21-04-2025, 09:32 PM
(This post was last modified: 21-04-2025, 09:32 PM by yazhiniram. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
He was halfway through dressing.
His briefs were on, clinging wet.
Pants pulled up but unzipped, still sagging slightly from the waist.
Shirt? Still in his hand.
He didn’t even try to wear it.
Just stood there, chest bare, skin sticky, lips parted.
Sweating.
Quiet.
I didn’t speak.
Didn’t look.
I just stood near the panel, blouse folded in my hand, saree pulled tight across my chest, barely enough to hold my breasts in place.
No pin.
No hooks.
Just a half-cover, clinging to sweat, slipping slightly with every movement.
But I didn’t care.
The floor number dinged softly.
We’d reached.
I felt my chest tighten.
My eyes went to the seam of the door.
And inside my head, I whispered:
“God, if You’ve ever listened, now is the time. Don’t let anyone be outside.”
The door opened.
Light spilled in.
Corridor empty.
Nobody.
Not even footsteps.
I let out a sharp exhale.
Not relief.
Just survival.
I turned to him, voice cold, sharp:
“Take the box. Come behind me. Don’t waste time.”
He nodded fast.
Grabbed the box.
Still shirtless.
Still slightly bent at the waist — either from shame or heat or both.
And me?
I walked forward.
Topless.
Saree wrapped around my chest, blouse still in my hand, hair half stuck to my neck.
Each step I took, I could feel the air hit the sweat on my breasts.
My petticoat swayed behind me, loose, half-dried.
I didn’t walk like a victim.
I walked like I had burned the whole lift and was done with the fire.
He followed.
Box in both hands.
Eyes on the floor.
Steps cautious.
I reached my flat.
Opened the grill.
Then the wooden door.
Stepped in.
He entered behind me, box still held like a shield between us.
And the second his heel crossed the line—
I shut the door.
Firm.
No slam.
Just a clean, sharp click.
No more light.
No corridor.
Just me.
Just him.
And a box of unknown weight.
Inside my home.
He stood near the entrance, box still in his hand, breathing just enough to not faint. I didn’t even have to look fully — I could feel him behind me. That awkward half-waiting posture men take when they don’t know if they’re dismissed or still owned.
“Madam…” he spoke, barely loud, as if afraid the walls might hear. “Where to put this?”
I didn’t turn. Just lifted my arm and pointed — toward the far right corner of the hall, near the shoe stand.
“There. Against the wall. Carefully. If you scratch the wall or the box, I’ll throw both of you out.”
He nodded like a college kid and walked over, arms slightly bent, back hunched like he was trying to be smaller. He placed it down gently, made sure it didn’t topple, then stood up slowly. And then… he didn’t move.
He didn’t leave.
He just turned around — and stood there.
Hands still on his sides. Shirt still not worn. Pants wrinkled, button not even fastened fully. His body smelled of dried sweat and burnt heat. And worst of all — his eyes… were flickering again.
Even now.
Even after everything.
Still trying to catch one more glimpse of me.
My patience ended right there.
I turned, sharp and fast.
“WHAT are you waiting for?” I snapped.
He flinched, chest stiffening.
“You want me to remove the saree too? Huh? Stand fully naked for you to keep looking? Are you standing here to see if you get one more free peek?”
He tried to stammer, but no words came. His eyes went down, like a whipped dog.
I didn’t let it rest.
“Put your shirt on. Right now. And LEAVE.”
His hands jerked up like they were on autopilot. He grabbed the shirt from where he had hung it over his shoulder. Opened it. One sleeve already half-in.
He started slipping it on, quickly — one hand, then the other, eyes still locked down at the floor tiles.
Then, just as he started pulling the fabric over his chest—
I said, coldly: “Stop.”
He froze.
Mid-motion. Shirt half open, arms halfway through.
I walked a few slow steps forward, the blouse still in my hand, my bare chest still only half covered by the loosely thrown pallu.
I could feel the air hit the sweat still sitting on my breasts.
I didn’t care.
I looked at him fully now.
