Adultery The Language of Her Heart

[yazhiniram]

EPISODE 129 & EPISODE 130

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His fingers were still there.

Still inside.

Still inside my navel.

Still rubbing.

Still teasing.

That same slow circle.

That same deep press.

That same heat.

Still spreading.

Still whispering through my body.


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And my moan?

Ayyyo… that sound…

That stupid shameless sound…

Still floating.

Still hanging in the air between us.

Like some naughty fly.

Hovering.

Refusing to disappear.


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I bit my lip.

Pressed tight.

Just to stop more sound.

Closed eyes once.

Only one second.

Then opened again.

Looked at him.

Looked at his hand.

Looked at that damn finger.


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“Enough,” I said.

My voice was not normal.

Not soft.

Not angry.

Just rough.

Like gravel.

“Remove hand.”


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He didn’t.

He didn’t even blink.

His fingers stayed.

Still in that small soft dip.

Still circling.

Still rubbing.

Still pressing.

Still claiming.


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I twitched.

My stomach flinched.

My thighs pulled together again.

More tightly.

More desperate.


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“Oi… remove it.”

Still no reply.

No sorry.

No stop.

Just that same slow movement.

As if my body was not mine.

As if my stomach was his toy.


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I gritted teeth.

Raised my hand.

Grabbed his wrist.

Fingers wrapping around his bone.

Pulled.

Once.

Twice.

No use.


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He wasn’t holding tight.

But he wasn’t letting go.

It was like his fingers had melted into my skin.

Like they belonged there.

And my belly?

That shameless traitor?

It was trembling again.


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“Why it’s not moving?” I hissed.

“Are you stuck?”

He looked at me.

Quiet.

Still.

One eyebrow lifted slightly.

Just one.


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“You think you’re very smart now, ah?” I asked.

“Keeping your hand in my stomach like it’s some chocolate box?”

Still no answer.

Only that calm stare.

Only that warm hand.

Still teasing.

Still rubbing.

Still playing.


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I pulled again.

No use.

His grip was not fighting me.

But it wasn’t leaving me.

That palm…

It was enjoying.

Fully.


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Fingers gliding softly around the rim.

Pressing near the nerve spots.

Right near the edge.

So close to my panty line.

So close to madness.


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“You think it’s dough?” I snapped.

“Kneading dough?”

Still silent.

Not a single word.


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I stared harder.

Face burning now.

Ears heating.

My own body heating more than gas stove.

“You’re pressing like it belongs to you.”

I couldn’t stop those words.

They came like truth.

Ugly.

Naked.


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Then I snapped.

Like real.

Snapped like belt.

Raised my other hand.

Left one.

Slap hand.

Finger stiff.

Ready.


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“Now I’ll fix you.”

I swung.

Hard.

Sharp.

Fast.


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But suddenly—

He moved.

He caught it.

Mid-air.

Like it was nothing.

Like I was throwing a flower.

Not a slap.


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His other hand — his left —

Reached up.

Caught my wrist.

Stopped it.

Held it.

Right there.

Frozen.

My whole body froze with it.


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Eyes wide.

Mouth slightly open.

Shock.

Real shock.

He didn’t look scared.

Not even surprised.

Just quiet.

Just still.

Just calm.


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His right hand — still inside my navel.

Still teasing.

Now with thumb going slow circle.

More sensual.

More steady.

More dangerous.


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And his left hand —

Holding my right wrist.

Not tight.

Not hurting.

Just stopping.

Like saying, “enough.”

Like saying, “I won’t let you leave now.”


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And me?

I was stiff.

Still.

Frozen.

I had no words.

No movement.

Just eyes.

Just shock.

Just heat.


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He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t explain.

Didn’t remove hand.

Just held.

Held both parts of me.

My belly.

My wrist.

My body.

My control.


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I stared at him.

He stared back.

Both breathing.

Both silent.

But I was the one shaking.

Soft.

From inside.

My spine.

My chest.

My core.


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“Eh… Prakash…” I whispered.

It just came out.

Like whisper in dream.

Like fear mixed with ache.


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He didn’t answer.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe louder.

Only kept doing.

Kept touching.

Kept holding.


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And I—

I was trembling.


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“Hey…” I said sharply.

“Leave my hand.”


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No reaction.

No movement.

No reply.

Only breath.

Soft.

Steady.


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His left hand was still holding my wrist.

Not tight.

Not violent.

But firm.

Like lock made of skin.

Like gentle rope.

Wrapped around me.


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His right hand?

That one was still inside my navel.

Still rubbing.

Still exploring.

Still playing.

Like a slow chef checking rice.

Like he wanted to learn every line of my belly.


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“Prakash,” I said again.

Voice sharper now.

Louder.

“Leave.”


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But his fingers didn’t stop.

