23-04-2025, 09:50 AM
He had finished dressing.
His shirt was still half-wrinkled, damp in places, sticking to his back near the shoulder blades. His pants were creased at the knees, belt tightened one loop tighter than it needed to be. He looked smaller now. Not physically — but in presence.
He had been nude, hard, sweating, shameless — and now?
He looked like a boy who had been scolded by his college principal.
He stood near the door, head slightly lowered, one hand on the handle, waiting to be dismissed.
But I wasn’t letting him leave like that.
Not without hearing me.
Not without understanding who held the leash here.
I walked forward.
One step. Then another.
Stopped just a couple feet behind him.
He didn’t turn.
But I knew he could feel my breath on his neck.
I spoke — calm, low, steady:
“Whatever happened in the lift…”
“Whatever you saw…”
“Whatever you felt... when your body fell against mine…”
“Don’t ever dream about it.”
I saw his shoulders stiffen slightly.
He didn’t speak.
I didn’t let him.
“Don’t even think of it again. Don’t imagine. Don’t replay it. Erase it.”
“Because if I even hear a whisper about this…”
I stepped a bit closer.
Let my words pierce.
“You’ll be dead meat.”
He finally turned slightly.
His eyes were wide.
Scared.
Sweat began forming near his temple again.
He spoke — voice shaky:
“Madam… I swear… I won’t tell anyone. Not a word.”
“It was… it was all accident. Just… just mistake. I promise.”
I stared at him for a second longer.
Then gave one slow nod.
Turned away.
Said nothing.
He opened the door.
Looked once over his shoulder.
I didn’t return the look.
He stepped out.
And I closed the door.
No slam.
Just a sharp click.
Lock engaged.
Silence returned.
I didn’t move for a few seconds.
My legs were tired.
My chest still sticky under the nighty.
The fan spun lazily above, pushing warm air against my face.
I walked to the sofa, not fast.
Sat down, legs slightly apart, letting the fabric cool my thighs.
And then… almost without thinking…
I touched my chin.
Right at the spot where his cock had pressed earlier.
Where the weight of it had rested when I fell in that suffocating lift.
I ran my fingers across that patch of skin.
Closed my eyes for a second.
Felt the faintest tingle.
His cock wasn’t here anymore.
But its shape still was.
And my skin?
Had already memorised it.
I sat on the sofa.
Door closed.
Fan whirring softly above.
The sound of his footsteps had faded from the corridor. He was gone. But inside me — it wasn’t over.
I was still topless under the nighty. My chest still sticky. Thighs still clamped. And my mind?
It wasn’t running wild.
It was sharp.
Focused.
Quiet.
My hand moved without permission.
Fingers brushing my chin.
The exact spot.
That one place where the head of his cock had pressed against me.
Soft at first.
Then full.
Heavy.
Warm.
Even now, I could feel the shape — that thick base, the swollen tip, the skin against my skin.
Not a fantasy.
A real, solid memory.
I sat back, my palm sliding down my chest, fingertips tracing sweat lines under the nighty, and that’s when the thoughts began.
Not guilt.
Not panic.
Just comparison.
Just truth.
Kartik.
My husband.
My partner.
My children’s father.
The man who, even during our best days, had never given my body anything close to fire.
His cock?
At most, five inches. Not thick. Not filling. Just… there.
Quick in. Quicker out.
He made me feel like I was being used — not touched.
Even now, if I close my eyes, I can’t picture it clearly.
Because I’d never really seen it.
Never truly held it.
Never felt full.
Raj.
Now him?
I hadn’t seen it.
But I had felt it.
Twice.
Once during that bike ride — when I slipped and fell into him.
I had landed right against his lap.
My thigh had pressed down. I felt it even through his jeans.
And again during the buttermilk accident.
That second… when he tried lifting me.
One hand cupping my breast. The other at my waist. And in between?
That thick pressure.
Soft… but big.
Not hard.
But even soft, it felt larger than Kartik ever was during sex.
It stayed in my mind longer than it should’ve.
Arjun.
That one glimpse.
One careless morning.
Him sleeping on the living room mattress, blanket slipped.
