25-04-2025, 11:47 PM
He continued cleaning.
His back bent.
His hands moving slowly, rhythmically, tracing the inside curve of the tank wall.
Each rub of the shirt against the algae-stained surface made a soft, wet scbanging sound.
The water sloshed gently around his calves, darkened now with bits of green and dirt swirling near his legs.
And still—he was standing there, in nothing but his innerwear.
Soaked, clinging to his thighs like a second skin.
Tight from the water, exposing every curve, every outline.
That’s when I noticed it.
Not the way he was moving.
But the fabric itself.
The brief.
It had holes.
Tiny ones near the thigh seam.
A slightly bigger one on the waistband.
And worst—one almost right below the crotch fold.
I stared for a moment, lips pressing together.
Then spoke.
“You don’t have a better one?”
He paused, confused.
Looked up.
I pointed directly at the brief.
“Your inner. So many holes. Can’t even buy new one?”
His face turned red instantly.
He dropped his head like a college boy scolded in front of class.
And what did he do?
He turned around.
As if that would hide it.
Turned his back to me like that would change anything.
I laughed. Not loud. Not gentle.
A dry, flat sound.
“Oh, now hiding? Didn’t know it had holes before?”
He didn’t reply.
But I saw his hand move—trying to pull the fabric tighter around his thigh, trying to cover.
It made it worse.
I didn’t stop.
“If this is your condition, what will your wife do? Wash the same piece every night and pray it doesn’t tear?”
Still no reply.
Just soft splashing sounds as he turned slightly and kept cleaning.
The shirt he was using was torn now too—scrubbing too hard against the rough wall.
But I didn’t care.
My eyes were fixed on him.
His dark skin was glistening. Water dripping from his elbows. Back muscles moving slowly, covered in patches of greenish water.
And suddenly…
I don’t know why.
I don’t know what switched inside me.
But I spat.
Not far.
Just one strong spit, landing right next to his leg in the water.
He jerked.
Paused.
Looked down.
Then looked up at me.
That face.
Confused.
Scared.
Still acting innocent.
Still pretending he didn’t understand.
But I could see through him.
He was enjoying this.
The scolding. The silence. The stare.
The humiliation.
I didn’t speak.
Just looked at him.
My expression plain.
But my eyes…
“What?” I asked in my head.
“What are you going to do?”
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t blink.
And then I said it.
“Remove it. Clean properly. That dirty cloth can’t scrub anything.”
He blinked.
“Madam?”
I didn’t repeat.
Just stared.
He turned slightly, pretending to be confused.
Acting.
Still holding that same fake-shame expression.
But I knew it.
He wasn’t innocent.
He liked this.
Liked being spoken to like that.
Liked the way I ordered.
And I? I didn’t like it.
I needed it.
“Clean properly,” I said again. “Remove that too.”
He looked around once.
As if checking if someone was watching.
As if the locked terrace hadn’t already told him—no one was coming.
And then slowly…
His hands moved to the waistband.
His fingers found the elastic.
And pulled.
Down.
Over the belly.
Past the thigh.
Down into the water.
He stepped out of it completely.
Now standing naked in front of me.
His cock…
Soft.
No erection.
Just hanging.
Low.
Small.
Maybe five inches, at best.
Dark brown. The skin wrinkled, hanging like a tired creature just woken up. The head barely visible under the foreskin.
It wasn’t proud.
Wasn’t big.
Just there.
Damp. Shrinking from the water.
He didn’t cover.
He just stood there.
And I…
Sat above him.
Both legs dipped inside the tank opening.
My saree folded up.
My knees fully visible now.
Shiny with sweat and light reflection.
The cloth behind my thighs wet from the tank’s edge.
And I didn’t move.
I let the scene stay.
Let him stay like that.
Let him feel what I wanted him to feel.
Because sometimes power doesn’t come from touching.
Sometimes…
It comes from watching.
He had gone quiet again.
Standing there inside the tank, fully naked now, his dark body dripping with patches of green-tinged water.
I was still sitting on the edge, legs inside the tank opening, knees bent and visible beneath the folds of my saree. My palms rested beside my thighs, pressing the stone edge, holding me steady.
I tilted my head.
Stared at his cock.
It just… hung there.
Soft.
Lifeless.
Like it didn’t know it was being watched.
Like it had forgotten what it did to my chin that day.
I narrowed my eyes and asked—
“What happened to you?”
