Adultery Who Watches The Watchmen (continued)

[samgreenvalley]

Hi mates,
I was an on/off writer at Xossip. Since it's shutdown, I have been lurking on Xossipy for many years, until now; when i want to dive into my old love of penning erotica.
For starters, I have written a continuation of Who Watches The Watchmen by aurelius1982

www.xossipy.com/thread-908.html

The story continues from where the original author left it. 
Do read the previous chapters to understand the dynamics between Prakash, Menaka & Dara. This would continue from the chapter of Menaka & Dara starting a new life in Delhi as "man & wife". 
So please wish me luck that I may be able to match even 10% of the literary genius of aurelius1982. 

Suggestions and advices are always welcome
Cheers

Sam

[ShadowRising321]

Congratulations and best wishes. Keep it realistic like the original author. Aurelius made a big mistake of making her a common whore

[samgreenvalley]

Congratulations and best wishes. Keep it realistic like the original author. Aurelius made a big mistake of making her a common whore

Thanks ShadowRising321. Truly appreciate your reply. I want to explore the psychological aspects of the decision that Menaka has taken under Dara's influence and its consequences. 
Although my narration will differ from your continuation, as I've taken it further from where aurelius1982 had left it; I'll try and keep it as realistic tone-wise to your continuation. 
Hope you and other readers like it. 
Cheers

[samgreenvalley]

Chapter: Delhi Diaries – Day One


"Dearest Prakash,


I promised I would write to you every day about this bizarre experiment. So here goes. I am sitting on a creaky wooden chair in Dara’s—our—new quarters in Delhi. The fan is wobbling above me. Somewhere in the distance, I hear the call to prayer from a mosque. Ayan must be on the ship with you by now. I miss him already. I miss you too. But I made this choice, and I am going to see it through.


We arrived this morning by Shatabdi Express. Dara was nervous the entire journey, which is unusual for him. He kept fiddling with the new clothes I bought him—a simple kurta-pajama, nothing fancy. I wore a plain green salwar kameez, no makeup, and left my septum ring behind. In this new colony, I am supposed to be just another watchman’s wife. No one knows I am a merchant navy officer’s wife from Mumbai. No one knows about the videos or the WhatsApp groups. I am starting from zero.


The colony is called Mayur Vihar Phase III Extension. It is one of those sprawling Delhi-NCR societies with twenty towers, each eight stories high. Very different from our building in Mumbai. Here, the watchmen are everywhere, and they all seem to know Dara from his army days. He got this job through an old friend, a Gurkha like him. The quarters are on the ground floor of Tower G, right next to the garbage room. I won’t lie—when I first saw it, my heart sank.


Two rooms. A tiny kitchen with a single-burner stove. A bathroom that smells of bleach and has a geyser that looks like it might electrocute me. A bedroom with a double bed that has a sagging mattress and metal springs poking out. A small living area with a plastic table, two chairs, and a fifteen-inch TV that only plays DD National. Dara saw my face and said, “This is better than any place I have ever lived, memsaab. I shared a shack with three other men in the army for years.”


I didn’t correct him for calling me memsaab. Old habits.


The first challenge was unpacking. I had brought two suitcases—one with my clothes, one with bedsheets, utensils, a pressure cooker, and some spices. Dara has exactly one bag. He owns three pairs of pants, four shirts, one pair of shoes, and a photograph of his dead wife. He placed that photograph on the wall with a small garland. I watched him do it and felt a strange pang. Not jealousy. Something else. Respect, maybe. For a man who has lost so much and still fights for every scrap of happiness."

[samgreenvalley]

I was making the bed when the first knock came.


“Dara-ji! Dara-ji!” a voice called out.


Dara opened the door. Standing there was a man in his late forties, pot-bellied, wearing a sky-blue polo shirt tucked into belted trousers. Gold-rimmed glasses. A thick mustache. He looked like every society secretary I have ever seen—self-important and eager to assert authority.


“Ah, you are the new watchman,” the man said, looking past Dara and directly at me. His eyes lingered on my chest for a moment too long. “I am Mr. Sharma, the secretary of the RWA. And this is…”


“My wife, sir,” Dara said, standing straight. “Menaka.”


“Menaka,” Mr. Sharma repeated, as if tasting the word. “What a beautiful name. And you are from?”


“Mumbai,” I said, keeping my voice low and deferential.


“Ah, Mumbai. Film city. No wonder.” He smiled, revealing paan-stained teeth. “Well, Dara-ji, I hope you will be vigilant. We have had some issues with car thefts in the basement. And your wife—Menaka—she should be careful. The colony is safe, but there are… men who might mistake her politeness for something else.”


He said this while staring at my hips. I felt Dara’s hand tighten on the doorframe.


“We will be careful, sir,” Dara said.


