Adultery My wife through the lens of CCTV

[tharkibudda]

Chapter 30 : May 3rd

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.

I just closed the video player with shaking hands—but my fingers hovered over the trackpad, trembling. One click away from reopening the files. One click away from watching Lakhan's thick fingers dig into Dhristi's hips again while she moaned into the mattress. Did I want to stop? Or was I addicted to the sting? Like pressing a bruise just to feel that sharp, delicious pain. My cock twitched traitorously at the thought, already hardening again. Kya main bhi wohi hoon—a cuckold getting off on his wife's whimpers under another man? The humiliation burned, but beneath it... something darker. Hotter. A perverse thrill at seeing her spread open, taking what she truly craved.

The CCTV folder glowed mockingly on my desktop. April 28th. April 29th. May 1st. Each date a fresh wound. Each video proof that Dhristi's submission wasn't forced—it was fervent. That red saree pooled around her knees as she knelt for him. Those broken sobs turning into gasps. Her fingers clawing at the sheets not to escape, but to anchor herself as he pounded deeper. I'd seen the exact moment her resistance melted—when her spine arched not away, but into his thrusts. Consent? More like fucking devotion. And here I was, rewinding that moment on loop like some pathetic addict, equal parts aroused and eviscerated.

My fingers hovered over the delete key. One press. Just one. Erase it all—the footage, the evidence, the humiliation. But the cursor blinked, unmoving. Because what if stopping meant never seeing her like that again? Those flushed cheeks. That limp, sated collapse afterward. The way her thighs quivered when he pulled out. Dhristi never looked like that with me. Never sounded like that—raw, unfiltered, alive. Maybe this wasn't just torture. Maybe it was a lesson. A blueprint. If I stopped watching, I'd never learn how to really fuck my own wife.

The folder taunted me. May 3rd. Untouched. Fresh hell waiting behind a double-click. But I already knew what I'd see. Lakhan wouldn't skip today—not after yesterday's interrupted climax. Not after Dhristi dared to say "no." Men like him always came back harder, angrier. More possessive. Would he punish her? Or reward her for that panicked defiance? Both, probably. His brand of cruelty always blurred the lines. My throat tightened imagining it—his fingers knotted in her hair, dragging her head back to hiss "Aaj koi safe day nahi bolne ka, randi." while her breath hitched. Not in fear. In anticipation.


The CCTV timestamp blinked—12:47 PM. Early. Too early. Dhristi sat stiffly on the couch, maroon cotton saree neatly pleated, pink blouse buttoned high. Village-girl modest. But her foot tapped—fast, erratic—against the tiles. . No pretence of chores. Just waiting. Rigid. Alert. Like a soldier before battle. The doorbell rang. One sharp burst. No patience. She flinched but stood immediately, smoothing her saree with trembling hands before opening the door.


Lakhan’s shadow filled the frame first—broad shoulders blocking sunlight. Then his face. Jaw clenched. Nostrils flared. That same coiled tension I’d seen before he tore into junior accountants for misplaced decimal points. Public humiliation was his speciality—cornering subordinates at their cabins to dissect failures with surgical cruelty. No closed doors. No privacy. Just raw dominance dripping from every snarled syllable. Today’s target? Dhristi. Her eyes flickered down instantly, shoulders curling inward. "A-andaar aaiye," she whispered, stepping back. Too polite. Too timid. Fuel for his fury.

He strode past her and the camera caught it—the moment his fingers snagged her wrist mid-air. Not rough. Not gentle. A silent command. Dhristi froze. Lakhan didn’t turn. Didn’t speak. Just... waited. Five seconds. Ten. Her breath hitched. Then, she followed. Obedient. Terrified. Alive. He sank onto the sofa with a deliberate thud—legs spread, elbows resting on his knees like a king holding court. The pat on the couch cushion wasn’t an invitation. It was a verdict. Dhristi hesitated—just a fraction—before perching on the edge beside him. Spine rigid. Saree pooled between them like a boundary she didn’t dare cross.

