Adultery The Language of Her Heart

[yazhiniram]

He was still scrubbing.

His palms brushing the curved inside wall, one side to the other, rubbing in circles.

His naked back was now covered in droplets. His shoulder muscles moved with each motion, slow and tired. The sides of his waist were red from the water and the constant friction.

His cock, which had started to rise before, was now barely there — shrinking again, hanging lifeless between his thighs.

I noticed it.

Shrunk smaller than earlier.

Like a snail that had touched salt.

Was it fear?

Was it shame?

Or did he simply not expect me to be this much?

I smirked silently.

Didn’t say anything at first.

Then, in a voice calm but firm—

“Turn around.”

He froze mid-rub.

I saw his shoulders tighten.

Then slowly… he turned.

Face first. Then chest. Then the rest.

His eyes lifted once—hesitating.

And that’s when he saw me.

Standing.

Inside the tank.

Saree gone.

Holding the wet cloth rolled in my left hand.

Wearing only a tight blouse and petticoat.

My blouse was stuck to my chest, completely soaked, its cotton turning almost sheer under the sunlight above.

Every curve of my breast was outlined. The blouse's neckline dipped low, exposing my upper chest and the start of my cleavage like a shadow between peaks.

The petticoat had turned soft from water, clinging to my thighs, my hips, my lower belly. The knot at my waist had slipped slightly, revealing the green band of my panty through the gap — just for a second.

His eyes moved like they were being pulled.

First to my navel.

Then slowly upward.

Then sideways toward that tiny gap below the petticoat knot.

His cock twitched.

I noticed.

He didn’t even realize that his erection was responding faster than his face.

I stood still.

Lifted my arm.

And with no warning, threw the wet saree directly at his chest.

It hit him with a soft splatter and dropped down across his stomach, sticking for a moment before sliding into the water.

He caught it, fumbled.

“Use that,” I said coldly. “Clean properly.”

His face was caught between confusion and guilt.

But his cock… it had its own mind.

It was rising again.

Not full.

But more than before.

Growing slowly, slightly upward now, twitching in tiny pulses.

I didn’t speak.

But my eyes did.

I stared at him, sharp.

One single glare.

That was enough.

He lowered his head immediately.

His hands gripped the saree.

And he turned back around.

Face to the wall again.

Cock still semi-erect, bouncing slightly with each step he took back into position.

He resumed scrubbing.

Now using my saree.

Dragging it across the algae patches, soaking it in green-tinted water, squeezing and wiping.

And I… stood behind him.

Still watching.

Still in control.

Still completely, deliberately silent.

And inside me…

That quiet fire wasn’t burning out.

It was just beginning to take shape.



He was working hard now.

Sweat mixed with water, his dark skin gleaming with effort, and the last bits of algae surrendering to his bare hands.

Every motion was focused.

Scrub. Stretch. Wipe.

His posture had changed. He wasn’t standing straight anymore. He was bending, reaching into corners, leaning over the lower edges of the tank — and with every stretch, his bare backside moved.

And I saw everything.

There was no cloth now to hide it.

No shame covering it.

Just the raw, dark skin of a man who’d stopped caring — or maybe had started caring too much.

His buttocks flexed as he moved. Round and broad, jiggling slightly every time he shifted weight from one foot to the other. There was something ugly about it. Something so… real. Like watching a laborer bathe behind a shed, unaware a queen was observing him.

And that’s exactly what it felt like.

I sat back a little on the tank’s inner ledge, letting my blouse cling freely against my wet skin. The fabric was sticking more now, tighter. My petticoat string had slipped just a little, but I didn’t fix it.

I wanted to feel undone.

And I wanted him to keep being seen.

Then, without planning it, I lifted one leg.

Raised it high over the water—

And kicked.

A strong splash of water flew across the tank—

And landed right on his ass.

He jerked.

Not violently. Just a full-body flinch, like cold water had touched a secret part of his soul.

He turned slightly, just his head, eyes peeking from the side.

I didn’t wait for questions.

“What are you looking at? Scrub properly.”

My tone was casual.

As if I’d just flicked water at a child who forgot to wipe the table.

He blinked.

Looked away again.

And resumed scrubbing.

Now faster.

Now more controlled.

His fingers dug into the tank wall, using my saree cloth to wipe in circles. Water splashed softly beneath his feet as he stepped from one side to the other. His balls moved slightly now, swinging beneath him in small, wet motions.

And I… just sat there.

Legs inside the water, blouse soaked, petticoat slipping just enough to make me feel seen, though I knew he hadn’t turned back.

Not yet.

