Adultery My wife through the lens of CCTV

[tharkibudda]

Chapter 28 - April 29th

Dhristi didn't move. She stayed kneeling, head bowed, the violated stillness settling around her like dust. Her breath hitched, a wet, ragged sound. Lakhan shifted his weight on the sofa, the leather creaking loudly. He glanced down at his softening cock, slick with spit and semen. With a casual flick of his thumb, he wiped the glistening residue off the tip onto the sofa armrest. A grimace flickered across his face – not disgust, but mild annoyance at the mess. He grasped the waistband of his crumpled trousers, pulling them up smoothly over his hips. The zipper rasped shut. He tucked himself in with a single, practiced motion, adjusting the fabric over his groin. Done. The act was swift, impersonal, utterly detached. He stood up, the sudden movement making Dhristi flinch violently. He didn't look at her. He stretched languidly, arms reaching towards the ceiling, a low groan escaping him – the sound of pure, uncomplicated satisfaction. He smoothed his rumpled silk shirt down over his belly, patted his pockets absently. Finding his car keys, he turned towards the door. His footsteps were heavy, unhurried, echoing on the marble. He paused only to glance at his reflection in the hallway mirror, smoothing back a stray strand of hair. Then, without a backward glance, he pulled the front door open. The afternoon sunlight flooded the dim hallway for a second. He stepped out. The door clicked shut behind him with soft, final sound.


Silence. Deafening silence. Dhristi remained frozen on her knees, trembling violently. The bitter taste lingered thickly at the back of her throat. Her cheeks felt raw, scbangd. Her jaw ached. Slowly, painfully, she lifted a shaking hand to her mouth. Her fingers touched her swollen, bruised lips. She stared blankly at the damp patch on the  floor eneath her knees. The smell of him, musky and sharp, hung heavily in the air, mixing with the faint scent of his expensive cologne and the leather sofa. Minutes crawled by. The trembling intensified until it felt like her bones were vibrating. A choked sob escaped her lips. She gasped, gulping air, pressing her fist hard against her mouth to stifle the next wave. Tears welled, blurring the offending wet patch on the rug. She squeezed her eyes shut, hot tears spilling over her cheeks. Finally, her body unlocked. She collapsed sideways onto the cool floor, curling into a tight ball, her arms wrapped protectively around her stomach. The tremors wracked her frame as silent sobs convulsed through her. She didn't weep loudly; the sounds were muffled, choked gasps against the polished marble floor. The emptiness he left behind felt heavier than his presence ever had.

Suddenly, the deep, guttural roar of Lakhan’s Royal Enfield motorcycle shattered the oppressive quiet. It started with a throaty rumble, vibrating through the walls, then settled into a powerful, rhythmic throb before fading as he rode away. Hearing it leave – the final confirmation he was gone, that she was alone with the wreckage – broke something inside her. The dam burst. Dhristi rolled onto her back, staring blindly at the ceiling fan whirring uselessly above. A raw, guttural wail tore from her throat, ragged and primal. It echoed in the empty living room. Her chest heaved with violent, uncontrollable sobs. Tears streamed down her temples, pooling in her ears, soaking the hair at her temples. She clawed at her salwar kameez, pulling at the fabric bunched around her waist as if trying to rip away the violation clinging to her skin.  Lakhan’s words were knives twisting: Own you. Warm body with holes. Pathetic act. He’d seen right through her pitiful attempt to trade humiliation for the brutal penetration she craved. He’d mocked her desperate bargain and then used her exactly as he pleased, reducing her to nothing but a receptacle for his pleasure and contempt. "Apni jagah?"  The truth was unbearable. She wasn't a wife bargaining; she was just a worthless hole he’d fucked senseless and discarded.

