18-05-2025, 10:41 AM
I stepped back.
One soft heel twist on the dusty floor. My saree shifted with me — pleats dragging slightly across my thigh. My ass still stung from the fall, the skin under the blouse itching with sweat and grit. I didn’t look at him. Not one glance.
I just bent — slow, controlled — picked up the courier envelope from the corner shelf.
It was still warm from my hand earlier. Still clean. Unlike me.
My back straightened. I didn’t brush the dust off my hip. Let it stay. Let it mark.
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Then I walked toward the door.
Each step slow.
Measured.
My sandals scratched the tile softly. I could feel his body behind me — following. Not touching. Not breathing loud. But there. Shadowing.
My hand touched the latch.
I paused for one second.
Then said it — not turning back, not smiling, just voice cutting sharp and low:
“I’ll go first. You follow after me. Keep the terrace open. Wait there.”
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I didn’t wait for his reply.
I knew he’d obey.
Dogs like him don’t need a second word.
I unlocked the latch.
Pushed the door out softly.
Stepped into the corridor.
Didn’t look back.
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What I didn’t see — above the doorframe, near the junction box — was the small black dome camera. Covered in dust. Quiet. Watching.
The red light blinked once.
Recording.
But I didn’t notice.
I couldn’t.
Because my chest was burning hotter than my mind now.
The fire in my body was louder than my brain.
My nipples were stiff under the blouse.
My panty wet and sticking.
And my hand… my hand still felt the shape of his cock.
I walked out like a queen who didn’t care who saw.
Like nothing touched me.
Even though I was burning from inside.
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The sunlight hit me from the right side.
Bright.
White.
Hot.
The cotton of my red saree immediately began sticking again to my back. The blouse had already gone damp near the spine. I pulled the saree pleats tighter near my waist, adjusted the pallu over my left breast, then walked.
Head high.
Like nothing happened.
Like I hadn’t just twisted a man’s cock in the electric room and slapped his face like a cheap bastard.
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The lift button felt cold against my finger.
I pressed 7.
Waited.
The corridor was empty. My envelope was in one hand. My saree pleats in the other.
But inside?
My panty was wet.
Still.
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Not normal wet.
Not sweat-wet.
This was thick. This was that lazy, post-touch wet. That leftover heat from domination. From holding him. From slapping him. From hearing his voice whisper like slave.
I clenched my thighs slightly.
But the moisture spread again.
Front side… all the way to the band.
It was sticking to the curls there.
I didn’t shift my leg.
I just took a long, slow breath.
The lift arrived.
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I stepped in.
Pressed “7.”
The walls were clean metal. My reflection showed clearly in the side panel — red saree, pallu neat, hair pulled tight in braid. But I could see it.
My nipples.
They were stiff.
Pointed under the blouse.
Even with padded bra, the shape had come.
I didn’t press them down.
Let them show.
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Seventh floor.
I stepped out.
Walked fast.
House door open. I entered. Quiet.
Dropped the envelope on the corner shelf.
Didn’t even look where.
My heart was still fast.
My mouth dry.
But my eyes — burning.
I pulled the pleats once more, tucked them tighter.
Pressed the knot of the petticoat string.
Then I turned.
Walked straight to the lift again.
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Pressed “UP.”
The button glowed red.
My breath was sharp now.
Not scared breath.
Hungry.
Like something inside was still boiling.
I needed to finish what I started.
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The lift came — not from top, but from below.
Ground floor maybe.
It opened.
And there — already inside — was him.
And another man.
Some worker.
Prakash’s head lowered when he saw me.
The other man turned his face immediately — some older fellow, looked like plumber or cleaning boy.
I didn’t blink.
Didn’t flinch.
I stepped in.
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Three of us inside.
Hot air.
Sweat smell.
But I didn’t move back.
I stood proud.
His hand was holding the key.
I didn’t speak.
I could hear his breath — small, tight.
Like he was trying not to show.
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10th floor.
The other man stepped out.
Now only me and my slave.
The lift started moving again.
No talking.
Only breathing.
My thigh shifted once — the damp cloth of my panty rubbed softly against that place.
I closed my eyes one second.
Let the ache settle.
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12th floor.
Walked towards the terrace using stairs.
He opened the latch.
Soft click.
Sunlight blasted in.
Terrace.
That same open space — sky wide above, cement heat below.
I walked out first.
The wind slapped my braid back.
My pallu danced a little.
The air was hotter than morning now.
But I didn’t flinch.
He came behind.
Closed the door.
Clicked the lock.
We were alone.
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I turned to him.
Voice calm.
Face clear.
Hand pointing.
“Go check the tank. Which one has no water, and clean, find it”
No questions.
He nodded.
Ran toward checking it.
And I stood there.
Queen on the terrace again.
Ready to burn.
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He was running.
Like a dog I had whistled for.
His old sandals slapped the concrete with each step, moving tank to tank — checking, peeking in, tapping lids like he was searching for a throne I’d allow him to serve at.