And said quietly, but clearly:
“You want to go out like this?”
He blinked. Confused.
I nodded toward his body. “Wet shirt. Pants half buttoned. Whole body smelling like the bottom of a government bus seat. What do you think will happen when people see you walking like that from my flat?”
His lips parted.
No sound came out.
“You think they’ll ask you what happened?”
He shook his head.
“They won’t,” I said. “They’ll ask me.”
I took one more step. Now just a few feet away.
“‘Madam, why did your watchman leave your house shirtless and shaking?’”
His eyes went wider.
I didn’t blink.
I didn’t smirk.
I simply delivered the final sentence.
“So no. You don’t get to choose.”
I pointed toward the washroom.
Bathroom, small, half-wet, barely ventilated — but good enough for what I wanted.
“Go freshen up.”
He didn’t move.
I tilted my head.
“I’m not asking. I’m ordering. Go.”
His voice was a whisper. “Not… not necessary, madam…”
My eyes narrowed.
“I said go.”
Then slowly, I added:
“Let your clothes dry. Remove everything. All of it. Stand under the fan for five minutes.”
He nodded, mouth trembling slightly.
Then turned, slowly, feet dragging, toward the direction I pointed.
I stood behind him.
Still topless.
Still sweating.
Still very much in charge.
Because in this house?
He wasn’t the man who entered the lift.
He was the man I had stripped twice.
And now I was telling him how to leave.
Time: 11:40 AM
This day had already stolen every drop of sanity from me.
And now — standing in my own hall, topless, with a wet petticoat barely holding its shape, I watched a man — a low-class, sweaty, still-filthy man — start undressing for the third time today in front of me.
But this time, there was no lift.
No darkness.
No accidental fall.
This time?
It was clear.
My living room light was on, the fan above pushing air slowly. The dull hum of it echoed in the silence between us.
And his hands?
Were undoing his pants.
First button. Then zip.
The trousers dropped down his thighs, fell to the floor with a soft slap.
He stepped out of them without fumbling, like this had become routine now — like he had surrendered fully to whatever this moment was.
And then, his fingers went to his innerwear.
He pulled it down.
And there it was.
That same cock.
But more clear now.
No flickering lift light.
No shadows.
Just that thick, ugly, angrily standing thing — harder than before, almost proud.
It bounced lightly once as the elastic cleared it, and I could swear it was pointing at me.
I didn’t blink.
Didn’t react.
Not on the outside.
But inside?
My body jolted.
There was a tight clench between my legs — a shocking, shameful pull.
My nipples hardened further — sensitive from sweat, touch, air, and now… memory.
I looked at his cock.
And I wanted.
Just a touch.
Just a light grip — maybe with two fingers — just to feel the weight.
But I didn’t move.
Didn’t twitch.
I only said:
“Bathroom’s to the right. Don’t dirty the floor.”
His head nodded fast.
Didn’t even look at me.
He picked up his bundle of clothes in one arm, turned slowly — and started walking.
His bare ass swaying, cock bouncing slightly with each step — that thick, veiny stalk now fully visible under steady lighting.
He vanished into the bathroom.
I stood in place.
Still topless.
Sweating.
Burning.
I looked down at the blouse in my hand — the same one I had thrown, worn, wiped with.
It was half-dried now, patches of dampness turned to hardened sweat.
I lifted it.
Pressed it against my chest.
Tried to wear it.
The hooks stuck.
The underarm fabric smelled like unwashed cotton and guard sweat.
I gagged.
Pulled it off immediately.
Threw it on the sofa like it had insulted me.
“Filthy bugger,” I muttered under my breath.
Then louder:
“Next time I’ll make you wash your mouth also.”
I didn’t even know if I meant it.
But from inside the bathroom, I heard movement.
He heard me.
Let him.
Because this wasn’t over yet.
Not while my body still remembered the feel of his cock against my chin.
The bathroom door clicked open.
Slowly.
He stepped out — barefoot, dripping wet, droplets trailing down his chest like thin silver streaks. His hair was soaked, pushed back messily. Water clung to his neck, to the back of his ears, sliding down to his shoulders.
