Adultery My wife through the lens of CCTV

[tharkibudda]

Chapter 30 - May 2nd - Aftermath

Door slammed hallway thunderous vibration rattling walls echoing emptiness Dhristi flinched violent recoil curled tighter fetal position knees drawn chest chin tucked trembling uncontrollably warm sticky trails semen cooling rapidly thighs belly abdomen viscous wetness shifting gravity pooling hollow spine trickling crevices shame physical reminder brutal possession violation burning phantom ache deep core mocking emptiness betrayed pleasure throbbed nerve endings echoes ecstasy mingled disgust bile rising throat choked sob escaped bruised lips tears flowing freely mingling sweat semen pooling crimson silk saree bunched waist ruined garment symbol shattered dignity discarded like sheet.


Yet… unlike last time, she had no qualms over that. No frantic scramble bathroom scrub raw skin purge violation humiliation no muffled screams despair muffled shower spray tearing skin bleeding raw shame Lakhan’s degrading words echoing skull relentless torment. Dhristi lay utterly still trembling subsiding gradually chaotic tremors replaced deep shuddering breaths inhaled ragged gasp exhaled soft sigh unexpected contentment ghost sensation flickered across flushed tear-streaked face bewildering contradiction despair bliss warring fractured psyche.

Her face was totally flustered—cheeks crimson heat blooming neck chest radiating visible warmth sweat-damp tendrils hair plastered temples brow furrowed confusion yet corners bruised lips trembled hint upturn traitorous curve betraying bliss residue swirling chaotic aftermath violent degradation betrayal mingling potent undeniable relief release mind-blanking peak achieved brutal possession surrendered utterly conquered conquered conquered.

She was glowing with the orgasm—not metaphorically literal incandescence skin flushed deep rose gold shimmering sweat semen coating trembling shoulders arched back pooling hollow spine abdomen inner thighs slick wetness mingling arousal shame undeniable evidence body sang betrayal nerve endings humming fading resonance aftershocks rippling muscles convulsive twitches thighs clenched rhythm milking phantom cock deep core emptiness throbbed phantom ache echoing fullness violent ecstasy ripped shreds defences raw primal surrender conquered bitch owned claimed permanently Lakhan’s semen cooling rapidly sticky trails marking territory canvas skin branding humiliation paradoxically igniting fierce glow pride accomplishment endured survived thrived degradation worshipped conqueror.

Dhristi remained motionless frozen position except shallow breaths lifting ribs slight tremors subsiding gradually chaotic tremoring replaced deep shuddering inhales exhales soft sighs unexpected contentment ghost sensation flickered flushed tear-streaked face bewildering contradiction despair bliss warring fractured psyche corners bruised lips trembled hint upward curve traitorous flicker betraying bliss residue swirling chaotic aftermath violent degradation betrayal mingling potent undeniable relief release mind-blanking peak achieved brutal possession surrendered utterly conquered conquered conquered.

As I watched the footage frozen on the computer screen—Lakhan’s semen glistening on Dhristi’s arched back like some fucked-up trophy—I didn’t realize my own hand had slid beneath my waistband. Not until my knuckles scbangd the zipper. Rock hard. Throbbing against my palm like traitorous pulse.

"Saala..." The curse hissed through clenched teeth. Disbelief coiled cold in my gut. There she was—my wife—glowing. Literally fucking glowing beneath that bastard’s filth, sweat-slick skin flushed rose-gold in the CCTV’s grainy green haze. Bruised lips trembling into something close to a smile. And me? Harder than the office desk digging into my thigh. Pissed. So fucking pissed at her for riding that orgasm like some cheap whore begging for more. But my cock didn’t care. It strained against denim, shameless. Hungry. Rewinding that moment her spine arched, screaming silent into the pillow while Lakhan emptied himself on her.

All these days—nights spent rewatching her weep silently, shoulders curled tight after he’d finished—I’d pitied her. *Poor Dhristi*, I’d whisper to myself, *forced*. But this? This wasn’t submission. This was… fucking triumph. Her body hummed with it. Still curled on the bed, tremors still rippling through her thighs. Like a warrior resting after slaughtering the enemy. Not a victim. Not *my* wife.

The CCTV didn’t lie. Lakhan’s cum drying on her spine like paint. Her lips bruised, swollen—but curving. Just slightly. Just enough to carve a hole through my ribs. Like she’d tasted something sacred. Something I never gave her in eight months of marriage. Gentle touches? Slow kisses? Useless. Weak. She needed this. Craved the degradation that twisted my stomach. Her glow wasn’t sweat. It wasn’t anger. It was pleasure. Pure. Unfiltered. Bliss ripped open by Lakhan’s cock.

I rewound it. Again. That moment when she froze—eyes wide—before screaming "Nahi! Andar mat!" Panic? Or performance? Because seconds later, when he ripped himself out and painted her back, she arched into the emptiness. Like starved. And when he jerked off onto her? Trembling. Not with revulsion. With fucking *hunger*. Her shoulders tightened, absorbing each hot splatter. A whimper escaped her—soft, muffled—but her hips pressed backward. Seeking more. Always more. Even as he spat insults. Even as he slammed the door. She stayed kneeling. Glowing. Until the tremor became stillness. Until the stillness became peace. Her eyes drifted shut. Blissed out. Ruined. Mine? Or his?