“Good. Good.” Mr. Sharma stepped closer to me. “You know, Menaka-ji, we have a ladies’ kitty party every Thursday. You should come. Introduce yourself. Our wives are very welcoming. As long as you know your place.”


Know your place. The condescension dripped from his tongue like ghee from a hot paratha. I have been a memsaab my entire married life. Servants have called me memsaab. Maids have touched my feet. And here was this middle manager of a housing society, treating me like I was dirt because my husband wore a uniform.


I smiled sweetly. “I would love to, Sharma-ji. Thank you.”


He left, but not before giving me one last look. I closed the door and leaned against it.


“That man is going to be a problem,” I said.


Dara shrugged. “All secretaries are problems. But I need this job, Menaka. Please.”


Please. He said it so softly. So unlike the commanding, cocky watchman who had bent me over our dining table in Mumbai. Here, in this strange city, in this cramped quarter, he seemed smaller. Not just physically. I realized then that Dara had left his power behind. In Mumbai, he was the king of his little fiefdom—the watchman who knew every secret, who held keys to every door. Here, he was just another Nepali laborer.


I kissed him on his bald head. “I know. I will behave.”

[samgreenvalley]

The rest of the morning was spent cleaning. I scrubbed the bathroom until my hands bled. I washed the utensils that had been left behind by the previous occupant—a Bihari family who apparently never heard of dish soap. I swept the floors twice. Dara went to his duty post at the main gate, looking official in his khaki uniform. I watched him from the window, standing straight despite his age, saluting cars as they entered.


By noon, I was exhausted and hungry. I made dal-chawal with the pressure cooker. Dara came for lunch, and we ate in silence. The food was bland—I had forgotten to buy salt. He didn’t complain. After lunch, he went back to work, and I decided to explore the colony.


Big mistake.


I was walking near the clubhouse when I saw Mr. Sharma again. He was sitting on a bench under a peepal tree, drinking chai from a kulhad. He waved me over.


“Menaka-ji! Come, come. Sit.”


I hesitated, then sat on the opposite end of the bench.


“So,” he said, lighting a cigarette, “how did you and Dara-ji meet?”


“Arranged marriage,” I lied. “My parents are from Nepal. We met through family.”


“Ah. And no children?”


“No,” I lied again. “We lost one. Still trying.”


He nodded, his eyes never leaving my face. “You are very beautiful, Menaka-ji. Too beautiful for a watchman.”


I felt my face flush. “Sharma-ji, please.”


“I am just stating a fact.” He leaned closer. I could smell the tobacco on his breath. “You know, I have some influence in this society. I could get Dara-ji a promotion. Head watchman. Better quarters. More money. All you have to do is be… friendly.”


His hand landed on my knee. I froze. For a moment, the old Menaka—the one before Dara, before the cameras, before the gangbang—would have slapped him and run away. But I am not that woman anymore. I am the woman who swallowed a security guard’s cum while my husband watched. I am the woman who let a maid’s husband fuck her ass on her own bed.


So instead of pushing him away, I looked at his hand and said, “What kind of friendly?”


He smiled, revealing those stained teeth. “Meet me tonight. 9 PM. The clubhouse has a back room. I have the keys. We can discuss the promotion in private.”


I stood up. “I will think about it.”


As I walked away, I could feel his eyes burning holes into my back.

[samgreenvalley]

Back in the quarters, I called Dara on his mobile. He picked up after three rings.


“There is a problem,” I said.


“What?”


“The secretary. He wants me to meet him tonight. Alone.”


Silence. Then, “What did you say?”


“I said I would think about it.”


More silence. I could hear him breathing.


“Menaka,” he finally said, “we need this job. But I will not force you. If you don’t want to go, we will find another way. I can talk to the head of security.”


“And say what? That your wife is too pretty and the secretary wants to fuck her?”


He laughed. It was a dry, humorless laugh. “You have changed, memsaab.”


“You changed me.”


“No. You were always this. You just didn’t know.”


We hung up. I spent the next hour staring at the ceiling, thinking about Mr. Sharma’s soft, white belly and his gold-rimmed glasses. He was not attractive. He was not young. His dick was probably small and his technique worse. But the power dynamic—a society secretary and a watchman’s wife—that was familiar. That was the same thrill I had felt with Dara, with Banke, with Muthu. The taboo of class. The transgression.


I decided I would go.

[Demeter]

I think the idea of continuing this top story is brilliant.

If I’m not mistaken, you’re the sixth (6.) author to continue this story. But all of them ended up with the label ‘It came to nothing!’ 
There was a lot of fanfare, but in the end it all fell flat and ended up as an empty promise.

I hope – like many other fans of the story – that you’ll bring the sequel to fruition and see it through to the end.


Good luck and all the best!

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Demeter