He wasn’t dry.
Not even a little.
And worse?
He was naked again.
No attempt to wear the clothes he carried in.
Just holding them — damp bundle under one arm, eyes slightly lifted, like he was waiting.
I knew what he was waiting for.
A towel.
A cloth.
Something to dry himself.
Maybe even permission.
I didn’t move at first.
I stood there — blouse still discarded, saree hanging over the box.
And the only thing left on my body?
My red panty.
Wet.
Clinging.
Exposing every curve, every line.
I watched a single droplet roll from his chest down to his thigh.
His cock had softened slightly, but not completely.
Still long.
Still heavy.
Still twitching once in a while, like it was remembering its role.
He looked at me once.
Only once.
Eyes half begging.
Half blank.
And I smiled — not out of amusement.
But control.
Power.
Then, without a word, I reached behind me.
Grabbed the tight knot of my petticoat, still clinging around my waist, soaked in sweat and need.
Pulled once.
The cloth loosened.
Slid down my hips.
Pooled around my ankles.
Now I was bare except for the red panty — fully visible, soaked, tight enough to cut breath.
I bent.
Picked up the petticoat.
Lifted it in one hand.
Tossed it.
Straight at his face.
The wet cloth slapped across his cheek, slid down his chest, and fell into his hands.
He flinched.
Caught it.
Still dripping.
Still stunned.
“Use that,” I said flatly. “Dry yourself.”
He didn’t move.
“What?” I snapped. “You thought I’d give you towel and coffee also?”
He opened his mouth.
Said nothing.
I stepped toward the cupboard.
Still topless.
Still wet.
Still burning.
“You’re not a guest here,” I muttered. “You’re a mistake.”
Then, casually, like I was picking a broom, I reached into the lower shelf, pulled out my old nighty — faded pink, thin, sleeveless, used only when I wanted to disappear in cloth.
I didn’t rush.
I didn’t cover.
He had seen everything already.
So let him.
Let him see more.
Let him know this heat was mine — and I was the only one who decided who got burned.
I held the old nighty in my hands for a second longer than needed.
It wasn’t fresh.
It wasn’t even dry.
But it was all I had right now that didn’t smell like his sweat or the lift.
I unfolded it slowly, eyes not leaving him as he stepped out of the bathroom, his body dripping from head to toe — wet hair stuck to his forehead, chest gleaming, and water rolling off his thighs in slow, glistening streams.
His cock?
Still hard.
Still rising like it didn’t get the message.
Like it had made its own decision today.
I pulled the nighty over my head.
The cloth touched my skin, and I felt it — that cold, sudden sensation as it dragged over my breasts, sticking to the curves, sliding down my hips and resting just above my knees.
The sweat between my breasts didn’t let it fall freely.
It clung there, like the heat itself wanted to keep me bare.
And for a second, I almost didn’t pull it all the way down.
But I did.
Let it fall.
Let it settle.
Let the illusion of being dressed return.
Even though under that cloth, I was still a woman burning, leaking, throbbing, and very much not in control.
I turned slowly, and caught his eyes.
He wasn’t even pretending to look away anymore.
He stood there, nude, not hiding anything, not apologising — just standing with my petticoat in his hands, using it to pat his arms, his back, and slowly… slowly reaching down toward his cock.
His eyes met mine, then darted up — toward the ceiling, the fan, anywhere.
But he was too late.
I had already seen the way his cock pulsed when I looked at it.
And that was the moment.
That sharp, ugly, impossible moment.
My mind screamed: This is wrong. This is disgusting.
But my body?
My body betrayed me.
My thighs clenched together without me asking.
A fresh warmth spread right through my red panty.
I could feel it — that stickiness, that pressure, that need.
It wasn’t him I wanted.
It was that cock.
That filthy, shameless cock that had touched my chin, that stood like it deserved to be touched.
But I didn’t show it.
I didn’t blink.
I just turned and walked away.
