Adultery The Language of Her Heart

[yazhiniram]

I screamed.

Loud.

Sharp.

Echoing in kitchen tile air.


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But not because of shame.

Not because of blouse opening.

Not because of chest showing.


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Not even fear.

Not that type.

It was pain.

Small one.

Surprise pain.


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Because—

That stupid pin.

That small metal devil.


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When he pulled my pallu—

It dragged more than just cloth.

It took part of blouse lining too.


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The blouse tore.

Near the shoulder.

Not full rip.

But tear.

Corner gone.


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And the pin?

That metal pin?

It scratched my skin.


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One sharp scratch.

Right near top of left breast.

Just above the bra cup line.


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Not bleeding.

But red.

One line.

Plain and visible.


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I hissed.

Teeth clenched.

Eyes dropped down.

Looked at it.


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“Eyy!”

I shouted.

“What did you do!”


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He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

Still standing.


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Still holding my right wrist.

Still watching me.

But his eyes?

Now stuck.


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On my chest.

Blouse still there.

But open at corner.

Side of bra cup slightly visible.


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That bare patch of skin—

And that scratch line.

Like one underline.

Red.

Hot.


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I jerked my hand.

“Leave me!”


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He didn’t.

Still holding.

Still breathing.

Still watching.


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“Look what you did!”

I shouted.

Voice full heat.

Used my left hand.

Pointed at the scratch.


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“See this! It’s burning!”

Still no reply.

Not even blink.


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He just stood.

Watching.

Like I was some museum item.

One damaged statue.


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“You’re mad,” I snapped.

“Fully mental case.”

Words sharp.

Tone flat.


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Still no expression.

Face calm.

But his breath?

Different.

Little deeper.

Little heavier.


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Like something rising from his chest.

Slow volcano.


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I pulled my wrist again.

Still locked.

No use.


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So I reached for pallu.

Left hand.

Slipped across my waist.

It was still there.


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Still hanging down one side.

Still clinging to shoulder edge.


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I grabbed it.

Started pulling.

To cover myself.

To hide.

To fix.


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But before I could—

He caught my wrist.

The other one now.

Left hand trapped too.


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“Eh!”

I shouted.

“Don’t you dare!”

Voice rising.

But breath breaking.


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He still didn’t speak.

Still no expression.

Only motion.


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He moved.

One fast movement.

Like reflex.


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He spun me.

Spun my whole body.

Like dance move.

Quick pull.

Quick twist.


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Suddenly I was facing away.

My back to his chest.

His body behind me.


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I gasped.

Loud breath.

Because in that spin—

My saree moved.


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Pleats untucked.

Border twisted.

Tension released.


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The full six-yard drama—

Now looked like garden hose.

Hanging.

Tangled.

Wild.


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Still partly clinging to front shoulder.

But mostly sliding off.


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I froze.

Stiff.

Then shouted—

“Prakash!”

One cry.


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His hand was near my waist now.

Fingers moving.

Going lower.


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To the second pin.

Brass one.

Old-fashioned.

Tied to side of petticoat.


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That pin—

That one held everything.

Whole saree balance.

That was the anchor.


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I stiffened.

“Don’t,” I warned.

Firm.

Flat.


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He didn’t reply.

Fingers kept moving.

Closer.


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“Don’t touch that one.”

I said again.

Eyes staring at kitchen shelf in front of me.


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Still silent.

Still acting like my voice was background noise.


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“Prakash. I’m serious. That one—”


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CHHK!

The sound.

Again.

Not as sharp.

Not as loud.


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But dangerous.

More dangerous.


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He had done it.

He pulled the second one.

Snapped it open.


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No scratch this time.

No pain.


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But—

The side seam of my petticoat tore.

Right at the hip.


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Not full tear.

Just one short rip.

One stupid hole.


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And inside that hole?

My panty.

Visible.


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Only small patch.

But enough.

White.

Plain.

Elastic edge showing.


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Soft waistband.

One glimpse.

Too much glimpse.


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“YOU—!”

I screamed.

Spun around.

Whirled back to face him.


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“I’ll KILL you!”

Words shouted.

Full power.

No filter.


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He didn’t move.

Didn’t even blink.

Didn’t lift hand in defence.


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Only stood.

Now holding my full saree.

Bunched in one hand.


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And still holding my wrist.

In the other.


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I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

My eyes were open.

But brain?

Blank.


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My entire saree—

Gone.

Just gone.

Vanished like magic cloth.


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His hand?

Still holding my wrist.

Same grip.

Same calm pressure.