“Safe day?” Lakhan snorted, fingers drumming his thigh. Slow. Precise. Like counting down to an execution. “Your safe day. My ruined fucking climax.” His palm cracked across her face before she could blink—not hard enough to bruise, but sharp enough to snap her head sideways. Dhristi gasped, fingers flying to her stinging cheek. Eyes wide. Wet. Lakhan leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “Tell me, gaon ki laundiya—do I look like I give a fuck about your safe days?”

Her lips parted. No sound came. Just shaky breaths. The CCTV zoomed in—her trembling fingers twisting the saree pallu into messy knots. Then, barely audible: “Meri bua ne bataya tha... unsafe din...” The words stumbled out like a child reciting lessons. Lakhan’s smirk widened. He caught her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Your bua,” he mused, thumb tracing her quivering lower lip, “What did she tell??”

Dhristi swallowed hard. Eyes flickered shut briefly—searching for that village wisdom, that thread of control. “Pehle din se... saat din tak,” she whispered. A pause. Lakhan’s grip tightened. She rushed on: “Phir... agle teen din unsafe...”

Lakhan laughed—low, mocking. A predator circling prey. His fingers slid from her chin down her throat, pressing lightly into the hollow where her pulse hammered. “So?” His thumb traced her collarbone, grinning at her flinch. “What happens... when he comes begging inside you on those... unsafe din?” His voice curled around the word—dark, taunting. “Chup chap let him? Play dead? Or—” His palm slapped her thigh through the saree, making her jolt. “Tell him nahi like you told me?”

Dhristi’s breath hitched. Her fingers dug into the cushion seam, knuckles bone-white. The lie tasted like ash, but she forced it out: “M...main kehti hoon... safe day  nahi hai.” She swallowed hard. “Woh... so jaata hai.”

Lakhan’s laugh cracked through the room—sharp, derisive. “Hah! Pathetic.” His fingers tangled in her hair, wrenching her head back. “Permission? Permission? Ek mard apni biwi se puchta hai ki uski chut mein daal sakta hai ya nahi?” Spit flecked her cheek as he leaned closer. “Tere gaon ka bechara sadak ka kutta hai kya? Roadside ka bhikari jo teri ‘haan’ ka intezaar kare?” His grip tightened. “No wonder he’s weak. No wonder you starve.”

Dhristi’s breath came in shallow bursts, pupils blown wide. Not fear. Recognition. The truth tasted bitter on her tongue—Manav’s hesitant whispers, his trembling hands, his “D-dard toh nahi hogaya?” after every limp thrust. Weakness disguised as gentleness.

Lakhan’s continued. “Condoms? Pills?

Dhristi’s brows knitted—genuine confusion flickering through the fear. Her lips parted, then closed. Like he’d asked her to explain quantum physics.

Lakhan sighed, rolling his eyes. Gaon ki chutiyapa. “So you’re telling me,” he dragged out each word, fingers tightening in her hair, “you didn’t get pregnant just because your husband never had his lust overcome and fuck you raw?” He scoffed, jerking her head back further. “Pathetic. That’s not how men work, sweetheart.” His free hand palmed himself through his trousers—thick, already half-hard. “When I want sex,” he murmured, almost conversational, “I take it. Safe day? Unsafe day? Don’t care.” His thumb pressed into the hinge of her jaw, forcing her mouth open wider. “Condoms? Pills?” A dark chuckle. “Your problem.”

His fingers trailed lower, tracing the neckline of her blouse. “Only time I wrap it up?” He smirked. “When the woman’s got enough spine to insist. Or if her cunt’s got a reputation.” A pause—deliberate, cruel. “You? Neither.” The blouse’s top button popped open effortlessly under his fingers. “Plus—” his breath hot against her earlobe, “—imagine your husband finding a dozen used rubbers clogging your toilet. Fishing them out one by one—” He mimed the motion with grotesque precision, laughing at her flinch. “Wouldn’t that be fun?”


Dhristi’s pulse throbbed visibly at her throat. Lakhan pressed two fingers against it, savoring the frantic rhythm. “So here’s your new reality: I’m going to raw dog you for the rest of your life.” His thumb swiped roughly across her bottom lip. “It’s your duty to protect yourself on unsafe days. Me?” A shrug—casual as discussing the weather. “I don’t even care if I knock you up.” His palm slid down to cup her breast through the fabric, squeezing just shy of pain. “Got enough black money to silence both of you.”