I reached the sofa, moved slowly, as if I had no urgency, even though inside me every nerve was pulsing.
I bent slightly, pressed the button on the fan.
It whirred to life — slow at first, then steady.
The blades spun and the hot air began to move around the room, swirling our smells, our heat, our silence.
“Come here,” I said.
My voice wasn’t loud.
But it was sharp.
And he heard it like a command.
He stepped closer, walked softly, still holding my petticoat — still naked.
Now he stood near the fan, barely three feet from me.
His chest was rising, his cock refused to soften, and even though he didn’t look directly at me, I knew.
He wanted more.
I turned, walked to the shelf, opened it, and pulled out two bottles of water.
Handed one to him.
Didn’t say a word.
He took it, drank fast, water spilling slightly down his chin.
Desperate thirst.
I opened mine.
Drank slowly.
Felt the water travel down my throat, hit my chest, settle like a cold stone in my burning stomach.
Even the water wasn’t enough to kill this heat.
So I just stood there.
In my old nighty.
Soaked underneath.
With a man in front of me, naked, with a cock that remembered every second of my body.
And I?
I was starting to remember too much.
I leaned back slightly on the sofa, feeling the old nighty cling to my chest, damp from both my body and the heat trapped inside the room. My skin still felt sticky under the thin fabric, every movement reminding me of how bare I still was underneath. And in front of me, just a few feet away, he stood — still naked, still drying himself, and still hard.
His body had begun to dry, yes — small patches of skin now matte, not shiny — but that cock?
That cock had not softened.
Not even a little.
I let my eyes fall.
No hesitation.
No pretending to be polite.
No act of dignity.
I dropped my gaze and stared straight at his cock — not accidentally, not shyly — but deliberately, fully aware of how long I was letting my eyes linger.
I let my stare begin at the base — where the skin was thick, slightly darker, pulled tight from arousal. My eyes climbed slowly, tracing the veins, noticing the slight shift each time he moved his foot or shifted his weight. The girth was the same — maybe thicker — than what had pressed against my chin in that lift. And the tip?
The tip was red.
Swollen.
Moist at the end.
Just slightly glistening, enough to know it was alive, awake, throbbing.
He noticed.
Of course, he noticed.
A woman like me doesn’t stare at a man like that without his soul trembling.
He stopped wiping for a second. Froze.
Then, slowly, as if nothing had happened, he shifted the petticoat in his hand and continued dabbing at his side, avoiding touching the cock that he now knew I had seen — truly seen.
I didn’t smile.
I didn’t blink.
I didn’t act coy.
I simply let the hunger in my eyes settle — not screaming, not begging — just there, thick and quiet, like steam rising off a still-hot vessel.
And inside?
My body had already betrayed me.
The red panty — already soaked an hour ago — had now begun to stick again, not from sweat, but from fresh wetness. I could feel the damp cloth hugging every fold between my thighs. Every slight shift of my hip dragged it across my slit, making my breath shorter — but not loud enough to show.
I clenched my thighs.
Just enough to apply pressure.
To tame the throbbing.
My chest rose slightly.
Breasts brushed against the nighty fabric.
And my nipples — already sore — hardened again.
He looked up for a moment.
Our eyes met.
And for the first time in the entire day — he saw me.
Not just as the madam.
But as a woman.
A body.
A craving.
It was barely a two-second glance.
But it held weight.
And I ended it first.
Because I wasn’t ready to give that part yet.
I stood up slowly.
Let the nighty shift down, stretch, flow over my thighs.
Pulled it tighter near my chest, adjusting casually.
Then I spoke — cold, flat, like none of this ever happened.
“You’re dry now. Enough standing around like a statue.”
My voice didn’t shake.
My tone didn’t betray.
“Wear your clothes. And leave.”
He nodded.
Almost like a boy being sent out of class.
He bent slightly, picked up his innerwear, stepped in — his cock still bouncing slightly as it slid under the cloth.
And me?
I just stood near the shelf, drinking water again.
But my eyes?
They dropped one more time.
Just once.
Just to remember.