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And I…

I was standing there.

Middle of kitchen.


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Only in blouse and petticoat.

Inside, yes.

Bra and panty were there.

Still holding.

Still hugging skin.


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But outer layer?

Torn.

Removed.

Thrown.

Like old bedsheet.


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And him?

His eyes were scanning.

Full scan.

Top to bottom.

Slow.


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Shameless.

Bold.

Like he had full right.


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His stare moved from my waist…

To my blouse.

To that red scratch near chest.


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To the torn seam on the petticoat…

To the side hip.

To that tiny hole.


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Like I was one mannequin on display.

Dressed in damage.


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I swallowed.

Hard.

Then shouted—


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“What the HELL are you thinking!”

My voice broke sharp.


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He didn’t answer.

Didn’t even blink.

Just stared.


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“Hello? Idiot? Did you lose mind?”

Still nothing.

Like wall.

Only eyes moving.


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And then—

He threw the saree.

Just like that.


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Flung it across kitchen.

One smooth fling.

Like disposing paper.


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It flew.

Landed near dining table.

Half on chair.

Half on floor.


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Like waste cloth.

Discarded.


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“EH!”

I yelled.

“That’s saree, not mopping rag!”

My voice was shaking.


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He didn’t even look.

Not once.

Now—

Both his eyes were fully on me.


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He pulled me.

Slight tug at the wrist.


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Made me step closer.

Involuntary step.


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Chest to chest.

Almost.

Heat to heat.


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I tried to resist.

Leg pulled back once.

Didn’t work.

Still got dragged.


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So I raised my voice.

“What you planning, idiot?”

“You think this is romantic scene or what?”


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He didn’t speak.

Still nothing.


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Instead—

He touched me.

Again.


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Fingers straight.

No curve.

No flirt.

Right to my belly.


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Right to navel.


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“Aaahhh…”

I moaned.

It escaped.

On its own.

No warning.


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My body jumped.

Small twitch.


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That place was already sensitive.

Already awake.

Already waiting.


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Now—

Bare.

Open.

Hot.


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His thumb moved.

Soft.

One circle.

Then lower.

Then sideways.


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My blouse shifted.

Barely.

But enough.


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My body tensed.

Muscles hard.

Skin hot.


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“Stop doing these things!”

I said through teeth.


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He didn’t.

Hand slid around.

To my back.

Lower.

Below waist.


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Then—

Under my ass.


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I gasped.

Air caught.

“Don’t touch there!”


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Too late.

Already there.


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He bent slightly.

Hand under.

Gripping.

Lifting.


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Then—

He lifted me.

Full lift.


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Like sack of rice.

Like Boost can.

Like cooking cylinder.


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“Ayyyo! You mad fellow—PUT ME DOWN!”

I shouted.

Loud.

But useless.


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He didn’t stop.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even grunt.


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I hit his back.

Fist to spine.

“IDIOT!”


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No effect.

He shifted my weight.

Adjusted hold.


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Now—

He had thrown me.

Over his shoulder.


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Like luggage.

Like sack of onions.

Like vegetable basket from weekly market.


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And my bare navel?

Resting.

Right on his uniform shoulder.


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That cloth—

Rough cotton.

Dry.


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And my skin?

Warm.

Bare.


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That direct touch—

It sent one electricity line through my hips.


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Shocking.

Wrong.

Sweet.


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“Put me down!”

I yelled.

“This is not gas delivery!”


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But he didn’t flinch.

Didn’t shake.


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He just started turning.

One step.

Then another.


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From the kitchen.

Carrying me like that.

Like this was his job.

Like this was his duty.


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He walked.

Slow.

Steady.

His boots were heavy on the tile.

Each step made a soft thud.

Like distant drumbeat.


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I was on his shoulder.

Still.

Bent.

Folded.

My whole body hanging down, helplessly.

Like one half-filled cylinder being carried for gas stove.


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My waist was pressing against his shoulder.

Hard.

Firm.

The bone was digging into me slightly.

Not pain.

Just pressure.


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My belly was against his uniform cloth.

It was rough cotton.

Dry.

Warm.

It rubbed softly against my skin with every step.


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My hair was falling.

Like mop.

Down.

Long strands slipping over my face.

Down to the floor almost.

Swinging with his steps.


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Through the dining room he walked.

Like he owned the path.

Like he owned the house.

Not even asking.

Not even hesitating.

Just walking.

Like it was his plan from beginning.


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I shouted.

“Eh! Prakash!”

My voice bounced off the walls.

Shrill.

Sharp.

But my body was still bouncing on him.


