Adultery My wife through the lens of CCTV

[tharkibudda]

Chapter 22 : April 21 

I clicked on the next file, my finger hovering over the mouse. It was unusually large in size—massive, bloated with data. Even before I opened it, I knew. Lakhan had arrived that day. The timestamp screamed it: April 21st. The file size alone was a confession, a digital monument to the violation that had unfolded in my absence. My stomach twisted into knots as the video loaded, the screen flickering to life with the familiar, hateful clarity of Lakhan's surveillance.


The scene unfolded in agonizing detail. Dhristi sat rigidly on the edge of the couch, bathed in the harsh afternoon light filtering through the sheer curtains. She wore a simple green kurti, the cotton fabric clinging to the nervous sweat dampening her skin. Her hands were clenched in her lap, knuckles white. Every few seconds, her gaze darted toward the front door, then flickered away as if burned. She’d completed her morning chores with frantic efficiency—dishes stacked, floors gleaming, laundry folded.

At precisely 1:05 PM, the door chime echoed through the silent house. Dhristi flinched as if struck. Her breath hitched audibly, trapped somewhere between dread and anticipation. The door swung open, revealing Lakhan. He filled the doorway, his presence instantly warping the air. He wore dark trousers and a tailored charcoal shirt, the fabric straining against his broad shoulders. A predatory smile played on his lips.

"Dhristi," he greeted, his voice smooth as velvet over gravel. "Been busy?"

His gaze swept over her trembling form, lingering on the pulse fluttering at her throat. Without waiting for a reply, he strode past her, the scent of aggression clinging to him. The leather couch sighed beneath his weight as he settled into the spot—the indentation still warm from Dhristi's anxious vigil.

"Come." The command sliced through the silence.

Dhristi didn't move. Her fingers dug into the fabric of her kurti, knuckles bleached white. Lakhan's smile widened, a predator savoring resistance. He leaned back, spreading his thighs deliberately. The rasp of his zipper echoed like gunfire in the stillness.

"Don't make me ask twice," he murmured, fingers working the waistband. The dark trousers slid down powerful thighs, pooling at his ankles. What emerged wasn't just a cock—it was a weapon. Thick, veined, and already half-hard, it lay against his thigh like a resting serpent. The afternoon light glinted off the angry red head, slick with pre-cum. A single drop fell onto the leather cushion.

Dhristi's breath hitched. Her gaze locked onto it, hypnotized by the monstrous intrusion into her sanctuary. She remembered its brutal stretch, the tearing ache, the impossible fullness that had become a twisted benchmark for her body's betrayal. Her knees trembled, threatening to buckle.

Slowly, mechanically, her hands drifted to the waistband of her leggings. The soft cotton felt like armor she was surrendering. Each inch of exposed skin was a defeat. Her thumbs hooked under the elastic, the movement sluggish, laden with dread. She pushed the fabric down over her hips, revealing the pale curve of her belly, the dark triangle of her panties beneath the green kurti. Her eyes remained fixed on Lakhan’s face, searching for mercy she knew wasn’t there, her movements a silent plea for the nightmare to end. She bent slightly, preparing to slide the leggings further down her thighs, the air cool against her exposed skin.

Suddenly, Lakhan’s hand shot out—not violently, but with unnerving precision. His fingers clamped around her wrist, halting her descent. The contact was electric, jolting her upright. His grip was iron wrapped in velvet, impossible to break. He didn’t yank or twist; he simply held her there, suspended in mid-motion, her leggings pooled around her knees like shackles. His eyes narrowed, pupils darkening with impatience. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, vibrating through the oppressive silence.

"No," he purred, his voice a blade honed to cruelty. "That’s not what I want." His thumb traced slow, deliberate circles over her pulse point, savoring its frantic flutter. "Your mouth, Dhristi. Only your mouth."

Dhristi froze. Her breath stopped dead in her lungs, replaced by icy dread. Horror washed over her face—a stark, visceral recoil that twisted her delicate features. Her eyes widened, pupils dilating with pure terror. *His cock?* In her mouth? The thought alone was a violation deeper than any physical act. She’d never done this—not for me , not for anyone. The intimacy felt obscene, a desecration of her sanskari upbringing. Her stomach clenched, bile rising sharp and acidic in her throat.

Lakhan saw her expression and gave a knowing smile. He chuckled, low and grating. "So," he murmured, thumb digging into the frantic pulse beneath her wrist, "I guess your husband never made you do this." The words weren't a question; they were a scalpel slicing through her marriage. "Too pure for him? Too delicate?" His gaze raked down her trembling form, lingering on the exposed skin above her trapped leggings. "Or is Manav just… inadequate?"

