[tharkibudda]

My opinion is almost 2nd to khemucha. That -
1. Go by your pace - it's your story. Don't rush.

2. "Add more ways they do sex at home which Manav never knew."

3.  There is no point of adding more characters unless the plot demands.

And most importantly, a climax for the story you have ready in mind, right? A logical one? That's the main concern. As the number of good stories but unfinished, is pretty high here. Many writers just leave the plot mid-way. So, please make sure that the climax of the story is well thought and done well in advance, and then the story unravels slowly with that kept in mind.

You are doing a faveolus job. Really enjoying your writing. Keep up the good work.  

Thanks for ur feedback

1. Go by your pace - it's your story. Don't rush.

Thanks I will go from now

2. "Add more ways they do sex at home which Manav never knew."

Yes that was initial plan but I thought if it might get repetitive 

3.  There is no point of adding more characters unless the plot demands.

Yes, the other characters come late but are needed

[tharkibudda]

Happy Diwali tharkibudda

Thanks,same to u

[aravindkkumar08]

This is your story as story demand the wife loves all sex toleration you can add some new character. May be 3some or group. As final Choice is made by you as you are writing the story not us.

[ashuezy2]

I started reading but the writing skills are throwing me off, see my threads to understanding formatting skills, dialogue delivery, how to create sexual tension.

[Prabhas Rasigan]

The pace is good. Let manav go outside town for 5 days and Lakhan stay in the house and Dhristi cook and feed him and they fuck in every room and all positions. Dhristi fall in love with Lakhan.

[Samadhanam]

Waiting to see the new avatar of the housewife. The husband had never taken her out. Let Lakhan take her to movie, mall and enjoy her instead of within four walls.

[tomdickharry2024]

lovely update tharkibudda sir!

Dhristhi is looking forward to Lakhan's visits now.. waiting for more!

thank you.

[tharkibudda]

Chapter 26 - April 26th Aftermath

The heavy front door clicked shut. A final sound. Like a vault sealing.


Dhristi stayed frozen, folded over her own lap, face pressed into the cooling mess between her breasts.. She didn't weep. Not yet. Shock held her rigid, a statue carved from humiliation. Her mind replayed the last ten minutes in jagged fragments: the brutal yank backward, the hot slap of the first jet hitting her cheekbone, the panicked struggle against his iron grip, the helpless flinch as another rope painted her eyelid shut. And then… *then* the deliberate targeting. Her collarbone. Her breasts. The valley *she* had made for him. Deglamorized. Tainted. Everywhere.





Only after the heavy *thud* of the door sealing him out did the full realization crash over her. It wasn't just the sticky trails drying on her skin, tightening like cheap glue. It wasn't just the overpowering, thick musk of him – salty, animal, utterly alien – that filled her nostrils, replacing the familiar scent of home. It was the *everywhereness* of it. She felt it *in* her hair, matted strands glued to her forehead. She felt it *on* her eyelashes, crusting her vision. She felt it *under* her chin, a cooling slickness sliding down her neck. She felt it pooling *between* her breasts, thick and congealing. It was *on* her, *in* her pores, *under* her fingernails where she’d instinctively clawed at her own thighs. He hadn't just used her; he'd *marked* her. Inside and out. The violation wasn't just physical; it was a contamination of her very self. A choked sob finally tore loose, muffled against her own sticky skin.



Dhristi lay folded over her own lap on the plush sofa, face pressed into the cooling, thickening mess between her breasts. The initial shock solidified into a cold, heavy dread. Her shoulders shook, not with delicate weeping, but with deep, silent tremors that vibrated through her entire frame. Each ragged inhale sucked the thick, salty-musk scent deeper into her lungs, a constant reminder. Tears flowed freely, carving pale tracks through the drying streaks on her cheeks, mingling with the semen, dripping onto her saree pallu pooled on her thighs and onto the marble floor. *"Kyun?"* she whispered again, a choked sound muffled against her own skin. Why did she kneel? Why did she press her breasts together? Why did she kiss him? Why did she spit? Why did she take him so deep? Each question was a barbed hook tearing at the fragile membrane separating terror from a horrifying complicity. Lakhan hadn't just taken her body; he’d forced her to *collaborate* in her own ruin. The realization was a slow-acting poison, freezing her tears momentarily, leaving her utterly still except for the frantic pulse hammering in her throat.



It made no sense. Just minutes ago, kneeling between his thighs, she'd been focused. Efficient. She'd moved with a practiced rhythm born of dread and necessity. She'd squeezed her breasts together, creating that valley for him, felt the slick slide of his cock against her skin, heard his groans of approval. She'd even kissed the tip – a desperate, instinctive attempt to appease, to *control* the uncontrollable through submission. She'd spat when ordered. She'd taken him deep, gagging silently. There had been a grim purpose then, a terrible momentum. Survival. Avoidance of worse. But now? Now he was gone, and the purpose evaporated, leaving only the sticky, degrading residue and this crushing, bewildering *regret*. It wasn't just disgust at the filth coating her; it was a profound, terrifying self-betrayal. Her own obedience, her own practiced movements, felt like a betrayal of the woman who wept silently beneath Manav. That woman felt distant, like a stranger. This woman – covered in Lakhan's seed, smelling of his musk – was horrifically real.The willing act felt worse than the forced one. She hadn't just been used; she'd *participated*. She'd become an instrument of her own degradation.

