Adultery My wife through the lens of CCTV

[tharkibudda]

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

The basic rule of these sex stories is that noone gets pregnant or gets STD unless the plot specifically covers it. I will provide a logical explanation soon on that

[tharkibudda]

[SpyHunter]

Bro..want new updates..

[tharkibudda]

To all those who give advice on to concentrate on the story than on the images. Please note the images take nothing of my time. I just need to feed the prompt, click generate and then check again after sometime. I can do it from my mobile while running tasks in my work computer

Writing needs a frame of mind and concentration and alone time. I have lots of tensions due to office and therefore its tough for me to concentrate on weekdays. Thats why I ship them on weekends.

Also this story needs patience because it analyses the human issues faced by both Dhristi and Manav over the course of the cctv footage. It isnt tough to make her into a slut and just move on. I know my story is very cliche and ticks almost 80% of stereotypical Indian sex story but I want to take time on this.

If anyone feels its slow, please just ignore my postings for atleast a month or two and then just read at one go. I'm doing the same for some of the stories here where the authors are slow to update.

All of them are gifs,please open separately

[aravindkkumar08]

omg, she seems to have enjoyed it like anything.

Hi by seeing last update she is forced to do that thing. May be she disgusted about herself. May be the way done by lakhan may broke her heart. This is my POV.  Don't feel bad bro

[tharkibudda]

Hi by seeing last update she is forced to do that thing. May be she disgusted about herself. May be the way done by lakhan may broke her heart. This is my POV.  Don't feel bad bro

He was talking about the gifs I had shared....The animation made it look real and she is enjoying it.. These were from my old images and I need at proper places

[khemucha]

The basic rule of these sex stories is that noone gets pregnant or gets STD unless the plot specifically covers it. I will provide a logical explanation soon on that

[tomdickharry2024]

Great pics and gifs!

Thank you!

[tharkibudda]

Wish you all a Happy Navratri, Dusshera, Durja Puja, Saraswati Puja wherever you are.

Have fun with your friends and family 






free image hosting

[tharkibudda]

On a side note, how true are those wild tales about the garba nights in Gujarat??

They usually come across as fiercely conservative group in our country?

[fuckandforget]

The images definitely adding spice to the story. please keep adding them. you are rocking for sure.

[tharkibudda]

Chapter 23 : April 22nd

My knuckles were bone-white where they gripped the edge of the desk. The wood creaked under the pressure. I hadn’t moved for hours, trapped in that digital hellscape. My throat felt raw, as if I’d been the one screaming, the one gagging. I tasted bile. With a shuddering breath, I finally dragged my gaze to the clock glowing in the gloom. 11:07 PM. Sunday night. The entire weekend—vanished. Forty-eight hours obliterated, consumed by the meticulous dissection of how Lakhan Chand systematically dismantled my wife. Not just fucked her. owned  her. Body and soul. He’d turned our home, our sanctuary, into his personal hunting ground, and Dhristi… Dhristi had been reduced to trembling prey. The CCTV files were a ledger of conquest, each timestamp a fresh wound on me.

I knew Lakhan wasn’t at the office tonight. He’d be somewhere expensive, smug, sipping single malt, utterly untouchable. But tomorrow? Tomorrow demanded my presence at Chand Tiles. The quarterly reports wouldn’t reconcile themselves. Suppliers needed paying. The mundane machinery of commerce ground on, indifferent to the raw carnage playing out in my skull. There were still so many videos to watch. Earlier assaults. Degradations I hadn’t yet witnessed. The digital archive felt bottomless, a pit of vipers waiting to strike. But my eyes burned like sandpaper. My limbs felt leaden, disconnected. If I didn’t sleep, I’d shatter before I could even step onto the battlefield tomorrow. With a grunt that scbangd my throat, I forced myself up. The chair legs shrieked against the floor. I didn’t look back at the dark monitors. Not once.