Fifteen minutes crawled by. Fifteen minutes of raw, shuddering grief. Dhristi felt hollowed out, scbangd clean by the sheer force of her weeping. Her cries dwindled to ragged gasps, then hitched breaths. The tears slowed to a salty trickle. Silence pressed down again, heavier than before. Shakily, she pushed herself up onto her elbows. The cool marble felt jarring against her sweat-damp skin. Her jaw throbbed. Her throat burned with the phantom pressure of his cock, the bitter residue coating her tongue. She stared dully at the slick patch glistening faintly on the rug beside her knees – Lakhan’s semen mixed with her spit and tears. Shame washed over her anew, colder than before. Unlike last time, she hadn’t vomited. She hadn’t purged the violation. She’d swallowed it. Accepted it. She was his good hole. Dhristi dragged herself to her feet, legs trembling violently. She stumbled towards the kitchen, each step echoing loudly in the silent flat.

The kitchen tap hissed sharply as she turned it on full blast. She filled a steel glass, her hands shaking so badly water sloshed over the rim onto the counter. She raised it to her lips, gulping desperately, trying to drown the taste. It didn’t work. The bitterness clung stubbornly. Leaning over the sink, she took another mouthful. Tilting her head back, she gargled violently, the harsh sound echoing off the tiles. The water churned in her throat, swirling with the thick, salty slickness she’d swallowed. She spat forcefully into the basin. Again. And again. Spitting out water tinged milky-white, trying to purge him. Trying to reclaim her mouth. Her throat. Her self. But the violation felt deeper than taste. It was etched into her bones. Lakhan’s words echoed louder than the splashing water: "Warm body with holes." "Knows its job." She spat one last time, watching the faintly cloudy water swirl down the drain. It didn’t feel clean. It felt like washing away proof, not sin.

Suddenly, Dhristi tore at her salwar kameez. Fingers fumbled with the buttons at her neck. One popped off, skittering across the floor. She didn’t care. Ripping the fabric open, she peeled the kameez off her shoulders. The silk felt like a second skin of shame, sticky where Lakhan’s fingers had gripped her hair, damp where his sweat and pre-cum had smeared against her skin. She flung it towards the laundry basket. It missed, landing in a crumpled heap near the washing machine. She peeled off her leggings, her bra, her underwear – each layer discarded like contaminated bandages. Standing naked in the harsh kitchen light, she felt exposed, vulnerable, yet strangely defiant. The cold air raised goosebumps on her skin. She hugged herself tightly, shivering. Her gaze fell on the discarded clothes. They weren't just stained; they smelled of him. Musky sweat, stale arrogance, the metallic tang of semen. The scent clawed at her nostrils, triggering a fresh wave of nausea. She needed it off. All of it. Now. She turned sharply, her bare feet slapping against the cool floor, heading straight for the bathroom.

Fifteen minutes later, the steam had thinned to wisps curling towards the ceiling vent. The CCTV feed flickered silently back to life in the living room. The screen showed the bathroom door opening slowly. Dhristi emerged wrapped in a thin, faded towel. Her dark hair clung slickly to her skull like a drowned crow’s feathers, dripping onto her shoulders. Her eyes were fixed on the marble floor, avoiding the sofa entirely – the scene of the crime still radiating its invisible stain. She moved stiffly, a ghost navigating her own home, each step deliberate and silent. The towel clung damply to her hips, emphasizing the sharp angles of her collarbones above its edge. Her skin looked scrubbed raw, unnaturally pink against the cool white tiles. She padded towards the kitchen, bare feet leaving faint wet prints that evaporated almost instantly in the air-conditioned chill.

In the kitchen, she didn’t pause. She moved past the sink, past the counter where the steel glass still sat half-full. Her gaze slid over her discarded clothes near the washing machine – a crumpled heap of silk betrayal. Opening a drawer beside the fridge, she pulled out a simple cotton salwar kameez. Emerald green, modest cut. Village wear. She pulled it on mechanically; the soft fabric felt alien against her scrubbed skin. No mirror checked the fit. No comb touched her wet hair. She simply walked out of the kitchen, the damp towel abandoned on the floor. Heading down the hallway, past the CCTV camera's unblinking lens, she entered the bedroom doorway visible at the edge of the frame. The door clicked shut softly behind her. The camera captured nothing else. Only stillness. Only silence. Only the lingering scent of soap and violation.

