Adultery The Language of Her Heart

[yazhiniram]

I stood still, just a step away from him.

He was lying down like a slave at rest — motionless, soaked, desperate.

His cock still stood tall.

Alive. Hungry. Unrelenting.

And I was done pretending I didn’t notice.

My fingers hovered in the air.

Close. Too close.

But I didn’t reach yet.

Instead, I spoke.

Softly.

My voice dropped to a tone I hadn’t used in years.

Not with my husband.

Not with anyone.

“Do you want me to use my hand, Prakash?”

I said his name for the first time.

Not as a scolding.

Not as a command.

But as something softer.

Something heavier.

He opened his eyes.

Shaking.

Like a fever had just passed through his body.

He nodded.

Fast.

Repeated.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

Like a child begging for sweets.

Like a man who’d been thirsty too long.

But that wasn’t enough.

I narrowed my eyes.

“No.”

He froze.

I stepped closer.

My toe pressed against his thigh.

“Open your mouth and say it. Beg for it.”

He looked up at me.

Gulped.

Then, with a crack in his voice, he whispered.

“Please, madam… I want it… your hand… please touch it… I beg…”

Still not enough.

I lifted my foot — the same one I’d used to tease him.

There was a drop still hanging.

Precum.

His.

I brought it to his mouth.

“Then lick it.”

He opened wide.

His tongue reached out.

I wiped the wetness over his lips, across his lower jaw.

He sucked on it. Licked every trace.

Like it was nectar.

I stared at him.

“It’s your cum. You should lick it. No one’s going to do it for you.”

He moaned softly — almost in shame, almost in submission.

But I saw what I wanted.

Obedience.

Desperation.

Control.

And I knelt.

For the first time.

I got on my knees beside him.

Water trickled from my chin. From my thighs. From the hair still clinging to my back.

My knees touched the stone floor of the tank.

Cold.

But I didn’t feel it.

All I saw was what I had never touched before.

A cock that wasn’t Kartik’s.

Longer.

Thicker.

Veiny.

Erect like it was fighting gravity.

I reached out.

One hand.

Fingers curled slowly.

Touched the base.

Warm.

Alive.

I wrapped my palm around it.

Rock solid.

But there was a softness to the skin. A tension beneath it. Like it was waiting to explode.

My fingers didn’t close fully.

So I brought the other hand.

Now both my palms held him.

He twitched.

I felt it.

The throb.

Like a heartbeat.

I looked down at it.

At him.

His chest rose. His eyes were shut again.

He knew this was not sex.

This was a gift.

From me.

And now…

I began to move.

Slowly.

Up.

Down.

Both hands sliding, gently twisting.

The water made everything glide.

And in that moment, I knew—

This wasn’t about him.

It was about me.

I owned him.

With my words.

With my legs.

And now…

With my hands.



My hands were around him.

Wrapped. Encircling. Claiming.

My knees dug into the cool stone of the tank, but I barely felt it.

All I felt was him — thick, full, rock-solid in my palms.

He twitched again.

Then again.

My fingers slid from the base upward, pressing the soft skin over that thick core.

Then back down.

Slow. No rush.

The water dripping from my elbows made it easier, made it smoother.

Like silk on stone.

He didn’t move. Not even his breath dared rise too high.

His eyes stayed shut, lips parted slightly. As if praying.

And I… was feeling something I hadn’t expected.

His skin. The heat.

The softness layered over that tight, pulsing hardness.

It was… addictive.

I swallowed.

The tip of his cock now glistened with a wet shine that wasn’t mine.

Precum.

The first bead slid down, brushed my thumb, and clung to the side of my index finger.

I froze for a moment.

That drop.

That taste.

I could smell it — raw, male, thick.

A dangerous part of me whispered—

Lick it.

But I didn’t.

No.

My dignity slapped that voice down like a fly.

Not now.

Not yet.

I let the wetness stay on my skin. Didn’t wipe it off.

Instead, I started again.

Fingers twisting slightly now.

My palms slid tighter.

I increased the rhythm.

Not much. Just enough.

Enough to feel how he reacted.

His thighs flexed once.

A tiny gasp left his mouth.

I looked up.

He was close.

I could feel it.

The way the veins thickened.

The way his head pulsed in my grip.

Another drop of precum smeared across my palm.

God.

This wasn’t about him. I reminded myself.

I was doing this… because I wanted to know what it felt like.

Not to be touched.

To touch.

To hold something so helplessly erect in my hands.

To make a man melt just from my fingers.

I stroked faster.

Slid my thumbs over his tip this time, rubbed them together like I was testing texture.

He whimpered.

His stomach locked.