That same slow circle.

That same teasing stroke.

That same thumb pressing edge.

My stomach fluttered.

Like butterfly wings caught in breeze.


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“I said leave!”

This time I snapped.

My throat dry.

Breath hot.

But he blinked.

Just once.

Came back to senses.


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He let go of my wrist.

Quickly.

Softly.

As if realising something.

But that other hand…

Still didn’t move.

Still resting inside my navel like it belonged there.


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I narrowed my eyes.

Face hot.

Not just from anger.

From that sticky heat deep under my saree.


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Then I lifted my hand.

Slap ready.

PAK!

Right on his cheek.

Tight.

Sharp.

Straight across.


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His face turned slightly.

But no flinch.

No gasp.

No step back.

Only his fingers moved — just a little.

Still resting gently inside that soft, hot navel dip.


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“Enough,” I growled.

Teeth clenched.

Eyes narrow.

“Take your hand back.”


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Still no reply.

Only quiet.

Only air moving between us.

Only his skin pressing mine.


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“Don’t act deaf.”

Still nothing.

His hand didn’t move.

Like it had decided.

Like it had forgotten what I was saying.


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“Prakash!”

I said again, louder.

“I’m not asking. I’m ordering.”

He looked at me.

Just once.

That calm stare.

No guilt.

No fear.

Just… steady.


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But that hand…

Still there.

Still quiet.

Still warm.

Still curved against my stomach like it knew the shape already.


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I had enough.

Grabbed his wrist.

Twisted once.

Pulled it out.

Fast.

My skin shivered from the absence.

My stomach felt empty suddenly.

Cold.

Sticky.


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Even my breath had changed.

Heated.

Unsteady.

Confused.


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He stepped back slightly.

Just one foot.

Hands falling to sides.

Still close.

But not touching now.


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I adjusted my saree edge.

Tugged it tight.

Smoothed the pleats over my navel.

Cleared throat once.

Then stood straight.

Lifted my chin.


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“Ahhh…” I said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Now you’re showing guts, ah?”

Still he didn’t speak.

Just stood.

Just watched.


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But his eyes…

They answered.

That one small flash.

Not dirty.

Not scared.

Just bold.

Just sure.


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“I slapped you twice, scolded you ten times, still you came and touched me.”

He didn’t argue.

Didn’t excuse.

Didn’t bow head.

Just… stood there.

Still.

Still strong.


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“And now what? You think you’ve become tiger?”

I waited.

Still nothing.

But his silence was heavier now.

Not weak.

Just full.


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So I smirked.

Mocking.

“You think you’re strong?”

Still no answer.

Only breath.

Only that steady male scent in the air.


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“But max your guts can do…” I leaned forward.

Just enough for him to feel my breath.

“…is touching. That’s all.”


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His eyes followed mine.

Calm.

Focused.

Not scared.

Not shy.


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“You can’t do anything more. You don’t have the balls.”

Still he stood.

And that bulge?

Still there.

Still full.

Still throbbing.


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I scoffed.

“Stiff thing under pant doesn’t mean power.”

He blinked.

Once.

Slow.

But didn’t reply.

Didn’t back off.


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I raised my hand again.

Same hand.

Same slap.

“Let me remind you who’s boss.”

I swung—

Fast.

Confident.

Sharp.


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But he caught it.

Again.

Mid-air.

This time — smoother.

Like dance.

Like reflex.


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His palm closed around my wrist.

Firm.

Certain.

Then my other hand came — left.

Ready to slap.

Quick.

He caught that too.

Fast.

Blocked.

Now both my wrists — locked.

One in each of his hands.


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I tried to jerk free.

“Eh! What are you doing?”

But no answer.

No movement.

Only stare.

Only breath.


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Then—

He joined my wrists together.

Pressed them close.

Wrapped one single hand — his right — around both.

Strong.

Big.

Tight.

Like rope made of bone.


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I struggled slightly.

“Tchhh! I said—”

But he didn’t wait.

He moved.

His left hand — free now —

Came up.

Fast.

Firm.

Pressed my shoulder.

Pushed.


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I gasped.

My feet moved back.

One step.

Two.

Then—

THUD.

My back hit the kitchen counter.

Right at the edge.

Lower back pressing against the wood.


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Both my hands still locked.

Tied in his fist.

Chest rising.

Breath catching.

Eyes wide.

Navel still tingling from earlier.

Body stuck.

Fully.


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And he—

He just stood there.

One step close.

One inch from me.

No shaking.

No talking.

Still calm.

Still close.

Still silent.


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I was still pinned.

Back pressed against the kitchen counter edge.

My spine touched the wood.

Cool.

Hard.

A little too straight.


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And my hands?

Still locked.

Fingers folded, wrists joined, trapped tight in his one thick grip.

