Adultery The Language of Her Heart

[yazhiniram]

What a party...
It wasn’t some grand event.
No violinists. No slow-motion lighting.
Just a typical gated community birthday — paper plates, balloons tied with tired strings, kids screaming over chocolate pastries, aunties holding purses like shields.
But still…
It wasn’t normal.
Not for me.
Because tonight… I wasn’t the normal Pavitra.

---

The moment I stepped in, I felt it.
That hush.
That one-second silence when conversations didn’t stop — they just… slowed.
Eyes turned.
Not like, “Who is that?”
But more like, “Is that Pavitra?”
A few women looked first.
Then the men.
Then their eyes darted back to juice cups or plates, pretending nothing shifted.
But I felt it.
That invisible current brushing over me.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
But warm.
Present.

---

I stood straight. Gown brushing against my thighs.
Tried not to adjust the neckline too obviously.
Tried not to pull the hem down when the breeze touched my knees.
One hand on my clutch. Smile fixed.
Body aching with awareness.
Not fear.
Not guilt.
Just that raw fucking throb of being seen.
My pussy clenched the moment the first man’s eyes flicked across my chest.
He looked away immediately — but I caught it.
So did my nipples.
They hardened, alive under the fabric, brushing softly, begging for attention.

---

And then… I saw her.
Radhika Akka.
Looking graceful as always. Casual kurti, hair open, eyes lined thick. Laughing near the juice counter with her trademark confidence.
And beside her—
Raj Anna.
Calm. Tall. Same old-college full-sleeve shirt tucked neatly.
But his presence?
Like a quiet storm.
Never loud. Never flirty. Just… solid. Masculine.
My shoulders relaxed the moment I saw him.
Like my body knew — If he looks at me tonight… it will matter.
I gave a tiny wave.

---

Radhika turned. Her face lit up.
“Paviiii! Wow… look at you!”
She came straight to me, held my hand with a teasing squeeze.
“You look amazing! I was expecting your usual cotton saree or simple chudi.”
I smiled. A little blush crept up my chest.
“Just… felt like trying something different today.”
“Tried something new? Looks great on you.”
She laughed, turning to my kids to ask about cake and balloons.
I was still adjusting my hair near my shoulder when I felt a presence step closer.

---

Raj.
One hand holding a paper cup.
His smile wasn’t wide.
It was gentle. Slow.
Like he’d seen something he didn’t want to look away from too quickly.
“Hey Pavitra… you look… really nice. Gorgeous, actually.”
My heart paused.
Not skipped.
Paused.
Because that word?
"Gorgeous."
Fuck.
When was the last time anyone called me that?
And said it like they fucking meant it?
Not “cute.”
Not “sweet.”
Not “you’ve lost weight.”
Not “nice dress.”
But gorgeous.
He didn’t blink after saying it.
Didn’t look embarrassed.
Didn’t scan my body again.
He just said it.
And left it hanging in the air.
Like a soft moan no one apologizes for.

---

I gave a small smile.
Looked down like a good girl.
“Thanks… anna.”
Anna.
Still.
Always.
But the way he said “gorgeous” made my panties stick to me.
My cunt was wet.
Right there.
At a kids’ birthday party.
And not from some touch.
Not from anything dirty.
Just… one word.
One man.
Saying it like he actually saw me.

---

He turned away.
Helped his wife with return gifts.
That was it.
No drama.
No flirt.
Just a passing moment.
But it stayed.

---

The rest of the evening passed in noise.
Kartik was near the cake table, talking to some other guys. Laughing. Normal.
He didn’t say anything about my dress.
Not during the party.
Not in the lift.
Not even once we came home.
Maybe he didn’t notice.
Or maybe… he didn’t have the words.
But Raj did.
He saw the curve of my hips.
The outline of my thighs.
The neckline that dipped just enough to make someone stare.
And instead of pretending he didn’t feel anything…
He named it.

---

And now, lying in this bed…
Cotton nightie.
No bra.
Panty a little damp.
One word is echoing inside me.
Gorgeous.

---

I ran my hand down my thigh, slowly.
Just tracing. Not touching.
But my nipples were already begging again.
I kept my legs pressed.
But my pussy?
It pulsed. Hot. Slow.
That man said “gorgeous” like he could smell my hunger under the perfume.

---

And I wonder now…
If he touched me…
Would he say it again?
Would he whisper it against my skin?
Would he pull my dress down, not to fuck me—
But to admire me?
And would I moan when he finally put that slow, steady mouth on my tits?

---

I shift under the blanket.
Don’t touch.
Just feel.
Because tonight wasn’t just a party.
It was proof.
That I still exist.
That someone sees me.
And wants to look again.