His body tensed.

I knew that sound.

He was about to cum.

And that’s when I stopped.

Pulled my hands away.

Just like that.

Cold.

Clean.

Final.

He jerked up — instinctively.

His hand flew toward his cock.

“No.”

My voice cracked like thunder in the tank.

He froze.

His hand hovered, trembling.

I glared.

“You don’t get to touch it. Not infront of me.”

He dropped his hand. Like a collegeboy caught cheating.

I stood up.

Wet knees. Wet hair.

My hands still smelled like him.

But I didn’t wipe them.

I let the scent stay.

Let the ache between my thighs stay too.

Then I spoke — cool and clear.

“Stand up.”

He obeyed.

Wobbly.

His cock still stood.

Red. Swollen. Trembling.

Leaking more than ever.

I walked to the corner.

Turned the water pipe back up.

The full flow gushed out — splashing hard from above.

I didn’t look back at him.

Let him stand there.

Let him feel the water pour over his desperate body.

Let him cool down — but never release.



The water still poured.

The sound echoed around the tank walls—hard, steady, unbroken.

I didn’t say a word.

I simply lifted my hand, pointed to the side.

“Move.”

He obeyed.

No hesitation. No questions.

He shifted to the edge of the tank, his bare body wet, cock still twitching in half-painful silence.

And I walked forward.

Right into the stream.

Completely nude.

No towel. No blouse. No shame.

Only skin and sunlight.

His eyes followed. Of course they did.

That’s what he wanted, wasn’t it?

To watch.

To stand there helpless, body burning, while mine cooled under the running water.

So I gave it to him.

I let the water hit my shoulders, my breasts, my thighs.

I didn’t scrub. I didn’t soap.

I just let it fall.

Let it slide over every inch of me.

I tilted my head back.

Let the stream hit my forehead, then glide down my cheeks, my neck.

Between my breasts.

Over my navel.

Between my legs.

He could see everything.

And he didn’t move.

Didn’t dare breathe too loudly.

His hands stayed by his side.

Because he knew.

If he touched anything — himself, or me — it would all vanish.

I rinsed once.

Then again.

Not for cleansing.

For power.

To remind myself that I could be naked, vulnerable, exposed… and still the one in control.

I stepped back after a minute.

Water still dripping from my nipples, pooling in the curve of my lower back.

I looked at him.

He was still trembling.

“Take my clothes,” I said flatly.

His eyes shifted—searching for where I’d thrown them.

They were everywhere scattered on the tank — blouse, petticoat, saree, panty, bra.

He picked them up — one by one, like sacred items.

Then I said—

“Wash them. With water only. No soap. And come out.”

He nodded, still mute.

Turned to the tank corner and began.

I walked toward the ladder.

Climbed.

Each metal step was hot under my wet sole.

But I didn’t rush.

My hips moved naturally.

The sunlight outside was blinding.

As I stepped out onto the terrace, my skin glowed.

My body steamed slightly under the sun’s harsh eye.

I stood there.

Wet.

Bare.

Still.

Like a statue.

My nipples tightened in the heat.

Droplets slid down my stomach, off the tips of my breasts, off the edge of my thighs.

The breeze teased the curve of my ass.

And I waited.

Silent.

Not covering anything.

Because I didn’t need to.

That was his punishment.

To see the woman he couldn’t touch—like marble under the sun.

After a minute, I heard the steps.

Prakash climbing.

He appeared at the opening.

His eyes met mine.

Then dropped.

In his hands — my clothes.

Soaked.

Dripping.

But cleaner.

Rinsed.

Washed without soap.

He held them like they might burn him.

And I?

I didn’t thank him.

I didn’t smile.

I just stood.

Letting the sun dry what water couldn’t.



The sunlight was sharp, unforgiving.

It burned the terrace tiles, kissed my wet skin, and made every droplet on my body glow like pearls.

I stood there, completely nude.

No towel. No cover. No guilt.

Just me.

Hair dripping.

Breasts heavy.

Water sliding between my thighs.

And him.

My dog.

Still holding the bundle of my clothes, unsure where to place his eyes.

The gate was locked from the inside. No one could enter.

There were no cameras, no windows facing this side.

This moment was ours.

Mine.

“Dry my clothes.”

I said it without looking at him.

He obeyed.

Bent down, laid the wet pieces on the flat terrace floor, one by one.

First the blouse — spread it out carefully.

Then the petticoat — opened wide, pressed down to keep it flat.

The panty.

The bra.

The saree — he shook it gently, then placed it like a fresh bedsheet under the afternoon sun.

I didn’t help.

I didn’t move near him.

I just walked.