On the bed, Dhristi lay rigidly straight atop the rumpled sheets. Eyes wide open, unfocused, fixed on the ceiling fan’s slow rotation. Lakhan’s cold words echoed inside her skull, louder than the fan’s hum: "Warm body with holes." "Apni jagah?" "Knows its job." Each syllable a hammer blow against her ribs. His detached appraisal – "Good hole" – coiled around her throat tighter than his fingers ever had. She shivered, though the room was warm. The green cotton felt like sackcloth. His laughter, mocking her confession about porn, sliced through the quiet. "Pathetic acting." He’d reduced her bargain for brutal penetration into proof of her worthlessness. She hadn’t traded humiliation for pleasure; she’d confirmed she was only ever a vessel. Owned. Used. Discarded. A choked gasp escaped her lips. Her fingers dug into the mattress, knuckles white. But she didn’t cry. The tears were spent. Only the hollow ache remained, carved deeper by his truths.

I moved the cursor to footage of the evening. April 28th, 6:45 PM. The screen flickered to life. There I was, Manav, pushing open the front door, looking weary. Dhristi stood frozen near the bedroom doorway, her emerald green salwar kameez swallowing her frame. Her eyes, dark pits in a pale face, tracked me like a cornered animal. I didn’t acknowledge her usual dreaded look – the tight-lipped silence, the shoulders hunched inward. Instead, I thrust a plastic bag heavy with vegetables toward her. "Lo, subzi le aaya," I mumbled, already toeing off my shoes. She took the bag mechanically, her fingers brushing mine for a split second. Ice cold. I barely registered it, heading straight for the bathroom to wash off the sweat of  office and the Indore shipment files.

Ten minutes later. The CCTV captured me emerging, hair damp, towel slung low. The peace shattered instantly. Dhristi stood rigidly in the kitchen doorway, clutching a rotten, pulpy brinjal. Her voice, usually a hesitant whisper, ripped through the flat like broken glass. "TUMNE QUALITY DEKHI BHI NAHI THI KYA?" she shrieked, hurling the ruined vegetable onto the marble floor. It splattered, oozing dark slime. "SAARA BRINJAL KHARAAB HO GAYA HAI ANDAR SE!" Her chest heaved, eyes blazing with a fury I hadn't seen since before Lakhan began visiting. "Market jaane ka kya faayda jab tum andhe ho? Tumhe sirf apni hi chinta rehti hai!"

I flinched, stunned. "Par... sabzi toh Ahmed ki shop se hi li thi," I stammered, stepping back instinctively. Her accusation felt like a physical blow. "Sabse achha maal milta hai wahan..."

"ACHHA MAAL?" Dhristi’s laugh was shrill, hysterical. She jabbed a trembling finger at the pulpy mess on the floor. "Aisse achha maal roadside bhikari bhi nahi lega! Tumhari aankhen khaali gadhe ke pet mein hai!" Spittle flew from her lips. Her eyes weren’t just angry; they were volcanic, burning with months of suppressed rage. "Market se sabzi laane ke liye dimaag chahiye, na ki tumhare jaise ullu ka pattha!"

I recoiled, heat flooding my face. "Dhristi, bas kar—"



"BAS?" She cut me off, voice trembling with fury. Her hand slammed against the kitchen counter, making the steel utensils clatter. "Tumhare liye sab bas karne ka time hai! Office mein bas, ghar mein bas, hamare beech mein..." Her eyes narrowed, venom dripping. "Tumhari zindagi ka sirf ek maqsad hai—apna pet bharna aur so jaana! Mard ke naam pe kalank ho tum!"

The words struck like physical blows. My fists clenched at my sides, knuckles white. Rage, hot and blinding, surged up my throat. I saw it—the sharp arc my hand would take, the crack of my palm against her cheekbone, the way her head would snap sideways. It pulsed in my temples, a drumbeat of violence. Slap her. Shut that poisonous mouth. Make her bleed like she made me bleed inside.

But I couldn’t. My arm stayed locked. Frozen cowardice. Her furious eyes dared me. Mocked me. "Mard ke naam pe kalank." The truth of it choked me.