But I could tell — his body knew I was behind him.

Even if his eyes didn’t dare look.

He reached the final stretch of the tank, the far end corner near the outlet pipe.

I could hear the sound of his palms — faster now, rubbing harder, water sloshing loudly.

Finally, after what felt like minutes of this rhythmic cleaning, he turned, water running down his arms.

“Madam…”

I looked at him slowly.

He stood still, wet chest rising and falling, droplets on his nose.

His cock was smaller now — I noticed it immediately.

Shrunken again.

Maybe three inches.

His balls hung low beneath it — heavy, sagging slightly with gravity, a soft patch of dark hair clinging to the base.

He didn’t hide it.

Maybe he’d given up trying.

Maybe he didn’t realize how much I was enjoying the full view.

He said, “Tank is clean. But water dirty now…”

I nodded once. “How will you remove it?”

“There’s a bucket outside,” he said softly. “I’ll take water out, throw it on terrace floor.”

“Then do it.”

He didn’t delay.

Climbed over the edge.

Dripping.

His cock bounced once with the climb.

He stepped onto the terrace, water pooling beneath his feet as he picked up the old orange plastic bucket.

He leaned down to fill it again.

That position — bent forward — his ass, his dangling cock, all fully exposed.

He scooped the muddy water from the tank, lifted it, and walked barefoot to the corner of the terrace to throw it.

Then returned.

Repeated.

Scoop. Walk. Throw.

Each time, more of his dignity washed away.

And I didn’t stop watching.

I watched his body, not like a woman watches a man…

But like a woman watches her servant.

And he?

He was forgetting my state.

Or pretending to.

The blouse. The petticoat. My wet chest. My panty line visible in the slip between folds.

It didn’t matter.

I was enjoying every minute of his nakedness.

His wet pubic hair.

His jiggling backside.

His shrunken cock.

Because the more I saw…

The less human he looked.

And the more goddess-like I began to feel.



-----------------------------------------------



This… was bliss.

The heat outside was unbearable. The kind that drains you from the back of your neck and makes every movement feel like you’re dragging your own skin.

But inside this tank?

Even with the water gone, with just mud and thin wetness beneath my feet, it felt like heaven.

Better than any AC.

The cement walls around me still held the chill from the early morning water. Every gust of terrace wind blew past the tank’s edge and dropped inside like a blessing. My sweat had dried without me even realizing.

I pressed my palm gently against the tank wall.

Cold.

The kind of cold that hugged my skin, kissed it in places Kartik never even noticed.

I closed my eyes briefly.

I could live here.

Come here every day.

Just sit in this tank, this big concrete box — 7 by 6 feet of forgotten privacy — and let the world melt away outside.

No kids.

No calls.

No guilt.

Just a woman, her thoughts, and silence.

Prakash was still cleaning.

Crouched at the far end, rubbing the last remaining smudges near the outlet pipe. His body moved without sound. His naked back rising and falling. His buttocks tight as he bent forward to stretch. His cock, now small again, just dangled there — forgotten, shrinking, insignificant.

And I… didn’t even look at it like a woman anymore.

It was part of the setting now.

Just like the moss. Just like the brick. Just like the mud at my feet.

I turned slightly, my blouse sticking under the arms.

That’s when I snapped.

“Hey. Call your assistant. Tell him to turn on the motor.”

He paused.

Looked back, half-bent.

“Madam… let’s come out. I’ll inform him—”

I cut him off instantly.

“You do what I say. Don’t tell me what to do.”

The silence after that was longer than expected.

He nodded without words.

Turned around and climbed up — his feet splashing softly over the tank floor, then tapping against the metal ladder.

His bare back disappeared above the rim.

I didn’t watch.

I waited.

And the moment his footsteps faded across the terrace floor—

I moved.

My hands went behind me, finding the damp hooks of my blouse.

It was soaked completely now.

Clinging like skin.

I slipped one finger under the fabric line and pulled.

Click.

The first hook loosened.

The blouse shifted slightly — my chest suddenly breathing free.

I took a deeper breath.

Pressed on the second.

Click.

And the third.

Then the fourth.

I didn’t rush.

I didn’t look down.

The blouse fell open, held only by my arms now. My cleavage, sweaty and slightly marked by the tightness, caught the cooler air inside the tank. Goosebumps rose — not from nerves, but relief.

I slipped the blouse off one arm.

Then the other.

And now I was standing there — blouse in hand, still in my petticoat, still barefoot in the sticky mud. My bra underneath stuck to me like memory — taut, damp, and waiting.

Above me, I heard his voice.

“Hello? Raju? Turn on the motor… 7th floor needs water.”