His shirt stuck to his back — sweat patch spreading like oil. The sun wasn’t even harsh today, but he was burning. From inside. I could see it.
He returned in less than two minutes.
Panting.
Chest heaving.
“Madam…” he said, voice short, catching breath. “Fifth block tank… little water left. But clean.”
I didn’t smile.
I just stepped forward.
And said calmly — like a queen entering her temple:
“I’ll go in first.”
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The ladder was rusted — metal blackened with time. But it held firm under my foot.
My saree clung to my legs as I lifted one thigh… then the next.
The petticoat tightened on my hips — each step made the knot press into my waist harder. The red pleats rode up gently with every climb. I felt the back hem shift — grazing my thigh, brushing under me.
As I reached the top, my hips twisted once — the saree pleats lifting slightly, teasing more than I allowed. But I didn’t pull it down.
Let him see.
Let him follow.
Let him feel what it means to obey.
I climbed down into the tank — barefoot.
First foot touched water.
It was warm. Silent. Still.
The ripples spread gently from my skin.
Water came till my calves — not too cold, not too hot. Just right to remind me where I was.
The tank air smelled of cement. A little iron. And something cleaner — like this space was untouched by dirt, untouched by men.
I stood straight.
Inside this dark blue tank — concrete above, open sky behind the ladder — I felt calm.
Not cool.
But calm.
The heat was inside me now — not outside. The petticoat clung between my thighs. Saree was wet till knee. My blouse stuck between the shoulder blades. One drop ran down my spine.
I didn’t wipe it.
Let it travel.
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He entered.
One hand on the ladder. Then two.
His feet came down carefully — like he knew whose presence he was disturbing.
I didn’t wait.
Didn’t turn fully.
The moment he stepped down — both feet touching water — I moved.
One step.
Then another.
And then I turned, faced him.
And caught it.
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My hand slid forward fast — straight onto the bulge under his pants.
No softness.
No delay.
Full palm grab.
That thing was alive. Hot. Already swelling.
The cloth was thin — maybe too thin for a man like him.
My fingers dug into it, twisted slightly. I could feel the full weight, the shape, the pressure building inside.
His body stiffened.
But didn’t step back.
I looked at him. Right in his filthy, silent face.
“Tell me…” I said, voice sharp, low, dangerous. “What was in your mind when you followed me up here?”
He blinked.
Didn’t speak immediately.
I pressed my grip tighter. The bulge twitched under my fingers — his breath caught.
Then finally, he muttered:
“You… you called me, madam… so I came.”
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I leaned forward slightly — not sweetly. Like a whisper with a blade behind it.
“Only because I called?” I hissed. “Or because your cock was dying to see me wet again?”
His mouth opened.
But I didn’t wait for answer.
I twisted my hand harder — a slow, dirty turn that made his hips shift once.
Then I lifted my palm.
And slapped him.
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Not on cheek. On pride.
CHHHT!
Flat. Firm.
My fingers didn’t leave a red mark, but his soul would carry that sting.
His eyes shut tight. But he didn’t move.
Didn’t protest.
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I stepped even closer.
My chest was almost touching him now — the saree between, wet, clinging to both of us.
“From day one, I told you not to stare, no?” I spat.
My voice wasn’t loud.
It was full.
Full of power.
Full of memory.
“Bloody useless…” I whispered, letting my words slide over his chest like my palm had done seconds ago. “Shameless…”
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And in that silence — that hot, wet, tank silence — I could feel it again.
My own breath.
My own pulse.
The way the water moved around my calves with each shift.
The way my panty was pressing harder now.
My body was remembering.
And this dog?
He was standing still.
Waiting.
Obeying.
Mine.
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He was standing in front of me like waste.
Not talking.
Not blinking.
Just standing.
That stupid dog face of his — caught between guilt and horniness.
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His hands were down. His pants were wet. That black shirt sticking under his arms like glue.
And me?
I was inside the tank.
Water just below my calves.
My foot was planted on the concrete floor — small layer of dirt still floating in one corner. I didn’t care.
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My blouse had soaked fully. Hook part was sticking between my shoulder blades. I could feel my own sweat moving down, trapped between the hooks and my spine.
The saree had pulled up from below.
My petticoat was wet all the way till my thighs.
The knot was pressing my belly tight. Panty had stuck between the lips now. I didn’t adjust it.
My braid was stuck to one side of my neck like dead weight. I didn’t move it.
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Because my hand was busy.
I was holding his cock through the pant.
My full palm.
Pressed hard.
That cock was not soft now.
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It was already half hard.
Thick.
Wide.
Pushing against the fabric like it wanted to fight me.
The pant was cheap material.
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Fully wet now.
Sticky.
My fingers were digging into it, squeezing the full bulge from underneath.
I twisted it once.
Just to show him who’s in control.
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It bent under my palm.
And he groaned.
That dirty, soft groan. Like he was trying not to moan. Like it was leaking out without his permission.
I looked straight in his face.