Track pant stretched.
The shape was there.
Clear.
Morning wood — thick, long, slightly curved toward his thigh.
Bigger than Kartik.
No doubt.
But I hadn’t touched.
Hadn’t even looked for long.
Just enough to know.
But Prakash?
He was the only one I had fully seen.
Open.
Bare.
Rock hard.
And I hadn’t just seen it.
It had touched my face.
My chin.
Pressed like a punishment.
And now?
That memory had burned a shape into my skin.
I let my hand drift lower.
Palm rested just above my stomach.
Underneath?
Red panty soaked.
Not just from sweat.
But from ache.
From need.
From remembering three men my husband would never allow me to mention.
And one man he didn’t even know existed in this story.
This wasn’t cheating.
This wasn’t love.
This wasn’t emotion.
This was my body refusing to starve anymore.
My fingers pressed down.
Over the panty first.
Then slowly… slipped under the fabric.
And I thought:
“This isn’t for him. This isn’t for anyone.”
“This is mine.”
I was still sitting on the sofa.
The air from the fan was still spinning above me, but the heat hadn’t left my body.
My breath was heavier now.
The nighty had started sticking to my stomach and under my breasts, damp with sweat that had never fully dried since morning. My hairline was wet again, strands falling along the sides of my cheek.
And without realising it…
My hand had started moving.
It had slipped down somewhere between silence and memory.
Somewhere between sitting still and drowning in thoughts I didn’t ask for.
My fingers weren’t shaking.
They weren’t slow either.
They were just… moving.
Without effort. Without decision.
Just brushing lightly across my lower belly first, pressing against the thin fabric of the nighty — then slowly resting on top of my panty.
Right over that one spot.
That burning, wet, ignored place between my legs that hadn’t been truly touched in God knows how long.
It started as just pressure.
No rhythm.
No push.
Just one hand… gently resting, rubbing in slow circles… through the soaked red cotton.
And almost instantly, the first wave of guilt came.
Loud.
Harsh.
Direct.
“What are you doing, Pavitra?”
“You’re married. You have children. You’re cheating.”
“That man was a stranger. A guard. A filthy, low-class man. And you’re touching yourself remembering him?”
My teeth pressed against each other.
I shut my eyes.
But my hand didn’t stop.
It pressed again.
A little firmer this time.
And the pressure lit something under my stomach.
Another voice came up inside me.
Softer.
More painful.
“Kartik never made you feel like this.”
“You’ve never once finished from his touch.”
“He never cared if you were satisfied.”
That voice came from my heart.
And it hurt more than the guilt.
My fingers dug a little harder now.
Still over the panty.
I was leaking — I could feel it.
The fabric had already started to slide slightly between my folds from all the wetness.
And then came the craving.
The ache.
From my own body.
Raw.
Unfiltered.
Shameless.
“I want a thicker cock.”
“I want to be filled — fully.”
“I want to know what it feels like to be taken, stretched, owned.”
That thought?
That was when I broke.
I slipped my hand to the side of my panty.
Hooked one finger.
Then two.
Lifted it.
And pulled it down slowly.
The elastic scbangd along my thighs.
Sticky.
Slick.
Warm.
I pushed it down to my knees.
Then off completely.
Dropped it to the floor.
Didn’t care where it landed.
Didn’t even glance down.
I lifted the nighty up.
Both hands gripping the sides of the cloth.
Pulled it all the way to my waist.
Bunched it just under my stomach.
Now I was fully bare.
My thighs were wide.
My pussy was exposed to the fan air.
Sticky.
Wet.
Hungry.
And still, no part of me thought about love.
Or passion.
Or romance.
This was need.
Pure, unmet, shameful, burning need.
My fingers slipped in between.
Touched the outer lips first.
Slid easily.
Soaked.
Dripping.
I pressed again.
Middle finger finding the slit, rubbing gently in circles.
Then lower.
Then inside.
Just a little.
As I rubbed, the memories hit harder.
One by one.
Raj — the first touch.
That accidental fall on the bike — how his cock had pressed against my thigh even through his jeans.
It had felt wide.
Long.