His head lifted.
His face was blank.
I leaned forward a little, elbows resting on my knees.
“Last time it was standing tall. Today… it’s like a wet rope. What happened?”
My voice wasn’t soft.
It wasn’t loud either.
Just… plain.
Straight.
His lips parted.
He was about to say something, but no words came.
He looked down at himself.
Then back at me.
“Water is cold, madam…”
I smirked.
Excuses.
That was always their line.
“Cold water.”
Like the body responds only to warmth.
I waited one beat.
Then without another word—
I spat.
Direct.
Accurate.
A single, thick drop of spit landed right on his cock.
He flinched.
Not like a man scared.
Like someone hit by reality.
His thighs shifted slightly.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
He looked up at me with wide eyes, completely caught.
And I?
I leaned back.
Rested my palms again.
Let him stand there.
“Clean it.”
The words left my mouth like an order from a queen.
No tone. No emotion.
Just fact.
He blinked.
Then nodded once, slowly.
Bent forward.
Scooped water in both hands.
And began rinsing.
Washing the spit off.
His palms brushed over his cock.
From base to head.
Rubbing.
Not hard.
Just cleaning.
But I saw it.
That first small twitch.
The skin shifting forward.
The cock was changing.
Coming alive.
It wasn’t soft anymore.
Still hanging, but fuller.
Thicker.
He tried to act normal.
Continued scooping water.
I kept watching.
His cock was now rising.
Slowly.
Curving upward like it remembered what it once did.
Like it wanted to prove something.
I didn’t speak.
Just observed.
And then I said it—
“Hand over your clothes.”
He froze.
His hands still wet.
Face confused.
“Madam?”
Like a child being told to give up his pencil.
“Your clothes,” I repeated. “Shirt. Pant. Inner. All of it. Give it here.”
He didn’t move.
His lips moved. But no sound.
I could see the question in his eyes.
Why?
But I didn’t answer.
Because this moment—
This was mine.
___________________________________________________________________________
He stood still, eyes fixed on mine.
His cock had risen now—no doubt about it.
It wasn’t proud or confident. Just alive.
Soft curves replaced by that slow upward bulge. Thicker, fuller. Not towering, but enough to be noticed. A man couldn’t fake that, no matter how innocent he acted.
I didn’t say anything.
I extended my hand silently.
He blinked.
Then reached over the tank edge and handed up his shirt first—still soaked, heavy, dripping.
I held it between two fingers, swung it once to the side, and dropped it on the terrace floor. It landed with a splat, water spraying in a small circle.
Next, he gave the pants—still damp from when he removed them earlier. I threw that too, without a word.
Then came the innerwear.
He hesitated.
Held it in both hands.
I simply looked at him.
One glance.
He lowered his head… and stretched it toward me.
I took it.
The cloth was warm. Wet. Still holding the shape of his thighs.
I looked at it for a moment.
Not like a woman holding someone’s undergarment.
But like someone holding power in the shape of cotton.
The holes I’d mocked earlier were now visible up close.
One at the waistband, where the elastic was hanging by threads.
One near the seam.
And one right in the middle—just under where the fabric cupped his cock.
That one had thinned so much, the light passed through.
My fingers moved slowly.
I slipped two fingers into the biggest hole.
He saw it.
And panicked.
“No, madam… please… no… not that…”
His voice trembled.
But my fingers were already curling, catching the edge.
And then—
I pulled.
The sound was soft.
Not a full tear. But that fabric stretch that screams weakness.
I pulled again.
This time, harder.
Rrrrippp.
He flinched.
“Please… madam… no…”
But I didn’t even look at his face.
I just kept tearing.
Right across the middle.
Pulled the cloth until it split fully from the waistband to the thigh hem.
Now it was nothing but threads.
Scraps.
A broken piece of whatever pride he thought he had.
And then—without expression—I threw it.
Out of the tank.
Onto the terrace floor.
Gone.
I didn’t laugh.
Didn’t smile.
Didn’t speak.
Just looked down at him.
He stood in the water, naked, dripping, holding nothing to hide himself. Not even shame.
His cock was still growing—rising slower now. Tensed slightly upward, twitching once in the air. The head was peeking now.
But I wasn’t thinking about that.
I was thinking about Kartik.
About how he sat on his calls, locked inside.
How he wouldn’t ask where I was.
Even if I vanished for an hour.
Or two.
