Adultery My wife through the lens of CCTV

[tharkibudda]

Chapter 24 - April 23 and 24 - The Weekend

Suddenly, my sleeping body reacted. A sharp intake of breath. A subtle tensing of the thigh muscles beneath the sheet. On screen, my cock, under Dhristi’s persistent, gentle ministrations, began to stir. Slowly at first, then with undeniable urgency, thickening, lengthening, tenting the fabric of my shorts. Dhristi’s hand paused, then resumed, her touch growing bolder, more confident, wrapping around the burgeoning hardness. Her thumb rubbed firm circles over the head. I watched myself jerk awake. Not startled, but pulled violently from sleep by a wave of pure, electric lust. My eyes snapped open in the grainy footage, blinking rapidly, disoriented by the sudden, intense sensation. I turned my head on the pillow, searching the darkness. Dhristi’s face was inches away, her eyes wide pools reflecting the faint light from the window. They held a complex mix – fear, yes, a flicker of the hunted animal Lakhan had made her, but underneath, blazing brighter, was a raw, desperate *need*. A need for connection, for affirmation, for proof she could still ignite this fire without coercion. "Dhristi?" My voice on the recording was thick with sleep and instant, overwhelming arousal. A question, but also a groan of pure sensation.


She didn’t answer with words. Her hand tightened around my cock, a silent, urgent plea. On screen, I reacted instinctively. A low groan ripped from my throat. My arm shot out, wrapping around her waist, pulling her fiercely against me. The duvet tangled around our legs as I rolled partially onto my side, closing the gap. My other hand plunged into the darkness, fingers tangling in her hair, pulling her face towards mine. Our lips crashed together. Not gentle. Hungry. Desperate. A collision of pent-up terror and aching longing. My tongue pushed past her lips, seeking hers, tasting the faint salt of her skin, the lingering ghost of toothpaste. Dhristi met the kiss with equal fervor, her body melting against mine, her free hand clutching at my shoulder. The kiss was deep, messy, oxygen-starved – a drowning man gulping air. It was the kiss of someone reclaiming stolen ground, inch by frantic inch.

My hand slid down, impatient. It pushed beneath the hem of her soft cotton kameez, finding warm skin. My fingers traced the dip of her waist, the subtle curve of her ribcage, climbing higher. Her breath hitched against my mouth. Then my palm found the swell of her breast, still confined beneath her simple cotton bra. I cupped it, my thumb brushing roughly over the nipple straining against the fabric. Dhristi gasped, arching her back, pressing herself harder into my touch. Her hand on my cock tightened its rhythm, stroking faster, urging me on. The kiss broke, both of us panting, foreheads pressed together in the suffocating dark. My fingers fumbled behind her back, clumsy with haste and lust, seeking the clasp of her bra. The grainy CCTV showed the frantic movement beneath the duvet, the desperate grappling. A sharp *click* echoed faintly through the room’s mic. The clasp gave way.



The bra loosened. My hand slid back around, pushing the thin straps off her shoulders. The fabric fell away. Dhristi’s breasts spilled free into my waiting hands – soft, heavy, warm. The grainy CCTV showed only shadows, but I remembered their weight, the smoothness. My thumbs circled her nipples, already hard pebbles against my calloused skin. She whimpered, a high, needy sound. Then I lowered my head.

My mouth closed over her right breast, hot and wet. Not rough. Not demanding. Gentle. Reverent. My tongue traced slow, deliberate circles around the stiff peak before drawing it deep. Suckling softly, rhythmically. Like tasting something precious. Dhristi’s breath caught. A shudder ran through her. Her fingers tangled in my hair, pressing my face tighter against her flesh. Not pushing away. Holding me there.

"Kitne pyar se kar rahe ho ji," she gasped. The words trembled, thick with tears unshed. *How lovingly you're doing this, ji.* Her voice wasn't honeyed seduction. It cracked. Raw. Awe-struck. Devastated.

