Adultery My wife through the lens of CCTV

[tharkibudda]

I have been a lurker on this site for a long time now and this is the first story that made me want to reply. You have built up a great story so far. Keep up the good work and don't be hasty with posting if you feel like your draft isn't up to the mark. I'd rather see this story maintain its quality than to get updates just for the sake of them. I hope to see you finish this sordid tale!!

Thank you for the encouragement. As I said I only get time rarely nowadays because of office tension and the holidays that come up during second half of the year. 

I will put a board when I abandon this story but the updates wont be frequent as before

[aravindkkumar08]

Dear author request you to please finish the story. The cruelty level extreme. Even drishti not opposing fully. No women will go down this level. Even husband will not talk about this to his wife but enjoying the moment

[Thangaraasu]

Dear author request you to please finish the story. The cruelty level extreme. Even drishti not opposing fully. No women will go down this level. Even husband will not talk  about this to his wife but enjoying the moment

Read the story as fiction and dont take personally.

[hotandluking]

Hot update.
Thanks for the effort.

[mi.radha]

nice story

[kaddu sing]

Nice turn

[Andy Smith]

Bro next update?

[tharkibudda]

This is a gif, open it separately

[tharkibudda]

Chapter 23- Aftermath of April 21st

But my focus stayed locked on the kitchen sink. The sound—oh god, the sound. Not delicate retching, but something primal, guttural. Dhristi’s entire body convulsed, spine arching violently with each expulsion. It wasn’t just vomit. It was a purge. A desperate, physical rejection of Lakhan’s violation. Wet, tearing coughs ripped from her throat, mingled with choked sobs and the thick, splattering splat of liquid hitting stainless steel. Pearly ropes of semen swirled with bile and half-digested dal—yellow grains stark against the mess. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the sink’s edge, tendons straining like frayed cables. Every heave seemed to come from deep within her pelvis, a visceral attempt to expel not just the fluid, but the memory, the taste, the invasion. She gagged again, a raw, scbanging sound, and spat violently. A thin strand of saliva and semen clung to her chin, trembling.


Slowly, trembling subsided. She slumped against the counter, forehead pressed to the cool metal. Minutes crawled by. Her breathing remained ragged, shallow. Finally, she pushed herself upright, movements stiff, mechanical. She rinsed her face under the tap—cold water sluicing away tears and filth—then scrubbed her mouth with trembling fingers until her lips were raw. She avoided her reflection in the chrome faucet. Turning, she shuffled back to the living room, bare feet dragging on the tiles. The green kurti hung limp on her frame, stained dark at the neckline. She sank onto the couch—the same spot Lakhan had pinned her—but perched on the very edge, as if the leather itself burned her skin. Her posture was rigid, spine unnaturally straight, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She stared blankly at the opposite wall, eyes wide and unseeing. Cleaned outside. Hollow inside.

The vomit was gone. The mess rinsed away. Yet the violation remained—deeper than skin, deeper than muscle. It coiled inside her belly, a phantom weight. Lakhan’s semen. Not just fluid, but him. His essence, his dominance, his filth. She could still feel the scalding flood forcing its way down her throat, the thick, choking pressure. Her stomach clenched violently again, a dry heave that brought nothing but bile to sting the back of her tongue. She swallowed hard, fingers digging into her thighs. Sanskari. The word echoed in the hollow chamber of her mind. Pure. Devoted. A temple of virtue. Lakhan hadn’t just invaded her body; he’d shattered that temple. He’d turned her mouth into a gutter for his lust. The taste of him lingered coating her tongue. She wasn’t Manav’s wife anymore. She was  a receptacle. A classless Randi who would do anything for a few hundred rupees. The thought slammed into her chest, stealing her breath. Her hands flew to her mouth, trembling violently.

