Adultery The Language of Her Heart

[yazhiniram]

We shuffled again.

I could feel my skin cooling where the fan hit.

But under the blouse, my chest was warm. That kind of warmth that doesn't go away quickly.

Arjun was still sitting without his t-shirt. Relaxed.

His back was leaning on the sofa. One knee bent. Breathing slightly heavier than before.

The pallu was still on my lap. I hadn’t touched it.

We started the round.

This time, I won.

I placed the cards slowly, neatly on the mat.

He raised his eyebrows. “Your turn, anni.”

I tapped my chin with one finger.

There were a few dares still pending. But if I asked him now to remove something, he might come back in the next round and ask double. I knew his style now.

So I thought for a second more.

Then looked at him, straight.

“Tell one poem,” I said.

“Poem?”

“Yes. About me.”

He smiled. “About you-aa?”

“Yes,” I said, acting casual. “One poem. One line also okay. But it should be about me.”

He exhaled once, softly. “Okay anni…”

He looked at me for two seconds.

Then said, in that soft, slow way that didn’t sound like a joke:

“You’re not wearing jasmine.

You’re not wearing gold.

But still, anni…

you look like a Queen today.”

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My smile dropped slightly.

Just for a second.

Then came back.

I didn’t say anything.

Just looked down and started picking the cards for the next round.

But inside — somewhere low in my belly — I could feel that heat he said.

Not just in my eyes.

Everywhere.

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Next round.

He won.

He leaned forward this time, palms on his knees, eyes sharp.

“Anni… you’ve seen Sivaji movie?”

I narrowed my eyes. “Why?”

“That scene where Shreya stops the train. Running towards Rajnikanth.”

I stared at him.

He smiled.

“You have to do that.”

“What?”

“You have to stop the train. Like her.”

“Arjun…” I said, voice low. “You’re doing too much now.”

He folded his hands. “Rules are rules, anni.”

I gave one fake angry look.

He didn’t flinch.

I sat there, holding my breath, then stood up.

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I walked to the far end of the hall.

Took a soft breath.

Opened one side of my pallu, just slightly, letting it fall from the shoulder again.

My blouse was tight. My chest felt full.

I wasn’t running hard. Just soft jogging. But still… I could feel the movement.

The cotton brushed my stomach. My hips moved. My breasts bounced slightly with every step.

He didn’t laugh.

He didn’t cheer.

He just watched.

Eyes fixed. Mouth closed.

I came near and stopped, pallu flying once, then falling down.

I stood still for a moment. Then sat back on the mat.

And pulled the pallu over my chest again, just to cover.

But he raised his hand. “Anni…”

I looked at him.

“Four rounds back, I said — once removed, can’t wear again.”

He smiled like a proper collegeboy. Innocent face, but fully ready.

“You’re using my rules against me?” I asked.

He nodded. “Fair is fair.”

I sighed once. Looked down.

Then took the pallu. And placed it back in my lap.

Chest open again.

Blouse tight again.

His eyes didn’t stare now. But they stayed.

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I won the next round.

My fingers were already tingling before I said anything.

He was sitting cross-legged, shirtless, looking calm. But I wasn’t. Not fully.

My chest was out in the open. My pallu still in my lap. His eyes were doing their quiet glancing.

Now it was time.

“Get up,” I said.

He looked at me. “What now, anni…”

“Remove your pant.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Take off your pant. Sit down in your inner.”

He rubbed his forehead once. “Anni… just think about it.”

“I don’t want to think. Do first, then we’ll talk,” I said, acting casual — but my heart was doing some Olympic event already.

He stood up slowly.

Slid his thumbs into the waistband.

And pulled his track pants down.

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That was the moment.

First time I saw him like that.

Fully bare on top.

Only one thin inner at the bottom.

V-cut. White. Not tight-tight. But enough to see everything.

And what I saw…

My eyes didn’t blink.

His cock.

It wasn’t hard-hard.

But it was getting there.

A full semi.

Pushed to one side, resting heavy inside that cloth.

The head was shaping clearly. The length was almost half outlined.

That stupid cotton was doing zero job hiding it.

He sat down again — fast — like he knew what I saw.

Crossed one leg.

Then changed it.

Then just brought his knee up and kept a hand across his crotch like a collegeboy.

I smiled.

Didn't say anything.

But in my head…

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So that’s his cock.