Then slapped him.
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Right cheek.
My fingers hit flat.
CHHHHT!
His head turned.
His jaw moved slightly.
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His eyes shut for one second.
Then opened again.
Red eyes.
Wet lips.
Still not talking.
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His hands didn’t move. He stood there like a statue.
I pressed my palm deeper.
My thumb pushed down on the base of his cock through the cloth.
I could feel the whole curve of it now.
That snake inside the pant — growing thicker.
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Then I said it.
Clear voice.
“Don’t lie to me. Don’t act innocent. You think you can keep staring at me and get away with it?”
He didn’t speak.
He just nodded slowly.
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Like child who got caught stealing coins.
His eyes dropped down — didn’t even try to look at my face.
I didn’t release him.
My grip got harder.
The cock was pulsing now.
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Twitching inside.
Growing slowly.
I moved my hand slightly upward — still over the pant — and held the mid part of the cock.
It was heavy.
Getting harder with each second.
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The cloth had pulled tight over the head now.
I could feel the cock head pressing out against the fabric — one perfect round shape rubbing under my fingers.
I stepped closer.
My chest was near his shirt now.
My breath touched his neck.
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I leaned near his cheek.
My lips were close to his ear.
My voice came low.
“You thought… if you stare long enough… you can fuck me in your dreams, ah?”
His whole body flinched once.
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Cock jumped in my hand.
It jerked straight up once, like it was answering me.
I felt the tip swelling now.
Pushing forward against my palm.
Pant was soaked there.
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Either sweat or precum — I didn’t care.
That heat was coming through the cloth now.
I could feel the skin of his cock through that cheap cotton — like it was naked under my hand.
I didn’t move back.
I didn’t let go.
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I watched him.
And then slapped him again.
CHHHAAT!
Left cheek.
Sharper than before.
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His mouth opened slightly — not in pain — just shock.
But no words came.
I pulled my hand away slowly.
That cock was fully standing now.
Straight under the pant.
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Pointing forward like weapon.
The cloth was hugging it tightly.
It was so big now, I could see the full outline clearly — the head shape, the dick curve, the fat base near his balls.
I looked in his eyes.
Didn’t blink.
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Didn’t smile.
I just said:
”Remove.”
That one word.
And he obeyed.
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His hands went to shirt.
He started unbuttoning — slowly, fingers shaking.
One.
Two.
Three.
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The shirt opened.
Inside was sweat.
Full wet chest.
Curly black hair stuck to his skin.
Some drops were sliding down from neck to belly.
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He pulled the shirt off his shoulders.
That shirt was half stiff from dried sweat, half soaked from new sweat.
It fell on the water edge. Sank a little.
His nipples were dark brown, flat.
Chest hair was thick in middle, thin on sides.
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Some strands were flat with water. Some were stuck together in sweat lines.
His stomach was out.
Little belly.
With hair leading downward.
He didn’t look up.
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Now his hands went to pant.
Opened the button.
Pulled down the zip.
It made that rough sound — zrrrk.
The pant dropped.
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Down to his ankles.
He stepped out.
Now only one cloth left.
That dirty old underwear.
Loose.
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Half torn elastic.
Pale brown colour — some yellow stain in front.
I looked at it.
Then narrowed my eyes.
“You want me to come and remove that also, ah?”
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He didn’t wait.
He bent down fast.
Pulled the underwear down in one panicked move.
Didn’t even care if I was watching.
Just obeyed.
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That cock came out.
And stood.
Thick.
Black.
Ugly.
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Big.
That’s the only word I had now.
Big.
The base had jungle.
Hair fully grown. Not trimmed. Not cleaned.
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Sweat was sitting between the strands.
One white flake of dry skin stuck near the root.
His balls were hanging — low, wrinkled, like sack full of stones.
The skin there was rough.
Not smooth like young boy.
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This was man skin.
Animal skin.
The cock was thick.
Two big veins running from base to top.
One on left side, twisting like rope.
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The head of the cock?
Huge.
Dark maroon colour.
Almost black.
Wide.
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Flat from top.
And leaking.
One drop already there — stuck to the slit.
Slowly sliding down.
That thing looked used.
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Worn.
But strong.
Biggest cock I had seen in real life .
Bigger than Arjun.
Bigger than my husband’s daydreams.
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This was not pretty.
This was raw.
And my body?
It reacted.
My lips parted slightly.
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My mouth became wet.
Saliva came full.
I didn’t even know when it started.
I closed my mouth quickly.
But it had already filled.
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I tasted it.
My chest moved slowly.
I didn’t move my hand.
Didn’t lift my leg.
Didn’t speak.
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I just watched it.
That dirty cock.
Standing fully in front of me.
Alive.
Ugly.
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And hard.
And I was just staring at it.
Not touching.
Just watching.
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Water touching just below my calves.
Still tank.
Still silence.
But inside me?
Fire.
The red saree had pulled heavy between my legs.
Petticoat knot was biting into my waist.