Dhristi lurched off the couch, stumbling toward the kitchen sink again. Her bare feet slapped cold tile, echoing in the suffocating silence. She gripped the stainless steel edge, knuckles white, spine arching as another wave of nausea crashed over her. She gagged, retching violently—shoulders heaving, throat straining—but nothing came. Only a thin string of saliva dripped from her lips, swaying like a broken thread. Her stomach was empty, purged. Yet the violation remained. It wasn't a physical matter she needed to expel. It was the memory. The sensation. . Lakhan’s triumphant groan, the pulsing heat inside her throat, the suffocating grip on her skull… They played behind her eyelids every time she blinked. She retched again, a desperate, hollow sound that scbangd her throat raw. Tears blurred her vision, hot and silent. She was empty. Clean outside. Poisoned within.


Suddenly, she pushed away from the sink. Her movements were jerky, uncoordinated, like a puppet with severed strings. She needed to be clean. Truly clean. Not just her skin. Her soul. Her hands trembled as she fumbled with the hem of her green kurti. The fabric felt heavy, contaminated. She lifted it, peering down at the neckline. A dark, damp patch stained the cotton where Lakhan’s release had overflowed, mixed with her tears and spit. The sight triggered another convulsive swallow. She could still smell him—musky, thick, clinging to the fibers. Her fingers traced the stain, then recoiled as if burned. It wasn’t just on the fabric. It was on her. Inside her. She ripped the kurti over her head, the motion frantic, almost violent. T. She stood there for a moment, clad only in her leggings and a simple cotton bra, shivering in the middle of the kitchen floor. Her eyes scanned her body—her collarbone, her throat, the swell of her breasts above the bra. Searching for any trace, any invisible mark left by him. Her skin felt sticky, crawling. She could almost feel phantom semen clinging to her, a greasy film she couldn’t wash off.

Her leggings came next.  She kicked the leggings aside, sending them skittering across the tile. Only the bra remained. She reached behind her back, fingers fumbling with the clasp.. The bra fell away, leaving her completely naked.

she walked stiffly toward the bathroom,. The air felt thick, suffocating, carrying the phantom scent of Lakhan’s sweat and musk. . Each step echoed the pounding in her skull. She needed the water. Scalding, purifying water. Something strong enough to scour the memory of his invasion from her flesh, to erase the feeling of his hands, his cock, his seed burning inside her throat. She pushed the bathroom door open and went in.

The camera feed flickered. Static danced across the screen for a heartbeat, then darkness swallowed the image. Inactivity.  Silence stretched. An hour bled away.

When the picture snapped back, Dhristi stood in the bathroom doorway. Not walking. Just standing. Naked. Water streamed down her skin in rivulets, tracing paths over her collarbones, her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. Her hair hung in dark, dripping ropes, plastered to her neck and shoulders. The air shimmered faintly with steam, but her skin… her skin was raw.Angry. Abraded. Her shoulders, her breasts, the curve of her belly, the tops of her thighs – everywhere the light touched, her flesh screamed. It looked flayed. Scoured. As if she’d attacked herself with gravel, not soap..

She moved like a sleepwalker. Her wet feet left dark prints on the tile that faded almost instantly. She climbed the stairs to the bedroom, each step slow and deliberate, water dripping onto the polished wood steps behind her. She didn't pause. Didn't glance at the rumpled sheets. She simply walked to the bed and fell forward. Face down. Arms limp at her sides. Legs slightly apart. . She didn't move to get under the covers. Didn't curl up. She just lay there. Sprawled. Water soaked into the expensive cotton duvet beneath her, spreading dark stains. Her skin glistened under the overhead light, the raw patches stark and livid against the pale bedding. Her hair fanned out, a wet, dark halo on the pillow. Her breathing was shallow, almost imperceptible.

Her eyes were open. Fixed on the ceiling. Not seeing the recessed lights or the smooth plaster. Seeing something else. Something far away and terrible. It was the same stare. The exact, vacant, thousand-yard stare she’d had that first night after Lakhan had finished with her. When she’d lain on the cold marble floor of the living room, her new blue sari ripped and tangled around her waist, her body trembling uncontrollably..