His palm was warm.

Broad.

And my wrist bones?

They felt small.

Like thin bangles inside his fist.


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But my breath?

Ayyo… my breath was misbehaving.

Full tight chest.

Each inhale heavy.

Deep.

Not scared breath.

Not angry breath.

But something else.


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Because something was happening.

Not outside.

Not on the skin.

But inside.

Inside belly.

Inside chest.


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Like something wild was waking up.

Not like monster.

More like animal.

Not angry.

But… hungry.

Warm.

Curling in my stomach.


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And somehow…

Ayyo, somehow it felt right.

Like this was where I was supposed to be.

Like his hand was not capturing.

It was holding.

It was grounding.


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I stared at him.

Right in the eyes.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

Just stared.


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And him?

He stared right back.

Full stillness.

But that look…

It wasn’t teasing.

Not now.

It wasn’t shy.

Not scared.


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Just bold.

Fully bold.

Not proud.

Not arrogant.

Just sure.

Like he had waited long enough.

And now he was answering.


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Answering what?

All those scoldings.

All those games.

All those slaps.

All those half-invites, half-threats.


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Then—

His hand moved.

Not the one holding my wrists.

That one stayed.

Still wrapped.

Still tight.

Still firm.


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It was the other hand.

His left.

It slid down.

From my waist.

To my lower back.

Slow.

Heavy.


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Then lower.

Under the saree pleats.

That warm hand slipped right above my backside curve.

Ayyo.

That line.

That border between modesty and madness.


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“Eh—what are you doing—!”

I gasped.

But even my own voice?

It was late.

Too late.


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Because with one motion—

He lifted.

His hand pressed.

Bent his knees.

Then straightened.

And I?

I went up.


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Like pillow.

Like cloth bundle.

Like one sack of rice.

But not rough.

Not careless.

It was full control.


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I jerked.

Slight jerk.

Feet kicked once in air.

“Aahhh!”

I shouted.

“Are you mad!”

But he didn’t answer.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t explain.


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He just turned.

Just shifted.

One step.

Then he placed me down.

On the kitchen counter.

Sat me.

Flat.


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My backside hit the surface.

Cold!

Back of my thighs touched steel.

My knees bent softly.

Legs parted just enough to fold.


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Saree fell loose at the sides.

Pleats dropped.

One end touched the drawer handle.

Hair bounced.

Pallu slipped.

My shoulder was half-bare now.


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And I?

I just sat.

Stunned.

Like one child who got caught stealing mango from temple tree.

“What you think of yourself!” I shouted.

“Lifting me like box!”


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Still no answer.

Not even blink.

And then—

He let go.

Of my hands.

Freed them.

Both wrists.

Free.


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But I didn’t slap.

Didn’t escape.

Didn’t push him.

I just sat.

Breathing.

Heart hammering like carpenter on Diwali night.


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And then—

He touched my pallu.

One finger.

Then two.

At my hip.

Soft.

Slow.

Almost polite.


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He started pulling.

Just the edge.

Not jerking.

Not forcing.

Just sliding.

Uncovering.


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The fabric moved.

Like silk obeying his fingers.

My navel — already open from earlier — looked more bare now.

More visible.

More… helpless.


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“Hey…”

I whispered.

Voice soft.

Weak.

He didn’t even glance up.


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His face was coming closer.

Down.

Down.

Bending toward my stomach.

My breath paused.

My spine arched.


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“Prakash… don’t you dare…”

I warned.

But my voice?

It didn’t sound powerful.

It sounded… pleading.

Begging.


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He didn’t reply.

Didn’t blink.

Just came closer.

Nearer.

Then—

His lips touched.


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Right on my navel.

One kiss.

Hot.

Wet.

Direct.

Right on that centre dip.


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“Aaaahhh…”

It came out.

Loud.

No control.

Not breath.

Not whisper.

Full moan.

From deep stomach.


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“God…”

I whispered.

“Why are you doing this to me…”

But he didn’t lift.

Didn’t answer.

Didn’t stop.

His lips stayed there.

Pressed.

Warm.


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Two full seconds.

Then he pulled back.

Slow.

Like prayer ending.


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And my brain?

It screamed.

“I came to control myself.”

“I prayed.”

“No men.”

“No cock.”

“No temptation.”


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Now look.

Sitting on kitchen counter.

Like one vegetable for inspection.

And this watchman?

Kissing my stomach like it’s puja bell.


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I cursed inside.

“God… reverse therapy ah?”

“I asked for strength. You’re sending pleasure?”

What punishment is this?


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But he didn’t care.

Still focused.

Fully.

He bent again.

Same spot.

Another kiss.

Second one.


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This time?

More pressure.

More heat.

Like the first one was test.

This was devotion.


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“AAHHHH…”

I cried out.

