Adultery The Language of Her Heart

[yazhiniram]

I turned toward him with fire in my eyes.

“What the hell are you talking?” I snapped.

My voice echoed slightly in the narrow stairwell.

“I just went to temple… and you want to carry me? What do you think I am? A child?”

My chest was rising and falling with every breath.

“Stupid! Idiot!”

He stepped back a little, not saying anything.

His mouth moved once, but no words came.

I didn’t wait.

“Get lost,” I spat and turned away.

Gathered my strength.

One more step.

Then another.

And slowly, I pushed myself up one more floor.

Fourth floor.

My knees were gone.

Back starting to ache.

Sweat dripping down my spine under the saree blouse.

My hand clutched the railing so tightly, the skin near my thumb turned white.

But I made it.

Somehow.

I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes for a second.

No wind. No sound.

I opened my eyes and looked down.

He was still there.

Standing near the third floor landing.

Head bent down.

Not looking.

Not speaking.

Just standing.

Like a dog who got beaten.

I looked around.

Staircase empty.

No footsteps.

No doors opening.

Nobody was watching.

I pressed my lips together.

Then called—“Hey. Come up.”

He looked up.

Surprised.

Slowly started climbing again.

Stopped two steps below me.

I didn’t smile.

Didn’t soften.

Just asked flatly, “How are you going to lift me?”

He showed with his hands.

Bent his knees slightly. One hand showing behind the back, one under the knees.

Like some scene from old movie.

I narrowed my eyes.

“Don’t even dream.”

“If you drop me—”

I took one step closer.

Lowered my voice.

“I’ll cut your cock and put it in a mixer…”

“…grind it nicely and give it as juice to a street dog.”

His eyes widened.

I didn’t blink.

Then I said, softly but firmly—

“Carry me.”



He stood still for a second.

Then slowly stepped forward.

No questions.

No smirk.

No shame.

Just… quiet readiness.

His shadow merged with mine under the dim corridor tube light.

He bent down slightly.

One hand went under my knees.

Right at the bend, just above the ankle, fingers brushing the cotton saree.

The other hand moved to the side of my waist.

Not directly touching skin, but the way his palm curved over the saree, I could feel the pressure through every layer.

My breath held.

Not because of fear.

Not because of pleasure.

Just… because.

His grip around my waist was firm. Not too tight.

But strong.

Very strong.

Like the hand of a man who’s carried heavy bags his whole life.

Not gentle like Kartik’s touch.

Not smooth like Raj anna’s teasing press.

This one…

Was made to lift. Not to feel.

The skin on his fingers was rough. Like dried coconut shell. Or burnt towel edge.

Calloused.

Not from gym.

From years of gate keys, dust mopping, day heat, night mosquito slaps.

That hand cupped the curve of my hip without sliding.

No movement. No shame.

Just settled there.

Like it belonged.

And then—

He lifted me.

My body tilted. Saree folded up near my knees.

My left hand shot to his shoulder, out of instinct.

He straightened his knees and pulled me close.

My feet left the floor.

My stomach clenched.

I was off the ground.

Floating.

Held.

Carried.

My cheek almost brushed his.

I turned my head away quickly.

Didn’t want to be that close.

But even without contact—

The smell hit me.

God.

It wasn’t light.

It wasn’t mild.

It was raw.

Sweat. Shirt. Dust.

Like he had worn that uniform for three full shifts.

Like rain had hit it once, then dried in a dirty room.

It smelled of skin.

Of iron railing. Of plastic chair. Of unwashed pride.

I almost coughed.

But didn’t.

Held it inside.

My nose scrunched softly.

But at the same time—

Something weird.

Something deep inside—

Liked it.

No logic.

Just feeling.

Like my body knew the scent of hard men. Rough living. Dirty sweat.

And still respected it.

Still allowed it.

Still… wanted to understand it.

And maybe—

He was smelling me too.

Because I had just bathed.

Skin still soft. Slight glow from the powder I’d used.

Jasmine flowers in my hair.

Soap. Towel-dried. Clean.

Temple smell.

Homely smell.

High-class.

He must’ve felt it.

His face was right near my shoulder.

But he didn’t bury into it.

Didn’t sniff like a dog.

He stayed still.

Eyes forward.

Steps slow and steady.

His hand under my knees never trembled.

His arm around my waist didn’t slide.

But I felt the warmth.

Of palm.

Of fingers.

Of wrist.

I was in his arms completely.

My breast was softly pressed against his chest.

Not hard.

Just resting.

But I knew he could feel it.

Knew he knew it was there.

Still—he didn’t shift.

Didn’t adjust for more contact.

He just climbed.

One step.

Then another.

The staircase echoed under his sandals.

I looked at his shoulder.

Strong.

Not gym strong.

Work strong.

Like lifting gas cylinder strong.

Dustbin carrying strong.

My thigh was resting across his arm.

And I felt the way his skin met mine, even through the saree.

His hand didn’t tremble.

But my stomach was tight.

My heart was beating faster now.

Not because of love.

Not even desire.

Just heat.

Just awareness.

This was real.

He was carrying me.

Up the stairs.

Seventh floor.

And I was letting him.

My left arm slowly tightened around his neck—for balance.

The pallu had shifted slightly.

My saree pleats folded over my thigh.

I didn’t fix it.

Couldn’t.

His hand shifted slightly higher on my hip as he adjusted his grip.

Not groping.

Just anchoring.

My waist curved into his palm perfectly.

And I knew he felt it.

I felt his breath once.

Hot. Quick. Against my neck.

He was walking slower now.

Not from tiredness.

From caution.

Like he didn’t want to disturb the moment.

Didn’t want to fall.

Didn’t want to let go.

I stayed silent.

But my thigh muscles were tense.

My breath shallow.

The entire stairwell was quiet.

Only the sound of our steps.

And our bodies.

Moving.

Together.

Up.

Toward the seventh floor.