Adultery My wife through the lens of CCTV

[tharkibudda]

Chapter 14 - April 14th, the Aftermath

As the feed of the living room turned black due to lack of activity, my attention was drawn back to the bedroom feed where the representation of Dhristi lay in a crumpled heap on the bed. The stark contrast between the two scenes was almost unbearable. The silence was broken only by the quiet patter of Lakhan's semen as it slid down her inner thighs, a grim reminder of the violation that had just occurred. The sight of her naked, vulnerable form, marred by his brutal use, filled me with a rage so potent it could have fueled the fires of hell itself.


My fists clenched, my teeth ground together, and my heart thudded in my chest like a war drum. I had just witnessed the violation of my wife for the second consecutive day, and the realization that I was powerless to do anything was like a dagger in my soul.

As Dhristi lay there on the bed, her body trembling with the aftershocks of Lakhan's brutal assault, something changed in the scene before me. Her eyes, which had been vacant and haunted, suddenly filled with a terror so profound that it seemed to ripple through the very fabric of the digital world. Her chest heaved with ragged sobs that grew louder and louder until they were no longer sobs at all. They had morphed into screams—soul-wrenching, blood-curdling screams that seemed to echo in the very air around me.

I watched in horror as the representation of my wife curled into a fetal position, her knees drawn up to her chest as if she could somehow shield herself from the pain that had been inflicted upon her. Her cries grew more desperate, more anguished, until it was all I could do to keep watching. But I had to. I had to bear witness to her suffering, to understand the depths of the hell she had been plunged into.

The Dhristi's sobs grew in intensity, her body shaking with the force of her grief. Her tears fell like rain onto the bed, soaking the sheets in a salty embrace that mirrored the reality of the situation. It was as if she had finally broken through the dam of denial and was now allowing the full weight of Lakhan's depravity to wash over her.

I watched, my heart torn to shreds by the feed of my wife's pain, unsure of what to do. Part of me wanted to reach out, to hold her and whisper words of comfort into her ear. But I was trapped in this cold, unfeeling digital prison, unable to offer anything but silent support.

And yet, as her screams grew more desperate, something strange occurred to me. Despite the horror of what I had just witnessed, a tiny spark of hope kindled in my heart. Was it possible that her sudden outpouring of grief was a sign that she was beginning to heal? That she had finally found the strength to face the monstrous reality of what Lakhan had done to her?

For the next half an hour, the digital feed showed Dhristi lying on the bed, her body wracked with sobs that seemed to shake the very walls of the room. Each convulsion was a testament to the pain that she carried within her, a pain that I could never fully understand, no matter how much I wished to share her burden.

And then, as if summoned by some unseen force, she slowly began to stir. Her movements were sluggish at first, as if she were waking from a nightmare she hadn't wanted to end. She pushed herself up onto her elbows, her face a mask of despair and anger. For a moment, she just stared at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling with the force of her ragged breaths.

With a sudden jolt of determination, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up, her body wobbling with the aftermath of the assault. The feed followed her unsteady progress across the room, capturing the way her bare feet stepped carefully over the shreds of her blouse and petticoat, leaving them behind like discarded pieces of a life that no longer fit her.

Her movements were almost mechanical as she made her way to the bathroom, her eyes devoid of any spark of life. It was as if she were a marionette, controlled by invisible strings of pain and despair. She stepped into the shower and closed the door.

The digital feed flickered, and suddenly, the bathroom door was open again, revealing Dhristi standing before the mirror. She reached up tentatively, her fingers tracing the bruises that marred her neck like the marks of a vicious predator. Her eyes searched her reflection, looking for some semblance of the woman she had once been.

With a trembling hand, she picked up the shredded remnants of her blouse and petticoat, the fabric clinging to her like the tattered remains of her dignity.

Dhristi's eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, but they gleamed with a newfound resolve as she slipped into a fresh set of clothes—a simple cotton salwar kameez .

The fabric whispered softly against her bruised skin, a gentle caress that seemed to offer a small measure of comfort. She drew in a deep, shuddering breath and let it out slowly, as if she were trying to expel the very essence of Lakhan from her lungs.

And then, with a suddenness that took my breath away, she collapsed onto the bed. Her sobs were like a dam breaking, a torrent of pain and anger that seemed to fill the very room.
Her cries grew louder, more desperate, as if she were trying to purge every last drop of Lakhan's poison from her soul. Her slender body heaved with the force of her sobs, the soft curves of her breasts rising and falling with every ragged breath. Her hands clutched at the bed sheets, the fabric twisting in her grasp as if she were trying to hold onto something—anything—that could anchor her in reality.

I felt a strange, twisted sense of relief. Better she cried, I thought, better she let it all out than to keep it bottled up inside.

But as the evening approached, I knew I had to confront the reality of what I had seen. Dhristi had gone through the motions of the day as if nothing had happened—cooking dinner, cleaning the house, her movements mechanical and devoid of emotion. I arrived home at 8 PM, tired from work and oblivious to the storm raging within her. She served me dinner with a forced smile, her eyes avoiding mine.

I talked about the audit files, oblivious to the silent screams echoing in hers. She nodded along, her voice a hollow imitation of her usual cheerfulness. My mind was consumed by the mundane, the trivial, while she was fighting a battle that I had only just begun to comprehend.

And so, I went off to sleep, my body heavy with exhaustion, while she remained wide awake, staring at the ceiling. The images of her trauma played on repeat in the back of her mind, a never-ending horror show that she couldn't escape.