Ten minutes. Slowly, agonizingly, Dhristi pushed herself upright. The movement felt monumental. Her muscles screamed protest, stiff from kneeling and terror. Semen, now tacky and thick, pulled at her skin as she peeled her face away from the mess between her breasts. Strands of hair, glued to her forehead and cheek with the stuff, tore free with a faint, sticky *rip*. She blinked, her vision blurred by tears and the crust forming on her eyelashes. Looking down was worse. Her upper body was a grotesque map of degradation – white streaks painted her flushed skin, pooled in the hollow of her throat, matted the hair at her temples. Her breasts, heavy and slick, shone obscenely under the ceiling light, nipples stiff and pale-tipped. Each movement felt heavy, drugged. She shuffled forward, avoiding looking at the sticky puddle on the floor, the fly buzzing lazily nearby. The hallway stretched before her, impossibly long. The bathroom door, usually mundane, seemed like a sanctuary miles away.

The CCTV camera switched off as Dhristi was inside the bathroom for a long time trying to scrub away all the resides of his semen from her body. Then it switched on again after she had cleaned herself and emerged naked from the bathroom. She walked slowly to the bedroom, her shoulders slumped, her eyes hollow. The degradation wasn't something that could be washed away with soap and water. It clung to her insides, a thick, suffocating sludge. Her legs felt like lead weights grafted onto her hips. She just fell on the bed like a rock dropped from a height. Face-first into the cool cotton sheet. The impact jarred her teeth, rattled her bones. A choked gasp escaped her, not of pain, but of sheer, overwhelming exhaustion. The dam broke then. Not delicate weeping. Great, heaving sobs ripped through her. Deep, guttural cries that tore at her throat. Her body convulsed, trembling violently against the mattress. Tears soaked the sheet beneath her cheek instantly, warm and salty. She cried for the filth she’d scrubbed away, knowing it still stained her soul.  Above all, she cried for the stark, undeniable proof replaying in her mind: Lakhan’s satisfaction, thick and final, painted across her skin, a trophy he’d claimed without resistance.

Minutes bled into each other. The violent tremors subsided, leaving behind a hollow ache and sticky trails of tears and mucus on the sheet. Dhristi rolled onto her back, staring blankly at the ceiling fan’s slow rotation. Its rhythmic hum was a monotonous counterpoint to the frantic replay in her head: Lakhan’s smirk, the iron grip on her jaw, the hot slap of each degrading jet. Her hand drifted slowly, hesitantly, downwards. Fingers brushed over her stomach, tracing the faint, drying trails the water hadn't reached fully. The skin felt hypersensitive, alien. Her touch lingered near her navel, then crept lower, slipping beneath the elastic waistband of her underwear. She was dry. Unaroused. Empty. Yet, her fingers moved with a will of their own, sliding through coarse curls, dipping shallowly into the cleft beneath. A choked whimper escaped her lips. Not pleasure. A desperate, shameful exploration. *Was he right?* The thought slithered in, venomous. *Is this all I'm good for? Taking it? Spreading for it?* Her fingers pressed harder, seeking something – friction, sensation, proof she could still feel *anything* besides degradation. But the touch felt disconnected, clinical. Like probing a wound. A fresh wave of tears blurred the spinning fan blades overhead. She withdrew her hand sharply, curling it into a fist against her chest, nails digging into her palm. The sting was real. It was hers. She clung to it.

Half an hour crawled by. The hollow ache intensified, morphing into a crawling sensation beneath her skin. Not just *on* her, but *in* her. The phantom smell of salt and musk clung stubbornly to her nostrils, thick as paint fumes. She could *feel* it – Lakhan’s filth – clinging to her pores, seeping into her scalp, lurking in the damp crevices between her thighs despite the frantic scrubbing. It wasn't rational. She knew she’d washed. But the violation felt cellular. Dhristi pushed herself off the bed, her limbs heavy as wet sandbags. The cool cotton sheet clung briefly to her damp skin before peeling away. She shuffled back towards the bathroom, a sleepwalker drawn to a cursed place.

She came out of the bathroom half an hour later. She stood before the mirror, avoiding her own eyes. Her gaze travelled downwards instead, scrutinizing her skin inch by inch. Was that a faint streak near her collarbone? A dried speck in her eyebrow? Her fingers, trembling slightly, rubbed fiercely at her sternum, then her throat, then her cheekbone. The skin turned pink, raw. Nothing. Just clean skin. Yet the phantom stickiness persisted, a ghostly residue. She splashed cold water on her face, the shock jolting her. Water dripped from her chin onto her bare breasts. She watched the droplets roll, half-expecting them to turn milky white. They didn't. Logic screamed *clean*. Instinct screamed *tainted*. The disconnect was a physical nausea churning low in her gut. She gripped the cold porcelain sink, knuckles white, staring at the drain where the evidence had swirled away. Gone. But not gone. Never gone.

Dhristi moved like a clockwork doll wound too tight. She pulled a faded cotton salwar kameez from the cupboard – loose, shapeless, the colour of dust. The soft fabric felt abrasive against her hypersensitive skin. Every brush of the cloth was a reminder. She tugged the kurta top over her head swiftly, the motion jerky. The dupatta followed, a flimsy shield dbangd hastily over her shoulders. Next, the discarded clothes: the blouse ripped open by Manav’s frantic hands days ago, the bra stained with Lakhan’s spit and her own tears, the saree pallu soaked with his release and hers. She gathered them into a tight, crumpled ball, avoiding looking directly at the stiffened patches, the faint, lingering musk that seemed to bloom anew as she handled them. Her nostrils flared. . She carried the bundle stiffly, arms extended, as if holding toxic waste, straight to the washing machine tucked away in the service balcony. She shoved them inside, poured an excessive amount of Surf Excel powder – the sharp, artificial floral scent battling the phantom musk – slammed the lid shut, and punched the buttons for the longest, hottest cycle. The machine groaned to life, churning violently. Only then did she lean her forehead against its cool, vibrating metal flank, breathing shallowly. A temporary erasure. A fragile lie.