The master bedroom door felt heavier than stone. Pushing it open, the silence hit me like a physical blow. Dhristi’s absence wasn’t just empty space; it was a sucking void. Her scent lingered faintly beneath the sharp tang of bleach she must have used on the sheets – jasmine and something warm, uniquely hers. Now it was tainted, overlaid with the phantom stench of Lakhan’s musk, his sweat, the cloying sweetness of his release. I stood on the threshold, breathing it in, letting the poison settle. The bed was neatly made, the duvet smooth. Too smooth. Like a freshly dug grave. I pictured her lying there after the bathroom, raw and broken, water soaking into the fabric. My fingers traced the cool cotton. He did this. He broke her here, in this room that was supposed to be ours.

Sleep was a jagged knife. Every time I drifted, the CCTV footage flickered behind my eyelids. Lakhan’s thighs clamping Dhristi’s head. The violent thrusts. The choked gurgles. Her swollen lips, slick with his cum and her own blood. I’d jerk awake, drenched in cold sweat, the sheets strangling my legs. The digital clock on the nightstand bled red numbers into the dark: 3:17 AM. 4:42 AM. 5:58 AM. Each hour a mockery. When the alarm finally shrieked at 6:30 AM, it felt like a reprieve. Anything was better than that looping hell.

The shower was scalding. I stood under the spray until my skin burned crimson, trying to scour the images away. The water couldn’t touch the filth. Dressing felt like armoring for war  I avoided the mirror. The hollows under my eyes were bruises. The man staring back was a stranger, vibrating with a cold, focused rage. The click of the front door locking echoed like a gunshot.

The drive to Chand Tiles was a blur of honking rickshaws . I navigated on autopilot, my knuckles white on the steering wheel. Lakhan’s mocking voice played on a loop: *"Your wife swallows like a professional, Manav. You should thank me for training her."* The memory of Dhristi’s bulging eyes, her purpling face, her throat working desperately around his cock—it was etched into my retinas. I gripped the handle bar tighter, the leather groaning. Justice wasn’t enough anymore. I wanted annihilation.

Parking felt like stepping onto enemy territory. The Chand Tiles building loomed Inside, the air hummed with an unfamiliar lightness. Receptionists giggled , Sales managers were talking, shoulders relaxed, voices buoyant. The oppressive cloud of Lakhan Chand’s presence had lifted. His absence was a collective exhale.

I walked through the corridors, footsteps echoing. My own desk waited, untouched since Friday. The quarterly reports sat stacked neatly, untouched. I slid into my chair, the leather groaning.  The list of files were stacked in front of– supplier invoices, shipment delays, quality control reports. I opened a spreadsheet, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Numbers blurred. Columns swam before my eyes. The sterile glow of the monitor couldn’t compete with the lurid replay behind my eyelids: Lakhan’s thighs locking Dhristi’s head, her choking gurgles, the obscene overflow from her nostrils.

By 11 AM, the numbers had dissolved completely. The spreadsheet became a grid of meaningless cells. My pen tapped a frantic rhythm against the desk. *What else did he do?* The question was a drill bit boring into my skull. The CCTV archive wasn’t just footage; it was a Pandora’s box of horrors. I’d seen April 21st. But what about April 30th? May 5th ? what happened then?* The possibilities were endless, each more degrading than the last. Had he taken her on the prayer rug? Bent her over the dining table? Made her taste herself after he’d finished? The sheer volume of his violations, the meticulous documentation of her destruction… it screamed of a predator relishing his trophies. My stomach churned. The phantom taste of bile flooded my mouth – *her* bile, mixed with Lakhan’s seed. I shoved back from the desk, the chair legs screeching. I needed air. Needed to *move*. Needed to know. Now.

I strode towards Javed Khan’s office. He was Lakhan Chand’s second-in-command, the calm, competent counterpoint to the owner’s volcanic temper. Javed’s door was open. He sat behind his desk, meticulously reviewing a shipment manifest.He looked up as I filled the doorway, his expression shifting from mild surprise to concern.

"Manav?" Javed leaned back, his gaze sharpening as it took in my appearance – the hollow eyes, the tension radiating off me like heat waves. "You look like hell walked over you. What’s wrong?"

I forced a tight smile, leaning against the doorframe. "Gas leak," I rasped, the lie tasting like ash. "Friday night. At the house. Had to kick the damn doors in to vent the place." I gestured vaguely, picturing Dhristi’s broken form collapsing onto the bed, not phantom fumes. "Owner’s sending carpenters today. Needs me there to oversee the repairs, point out the damage." The fabrication felt flimsy, desperate. "I need to take some files home. Quarterly supplier reconciliations, the Ahmedabad shipment …Can I work remotely this afternoon?."