My mouth froze on her breast. Warmth turned to ice. Lakhan hadn't been gentle. Lakhan had clamped, bitten, used her flesh as stress relief. Her choked cry wasn't pleasure – it was revelation. A scalpel slicing open the scar tissue. This wasn't just sex. This was Dhristi measuring *me* against the monster who'd broken her. Testing if tenderness could exist where brutality had reigned. Her fingers still clutched my hair wasn't passion. It was desperation. Anchor against drowning. Proof the ground wasn't poison.


Her words echoed in the dark. *Kitne pyar se...* They hung between us like incense smoke. Fragile. Sacred. My tongue softened its circling. Became a slow, deliberate tracing of the areola. A silent vow etched onto her skin. My thumb brushed her other nipple – feather-light, barely there. Dhristi gasped. Not pain. Shock. Shock at the absence of teeth. Shock at sensation untainted by violation. Her body trembled beneath me. Not fear now. Release. A dam cracking. Tears welled in her wide, unblinking eyes, catching the faint streetlight bleeding around the curtains. They traced hot paths down her temples, disappearing into her hairline. Silent. Profound.

I suddently realised that this was the first time we were having sex ever since Lakhan violated her. The CCTV footage froze on my study screen: Dhristi's hand vanishing beneath my shorts, my sleeping body stirring. But my real eyes weren't on the monitor anymore. They were squeezed shut in the present, drowning in the visceral memory of that night – Dhristi’s choked gasp, *Kitne pyar se*, the tears hot against my lips. Every touch had been a minefield. Every sigh a potential landmine. My hands on her breasts, my mouth on her nipple – gentle, deliberate acts that felt like defusing bombs wired to her shattered psyche. The fear wasn't just hers; it was mine. A terror that tenderness might trigger a flashback, that my touch, however loving, might be mistaken for *his* violation. The air crackled with unspoken trauma. Her trembling wasn't just arousal; it was the aftershock. My reverence wasn't just desire; it was a desperate prayer against reopening wounds Lakhan had carved.

My fingers trembled as they hooked into the waistband of her soft cotton salwar. The fabric felt impossibly thin, fragile. Dhristi lay beneath me, her breath shallow and quick, eyes wide and fixed on mine in the suffocating dark. There was no resistance, only that profound stillness – the stillness of someone bracing for impact or awaiting revelation. I pulled the salwar down, the elastic yielding easily, sliding over her hips, down her thighs. The simple cotton panties beneath followed, a whisper against her skin. She lifted her hips slightly, a silent, trusting cooperation that made my throat tighten. Naked from the waist down now, the pale expanse of her belly and thighs glowed faintly in the gloom. I kicked off my own shorts, the movement frantic, desperate. Fabric pooled around my ankles. We were completely naked now. Skin to skin. The heat radiating from her was intense, primal. My cock, hard and aching, throbbed against her inner thigh. I shifted my hips, my hand guiding myself, adjusting the swollen head of my penis right at the slick, trembling entrance of her pussy. The contact was electric, intimate, terrifying. Her body tensed instantly beneath me, a sharp intake of breath hissing through her teeth. Not rejection. Anticipation. Terror. Hope. All knotted together in that single flinch.

I pushed forward slowly, deliberately, my entire focus narrowed to that point of connection. My cockhead pressed against her soft folds, encountering a surprising, yielding warmth. There was no barrier, no tightness fighting me. Just slick, molten heat welcoming me inward. My hips moved instinctively, sinking deeper. Inch by inch, my shaft slid into her with astonishing ease. Four inches vanished entirely into her welcoming wetness before my hips met the softness of her thighs. She barely gasped – a tiny, choked sound, more surprise than pain. Her eyes, wide and luminous in the dark, blinked rapidly. Her body remained taut beneath me, but not resisting. Accepting. Waiting. The sheer lack of friction, the effortless glide… it stunned me. My voice, thick with disbelief and sudden, overwhelming lust, rasped out in the silence. "Wow," I breathed, the word trembling. "Look how wet you are, Dhristi. It just… slipped right in." My hips rocked instinctively, shallowly, feeling the incredible slickness hugging my shaft. "Soaked… like you've been waiting… aching for this…" The truth of it pulsed through me, a revelation written in her body's liquid surrender.