Suddenly, I snatched my scooter keys off the hook beside the TV. The metal dug into my palm. I didn’t look at her. Didn’t speak. Just turned on my heel, boots heavy on the marble. The front door slammed behind me with a crack.

One heartbeat. Two. Silence pressed against the CCTV’s lens. Dhristi remained rigid in the kitchen doorway. Then—her shoulders crumpled. Like a puppet with its strings cut. Her hands flew to her face, fingers digging into her temples. A choked gasp escaped—raw, ragged—before dissolving into shuddering sobs. Her knees buckled. She slid down the doorframe, collapsing onto the cold floor. Her green salwar pooled around her. Sobs wracked her body, convulsive and violent. Hichki… hichki… Each gasp hitched like a knife stab. She rocked forward, forehead pressing against the tiles. Tears dripped onto the marble, darkening the stone in uneven splotches beside the rotten brinjal pulp. Her knuckles whitened against her scalp.A fresh wave tore through her. She curled tighter, arms wrapped around her stomach like armor against nothing. Against everything.

She didn’t stagger. Didn’t stumble. Just pushed herself up, legs trembling. Eyes fixed on the hallway floor. She shuffled forward, a sleepwalker navigating wreckage.  Past the untouched bag of groceries. Past the spot where Lakhan had pinned her head earlier. Her wet hair clung to her neck. She reached the bedroom door. Pushed it open. Didn’t glance back. Closed it softly behind her. Click. Silence louder than screams.

Inside, the curtains were drawn. Dim light filtered through. She crawled onto the bed, curling instantly. Knees pulled tight to her chest. Arms wrapped around her shins. Face pressed hard into the mattress. A tiny, choked gasp escaped. Then nothing. Silence. Complete stillness. Only the faint rise and fall of her back under the green salwar. Rigid. Waiting.

An hour crawled. The apartment door clicked open softly. My boots scuffed marble. Quietly, I shed them. Pad pad pad—bare feet crossed the hallway. Paused outside the bedroom door. Listened. Nothing. Not a sob. Not a sniff. Not even breath. Just… stillness. Heavy. Oppressive. I pushed the door open slowly. Peered inside. She lay in a tight ball clenched against the world.  Hair a damp, tangled mess against the pillow. Eyes squeezed shut. Face tear-streaked, red-raw. But breathing. Deep. Even. Asleep? Or pretending? Impossible to tell.

I didn’t speak. Didn’t touch her. Didn’t dare. The air crackled with unspoken venom. I stripped silently—office shirt crumpled on the floor, trousers kicked aside. Slid onto my side of the bed. Felt the mattress dip beneath my weight. She didn’t stir. Didn’t flinch. Just stayed coiled tight, back rigidly towards me. A fortress wall built of green cotton and despair. I stared at the ceiling. The fan blade slicing slow circles.Failure. Cowardice. Both truths carved deep.

Later, alone in the dark study, I closed the CCTV recording with a hard sigh. A bitter laugh choked my throat. Unjust? That word tasted like ash. Lakhan used her like a hole—detached, brutal, leaving her hollowed out and shattered. Then she turned her volcanic rage on me. Called me kalank. A stain. Her fury over rotten brinjal burned hotter than Lakhan’s semen on her skin. Why? Were all her sudden explosions—the slammed doors, the silent tears after trivial arguments—really simmering sexual frustration? Did my gentleness disgust her as much as Lakhan’s ownership? The thought slithered cold and venomous. Had every fight been a scream for brutality I couldn’t deliver?

The next day was Saturday. Lakhan might not visit—weekends were his golf or club days. Still, I decided to play it anyway. Coward’s curiosity. I dragged myself from bed at dawn, the mattress groaning under my weight. Dhristi rose at 6:00 AM sharp like clockwork. Through the CCTV’s grainy lens, I watched her move through the flat like a sleepwalker. Bare feet silent on marble. Eyes downcast. She lit the stove, the blue flame hissing to life. Atta hissed against steel as she kneaded dough—hard, rhythmic punches into the yielding mass. Parathas sizzled on the tawa, golden and crisp, but her movements were stiff, mechanical. No song hummed under her breath. No glance toward the bedroom. Just the clatter of utensils, the scent of ghee hanging heavy in the air.