Even when soft.
And again — the buttermilk day.
His cock brushing against my stomach as he held me.
Not hard.
But still… large.
Much more than what I had known with Kartik.
Arjun.
Morning wood.
Track pants tight.
Blanket half off.
Cock pushing upward like a pole.
Didn’t even notice I had seen.
But I had.
And that shape?
That size?
It was no joke.
Prakash.
The cock I had truly seen.
Naked.
Hard.
Veiny.
Throbbing.
Pointed at me like it belonged in my mouth.
Pressed against my chin like it wanted to brand me.
The thickness.
The length.
Double Kartik.
More than eight inches, at least.
And Kartik?
Five.
Skinny.
Shy.
Quick.
Unseen.
Forgotten.
My fingers moved faster.
Rubbing now.
Up and down.
Breathing harder.
Legs shaking.
My head tilted back.
And I whispered to no one:
“I’m not cheating…”
“I’m just… finally full.”
I couldn’t even remember when it started.
How my hand had reached down.
How the nighty had lifted.
How my fingers had slipped beneath the fabric without asking for permission.
All I knew now was that my pussy lips were open — slowly spreading under my own fingers, wet, soft, aching — like they were welcoming something they hadn’t tasted in years.
My middle finger was already halfway in.
Not pushing.
Just resting.
Getting used to the feel.
And my body?
Had already accepted it.
I shifted slightly on the sofa.
My bare thigh stuck for a second on the cotton cushion before peeling off with a light pull.
I didn’t even look down.
Didn’t need to.
I could feel it all.
The warmth between my legs had grown heavier.
Thicker.
Wetter.
Like I was melting from the inside.
And my hand?
Was moving again.
Just small strokes at first.
One finger rubbing up and down.
Then circling.
Then pushing in, just a little more.
Each time I pulled out and re-entered, my lips opened wider.
Pussy lips — soft and slick now, parting slowly with every stroke.
Not from desire.
Not from fantasy.
From hunger.
“You’re a married woman.”
“You have children.”
“This is wrong, Pavitra.”
My mind repeated it like a chant.
But my hand?
Didn’t stop.
I wasn’t fantasizing about love.
I wasn’t thinking about passion or candlelight or kisses.
I was thinking about Raj — when his cock rubbed against my stomach as he lifted me.
How heavy it felt even through jeans.
How big it felt in soft state.
I was thinking about Arjun — how that morning wood pushed out from his pants as he slept, making me swallow my breath and turn away before I saw too much.
I was thinking about Prakash — the only cock I had ever seen in full.
Naked.
Hard.
Thick.
Almost angry with how it stood up.
I had felt it on my chin.
The shape still lived on my skin.
And now?
It lived under my fingers.
I slipped a second finger in.
Deeper this time.
Slower.
My body clenched around it.
Tight.
Needy.
Welcoming.
My hand was wet.
Slippery.
The inner walls pulled me in with every push.
I gasped once.
Mouth slightly open.
Not because of a moan.
But because of the pressure.
My pussy lips were twitching now.
Shaking slightly with every rub.
That small nub above the entrance — the one Kartik never found — now felt like it was going to explode.
My palm pressed over it.
Not soft.
Firm.
I began rubbing again.
Small, tight, circular movements.
Faster.
Harder.
Fingers still inside.
Palm working the top.
My legs opened wider.
My breath got stuck.
And I could feel it.
Not joy.
Not romance.
Not anything soft.
Just something deep, raw, angry.
And coming fast.
I bit my lip.
Not to control a moan.
But to survive the weight of what was building.
And then—
It hit.
The orgasm came not like a wave.
Not like a shiver.
But like a slap.
Like a dam bursting after years of holding.
My legs jerked once.
My back arched hard.
My fingers curled inside me.
And my hips froze.
No scream.
No word.
Just one long, hard, wet release that shot through my thighs, soaked my hand, and made my whole body pause.
I came.
Not for anyone.
Just for me.
And when it was over?
I didn’t smile.
Didn’t blush.
I just sat there.
Breathing.
Slowly.
Heavily.
Chest rising and falling under the old nighty.