My panty had gone soft — soaked from inside.
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He was standing in front of me.
Completely naked.
No shame.
That black dick hanging between his legs — thick, long, ugly.
It was not even hard properly.
But it was full.
Fat.
Alive.
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The skin was dry in some places.
Sweat had dried and left dirty white flakes on the middle.
Near the root, there was more hair — curly, wiry.
One small clump of hair had stuck to the left side of his balls.
His balls were hanging loose — skin wrinkled and wet.
And that dick?
Veins bulging across, one thick one twisting under.
Tip half covered, but pink head visible.
And disgusting.
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I bent a little forward.
Pulled spit up from my throat.
Didn’t think.
Just spat.
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It landed right on the centre of his cock.
Big thick spit.
It stuck on top, then slid down slow.
Over the skin.
Across the rough patches.
Dripped down and curled around his balls.
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I watched it.
Every second.
The way my saliva travelled across his filthy dick.
Cleaning it.
Claiming it.
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Then I laughed.
One sharp sound.
It came from my chest.
From deep.
Disgust mixed with something else.
Power.
Like my spit proved he was mine.
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“Turn around.”
I said it like an order.
Not a request.
He turned.
No talking.
Only backside now.
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His back was broad.
Muscles under the skin.
Hair covering from shoulder to ass.
The cheeks were dark.
Wide.
Full.
Hairy.
Sweaty.
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I spat again.
Full mouth.
Direct on his ass.
My spit landed with sound — phatt.
Wet.
Slow.
I watched it roll down his crack.
Over his hairy hole.
Toward his thighs.
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I didn’t move.
I just kept breathing.
Watching my own spit stain his backside.
The smell of water, sweat, and wet cotton was all around me.
Still I was burning.
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My thoughts started spinning.
The chillness of the tank…
His dick…
And that kiss Anusha gave me, just 30 minutes back.
Right on my navel.
That kiss didn’t go.
It stayed.
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Last night with Arjun was soft.
Loving.
But I didn’t cum.
Not properly.
Not from fucking.
My pussy was aching still.
Unsatisfied.
Unbroken.
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Do I want it now?
Rough?
Full?
From this filthy dog?
Can he make me break?
My mind said no.
But my body?
Already begging.
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I walked to the front again.
Faced him.
Looked at that dick.
Still hanging.
Still wet with my spit.
It had grown now.
Little thicker.
Head more open.
Shiny from my saliva.
Black skin glistening.
Veins showing full.
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I didn’t blink.
I just reached.
Held it.
Full hand.
Palm under.
Fingers wrapping.
Couldn’t close full — too thick.
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The cock was hot.
Slippery.
My spit had mixed with his sweat.
My fingers rubbed the top — crusty flakes coming off.
One patch under the head had dried white skin — dirty.
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I rubbed slow.
Firm.
Not to make him moan.
To clean him.
Like a filthy utensil.
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My thumb dragged down the middle vein.
I felt the skin shift.
I pressed the nail under one dirty spot — scratched.
That dry skin rolled into paste.
Mixed with my saliva.
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I rubbed harder.
From base to tip.
Tip to root.
My wrist was bending.
My palm was wet now.
The spit was working as lube.
Thick and slippery.
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One clump of hair stuck between my fingers.
I pulled it off.
Flicked it into the water.
My hand didn’t stop.
Still rubbing.
Still pressing.
Still owning.
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My blouse was soaked.
Chest sticky.
Nipples hard inside the bra.
The cotton was clinging.
My panty had stuck deep between the lips.
Every time I shifted, I could feel it rub.
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But I didn’t stop.
My fingers slid under the balls — touched the edge of his sack.
Soft skin.
Loose.
Wet.
Sweaty.
I pulled back.
Came back to the cock.
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The head was more exposed now.
My thumb rubbed it once.
Top was soft.
But one patch was rough — old skin.
I scratched it again.
Peeled off the crust.
Watched it float in the water.
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His cock was dark.
Alive.
Smelly.
But clean now.
The sweat was off.
The flakes gone.
The skin under was shining.
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And my hand?
Still holding it.
Wet.
Tired.
Dirty.
But satisfied.
I looked at that dick.
Watched the filth melt away.
One rub at a time.
One soft heel twist on the dusty floor. My saree shifted with me — pleats dragging slightly across my thigh. My ass still stung from the fall, the skin under the blouse itching with sweat and grit. I didn’t look at him. Not one glance.
I just bent — slow, controlled — picked up the courier envelope from the corner shelf.
It was still warm from my hand earlier. Still clean. Unlike me.
My back straightened. I didn’t brush the dust off my hip. Let it stay. Let it mark.
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Then I walked toward the door.
Each step slow.
Measured.
My sandals scratched the tile softly. I could feel his body behind me — following. Not touching. Not breathing loud. But there. Shadowing.
My hand touched the latch.
I paused for one second.
Then said it — not turning back, not smiling, just voice cutting sharp and low:
“I’ll go first. You follow after me. Keep the terrace open. Wait there.”
