[zulfique]

Second nude show in one day for pavi. Poor wimp husband does not deserve any. She should at least give the juices of the real men fucked her for him to drink.

[crimsonramesh]

I liked the story a lot, especially all the small details. It made everything feel real. If the plot was a bit better, it would be an amazing story.