Hair stuck to my forehead.
Thighs still parted.
Wetness dripping down one leg.
And in that stillness… came a voice.
Not loud.
Not urgent.
But calm.
Almost curious.
“What now?”
“You needed this.”
“But where is this going?”
“You love Kartik.”
“You want to protect that.”
“But your body… it’s not done.”
“This will come again.”
I didn’t answer.
I couldn’t.
Not yet.
I didn’t have a plan.
Not today.
But I knew something had shifted.
Something inside me had changed.
I slowly pulled my fingers out.
Stared at them.
Soaked.
Shiny.
Sticky.
My smell, my ache, my truth.
I wiped them on the petticoat that still lay near the corner.
Folded my legs in.
Pulled the nighty back down.
Sat there quietly.
Still hot.
Still messy.
Still unsure.
No rules were made today.
But I had taken the first step.
And somewhere deep in my breath, I knew:
“Next time, I need control.”
“Next time… I’ll decide the line.”
I stood under the shower.
The water wasn’t cold.
It wasn’t hot either.
Just enough to remind me I was still here — still real.
Still Pavitra.
Still a mother.
Still a wife.
Still the woman who cleaned the kitchen twice a day and folded uniforms for two kids before 8:00 a.m.
And yet…
Just one hour ago, I was sitting on that sofa.
Fingers soaked.
Thighs open.
Panty tossed on the floor.
Thinking about another man’s cock.
The water hit the back of my neck and flowed slowly over my shoulders.
Down my breasts.
Down my belly.
Between my legs.
I didn’t rub hard.
I didn’t scrub.
I just let the water rinse away the last one hour — drop by drop.
But the memory?
Didn’t go.
It stayed.
Pressed like a thumbprint into the back of my mind.
I stepped out of the shower.
Didn’t take the towel right away.
I stood in front of the mirror.
Completely naked.
Wet.
Chest rising and falling slowly.
Hair flat against my cheeks.
Water still running down the curve of my waist.
And I looked at myself.
Not ashamed.
Not proud.
Just tired.
Just thinking.
“What am I doing?”
“This can’t become a habit…”
“I love Kartik.”
“I love my family.”
I wiped the fog off the mirror gently with my palm.
My reflection became clearer.
And my thoughts… started to settle.
Not like a lecture.
Not like a plan.
Just soft promises to myself.
“This doesn’t mean I don’t love him.”
“I’m still a good wife… I just didn’t ask for this ache.”
“As long as no one knows, no harm is done.”
“One time is weakness. That’s not who I am.”
“I won’t go looking for it… if anything happens, it should come to me.”
“My kids shouldn’t see even a single change in me.”
“Let them look, let them stare — I won’t say yes unless I want to.”
“I can stop anytime… I still have control.”
“My heart is still home. I haven’t left it.”
“Maybe this is just for now… maybe this will pass.”
I breathed out softly.
And whispered aloud to myself:
“I won’t let this ruin my name. Or my house. Or my life.”
I wiped my body dry.
Took the towel and slowly dried my arms, then chest, then between my legs.
Not roughly.
Just gently.
As if I was calming my skin.
Telling it: enough for today.
I walked to the cupboard.
Took out a soft cotton T-shirt.
Plain.
Loose.
Pulled it over my head.
Then pulled out a pair of black shorts — knee-length, old, comfy.
Wore it.
No bra.
No panty.
Just fabric.
Air.
And quiet.
And when I looked back at the mirror again…
I saw the same Pavitra.
Same face.
Same eyes.
Same bindi.
But inside her?
A line had been drawn.
A soft, shaking line.
That only she could see.
I switched off the lights in the bedroom.
Laid down.
Just for a few minutes, I thought.
Just to give my spine some rest.
The fan above spun lazily, and I pulled the bedsheet just over my legs.
Not because of cold.
Just out of habit.
And slowly…
My eyelids dropped.
Sleep didn’t come like a punch.
It came slowly.
Softly.
Wrapping around my skin like steam.
And inside my chest — those ten quiet rules I told myself started whispering again.
Over and over.
Like a prayer.
Like comfort.
Like a wall between me and everything I’d done.