Head tilted back.

Eyes half-closed.

My hands?

Not pushing.

Just gripping counter edge.

Tight.


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“Prakash!”

I snapped.

Scolding voice.

“What is this nonsense?”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t stop.

And I?

I didn’t move.

Didn’t stop him.


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Because it was too much.

Too good.

Too shameful.

Too perfect.


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And his mustache…

Ayyo that mustache.

It was scratching softly.

Tiny pricks.

Right on the navel rim.

That sensitive rim.

That stupid sensitive rim.


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“Why you’re using mustache like some broom?” I breathed.

Still no reply.

Just his warm breath on my stomach.

Still playing.


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And now—

He leaned again.

Lips coming.

Mustache tickling already.

Closer.

Closer.


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His third kiss…

Just about to land.

And me?

I was tensed.

I was throbbing.

I was waiting.

Like full body was one nerve.

One drum.

Beating.

Beating.

Waiting.


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I walked straight to him.

No hesitation.

No fear.

One sharp step.

Then another.


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And SMACK!

Both hands.

Flat palms.

Right on his chest.

Pressed in.

Firm.


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“What do you think you are?”

I shouted.

No breath.

No softness.

Just full volume.


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He took it.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t even blink.


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Only stared.

Straight.

Face blank.

But eyes?

They were soft.


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Then he opened mouth.

Voice quiet.

“…Madam…”

One word.

Like whisper.


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“What?”

I snapped.

Voice sharp.

Hands still on his chest.


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“You said… to show guts…”

He said.

I frowned.

“So?”


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“I thought… maybe you’ll like…”

That soft voice again.

No arrogance.

Just honesty.


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“Ohhh! So now you’re doing psychology?”

I asked.

Mocking.

Teeth showing.

Eyes wide.


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“No madam… I just…”

He stopped.

Didn’t finish.

Didn’t argue.


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“If I say bark, will you bark?”

I snapped.

Eyebrows lifted.

Face full angry queen.


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He paused.

Swallowed.

Then softly—

“Maybe, madam…”

One whisper.

Not joke.

Not smile.

Just true.


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I slapped him.

One small one.

Not harsh.

But enough to sting.

Right on the cheek.


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“Idiot,” I said.

Face still close.

“If I say anything, you’ll do it ah?”


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He nodded.

Simple nod.

“Yes madam.”

One sentence.

One truth.


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“Dog.”

I said.

One word.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t deny.

Didn’t blink.


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


But his eyes?

They said everything.

And my pussy?

Ayyo.

It twitched.

Sharp.

Strong.


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


Like it liked that word.

Like it wanted to hear it again.

Like it understood this man.


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


I took breath.

One full one.

Chest lifted.

Saree pleats shifted again.

Navel moved slightly.


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


Then I stepped forward.

Real close.

Closer than before.

Tip of my nose just near his cheek.


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


Lips beside his mouth.

Not touching.

But almost.

Breath mixing.

Heat hanging.


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


“Tell me one thing…”

I whispered.

He turned.

Slow.

Eyes watching me.


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


Face still blank.

No smile.

No fear.

Only attention.


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


“What will you do,” I said, “if I don’t say anything?”

His eyebrows moved.

Tiny movement.

I tilted head.


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


“Nothing. No rules. No words. No orders.”

I said.

Slow.

Each word dripping.


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


“You can do anything you want…”

I whispered.

Warm air touching his lips now.

“So… what will you do?”


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


He swallowed.

Soft.

Didn’t answer.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe louder.

Just stood.


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


I watched him.

For two seconds.

Then I started laughing.

Loud.

Sharp.


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


“You’re scared, right?”

I said.

Still laughing.

That mock in my voice.

“Poor fellow.”


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


“Whole boldness vanished.”

Then—

THWACK!

One tight slap.


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


Down.

Right on the cock.

Flat palm.

Over the uniform pant.

Sharp sound.


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


He jolted.

Body jumped slightly.

Eyes went wide.

But no sound.

No word.


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


“Know your limits,” I snapped.

Tone hard.

Chin lifted.

“Don’t overact.”


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


Silence.

Thick.

Still.

Then softly—

“…Madam…”


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


“Haan?”

I replied.

Quick.

Sharp.

But curious.


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


He looked down.

Then up again.

Eyes steady.

Mouth calm.


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


“Can I do anything?”

He asked.

Plain question.

No game.

No trick.


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


I stared.

Mouth open.

Slightly.

Then scoffed.

Sharp breath out.


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


“Ohhh… now you’re asking questions?”

I said.

One eyebrow lifted.

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t flinch.


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


I stepped forward.

One inch.

Maybe two.

Now our chests were almost touching.


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


I raised my chin.

Eyeline sharp.

“You got that much guts now, ah?”