Her reaction was instantaneous. Violent. Her hands flew up, small fists pressing hard against my chest, pushing me back. Not far – just enough to break the intimate seal. Her breath came in ragged, panicked gasps. "Please!" Her voice was a raw scbang, thick with tears she hadn't shed yet. "Please, don't talk like that ji!" The words tumbled out, desperate. "Don't say… those things. It makes me…" She choked, unable to finish. Her eyes, wide pools of terror and shame now visible even in the gloom, searched my face frantically. "It makes me sound like… like a dirty woman." The last words were a broken whisper, laden with self-loathing. Her gaze darted away, fixing on the dark ceiling, her body trembling violently beneath mine. The raw vulnerability was a physical blow. Lakhan's ghost filled the room, his crude words echoing: *Look at you, soaking wet for me, slut. Begging for it.* My clumsy, lust-drunk observation had ripped open the wound, superimposing his violation over my touch. Her frantic denial wasn't rejection of *me*; it was a desperate defense against the label Lakhan had branded onto her skin – *dirty, used, aching slut*. Her body's involuntary readiness wasn't desire; it was trauma's cruel trick, a physiological betrayal she couldn't control.



The implications slammed into me like a truck. My stomach clenched, ice water replacing the fire of lust. *Oh God. Oh fuck.* She thought I was comparing her to *him*. That her wetness wasn't a sign of *her* desire for *me*, but proof of Lakhan's lingering contamination. Proof she was somehow… ruined. Broken. Unclean. The sheer horror of misunderstanding froze me for a second. Then, instinct took over. A low, soft chuckle rumbled in my chest. Not mocking. Warm. Gentle. Almost… playful? I leaned down, brushing my lips against her damp temple. "Not like that, dear," I murmured, my voice thick with sudden tenderness, deliberately lightening the suffocating tension. "You're always my precious wife." The words were simple, deliberate. *Precious*. Not dirty. Not used. *Wife*. Belonging, safety, sanctity. I felt her rigid body beneath me flinch at the words, then… hesitate. The frantic pushing against my chest eased slightly. A tiny, almost imperceptible sigh escaped her lips – a release of the breath she'd been holding, a tremor of relief shaking through her frame. She hadn't heard suspicion. She'd heard… reassurance. Affirmation. A lifeline thrown back to her.

Slowly, deliberately, I began to move. Not the frantic, desperate plunge I'd instinctively craved moments before. Instead, shallow, deliberate thrusts. An inch in, an inch out. Gliding effortlessly through the slick heat that welcomed me. My focus wasn't on my own building pleasure, but on *her*. On the feel of her body beneath mine. On the subtle shifts in her breathing. On the tension coiling and uncoiling in her muscles. My hands slid down, palms pressing flat against her hips, anchoring her, grounding her. My thumbs traced slow circles on the soft skin of her lower belly, just above the dark triangle of curls. A silent counterpoint to the gentle rhythm inside her. "Just feel me," I breathed against her ear, my voice barely a whisper. "Just feel this, Dhristi. Nothing else." It was a command, but soft, wrapped in velvet. An invitation to exist only in this moment, in this safe, dark space we were carving together. Her eyes, wide and searching in the gloom, flickered shut. Her lashes were damp. Not with tears of terror now, but… something else. Concentration? Surrender? She nodded faintly, a tiny movement against the pillow.

Her response came, hesitant at first. Soft whimpers, low in her throat. Not the cries Lakhan had likely demanded, but something fragile, genuine. They grew louder, punctuating my shallow thrusts. "Haan… ji…" she gasped. *Yes… ji…* Then, a beat later, her voice strained, pushing against the intimacy I was trying to build: "Aur… aur zor se, ji." *Harder… harder, ji.* Her hips lifted slightly, meeting my next thrust with more force than I was giving. The movement felt… performative. Strained. Like she was reciting a script learned under duress. Her eyes squeezed shut tighter, her brow furrowed not in pleasure, but in effort. "Ji… aur… aur tez…" *Ji… faster… faster…* The words tumbled out, breathless, urgent, but the desperation in them wasn't for *her* climax. It was a frantic attempt to *give* me mine. To fulfill what she thought was expected. To prove she wasn't broken, wasn't failing *me*. Beneath the encouraging moans, her body remained taut, guarded. The effortless wetness was still there, a physiological betrayal, but the deep, melting surrender I remembered from before Lakhan was absent. Replaced by a heartbreaking determination to please, born from fear, not desire.