I slept.
His shirt was still half-wrinkled, damp in places, sticking to his back near the shoulder blades. His pants were creased at the knees, belt tightened one loop tighter than it needed to be. He looked smaller now. Not physically — but in presence.
He had been nude, hard, sweating, shameless — and now?
He looked like a boy who had been scolded by his college principal.
He stood near the door, head slightly lowered, one hand on the handle, waiting to be dismissed.
But I wasn’t letting him leave like that.
Not without hearing me.
Not without understanding who held the leash here.
I walked forward.
One step. Then another.
Stopped just a couple feet behind him.
He didn’t turn.
But I knew he could feel my breath on his neck.
I spoke — calm, low, steady:
“Whatever happened in the lift…”
“Whatever you saw…”
“Whatever you felt... when your body fell against mine…”
“Don’t ever dream about it.”
I saw his shoulders stiffen slightly.
He didn’t speak.
I didn’t let him.
“Don’t even think of it again. Don’t imagine. Don’t replay it. Erase it.”
“Because if I even hear a whisper about this…”
I stepped a bit closer.
Let my words pierce.
“You’ll be dead meat.”
He finally turned slightly.
His eyes were wide.
Scared.
Sweat began forming near his temple again.
He spoke — voice shaky:
“Madam… I swear… I won’t tell anyone. Not a word.”
“It was… it was all accident. Just… just mistake. I promise.”
I stared at him for a second longer.
Then gave one slow nod.
Turned away.
Said nothing.
He opened the door.
Looked once over his shoulder.
I didn’t return the look.
He stepped out.
And I closed the door.
No slam.
Just a sharp click.
Lock engaged.
Silence returned.
I didn’t move for a few seconds.
My legs were tired.
My chest still sticky under the nighty.
The fan spun lazily above, pushing warm air against my face.
I walked to the sofa, not fast.
Sat down, legs slightly apart, letting the fabric cool my thighs.
And then… almost without thinking…
I touched my chin.
Right at the spot where his cock had pressed earlier.
Where the weight of it had rested when I fell in that suffocating lift.
I ran my fingers across that patch of skin.
Closed my eyes for a second.
Felt the faintest tingle.
His cock wasn’t here anymore.
But its shape still was.
And my skin?
Had already memorised it.
I sat on the sofa.
Door closed.
Fan whirring softly above.
The sound of his footsteps had faded from the corridor. He was gone. But inside me — it wasn’t over.
I was still topless under the nighty. My chest still sticky. Thighs still clamped. And my mind?
It wasn’t running wild.
It was sharp.
Focused.
Quiet.
My hand moved without permission.
Fingers brushing my chin.
The exact spot.
That one place where the head of his cock had pressed against me.
Soft at first.
Then full.
Heavy.
Warm.
Even now, I could feel the shape — that thick base, the swollen tip, the skin against my skin.
Not a fantasy.
A real, solid memory.
I sat back, my palm sliding down my chest, fingertips tracing sweat lines under the nighty, and that’s when the thoughts began.
Not guilt.
Not panic.
Just comparison.
Just truth.
Kartik.
My husband.
My partner.
My children’s father.
The man who, even during our best days, had never given my body anything close to fire.
His cock?
At most, five inches. Not thick. Not filling. Just… there.
Quick in. Quicker out.
He made me feel like I was being used — not touched.
Even now, if I close my eyes, I can’t picture it clearly.
Because I’d never really seen it.
Never truly held it.
Never felt full.
Raj.
Now him?
I hadn’t seen it.
But I had felt it.
Twice.
Once during that bike ride — when I slipped and fell into him.
I had landed right against his lap.
My thigh had pressed down. I felt it even through his jeans.
And again during the buttermilk accident.
That second… when he tried lifting me.
One hand cupping my breast. The other at my waist. And in between?
That thick pressure.
Soft… but big.
Not hard.
But even soft, it felt larger than Kartik ever was during sex.
It stayed in my mind longer than it should’ve.
Arjun.
That one glimpse.
One careless morning.
Him sleeping on the living room mattress, blanket slipped.
Track pant stretched.