I woke at 7:00 AM, splashed cold water on my face. Avoided my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Pulled on yesterday’s crumpled kurta pajama. Walked into the living room, sinking onto the sofa. The leather sighed beneath me. I stared blankly at the muted TV screen—some cricket replay flickering silently.

Dhristi emerged from the kitchen doorway clutching a plate of steaming parathas. Her eyes, dull and hollow, swept across the living room—then locked onto me slumped on the sofa. Something snapped. then she ran. Bare feet slapped cold tiles as she flew across the hall, green salwar flapping wildly around her ankles. Before I could react, she crashed to her knees at my feet. Her hands clawed desperately at my pajama legs, nails scbanging fabric.

"Maaf kar do ji!" The plea ripped from her throat—raw, jagged. "Kal ki baat maaf kar do! Main bahut buri biwi hoon!" Tears streamed down her cheeks, dripping onto my feet. Her shoulders shook violently. "Sirf tension deti hoon... sirf pareshaani!" Her voice cracked into a sob. "Aap jaise achhe aadmi ko..."

She stopped abruptly, breath hitching. Her fingers tightened on my pajama cloth, twisting the fabric desperately. When she spoke again, it was a choked whisper, forehead pressed against my knee. "Mujhe... mujhe bahut gussa aata hai... kyunki..." She swallowed hard, the words scbanging out. "Because I'm alone here all day... no one to talk to... not a single soul... just these walls..." Her breath hitched again, ragged. "So I lashed it all onto you... like a madwoman... That rotten brinjal... it wasn't about the brinjal..."

Her shoulders trembled violently, tears soaking my pajama. "This house..." Her voice dropped to a haunted whisper. "It's... it's making me do things... Bad things..." She shuddered, pressing harder against my leg as if trying to burrow inside it. "The silence... it screams at me... Makes me angry... ..."


I couldn't breathe. Her raw confession—her desperate claws digging into my leg—shattered something brittle inside me. Suddenly, I leaned forward, wrapping my arms around her shaking frame. She froze instantly, every muscle locked tight. My voice cracked as I pulled her close, her damp hair pressing against my chest. "Dhristi... shh... It's... it's also my fault." Her body remained rigid, unyielding stone against mine. "Ever since that income tax bastard... that audit file..." My grip tightened, fingers digging into the thin cotton of her salwar kameez. "It's eating my brain. Day and night. Figures... threats... I see nothing else." Her shallow breaths hitched against my collarbone. "I'm sorry," I rasped, the words thick with shame. "So sorry. I didn't see... didn't see your frustration boiling under the skin."

Slowly—so slowly—her trembling eased. Her forehead pressed harder against my chest, seeking anchor in my storm. I lifted her chin gently. Her eyes—red-rimmed, swollen—met mine, filled with a drowning sorrow I'd never seen. Without thought, I kissed her forehead—a dry brush of lips against fevered skin. Salt tears wet my lips. Then, hesitantly, my mouth found hers. Not demanding. Not hungry. Seeking—a fragile bridge over yesterday's wreckage. Her lips parted beneath mine, soft and yielding. A broken sigh escaped her—relief? Surrender?—as she melted against me. The taste of tears, paratha, and despair mingled on our tongues. Her hands crept up, trembling fingers clutching my kurta collar like driftwood. The kiss deepened—slow, searching—as if stitching wounds with silk thread. All the fury over rotten brinjals, Lakhan's sneering ownership, my cowardly silence—dissolved into that quiet press of lips. Blissful ignorance cocooned us. Sweet. Fragile. Deadly.