That’s what’s sitting inside his body this whole time.

Thick… heavy… already swelling like it wants to come out and say hello.

I looked away.

Then looked back.

I couldn't stop myself.

His palm was sitting there like a useless lid on a boiling pot.

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Next round. I was still riding the last win.

He shuffled slower now. Eyes not meeting mine fully.

We started.

I played fast. Focused.

Won again.

“Get up,” I said.

He sighed. “Scared to ask.”

“You should be.”

“Tell, anni.”

“Ten rounds. From this wall to that wall. Running. Hands up.”

He gave a fake groan. “This is punishment round, anni.”

“These are your rules, remember?” I said sweetly.

He stood up.

Raised both hands.

And started jogging.

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That’s when it got worse.

Or better.

For me.

Because now, with each step — his cock was bouncing.

That inner was holding on for dear life.

But I could see it.

Slapping lightly. Bouncing against his thigh.

Thick. Full. Swollen at the middle.

It was getting harder — not fully up, but fattening.

I was watching.

Like a pervert.

Like some sick desperate woman.

But I couldn’t stop.

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He finished and came back, panting.

Sat down.

I glanced down once more.

His cock was right there. Pushing into the fabric.

Almost no space left.

I could see the shape. The cock. The curve.

And one small wet spot forming on the front.

Fuck.

I stared.

One extra second.

Then I heard it.

“Hmmm…”

A small sound from him.

Not a word.

Just that one hum.

And I snapped my eyes up.

My face went hot.

My thighs pressed together.

The fan was suddenly not enough.

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In my head:

That’s a cock.

That’s a young man’s cock. Sitting hard in his underwear, right in front of me.

And I’m looking at it like I paid for it.

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I straightened up. Pretended to fix my blouse.

He didn’t say anything.

Still calling me anni.

Still pretending like we were playing.

But he knew.

I knew.

That line?

We crossed it.

Five dares ago.

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He sat back down. Not saying much.

His skin had a soft sheen now. All that running and squatting had left a glow across his chest and arms. That inner — still tight, still helpless — looked a little more stretched than before.

He started shuffling the cards. Calm. Focused. No rush.

I sat opposite. Petticoat creased at my thighs. Blouse pulling at the edges. No pallu. No saree.

Just cloth and skin.

The room was silent except for the shuffle.

We played.

I tried to focus, but my fingers weren’t steady. I was watching his hands more than my cards.

He played clean.

He won.

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He placed the cards down slowly. Looked at me.

“Anni…”

He said it so gently.

Like he was saying it for the first time.

“Now… remove your saree.”

My breath caught.

I blinked once.

“What?”

“Remove your saree. That’s the rule, anni.”

I gave a small laugh. Nervous. Fake.

“Arjun… don’t start again…”

But he stayed still.

Didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease.

“You said it,” he replied. “You made me do every dare. Every silly thing. Now it’s your turn.”

I looked at him.

His eyes were not forceful.

But they weren’t backing off either.

I had no more excuses left.

No more tricks.

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I sat up straighter.

My fingers touched the edge of the saree at my hip — already loosened earlier, just tucked in casually now.

My pallu had been off since before.

This was it.

I pulled once.

The pleats dropped in a soft fall.

The fabric slid down my side, pooling on the mat.

Then I stood up slowly, holding what was left of the cloth, and let it fall completely to the floor.

Now I was just standing there.

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Blouse. Petticoat. Panty line.

That was all.

The blouse was a deep brown — cotton with a little stretch.

It hugged me. Tight around the chest.

The neckline was wide, cut low near the collarbone. Not deep, but wide enough to pull the eyes there.

My breasts were full, curved, sitting high in the blouse. The hook line between them pressed in a soft V — a clear cleavage line.

The petticoat was old. Off-white. Tied low on my waist. The knot dipped below my navel.

And just under that bow — in that gap between folds — my panty was showing.

Black.

Thin band.

The centre triangle resting soft against my skin.

I wasn’t fully shaved down there. Not trimmed either. Just… natural.

And I knew — he could see that too.

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I stood there.

Breathing normal. Face expressionless.

But inside…

My skin was burning.

Not hot.

Not wet.

Just… burning.

My thighs pressed slightly.

My back was stiff.

My nipples had hardened. I could feel them now. Sharp against the inside of the blouse.

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He didn’t say a word.

He was just looking.