The afternoon bled into evening, thick and slow as drying glue. Dhristi drifted through the rooms, performing chores with robotic precision. She swept floors already clean, wiped counters spotless, rearranged cushions unnecessarily. Her movements were silent, efficient, utterly devoid of life. The television flickered unwatched, some garish Hindi serial playing at low volume – dramatic music, shrill arguments – a jarring counterpoint to the tomb-like silence she cultivated. She avoided the sofa where Lakhan had sprawled, the patch of marble floor where his seed had pooled. She avoided her own reflection in darkened windows. Hunger was a distant concept, a faint echo from another person’s body. The only sound was the relentless churn of the washing machine in the balcony, a mechanical heartbeat mocking her internal chaos.

My  scooter sputtered into the driveway just past sunset. The familiar sound, usually a welcome anchor, now scbangd raw nerves Dhristi hadn’t known she possessed. She froze mid-step in the hallway, dust cloth clutched like a shield. The key rattled in the lock, the door swung open. I  stepped in.

"Hey, Dhrishti!" I called out, voice deliberately bright, pushing cheer like a salesman hawking optimism. "Traffic was hell near Kalupur, yaar" I kicked off my shoes, the *thud* echoing in the unnervingly quiet house. . "Whatcha doing? Everything okay?"

She stood frozen in the hallway doorway, dust cloth limp in her hand. Her eyes, hollowed out and bruised-looking, flickered towards me, then away. No smile. No greeting. Just a slow blink, like a lizard sunning itself. "Safai kar rahi thi," she mumbled, her voice a dry scbang. Cleaning. As if the house wasn't already spotless, sterile. She turned and shuffled towards the kitchen, her movements stiff, deliberate, avoiding brushing against the doorframe .

The air felt thick, heavy with unspoken filth. My forced cheer curdled in my throat. "Brought paneer from Shreeji!" I announced, too loud, holding up the greasy packet like a peace offering. "palak panner bana lo?"  Silence. Only the clatter of a pan being moved unnecessarily on the stove. I shoved the paneer into the fridge, the cold blast doing nothing to cool the heat prickling my neck. Her silence wasn't village shyness anymore. It was a wall, freshly plastered with Lakhan’s filth. I dropped onto the living room sofa – *his* sofa – and the leather felt cold, accusing. The CCTV monitor beside the TV seemed to pulse. *Move the cursor*. Just a flick. See what happened *after* he left. See the wreckage. My finger hovered over the mouse. Dhristi walked past, carrying a glass of water. She didn’t look at me. Didn’t look at the sofa. Her gaze was fixed somewhere on the floor, miles away. The evening dragged on, thick with the smell of parathas she barely touched .

Night fell like a shroud. The house settled into an unnatural quiet. Dhristi sat rigidly on the edge of the bed, braiding her hair with jerky, mechanical movements. The bedside lamp cast deep shadows under her eyes, hollowed-out pits. I watched the tense line of her shoulders, the way her fingers trembled slightly as they worked the plait. I  watched myself slid across the cool sheet towards her, the friction loud in the silence. My hand, tentative, landed on her hipbone beneath the thin cotton nightie. She flinched, a sharp, involuntary jerk. "Dhrishti," I murmured, leaning closer, my lips brushing the tense muscle of her shoulder. My other hand slid upwards, cupping the heavy weight of her breast through the fabric. She went utterly still, like prey sensing a predator. "Aaj..." I started, my voice thick, fingers tracing the curve. She didn't melt. Didn't sigh. Her hand shot out, cold and firm, clamping over mine, stopping its exploration dead. "Nahi," she whispered, the word brittle, final. "Safe day nahi hai." Her gaze remained fixed on the wall ahead, refusing to meet mine. The lie hung in the air, sharp as shattered glass. Safe day? After what Lakhan had done? After what the footage showed? It wasn't safety. It was disgust. Directed squarely at me. My hand fell away, numb. The rejection wasn't just physical; it was a confirmation of everything the CCTV screamed. I rolled back to my side of the bed, staring at the ceiling fan's slow, mocking rotation. The silence wasn't just quiet. It was the sound of her relief .

[jroy1984]

Nice narration..

[tharkibudda]

[manmadhakunju]

Superb update

[AjitKumar]

Fantastic

[Gopal Ratnam]

Manav has to use only his hands for his pleasures in future. Lakhan is always there for dhristi. Looking for the love making with full of love between both instead of humiliation or degradation.

[aravindkkumar08]

Manav should divorce and leave his wife and give to lakhan. I read one old story where husband take revenge by fuking his friend wife.

[tharkibudda]

Manav should divorce and leave his wife and give to lakhan. I read one old story where husband take revenge by fuking his friend wife.

The actions by Manav will be in the climax....At present, he is just watching the past from the  recordings...

[tharkibudda]

Chapter 27 - April 28th- The Revelation

I sat hunched before the CCTV monitor, the glow painting my face sickly pale . I reminisced the footage. The scene after Lakhan left played out in stark, silent horror: Dhristi slumped on the sofa, coated, frozen. Then the slow, agonizing collapse inward. The frantic scrubbing, the desperate self-touch seeking something she could control, the second shower, the clothes bundled like contamination. I watched it all unfold frame by frame, a brutal documentary of degradation and its aftermath. My gut churned, a sour mix of nausea and something uglier. She knelt willingly. She pressed her breasts together for him. She spat when commanded. Then she wept like her soul was being ripped out. The contradiction was a jagged puzzle piece I couldn't force into place. Why submit so completely, then drown in such profound self-loathing? Was it terror? Was it... something else? And then, the cold calculation: punish me. Use the denial of sex, wrapped in the flimsy excuse of 'safe days', as a weapon.