His tone had changed.

That fake respect tone.

“It was blocked due to plastic container…”

I heard every word.

Every careful sentence.

The way he was still scared of me — even in his report.

He had no idea I was standing inside the tank without my blouse.

No idea my chest was almost bare, my stomach streaked with cooling droplets, and my hair tied loosely now like a girl too lazy to comb.

He finished his call.

And I heard the faint creak of his feet returning.

He was coming back.

Still thinking I was standing there in full dress.

Still trying to do what I told him.

But this time…

I wasn’t going to remind him who I was.

I would let him find out.



I heard the soft slap of feet returning across the terrace.

One step.

Then another.

Each one lighter than before.

Like even he wasn’t ready to step back into the tank.

The edge above me darkened as his body blocked the sunlight again.

His hands gripped the rim.

And then — his head appeared.

Face flushed. Sweaty. Wet hair sticking to his forehead.

He looked down—

And froze.

The moment his eyes met me…

Everything about him paused.

I was standing in the exact center of the tank.

Not hiding.

Not adjusting.

Just there.

In my bra.

Nothing else above.

My blouse was hanging on a small corner pipe nearby, forgotten. My hair was still wet from earlier, but strands had come loose and were now clinging to my shoulders and neck.

My bra — cotton, faded beige — hugged my breasts tight, the cups shaped perfectly around the curves. Damp lines formed beneath the straps, and the fabric itself was just beginning to show the outline of skin beneath.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

I let his eyes stay.

They stayed longer than he expected.

Longer than he could control.

And as his eyes scanned me, I looked lower.

His cock… was responding.

Slowly.

Naturally.

Almost like it had a memory of how this woman had spoken to it… spat on it… laughed at it.

From soft and hanging, it lifted.

Just a little.

Maybe three inches.

Then four.

Then slowly thickening.

Five.

It wasn’t hard. But it wasn’t ignoring me either.

He didn’t say anything.

Instead, as if trying to hide his shock inside words, he began speaking.

Voice low. Unsteady.

“Madam… I called. Told him it was blockage. He said he’ll turn motor now. So… water will come…”

I didn’t answer.

I watched his lips move.

His words were floating somewhere near my ear, but I wasn’t listening.

Not really.

Because my hands…

My hands had moved to my waist.

And his eyes noticed that instantly.

I placed two fingers casually on the knot of my petticoat.

The knot was sitting slightly above the band of my panty.

One small tug.

That’s all it would take.

I waited for the right moment.

As he was still speaking, still distracted, still forcing his voice to remain respectful—

I pulled.

Soft.

Clean.

The knot gave way without resistance.

The fabric slipped.

First over my hips.

Then past my thighs.

And finally down — crumpling near my ankles with a light, wet drop.

I stood still.

Now in just my bra and panty.

The petticoat pooled around my feet like old skin shed quietly.

And he saw it all.

His mouth didn’t open.

But his cock did.

Open. Expand. Rise.

Not violently.

But with raw tension.

It was now fully semi-erect — curved upward, thick, brown, and alive.

The head was beginning to peek out, glistening softly from leftover tank sweat and the faint remaining moisture.

I looked straight into his eyes.

No smile.

Just quiet stillness.

And in that stillness…

I watched him lose control.

Not with words.

Not with touch.

But with a body that forgot how to obey silence.



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I didn’t even feel the heat anymore.

Not because it became less.

It was still summer, and the sun above was hot enough to melt tiles. But inside the tank, even though it was dry now, just sticky mud left around my feet, the coolness of this cement was better than any fan, any cooler, any AC.

It was like being inside a fridge.

The kind of cold that touches the skin and slowly goes inside bones. The kind of cold that feels like a secret.

I stood still in it.

Wearing just my bra and panty.

No saree.

No blouse.

My petticoat was lying on the floor near the corner of the tank. Wet and wrinkled. Forgotten.

I didn’t want to come out. Not now.

I told myself, “If this was my own house, I’d keep a chair here and sit every day like this.”

He was standing opposite me.

Prakash.

Fully nude.

His skin was glistening. Slightly shaking from the cool floor. His feet were apart. His cock was hanging down again—maybe three inches now—soft because he was confused.

He didn’t know what I was doing.

And truth is, even I wasn’t sure what I was doing.

But I didn’t want to stop.

This was something else. Not about sex. Not about teasing. It was about power. About seeing how far someone will go if I don’t say no.

I looked at his face.

He didn’t blink.

Then, I said—calmly, not too loud—

“This is what you were staring at all these days, right?”

He looked confused.