From my toes… up my shin… past my knees… my thighs… the space between… the stomach… the blouse… my chest.

And then finally… my face.

I didn’t meet his eyes fully.

But I saw the tension in his throat as he swallowed.

I saw the rise and fall of his chest.

I saw his cock.

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That inner was failing now.

His cock was sitting thick inside it — no longer soft.

It wasn’t standing up.

But it was big now.

The full shape of it — from base to head — was pushing into the cloth, resting along his thigh.

One small patch of pre-cum had dampened the spot near the tip. Just a coin-sized wetness.

He adjusted his thigh once.

Not because it was falling — but because it was growing.

And I watched.

Every second of it.

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Then I sat down.

Crossed my legs. Adjusted the petticoat. Let the blouse sit naturally.

Didn’t cover anything.

Didn’t pull anything up.

Let him see.

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We started the next round.

I won.

“Your turn,” I said, softly.

He was already bracing for something.

“Get up,” I said.

He looked up. “What now, anni…”

“Do that same walk again.”

His face dropped.

“Anni…”

“Same style. Like aunty. Like before.”

He stood up.

The inner was sticking now — not loose like before.

The fabric clung to his cock. Moulded around it.

He walked.

Hips moving.

Thighs rubbing.

Cock swinging.

It bounced gently with each step — slow, deliberate, heavy.

I saw the way the head pressed against the cloth — thick roundness pushing forward.

Every bounce was a statement.

And I watched.

Eyes locked.

No hiding.

He caught it.

Mid-walk, his eyes looked down — saw where my gaze was.

And then looked back up.

He saw it.

That I was watching his cock.

Not by accident.

Not by mistake.

But fully.

Intentionally.

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And I didn’t blink.

Didn’t laugh.

Just watched it swing one more time.

Then settle.

Then I looked up.

He sat down.

And we didn’t speak.

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The clock on the wall showed 7:30.

The fan was still running in the hall. The light outside had dimmed. Yellow from the streetlamp was leaking in through the half-drawn curtain.

I looked at him.

His legs were stretched out. His chest was still bare. Inner still tight. Still hiding and failing.

And I was just sitting there — in my blouse and petticoat, without saree, without shame.

“I think we should stop now,” I said softly. “It’s enough no… time for dinner.”

But he shook his head, smiling. “Anni… please. Let’s do one more. It’s getting interesting.”

I gave one small laugh. “Then come eat first. I’m not playing with hungry boy.”

He gave a dramatic sigh. “Okay okay. Dinner first.”

I stood up slowly, brushing my petticoat flat over my thigh.

Bent once to pick up my saree from the floor.

As I was about to wrap it around, he said:

“Anni… wait.”

I looked at him.

He was still sitting on the floor mat.

“Let’s be in same state,” he said, eyes innocent. “It’ll help for next round also.”

I raised one eyebrow. “Same state?”

He nodded, acting serious. “I mean… whatever we’re wearing now. Let’s just stay like that till the game finishes.”

I smiled. “I’m fully covered. Saree is just missing. You’re the one in inner only.”

He shrugged. “I’m okay, anni. If you are.”

I looked at him.

His cock was still there — heavy, relaxed, sitting like a patient student under the cloth.

He wasn’t hiding anymore.

And I wasn’t pretending to look away.

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We walked to the dining table.

He pulled the chair and sat — just like that. In his inner. Bare chest. Legs wide.

I went to the kitchen. Opened the rice pot. Stirred the sambar. Checked the pickle bottle. My blouse stuck to my back as I moved — sweat and fabric.

My petticoat pulled across my hip every time I turned.

I was serving food with my breasts sitting openly inside the blouse — no pallu, no saree. Just cotton hugging flesh.

And he was sitting behind me. Watching.

Maybe not openly.

But I could feel it.

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We ate in silence.

I sat opposite him. Scooped rice with fingers. Sipped rasam. Tried not to drop anything.

My thighs were sticking to the plastic seat.

Every time I leaned forward, the blouse pulled tighter against my chest.

Every time he leaned back, his cock shifted under the inner.

He didn’t speak much.

He ate slow.

But his eyes were moving.

Once on my collarbone.

Once on my navel.

Once on that small band of panty still showing under the knot.

He didn’t say a word.

But he didn’t miss anything.

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After eating, he wiped his mouth, drank water, and stood up.