Dhristi flinched as if slapped. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged—only a choked gasp. The accusation hung thick in the air, poisoning the room. Lakhan leaned closer, his breath hot against her ear. "Poor little sanskari wife," he cooed, mockery dripping like venom. "Bet he worships your untouched mouth. Treat it like a temple." His free hand drifted down, fingers splaying possessively over her belly, pressing through the thin green kurti. "But temples get desecrated, Dhristi."

Tears welled instantly, spilling over her lashes in hot streams. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs as Lakhan’s thumb brushed the corner of her trembling lips. The touch was obscene—a violation before the act. Her voice shattered the silence, raw and fractured: "Please..." A whimper escaped, then swelled into desperate pleading. "I’ll do anything—anything else! Just... not this. Don’t make me..."

Lakhan chuckled, low and resonant, vibrating through the oppressive stillness. "What’s wrong, Dhristi?" His fingers tightened around her wrist, pulling her closer until his erection pressed hot against her thigh. "This is also part of sex." The words slithered out, mocking her resistance. "Or did your husband never teach you that?"

Dhristi’s breath hitched. "I'm a decent woman," she whispered, her voice fraying at the edges. "Only randis do such cheap things." Her eyes darted away, unable to meet his gaze. "Please... fuck me anyway you want... anything but—"

Lakhan threw his head back and laughed—a harsh, grating sound that echoed off the sterile walls. "Oh god," he sneered, fingers tightening like vices around her wrist. "You're overselling yourself, Dhristi." His other hand slid up her thigh, beneath the green kurti, fingers digging into the soft flesh above her trapped leggings. "A sanskari woman from a backward village who thinks blowjobs are sinful?" He leaned in, his breath hot and sour against her ear. "You just made this irresistible."

Dhristi flinched, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Please," she choked out, voice trembling. "I didn't even do this with Manav." The confession tore from her lips—raw, desperate. "It’s... unholy. Dirty."

Lakhan’s grip tightened, yanking her forward until his swollen cock brushed her lips. The musky scent filled her nostrils, thick and suffocating. "Blame your husband," he hissed, eyes gleaming with cruel triumph. "Months married and he left your mouth untouched? Pathetic." His thumb forced her jaw open, pressing down on her tongue. "Consider this an education."

Dhristi gagged as the thick head breached her lips. Saliva pooled, tears blurring her vision. Her body convulsed—a violent rejection—but Lakhan held her skull firm, fingers tangled in her hair. She choked, nostrils flaring, as he thrust deeper. The stretch burned, her throat protesting against the invasion. Her gag reflex kicked in hard; she retched, bile mixing with spit that slicked his shaft. Her muffled whimpers dissolved into wet, guttural sounds—half-sob, half-choke—as he began rocking her head back and forth. Every thrust scbangd her palate raw, the rhythm brutal, degrading. Her hands fluttered uselessly against his thighs, nails scratching but finding no purchase against the fabric of his trousers.

Watching the CCTV feed, my stomach clenched. Her shyness—that delicate reserve I’d cherished—was being violated before my eyes. I remembered our wedding night, how she’d trembled when I kissed her neck, how she’d hidden her face in my shoulder. I’d found it endearing, pure. Even after marriage, I never pushed. I’d seen porn—women taking cocks deep, eyes watering—but forcing that on Dhristi felt wrong. Sacrilegious. Consent was sacred. Yet here was Lakhan, turning her innocence into a weapon, forcing her to kneel while he claimed what I’d fantasized about but refused to demand. The irony tasted like ash.

On screen, Lakhan groaned, his hips snapping forward. Dhristi gagged, tears streaking her cheeks as her throat bulged obscenely. Her hands fluttered helplessly against his thighs—a stark contrast to the eager performers I’d watched online. This wasn’t submission; it was desecration. Her muffled whimpers cut through the speakers, raw and broken. I’d imagined this act as intimacy, a shared hunger. Instead, it was domination. Lakhan’s fingers tightened in her hair, yanking her deeper. "Swallow it all, sanskari," he snarled, grinding against her face. "Your husband’s too weak to teach you."

Suddenly, her body arched violently. A wet, choking sound tore from her throat—half-sob, half-gurgle—as Lakhan forced himself deeper. Her eyes rolled back, whites flashing. Saliva dripped down her chin, mixing with tears and the viscous fluid coating his shaft. Her gag reflex screamed, muscles spasming around him. Still, he pistoned her head relentlessly, hips slamming against her face. The wet slap of flesh echoed through the room. Her nose pressed into his pelvis, breath whistling through flared nostrils. Every thrust seemed to steal oxygen, her lips swollen and raw.