Bare feet touching the terrace tiles, still warm from the morning.

I moved slowly.

My arms sometimes lifted to fix my wet hair.

My breasts moved freely with every step.

He was watching.

He couldn’t help it.

His head stayed low — but I saw the eyes. Always stealing glances.

Let him.

He had stared at me every time I came downstairs.

Every time I passed the security cabin.

Every lift ride, every eye movement, every uncomfortable silence… I remembered.

So I walked past him once.

Then again.

Then paused.

He was standing near the saree now, hands on his sides, not knowing what next.

I called out.

“Hey.”

He turned immediately.

Eyes straight. Waiting.

“You were always staring at me whenever I came down, right?”

He stayed silent.

I took a step closer.

“Finally you achieved what you want.”

I let my body face him — full. Naked. Unfiltered.

His eyes dropped for half a second, then locked with mine again.

“Now you’ve seen me completely. Happy?”

He swallowed.

Didn’t speak.

“What are you going to do?”

Still silence.

The wind moved across my stomach.

My hair fell slightly across my shoulders, sticking wet against my skin.

“Whenever you touch your wife… do you remember me?”

He nodded slowly.

Eyes weak. Honest.

“Yes.”

That single word made my stomach twist.

Power. Control. Victory.

I walked toward him.

Closed the distance.

His cock was still semi-erect.

Still twitching from the memory of my hands, the pain of denial.

And I leaned forward slightly.

Spit.

Right on it.

The spit landed with a wet string, sliding over his cock, mixing with the last drop of precum still clinging there.

He flinched.

I stared him down.

“You should not touch your wife with me in your mind.”

He nodded again.

No voice.

Just obedience.

Just submission.

Just truth.



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



The sun had done its job.

My clothes, spread across the terrace tiles like silk offerings, were almost dry.

Still a little warm.

Still carrying the scent of my body, of the tank water, of power.

I turned toward him and flicked my wrist lazily.

“Go. Bring them.”

He obeyed.

Barefoot, still nude, still leaking faintly, he walked to where my clothes lay — his own body burning under the sunlight.

One by one, he picked them up.

Blouse.

Bra.

Petticoat.

Saree.

Panty.

He brought them all to me, hands full of fabric, as if he were bringing treasure.

I didn’t say thank you.

I didn’t smile.

I just started dressing.

One piece at a time.

First, the bra.

Still warm from the sun. A little damp at the straps.

I slipped it over my arms. Pulled the hooks behind.

My breasts lifted, settled into the cups like they were coming home.

Next, the blouse.

I slid my arms in, slowly.

Buttoned it myself.

Not hurried. Not shy.

His eyes were down. He didn’t dare look directly.

Good. Let him suffer.

Then, the petticoat.

I stepped into it gracefully.

Tied the string around my waist.

Let it settle on my hips.

And finally… the saree.

I gathered the length, pleated it smoothly, and tucked it in.

One pleat. Two. Three.

Each one neat.

Sharp.

I covered the pallu over my shoulder — a queen’s robe over a conquering body.

But one piece remained.

My panty.

I hadn’t worn it.

And I had no intention to.

I held it in my hand for a moment — still warm, still holding traces of my scent.

Then I turned to him.

He was still standing bare.

Cock stiff.

Eyes low.

I tilted my head.

“Oh, Prakash…”

He looked up.

I took a step toward him.

My saree fluttered with the breeze.

“You lost your trouser, didn’t you?”

He nodded, hesitating.

I laughed.

“Are you going to wear your uniform like this? Half naked?”

He looked embarrassed.

My smile deepened.

I held the panty out — hanging from two fingers.

“Take this.”

He blinked.

Eyes widened.

“Madam…”

His voice cracked.

“It’s a woman’s one. How can I…”

My eyes narrowed.

The air thickened.

“I said—wear it.”

Silence.

He looked at it.

At me.

At his own nakedness.

Then, slowly…

He took the panty from my fingers.

Still slightly warm from the sun.

Still shaped from where it clung to my body.

Still carrying everything I was.

He stared at it like a cursed cloth.

I stepped closer.

“Don’t waste time.”

His hands trembled.

He bent down.

Slipped one foot in.

Then the other.

Pulled it up slowly — across his hairy legs, over his thick thighs.

The waistband stretched.

The fabric clung awkwardly.

His cock, too big for the dainty cloth, bent slightly as it settled inside.

The panty hugged him tightly.

Rode up into the crease between his buttocks.

He stood.

Humiliated.

Obedient.

Wearing my panty.

I folded my arms across my chest.

“Better,” I said softly.

“Now you look like what you are.”

A pet.

A plaything.

Mine.