Adultery The Language of Her Heart

[yazhiniram]

The rest of the day just… flowed.
No drama. No excitement.
Just the usual rhythm.
Swept the floor.
Folded clothes.
Wiped the fridge shelves.
Pulled out two biscuit wrappers, one Beyblade, and a damn melted crayon from under the sofa.
Every chore I did with muscle memory, like I was there but not really.
Lunch happened in between.
Simple sambar. Potato fry. Crispy Appalam.
My playlist was playing Ilaiyaraaja on low volume, like a companion.
But my thoughts?
They weren’t in the sambar.
They were far, far away.

---

I thought of Mom and Dad.
How they did everything with quiet strength.
Mom never complained. Even when her back ached. Even when her feet cracked from standing.
Dad never raised his voice. Never lost control.
They just… existed for each other. For the family. Like breathing.
Did Amma ever feel what I feel now?
Did she ever lie in bed and touch herself in the dark, afraid of her own thoughts?
No.
Probably not.
She didn’t have the time. Or the permission.

---

I stirred the sambar slowly.
And suddenly my mind… drifted to her.
Radhika akka.
My neighbor.
My friend.
My mirror sometimes.
She runs a full-time job. Manager at a big company.
Heads meetings. Sends emails. Solves problems.
Still cooks on weekends. Still folds clothes. Still smiles.
And next to her?
Her husband.
Raj.

---

There it was again. That weight in my chest when I think of him.
The way his shirt sits snug on his shoulders.
The way his voice never rushes. Never scrambles to say something.
Just… speaks. Low. Steady.
He’s different.
He doesn’t run behind calls.
He walks with his hands in his pockets, like he owns his time. Like nothing rattles him.
No kids around the house. Just the two of them now.
And yet, they never seem bored.
Sometimes, I’ve seen them near the gate.
Her carrying vegetables. Him with just a single bag — but still offering to hold hers.
Their voices low, smiling, calm.
Simple moments.
But rare.

---

Kartik helps too.
But it’s different.
Kartik’s body is here.
His mind is inside his laptop.
Even when we talk, I feel like he’s reading invisible emails in his head.
But Raj anna?
When he speaks to me… he’s there.
Right there.
And that’s why even his small compliments stay in my skin.

---

I tried shaking off the thought.
Pavi, what are you doing?
But my pussy clenched when I remembered that lift ride.
His voice.
That moment his eyes stayed one second too long.
Not vulgar.
Not dirty.
But still enough to make my nipples hard… just from memory.

---

I sat down near the window with my coffee.
Sun warming my legs.
Loose kurti sticking slightly to my thighs from sweat.
No bra again.
I stretched slightly, pressing the steel tumbler to my lips.
And as I sipped…
My pussy throbbed. Just once. Deep.
Why the fuck does one man’s voice affect me like this?
It’s been two days.
I still feel the tension in my body.
That restless itch under my skin.
I want someone to grab me by the hips.
Bite my shoulder.
Slide their hand under my nightie and whisper, “Stay still, I’m not done yet.”
I want a mouth that understands my nipples are not decoration.
I want a man who doesn’t finish in two minutes and turn to the side.

---

But all I have is this quiet afternoon.
Coffee.
A playlist.
And a wetness I didn’t ask for… but can’t ignore.

---

The clock hits 4.
Kids will be back soon.
collegebags. Shouting. Asking for snacks. Complaining about homework.
The same rhythm.
And yet… something inside me isn’t the same.
Not anymore.

---

Because today passed like every other day.
But my thoughts?
They were anything but still.
And I can feel it now.
This silence is turning into hunger.
Not just for sex.
But for presence.
For being seen. Held. Wanted.
And he—
he sees me.
Even if no one else does.