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I didn’t wait for his reply.
I knew he’d obey.
Dogs like him don’t need a second word.
I unlocked the latch.
Pushed the door out softly.
Stepped into the corridor.
Didn’t look back.
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What I didn’t see — above the doorframe, near the junction box — was the small black dome camera. Covered in dust. Quiet. Watching.
The red light blinked once.
Recording.
But I didn’t notice.
I couldn’t.
Because my chest was burning hotter than my mind now.
The fire in my body was louder than my brain.
My nipples were stiff under the blouse.
My panty wet and sticking.
And my hand… my hand still felt the shape of his cock.
I walked out like a queen who didn’t care who saw.
Like nothing touched me.
Even though I was burning from inside.
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The sunlight hit me from the right side.
Bright.
White.
Hot.
The cotton of my red saree immediately began sticking again to my back. The blouse had already gone damp near the spine. I pulled the saree pleats tighter near my waist, adjusted the pallu over my left breast, then walked.
Head high.
Like nothing happened.
Like I hadn’t just twisted a man’s cock in the electric room and slapped his face like a cheap bastard.
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The lift button felt cold against my finger.
I pressed 7.
Waited.
The corridor was empty. My envelope was in one hand. My saree pleats in the other.
But inside?
My panty was wet.
Still.
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Not normal wet.
Not sweat-wet.
This was thick. This was that lazy, post-touch wet. That leftover heat from domination. From holding him. From slapping him. From hearing his voice whisper like slave.
I clenched my thighs slightly.
But the moisture spread again.
Front side… all the way to the band.
It was sticking to the curls there.
I didn’t shift my leg.
I just took a long, slow breath.
The lift arrived.
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I stepped in.
Pressed “7.”
The walls were clean metal. My reflection showed clearly in the side panel — red saree, pallu neat, hair pulled tight in braid. But I could see it.
My nipples.
They were stiff.
Pointed under the blouse.
Even with padded bra, the shape had come.
I didn’t press them down.
Let them show.
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Seventh floor.
I stepped out.
Walked fast.
House door open. I entered. Quiet.
Dropped the envelope on the corner shelf.
Didn’t even look where.
My heart was still fast.
My mouth dry.
But my eyes — burning.
I pulled the pleats once more, tucked them tighter.
Pressed the knot of the petticoat string.
Then I turned.
Walked straight to the lift again.
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Pressed “UP.”
The button glowed red.
My breath was sharp now.
Not scared breath.
Hungry.
Like something inside was still boiling.
I needed to finish what I started.
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The lift came — not from top, but from below.
Ground floor maybe.
It opened.
And there — already inside — was him.
And another man.
Some worker.
Prakash’s head lowered when he saw me.
The other man turned his face immediately — some older fellow, looked like plumber or cleaning boy.
I didn’t blink.
Didn’t flinch.
I stepped in.
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Three of us inside.
Hot air.
Sweat smell.
But I didn’t move back.
I stood proud.
His hand was holding the key.
I didn’t speak.
I could hear his breath — small, tight.
Like he was trying not to show.
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10th floor.
The other man stepped out.
Now only me and my slave.
The lift started moving again.
No talking.
Only breathing.
My thigh shifted once — the damp cloth of my panty rubbed softly against that place.
I closed my eyes one second.
Let the ache settle.
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12th floor.
Walked towards the terrace using stairs.
He opened the latch.
Soft click.
Sunlight blasted in.
Terrace.
That same open space — sky wide above, cement heat below.
I walked out first.
The wind slapped my braid back.
My pallu danced a little.
The air was hotter than morning now.
But I didn’t flinch.
He came behind.
Closed the door.
Clicked the lock.
We were alone.
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I turned to him.
Voice calm.
Face clear.
Hand pointing.
“Go check the tank. Which one has no water, and clean, find it”
No questions.
He nodded.
Ran toward checking it.
And I stood there.
Queen on the terrace again.
Ready to burn.
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He was running.
Like a dog I had whistled for.
His old sandals slapped the concrete with each step, moving tank to tank — checking, peeking in, tapping lids like he was searching for a throne I’d allow him to serve at.
His shirt stuck to his back — sweat patch spreading like oil. The sun wasn’t even harsh today, but he was burning. From inside. I could see it.
He returned in less than two minutes.
Panting.
Chest heaving.
“Madam…” he said, voice short, catching breath. “Fifth block tank… little water left. But clean.”
I didn’t smile.
I just stepped forward.
And said calmly — like a queen entering her temple:
“I’ll go in first.”
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The ladder was rusted — metal blackened with time. But it held firm under my foot.
My saree clung to my legs as I lifted one thigh… then the next.
The petticoat tightened on my hips — each step made the knot press into my waist harder. The red pleats rode up gently with every climb. I felt the back hem shift — grazing my thigh, brushing under me.
As I reached the top, my hips twisted once — the saree pleats lifting slightly, teasing more than I allowed. But I didn’t pull it down.