Was this the reason for the whiplash moods? The sudden sweetness after Lakhan’s visits, a fleeting high from his brutal satisfaction? Followed by the icy withdrawal when faced with my clumsy, inadequate touch? The pattern clicked with sickening clarity. Her sweetness wasn't for me; it was the afterglow of his conquest. Her coldness was the crashing comedown, the unavoidable comparison when I was the only one left. A pawn in their fucked-up dynamic. My fault for being weak. For lasting minutes where he lasted ages. For gentleness where she craved brutality.

My fingers, trembling with a mix of dread and morbid compulsion, stabbed at the CCTV archive. April 27th. The file size was pitifully small. Barely a blip. No Lakhan. Just Dhristi pacing, listless, staring blankly at the door, shoulders slumped deeper with each passing hour. The disappointment radiating off her was palpable even through the grainy footage. No relief. Only the gnawing hunger unfulfilled. No wonder she’d been brittle that evening, snapping about overcooked dal. Not village shyness. Withdrawal.

April 28th. Thursday. The file size loomed large, bloated with violation. My mouse hovered. Click. The timestamp glowed: 1:07 PM. Dhristi wasn’t waiting anxiously. She was wearing a pale pink salwar kameez. She stood rigidly by the window, back to the room, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Not anticipation. Resignation. Pure dread.

Suddenly, the doorbell shattered the silence – not a ring, but a violent, prolonged buzzing. Dhristi flinched violently, her whole body jerking as if electrocuted. She didn't move towards the door. Not immediately. Her shoulders rose and fell with a single, shuddering breath. Then, mechanically, she turned. Her face, pale and drawn, was utterly blank. A mask carved from ice. She walked to the door, each step heavy, deliberate. The latch clicked.

Lakhan shoved past her before she could fully open it, his bulk filling the hallway with oppressive energy. He didn't look at her. Didn't speak. He moved with the bored familiarity of ownership, heading straight for the living room sofa. Dhristi stood frozen by the door for a heartbeat, then closed it softly, the click echoing like a tomb sealing. She followed slowly, her gaze fixed on the floor tiles.

He dropped heavily onto the leather sofa, the cushions groaning. Without preamble, without even glancing her way, his thick fingers went to his belt buckle. The metallic clink was unnaturally loud. He shoved his trousers and underwear down past his hips in one rough motion, pooling them around his ankles. His half-hard cock lay thick and heavy against his thigh, already swelling rapidly in the humid afternoon air. The sheer nonchalance of the exposure was its own violence.

Dhristi stood rooted a few feet away, her pink salwar kameez suddenly feeling flimsy, inadequate. Her gaze was dragged downwards, against her will, landing on the obscene display. Compared to Manav's familiar shape, Lakhan’s was a brutal intrusion – thicker, darker, veined and demanding. He didn't speak. Didn't gesture. He simply leaned back, spreading his thighs wider on the sofa, his eyes finally lifting to meet hers. Not with command. With bored expectation. An unspoken invitation. The air crackled with the silent dare: Come. Kneel. Serve.

She didn't move forward like yesterday. Yesterday’s desperation felt like a fever dream, a weakness she couldn't afford to repeat. Her jaw tightened, a muscle flickering in her temple. Her hands, hidden in the folds of her dupatta, clenched into fists so tight her knuckles threatened to pierce skin. Nahi. The word screamed silently inside her skull. Not again.

Lakhan’s gaze sharpened. The bored expectation curdled into something colder, predatory. He saw the rigid spine, the refusal in her stillness. A low, guttural sound escaped him – not anger, yet. A warning rumble. His thick fingers tapped impatiently against his own thigh, right beside the heavy, flushed shaft lying inert against the leather. The tapping was deliberate, rhythmic. Thump. Thump. Thump. An unspoken command louder than any shout. Come. Now.

Dhristi’s breath hitched, shallow and rapid. The pink cotton of her kameez felt suddenly suffocating. She could smell him from here – stale sweat, cheap aftershave, the underlying musk of dominance. Her gaze flickered from his impassive face to the obscene display between his spread thighs, then back. The silence stretched, thick and viscous, charged with the threat coiled in his stillness. Every instinct screamed to obey, to kneel, to appease the beast before the violence escalated. Her knuckles, clenched hidden within her dupatta, turned bone-white.

Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her chin. Her voice, when it came, was low and raspy, but it didn’t waver. "Kyon na hum normal sex karenge aaj?" The words hung heavy in the air, a fragile shield against the inevitable degradation. Normal sex. The absurdity of the phrase, spoken in this context, was almost laughable. Yet her eyes, finally meeting his, held a flicker of desperate defiance. "Sirf... sirf r? Aise nahi?" The plea was raw, stripped bare.

Lakhan stared at her for a beat, utterly still. Then, a low rumble started deep in his chest. It built, vibrating the air, until it erupted into a harsh, barking laugh that echoed off the sterile walls. "Normal sex?" He repeated, the words dripping with incredulous contempt. "Normal?" He slapped his thick thigh, the sound sharp. "Tuje kya normal chahiye?"

Dhristi flinched at the sound, her composure cracking like thin ice. She swallowed hard, forcing her chin up despite the tremor in her jaw. "Haan... jo pati-patni karte hai na," she stammered, her voice thin but insistent. She gestured vaguely towards her crotch . "Wahan  pe... muh mein nahi." The plea was naked, desperate.

Lakhan stared at her, his thick lips curling into a slow, predatory grin that didn't touch his cold eyes. He leaned back further into the sofa, spreading his thighs wider, the thick shaft resting heavily against the leather. The rhythmic tapping on his thigh ceased. He chuckled, a low, grating sound like stones dragged over concrete. "What?" He snorted derisively. Then, switching to English, the words dripped with condescending amusement: "Wow, you are so innocent it’s amusing." He patted the cushion beside his bare hip. "Come. Sit."