Just when I was going strong, finding a rhythm fueled by her desperate pleas and the incredible slick heat gripping me, I froze. Utterly still. Buried deep inside her warmth. The CCTV footage, grainy and silent except for the timestamp ticking forward, captured it perfectly: my sudden rigidity. Dhristi’s reaction was immediate. Her eyes snapped open in the gloom, wide with shock. A sharp, involuntary gasp escaped her lips – a sound of pure surprise, almost irritation. "*Huh?*" It was choked off instantly, swallowed down. Her hand flew to her mouth, fingers pressing hard against her lips, silencing herself. Panic flared in her wide eyes, visible even in the low-res monochrome. She’d reacted instinctively, revealing frustration at the sudden halt, the interruption of the momentum she was desperately trying to maintain for *my* sake. She’d shown impatience… and instantly recoiled, terrified I’d interpret it as rejection or failure. Her body tensed beneath mine like a trapped bird.

Just when I was going well, finding a rhythm fueled by her desperate pleas and the incredible slick heat gripping me, I froze. Utterly still. Buried deep inside her warmth. The CCTV footage, grainy and silent except for the timestamp ticking forward, captured it perfectly: my sudden rigidity. Dhristi’s reaction was immediate. Her eyes snapped open in the gloom, wide with shock. A sharp, involuntary gasp escaped her lips – a sound of pure surprise, almost irritation. "*Huh?*" It was choked off instantly, swallowed down. Her hand flew to her mouth, fingers pressing hard against her lips, silencing herself. Panic flared in her wide eyes, visible even in the low-res monochrome. She’d reacted instinctively, revealing frustration at the sudden halt, the interruption of the momentum she was desperately trying to maintain for *my* sake. She’d shown impatience… and instantly recoiled, terrified I’d interpret it as rejection or failure. Her body tensed beneath mine like a trapped bird.

I remembered before Lakhan absent replaced heartbreaking determination please born fear not desire. Manav freezes abruptly mid-thrust buried deep inside Dhristi. CCTV captures sudden rigidity. Dhristi reacts instantly: eyes snap open wide shock sharp involuntary gasp escapes lips "*Huh?*" sound pure surprise/irritation choked instantly swallowed. Hand flies mouth fingers press hard lips silencing herself panic flares eyes visible low-res monochrome. Instinctive reaction reveals frustration sudden halt interruption momentum desperately maintaining *Manav’s* sake. Shows impatience instantly recoils terrified Manav interprets rejection/failure. Body tenses beneath Manav trapped bird.

Then the dam broke. The stillness shattered as violently as glass. A guttural groan tore from my throat, primal and raw, shaking the bedframe. My hips slammed forward, burying myself to the hilt inside her molten core. Not once, but in three savage, involuntary jerks. Dhristi cried out – a sharp, startled sound swallowed by the darkness. Her nails dug into my shoulders as my body seized, convulsing against hers. Deep within her, my cock pulsed like a frantic heart, throbbing rhythmically as hot jets of semen erupted. The grainy footage showed only the violent shuddering of my back, the clench of my jaw, the way Dhristi’s head snapped back against the pillow, her mouth forming a silent ‘O’ of shock. Warmth flooded her, thick and insistent, marking her inner walls with my release. Each spurt was a punctuation mark to the frantic, halted rhythm – a sudden, overwhelming surrender to the pleasure I’d momentarily held back. The tension dissolved into pure, shuddering release. My forehead dropped to her collarbone, breath ragged and hot against her skin. Beneath me, Dhristi lay perfectly still, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her eyes wide and unblinking in the dark, absorbing the aftershocks vibrating through my frame into hers.