"That's it, Dhristi," Lakhan groaned, fingers tightening like iron bands in her tangled hair. His voice was thick, predatory. "So easy once you get into rhythm." He forced her deeper, grinding the swollen head against her soft palate until her throat convulsed. "Feel that? Your throat opening up for me. Like it was made for this." Her choked whimpers only spurred him. He timed his thrusts to her involuntary swallows, using her body's desperate bid for air to bury himself further. Her hands clawed at his thighs now, not resisting, but clinging—anchoring herself against the drowning sensation. Saliva dripped down her chin, pooling on the couch beneath them.

Her movements shifted. Tentative at first, then deliberate. Her head began bobbing without his brutal guidance—a slow, shaky rhythm born of suffocating necessity. Lakhan laughed, low and victorious. "There you go. Natural talent." He loosened his grip slightly, letting her take over. Her eyes squeezed shut, tears still leaking, but her jaw worked mechanically. Up, down. Up, down. The slick, wet sounds filled the room—a grotesque counterpoint to her silence. Her neck muscles strained, tendons standing out in sharp relief. She moved faster, almost frantically, as if speed might end the violation sooner. Her lips stretched obscenely around his girth, a pink ring of raw flesh.

Lakhan watched her with hooded eyes, one hand resting possessively on the back of her head. Not forcing now. Just owning. Her rhythm became desperate, uneven—a drowning woman gasping for air between thrusts. He groaned, fingers tightening briefly in her hair. "Good girl," he rasped. "Swallow it down. All of it." Her throat convulsed visibly with each descent, a reflexive battle against gagging. Saliva pooled beneath her chin, dripping onto her kurti. Fifteen minutes crawled by in the wet, rhythmic torture. Her shoulders trembled, but her head kept moving. A broken marionette.

Suddenly, Lakhan stiffened. A low, guttural sound tore from his throat—part growl, part groan. His thighs tensed, knuckles whitening where they gripped her hair. Dhristi sensed the shift instantly. The impending eruption. Panic flared in her tear-swollen eyes. She tried to pull back, her mouth straining to disengage, her hands pushing weakly against his hips. A muffled plea escaped around the shaft filling her throat: "*Mmmph—nngh!*"

But Lakhan was faster. His hand slammed down on the back of her skull, fingers twisting cruelly in her hair. "*No*," he snarled, voice thick with impending release. "*You swallow every drop.*" Her attempt to retreat became a violent shove forward as he yanked her deeper, grinding her nose into the coarse hair at his base. Her jaw screamed—bone and muscle stretched beyond endurance. She gagged, throat convulsing wildly, but he held her trapped, impaled. His hips snapped upward in short, brutal thrusts, fucking her mouth with frenzied precision. Spit flew, tears streamed, and Dhristi’s choked whimpers dissolved into wet, desperate gulps.

Suddenly, Lakhan stood—towering over her kneeling form—and locked his thighs around her head. His grip was iron, fingers digging into her scalp as he began pistoning his hips. Front. Back. Front. Back. Not gentle guidance, but raw, animalistic force. This wasn't a blowjob; it was domination. Her head jerked violently with each thrust, neck straining at unnatural angles. Her lips tore against his relentless rhythm, the friction burning raw. Every forward slam forced his cock deeper, scbanging her throat until her gag reflex became a constant, wet rattle. Her hands flew up, clawing at his thighs, nails drawing thin red lines through the fabric of his trousers. But he ignored her struggle, eyes glazed with lust, hips hammering faster. The wet *thud-thud-thud* of flesh on flesh echoed—a brutal metronome marking her degradation.

Her gasps were trapped beneath him—desperate, choked sounds muffled by the thick shaft filling her mouth. Each violent thrust stole her breath. Her lungs screamed for air, but Lakhan's relentless pace allowed no respite. Tears streamed freely now, mixing with spit and the metallic tang of blood from her bruised lips. Her throat convulsed wildly, muscles spasming against the invasion, triggering agonizing gagging fits that only tightened around his cock. Her body arched backward, spine bowing in protest, but Lakhan's thighs clamped tighter, forcing her face deeper into his groin. Her nostrils flared uselessly against the suffocating press of skin and musk. This was annihilation—her mouth reduced to a wet, ragged hole for his pleasure.

Suddenly, Lakhan froze. Not a gradual slowdown, but an abrupt, jarring halt. His hips locked mid-thrust, buried to the hilt inside her. Dhristi felt the shift—the unnatural stillness where brutal movement had been. His grip on her scalp tightened painfully, fingers digging into bone. A low, guttural groan ripped from his throat, primal and raw. His expression transformed: eyes wide and unseeing, jaw slack, every muscle in his face taut with the intensity of release. He wasn't thrusting anymore—he was *pulsing*. Deep inside her throat, his cock swelled impossibly thicker, throbbing against her shredded soft palate.