Dhristi hesitated, her knuckles whitening beneath her dupatta. His gaze hardened, the amusement vanishing instantly. "Aja," he commanded, the single Hindi word sharp as a slap. She flinched. Her legs moved stiffly, mechanically, carrying her the few steps across the polished marble floor. She perched on the very edge of the sofa cushion, as far from his exposed flesh as possible, her body rigid, angled away.

Lakhan snorted, a sound thick with derision. "Tension mat le, kamini," he growled, shifting his bulk sideways. His thick thigh pressed heavily against her hip. The heat radiating from him felt suffocating. "It's not my fault," he continued, his voice dropping to a low, grating rumble, "that your husband only does that one missionary position like a scared collegeboy." He leaned closer, his stale breath hot on her ear. "So everything else feels abnormal to you?" He chuckled darkly. "Blowjobs? They're common as chai in every couple. Haven't you seen any sex videos? Blue films? On the phone? Surely Manav watches them?"

Dhristi jerked her head away sharply, the pink dupatta slipping slightly. Her eyes, wide and fixed on the opposite wall, burned with sudden intensity. "Nahi!" she hissed, the word sharp, brittle. "Main kabhi nahi dekhti unhein. They are dirty." Her knuckles, hidden in the folds of her salwar, tightened until the skin stretched taut. She swallowed hard, the sound audible in the thick silence. Her voice dropped to a raw whisper, trembling with a mixture of defiance and profound shame. "Aur... aur muh mein lene se... kuch maza nahi aata mujhe." The confession hung heavy, stark. "Kuch nahi."

Lakhan froze. Utterly still. His thick, dark eyebrows climbed towards his hairline. His mouth, usually curled in contempt or command, hung slightly open. For a heartbeat, maybe two, the oppressive air in the room seemed to thin. The predatory stillness evaporated, replaced by pure, dumbfounded shock. He blinked, staring at her rigid profile. She’d just… said it. Out loud. To him. Not weeping, not pleading silently, but stating a preference. A denial of his pleasure.

Then it hit him. A low rumble started deep in his gut, bubbling up. It grew, swelling into a choked snort, then erupted. A full-throated, belly-shaking guffaw exploded from him. Loud, raucous, utterly uncontrolled. He slapped his thick thigh again, harder this time, the sharp crack echoing off the walls. Tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes. He leaned forward, gasping for breath between bursts of laughter that shook the sofa. "HAH! Arrey wah! Maza nahi aata?" He wheezed, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "Oh, bhenchod, Dhrishti! You kill me!"

The laughter subsided as suddenly as it began, leaving him panting slightly, a wide, predatory grin splitting his face. Before Dhristi could react, he lunged sideways. Not rough, but deliberate. His thick arm snaked around her waist, pulling her stiff body flush against his sweaty side. His other hand clamped firmly over the front of her pink kameez, palm flat and heavy against her left breast, fingers digging possessively into the soft flesh. He squeezed hard, forcing her nipple against the fabric. She gasped, a sharp intake of breath choked off instantly.

"Shhh," he breathed directly into her ear, his voice dropping into a low, conspiratorial rumble. The Hindi evaporated, replaced by smooth, practiced English. "Let me tell you a small story." His fingers kneaded her breast rhythmically through the cotton. "I studied in St. Joseph's college(FICTIONAL college, NO RESEMBLANCE TO ANY ACTUAL ONE) in Mussoorie." The name rolled off his tongue with smug familiarity. 

"One of the richest colleges in our country." His thumb rubbed circles over her nipple, making her flinch. "And my classmates? Kids of industrialists. Movie stars." He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against her temple.

 "Lost my virginity early. Very early." He paused, his hand sliding lower, palming her entire breast possessively. "Notorious, actually." His grin widened against her hair. 

"For my 8.5 inch cock." He squeezed again, harder. "Among the girls. Especially." His free hand gestured vaguely towards the ceiling. "One of them? Famous Bollywood actress now. Big heroine." He leaned back slightly, forcing Dhristi to crane her neck to avoid his hot breath. His eyes locked onto hers, gleaming with cruel amusement. "Know what she used to beg for? Exactly what you call 'dirty'."

Dhristi remained rigidly still beneath his grip, her gaze fixed on a crack in the plasterwork near the ceiling fan. The heat radiating from his palm felt like a brand. His voice, dripping with self-satisfied reminiscence, scbangd against her raw nerves. He squeezed her breast again, a sharp reminder of his ownership in this moment. "But Cardiff?" His tone shifted abruptly, the smugness replaced by a bitter edge. "Cardiff University? For my MBA?"

 He snorted derisively. "Different story." His hand slid lower, tracing the curve of her ribs beneath the salwar kameez. "Suddenly, I was invisible." He spat the word. "Bottom of the fucking barrel." His fingers dug into her flesh, pinching sharply. 

"White girls? Forget it." He leaned closer, his stale breath washing over her face. "Brown boy? Must be having a 'tiny pecker'?" He laughed, a harsh, barking sound devoid of humour. "That's what they thought. All of them." His hand moved to her thigh, gripping it hard through the thin cotton salwar. "Stereotype beta cuck. Weak. Small." His voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "Like your husband."

Dhristi flinched violently at the comparison, a tiny gasp escaping her lips before she clamped them shut. Lakhan’s grip tightened painfully on her thigh. "So I worked," he hissed, his eyes boring into hers. "Worked fucking hard. Built muscle." He flexed his free arm, the bicep bulging. "Learned the game. Talked dirty. Dominated." 