He wouldn’t notice.
He wouldn’t come looking.
I felt that silence grow inside me—deeper than anger.
And that’s when I stood up.
Still on the tank’s edge.
Feet balanced.
Wind brushing my back.
Prakash was looking at me—confused. Unsure what was happening.
I didn’t speak.
Just looked at the inside of the tank.
Measured the space.
It was big.
Wider than it looked from above.
Maybe seven feet long.
Six feet wide.
Deeper than a bath tub.
Definitely bigger than that lift.
I took one step forward.
And jumped in.
The splash was quiet.
The water embraced me at once—cool, shocking, everywhere.
My saree floated.
The pleats opened like petals.
My blouse clung tighter.
My petticoat pulled at my legs.
The edge of my towel fell away.
I didn’t care.
I was in the tank.
With him.
Inside.
Alone.
Locked terrace.
One man.
One woman.
One moment.
No world outside.
The water clung to my petticoat.
Heavy.
Tugging down.
Every step I took inside the tank, the soaked cotton dragged at my waist like it was trying to anchor me. My saree pleats, which had floated moments ago like soft waves, were now wrapping around my legs, pulling tight across my calves and thighs.
I didn’t adjust them.
Didn’t need to.
Prakash was still frozen.
Standing inside the tank, chest deep in water, eyes wide, mouth slightly parted — like he couldn’t believe I had actually jumped in.
But I didn’t give him time to process.
“What are you looking at?” I snapped, staring directly into his eyes.
He blinked.
Turned his face away instantly, looking down into the water like a scolded child.
“I didn’t come here for you,” I added coldly. “I came to see how well you’ve cleaned.”
My voice echoed off the tank walls.
The words bounced in the silence.
He nodded quickly. “Yes, madam…”
I stepped forward slowly, my feet splashing gently as I moved across the shallow curve of the tank floor.
The water was cold, yes. But my body was hotter.
Hotter from sweat.
From memory.
From the power I had over this moment.
I stopped near one side of the tank.
Bent slightly.
Looked closely at the wall.
Black streaks.
Algae.
Not everywhere, but enough.
Sticky, faint patches, scattered along the inside like neglected corners of a kitchen sink.
“This is your cleaning?” I said sharply. “This is what we’re drinking?”
He turned toward me, eyes already flinching.
I didn’t stop.
“You call this clean?”
I slapped the tank wall once with my palm.
The sound was sharp.
Echoed.
“Sorry, madam,” he mumbled, stepping closer.
“See there.” I pointed. “Small ones. There. And near the bottom too. All this will stink if left.”
He turned, scanned the wall.
His body was dripping again, water running down from his shoulders, tracing along his spine. The line of his lower back had water beads forming one after the other. His ass was fully visible, round, dark, completely bare now. Just out in the open, wet and shining under the filtered terrace light.
He turned to me and said, “Madam, cloth?”
“Use your hand,” I snapped.
He hesitated.
Then nodded, turned again.
Started scrubbing with his bare palm.
The sound was different now.
Wet flesh against wet cement.
He rubbed slowly, both hands, using the side of his fingers to scbang.
I could see him struggling.
His hands weren’t strong enough to remove the dried patches without friction. His skin began turning red from the effort. But he didn’t stop.
And I…
I stayed where I was for a moment.
Watching him work.
Then my hand went to my waist.
I hooked my fingers into the side knot of the saree.
Softly tugged.
The knot slipped.
My blouse was still on.
My petticoat still tight.
But the saree — the long, soaked, clinging fabric — began to come away.
He had his back turned.
Facing the other side of the tank.
Rubbing, bent slightly forward, elbows rising and falling.
I slowly unwrapped the pallu from my shoulder.
Let it fall over my left arm.
Then wound the rest around my palm and started pulling.
Inch by inch.
I didn’t rush.
The wet cotton made a soft schhhhkk sound as it dragged across my blouse, then my petticoat.
I pulled it free.
And held it for a second.
Just in my hand.
Heavy.
Dripping.
One side of the saree touched the water again, soaking fresh weight.
I twisted it once.
And let it fall over the tank edge behind me.
Now…
I stood in blouse and petticoat.
Inside the tank.
With him.
And he had no idea.
He was still facing the wall.
Still rubbing with his palm.
His cock — still half-erect — swung slightly with each motion.
I watched him.
Watched how he moved.
How he obeyed without questions.