Her breath hitched—sharp, involuntary. Lakhan grinned at the reaction. “Your fear should be raising a bastard child in that piss-stained gaon of yours.” His fingers tightened, twisting her nipple abruptly. “So here’s what you’ll do: Start swallowing pills like temple prasad every morning.” He leaned in, teeth grazing her earlobe. “Or pray your husband’s too fucking cowardly to notice his wife’s belly swelling with my seed.”

Dhristi’s fingers clawed the sofa upholstery—desperate purchase against the vertigo of his words. Pills. The concept was urban, clinical—something whispered about in Delhi clinics, not her village’s turmeric-stained midwife huts. Yet here it slithered between them: chemical shackles disguised as salvation. Her throat worked soundlessly. “Kahan se—”

Lakhan’s palm smacked her thigh—half-mockery, half-warning. “Chup.” His thumb traced the damp cotton over her inner thigh, circling inward with predator’s patience. “Don’t worry,” he drawled, voice dripping with false reassurance, “I’ll arrange a guy who’ll deliver them every month without fail.” His fingers suddenly dug into her flesh, nails biting through fabric. “Just swallow them without your husband knowing.” The last word twisted into a sneer, his grip tightening until she whimpered.

His expression hardened, jawline sharp as a blade. “Listen carefully, gaon ki randi.” The endearment slithered out like a venomous kiss. “Only two men have the right to raw dog you—me, and that pathetic husband of yours.” A pause—long enough for her to feel the weight of his silence. “You don’t spread your legs for anyone else without my permission.” His free hand grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I won’t risk some street-side stud giving you a fucking STD.” The threat hissed between them, hot and jagged. “If I find out you’ve taken someone else’s cock without my say?” His laugh was ice. “You wont be able to handle the consequences.”

Dhristi’s breath turned shallow—ribs locked tight, lungs refusing to expand. The horror wasn’t hypothetical. It wasn’t abstract. It lived in Lakhan’s fingers gripping her wrist just a fraction too tight, in the way his pupils swallowed all but a sliver of iris—black holes pulling her into a gravity she wouldn’t escape. His thumb traced the frantic pulse at her wrist, pressing just shy of pain. A warning. A promise. You already belong to me.

Lakhan’s smirk widened, fingers loosening their grip unexpectedly. He leaned back against the sofa cushions—casual, almost conversational—as if he hadn’t just threatened to ruin her life with the weight of his seed. "So," he drawled, flicking an invisible speck of dust from his sleeve, "when did you last have sex with your husband?"

Dhristi’s throat clicked as she swallowed. The question wasn’t cruel—it was clinical. Like asking when she’d last eaten. Mechanically, she whispered, "Last Sunday, we did." The lie tasted stale, but Lakhan wouldn’t know the truth: Manav had collapsed onto her like a dying man seeking shelter, his desperate thrusts fueled by inadequacy.

Lakhan’s laughter erupted—sharp, derisive. The sound bounced off the walls as he grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. "Is that why you wanted me to fuck in your pussy the next day? You could no longer get satisfied from him?" His thumb pressed into her lower lip, smearing the words like wet paint. "Tell me, did you even feel him inside you? Or were you just counting seconds till he finished?"

Dhristi’s face burned—a wildfire of shame crawling from her neck to her temples. She hadn’t just wanted him inside her. She’d begged. Whimpered "Andar daal na" like some starved stray when her husband’s feeble thrusts left her clenching around nothing.

Lakhan’s smirk deepened. He knew. He’d felt it—her cunt pulsing greedily around his cock, her hips jerking back for deeper penetration, her choked sobs dissolving into moans when he finally, finally filled her. Every twitch of her body spelled it out: This. This is what I needed.

