Adultery The Language of Her Heart

[yazhiniram]

I stood with my back to him.

My panty was halfway down, my full ass exposed.

I knew his eyes were eating it up.

But I also knew what was coming next.

I could feel it — in the silence.

His breath shifted.

His weight shifted.

Then I saw it — just from the side of my eye.

His hand.

Slowly rising.

Just an inch.

Coming toward my backside.

That filthy bastard.

I didn’t even flinch.

But my voice cut through the tank like a whip.

“No.”

He froze.

His hand still in the air.

I turned my face — no expression. Cold.

“You cannot touch this.”

“Not today. Not ever.”

I saw his fingers trembling.

He pulled his hand back.

Took a step backward.

Returned to his original standing position — like a soldier who had dared to blink during a parade.

I stood straight.

Didn’t say another word.

I reached down.

Pulled the panty all the way off.

Still not facing him.

Still not letting him see what he really wanted.

I held the wet cloth in my hand for a second.

Dripping.

Heavy with sweat, with heat, with the weight of what I just denied him.

Then I turned just my head — and flung it.

Hard.

Straight.

It landed directly on his cock.

The wet slap echoed.

The panty hung there for a second — Wore like an offering on a shrine — then slid down and dropped to the tank floor.

He didn’t move.

He didn’t even twitch.

Good.

That’s what I wanted.

I took one breath.

Then, slowly…

I turned.

Fully.

Let him see.

My chest was bare.

My stomach glowing with a thin film of sweat.

And lower…

My pussy.

Shaved.

Soft.

Glistening under the tank’s sky light.

His eyes widened.

Not just his eyes.

His cock reacted.

It got angry.

Tensed. Twitched. Thicker than ever.

He bit his lip.

I didn’t move.

I didn’t cover.

I just stood — fully revealed, fully untouchable.

And right then…

Water.

A sudden splash — from above.

The tank pipe hissed, then gushed.

A full stream of water burst downward, hitting me square on the top of my head.

It felt like a summer storm.

Cold.

Sharp.

Pure.

My hair flattened instantly.

The water slid down my scalp, my face, my neck.

Over my shoulders.

Across my breasts.

And down…

Into every curve between my legs.

He watched.

He couldn’t blink.

I didn’t smile.

I didn’t speak.

I just stood there.

Bathing. In front of him.

Like a goddess who let the temple doors open for one man only — just so she could show him what he would never hold.



I stood under the water, bare and still.

His eyes were on me — not blinking, not shifting.

And his cock…

Still pointing like a compass to everything I refused to give.

But something in me shifted.

Not weakness.

Not sympathy.

Just… control.

That wicked kind of control where you give your dog a bone and watch him thank you like it’s a feast.

I looked down at the wet cloth near his feet.

My panty.

Drenched with sweat.

And my scent.

Still warm from my body.

He hadn’t moved since it landed.

I smirked.

Then said, calmly, without looking at him:

“Take it.”

He didn’t move.

I turned my face, eyes sharp.

“I said take it. Do what you want.”

And that’s all it took.

Like someone had cut his leash, he bent forward instantly — picked it up with both hands.

Held it like a sacred object.

Like it was something holy.

He didn’t even look at me anymore — he just stared at the cloth.

And then…

He sniffed it.

Deep.

Long.

Closed his eyes while doing it.

The cloth collapsed in his hands, soaked and heavy, and he crushed it gently near his nose.

I burst out laughing.

“What are you doing, filthy bastard?”

He didn’t stop.

He was sniffing it like it had magic.

Like I had given him jasmine flowers from my hair, not the last cloth that covered my pussy.

He was trembling.

His chest shook as he inhaled again.

I leaned slightly forward.

Scooped a palm full of cold water.

And flung it.

Splash!

Straight on his cock.

He jerked.

His body stiffened.

But he still didn’t stop.

Now, I saw something else.

He was moving his lips.

His tongue.

His tongue was…

Licking.

The edges of the panty.

My wetness.

He was licking it. Tasting it. Like he was trying to drink me from a cloth.

And I…

I felt it.

I leaked.

Right there, under the water.

Between my legs — warmth, sliding through the chill of the shower.

My pussy twitched, pulsed.

Not from his cock.

From watching what he was doing with a cloth that had touched mine.

His cock stood harder than ever.

He still hadn’t touched himself.

But it was twitching now. Leaking again.

And I?

I just stood. Watching.

Feeling my body respond to the sight of this man — this low-class, sweaty, filthy man — sucking my panty like it was the first food he’d had in days.

And knowing…

He’d never get the real thing.

But he’d never forget the taste of that cloth.



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



He was still standing, head bowed, panty crushed in his hands, lips damp from licking.

My body was still dripping, my nipples stiff, and a slow ache forming between my legs.

I could feel the urge — that small traitor whispering, “Touch him. Feel him. Use him.”

But I didn’t want him to win.

Not even for a second.

If I touched him with my hands…

If I gave him that closeness…

It would feel like permission.

And he hadn’t earned that.

So instead, I gave a single, sharp word:

“Lie down.”

His head snapped up.

His face blinked once — not sure if he heard right.

I said again, slowly.

“Lie. Down.”

He didn’t ask why.

He didn’t resist.

He went into kneeling postion, then he dropped backward immediately.

Onto his back.

His legs slightly apart.

His arms resting beside him.

He lay there — like a canvas, waiting for the painter’s first stroke.

He must’ve thought I was going to climb on top.

That I was going to ride him.

Stupid dog.

I had other plans.

I walked toward the edge of the tank.