He smirked. "Banged a few. Freshers. Drunk ones. Desperate ones." He shrugged dismissively. "Got my cock wet." His thumb traced circles on her inner thigh, dangerously high. "But desired?" He shook his head slowly, his gaze predatory. "Never like India." He leaned back slightly, his hand still clamped possessively on her thigh. "Never like here. His hand slid higher, fingertips brushing the edge of her panty line beneath the salwar.


"That’s when I realised," Lakhan murmured, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial rumble, thick with self-satisfaction. His fingers traced lazy, possessive circles high on Dhristi’s inner thigh. "Having a big cock?" He snorted softly. "Not enough." His thumb pressed hard against the thin cotton covering her mound. "Not fucking nearly enough." 

Dhristi remained rigidly still, her gaze fixed on the ceiling fan’s slow rotation. "You need to work on your strokes," he continued, his voice smooth, almost pedagogical now. "Learn the angles. Deep? Shallow? Fast? Slow?" His hand slid fully over her covered crotch, palming her roughly. She sucked in a sharp breath. "Know when to punish," his fingers dug in, "and when to tease." He released the pressure slightly. "Learn to give good oral." He chuckled darkly, leaning close enough for his breath to stir her hair. "Really good oral. Make them scream into the pillow." 

His free hand lifted her chin, forcing her hollow eyes to meet his gleaming ones. "Focus on foreplay. Build it. Edge them. Drive them fucking wild before you slide in." His grin was wide, predatory. "And soon? Soon I was a legend in my university." He released her chin, letting her head drop. "My count?" He leaned back against the sofa cushions, spreading his thighs wider, his cock fully erect now against his belly. "Three figures." His voice was thick with triumph. "Easy."

He paused, letting the silence hang heavy. Then he looked at her, his gaze sharpening, piercing through her frozen dread. "You know why I did all that?" he asked, his tone shifting, becoming oddly earnest, almost fervent. "Because I wanted those women—those equals, those above me—to get genuine pleasure from my sex." He leaned forward again, his eyes locking onto hers with unnerving intensity. 

"I wanted them gasping, shaking, begging for more. I wanted them to tell their friends, their colleagues. ‘Lakhan? Oh god, yes.’" He slapped his thigh, the sound sharp. "Satisfaction! That was the fucking goal! To be desired. To be remembered." He gestured vaguely towards the hallway, towards the world outside. "They weren’t just holes, Dhrishti. They were conquests. Proof."

Then his expression hardened. The earnestness evaporated like spilled water on hot pavement. His lips curled into a sneer. "But you?" He laughed—a harsh, grating bark that echoed off the sterile walls. "And whom do you think you are?" He leaned closer, his stale breath hot on her face. "Demanding me for what you want?" He snorted derisively.

 "You are nothing to me." His hand shot out, grabbing her chin roughly, forcing her to meet his eyes. "Just a warm body with holes to fuck when I'm bored." His thumb pressed painfully into her cheekbone. "I'm not here for an affair," he spat, each word deliberate, venomous. "I'm here to use you. Like an object." He released her chin with a shove, making her head snap back. "And when I get bored?" His smile was cold, final. "I will stop visiting."

Dhristi stared at him. Shock punched the air from her lungs. Utter despair flooded her veins like icy water. She knew she was exploited—every forced moan, every swallowed gag had screamed it—but hearing it spat so plainly? Called a warm body with holes? It stripped her bare. The fragile shield of 'normal sex' shattered into dust. Her eyes burned. Tears welled, blurring Lakhan's smug face. They spilled over, tracing hot paths down her cheeks. She didn't wipe them. Couldn't move. Everything she'd done—the submission, the degradation—it was all laid bare as nothing but convenient holes.


Lakhan watched the tears fall. A slow, cruel smile spread across his face, stretching the thick lips wide. It wasn't amusement. It was pure, predatory satisfaction. He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming like polished obsidian. "Rone se kya hoga?" His voice was a low rasp, devoid of any pity. "Tears won't fix anything, kamini. Especially not this." He chuckled, a dry, grating sound.

"I don't care," he enunciated slowly, savouring each word like a bitter spice, "if your husband's pathetic little pecker isn't satisfying you." His gaze raked over her tear-streaked face. "If you somehow get pleasure from my sex?" He shrugged, a dismissive jerk of his shoulders. "It's just a byproduct. Like engine smoke."

His smile widened, showing teeth. "I only care about my pleasure." He paused, letting the cruelty sink in. "Even if it's pure pain for you." His eyes locked onto hers, holding her drowning gaze. "In fact," he murmured, leaning impossibly closer, his stale breath hot on her wet cheek,

"if someone said brain fuck is good?" His smile turned savage, utterly devoid of humanity. "I would drill a hole right here," his thick finger tapped her temple hard, "in your pretty little head. Just for my satisfaction."

Dhristi flinched violently at the tap, a choked sob escaping her lips. The tears flowed freely now, hot and silent. Everything shriveled inside her. Hope. Resistance. Even the shame felt distant, buried under a crushing weight of absolute worthlessness. He’d stripped her bare. Not just physically. He’d peeled back every layer, every pathetic excuse she’d clung to – village shyness, duty, fear – and revealed the ugly core: she was nothing. A receptacle. A moundbuilder raised only to be flattened.

Lakhan watched her collapse inward, the cruel smile never leaving his face. He shifted his bulk, spreading his legs wider on the sofa leather. His cock, thick and aggressively erect, slapped wetly against his lower belly. The sound was obscene in the silence broken only by Dhristi’s ragged breaths. He didn’t touch her. Not yet. He just… presented it. Like a trophy. Like a demand written in flesh.

