Adultery The Language of Her Heart

[yazhiniram]

“Finally alone. Safe.”


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But why safe?  

Safe from who?  

From him?  

From neighbors?  

From society?  

Or from myself?


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My back still touched the door.  

It felt cold now.  

Not the clean kind of cold.  

But leftover cold.  

Like morning steel after a long night.


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I didn’t move.  

Not yet.  

My breath was stuck in my chest.  

My heart was still inside the tank.  

Still pressed against him.  

Still soaking in sin.


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I blinked slowly.  

My eyelashes were wet.  

Not from crying.  

From the wind.  

Or the leftover sweat.


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One hand held the flat key.  

Tightly.  

It had bite marks now.  

From my own palm.


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Other hand—open.  

Palm soft.  

Fingers loose.  

Still smelled of his cock.


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I lowered my eyes.  

My blouse stuck to my chest.  

Cotton soaked in every way possible—  

Sweat,  

Tank water,  

And the faint milk of orgasm.


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Nipples were angry.  

Pushing the cloth like prisoners.  

Hard. Pointed.  

Not because of cold.  

Because they hadn’t finished talking yet.


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My saree dragged across the floor.  

Its pleats were ruined.  

Its folds drunk with sin.  

It trailed behind me like a dead snake,  

Wrapped in memory.


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And my pussy?  

That was a mess of its own.  

Just sore lips breathing open.  

Each step made them kiss and stick.


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I stood straight.  

Then slouched.  

Then straight again.  

My thighs didn’t want to close.


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The smell between my legs was real.  

Not flowery.  

Not mild.  

Just raw.  

Salt. Skin. Sex.


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I looked to my left.  

Bathroom.  

Half-open.  

Dim light inside.  

One towel hanging.


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And on the hook—  

My old nightie.  

Pale pink.  

Faded flowers.  

Neck stretched from years.  

A tiny hole under left arm.  

No shape.  

No sex.  

Just soft.


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I walked.  

Soft steps.  

Wet feet on floor.  

Each foot left a print.  

My sin was dripping.


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I reached for it—  

The nightie.  

Lifted it down with two fingers.  

Held it to my chest.  

It didn’t cover me.  

Not yet.  

But even touching it gave peace.  

Like someone older hugging me without question.


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Then I stepped into the bathroom.  

Turned.  

Closed the door slowly.  

Lock clicked.  

Tiny sound—but loud in this silence.


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I didn’t switch on the light first.  

I just stood.  

Inside the half-dark.  

Inside myself.  

I could hear my own breath.  

That leftover moan.


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Then—  

I clicked the switch.  

Light buzzed.  

Tube light blinked twice.  

Then gave in.


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The mirror showed me.  

Not fully.  

Just enough.


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Face first.  

Sweat layer under kajal.  

Hair messy.  

Forehead shiny.  

Eyes…  

Eyes that weren’t mine.


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They belonged to the woman in the tank.  

Not to the wife of Kartik.  

But to her.  

That other me.


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I raised my hand.  

Touched my cheek.  

Warm.  

Flushed.  

Alive.


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Then I looked down.  

Removed saree, then—  

My blouse looked tighter now.  

Maybe my chest had grown.  

Maybe shame swells breasts.


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I looked at the hooks.  

One. Two. Three.  

I started opening.  

First one opened easy.  

Second one took time.  

Third one needed breath.


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The blouse loosened.  

But didn’t fall.  

It clung.  

Like guilt.


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I pulled it off slowly.  

One arm.  

Then the other.  

My shoulders felt naked.  

More than when actually naked.


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Blouse dropped.  

I didn’t bend to pick it.  

It could lie there.


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My bra was soaked.  

Half translucent now.  

I could see the shade of my nipples through it.  

Dark brown.  

Hard.  

Embarrassed.


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I didn’t touch them.  

Not yet.


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Next—petticoat.  

The knot had bit into my waist.  

I untied it.  

Slowly.


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Red line showed up.  

Right above navel.  

Like belt mark.  

Like punishment.


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The petticoat slipped down.  

It didn’t resist.  

Just gave up.  

Like me.


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It fell over my feet.  

I stepped out.


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Now only the panty—  

Wet.  