And inside me…
Something started to smile.
His back bent.
His hands moving slowly, rhythmically, tracing the inside curve of the tank wall.
Each rub of the shirt against the algae-stained surface made a soft, wet scbanging sound.
The water sloshed gently around his calves, darkened now with bits of green and dirt swirling near his legs.
And still—he was standing there, in nothing but his innerwear.
Soaked, clinging to his thighs like a second skin.
Tight from the water, exposing every curve, every outline.
That’s when I noticed it.
Not the way he was moving.
But the fabric itself.
The brief.
It had holes.
Tiny ones near the thigh seam.
A slightly bigger one on the waistband.
And worst—one almost right below the crotch fold.
I stared for a moment, lips pressing together.
Then spoke.
“You don’t have a better one?”
He paused, confused.
Looked up.
I pointed directly at the brief.
“Your inner. So many holes. Can’t even buy new one?”
His face turned red instantly.
He dropped his head like a college boy scolded in front of class.
And what did he do?
He turned around.
As if that would hide it.
Turned his back to me like that would change anything.
I laughed. Not loud. Not gentle.
A dry, flat sound.
“Oh, now hiding? Didn’t know it had holes before?”
He didn’t reply.
But I saw his hand move—trying to pull the fabric tighter around his thigh, trying to cover.
It made it worse.
I didn’t stop.
“If this is your condition, what will your wife do? Wash the same piece every night and pray it doesn’t tear?”
Still no reply.
Just soft splashing sounds as he turned slightly and kept cleaning.
The shirt he was using was torn now too—scrubbing too hard against the rough wall.
But I didn’t care.
My eyes were fixed on him.
His dark skin was glistening. Water dripping from his elbows. Back muscles moving slowly, covered in patches of greenish water.
And suddenly…
I don’t know why.
I don’t know what switched inside me.
But I spat.
Not far.
Just one strong spit, landing right next to his leg in the water.
He jerked.
Paused.
Looked down.
Then looked up at me.
That face.
Confused.
Scared.
Still acting innocent.
Still pretending he didn’t understand.
But I could see through him.
He was enjoying this.
The scolding. The silence. The stare.
The humiliation.
I didn’t speak.
Just looked at him.
My expression plain.
But my eyes…
“What?” I asked in my head.
“What are you going to do?”
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t blink.
And then I said it.
“Remove it. Clean properly. That dirty cloth can’t scrub anything.”
He blinked.
“Madam?”
I didn’t repeat.
Just stared.
He turned slightly, pretending to be confused.
Acting.
Still holding that same fake-shame expression.
But I knew it.
He wasn’t innocent.
He liked this.
Liked being spoken to like that.
Liked the way I ordered.
And I? I didn’t like it.
I needed it.
“Clean properly,” I said again. “Remove that too.”
He looked around once.
As if checking if someone was watching.
As if the locked terrace hadn’t already told him—no one was coming.
And then slowly…
His hands moved to the waistband.
His fingers found the elastic.
And pulled.
Down.
Over the belly.
Past the thigh.
Down into the water.
He stepped out of it completely.
Now standing naked in front of me.
His cock…
Soft.
No erection.
Just hanging.
Low.
Small.
Maybe five inches, at best.
Dark brown. The skin wrinkled, hanging like a tired creature just woken up. The head barely visible under the foreskin.
It wasn’t proud.
Wasn’t big.
Just there.
Damp. Shrinking from the water.
He didn’t cover.
He just stood there.
And I…
Sat above him.
Both legs dipped inside the tank opening.
My saree folded up.
My knees fully visible now.
Shiny with sweat and light reflection.
The cloth behind my thighs wet from the tank’s edge.
And I didn’t move.
I let the scene stay.
Let him stay like that.
Let him feel what I wanted him to feel.
Because sometimes power doesn’t come from touching.
Sometimes…
It comes from watching.
He had gone quiet again.
Standing there inside the tank, fully naked now, his dark body dripping with patches of green-tinged water.
I was still sitting on the edge, legs inside the tank opening, knees bent and visible beneath the folds of my saree. My palms rested beside my thighs, pressing the stone edge, holding me steady.
I tilted my head.
Stared at his cock.
It just… hung there.
Soft.
Lifeless.
Like it didn’t know it was being watched.
Like it had forgotten what it did to my chin that day.
I narrowed my eyes and asked—
“What happened to you?”
His head lifted.