The shape was there.
Clear.
Morning wood — thick, long, slightly curved toward his thigh.
Bigger than Kartik.
No doubt.
But I hadn’t touched.
Hadn’t even looked for long.
Just enough to know.
But Prakash?
He was the only one I had fully seen.
Open.
Bare.
Rock hard.
And I hadn’t just seen it.
It had touched my face.
My chin.
Pressed like a punishment.
And now?
That memory had burned a shape into my skin.
I let my hand drift lower.
Palm rested just above my stomach.
Underneath?
Red panty soaked.
Not just from sweat.
But from ache.
From need.
From remembering three men my husband would never allow me to mention.
And one man he didn’t even know existed in this story.
This wasn’t cheating.
This wasn’t love.
This wasn’t emotion.
This was my body refusing to starve anymore.
My fingers pressed down.
Over the panty first.
Then slowly… slipped under the fabric.
And I thought:
“This isn’t for him. This isn’t for anyone.”
“This is mine.”
I was still sitting on the sofa.
The air from the fan was still spinning above me, but the heat hadn’t left my body.
My breath was heavier now.
The nighty had started sticking to my stomach and under my breasts, damp with sweat that had never fully dried since morning. My hairline was wet again, strands falling along the sides of my cheek.
And without realising it…
My hand had started moving.
It had slipped down somewhere between silence and memory.
Somewhere between sitting still and drowning in thoughts I didn’t ask for.
My fingers weren’t shaking.
They weren’t slow either.
They were just… moving.
Without effort. Without decision.
Just brushing lightly across my lower belly first, pressing against the thin fabric of the nighty — then slowly resting on top of my panty.
Right over that one spot.
That burning, wet, ignored place between my legs that hadn’t been truly touched in God knows how long.
It started as just pressure.
No rhythm.
No push.
Just one hand… gently resting, rubbing in slow circles… through the soaked red cotton.
And almost instantly, the first wave of guilt came.
Loud.
Harsh.
Direct.
“What are you doing, Pavitra?”
“You’re married. You have children. You’re cheating.”
“That man was a stranger. A guard. A filthy, low-class man. And you’re touching yourself remembering him?”
My teeth pressed against each other.
I shut my eyes.
But my hand didn’t stop.
It pressed again.
A little firmer this time.
And the pressure lit something under my stomach.
Another voice came up inside me.
Softer.
More painful.
“Kartik never made you feel like this.”
“You’ve never once finished from his touch.”
“He never cared if you were satisfied.”
That voice came from my heart.
And it hurt more than the guilt.
My fingers dug a little harder now.
Still over the panty.
I was leaking — I could feel it.
The fabric had already started to slide slightly between my folds from all the wetness.
And then came the craving.
The ache.
From my own body.
Raw.
Unfiltered.
Shameless.
“I want a thicker cock.”
“I want to be filled — fully.”
“I want to know what it feels like to be taken, stretched, owned.”
That thought?
That was when I broke.
I slipped my hand to the side of my panty.
Hooked one finger.
Then two.
Lifted it.
And pulled it down slowly.
The elastic scbangd along my thighs.
Sticky.
Slick.
Warm.
I pushed it down to my knees.
Then off completely.
Dropped it to the floor.
Didn’t care where it landed.
Didn’t even glance down.
I lifted the nighty up.
Both hands gripping the sides of the cloth.
Pulled it all the way to my waist.
Bunched it just under my stomach.
Now I was fully bare.
My thighs were wide.
My pussy was exposed to the fan air.
Sticky.
Wet.
Hungry.
And still, no part of me thought about love.
Or passion.
Or romance.
This was need.
Pure, unmet, shameful, burning need.
My fingers slipped in between.
Touched the outer lips first.
Slid easily.
Soaked.
Dripping.
I pressed again.
Middle finger finding the slit, rubbing gently in circles.
Then lower.
Then inside.
Just a little.
As I rubbed, the memories hit harder.
One by one.
Raj — the first touch.
That accidental fall on the bike — how his cock had pressed against my thigh even through his jeans.
It had felt wide.
Long.
Even when soft.
And again — the buttermilk day.