When we finally pulled apart, breath ragged, her eyes fluttered open—dazed, vulnerable. A ghost of trust flickered there. Seizing that sliver, I touched her damp cheek. "Chalo," I murmured, voice thick. "Let’s just... go. Far from these walls." Her brow furrowed slightly. "Kahan?" she whispered. I brushed a stray hair off her forehead. "Hill temple first," I said softly. "Darshan karenge. Phir lunch lakeside. Evening tak ghar wapas nahi." She blinked, uncomprehending. I leaned closer, kissing her temple. "House duty? Forget it today." A flicker—bright, startled—lit her eyes. Relief? Hope? She nodded once, sharp. "Haan," she breathed. "Chalo."

Then she flung herself against my chest again, arms locking around my ribs like iron bands. Her muffled sob vibrated against my skin. "Aap... aap duniya ka sabse achha husband ho," she choked out, repeating it like a fevered prayer. "Sabse achha." The words were raw, jagged—a shield against Lakhan’s warm body holes. Against yesterday’s kalank.  I held her tighter, burying my face in her hair—scented faintly of cheap soap and despair. Blissful ignorance wrapped us tight. Sweet. Fragile. Deadly.

We sat on the cold marble floor, knees pressed together, tearing into the lukewarm parathas. Grease smeared our fingers; flakes littered the tiles. No words. Just the soft tear of bread, the wet swallow of swallowed tears. Forgiveness tasted like stale ghee and salted dough. Dhristi chewed mechanically, eyes fixed on my collar bone, avoiding my gaze. The silence screamed louder than yesterday’s screams.

Suddenly, she dropped her half-eaten paratha. Lunged forward, arms locking around my neck. "You... you’re the best husband," she hiccuped into my shoulder, wet heat soaking my kurta. "Duniya ka sabse achha." The words trembled—raw, desperate. A shield against Lakhan’s ghost still staining this room. I held her, awkwardly patting her shaking back. Best? The word curdled.

We finished eating in thick silence. Greasy fingers, crumbs scattered like battlefield debris. Forgiveness tasted stale. Dhristi rose stiffly, vanished into the bedroom to change. I heard the rustle of silk—a sharp contrast to yesterday’s cotton despair. The CCTV camera above the entrance blinked its red eye. Watching. Waiting. Five minutes passed. Ten. Dhristi emerged in a deep blue salwar suit, hair hastily braided, eyes avoiding mine. "Ready?" My voice cracked. She nodded, mute. We stepped out. The door clicked shut behind us. Darkness swallowed the hallway. The CCTV feed flickered once, twice—then surrendered to black. Inactivity. Silence reclaimed its throne.

The CCTV feed flickered back to life at 8:42 PM. Grainy footage caught us stumbling through the doorway—Dhristi first, her cheeks flushed pink from hill wind and laughter, arms laden with garish plastic bags spilling marigold flowers and temple prasad. I followed, shoulders slumped in exhaustion but grinning like an idiot, balancing a leaking parcel of lakeside pakoras. Our footsteps echoed too loud in the silent flat. Suddenly, Dhristi tripped over her own dupatta, sending orange blossoms scattering across marble. "Arrey Bhagwan!" she squealed, collapsing against the wall in giggles. I doubled over, pakora grease staining my shirt as laughter ripped through me—raw, unfiltered, tearing at the day's tension.

In that grainy frame, we looked drunk on freedom. Dhristi’s braid had unraveled into wild tendrils clinging to sweat-damp temples. Her blue salwar knees were dusty from scrambling up temple steps. Mine too. We’d argued halfway up—her insisting barefoot pilgrims had purer faith, me snapping about broken glass—before dissolving into shared laughter at a priest's screeching parrot. Now, breathless and sticky with lake mist, Dhristi slid down the wall beside the flower-strewn mess. "Kitna mast tha na?" she sighed, eyes shining. Not Lakhan's hollow shine. This was liquid moonlight. "Sab bhool gaye," she whispered. The bhool gaye tasted like hot imarti and stolen seconds where "warm body holes" didn't exist.

