Adultery My wife through the lens of CCTV

[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