Because I hadn’t touched him.
Not once.
But my body?
Was already mourning that decision.
His briefs were on, clinging wet.
Pants pulled up but unzipped, still sagging slightly from the waist.
Shirt? Still in his hand.
He didn’t even try to wear it.
Just stood there, chest bare, skin sticky, lips parted.
Sweating.
Quiet.
I didn’t speak.
Didn’t look.
I just stood near the panel, blouse folded in my hand, saree pulled tight across my chest, barely enough to hold my breasts in place.
No pin.
No hooks.
Just a half-cover, clinging to sweat, slipping slightly with every movement.
But I didn’t care.
The floor number dinged softly.
We’d reached.
I felt my chest tighten.
My eyes went to the seam of the door.
And inside my head, I whispered:
“God, if You’ve ever listened, now is the time. Don’t let anyone be outside.”
The door opened.
Light spilled in.
Corridor empty.
Nobody.
Not even footsteps.
I let out a sharp exhale.
Not relief.
Just survival.
I turned to him, voice cold, sharp:
“Take the box. Come behind me. Don’t waste time.”
He nodded fast.
Grabbed the box.
Still shirtless.
Still slightly bent at the waist — either from shame or heat or both.
And me?
I walked forward.
Topless.
Saree wrapped around my chest, blouse still in my hand, hair half stuck to my neck.
Each step I took, I could feel the air hit the sweat on my breasts.
My petticoat swayed behind me, loose, half-dried.
I didn’t walk like a victim.
I walked like I had burned the whole lift and was done with the fire.
He followed.
Box in both hands.
Eyes on the floor.
Steps cautious.
I reached my flat.
Opened the grill.
Then the wooden door.
Stepped in.
He entered behind me, box still held like a shield between us.
And the second his heel crossed the line—
I shut the door.
Firm.
No slam.
Just a clean, sharp click.
No more light.
No corridor.
Just me.
Just him.
And a box of unknown weight.
Inside my home.
He stood near the entrance, box still in his hand, breathing just enough to not faint. I didn’t even have to look fully — I could feel him behind me. That awkward half-waiting posture men take when they don’t know if they’re dismissed or still owned.
“Madam…” he spoke, barely loud, as if afraid the walls might hear. “Where to put this?”
I didn’t turn. Just lifted my arm and pointed — toward the far right corner of the hall, near the shoe stand.
“There. Against the wall. Carefully. If you scratch the wall or the box, I’ll throw both of you out.”
He nodded like a college kid and walked over, arms slightly bent, back hunched like he was trying to be smaller. He placed it down gently, made sure it didn’t topple, then stood up slowly. And then… he didn’t move.
He didn’t leave.
He just turned around — and stood there.
Hands still on his sides. Shirt still not worn. Pants wrinkled, button not even fastened fully. His body smelled of dried sweat and burnt heat. And worst of all — his eyes… were flickering again.
Even now.
Even after everything.
Still trying to catch one more glimpse of me.
My patience ended right there.
I turned, sharp and fast.
“WHAT are you waiting for?” I snapped.
He flinched, chest stiffening.
“You want me to remove the saree too? Huh? Stand fully naked for you to keep looking? Are you standing here to see if you get one more free peek?”
He tried to stammer, but no words came. His eyes went down, like a whipped dog.
I didn’t let it rest.
“Put your shirt on. Right now. And LEAVE.”
His hands jerked up like they were on autopilot. He grabbed the shirt from where he had hung it over his shoulder. Opened it. One sleeve already half-in.
He started slipping it on, quickly — one hand, then the other, eyes still locked down at the floor tiles.
Then, just as he started pulling the fabric over his chest—
I said, coldly: “Stop.”
He froze.
Mid-motion. Shirt half open, arms halfway through.
I walked a few slow steps forward, the blouse still in my hand, my bare chest still only half covered by the loosely thrown pallu.
I could feel the air hit the sweat still sitting on my breasts.
I didn’t care.
I looked at him fully now.
And said quietly, but clearly:
“You want to go out like this?”
He blinked. Confused.
