Adultery The Language of Her Heart

[yazhiniram]

I laughed.

Not softly.

Not kindly.

I laughed like a queen watching her jester trip over his own shoes.

He stood in front of me, wearing my panty like it was a crown — tight, awkward, humiliating.

But his cock… oh god.

Still hard.

Still pulsing against that thin fabric.

Still twitching every time the breeze touched it.

And his face?

Pretending to be innocent.

Eyes wide.

Lips tight.

Like he didn’t understand what was happening.

But I saw it.

In his eyes.

In the way his body stood.

In the way he didn’t want to move.

He was enjoying it.

The humiliation. The control.

The fact that it wasn’t a prostitute or a wild stranger doing this to him.

It was me.

A housewife.

A married woman.

His superior.

His fantasy.

He looked like a man living his deepest, dirtiest dream — and trying hard not to show it.

I crossed my arms and tilted my head.

“Do a catwalk for me.”

He blinked.

His mouth opened slightly.

Didn’t get it.

I grinned wider.

“Come on, walk like a model… in my panty.”

His face flushed red.

But his cock jerked once.

He liked it.

Even if he didn’t get the reference.

He stood frozen.

So I laughed again.

Shook my head.

“Leave it.”

Waved my hand like dismissing a naughty child.

“Dress yourself. Let’s leave.”

He nodded quickly.

Embarrassed. Relieved. Disappointed.

Turned around and began searching.

His pants and shirt lay where I had thrown them earlier — near the water tank base.

He bent down, picked them up slowly.

Still bare.

Still dripping with both sweat and submission.

I watched him.

Every muscle.

Every movement.

As he bent, the panty stretched across his ass like a joke that only I could understand.

He dressed quietly.

Pants first — covering up what I had denied again and again.

Then shirt — the same one stained from earlier.

And finally, he tucked it all in like he was going to stand outside the building again and pretend none of this happened.

But I wouldn’t let him leave with even that much comfort.

As he turned, ready to follow, I stepped forward.

Sharp. Calm.

“Whatever happened here…”

He looked up — alert.

“It stays with you.”

My tone was mock-casual, but the heat behind it was unmistakable.

I narrowed my eyes.

Let the silence build.

“If I hear even one word… if anyone finds out…”

He gulped.

I stepped closer.

Almost chest to chest.

“You’ll be dead meat.”

He blinked fast.

“No, madam… I won’t… I promise… I—”

I raised one eyebrow.

He shut his mouth.

Nodded hard.

“Yes, madam. I won’t say. Promise.”

I didn’t smile.

Didn’t respond.

I just looked at him.

Looked.

And in that look, I said it all.

Because I knew.

He could touch himself.

He could stroke that cock in the middle of the night, remembering every second of what happened here.

But that’s all he could do.

That’s all he would ever be allowed to do.



He moved first.

His hand reached for the bolt on the terrace gate.

His fingers—still damp, still trembling just a little—slid the metal latch free.

The gate creaked open.

Hot air rushed in, thick and quiet.

He stepped out into the narrow space beyond the tank enclosure, the cement under his feet already baking in the afternoon heat.

I followed him.

My saree was wrapped neatly, but I hadn’t worn my panty underneath.

I could still feel the breeze touch me between the legs as I walked.

The heat pressed on my back. The sun had no mercy.

But I did.

Just enough to let him walk first.

When we passed the grill door, I stopped.

He turned slightly, confused.

And then I spoke.

My voice was low.

Clear.

“Listen carefully.”

He froze.

“If you take this as an advantage…”

My words were slow, spaced.

“And do your stuff…”

He blinked.

Didn’t reply.

I stepped closer. Just one step.

“I’ll cut your cock and push it into your ass.”

He didn’t even breathe.

I tilted my head.

“Remember that.”

He nodded quickly.

Too quickly.

I knew he didn’t care.

Not really.

He’d go home.

He’d stroke himself.

He’d think about me.

Not his wife.

Not even my threat.

But I said it anyway.

Because I wanted to.

Because I needed to feel that moment — the feeling of towering over him, in words, in memory, in imagination.

It was for me.

We walked together toward the lift.

Silent.

The hallway echoed only our footsteps.

He pressed the button.

The lift door opened — an empty box of steel and memory.

We stepped inside.

He stood on the left.

I stood on the right.

The silence between us was alive.

He didn’t press anything.

I did.

7. And G.

The door closed.

It was just us.

And the air.

And the memory of every single second inside that tank.

I didn’t speak at first.

Didn’t look.

I just watched the floor number change.

12…11… 10…

Then, casually—almost like a joke—I reached out.

And touched his cock.

Over his pants.

My fingers rested on it like it belonged to me.

Because it did.

He flinched. Just a little.

Then stood still.

His breath caught. Shoulders tight.

I turned my face.

Looked him in the eyes.

“I don't need to say it. You already know who it’s meant for.”

She says it slowly, clearly.

“If you even think about giving this to your wife with me in mind…”

She steps closer. Her eyes sharp. Voice calm.

“…you won’t lose it. You’ll still have your cock.”

Pause. Smile.

“But you’ll never get hard again.”

“Not with her. Not with anyone. Not even with yourself, if I’m still in your mind.”

“Only when you forget me. Only then.”

I leaned slightly closer.

Whispered the last part with a smile.

“I’ll kill you.”

The words landed with no softness.

Like a blade gently dragged across his chest.

He nodded.

Of course he did.

What else could he do?

The lift slowed.

7.

The bell chimed.

The door opened.

I stepped out.

No words.

No turning back.

I walked forward.

Felt his eyes on my back.

Felt the air shift the edge of my saree near my legs.

And behind me, the lift closed.

The bell dinged again.

And he went down.

Alone.