"Ab neeche utth," he commanded, his voice flat, devoid of anger. It was worse. It was bored certainty. "Muh mein le. Chuss." He paused, letting the crude Hindi hang. His eyes, cold and assessing, scanned her tear-streaked face. "Dont think," he switched to English, the words clipped, precise, "I didn't see through your sudden willingness to suck me yesterday." A short, derisive chuckle escaped him. "That little act? Trying to be… eager?" He shook his head slowly. "Pathetic. You can't coax me into doing what you want." He leaned forward slightly, his gaze pinning her. "I'm not your husband." The contempt dripped. "I just own you."

Dhristi choked back a sob. The tears wouldn't stop. They blurred Lakhan’s smug, satisfied face. His words weren't just cruel; they were surgical instruments, dissecting her pathetic attempt at agency and laying it bare as useless theatre. Own you. The words echoed in the hollow space where her sense of self had been. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Couldn't argue. What was there to argue? He'd seen it. Seen right through her desperate, degrading performance the day before – the forced swallowing, the hollow-eyed obedience – and declared it worthless. Worse than worthless. Pathetic.

Slowly, mechanically, she slid forward off the sofa cushion. Her knees hit the cool marble floor with a dull thud that echoed the numbness spreading through her. She bent forward, her spine curving like a willow branch snapped under ice. Her face descended towards the heat radiating from his groin. The thick musk of him filled her nostrils – stale sweat, arrogance, and something metallic.

 She paused, her face inches from his rigid cock, a grotesque monument to his power. Her eyes lifted, seeking his face. Not defiance. Not anger. Just a silent, drowning plea. Please. Not this. Not again. But Lakhan’s expression hadn't shifted. It was carved from stone, etched with that same sadistic satisfaction. A sculptor surveying his finished work: broken, kneeling, exactly where she belonged. His eyes held hers, cold and gleaming. No mercy. Only ownership confirmed.

A choked sob rattled in her throat, trapped. She swallowed it down, tasting bile and despair. The tears flowed freely now, hot tracks carving paths through the dust of her dignity. They dripped onto the pale marble floor near his feet, darkening the stone. She lowered her gaze back to the thick shaft before her. It pulsed faintly, an obscene demand. Every instinct screamed to recoil, to vomit, to scream. But the weight of his words crushed her: warm body with holes. Owned. Her breath hitched, a ragged, wet sound. 

Then, with a shudder that ran through her entire frame, she leaned forward the final inch. Her lips parted slightly, trembling. The swollen head brushed against her lower lip, slick with pre-cum. She flinched, a tiny gasp escaping, but didn't pull back. Her eyes squeezed shut, lashes wet and clumped. Slowly, hesitantly, she opened her mouth wider. She took just the thick tip inside. The taste flooded her senses – salt, skin, domination. Her jaw stretched uncomfortably. She stayed frozen like that for a heartbeat, trembling, tears streaming silently down her cheeks, dripping onto her pink kameez and the floor beneath her knees.

Lakhan watched, utterly still. Not a flicker of pity crossed his face. Only cold, detached appraisal. He shifted his hips slightly, pressing the head deeper against her tongue. "Poora le," he commanded, his voice flat, bored. "Deep. Like yesterday." He leaned back against the cushions, spreading his thighs wider, settling in. "Don't stop till I tell you." His gaze remained fixed on the top of her bowed head, the intricate parting in her oiled hair. "And keep crying," he added, a cruel amusement finally touching his lips. "I like the salt."

Dhristi choked. The thick intrusion filled her mouth, pressing down on her tongue. Tears blurred her vision completely now, hot rivers mixing with the bitter slickness coating her palate. She gagged reflexively, her throat muscles clenching. She fought it down, forcing herself to take him deeper. Her jaw screamed in protest as she stretched wider, trying to accommodate his girth. The tip nudged the back of her throat. Panic flared. She pulled back slightly, gasping for air through her nose, her chest heaving.

Lakhan’s hand shot out, tangling roughly in the hair at her crown. Not pulling, just anchoring her. Controlling her. "Poora," he growled, the Hindi word thick and demanding. "Take it all. Now."

Dhristi gagged again, the thick head bumping against her soft palate. Tears streamed freely now, mixing with saliva and pre-cum on her chin. She forced her jaw wider, a low whine escaping her nose. Slowly, agonizingly, she pushed forward. The thick shaft filled her mouth, stretching her lips taut. She felt the ridge of his glans scbang the roof of her mouth, then the impossible pressure at the back of her throat. Her eyes watered violently. She choked, her throat spasming uncontrollably.

Lakhan’s grip tightened in her hair, holding her steady. "Keep going," he commanded, his voice flat. "Swallow it."

As I watched the footage, bile rose thick and hot in my throat. Dhristi’s trembling lips closing around Lakhan’s cock—her tears dripping onto the marble—wasn't just degradation. It was confirmation. " Why she was so eager yesterday to suck him?" The answer screamed from the screen: So that she could get sex from him instead of me. All these days I’d clung to the lie that she was forced, brutalized, a victim. But here, on April 28th, Lakhan had ripped that delusion apart. "Today she openly wanted Lakhan’s cock inside her pussy." The truth was a knife twisting in my gut. Her choked obedience wasn’t fear. It was bargaining. She’d swallowed him whole yesterday hoping he’d reward her with the penetration she craved—his brutal thickness instead of my gentle inadequacy. My hands shook, the mouse slick with sweat. On screen, Lakhan’s fingers tightened in her hair, forcing her deeper. Dhristi gagged, her throat convulsing around his girth, tears streaming. Yet she didn’t fight. She pushed forward, taking more, her muffled whimpers swallowed by his flesh. Salt, he’d said. He liked the salt. And all I tasted was ash.