“I’ll be in the hall,” he said softly. “You come when ready.”

I nodded.

He walked away, bare back disappearing around the corner.

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I turned to the sink.

The vessels were still there — oily, sticky, smelling of sambar and masala.

I stood there, blouse slightly wet at the hem, and started rinsing.

The tap was slow. The plates kept slipping. The sink splash hit my petticoat and made it cling to my leg.

My mind was half in the sink, half on him.

Still waiting in the hall.

Still shirtless.

Still in inner.

Still hard?

I didn’t know.

But I wanted to.

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By the time I wiped my hands, the clock said 8:50.

I checked myself once in the fridge reflection.

Hair a little loose.

Neckline a little lower.

One breast slightly more shaped now. The blouse had stretched after all that bending.

I didn’t fix anything.

I walked back to the hall.

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He was already sitting.

Cards in hand.

Shuffling.

Eyes serious.

No jokes now.

He looked at me once. Then continued shuffling.

And I sat down in the same spot.

Petticoat creased.

Panty line still showing.

Chest still full in blouse.

And I said nothing.

Because I was ready.

For the next round.

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He was quiet now.

Cards in his hand. Bare chest catching the fan breeze. Inner pulled tight over his thighs. His cock was sitting sideways, still swelling from whatever he was imagining.

I shuffled mine, pretending to act cool.

But in my head?

If he wins this round, I don’t know what else is left to remove.

But I couldn’t stop now.

And he won.

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He grinned. Softly. Not loud.

“Anni…”

I looked up, already suspicious. “Now what?”

“Do hip dance.”

I blinked. “What hip dance?”

“Like Arabian dance. Hip side to side. Like belly dancer.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Are you okay? What movie did you see now?”

He did a small gesture with his hand. “Like this. Small movement only. Little sexy types.”

I gave one playful slap on my own thigh. “You’ve lost it.”

But he smiled.

“You made me do catwalk, pushups, squats. I did everything. Now my turn, anni.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re becoming too naughty, da.”

“Rules are rules,” he said, hiding his grin behind his hand.

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I stood up.

Petticoat sitting low. Blouse tight.

I placed my hands on my hips. “If I fall, your fault.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, hands up.

I started slowly.

Right hip.

Left hip.

Small circles.

Back. Forth.

The movement was natural — too natural.

The petticoat shifted with each roll.

My blouse stretched over my chest with the turns.

My braid swung against my back.

I looked at him mid-dance.

He was sitting still.

But his eyes?

Staring.

And between his legs, inside that already tight inner — his cock was now rock hard.

It wasn’t hiding anymore.

Stuck against the cloth. Pressed flat.

The head was outlined. The shaft was fat.

He was pretending to sit calm — but there was a tent in his lap now.

I bit my lip and turned away.

Finished the last hip swing.

And sat back down, breathing a little faster — not from dancing.

From watching.

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Next round started.

I focused. I had to win.

But no use.

He won again.

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He looked at me, acting too sweet.

“Anni…”

I gave him one warning look.

“Unhook your blouse.”

I paused. “Arjun…”

“Just the back hook. Not removing. Just opening.”

I stared at him. “You’ve gone mad.”

He raised both palms. “Anni, I didn’t say remove anything. Just unhook. Like a dare.”

I crossed my arms. “Let’s wrap this game now. Getting too much.”

He smiled, tilted his head like a puppy. “Please… rules are rules.”

That line again.

God, this boy.

I turned slowly.

Reached behind.

Fingers found the hooks.

And I opened them.

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The moment they popped, I felt the weight shift.

The blouse loosened.

It fell slightly forward, hanging open.

My bra was now fully visible — simple beige cotton, no padding, no frills.

But my breasts were fully shaped inside. Tight, full, skin pressing into the cups.

The cleavage was deep now.

The blouse hung open on both sides. I didn’t pin it. I didn’t close it.

I just sat like that.

Pretending to act normal.

But my heart?

Banging like anything.

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He looked once.

Then looked again.

He was still sitting with his legs crossed, but his cock was now throbbing under the inner.

I saw it.

I knew he saw me seeing it.

And we both didn’t say anything.

I looked at him.

He smiled.

Like it was just another game.

And I smiled back.

Like I wasn’t sitting in an open blouse and visible bra in front of my husband’s younger brother.

Because that’s what we were doing.

Just playing.

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