Javed’s eyes narrowed slightly, scanning my face – He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t need to. With a slow, deliberate nod, he pushed the heavy ledger and the Ahmedabad shipping folder across the polished wood towards me. "Take them," he said, his voice low, devoid of judgment, heavy with a weary resignation that mirrored my own. "Just… get it done, Manav." The permission was implicit, a lifeline thrown across a chasm of unspeakable truths.

I snatched the files, the thick paper rough against my trembling fingers. The drive home was a blur of screeching tires and near-misses,. My knuckles were white as Lakhan’s phantom laughter echoing in the roar of the engine. *Professional swallower.* The words were barbed wire wrapped around my lungs. I parked the scooter urgently outside. The house loomed, a mausoleum filled with ghosts.

Inside, the silence pressed down like a physical weight. Dhristi’s absence screamed from every corner – . No sound. Just the lingering ozone sharpness of bleach and the phantom musk of Lakhan’s violation. I bypassed the kitchen, the living room. Straight to the study. The door clicked shut behind me, sealing me in with the ghosts.

The computer screen flickered to life, casting a cold, blue pallor over the desk. My fingers, slick with sweat, fumbled over the mouse. The CCTV interface loaded, its sterile grid layout a mockery of the horrors it contained. Friday’s date glared back – April 21st. The blowjob. The choking. The vomit. The raw skin. I scrolled down. Saturday, April 22nd. Blank. Sunday, April 23rd. Blank. Lakhan hadn’t come. Two days of blessed, terrifying emptiness. But the archive was meticulous. It wouldn’t skip. I clicked on April 22nd.

The file opened. Grainy grey footage filled the screen. Saturday morning. The timestamp glowed: 7:47 AM. The kitchen. Sunlight streamed through the window, dust motes dancing in the beams. It felt jarringly normal, obscene in its banality. Dhristi stood by the sink, her back to the camera. She wore a simple yellow cotton salwar kameez, the colour dulled by the monochrome feed. Her shoulders were slumped, defeated. She held a chipped mug, staring blankly out the window. The stillness was absolute. No movement. Just the heavy weight of aftermath pressing down on her frame. She hadn’t slept. You could feel it in the rigid line of her spine, the unnatural stillness. The ghost of Lakhan’s hands seemed to hover just inches from her skin.

Suddenly, I burst into the frame –  oblivious. Energetic. Alive. I wore faded jeans and a wrinkled blue t-shirt I moved with a lightness Dhristi couldn’t possibly fathom. I crossed to the fridge, humming tunelessly, pulling out milk. "Morning!" My voice, piped through the tinny speakers, sounded painfully bright. "Sleep okay?" Dhristi didn’t turn. Her head dipped lower, a tiny, almost imperceptible flinch tightening her shoulders. She lifted the mug to her lips, took a tiny sip. "Fine," she murmured, the word thick, muffled. Her knuckles were white around the mug handle. She was drowning in the silence of what happened yesterday, while I floated on the surface of ignorance.

I fast-forwarded. The footage jumped. Dhristi was sitting rigidly on the living room sofa now, midday sun harsh through the window. She stared blankly at the wall opposite, hands folded tightly in her lap. Her posture was unnaturally still, like a statue carved from grief. The timestamp read 1:15 PM. I asked her to watch a movie. Supposed to be mind-blowing. Matinee show at 3:30?" On screen, Dhristi’s head turned slowly. Her eyes were hollow pits. She looked at me, then through me. A tremor ran through her folded hands. She swallowed, a visible, painful movement. "Movie?" Her voice was a dry leaf scbanging stone. "I… I have laundry, Manav. And… the kitchen floor…" Her excuses were frail, transparent shields against the world. Against me.

I pushed. Leaned into the frame, grinning. Oblivious. Insistent. "Come on! Laundry can wait. It’s that new movie everyone’s raving about.  We deserve a break." My hand landed on her shoulder. On screen, Dhristi flinched violently, jerking away as if burned. Her breath hitched, a sharp, audible gasp. She recovered instantly, forcing a brittle smile onto her face. "Okay," she whispered, the word brittle. "Okay. Just… let me change." She rose stiffly, avoiding my touch, and shuffled out of frame towards the stairs. Her movements were those of someone walking to the gallows.