I rolled off her instantly. The sudden withdrawal felt jarring, cold air hitting sweat-slicked skin where our bodies had fused. I landed heavily on my back beside her, staring at the ceiling, gasping. The frantic energy drained away, leaving a hollow satisfaction… and a nagging, practical thought. My voice, thick with spent lust and lingering breathlessness, cut through the heavy silence. "*Is it a safe day?*" The question landed like a stone tossed into a still pond. Dhristi didn't turn her head. Her reply was a single, curt syllable, bitten off sharp as flint: "*Haan.*" Yes. A satisfied grin stretched across my face in the gloom. Relief washed over me – the practical concern addressed. No consequences. Just the clean simplicity of release. I sighed, contentment settling over me like a warm blanket. Mission accomplished. Wife pleasured (or so I thought), seed safely deposited where it couldn't take root. Blissful ignorance cocooned me.



Beside me, Dhristi lay utterly still. The silence wasn't peaceful; it was charged, brittle. In the grainy monochrome of the CCTV footage, her stillness was unnerving. Her eyes, wide open, stared fixedly at the ceiling. Her jaw was clenched tight, the muscles visibly bunched beneath the skin. Her lips, swollen from our kiss, were pressed into a thin, bloodless line. She didn't move. Didn't sigh. Didn't relax into the afterglow. Her hands lay stiffly at her sides, fingers curled inward, knuckles white. The disappointment was a physical presence radiating from her rigid form – a stark, silent counterpoint to my sprawled satisfaction. It wasn't just the abrupt end; it was the *comparison*. Lakhan, the brute, took his time. He savored her degradation, drew out her humiliation. He made her choke, made her gag, made her endure until *he* was sated. And here I was, her husband, the man who loved her, finishing in a frantic, shuddering burst that left her untouched, unfulfilled, stranded on the precipice she'd been desperately trying to climb back towards. The sheer *speed* of it felt like another violation, a dismissal. Her body, slick and ready, had been a vessel, used and discarded the moment *my* need was met. The bitter taste of ashes filled her mouth.

Dhristi looked at the ceiling. Not *saw* it. Looked *through* it. The ornate plasterwork, faintly visible in the streetlight bleeding through the heavy curtains, might as well have been smoke. Her body felt like borrowed clay – cold where his sweat had cooled on her skin, numb where his weight had pressed, hollow where he’d been buried inside her moments before. The wetness between her thighs was sticky now, cooling rapidly. His seed. Her husband’s seed. It should have felt like warmth, like belonging. Instead, it felt like… leakage. Like something unclean pooling inside her, indistinguishable in its physical sensation from the filth Lakhan had forced into her throat, onto her skin. The frantic, shuddering climax that had ripped through Manav – the groans, the violent thrusts, the sudden stillness – hadn't ignited anything within her. It had simply… stopped. Leaving her stranded on a barren plateau, the fragile tendrils of tentative pleasure he'd coaxed evaporating instantly. The ceiling offered no answers, only the same blank indifference she felt spreading through her veins, chilling her from the inside out. Beside her, I was sleeping, breathing deepened, evening out into the soft, rhythmic sighs of untroubled sleep. Blissful oblivion. I had gotten what I needed. I  asked his practical question – *safe day?* – and received satisfactory answer. Duty done. Pleasure taken. Sleep claimed me effortlessly. The contrast was a physical ache. Lakhan’s violation had been a screaming horror, a violation that scbangd her soul raw. This… this felt like a quieter, deeper wound that my sex cannot undo the things.

I banged his hands on the computer desk with frustration. The CCTV footage mocked me mercilessly. Dhristi's hesitant fingers tracing my sleeping form. Her bravery in initiating intimacy for the first time in her life. And my response? Pathetic. Weak. A frantic, shuddering mess that lasted barely minutes. "*Kitna bekar tha main*," I muttered, disgust thick in my throat. I'd spent months tiptoeing around her village-bred shyness, treating her like fragile porcelain, never pushing, never demanding. And look where it got me: buried deep inside her for mere seconds before exploding like a teenage boy. Lakhan, that bastard, violated her brutally, but at least he *fucked* her like a man possessed. I? I couldn't even last long enough to touch her properly, let alone make her feel anything but hollow disappointment. My caution wasn't respect; it was cowardice. My "niceness" was a pathetic shield hiding my own inadequacy. The screen froze on Dhristi's rigid, silent form beside my sleeping, satisfied self – a monument to my failure as a husband, as a man.