His cock brushing against my stomach as he held me.
Not hard.
But still… large.
Much more than what I had known with Kartik.
Arjun.
Morning wood.
Track pants tight.
Blanket half off.
Cock pushing upward like a pole.
Didn’t even notice I had seen.
But I had.
And that shape?
That size?
It was no joke.
Prakash.
The cock I had truly seen.
Naked.
Hard.
Veiny.
Throbbing.
Pointed at me like it belonged in my mouth.
Pressed against my chin like it wanted to brand me.
The thickness.
The length.
Double Kartik.
More than eight inches, at least.
And Kartik?
Five.
Skinny.
Shy.
Quick.
Unseen.
Forgotten.
My fingers moved faster.
Rubbing now.
Up and down.
Breathing harder.
Legs shaking.
My head tilted back.
And I whispered to no one:
“I’m not cheating…”
“I’m just… finally full.”
I couldn’t even remember when it started.
How my hand had reached down.
How the nighty had lifted.
How my fingers had slipped beneath the fabric without asking for permission.
All I knew now was that my pussy lips were open — slowly spreading under my own fingers, wet, soft, aching — like they were welcoming something they hadn’t tasted in years.
My middle finger was already halfway in.
Not pushing.
Just resting.
Getting used to the feel.
And my body?
Had already accepted it.
I shifted slightly on the sofa.
My bare thigh stuck for a second on the cotton cushion before peeling off with a light pull.
I didn’t even look down.
Didn’t need to.
I could feel it all.
The warmth between my legs had grown heavier.
Thicker.
Wetter.
Like I was melting from the inside.
And my hand?
Was moving again.
Just small strokes at first.
One finger rubbing up and down.
Then circling.
Then pushing in, just a little more.
Each time I pulled out and re-entered, my lips opened wider.
Pussy lips — soft and slick now, parting slowly with every stroke.
Not from desire.
Not from fantasy.
From hunger.
“You’re a married woman.”
“You have children.”
“This is wrong, Pavitra.”
My mind repeated it like a chant.
But my hand?
Didn’t stop.
I wasn’t fantasizing about love.
I wasn’t thinking about passion or candlelight or kisses.
I was thinking about Raj — when his cock rubbed against my stomach as he lifted me.
How heavy it felt even through jeans.
How big it felt in soft state.
I was thinking about Arjun — how that morning wood pushed out from his pants as he slept, making me swallow my breath and turn away before I saw too much.
I was thinking about Prakash — the only cock I had ever seen in full.
Naked.
Hard.
Thick.
Almost angry with how it stood up.
I had felt it on my chin.
The shape still lived on my skin.
And now?
It lived under my fingers.
I slipped a second finger in.
Deeper this time.
Slower.
My body clenched around it.
Tight.
Needy.
Welcoming.
My hand was wet.
Slippery.
The inner walls pulled me in with every push.
I gasped once.
Mouth slightly open.
Not because of a moan.
But because of the pressure.
My pussy lips were twitching now.
Shaking slightly with every rub.
That small nub above the entrance — the one Kartik never found — now felt like it was going to explode.
My palm pressed over it.
Not soft.
Firm.
I began rubbing again.
Small, tight, circular movements.
Faster.
Harder.
Fingers still inside.
Palm working the top.
My legs opened wider.
My breath got stuck.
And I could feel it.
Not joy.
Not romance.
Not anything soft.
Just something deep, raw, angry.
And coming fast.
I bit my lip.
Not to control a moan.
But to survive the weight of what was building.
And then—
It hit.
The orgasm came not like a wave.
Not like a shiver.
But like a slap.
Like a dam bursting after years of holding.
My legs jerked once.
My back arched hard.
My fingers curled inside me.
And my hips froze.
No scream.
No word.
Just one long, hard, wet release that shot through my thighs, soaked my hand, and made my whole body pause.
I came.
Not for anyone.
Just for me.
And when it was over?
I didn’t smile.
Didn’t blush.
I just sat there.
Breathing.
Slowly.
Heavily.
Chest rising and falling under the old nighty.
Hair stuck to my forehead.