The camera shut off due to inactivity after we left. The screen dissolved into grey static, a digital void mirroring the emptiness Dhristi carried inside. Four hours of blessed, terrifying silence. When the feed flickered back to life at 7:18 PM, the scene was jarring.

We stumbled through the front door, the frame crowded with our return. Me, grinning broadly, holding a half-eaten tub of caramel popcorn. And Dhristi. Dhristi was *smiling*. Not the brittle, fractured thing she’d forced earlier. This was different. Tentative, yes, the corners of her lips trembling slightly, but genuine. Light touched her eyes again, chasing away some of the hollow shadows. Her shoulders weren’t hunched defensively; they were relaxed, almost loose. The darkness Lakhan Chand  had poured into her seemed pushed back, just an inch, by the flickering magic of a darkened cinema hall and a story not her own. She looked… lighter. Fragile, still, like spun glass, but present. Alive.

Dinner was a revelation. Dhristi moved through the kitchen with a semblance of her old rhythm. Not the frantic energy of before, but a quiet competence. She heated leftover dal and rotis, the familiar clatter of pots and pans filling the silence comfortably, not oppressively. She served us both, her movements fluid, her gaze occasionally meeting mine. There was a softness there, a flicker of the connection Lakhan had tried to strangle. We ate at the small dining table Conversation wasn’t forced. We talked about the movie – the improbable plot twists, the hero’s ridiculous stunts, the villain’s over-the-top sneer. Dhristi even laughed once, a soft, breathy sound that startled her as much as it did me. Her eyes widened briefly, then crinkled at the corners. It was the sound of a forgotten melody. She didn’t flinch when my hand brushed hers reaching for the salt. She ate. Properly. Not pushing food around her plate, but taking deliberate bites, savoring the simple comfort of home-cooked warmth. The raw, haunted creature from the CCTV footage felt worlds away, replaced, for this precious moment, by my wife.

Later, settled on the worn velvet couch, the familiar glow of the television filled the living room. Our favorite serial played , its melodramatic dialogue a comforting anchor. Dhristi sat beside me, tucked into the corner, knees drawn up. She wasn't pressed against me, not yet, but the space between us felt charged with possibility, not dread. Her eyes were fixed on the screen, genuinely absorbed. When the scheming mother-in-law unveiled her latest plot, Dhristi gasped softly, leaning forward slightly. "She wouldn't!" she murmured, disbelief tinged with familiar indignation. It was a tiny spark, but it was hers. Her own voice, her own reaction, unprompted by terror or obligation. The tension in her shoulders eased further, melting into the cushions. She reached for a cushion, hugging it loosely against her stomach – a shield, perhaps, but a soft one. For the first time in days, the house didn't feel like a crime scene. It felt like a refuge, fragile but fiercely held.

As the final credits rolled over a dramatic freeze-frame, Dhristi sighed, a sound of weary contentment. "Bed?" she asked softly, turning her head towards me. Her eyes, still reflecting the TV's dying light, held a quiet exhaustion but no panic. No hunted look. Just the tiredness of a long day ending. I nodded, reaching for the remote. The screen blinked into darkness, plunging the room into near-complete blackness. Only the faint glow from the streetlamp outside filtered through the curtains, painting long, distorted shadows on the wall. Dhristi stood slowly, stretching her arms above her head. The movement was fluid, unguarded. She didn't flinch when her elbow accidentally brushed mine. Instead, she offered a small, sleepy smile, barely visible in the gloom. "Come on," she whispered, her voice a low hum in the sudden quiet. She turned towards the stairs, her silhouette graceful against the dim backdrop. She didn't hurry. She walked steadily, her bare feet making soft, rhythmic sounds on the wooden steps. The climb wasn't a retreat; it was a journey towards rest.