His face was blank.
I leaned forward a little, elbows resting on my knees.
“Last time it was standing tall. Today… it’s like a wet rope. What happened?”
My voice wasn’t soft.
It wasn’t loud either.
Just… plain.
Straight.
His lips parted.
He was about to say something, but no words came.
He looked down at himself.
Then back at me.
“Water is cold, madam…”
I smirked.
Excuses.
That was always their line.
“Cold water.”
Like the body responds only to warmth.
I waited one beat.
Then without another word—
I spat.
Direct.
Accurate.
A single, thick drop of spit landed right on his cock.
He flinched.
Not like a man scared.
Like someone hit by reality.
His thighs shifted slightly.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
He looked up at me with wide eyes, completely caught.
And I?
I leaned back.
Rested my palms again.
Let him stand there.
“Clean it.”
The words left my mouth like an order from a queen.
No tone. No emotion.
Just fact.
He blinked.
Then nodded once, slowly.
Bent forward.
Scooped water in both hands.
And began rinsing.
Washing the spit off.
His palms brushed over his cock.
From base to head.
Rubbing.
Not hard.
Just cleaning.
But I saw it.
That first small twitch.
The skin shifting forward.
The cock was changing.
Coming alive.
It wasn’t soft anymore.
Still hanging, but fuller.
Thicker.
He tried to act normal.
Continued scooping water.
I kept watching.
His cock was now rising.
Slowly.
Curving upward like it remembered what it once did.
Like it wanted to prove something.
I didn’t speak.
Just observed.
And then I said it—
“Hand over your clothes.”
He froze.
His hands still wet.
Face confused.
“Madam?”
Like a child being told to give up his pencil.
“Your clothes,” I repeated. “Shirt. Pant. Inner. All of it. Give it here.”
He didn’t move.
His lips moved. But no sound.
I could see the question in his eyes.
Why?
But I didn’t answer.
Because this moment—
This was mine.
___________________________________________________________________________
He stood still, eyes fixed on mine.
His cock had risen now—no doubt about it.
It wasn’t proud or confident. Just alive.
Soft curves replaced by that slow upward bulge. Thicker, fuller. Not towering, but enough to be noticed. A man couldn’t fake that, no matter how innocent he acted.
I didn’t say anything.
I extended my hand silently.
He blinked.
Then reached over the tank edge and handed up his shirt first—still soaked, heavy, dripping.
I held it between two fingers, swung it once to the side, and dropped it on the terrace floor. It landed with a splat, water spraying in a small circle.
Next, he gave the pants—still damp from when he removed them earlier. I threw that too, without a word.
Then came the innerwear.
He hesitated.
Held it in both hands.
I simply looked at him.
One glance.
He lowered his head… and stretched it toward me.
I took it.
The cloth was warm. Wet. Still holding the shape of his thighs.
I looked at it for a moment.
Not like a woman holding someone’s undergarment.
But like someone holding power in the shape of cotton.
The holes I’d mocked earlier were now visible up close.
One at the waistband, where the elastic was hanging by threads.
One near the seam.
And one right in the middle—just under where the fabric cupped his cock.
That one had thinned so much, the light passed through.
My fingers moved slowly.
I slipped two fingers into the biggest hole.
He saw it.
And panicked.
“No, madam… please… no… not that…”
His voice trembled.
But my fingers were already curling, catching the edge.
And then—
I pulled.
The sound was soft.
Not a full tear. But that fabric stretch that screams weakness.
I pulled again.
This time, harder.
Rrrrippp.
He flinched.
“Please… madam… no…”
But I didn’t even look at his face.
I just kept tearing.
Right across the middle.
Pulled the cloth until it split fully from the waistband to the thigh hem.
Now it was nothing but threads.
Scraps.
A broken piece of whatever pride he thought he had.
And then—without expression—I threw it.
Out of the tank.
Onto the terrace floor.
Gone.
I didn’t laugh.
Didn’t smile.
Didn’t speak.
Just looked down at him.
He stood in the water, naked, dripping, holding nothing to hide himself. Not even shame.
His cock was still growing—rising slower now. Tensed slightly upward, twitching once in the air. The head was peeking now.
But I wasn’t thinking about that.
I was thinking about Kartik.
About how he sat on his calls, locked inside.
How he wouldn’t ask where I was.
Even if I vanished for an hour.
Or two.
He wouldn’t notice.