Reduced the water pipe — just a trickle now.

Soft. Like a summer rain, not a downpour.

Then I reached to the corner — where I’d thrown my saree earlier.

It was still damp.

I took it and walked back.

Not with my hands — not yet.

I used my feet.

Tossed the fabric near his face.

Slid it gently until it lay under his cheek.

And then…

I used my toe.

Pressed softly near his thighs.

His eyes followed me, unsure.

I gave one gentle push.

“Close your eyes,” I said.

He obeyed.

I stood over him now.

Looking at the full length of him.

His cock — still upright — like a flagpole in heat.

Thick. Dark. Angry.

It curved slightly to the right, veins alive, the tip shining again.

And I did nothing for a moment.

Just stood over him.

Watching.

Then I stepped forward.

Placed one foot on the floor beside his thigh.

Then the other.

I was now standing on both sides of him.

Over his pelvis.

Like a queen over her altar.

I held the pipe for balance.

Tight grip.

Let the trickle of water run down my wrist.

And slowly…

I lowered one foot.

Let my sole hover above his cock.

Close.

Close enough for him to feel the shadow of it.

Then, I touched it.

With the soft arch of my foot.

A small graze — not pressure.

Just presence.

His cock twitched.

I smiled.

He didn’t open his eyes.

Good.

I placed my other foot on his upper thigh — steadying myself.

Now, my left foot rested on his body.

My right foot…

On his cock.

It was bigger than the width of my foot.

The head peeked out from one side.

The base pressed against my heel.

I adjusted slightly.

Curved my toes in.

Pressed the head gently between them.

And I started.

Not rubbing. Not stroking.

Playing.

Light movements.

Toes spreading. Closing.

Sliding over the cock.

Letting the sole roll forward.

His body stiffened.

I heard his breath catch.

He didn’t dare move.

His eyes were still closed.

His fists clenched at his side.

I looked down at him — from my throne of wet stone and control.

And I whispered.

“You thought I’d ride you?”

I bent forward just slightly.

“You thought I’d let you inside me?”

I slid my foot upward — pressing the tip against the inside of my toes.

“This is all you get.”

His cock pulsed.

A fat drop escaped.

Landed on his stomach.

I didn’t stop.

I began to rub now.

More rhythm.

Using the arch of my foot to push, drag, tease.

It was hot against my skin — warmer than the water, harder than I expected.

And it excited me.

Not because I wanted him.

But because I could do this with just my foot — and he was melting like butter.

I stood taller.

Pressed harder.

Slid my toes along his cock, wrapped around his tip.

He was shaking.

His thighs twitched.

His stomach muscles locked.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t reach out.

Because he knew—

One wrong move and I’d walk away.

So I kept going.

Slow. Unhurried.

One woman. One foot.

Owning one man completely.



My foot was still wrapped around him.

My heel pressed near the base. My toes holding his head gently but firmly.

The pipe above me dripped slowly, letting cold water trace down my spine, between my breasts, across my stomach.

But the heat between my legs…

That was something else.

I was still standing on him.

Full weight. Both feet on his body. One on his thigh. One on his cock.

Holding the pipe with one hand to steady myself. The other free — clenched in air.

His eyes were supposed to be shut.

But I saw it.

That tiny gap between the folds of my saree I placed under his face.

He was peeking.

His lashes fluttered. His eyes — wide, dark, drunk on the sight of me.

I didn’t stop.

I didn’t scold him.

Let the dog stare.

Let him see what he would never touch.

I moved my foot again.

Pressed.

Rolled.

Slid slowly from base to tip, toes dragging over his cock with precision.

He twitched.

But he didn’t thrust.

Not yet.

He wasn’t desperate.

He was savouring.

And I realised something.

He wasn’t trying to finish.

He was trying to prolong it.

He wanted the tease to last forever.

He was not just enjoying it — he was living inside it.

My leg started to ache.

The arch of my foot burned.

My thighs trembled slightly.

But I didn’t stop.

Not yet.

I looked down.

His cock was pulsing.

Thicker now. Slight curve to the left.

Still hard. Still proud. Still untouched by anything but my foot.

My foot that had now turned wet too — water and his leaking mixing on my skin.

And I was… liking it.

The way his skin felt under my sole.

The way he didn’t resist.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t even breathe too loud.

He lay still.

Like a mattress made of flesh and filth.

Ready to absorb anything I gave.

But my calves were hurting.

My balance was shifting.

I could feel it — the wobble in my right knee.

I can’t keep this up.

If I stayed standing any longer, I’d fall — either beside him… or on top of him.

And that?

That would be surrender.

So I stepped back.

Carefully.

Lifted my foot off his cock. Slowly. Let the skin part like two lovers being pulled apart.

Then the other foot — down on the wet stone floor.

I was off him.

Finally.

I stood there, breathing deep.

Not from arousal.

From effort.

My legs were shaking slightly.

I bent forward, braced my palms on my thighs, closed my eyes.

God.

What kind of man was he?

How did he let me press down on him with full weight — not a word, not a wince, not even a flex?

And still his cock was hard.

Still leaking.

Still pointing.

Like he wanted more.

My foot had done more than most men get from mouths.

And yet… he wanted more.

I looked at my hands.

Still dry.

Still unused.

Still clean.

Should I?

Should I use them now?

Would it be defeat?

Or… would it be control, if I used them my way?

I stood upright again.

Took a step forward.

My eyes locked on his cock — waiting, shining, untouched.

I didn’t have to decide yet.

But my hands…

They were no longer behind me.

They were now hovering in front.