Suddenly, I grabbed her wrist. Not Lakhan’s iron grip—gentle, urgent. Pulled her towards our bedroom. She stumbled, giggling against my shoulder. "Thak gayi hoon," she protested weakly, but her fingers tangled in my shirt, pulling me closer. Inside, shadows swallowed us. Only streetlamp glow sliced through the curtain crack. I pushed the door shut with my foot. Silence screamed louder than the highway outside. Then I kissed her. Hard. Not the fragile bridge-building kiss from morning. This was hunger—raw and claiming. Paratha, pakora grease, temple sweets—all erased by the salt-sweet taste of her mouth opening under mine. She gasped into it, fingers clawing my back, pulling me flush. "Haan," she breathed against my lips, ragged. "Haan…"

Tired? Yes. Bones ached from temple steps. But lust burned hotter—a wildfire in dry grass. My hands fumbled at the hooks of her blue kameez. Clumsy. Desperate. Fingers shaking. One hook snapped, plastic pinging off the wall. Dhristi didn’t flinch. She arched into me, helping, yanking the fabric down over her shoulders. Silk pooled at her waist like spilled midnight. Her bra—flimsy pink cotton—was next. A single tug. Gone. Cool air hit her skin. She shuddered. Not from cold.

Suddenly, my mouth crashed down onto her left breast. Hard. No teasing. Raw hunger. Teeth scbangd nipple. She gasped—sharp, shocked—then moaned deep in her throat. Fingers tangled in my hair, pulling me closer, harder. "Haan… haan…" Ragged. Needy. Like she’d been starved for this roughness. My tongue flicked, circled, bit down again. Her back arched off the door, pressing her flesh deeper into my mouth. Salty sweat. Lake mist. The faint sweetness of temple sindoor still smudged above her breastbone. I sucked greedily, marking her pale skin blooming red-purple. Her right breast begged attention. I switched. Same ferocity. Nipping. Sucking. Devouring. Her whimpers turned urgent, hips grinding against my thigh. "Zyada… zyada karo…" More. Do more. Her plea was thick, slurred with want. Not the broken whispers from morning. This was fire. Unashamed. Unfiltered. Blissfully ignorant.

My hand slid down her trembling belly. Over the swell of her hip bone. Rough fingers hooked into the thin elastic waistband of her panty. I yanked down. Hard. Sudden. The fabric slid over her hips, catching halfway down her thighs. Cool air kissed bare skin. She gasped again—different this time. Sharp. Panicked. Her eyes flew wide. Moonlight caught the sheer terror flashing across her face. Then her hand slammed down over mine, nails digging deep into my knuckles. Cold. Shockingly cold. "NO:" The scream tore from her throat—raw, primal, echoing off the bedroom walls like shattered glass. "NAHI!" Not a plea. A command. Absolute. Final. Her body locked rigid. Stone against my heat. Blissful ignorance shattered.

I froze. Breath ragged. Heart pounding against her ribs. Her nails drew blood. Tiny beads rose on my skin. Her eyes—wild, terrified—held mine. Not drowning sorrow now. Pure animal fear. Lakhan’s ghost stood grinning in the shadows. Suddenly, it clicked. Brutal. Sickening. Her no wasn’t coyness. Wasn’t village shyness. It was a wall. Solid. Unbreakable. She meant it. Every syllable. My hand jerked back like touching fire. I scrambled backwards off her.  Face burning with shame hotter than any lust. I rolled away. Collapsed onto my side of the bed. Sheets tangled cold around my ankles. Silence screamed louder than her scream.

Dhristi curled into a ball instantly. Knees pulled tight to her chest. Arms wrapped around shins. Face buried in mattress. Her shoulders shook—violent, silent tremors. Silk pooled at her waist. Skin gleamed pale in moonlight. Cold. Exposed. Vulnerable. Minutes crawled. Only her choked breaths filled the room. Then, muffled against sheets, thick with tears: "Aaj... aaj safe day nahi hai." Not safe day. . Lakhan’s seed forced down her throat days ago didn’t care about ovulation calendars. She knew it.  Silence swallowed the words. Her shoulders hitched harder. Ragged sob escaped. "Mujhe maaf kar do..." Her voice cracked open. Raw. Bleeding. "Main... main pehle woh baat nahi bolni chahiye thi." Shouldn't have said it earlier. The apology tore itself out—sharp, jagged.  For trusting my gentleness even for a second. Blissful ignorance lay shattered between us. Sharp shards everywhere.