He wouldn’t come looking.
I felt that silence grow inside me—deeper than anger.
And that’s when I stood up.
Still on the tank’s edge.
Feet balanced.
Wind brushing my back.
Prakash was looking at me—confused. Unsure what was happening.
I didn’t speak.
Just looked at the inside of the tank.
Measured the space.
It was big.
Wider than it looked from above.
Maybe seven feet long.
Six feet wide.
Deeper than a bath tub.
Definitely bigger than that lift.
I took one step forward.
And jumped in.
The splash was quiet.
The water embraced me at once—cool, shocking, everywhere.
My saree floated.
The pleats opened like petals.
My blouse clung tighter.
My petticoat pulled at my legs.
The edge of my towel fell away.
I didn’t care.
I was in the tank.
With him.
Inside.
Alone.
Locked terrace.
One man.
One woman.
One moment.
No world outside.
The water clung to my petticoat.
Heavy.
Tugging down.
Every step I took inside the tank, the soaked cotton dragged at my waist like it was trying to anchor me. My saree pleats, which had floated moments ago like soft waves, were now wrapping around my legs, pulling tight across my calves and thighs.
I didn’t adjust them.
Didn’t need to.
Prakash was still frozen.
Standing inside the tank, chest deep in water, eyes wide, mouth slightly parted — like he couldn’t believe I had actually jumped in.
But I didn’t give him time to process.
“What are you looking at?” I snapped, staring directly into his eyes.
He blinked.
Turned his face away instantly, looking down into the water like a scolded child.
“I didn’t come here for you,” I added coldly. “I came to see how well you’ve cleaned.”
My voice echoed off the tank walls.
The words bounced in the silence.
He nodded quickly. “Yes, madam…”
I stepped forward slowly, my feet splashing gently as I moved across the shallow curve of the tank floor.
The water was cold, yes. But my body was hotter.
Hotter from sweat.
From memory.
From the power I had over this moment.
I stopped near one side of the tank.
Bent slightly.
Looked closely at the wall.
Black streaks.
Algae.
Not everywhere, but enough.
Sticky, faint patches, scattered along the inside like neglected corners of a kitchen sink.
“This is your cleaning?” I said sharply. “This is what we’re drinking?”
He turned toward me, eyes already flinching.
I didn’t stop.
“You call this clean?”
I slapped the tank wall once with my palm.
The sound was sharp.
Echoed.
“Sorry, madam,” he mumbled, stepping closer.
“See there.” I pointed. “Small ones. There. And near the bottom too. All this will stink if left.”
He turned, scanned the wall.
His body was dripping again, water running down from his shoulders, tracing along his spine. The line of his lower back had water beads forming one after the other. His ass was fully visible, round, dark, completely bare now. Just out in the open, wet and shining under the filtered terrace light.
He turned to me and said, “Madam, cloth?”
“Use your hand,” I snapped.
He hesitated.
Then nodded, turned again.
Started scrubbing with his bare palm.
The sound was different now.
Wet flesh against wet cement.
He rubbed slowly, both hands, using the side of his fingers to scbang.
I could see him struggling.
His hands weren’t strong enough to remove the dried patches without friction. His skin began turning red from the effort. But he didn’t stop.
And I…
I stayed where I was for a moment.
Watching him work.
Then my hand went to my waist.
I hooked my fingers into the side knot of the saree.
Softly tugged.
The knot slipped.
My blouse was still on.
My petticoat still tight.
But the saree — the long, soaked, clinging fabric — began to come away.
He had his back turned.
Facing the other side of the tank.
Rubbing, bent slightly forward, elbows rising and falling.
I slowly unwrapped the pallu from my shoulder.
Let it fall over my left arm.
Then wound the rest around my palm and started pulling.
Inch by inch.
I didn’t rush.
The wet cotton made a soft schhhhkk sound as it dragged across my blouse, then my petticoat.
I pulled it free.
And held it for a second.
Just in my hand.
Heavy.
Dripping.
One side of the saree touched the water again, soaking fresh weight.
I twisted it once.
And let it fall over the tank edge behind me.
Now…
I stood in blouse and petticoat.
Inside the tank.
With him.
And he had no idea.
He was still facing the wall.
Still rubbing with his palm.
His cock — still half-erect — swung slightly with each motion.
I watched him.
Watched how he moved.
How he obeyed without questions.
And inside me…
Something started to smile.
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