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“You’re taking advantage now!”

I said it loud.

Like accusation.

Like warning.

But he didn’t reply.

He didn’t flinch.

He didn’t slow.


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I tried again.

“Enough! I’m warning you!”

Still silence.

Only the dull thudding sound of his boots on the floor.

Only his strong arm around my thighs.


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But inside me?

Different story.

Not shouting.

Not fighting.

Inside me?

There was something else.


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Curiosity.

It was bubbling.

Excitement.

It was rising.

Like small soda bottle being shaken slowly.


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My stomach felt fluttery.

Not fear.

Something else.

Little nervous.

But also—

Little thrilled.


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I wanted to know.

What he’d do next.

What he was planning.

What this quiet madness was.


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We entered.

My bedroom.

Just like that.

No warning.

No knocking.

Only movement.


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The room still smelled—

Like the last incense stick I lit.

Soft sandalwood smoke.

Still hanging in the corners.

Still hugging the curtains.


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Fan was on.

Slow speed.

Making that ticking sound.

Blades turning lazy circles above.


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Blanket was folded neatly.

Pillow was pushed to one side.

Bed looked innocent.

Calm.

Waiting.


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I kicked my feet.

Little kicks.

Tried to protest.

“Ayyyo! Put me down!”

I shouted.


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And he did.

Just like that.

He lowered me.

Not thrown.

Not dropped.

Just placed down.


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I landed on the edge of the bed.

My thighs bent.

My back still straight.

My breath fast.


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My petticoat had shifted.

That stupid slit on the side—

It opened a little.

One thigh almost showing.

Skin peeking through the gap.


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I gasped.

Caught my balance.

Looked up at him.

He was still holding my wrist.

Still gripping.

Still owning.


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I pulled it.

“Leave me!”

No use.

His fingers were firm.

Like handcuffs.

Not hard.

But unrelenting.


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So I used my other hand.

Raised it up.

High.

Palm open.

Full slap mode.


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But he caught it.

Again.

Like he knew it was coming.

Caught it mid-air.

Smooth.

Fast.

Sure.


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But this time—

He didn’t just hold.

He brought it to his lips.

Slowly.

Gently.

Softly.


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And kissed it.

Right on the wrist.

Warm.

Moist.

Tender.


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I froze.

My eyes widened.

That feeling…

It shot straight into my stomach.

Warmth.

Liquid.

Quick.


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“Ahhh…”

It escaped me.

Soft sound.

Barely a moan.

But real.

From deep inside.


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But I didn’t show on face.

Not fully.

My lips stayed tight.

I snapped.

“I didn’t ask for that.”


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Still no reply.

But he started releasing.

One finger.

Then another.

Letting go of both hands.

Like slow surrender.


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I jerked back.

Pulled away.

Stood up straight.

Adjusted my blouse strap.

Fingers trembling.


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I snapped again.

“What are you thinking, ah?”

Still no reply.

His eyes were calm.

Face still.

Unmoving.


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“Don’t think you’ve become something great!”

I said it with heat.

Anger.

But he didn’t react.


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So I slapped.

One side.

Hard.

Sharp.

Tight across his cheek.


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His face turned slightly.

But nothing changed.

No flinch.

No blink.

Like my slap was just breeze.


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“Don’t act like you’re hero,” I scolded.

Still no answer.

Still that unreadable face.


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Then—

He stepped closer.

Suddenly.

Quietly.

Steadily.


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He took both my hands again.

Held them.

Gently.

Then—

He pulled them down.


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Then his hands came forward.

To my chest.

Right over the blouse.

Right over the soft cups.


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I gasped.

Body froze.

Eyes widened.

Breath stopped.


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Then—

His fingers slid.

Under the blouse.

Into the gap.

Between fabric and skin.


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Not touching the breasts yet.

But close.

Too close.

I could feel the intent.


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I gasped louder.

“Prakash!”

He paused.

Not pulled back.

Not stopped.

Just paused.


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He was feeling for the seam.

The stitch.

The blouse line.

I could feel his fingers.


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I whispered fast.

“Don’t. This is one of my best pieces.”

No reply.

His eyes didn’t move.


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“Costly blouse,” I said. “Don’t mess.”

Still silent.

Still fingers moving.

Still searching.


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I panicked.

Grabbed his wrists.

Both hands.

Held them tight.


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“Don’t do it.”

I said it quietly.

But clearly.

My heart was thudding.


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His eyes were calm.

Unmoving.

Still watching me.


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“Too much,” I whispered.

“This is becoming full madness.”

I was saying—