Suddenly, Lakhan’s free hand moved—not to push her away, but to cup the back of her head. A sickening tenderness. "Shhh," he murmured, the sound distorted through the CCTV mic. "Good girl. Take it all." His thumb stroked her scalp, a mockery of comfort. Dhristi’s eyes flew open, wide with panic as the thick head breached her throat. She convulsed, body heaving, saliva dripping down her chin. Lakhan held her firm, his expression detached, almost bored. "Swallow," he commanded flatly. "Or choke."

Dhristi gagged violently. Tears streamed faster. But then—a shift. Her jaw relaxed fractionally. Her head began to bob, shallow at first, testing. Lakhan’s eyes narrowed, then flashed with surprise. Approval? Dhristi increased her pace abruptly, sucking harder, faster—a frantic, almost mechanical rhythm. Her hands, clenched uselessly at her sides moments ago, now rose hesitantly. One gripped his thigh for balance; the other curled around the base of his shaft, pumping in time with her mouth. Make him cum. End this.

Lakhan groaned openly—a deep, resonant rumble vibrating through her skull. "Fuck yes," he breathed, hips lifting slightly off the sofa to meet her thrusts. His fingers loosened their grip in her hair, sliding down to cradle her neck instead. "Just like that, kamini. Faster." His other hand wandered, rough fingertips tracing the shell of her ear, then pinching her earlobe hard. Dhristi flinched but didn’t slow. Her tears mixed with spit and pre-cum, slicking his cock, making obscene wet sounds echo in the silent room. She focused only on the rhythm: suck, pump, swallow the reflex to vomit. End it. End it.

Suddenly, his thighs tensed—a rigid hardness beneath her gripping hand. A low, guttural snarl tore from his throat. "Madarchod!" he barked, the Hindi word sharp and urgent. Dhristi froze mid-stroke, mouth stuffed full. Before she could react, Lakhan’s hand slammed against the back of her head, fingers tangling viciously in her hair. He shoved down with brutal force. Her nose crushed against the coarse hair at the base of his cock. Her throat opened reflexively, stretched impossibly wide. He held her there, impaled, as his hips jerked violently upwards. A hot, thick pulse erupted deep inside her throat. Then another. Semen flooded her, thick and bitter. She gagged, convulsed, but Lakhan kept her pinned, grinding against her face. "Swallow!" he commanded, voice thick with release. "Every drop!"

Dhristi choked. Tears streamed freely now, mixing with spit and the viscous fluid coating her tongue and throat. She swallowed convulsively, the bitter taste making her stomach heave. Lakhan groaned louder, his thrusts shallow and rhythmic as he emptied himself. Each pulse forced more down her gullet. Finally, the spasms slowed. He relaxed his grip slightly but didn’t pull out. His cock remained lodged deep, softening slightly. He patted her head, a condescending thump. "Good hole," he muttered, breathless. "Knows its job."

She stayed frozen, nose crushed against his groin, breathing shallowly through flared nostrils. The smell—musky, intimate, violating—filled her lungs. Her jaw ached. Her throat burned. Silence stretched, thick with the aftermath. Lakhan shifted, pulling his softening cock from her mouth with a slick pop. A thin strand of saliva and semen connected her lips to him for a second before snapping. Dhristi slumped back onto her heels, gasping, wiping her mouth frantically with the back of her hand. She shuddered.

Lakhan watched her, a slow, satisfied smirk spreading across his face. "Hmm," he grunted, tilting her chin up with a rough finger. Her tears had slowed to sticky tracks, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen. He studied her face, the trembling lips, the hollow defeat in her gaze. "No puking today," he observed, his voice flat, almost approving. "Good. Improvement." 

His smirk widened, cruel and knowing. He leaned down suddenly, grabbing a thick fistful of hair near her temple, yanking her head close. His breath washed over her ear as he whispered, low and dangerous: "Ab samjhi? Apni jagah?" He paused, letting the words sink like stones. "Yaad rakh Agli baar jab mein aunga..." He released her hair with a sharp flick, letting her head drop forward.

Dhristi didn't move. She stayed kneeling, head bowed, the violated stillness settling around her like dust. Her breath hitched, a wet, ragged sound. Lakhan shifted his weight on the sofa, the leather creaking loudly. He glanced down at his softening cock, slick with spit and semen. With a casual flick of his thumb, he wiped the glistening residue off the tip onto the sofa armrest. A grimace flickered across his face – not disgust, but mild annoyance at the mess. He grasped the waistband of his crumpled trousers, pulling them up smoothly over his hips. The zipper rasped shut. He tucked himself in with a single, practiced motion, adjusting the fabric over his groin. Done.

 The act was swift, impersonal, utterly detached. He stood up, the sudden movement making Dhristi flinch violently. He didn't look at her. He stretched languidly, arms reaching towards the ceiling, a low groan escaping him – the sound of pure, uncomplicated satisfaction. He smoothed his rumpled silk shirt down over his belly, patted his pockets absently. Finding his car keys, he turned towards the door. His footsteps were heavy, unhurried, echoing on the marble. He paused only to glance at his reflection in the hallway mirror, smoothing back a stray strand of hair. Then, without a backward glance, he pulled the front door open. The afternoon sunlight flooded the dim hallway for a second. He stepped out. The door clicked shut behind him with soft, final sound.

[tharkibudda]

dedupe list helper tool

[tharkibudda]

@khemucha 

I hope this update answers ur question.


Others, please dont expect 2 updates next week. I'm honestly not sure how much i give time during the upcoming holiday season for the USA

[shivanikaur2]

This is one of the best stories i have read.

[tomdickharry2024]

super update sir!

Dhrishti's attitude is slightly changing towards both Lakhan and her husband.. eagerly waiting for the part when she willingly cons her husband and goes away to God only knows where ?

Thank you for the erotic story and picture updates!