I nodded toward his body. “Wet shirt. Pants half buttoned. Whole body smelling like the bottom of a government bus seat. What do you think will happen when people see you walking like that from my flat?”
His lips parted.
No sound came out.
“You think they’ll ask you what happened?”
He shook his head.
“They won’t,” I said. “They’ll ask me.”
I took one more step. Now just a few feet away.
“‘Madam, why did your watchman leave your house shirtless and shaking?’”
His eyes went wider.
I didn’t blink.
I didn’t smirk.
I simply delivered the final sentence.
“So no. You don’t get to choose.”
I pointed toward the washroom.
Bathroom, small, half-wet, barely ventilated — but good enough for what I wanted.
“Go freshen up.”
He didn’t move.
I tilted my head.
“I’m not asking. I’m ordering. Go.”
His voice was a whisper. “Not… not necessary, madam…”
My eyes narrowed.
“I said go.”
Then slowly, I added:
“Let your clothes dry. Remove everything. All of it. Stand under the fan for five minutes.”
He nodded, mouth trembling slightly.
Then turned, slowly, feet dragging, toward the direction I pointed.
I stood behind him.
Still topless.
Still sweating.
Still very much in charge.
Because in this house?
He wasn’t the man who entered the lift.
He was the man I had stripped twice.
And now I was telling him how to leave.
Time: 11:40 AM
This day had already stolen every drop of sanity from me.
And now — standing in my own hall, topless, with a wet petticoat barely holding its shape, I watched a man — a low-class, sweaty, still-filthy man — start undressing for the third time today in front of me.
But this time, there was no lift.
No darkness.
No accidental fall.
This time?
It was clear.
My living room light was on, the fan above pushing air slowly. The dull hum of it echoed in the silence between us.
And his hands?
Were undoing his pants.
First button. Then zip.
The trousers dropped down his thighs, fell to the floor with a soft slap.
He stepped out of them without fumbling, like this had become routine now — like he had surrendered fully to whatever this moment was.
And then, his fingers went to his innerwear.
He pulled it down.
And there it was.
That same cock.
But more clear now.
No flickering lift light.
No shadows.
Just that thick, ugly, angrily standing thing — harder than before, almost proud.
It bounced lightly once as the elastic cleared it, and I could swear it was pointing at me.
I didn’t blink.
Didn’t react.
Not on the outside.
But inside?
My body jolted.
There was a tight clench between my legs — a shocking, shameful pull.
My nipples hardened further — sensitive from sweat, touch, air, and now… memory.
I looked at his cock.
And I wanted.
Just a touch.
Just a light grip — maybe with two fingers — just to feel the weight.
But I didn’t move.
Didn’t twitch.
I only said:
“Bathroom’s to the right. Don’t dirty the floor.”
His head nodded fast.
Didn’t even look at me.
He picked up his bundle of clothes in one arm, turned slowly — and started walking.
His bare ass swaying, cock bouncing slightly with each step — that thick, veiny stalk now fully visible under steady lighting.
He vanished into the bathroom.
I stood in place.
Still topless.
Sweating.
Burning.
I looked down at the blouse in my hand — the same one I had thrown, worn, wiped with.
It was half-dried now, patches of dampness turned to hardened sweat.
I lifted it.
Pressed it against my chest.
Tried to wear it.
The hooks stuck.
The underarm fabric smelled like unwashed cotton and guard sweat.
I gagged.
Pulled it off immediately.
Threw it on the sofa like it had insulted me.
“Filthy bugger,” I muttered under my breath.
Then louder:
“Next time I’ll make you wash your mouth also.”
I didn’t even know if I meant it.
But from inside the bathroom, I heard movement.
He heard me.
Let him.
Because this wasn’t over yet.
Not while my body still remembered the feel of his cock against my chin.
The bathroom door clicked open.
Slowly.
He stepped out — barefoot, dripping wet, droplets trailing down his chest like thin silver streaks. His hair was soaked, pushed back messily. Water clung to his neck, to the back of his ears, sliding down to his shoulders.