I kept watching. The CCTV feed was a silent, unforgiving window into her private hell. She hadn’t moved since collapsing onto the bed. Minutes bled into an hour. Water still darkened the duvet beneath her, the raw patches on her skin – shoulders, breasts, the curve of her hip – looked even more livid under the harsh overhead light. Her breathing was shallow, barely stirring the damp hair fanned across the pillow. She was utterly still.

And then, a tremor. A single, violent shiver that rippled through her naked body. Her hands, limp at her sides, clenched into white-knuckled fists. Her spine arched slightly off the mattress, muscles taut. Her eyes, fixed on the ceiling, blinked rapidly, then widened. A choked gasp escaped her lips, audible even through the silent feed. She rolled onto her side, curling in on herself, knees drawn up to her chest. A low, guttural moan vibrated in her throat. She pressed a fist against her mouth, stifling it.

Suddenly, she surged off the bed. Not the slow,  but a frantic, desperate scramble. Her raw skin scbangd against the damp duvet as she pushed herself upright. She stumbled, bare feet slipping slightly on the wet floor, but caught herself against the doorframe. Her head whipped toward the en-suite bathroom, eyes wide with panic. She lurched forward, staggering the few steps across the bedroom, one hand clutching her belly, the other pressed hard against her mouth. She vanished into the bathroom.

Then, a low, guttural retch shattered it. Not the wet splatter of vomit hitting porcelain, but a dry, scbanging convulsion. It echoed again—harsher this time—a raw tearing sound from deep in her diaphragm. A choked sob followed, muffled but unmistakable. The sound of her body trying desperately to expel what was no longer there. To purge the phantom violation lodged deep within her core.

She emerged minutes later, her skin still glistening, raw patches inflamed. She moved with the stiffness of exhaustion, dragging a towel from the rack. Her motions were mechanical, almost detached, as she ran the rough terrycloth over her limbs, her back, her abraded breasts. She didn’t linger. Didn’t look at her reflection in the steamed mirror. The towel fell to the floor, forgotten. From the wardrobe, she pulled out clothes without seeing them: a faded blue salwar kameez, . She dressed slowly, fingers trembling as she fastened the tiny buttons at her neck. The fabric settled over her scoured skin like a shroud.

The evening crawled past. Dhristi drifted through the house—a ghost in blue cotton. She wiped the kitchen sink where she’d retched, her movements listless, eyes avoiding the stainless steel basin. She picked up her discarded green kurti from the kitchen floor, balled it up, and shoved it deep into the laundry bin, as if burying evidence. Later, she stood at the living room window, staring out at the darkening street, her knuckles white where they gripped the sill. Suddenly, her breath hitched. A violent tremor ran through her. She clamped a hand over her mouth and bolted back to the kitchen sink. The dry heaves came first—shoulders hunching, spine bowing—a brutal, convulsive effort that produced nothing but a thin string of bile and saliva. She spat it out, gasping, tears welling. She rinsed her mouth under the tap, scrubbing her tongue with her fingers until it bled. The taste of him lingered. Phantom. Unshakeable.

I watched it all unfold on the CCTV timeline. My own footsteps echoed in my memory as I rewound to the moment I’d arrived home. There I was on the screen, bursting through the front door at 6:45 PM,

"Dhristi!" my recorded voice called out, too loud, too cheerful for the tomb-silent house. "Look what I got! Still hot!"

On the screen, I saw myself holding up the greasy paper bag like a trophy. Kachori chat – Her absolute weakness. . I watched my past self beam, oblivious, as Dhristi shuffled into the foyer from the kitchen. Her face was a mask of exhaustion, eyes red-rimmed and hollow, lips slightly swollen. She flinched almost imperceptibly as the pungent smell reached her.

"Manav," she murmured, her voice a raspy whisper, like gravel dragged over glass. She didn’t meet my eyes. "I… I’m not hungry. I’ve been…" She paused, swallowed hard, her throat working visibly. A flicker of raw panic crossed her face before she smoothed it into weary resignation. "Vomiting. Since afternoon. Must be something I ate." She wrapped her arms tightly around herself.