Let him see.
Let him follow.
Let him feel what it means to obey.
I climbed down into the tank — barefoot.
First foot touched water.
It was warm. Silent. Still.
The ripples spread gently from my skin.
Water came till my calves — not too cold, not too hot. Just right to remind me where I was.
The tank air smelled of cement. A little iron. And something cleaner — like this space was untouched by dirt, untouched by men.
I stood straight.
Inside this dark blue tank — concrete above, open sky behind the ladder — I felt calm.
Not cool.
But calm.
The heat was inside me now — not outside. The petticoat clung between my thighs. Saree was wet till knee. My blouse stuck between the shoulder blades. One drop ran down my spine.
I didn’t wipe it.
Let it travel.
-----------------------------------------------
He entered.
One hand on the ladder. Then two.
His feet came down carefully — like he knew whose presence he was disturbing.
I didn’t wait.
Didn’t turn fully.
The moment he stepped down — both feet touching water — I moved.
One step.
Then another.
And then I turned, faced him.
And caught it.
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My hand slid forward fast — straight onto the bulge under his pants.
No softness.
No delay.
Full palm grab.
That thing was alive. Hot. Already swelling.
The cloth was thin — maybe too thin for a man like him.
My fingers dug into it, twisted slightly. I could feel the full weight, the shape, the pressure building inside.
His body stiffened.
But didn’t step back.
I looked at him. Right in his filthy, silent face.
“Tell me…” I said, voice sharp, low, dangerous. “What was in your mind when you followed me up here?”
He blinked.
Didn’t speak immediately.
I pressed my grip tighter. The bulge twitched under my fingers — his breath caught.
Then finally, he muttered:
“You… you called me, madam… so I came.”
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I leaned forward slightly — not sweetly. Like a whisper with a blade behind it.
“Only because I called?” I hissed. “Or because your cock was dying to see me wet again?”
His mouth opened.
But I didn’t wait for answer.
I twisted my hand harder — a slow, dirty turn that made his hips shift once.
Then I lifted my palm.
And slapped him.
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Not on cheek. On pride.
CHHHT!
Flat. Firm.
My fingers didn’t leave a red mark, but his soul would carry that sting.
His eyes shut tight. But he didn’t move.
Didn’t protest.
-----------------------------------------------
I stepped even closer.
My chest was almost touching him now — the saree between, wet, clinging to both of us.
“From day one, I told you not to stare, no?” I spat.
My voice wasn’t loud.
It was full.
Full of power.
Full of memory.
“Bloody useless…” I whispered, letting my words slide over his chest like my palm had done seconds ago. “Shameless…”
-----------------------------------------------
And in that silence — that hot, wet, tank silence — I could feel it again.
My own breath.
My own pulse.
The way the water moved around my calves with each shift.
The way my panty was pressing harder now.
My body was remembering.
And this dog?
He was standing still.
Waiting.
Obeying.
Mine.
-----------------------------------------------
He was standing in front of me like waste.
Not talking.
Not blinking.
Just standing.
That stupid dog face of his — caught between guilt and horniness.
-----------------------------------------------
His hands were down. His pants were wet. That black shirt sticking under his arms like glue.
And me?
I was inside the tank.
Water just below my calves.
My foot was planted on the concrete floor — small layer of dirt still floating in one corner. I didn’t care.
-----------------------------------------------
My blouse had soaked fully. Hook part was sticking between my shoulder blades. I could feel my own sweat moving down, trapped between the hooks and my spine.
The saree had pulled up from below.
My petticoat was wet all the way till my thighs.
The knot was pressing my belly tight. Panty had stuck between the lips now. I didn’t adjust it.
My braid was stuck to one side of my neck like dead weight. I didn’t move it.
-----------------------------------------------
Because my hand was busy.
I was holding his cock through the pant.
My full palm.
Pressed hard.
That cock was not soft now.
-----------------------------------------------
It was already half hard.
Thick.
Wide.
Pushing against the fabric like it wanted to fight me.
The pant was cheap material.
-----------------------------------------------
Fully wet now.
Sticky.
My fingers were digging into it, squeezing the full bulge from underneath.
I twisted it once.
Just to show him who’s in control.
-----------------------------------------------
It bent under my palm.
And he groaned.
That dirty, soft groan. Like he was trying not to moan. Like it was leaking out without his permission.
I looked straight in his face.
Then slapped him.
-----------------------------------------------
Right cheek.
My fingers hit flat.
CHHHHT!
His head turned.
His jaw moved slightly.
-----------------------------------------------
His eyes shut for one second.
Then opened again.
Red eyes.
Wet lips.
Still not talking.
-----------------------------------------------
His hands didn’t move. He stood there like a statue.
I pressed my palm deeper.
My thumb pushed down on the base of his cock through the cloth.
I could feel the whole curve of it now.
That snake inside the pant — growing thicker.
-----------------------------------------------
Then I said it.
Clear voice.