Smelling of tank, cum, and sweat.


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I pulled it down.  

Unwinding like memory.  

Each pull I realized—  

I remembered a moan.  

A thrust.  

A moment.


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By the time I removed it—  

My heart was racing again.


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Panty out.  

Floor had a pile now.  

Blouse. Petticoat. Panty. Saree.  

My roles in cloth form.


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Now I stood.  

In bra.  

Only bra.  

Lower half—bare.


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And I looked.  

At the mirror.  

At me.  

At that pussy.  

My cunt.


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It was not cute.  

Not hidden.  

Not shy.


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It was swollen.  

Red edges.  

Lips apart.  

Wet still.


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One line of white liquid was crawling down my thigh.  

Slow.  

Shameless.


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I didn’t wipe it.  

I watched it move.  

Like punishment.  

Like pride.


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I didn’t move.  

For one minute.  

Or two.  

I don’t know.


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Then I reached behind.  

Bra hook.  

Pressed.  

Opened.


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Straps slipped.  

Cups fell.  

Breasts dropped.  

Soft.  

Heavy.  

Alive.  

Nipples stiff.  

Angry at the delay.


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I touched them.  

Two fingers.  

Just one stroke.  

They flinched.


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I whispered to them.  

“Sorry.”


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Then I turned.  

Faced the shower.  

Tapped the knob.  

Cold water.  

Burst.


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I stepped in.  

Water hit me.  

First hair.  

Then shoulders.  

Then chest.


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Breasts caught it like bowls.  

Water bounced off nipples.  

I gasped.


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Then belly.  

Then thighs.  

Then—  

There.  

The pussy.


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It opened under the water.  

Like a flower in the wrong season.  

Water entered.  

Pushed out the rest of his seed.


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I felt it.  

That creamy rush leaving me.  

Dripping down my thigh.  

Mixing with water.


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Tank water was gone.  

But he was still here.  

Inside.  

In smell.  

In ache.  

In memory.


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And in that moment—  

My body remembered something else.


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That other night.  

The first one. Eight years ago.  

Wedding night.


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Room was filled with jasmine smell.  

Rose petals on bed.  

New pillows.  

Bright bedsheet.  

Cameras had just stopped flashing two hours back.


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I sat at the center of the bed.  

Red saree.  

Red bangles.  

Red bindi.  

Eyes down.


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I could hear footsteps outside.  

Giggling.  

Girls laughing near kitchen.


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Then—  

The door opened.


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Kartik entered.  

He looked… nervous.  

Maybe tired.  

Face sweaty.  

Top button still closed.


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He locked the door.  

Softly.


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Came and sat near me.  

Not close.  

Just… beside.


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I waited.  

Breath stuck in chest.


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He said, “Tired?”  

I nodded.  

Didn’t speak.


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He smiled.  

Then silence.  

Five minutes passed.


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Then—  

He moved.


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Lifted my head.  

Eyes met for first time after mandapam.


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He touched my shoulder.  

I jumped a little.


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Then he placed hand on my waist.  

Tried to pull me closer.


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My body followed.  

Not knowing what else to do.


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Then his hands went to my pallu.  

He undid it.


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My chest exposed slowly.  

He opened my blouse.  

Then my bra.


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My breasts came out.  

He stared.  

Not long.  

Just a second.


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Then kissed one nipple.  

Quickly.  

No tongue.


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I didn’t react.  

I didn’t know how.


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Then he removed his shirt.  

Pant.


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I saw his cock.  

Thin.  

Medium length.  

Half hard.  

Maybe too big for me, that time? Was it?


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He came above me.  

Opened my legs.  

Gently.


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I lay stiff.  

I could feel the cold air between my thighs.  

Felt exposed.


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He pressed the tip to my slit.  

Rubbed.  

Searched.


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Then pushed.  

Nothing happened.


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Again.  

Harder.  

Still nothing.


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My pussy… was too tight.  

Virgin.  

Sealed.  

Dry.  

Closed.


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His cock wasn’t hard enough to break me.


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He tried to force in.  

But slipped.  

Tried again.  

Tip entered halfway.  

Then slid out.


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He grunted.  

I gasped.


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It hurt.  

But not deep pain.  

Just stretch.  