I frowned, stepping closer. The kachori bag suddenly felt greasy and foolish in my hand. "Vomiting? Why didn’t you call me?" My voice was laced with concern, but underneath, a thread of frustration snaked through me. *Always keeping things inside, Dhristi.* I scanned her face – the pallor beneath her dusky skin, the unnatural flush high on her cheekbones, the slight tremor in her clasped hands. She looked shattered. "You should lie down. Do you need medicine? Water?"

She flinched at my proximity, taking a half-step back. "No," she rasped, the word scbanging out. "Just... rest. I just need to lie down." Her eyes darted past me, towards the stairs, desperate for escape. T She swallowed again, a visible, painful bob of her throat, her knuckles white where she gripped her own elbows.

I watched my past self hesitate, the kachori bag lowering. "Okay," I said, my voice softer now, tinged with helplessness. "Go rest. I'll... I'll be here if you need anything." The frustration simmered beneath the concern. Why wouldn't she let me in? Why did she always build walls after the slightest discomfort? I didn't see the violation etched into her raw skin beneath the blue salwar, the phantom cock choking her throat, the taste of Lakhan’s seed she couldn’t scrub away. I saw only my wife, unwell and shutting me out.

On the screen, Dhristi nodded jerkily, a quick, bird-like motion. She didn’t look at me again. She turned and shuffled towards the stairs, her movements stiff, wooden, as if each step cost her immense effort. Her hand gripped the banister like it was the only thing keeping her upright. I watched her climb, a slow, painful ascent, disappearing into the gloom of the upper hallway. The camera in the bedroom caught her entering. She didn’t turn on the light. She walked straight to the bed, the one still damp from her earlier collapse, and sank onto the edge. For a long moment, she simply sat there, head bowed, shoulders slumped under the weight of invisible chains. Then, slowly, mechanically, she lowered herself onto her side, drawing her knees up towards her chest in a tight, protective curl. She pulled the edge of the duvet over her raw shoulders, hiding the angry abrasions. Her eyes stared blankly at the wall, wide and unseeing. The hollow echo of her dry heaves seemed to hang in the room.

I closed the recording Darkness swallowed the room, but the images burned behind my eyelids   That rancid, entitled asshole had used my wife’s mouth like a common gutter, a fucking spittoon for his filth. He’d violated her sanctity, her dignity, her very breath, and then watched her choke on his poison with clinical detachment. The image of his smug face, the way he’d zipped his trousers and walked out while she convulsed over the sink… it wasn’t just anger. It was a tectonic shift, a landslide of rage that cracked the foundations of who I thought I was.

[tharkibudda]

This is gif, open separately

[SpyHunter]

Awesome Bro..waiting for the next update.. ??

[tharkibudda]

virtual quarter flip




roll dice online

[fanofallnature]

virtual quarter flip




roll dice online

Beautifully apt pictures to enhance the excellent story. clp);

[Sarran Raj]

Has she become pregnant????????

[tharkibudda]

This is a gif

[tharkibudda]

Sorry for this Overload of gifs....Turns out tensor.art can produce a 3 second or even higher count videos based on ur input photo or generate one completely.
They give 50 credits which last for 2 or 3 generations per day.  if anyone is bored and has time, can download the photos and create one and post back.

[Kallakadhalan]

omg, she seems to have enjoyed it like anything.

[subbulakshumi]

Super update and pics friend

[tomdickharry2024]

Amazing update and awesome gifs and pics too tharkibudda sir! Thankyou!

[tharkibudda]

Dear author request you to please finish the story. The cruelty level extreme. Even drishti not opposing fully. No women will go down this level. Even husband will not talk  about this to his wife but enjoying the moment

Hello Aravind Kumar

Please dont try to make them real. Just like we all see serial killer movies but noone wants to see a real one. Almost 90% of the readers here dont want to cheat or get cheated. This is just a fantasy.Noone likes this level of depravity on anyone's wife. Please dont get attached to characters