“Don’t lie to me. Don’t act innocent. You think you can keep staring at me and get away with it?”
He didn’t speak.
He just nodded slowly.
-----------------------------------------------
Like child who got caught stealing coins.
His eyes dropped down — didn’t even try to look at my face.
I didn’t release him.
My grip got harder.
The cock was pulsing now.
-----------------------------------------------
Twitching inside.
Growing slowly.
I moved my hand slightly upward — still over the pant — and held the mid part of the cock.
It was heavy.
Getting harder with each second.
-----------------------------------------------
The cloth had pulled tight over the head now.
I could feel the cock head pressing out against the fabric — one perfect round shape rubbing under my fingers.
I stepped closer.
My chest was near his shirt now.
My breath touched his neck.
-----------------------------------------------
I leaned near his cheek.
My lips were close to his ear.
My voice came low.
“You thought… if you stare long enough… you can fuck me in your dreams, ah?”
His whole body flinched once.
-----------------------------------------------
Cock jumped in my hand.
It jerked straight up once, like it was answering me.
I felt the tip swelling now.
Pushing forward against my palm.
Pant was soaked there.
-----------------------------------------------
Either sweat or precum — I didn’t care.
That heat was coming through the cloth now.
I could feel the skin of his cock through that cheap cotton — like it was naked under my hand.
I didn’t move back.
I didn’t let go.
-----------------------------------------------
I watched him.
And then slapped him again.
CHHHAAT!
Left cheek.
Sharper than before.
-----------------------------------------------
His mouth opened slightly — not in pain — just shock.
But no words came.
I pulled my hand away slowly.
That cock was fully standing now.
Straight under the pant.
-----------------------------------------------
Pointing forward like weapon.
The cloth was hugging it tightly.
It was so big now, I could see the full outline clearly — the head shape, the dick curve, the fat base near his balls.
I looked in his eyes.
Didn’t blink.
-----------------------------------------------
Didn’t smile.
I just said:
”Remove.”
That one word.
And he obeyed.
-----------------------------------------------
His hands went to shirt.
He started unbuttoning — slowly, fingers shaking.
One.
Two.
Three.
-----------------------------------------------
The shirt opened.
Inside was sweat.
Full wet chest.
Curly black hair stuck to his skin.
Some drops were sliding down from neck to belly.
-----------------------------------------------
He pulled the shirt off his shoulders.
That shirt was half stiff from dried sweat, half soaked from new sweat.
It fell on the water edge. Sank a little.
His nipples were dark brown, flat.
Chest hair was thick in middle, thin on sides.
-----------------------------------------------
Some strands were flat with water. Some were stuck together in sweat lines.
His stomach was out.
Little belly.
With hair leading downward.
He didn’t look up.
-----------------------------------------------
Now his hands went to pant.
Opened the button.
Pulled down the zip.
It made that rough sound — zrrrk.
The pant dropped.
-----------------------------------------------
Down to his ankles.
He stepped out.
Now only one cloth left.
That dirty old underwear.
Loose.
-----------------------------------------------
Half torn elastic.
Pale brown colour — some yellow stain in front.
I looked at it.
Then narrowed my eyes.
“You want me to come and remove that also, ah?”
-----------------------------------------------
He didn’t wait.
He bent down fast.
Pulled the underwear down in one panicked move.
Didn’t even care if I was watching.
Just obeyed.
-----------------------------------------------
That cock came out.
And stood.
Thick.
Black.
Ugly.
-----------------------------------------------
Big.
That’s the only word I had now.
Big.
The base had jungle.
Hair fully grown. Not trimmed. Not cleaned.
-----------------------------------------------
Sweat was sitting between the strands.
One white flake of dry skin stuck near the root.
His balls were hanging — low, wrinkled, like sack full of stones.
The skin there was rough.
Not smooth like young boy.
-----------------------------------------------
This was man skin.
Animal skin.
The cock was thick.
Two big veins running from base to top.
One on left side, twisting like rope.
-----------------------------------------------
The head of the cock?
Huge.
Dark maroon colour.
Almost black.
Wide.
-----------------------------------------------
Flat from top.
And leaking.
One drop already there — stuck to the slit.
Slowly sliding down.
That thing looked used.
-----------------------------------------------
Worn.
But strong.
Biggest cock I had seen in real life .
Bigger than Arjun.
Bigger than my husband’s daydreams.
-----------------------------------------------
This was not pretty.
This was raw.
And my body?
It reacted.
My lips parted slightly.
-----------------------------------------------
My mouth became wet.
Saliva came full.
I didn’t even know when it started.
I closed my mouth quickly.
But it had already filled.
-----------------------------------------------
I tasted it.
My chest moved slowly.
I didn’t move my hand.
Didn’t lift my leg.
Didn’t speak.
-----------------------------------------------
I just watched it.
That dirty cock.
Standing fully in front of me.
Alive.
Ugly.
-----------------------------------------------
And hard.
And I was just staring at it.
Not touching.
Just watching.