Suddenly, she flipped onto her back. Stared at the ceiling fan slicing slow circles. Tears streamed sideways, pooling in her ears. "I'm sorry dear," she gasped—voice thick, wet. Hopeless. "Maine sab kuchh bigaad diya."  Her fingers clawed at the sheet. "You wanted... wanted sex..." Breath hitched violently. "But I... couldn't give..." The admission ripped through her like glass. "Main bilkul achi biwi nahi hoon..." She dissolved—shoulders crumpling. Tears flooded her temples. Hair plastered wet to skin. "Kuchh bhi theek nahi kar paati..."  The sobs came louder now—ugly, wrenching. Unstoppable. "Sab galat... sab kharab..."  Her knuckles whitened gripping the sheet.

I didn't know what to do but hug her tightly—arms locking around her trembling ribs—and said gently against her damp hair, "Look dear, sex is a holy bond between us." My lips brushed her temple. Salt tears coated my tongue. "It should be done only with our love..." She froze mid-sob. Breath held. "...not when you're unwilling." Her whole body shuddered—violent release. Melted against me. Fingers clutching my kurta. "Shh..." I murmured into her hair—cheap soap scent mixed with temple incense still clinging. "No force. Ever." Her nod pressed hard against my chest—desperate. Grateful.

She hugged me back desperately, fingers digging into my shoulders like claws. Her sobs muffled against my chest—hot, wet, and shuddering. The broken rhythm of her breathing filled the dark room. Slowly, her grip loosened. The violent tremors subsided into exhausted shivers. She pulled back just enough to lift her head.

Moonlight caught her tear-streaked face. Puffy eyes locked onto mine, swollen lips pressed tight. For a breath, silence screamed louder than her cries. Then her fingers crept up, cold against my jawline. "We can still do, dear," she whispered—hoarse, serious. Deadly serious. Her thumb brushed my lower lip. "Gentle... slow... like you always..." Her voice cracked.

I kissed her damp forehead. Soft. Dry lips against salty skin. "It’s fine, dear." The words settled like dust. "We had decided to delay children for one year." Her breath hitched. "Let’s not break it for one night." Blissful ignorance wrapped us again. Sweet. Fragile. Deadly.

Dhristi sighed—a ragged, broken sound. Then she shifted closer, her cold toes brushing my ankle. Her voice dropped to a haunted whisper against my collarbone. "Not that we can..." She stopped abruptly. Swallowed hard. Eyes squeezed shut. "Never mind." Her fingers traced my chest, trembling. "Bas... so jaate hain." Her lips pressed tight. Sealed the sentence shut. Silence screamed louder than Lakhan’s laughter echoing in my skull. I patted her shoulder. "Haan... so jaate hain." Blissful ignorance cocooned us. I didn’t see the offer hidden in her choked pause. Didn’t taste the desperation coating her words.

But now—rewatching the grainy footage hours later—it screams at me. Dhristi’s hesitant whisper: "Not that we can..." followed by that sharp swallow. The tremor in her fingers tracing my chest. The sudden shift under the sheet—hips angling subtly toward me.  Her lips pressed tight? Not resignation. Suppressed panic. Frustration. Because I didn’t move. Didn’t understand. She was offering her mouth. Offering to give a blowjob so that she can give me pleasure without chance of getting pregnant.

Unfortunately I didnt catch the drift. My sanskari village wife offered this—her mouth, her throat, her desperate compromise—and I rolled over like a dead fish. On that grainy CCTV playback, I watch my own stupidity immortalized: Dhristi shifts subtly under the sheet, hips angling towards me—an invitation written in trembling flesh. Her fingers trace my chest—not affection, but navigation. To guide my head downward. To where her lips parted slightly in shadow. "Bas... so jaate hain," she'd whispered. . But her eyes—wide, wet, fixed on the ceiling—screamed take this offering.