I followed, a step behind, watching her shape ascend. The air felt different – lighter, less charged with the ozone tang of trauma. In the bedroom doorway, she paused, silhouetted against the deeper darkness within. She didn't flick the switch. Instead, she moved to the window, pulling the heavy curtains shut with a soft *whoosh*, sealing out even the faint streetlight. Utter, consuming blackness swallowed the room. It was a velvet blanket, thick and silent. There was only the sound of our breathing, the soft rustle of sheets. I slid under the cool cotton, my body finding the familiar dip in the mattress beside hers. She shifted slightly, turning onto her side, facing away from me. Her back was a warm curve inches from my chest. The silence stretched, peaceful, heavy with the promise of unbroken sleep. I didn't reach for her. The fragile peace felt too precious, too newly formed, to risk shattering with an assumption. The exhaustion, physical and mental, was a lead weight pulling me down. My eyes, gritty and burning from hours of screen-staring and suppressed rage, fluttered shut. Sleep crashed over me like a wave, immediate and absolute. Oblivion.

On the grainy, grey CCTV feed playing on my study monitor, I watched myself sleep. The timestamp glowed: 9:38 PM. The camera, mounted high in the corner, captured the bed in stark monochrome. My form was a dark lump under the duvet, face buried in the pillow, utterly still. Dhristi lay beside me, a smaller shape, also seemingly asleep. The room was a tableau of stillness, the only movement the slow crawl of the digital clock. Then, a subtle shift. Dhristi’s arm, tucked under the covers, moved. Slowly, deliberately. It slid across the minimal space between us. The duvet shifted, bunching slightly. Her hand, small and pale in the monochrome feed, disappeared beneath the edge of my shorts. I watched my sleeping form on screen. No reaction. Deep in oblivious slumber. Her fingers moved with a hesitant, exploratory tenderness. Tracing the length of my flaccid cock through the thin cotton of my underwear. A feather-light touch, almost reverent. Her thumb brushed the tip, a slow, circling caress. It was a gesture startling in its intimacy, its vulnerability. On the screen, my body remained inert, lost in dreams. But Dhristi’s profile, barely visible, seemed focused, intent. Her breathing, picked up faintly by the room’s sensitive mic, hitched slightly. This was her first time. Not just initiating sex, but touching me like *this* – taking control of the desire, reaching for connection on her own terms, in the profound safety of darkness and my unconsciousness. A fragile, desperate attempt to reclaim her body, her chastity, her right to touch and be touched without violation. To find her marriage again, through the only language that felt untainted in that moment.

[masochist]

it stopped midway, are you going to upload anything else today bro?

[tharkibudda]

it stopped midway, are you going to upload anything else today bro?

I'm stopping at her initiating sex for the first time....

[Losliyafan]

Lakhan bastard has woken the bitch out of Dhristi.

[Night_reader]

A great update as usual! I can't wait to read how she comes to terms with the situation. I foresee her being more open to fucking Lakhan the next time. Having sex with her husband should be a revelation given that she'll be comparing him to Lakhan on some level. Excited to see where you take this story!

[aravindkkumar08]

Dear author in your earlier post on STD and pregnancy. Are it includes in your further story update? If so even husband may caught STD

[Dumeelkumar]

Dear author in your earlier post on STD and pregnancy. Are it includes in your further story update? If so even husband may caught STD

Lakhan is not a roadside beggar. He is in a responsible position and knows when to use condom and when not. He knows Dhristi is very rarely fucked by her husband in the first instance itself, so he will be raw with her.   There are stories in the forum where the women fuck with beggars and low class thugs, only they will get STD  banghead:

[masochist]

why adding STD into the story, it makes the story complicated and non-relevant. Pregnancy can come but i think it is too early for this, however i think it would be interesting if the husband buys her wife pills and ask her to take regularly, knowing that even he is not fucking her, she is having regular sex!

[tharkibudda]

why adding STD into the story, it makes the story complicated and non-relevant. Pregnancy can come but i think it is too early for this, however i think it would be interesting if the husband buys her wife pills and ask her to take regularly, knowing that even he is not fucking her, she is having regular sex!

Not sure how the discussion became too logical 

To anyone who is virgin, please note that sex stories are a fantasy and doesn't work on real life.. that's why I wrote how pregnancy and STD doesn't appear in them.. 

Also only experienced men know how tough it is to make a woman actually orgasam and an average session lasts between to 5 to 10 min and maybe 15 min at a stretch...