I slammed the laptop shut. The sharp crack echoed in the study's silence. My hands trembled. Not from grief, but pure, incandescent rage. Rage at Lakhan's shadow poisoning everything. Rage at Dhristi's flinches, her terror disguised as duty. But most of all, rage at *myself*. That tiny, flaccid cock on screen. That humiliatingly quick finish. Treating her like a timid village girl, never daring to awaken the woman beneath, and when she finally reached out? I crumbled. Failed her utterly. The Ahmedabad shipment files lay stacked neatly beside the laptop – Javed Khan expecting them by evening. Work. Order. Control. Things I understood. Things I could dominate. Unlike my own body. Unlike my wife's shattered spirit. I grabbed the top file, fingers digging into the cardboard. Focus. Shipments. Quantities. Logistics. Anything to drown out the image of Dhristi’s clenched jaw, her eyes staring blankly at the ceiling while I slept the sleep of the oblivious, the satisfied, the utterly useless.

The numbers blurred. Columns of tile quantities swam before my eyes. My pen scratched furiously across the paper, calculations flowing faster than thought. Ahmedabad needed 15,000 square feet of Kota Grey by Thursday? Done. Transport costs optimized? Done. Supplier confirmation drafted? Sent. It was a frenzy of efficiency, a desperate channeling of volcanic fury into neat rows of figures and crisp action points. Two hours. Barely two hours, and the entire complex shipment was planned, costed, confirmed, and filed. A record. My mind, usually meticulous, felt like a scalpel wielded by a surgeon in a blind rage – precise, devastatingly effective, but fueled by a terrifying inner storm. The final email pinged off to Javed Khan. Silence descended again. Heavy. Oppressive. The rage hadn't dissipated; it had merely coiled tighter, waiting. Waiting for the inevitable pull back to the abyss. Back to April 24th. Back to the morning after.

My fingers moved before my conscious mind could protest. The CCTV application flickered open. The date selector mocked me. April 24th. Sunday. The day after. The footage loaded, grainy and silent. The timestamp glowed: 7:15 AM. The kitchen camera angle. Dhristi stood at the counter, her back mostly to the lens, slicing vegetables with rhythmic, deliberate strokes. Her posture was stiff, shoulders slightly hunched. The salwar kameez she wore seemed to hang looser than usual.

Then, I appeared. Entering frame from the hallway, stretching theatrically, a wide, satisfied grin plastered across my sleep-softened face. Me on screen radiated a boyish, post-coital glow.. I approached Dhristi from behind.

My arms slid around her waist, pulling her stiff back flush against my chest. My chin nestled into the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply. "*Mmm... good morning, my beautiful wife,*" I murmured, voice thick with affection and lingering contentment. My lips pressed a soft, lingering kiss just below her ear – a familiar gesture, one I’d performed countless times after nights of intimacy in our earlier marriage. Back then, Dhristi would melt, turn in my arms, offer a shy, genuine smile, perhaps whisper something soft.

This Dhristi froze. The rhythmic chopping ceased abruptly. Her shoulders tensed beneath my embrace like carved stone. She didn't turn. Didn't lean back. Didn't sigh. For a heartbeat, she remained utterly rigid, trapped. Then, slowly, mechanically, she tilted her head just enough to offer her cheek. A clear, silent signal. I kissed it – dry, perfunctory. Her skin felt cool, distant. "*Breakfast is almost ready, ji,*" she stated flatly, her voice devoid of warmth or inflection. Her eyes remained fixed on the half-sliced cucumber, her knuckles white around the knife handle. The enthusiasm was a brittle shell, a performance etched with exhaustion and something deeper – a profound disconnection. She endured the embrace, tolerated the kiss, but every line of her body screamed a desperate plea: *Let me go.*

My grin faltered slightly on screen. Confusion flickered across my features – a puppy denied its expected pat. "*You look tired, dear. Did you sleep well?*" I asked, my voice still buoyant, oblivious. My hands slid lower, settling possessively on her hips, squeezing gently. A familiar gesture, meant to convey affection, claiming. Dhristi flinched, a tiny, involuntary jerk. "*Haan ji. Bas… thoda sa,*" she murmured, barely audible. *Yes ji. Just… a little.* Her gaze stayed locked on the counter, refusing to meet mine in the reflection of the polished steel backsplash. She shifted her weight subtly, trying to create space where my body pressed against hers. The knife resumed its chopping, but the rhythm was faster, sharper – the frantic beat of trapped wings against glass. She was building a wall, brick by silent brick, right there in our sunny kitchen.