Just resistance.


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He paused.  

Breathed heavy.


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Then tried again.  

Cock bent slightly.  

Wouldn’t enter.


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He lay down beside me.  

Sighed.  

Said softly,  

“Sorry… I may be tired. Let’s sleep.”


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I didn’t speak.  

He turned away.  

Pulled blanket.  

I stared at ceiling.


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That was my first night.


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---


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Next night—  

He tried again.


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This time—  

More confident.  

Undressed fast.  

Came on top.  

Opened my legs.  

Held his cock.  

Pushed.


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My body still resisted.  

But not like last time.


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He entered.  

Little by little.  

One push—pain.  

Second push—burn.


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Then—  

Something broke.  

Inside me.  

Like a snap.  

Or a pop.


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My eyes watered.


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He groaned.  

Started moving.


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One.  

Two.  

Three strokes.


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Then—  

He moaned.  

Froze.  

Collapsed on me.


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“Sorry,” he whispered.


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That was the first time he entered me.  

But it was over in two minutes.


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---


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From that night till now—  

Nothing changed.


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Every time—  

Same story.


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Quick.  

Silent.  

No foreplay.  

No holding.  

No checking.


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Just enter.  

Release.  

Sleep.


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And me?  

I never got anything.  

Never finished.  

Never even knew what orgasm meant.


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Till today.


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Because today—  

Inside that tank.  

With that man—


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I came.  

Twice.


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His cock stayed.  

It grew.  

It fought.  

It filled.


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And he lasted.  

More than 20 minutes.


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He gave one orgasm for himself.  

But gave two for me.


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And Kartik?  

In eight years?  

Not even one.


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I closed my eyes.  

Let water hit my face.  

Let truth drip down with it.


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Because now I knew—  

My virginity wasn’t truly broken that night.  

Only my body was.


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But today—  

My soul was.  

And I liked it.


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The water kept falling.  

I leaned my head back.  

Felt it hit my neck.  

My chest.  

My breasts.  

My pussy.


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I didn’t move.  

I let it clean.  

But it couldn’t erase.


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I reached to soap.  

Didn’t want to use it.  

But had to.


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I rubbed my hands.  

Made foam.  

Lifted to breasts.  

Rubbed soft.  

Over nipple.  

Under fold.


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Soap slid into navel.  

Tickled.  

I smiled.  

Then stopped smiling.


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Hand moved lower.  

Stomach.  

Hip.  

Top of thigh.


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Then—  

I hesitated.  

But I had to.


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I opened legs slightly.  

Touched the lips.  

Softly.


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She was still puffy.  

Still wet.  

Still… bruised.


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I rubbed once.  

Just to clean.  

Not to tease.


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She flinched.  

I flinched too.


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No pleasure now.  

Only aftershock.


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I turned.  

Water hit my back.  

Trickled down spine.  

Into crack.  

To that other hole.


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Everything washed.  

But did I feel clean?  

I didn’t know.


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I stood there.  

Let the water fall.  

Counted my breaths.


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Then I turned the knob.  

Silence.


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Grabbed towel.  

Rubbed head first.  

Hair heavy.  

Wet.


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Then neck.  

Shoulders.  

Breasts.  

Each one lifted, wiped, dropped.


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Then belly.  

Then pussy.


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I didn’t rub her.  

Just patted.  

Like saying sorry again.


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Then I took the nightie.  

Lifted it.  

Dropped it over head.


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It fell.  

Soft.  

Loose.  

Covered me.


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But not really.  

Because inside—  

Everything was still visible.


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---


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I opened the door.  

Walked out.


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House was quiet.  

Fan hummed.  

Tube light buzzed.  

Clock ticked.


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But I was louder.


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My footsteps.  

My breathing.  

My pussy.


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I walked down corridor.  

Each step—the nightie brushed my thighs.


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I could still feel his cock there.  

Not the touch.  

The pressure.


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I reached bedroom.  

Didn’t switch light.  

Moonlight entered through curtain.


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I walked straight to bed.  

Didn’t fold blanket.  

Didn’t adjust pillow.


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


Just lay.  

Face down.  

Breasts pressed to mattress.  

Thigh open.  

Cunt sore.


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


And I—  

**Slept.**