Then it came. A scalding jet of cum erupted directly down her throat—thick, viscous, and violently hot. There was no warning spurt, no teasing dribble. Just a sudden, pressurized flood that bypassed her tongue entirely, firing straight into her esophagus like liquid fire. Dhristi convulsed, eyes bulging as the first thick rope hit her gag reflex. But Lakhan’s iron grip on her skull held firm, grinding her face deeper onto him. "*Swallow!*" he snarled, voice ragged with climax. The second blast followed instantly, hotter, denser. It coated her throat, burning as it forced its way down. Her body bucked wildly, desperate to reject the invasion, but his thighs clamped around her ears like a vise. She couldn’t cough, couldn’t spit—could only choke on the torrent filling her. Saliva, tears, and thick semen overflowed, streaming from her flared nostrils in thick rivulets, dripping onto the leather couch beneath her knees.

Lakhan groaned, low and triumphant, as the third pulse surged—deeper, thicker. Dhristi’s throat spasmed violently, struggling to accommodate the sheer volume. Her face flushed crimson, veins standing out like blue lightning across her temples. Her lungs screamed for air, starved by the relentless flood blocking her windpipe. She gagged wetly, a strangled *glurk* escaping as her diaphragm contracted uselessly. Still, Lakhan held her impaled, hips jerking erratically as he emptied himself. The fourth rope hit, then the fifth—each thicker than the last. Her neck strained backward at a brutal angle, tendons taut as bowstrings. Her fingers scrabbled blindly against his thighs, nails tearing fabric and skin alike. Panic flared in her bloodshot eyes—pure, primal terror. She was drowning. Drowning in him.

Suddenly, Lakhan’s grip slackened. Not gentleness—recognition. He saw the terrifying shade of her skin—not pink, but deep, mottled purple—and the way her eyes rolled back, whites gleaming like porcelain. Her choked gurgles turned thin and wheezing. He yanked his cock free with a wet, tearing sound, leaving her throat gaping open. Dhristi collapsed forward, coughing violently. . She gasped, shuddering, gulping air like a landed fish. Her lips were swollen, split at one corner; blood mingled with the viscous mess dripping from her chin. She retched again, body convulsing, her forehead pressed against the couch as she struggled to breathe.

Lakhan stared down at her trembling form, his expression shifting from predatory triumph to something colder—assessment. He hadn't meant to break her this far. A broken toy offered no resistance, no delicious terror. He placed a heavy hand on the back of her head, fingers tangling in her damp hair. Not tender. Possessive. "Dhristi," he said, voice stripped of mockery, flat and demanding. "Look at me." Her shoulders shook, but she didn’t lift her head. He tightened his grip, pulling her up by her hair until her tear-streaked, blood-smeared face tilted toward him. "Are you alright?" The question was clinical, detached.

Dhristi’s swollen lips parted. She tried to form words—a plea, a curse, anything. But instead, her eyes widened in sudden, silent horror. Her skin flushed crimson, veins bulging like dark rivers across her temples and neck. Then, terrifyingly fast, the crimson deepened into a mottled, suffocating blue. Her hands flew to her throat, fingers clawing uselessly at her skin as if trying to tear open an invisible blockage. A strangled, wet gurgle escaped her—a sound like drowning from the inside.

Suddenly, she lurched sideways, scrambling off the couch on unsteady legs. Her bare feet slapped against the cold tile floor as she stumbled toward the kitchen, clutching her stomach. Lakhan watched, frozen for a heartbeat, his expression shifting from annoyance to dawning alarm. "Dhristi?" he called sharply, but she didn’t turn. Didn’t stop.

Her knees hit the kitchen linoleum hard beside the sink. A violent convulsion ripped through her—shoulders heaving, spine arching like a drawn bow. She tore her hands away from her mouth just as the first torrent erupted: thick ropes of pearly semen mixed with bile and undigested fragments of her meager lunch—rice grains and yellow dal splattering against the stainless steel basin. The acidic stench flooded the small space instantly—sour, cloying, unmistakable. Her body rejected him violently, each retching a shuddering expulsion that left her gasping, tears streaming anew as strands of saliva and vomit clung to her chin.

On the CCTV monitor—the wide-angle lens capturing the entire open-plan ground floor—Lakhan paused near the hallway entrance. He watched Dhristi's trembling back for a moment, her shoulders hunched over the sink, her green kurti riding up to expose the delicate curve of her spine. His expression remained impassive. No concern, no triumph. Just... observation. Like noting weather patterns. He adjusted his charcoal trousers, zipped them smoothly, then buttoned the fly with deliberate, unhurried precision. The metallic *click* echoed faintly through the audio feed. Then, without a backward glance, he turned toward the front door. His footsteps were measured, unhurried, retreating across the living room tiles. The heavy oak door opened silently, admitting a sliver of afternoon light from the porch, then clicked shut behind him. Gone. Leaving Dhristi alone with the wreckage of herself.