I watched myself on the CCTV replaying the next few months with horrifying clarity. Each encounter followed the same brutal script: Dhristi’s hesitant initiation, fueled by a desperate need to reclaim *something* stolen by Lakhan; my clumsy, earnest attempts that invariably ended too fast, leaving her stranded; my immediate, satisfied collapse into sleep; and then the mornings. Oh, the mornings. They were a gallery of Dhristi’s silent despair. The way she’d pull the sheets tighter around her neck when I tried to spoon her awake. The monosyllabic answers over breakfast – "*Haan ji*," "*Nahi ji*," "*Thik hai ji*." The way she’d find urgent chores whenever I lingered near her, her movements quick and efficient, designed to avoid touch, avoid conversation. Her eyes, once soft pools reflecting the morning light, became flat, guarded lakes reflecting nothing but weary endurance. She moved through the house like a ghost haunting her own life, the vibrant woman I’d glimpsed initiating intimacy buried beneath layers of disappointment and resignation. My obliviousness on screen was grotesque. I’d chalk it up to her village shyness, stress, or tiredness, never connecting the dots between my bedroom inadequacy and her daytime withdrawal. I’d try harder, be sweeter, buy her gifts – anything but face the humiliating truth reflected in her hollow eyes.

The cursor hovered over April 24th, 9:30 PM. My finger clicked. The bedroom footage loaded. Dhristi lay on her side, facing away, her back a rigid line beneath the thin cotton saree. Her breathing was slow, deliberate, the rhythm of someone pretending sleep. On screen, I rolled towards her, my arm dbanging heavily over her waist. She stiffened instantly, a tiny intake of breath audible even through the recording’s low hum. I nuzzled the nape of her neck, my lips finding the delicate skin behind her ear. My kiss was soft, lingering – an invitation, a plea. "*Dhristi…*" I murmured, my voice thick with sleep and desire. My hand slid lower, palm flattening possessively over her hip bone. She didn’t move. Didn’t relax. Didn’t turn. Her stillness was absolute, a statue carved from ice. Only the faintest tremor in her shoulders betrayed the tension coiling within. She was holding her breath. Waiting. Enduring. My lips trailed kisses down her neck, my hand drifting lower still, fingers brushing the hem of her nightgown, seeking the warmth beneath. Her knuckles, visible where her hand clutched the edge of the pillow, turned bone-white.

My fingers tangled in the delicate silk of her pallu, yanking it roughly away from her chest. The fabric slithered off her shoulder, pooling uselessly on the mattress. Her gasp was sharp, cut off as my other hand went to the row of tiny buttons down the front of her blouse. Fingers fumbled, clumsy with haste. One button popped, then another, pinging softly against the wall. I didn't pause. I ripped the blouse open, parting the fabric like tearing paper, exposing the soft swell of her breasts straining against the thin cotton of her bra. The fear in her eyes deepened, morphing into something raw and primal. "*Ji—?*" she choked out, her voice trembling.

I didn't answer. My mouth descended, hot and hungry, covering the lace-covered peak of her left breast through the bra. A muffled groan escaped me – pure, desperate need. The heat, the softness beneath the thin barrier, the faint salt-taste of her skin through the fabric. It was overwhelming. My tongue pressed hard, circling the stiffening nipple beneath, sucking fiercely through the cotton. Her back arched involuntarily, a choked gasp escaping her lips. My hand slid down her trembling belly, fingers hooking into the waistband of her petticoat and panties. I pulled. Down, down, dragging the layers over her hips in one urgent motion. The silk rasped against her skin. She lay exposed from waist to knees, the cool air hitting her damp skin, making her flinch violently. Her thighs snapped together instinctively, a futile shield.