He wasn’t dry.
Not even a little.
And worse?
He was naked again.
No attempt to wear the clothes he carried in.
Just holding them — damp bundle under one arm, eyes slightly lifted, like he was waiting.
I knew what he was waiting for.
A towel.
A cloth.
Something to dry himself.
Maybe even permission.
I didn’t move at first.
I stood there — blouse still discarded, saree hanging over the box.
And the only thing left on my body?
My red panty.
Wet.
Clinging.
Exposing every curve, every line.
I watched a single droplet roll from his chest down to his thigh.
His cock had softened slightly, but not completely.
Still long.
Still heavy.
Still twitching once in a while, like it was remembering its role.
He looked at me once.
Only once.
Eyes half begging.
Half blank.
And I smiled — not out of amusement.
But control.
Power.
Then, without a word, I reached behind me.
Grabbed the tight knot of my petticoat, still clinging around my waist, soaked in sweat and need.
Pulled once.
The cloth loosened.
Slid down my hips.
Pooled around my ankles.
Now I was bare except for the red panty — fully visible, soaked, tight enough to cut breath.
I bent.
Picked up the petticoat.
Lifted it in one hand.
Tossed it.
Straight at his face.
The wet cloth slapped across his cheek, slid down his chest, and fell into his hands.
He flinched.
Caught it.
Still dripping.
Still stunned.
“Use that,” I said flatly. “Dry yourself.”
He didn’t move.
“What?” I snapped. “You thought I’d give you towel and coffee also?”
He opened his mouth.
Said nothing.
I stepped toward the cupboard.
Still topless.
Still wet.
Still burning.
“You’re not a guest here,” I muttered. “You’re a mistake.”
Then, casually, like I was picking a broom, I reached into the lower shelf, pulled out my old nighty — faded pink, thin, sleeveless, used only when I wanted to disappear in cloth.
I didn’t rush.
I didn’t cover.
He had seen everything already.
So let him.
Let him see more.
Let him know this heat was mine — and I was the only one who decided who got burned.
I held the old nighty in my hands for a second longer than needed.
It wasn’t fresh.
It wasn’t even dry.
But it was all I had right now that didn’t smell like his sweat or the lift.
I unfolded it slowly, eyes not leaving him as he stepped out of the bathroom, his body dripping from head to toe — wet hair stuck to his forehead, chest gleaming, and water rolling off his thighs in slow, glistening streams.
His cock?
Still hard.
Still rising like it didn’t get the message.
Like it had made its own decision today.
I pulled the nighty over my head.
The cloth touched my skin, and I felt it — that cold, sudden sensation as it dragged over my breasts, sticking to the curves, sliding down my hips and resting just above my knees.
The sweat between my breasts didn’t let it fall freely.
It clung there, like the heat itself wanted to keep me bare.
And for a second, I almost didn’t pull it all the way down.
But I did.
Let it fall.
Let it settle.
Let the illusion of being dressed return.
Even though under that cloth, I was still a woman burning, leaking, throbbing, and very much not in control.
I turned slowly, and caught his eyes.
He wasn’t even pretending to look away anymore.
He stood there, nude, not hiding anything, not apologising — just standing with my petticoat in his hands, using it to pat his arms, his back, and slowly… slowly reaching down toward his cock.
His eyes met mine, then darted up — toward the ceiling, the fan, anywhere.
But he was too late.
I had already seen the way his cock pulsed when I looked at it.
And that was the moment.
That sharp, ugly, impossible moment.
My mind screamed: This is wrong. This is disgusting.
But my body?
My body betrayed me.
My thighs clenched together without me asking.
A fresh warmth spread right through my red panty.
I could feel it — that stickiness, that pressure, that need.
It wasn’t him I wanted.
It was that cock.
That filthy, shameless cock that had touched my chin, that stood like it deserved to be touched.
But I didn’t show it.
I didn’t blink.
I just turned and walked away.
I reached the sofa, moved slowly, as if I had no urgency, even though inside me every nerve was pulsing.