Thighs still parted.
Wetness dripping down one leg.
And in that stillness… came a voice.
Not loud.
Not urgent.
But calm.
Almost curious.
“What now?”
“You needed this.”
“But where is this going?”
“You love Kartik.”
“You want to protect that.”
“But your body… it’s not done.”
“This will come again.”
I didn’t answer.
I couldn’t.
Not yet.
I didn’t have a plan.
Not today.
But I knew something had shifted.
Something inside me had changed.
I slowly pulled my fingers out.
Stared at them.
Soaked.
Shiny.
Sticky.
My smell, my ache, my truth.
I wiped them on the petticoat that still lay near the corner.
Folded my legs in.
Pulled the nighty back down.
Sat there quietly.
Still hot.
Still messy.
Still unsure.
No rules were made today.
But I had taken the first step.
And somewhere deep in my breath, I knew:
“Next time, I need control.”
“Next time… I’ll decide the line.”
I stood under the shower.
The water wasn’t cold.
It wasn’t hot either.
Just enough to remind me I was still here — still real.
Still Pavitra.
Still a mother.
Still a wife.
Still the woman who cleaned the kitchen twice a day and folded uniforms for two kids before 8:00 a.m.
And yet…
Just one hour ago, I was sitting on that sofa.
Fingers soaked.
Thighs open.
Panty tossed on the floor.
Thinking about another man’s cock.
The water hit the back of my neck and flowed slowly over my shoulders.
Down my breasts.
Down my belly.
Between my legs.
I didn’t rub hard.
I didn’t scrub.
I just let the water rinse away the last one hour — drop by drop.
But the memory?
Didn’t go.
It stayed.
Pressed like a thumbprint into the back of my mind.
I stepped out of the shower.
Didn’t take the towel right away.
I stood in front of the mirror.
Completely naked.
Wet.
Chest rising and falling slowly.
Hair flat against my cheeks.
Water still running down the curve of my waist.
And I looked at myself.
Not ashamed.
Not proud.
Just tired.
Just thinking.
“What am I doing?”
“This can’t become a habit…”
“I love Kartik.”
“I love my family.”
I wiped the fog off the mirror gently with my palm.
My reflection became clearer.
And my thoughts… started to settle.
Not like a lecture.
Not like a plan.
Just soft promises to myself.
“This doesn’t mean I don’t love him.”
“I’m still a good wife… I just didn’t ask for this ache.”
“As long as no one knows, no harm is done.”
“One time is weakness. That’s not who I am.”
“I won’t go looking for it… if anything happens, it should come to me.”
“My kids shouldn’t see even a single change in me.”
“Let them look, let them stare — I won’t say yes unless I want to.”
“I can stop anytime… I still have control.”
“My heart is still home. I haven’t left it.”
“Maybe this is just for now… maybe this will pass.”
I breathed out softly.
And whispered aloud to myself:
“I won’t let this ruin my name. Or my house. Or my life.”
I wiped my body dry.
Took the towel and slowly dried my arms, then chest, then between my legs.
Not roughly.
Just gently.
As if I was calming my skin.
Telling it: enough for today.
I walked to the cupboard.
Took out a soft cotton T-shirt.
Plain.
Loose.
Pulled it over my head.
Then pulled out a pair of black shorts — knee-length, old, comfy.
Wore it.
No bra.
No panty.
Just fabric.
Air.
And quiet.
And when I looked back at the mirror again…
I saw the same Pavitra.
Same face.
Same eyes.
Same bindi.
But inside her?
A line had been drawn.
A soft, shaking line.
That only she could see.
I switched off the lights in the bedroom.
Laid down.
Just for a few minutes, I thought.
Just to give my spine some rest.
The fan above spun lazily, and I pulled the bedsheet just over my legs.
Not because of cold.
Just out of habit.
And slowly…
My eyelids dropped.
Sleep didn’t come like a punch.
It came slowly.
Softly.
Wrapping around my skin like steam.
And inside my chest — those ten quiet rules I told myself started whispering again.
Over and over.
Like a prayer.
Like comfort.
Like a wall between me and everything I’d done.
I slept.
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