I took a step forward.

“From the first day you joined here. When you opened the gate for me. When I walked past you in saree. You looked at me. Don’t lie.”

He didn’t reply.

Just kept his head low.

But his cock?

It twitched.

Started lifting again.

Like a dog wagging tail after hearing his name.

I stepped closer. There was maybe only four feet between us now.

His cock had reached maybe five inches.

Still not fully hard.

Still ashamed.

But trying.

I looked at him directly and asked again, firmer this time—

“You wanted to see this, right? My body. My breasts. My thighs. All this.”

He blinked. Still didn’t say anything.

I didn’t need his answer.

I moved my hands to my back.

He noticed immediately.

My fingers reached the bra hooks.

I stood straight. Chin up. My eyes on his face.

He was watching.

Not blinking.

Not breathing properly.

I unhooked the first clasp.

My bra loosened a bit.

Then the second.

Then the third.

Now only my hands were holding it in place.

My chest felt light.

Air touched the top of my breasts.

I didn’t drop it.

Just stood like that—barely covered.

His cock jumped again.

From five inches, it was becoming more.

Six.

Then seven.

It pointed upward now. Not resting anymore.

His breathing had changed. I could see his chest moving faster.

But he didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

And I liked that.

He was scared to even breathe loud. But his cock had its own brain.

I felt heat between my legs.

That sudden stickiness inside the panty.

Not from sweat.

This was different.

My thighs were touching each other softly. I could feel the fabric rubbing where it shouldn’t.

Still I didn’t speak.

I took another small step forward.

Now we were just two feet apart.

I could see his balls.

His pubic hair was wet and stuck to the skin.

His cock was now fully hard.

Maybe 8 inches. Maybe more. Slight bend toward the left. Dark brown head, fully out.

I stood there, still holding the bra with both hands.

He looked like a man who didn’t know if he was dreaming or dying.

And I?

I stood calmly.

In bra and panty.

Nothing else.

Inside a tank, with mud under my feet.

No husband.

No kids.

No neighbors.

Just me.

And this man.

And his cock.



I looked straight into his eyes.

My bra still in place, but unhooked, loose.

My hands still holding it—barely.

And I asked—

“Do you want me to remove this?”

His eyes widened.

His cock twitched again.

His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came.

Just his head…

He nodded once.

Then again.

Quickly.

Like a dog begging for food.

I laughed.

A soft, slow laugh from the back of my throat.

Not girly. Not shy.

Mocking.

“Look at you,” I said.

“What are you going to do if I remove it?”

He froze.

Didn’t answer.

His cock was already standing like a flag. Eight inches, curved up, the head almost looking up at the sky.

“You can’t touch me,” I said, voice calm. “You can’t come near. You can’t do anything.”

He still didn’t speak.

I tilted my head.

“What next? You’ll go tell your friends? In the security shed? Talk about my boobs over tea?”

He looked scared.

Shook his head side to side.

Fast.

“Hmm,” I murmured.

“Good dog.”

He blinked.

Confused.

I stepped closer. The bra still pressed against my chest with my hands. Just inches away from him now.

“You want it?” I asked. “Then beg.”

His eyes widened.

“Get down.”

He didn’t move at first.

“Down,” I repeated. “Like a dog.”

Slowly… he dropped to the floor.

His knees hit the cold cement.

Then his hands.

He was now on all fours.

His cock still stood proudly between his legs.

“Beg,” I said again.

And he did.

Not with words.

But with eyes.

With body.

With slow, lowered head, like an animal before his owner.

I stood above him.

And then…

I removed my hands from the bra.

Let it fall.

It dropped like a curtain.

My breasts were now fully visible.

Nipples hard.

Dark.

Erect.

Pushed slightly upward from the chill.

He gasped softly. His face was just below my chest height, still kneeling like a beast.

I didn’t hide.

Didn’t move.

Just let him see.

For the first time.

A married, homely woman—

Completely topless.

In full daylight.

In a cement tank.

With a security guard kneeling naked like a slave.

I stood like that for a moment.

Then said—

“Stand up.”

His body reacted faster than his brain.

He rose.

His cock now almost brushing against my belly.

Heavy. Stiff. Completely up.

I looked down.

Then, without changing my expression—

I lifted my right leg.

Bent my knee slightly.

And touched his cock.

With my foot.

The skin of his cock was hot.

Pulsing.

Alive.

I placed my toes gently against the underside, let them press, then slide slightly down and around.

He didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

But I saw his stomach flinch.

His balls tighten.

And inside me?

The wetness had become a stream.

My panty was soaked.

And I wasn’t done.