I bent slightly, pressed the button on the fan.
It whirred to life — slow at first, then steady.
The blades spun and the hot air began to move around the room, swirling our smells, our heat, our silence.
“Come here,” I said.
My voice wasn’t loud.
But it was sharp.
And he heard it like a command.
He stepped closer, walked softly, still holding my petticoat — still naked.
Now he stood near the fan, barely three feet from me.
His chest was rising, his cock refused to soften, and even though he didn’t look directly at me, I knew.
He wanted more.
I turned, walked to the shelf, opened it, and pulled out two bottles of water.
Handed one to him.
Didn’t say a word.
He took it, drank fast, water spilling slightly down his chin.
Desperate thirst.
I opened mine.
Drank slowly.
Felt the water travel down my throat, hit my chest, settle like a cold stone in my burning stomach.
Even the water wasn’t enough to kill this heat.
So I just stood there.
In my old nighty.
Soaked underneath.
With a man in front of me, naked, with a cock that remembered every second of my body.
And I?
I was starting to remember too much.
I leaned back slightly on the sofa, feeling the old nighty cling to my chest, damp from both my body and the heat trapped inside the room. My skin still felt sticky under the thin fabric, every movement reminding me of how bare I still was underneath. And in front of me, just a few feet away, he stood — still naked, still drying himself, and still hard.
His body had begun to dry, yes — small patches of skin now matte, not shiny — but that cock?
That cock had not softened.
Not even a little.
I let my eyes fall.
No hesitation.
No pretending to be polite.
No act of dignity.
I dropped my gaze and stared straight at his cock — not accidentally, not shyly — but deliberately, fully aware of how long I was letting my eyes linger.
I let my stare begin at the base — where the skin was thick, slightly darker, pulled tight from arousal. My eyes climbed slowly, tracing the veins, noticing the slight shift each time he moved his foot or shifted his weight. The girth was the same — maybe thicker — than what had pressed against my chin in that lift. And the tip?
The tip was red.
Swollen.
Moist at the end.
Just slightly glistening, enough to know it was alive, awake, throbbing.
He noticed.
Of course, he noticed.
A woman like me doesn’t stare at a man like that without his soul trembling.
He stopped wiping for a second. Froze.
Then, slowly, as if nothing had happened, he shifted the petticoat in his hand and continued dabbing at his side, avoiding touching the cock that he now knew I had seen — truly seen.
I didn’t smile.
I didn’t blink.
I didn’t act coy.
I simply let the hunger in my eyes settle — not screaming, not begging — just there, thick and quiet, like steam rising off a still-hot vessel.
And inside?
My body had already betrayed me.
The red panty — already soaked an hour ago — had now begun to stick again, not from sweat, but from fresh wetness. I could feel the damp cloth hugging every fold between my thighs. Every slight shift of my hip dragged it across my slit, making my breath shorter — but not loud enough to show.
I clenched my thighs.
Just enough to apply pressure.
To tame the throbbing.
My chest rose slightly.
Breasts brushed against the nighty fabric.
And my nipples — already sore — hardened again.
He looked up for a moment.
Our eyes met.
And for the first time in the entire day — he saw me.
Not just as the madam.
But as a woman.
A body.
A craving.
It was barely a two-second glance.
But it held weight.
And I ended it first.
Because I wasn’t ready to give that part yet.
I stood up slowly.
Let the nighty shift down, stretch, flow over my thighs.
Pulled it tighter near my chest, adjusting casually.
Then I spoke — cold, flat, like none of this ever happened.
“You’re dry now. Enough standing around like a statue.”
My voice didn’t shake.
My tone didn’t betray.
“Wear your clothes. And leave.”
He nodded.
Almost like a boy being sent out of class.
He bent slightly, picked up his innerwear, stepped in — his cock still bouncing slightly as it slid under the cloth.
And me?
I just stood near the shelf, drinking water again.
But my eyes?
They dropped one more time.
Just once.
Just to remember.
Because I hadn’t touched him.
Not once.
But my body?
Was already mourning that decision.
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