Looking at the CCTV footage, all I could think was *why*? Why was I so frantic? So urgent? Her breasts... gods, her breasts were perfection. Soft, full, tipped with dusky nipples that hardened instantly under the slightest attention. They deserved worship. Slow, reverent worship. Not my greedy, clumsy mouth sucking through cotton like a starving man at a feast he didn't deserve. I should have traced every curve with my tongue. Learned the map of her shivers. Made her gasp my name until the neighbors complained. Instead? I tore fabric. Rushed.

My shorts came off in a frantic scramble on screen. My cock – small, thick, already leaking – bobbed against my thigh. No grace. No tenderness. Just raw, desperate need. I pushed Dhristi’s thighs apart. Not gently. A rough shove. She gasped, a sharp, startled sound choked back instantly. Her eyes squeezed shut. I positioned myself clumsily, my hips jerking forward. The tip nudged her slick entrance.. My body’s betrayal to her mind. With a grunt, I shoved myself inside. All the way. One brutal thrust. She cried out – a tiny, bitten-off sound of surprise, not pleasure. "*aanhha... ji...*" she whispered, strained. "aahhhn... ji...* Her voice thick with unshed tears.



My hips pistoned. Short, frantic strokes. Deep, shallow, erratic. No rhythm. Just frantic friction. My hands gripped her hips, fingers digging into soft flesh, holding her pinned beneath me. Her face was turned away, buried in the pillow. Her shoulders trembled. Her breathing came in ragged gasps that sounded suspiciously like suppressed sobs. I didn’t notice. Lost in my own clumsy urgency, my own pathetic need. "*Dhristi… Dhristi…*" I panted, my voice thick, slurred with lust. My thrusts grew wilder, sloppier. My balls tightened. Pressure built low in my spine. "*Ah! yeah!*" A guttural groan ripped from my throat. My hips slammed forward one last time, burying myself to the hilt. My cock pulsed violently inside her, hot jets of semen flooding her depths in three frantic spurts. "*Haaah… haaa…*" I collapsed onto her, crushing her beneath my weight, my breath ragged gasps against her damp neck. "*Oh god…*" I mumbled, utterly spent.

The screen showed my eyes fluttering shut almost instantly. My body went slack, heavy. Within seconds, my breathing deepened into the slow, rhythmic pattern of deep sleep. Oblivion. Complete. Utterly satisfied. Mission accomplished. Seed deposited. Pleasure taken. Sleep claimed.

Beneath me, Dhristi lay pinned. My dead weight crushed her hips, my arm flung possessively across her ribs. She didn't move. Didn't push me off. Just stared blankly at the wall beside the bed. Her chest hitched once, twice. A tiny, choked sound escaped her lips – a whimper swallowed by the pillow. Then, silent tears began to track down her temples, soaking into the cotton. Her shoulders trembled faintly, a tremor suppressed with iron control. Her fingers curled into the sheet, knuckles white. The CCTV captured the slow, deliberate blink of her wet eyelashes, the utter stillness of her body beneath mine, the silent weeping that lasted long after my snores began to rasp softly in the quiet room. A monument to emptiness beside satisfied oblivion.

I watched the playback now, months later, with a hollow ache gnawing at my ribs. Just last Saturday, I'd jerked off furiously to this my sec video – the frantic thrusts, the groan of release, Dhristi’s choked gasp. Back then, it fueled a twisted fantasy of *my* prowess, *my* claim. Now? The screen mocked me. My technique was non-existent: clumsy fumbling, tearing fabric, frantic rutting like a starved animal. No finesse, no artistry. Just desperation. My cock? Small, thin, vanishing inside her slickness – a pathetic stub compared to Lakhan’s brutal girth. Stamina? two minutes. Maybe four. A frantic sprint ending in a whimpering collapse onto her unfulfilled body. I hadn't satisfied her. Not once. Not in months. Not *ever*. She hadn't even known what satisfaction *was* until Lakhan ripped it from her core with teeth and force, leaving her shuddering through multiple unwanted peaks. My "love-making" was just another chore she endured, another failure etched in her silent tears.