My knuckles scbangd the zipper again—harder. Pain snapped through the haze. Disgust curdled in my throat. *This*—this raw, filthy ecstasy twisting her mouth into that traitorous half-smile—*this* was her happiness? Not slow kisses. Not whispered promises. Just degradation served cold on her skin. Eight months of marriage ripped apart by Lakhan’s cum drying on her spine. Pity evaporated. Rage burned hotter. But my cock throbbed, demanding. What if she craved more? What if every "safe day" lie was just… waiting?

The CCTV flickered green. Dhristi still knelt, motionless. Semen gluing crimson silk to her arched back. A dried trickle near the curve of her spine. And then… realization punched my gut. Cold. Brutal. Truth slicing through voyeuristic fog.

She didn’t lie to me.  
The thought slammed into my skull like a hammer.  
Dhristi hadn’t lied about her safe days—not to me. If she had, she wouldn’t have panicked with Lakhan. Wouldn’t have screamed "*Nahi! Andar mat!*" like a cornered animal. Wouldn’t have risked his fury. Lakhan’s face—that twisted snarl of interrupted climax—flashed on the grainy screen. He’d been *this close* to filling her raw. But she stopped him. Forced him out. Took his rage, his semen on her skin instead of inside her.

Lakhan was visibly upset when he left—the CCTV caught it all. That final glare at Dhristi’s trembling form, the way his knuckles whitened around the doorknob before slamming it shut hard enough to shake the lens. Not angry like before, when he’d roared about ruined moments. No, this was colder. Calculated. The fury had mellowed into something darker—a quiet, simmering promise. Like a predator forced to retreat but already planning the next hunt. Tomorrow… tomorrow he’d make her pay for that interruption. Not with fists, maybe. Something worse. Something that’d claw deeper than skin.

But for now, I watched Dhristi slowly drift to sleep as the bliss of the orgasm still permeated across her body. Her breathing deepened—ragged gasps smoothing into slow, rhythmic sighs. Eyes fluttered shut, lashes clumped with dried tears. Bruised lips softened, parting slightly. That traitorous curve? Gone. Replaced by utter stillness. Peace. Fuck, she looked serene—like some temple goddess bathing in moonlight, not a woman coated in another man’s filth. Her spine stayed arched, though; hips tilted just so, keeping Lakhan’s drying cum pooled perfectly in the hollow of her lower back. As if cherishing the stain.

My knuckles scbangd the zipper again—sharp pain snapping focus. Disgust coiled tighter. I jabbed at the CCTV controls, fast-forwarding. Grainy green footage blurred: Dhristi’s curled form unmoving for hours. Until… **4:30**. Suddenly, her eyes flew wide. Panic? No—purpose. She scrambled off the bed instantly, movements jerky, frantic. Not weeping. Not hesitating. Straight to the bedsheet Lakhan had tossed aside—snatching it, scrubbing fiercely at her back, her thighs, her stomach. Erasing evidence. Efficient. Brutal. Fabric scbanging skin raw. But her expression? Blank. Detached. Like wiping mud off boots. Then, she vanished into the bathroom. Didn't emerge till steam seeped under the doorframe. When she did, skin flushed pink from scalding water—no trace left. Not a shimmer. Not a smear. saree changed, hair neatly braided. Robot-steady.

She waited by the window. Spine rigid, eyes fixed on the driveway gate. Waiting… for me. *Mere liye*. When my scooter growled up the path, her shoulders squared. Mask slid on—village-girl shyness, eyes downcast, hands folded demurely. "tea garam hai," she murmured, avoiding my gaze, voice flat as stale roti. No tremble. No flicker. As if Lakhan’s sweat, his seed, his degrading pats hadn’t smothered her skin hours ago. As if she hadn’t arched and screamed for him. Just… Dhristi. My wife. The lie so thick it choked the CCTV feed.


I slammed the laptop shut. My fingers trembled—cold, useless snakes. Saala… all this time. The fights? The mood swings? That violent shove in the kitchen? Her frantic "*Chhodo mujhe!*"? Not trauma. Not fear. Just… exhaustion. Exhaustion from holding up two faces. The shy wife for me. The hungry slut for him. How long did she think she could balance this? A village girl playing whore? Her spine must ache from the bending. No wonder she snapped. No wonder she wept silently after my clumsy touches. Gentle Manav. Pathetic Manav. While Lakhan? He didn’t ask. He took. And she… she bloomed under that theft. Glowed like a fucking diwali lamp in his filth.

My chest tightened. Breath rasped—harsh, uneven. The CCTV screen’s ghost still burned behind my eyelids: Dhristi’s arched back. Lakhan’s cum drying like epoxy on her skin. That traitorous curve of her lips… peace. Real peace. Not the stiff silence she gave me. Not the rigid "safe day" lies. Her body sang for him. Screamed for him. While mine? A hesitant whisper. Useless. Weak. Cowardly. Eight months of marriage—destroyed by one grainy video. One truth: she didn’t just endure Lakhan. She craved him. Needed his degradation like oxygen. Needed his ownership. His branding. That glow wasn’t sweat. It was fucking worship. And I? Just the audience. The cuckold trembling in the dark.