-----------------------------------------------
Water touching just below my calves.
Still tank.
Still silence.
But inside me?
Fire.
The red saree had pulled heavy between my legs.
Petticoat knot was biting into my waist.
My panty had gone soft — soaked from inside.
-----------------------------------------------
He was standing in front of me.
Completely naked.
No shame.
That black dick hanging between his legs — thick, long, ugly.
It was not even hard properly.
But it was full.
Fat.
Alive.
-----------------------------------------------
The skin was dry in some places.
Sweat had dried and left dirty white flakes on the middle.
Near the root, there was more hair — curly, wiry.
One small clump of hair had stuck to the left side of his balls.
His balls were hanging loose — skin wrinkled and wet.
And that dick?
Veins bulging across, one thick one twisting under.
Tip half covered, but pink head visible.
And disgusting.
-----------------------------------------------
I bent a little forward.
Pulled spit up from my throat.
Didn’t think.
Just spat.
-----------------------------------------------
It landed right on the centre of his cock.
Big thick spit.
It stuck on top, then slid down slow.
Over the skin.
Across the rough patches.
Dripped down and curled around his balls.
-----------------------------------------------
I watched it.
Every second.
The way my saliva travelled across his filthy dick.
Cleaning it.
Claiming it.
-----------------------------------------------
Then I laughed.
One sharp sound.
It came from my chest.
From deep.
Disgust mixed with something else.
Power.
Like my spit proved he was mine.
-----------------------------------------------
“Turn around.”
I said it like an order.
Not a request.
He turned.
No talking.
Only backside now.
-----------------------------------------------
His back was broad.
Muscles under the skin.
Hair covering from shoulder to ass.
The cheeks were dark.
Wide.
Full.
Hairy.
Sweaty.
-----------------------------------------------
I spat again.
Full mouth.
Direct on his ass.
My spit landed with sound — phatt.
Wet.
Slow.
I watched it roll down his crack.
Over his hairy hole.
Toward his thighs.
-----------------------------------------------
I didn’t move.
I just kept breathing.
Watching my own spit stain his backside.
The smell of water, sweat, and wet cotton was all around me.
Still I was burning.
-----------------------------------------------
My thoughts started spinning.
The chillness of the tank…
His dick…
And that kiss Anusha gave me, just 30 minutes back.
Right on my navel.
That kiss didn’t go.
It stayed.
-----------------------------------------------
Last night with Arjun was soft.
Loving.
But I didn’t cum.
Not properly.
Not from fucking.
My pussy was aching still.
Unsatisfied.
Unbroken.
-----------------------------------------------
Do I want it now?
Rough?
Full?
From this filthy dog?
Can he make me break?
My mind said no.
But my body?
Already begging.
-----------------------------------------------
I walked to the front again.
Faced him.
Looked at that dick.
Still hanging.
Still wet with my spit.
It had grown now.
Little thicker.
Head more open.
Shiny from my saliva.
Black skin glistening.
Veins showing full.
-----------------------------------------------
I didn’t blink.
I just reached.
Held it.
Full hand.
Palm under.
Fingers wrapping.
Couldn’t close full — too thick.
-----------------------------------------------
The cock was hot.
Slippery.
My spit had mixed with his sweat.
My fingers rubbed the top — crusty flakes coming off.
One patch under the head had dried white skin — dirty.
-----------------------------------------------
I rubbed slow.
Firm.
Not to make him moan.
To clean him.
Like a filthy utensil.
-----------------------------------------------
My thumb dragged down the middle vein.
I felt the skin shift.
I pressed the nail under one dirty spot — scratched.
That dry skin rolled into paste.
Mixed with my saliva.
-----------------------------------------------
I rubbed harder.
From base to tip.
Tip to root.
My wrist was bending.
My palm was wet now.
The spit was working as lube.
Thick and slippery.
-----------------------------------------------
One clump of hair stuck between my fingers.
I pulled it off.
Flicked it into the water.
My hand didn’t stop.
Still rubbing.
Still pressing.
Still owning.
-----------------------------------------------
My blouse was soaked.
Chest sticky.
Nipples hard inside the bra.
The cotton was clinging.
My panty had stuck deep between the lips.
Every time I shifted, I could feel it rub.
-----------------------------------------------
But I didn’t stop.
My fingers slid under the balls — touched the edge of his sack.
Soft skin.
Loose.
Wet.
Sweaty.
I pulled back.
Came back to the cock.
-----------------------------------------------
The head was more exposed now.
My thumb rubbed it once.
Top was soft.
But one patch was rough — old skin.
I scratched it again.
Peeled off the crust.
Watched it float in the water.
-----------------------------------------------
His cock was dark.
Alive.
Smelly.
But clean now.
The sweat was off.
The flakes gone.
The skin under was shining.
-----------------------------------------------
And my hand?
Still holding it.
Wet.
Tired.
Dirty.
But satisfied.
I looked at that dick.
Watched the filth melt away.
One rub at a time.