He leaned closer, fingers tracing the damp outline of her nipple through the blouse—slow, mocking. “Ek free advice,” he murmured, voice slick with condescension. “Cheaters get caught for two reasons.” His thumb flicked her stiffening peak sharply—not pain, not pleasure, just attention. “One—” He rolled his wrist lazily. “They neglect their spouse. Ignore them. Pretend they don’t exist.” His other hand gripped her thigh, fingers pressing into the soft flesh dangerously close to her soaked panties. “Or—” Teeth flashed in a wolf’s grin. “They suddenly become too lovey-dovey. Roses. Kisses. ‘Oh darling, let me massage your feet after work.’” His fingers tightened—just shy of bruising. “Bullshit.”

Dhristi’s breath hitched—sharp, involuntary. Lakhan’s grip eased slightly, thumb stroking the spot he’d just abused. “So here’s your lesson,” he murmured, lips brushing her earlobe. “Act normal. Wake up. Make his fucking tea. Fold his clothes. Don’t suddenly start sucking his dick like some porn-star wife.” A dark chuckle vibrated against her skin. “Unless—” His fingers slid higher under her saree, blunt nails scbanging inner thigh. “—that’s what you usually do?”

Dhristi’s pulse hammered against his palm. Normal. The word curdled in her throat. What was normal? The village girl who flinched at her husband’s touch? Or the woman who arched into another man’s brutality, her body singing betrayal?



Lakhan’s fingers trailed lower, hooking into the waistband of her damp panties. “One more thing,” he murmured, voice deceptively soft—like a blade sheathed in velvet. “I won’t tolerate periods as an excuse.” His fingers flexed—a warning. “Your pain? Your problem.” The blouse’s last button surrendered under his grip, fabric gaping to reveal the rapid flutter of her ribs. “Luckily—” His palm slapped her bare stomach, making her jerk. “—women come with three holes.” A slow, deliberate drag of his thumb along her lower lip. “I’ll just use the other ones during that time.”

Dhristi’s breath stuttered—sharp, jagged. Not fear, but something darker. Something that coiled low in her belly even as her nails dug crescents into her own thighs. Three holes. The crude arithmetic of her body laid bare. Village whispers never spoke of such things—only the sacred duty of wives to endure. Yet here it was: her anatomy reduced to a menu of violations.

My fingers trembled over the keyboard, the CCTV timestamp blurring. May 3rd. The file name pulsed like an infected wound. Lakhan was giving her instructions on what and how sex should be done between them. The clinical phrasing couldn’t mask the visceral horror—this wasn’t seduction. This was programming. A brutal recalibration of her expectations, her thresholds. And the sickest truth? I had never discussed that with my wife in the last 8 months. Not pleasure, not positions, not even pain. Just mute fumbling in the dark like strangers sharing a grave.

Lakhan’s fingers traced her collarbone now—a mockery of tenderness. "So?" His thumb pressed into the hollow of her throat where her pulse rabbited. "Is it still an unsafe day for you?" The question slithered out wrapped in faux gentleness, sugarcoating the arsenic beneath. His free hand palmed himself through his trousers, thick even half-hard. The message was clear: Your body’s calendar doesn’t dictate my access.


Dhristi swallowed, tasting bile and something darker—resignation? Anticipation? Her nod was barely perceptible, but Lakhan’s grin split wide like a wound. "Good girl," he crooned—the same tone village men used to praise obedient cattle. His fingers tangled in her hair, wrenching her head back. "For today, just suck me off." His free hand unbuckled his belt with deliberate slowness, the leather hissing like a cobra unfurling. "But—" His grip tightened painfully. "Starting tomorrow, you swallow those pills without fail every morning." His cock sprang free—thick, already glistening at the tip—and tapped against her trembling lips. "And from next time?" A dark chuckle. "I decide where to fuck you—your cunt, your ass, your throat." His thumb pried her jaw wider. "No more safe-day bullshit."

Her lips parted—not in protest but reflex—as Lakhan shoved forward, the blunt head catching the back of her throat instantly. Dhristi gagged, tears springing hot and sudden, but his fingers only tightened in her hair. "Work," he growled, hips jerking shallowly.

She sucked frantically, saliva slicking her chin, her rhythm desperate rather than skilled. Her village-taught modesty had never prepared her for this—only the hollow-cheeked wives whispered warnings about men who demanded things "not meant for pious women." Yet here she was, choking obediently while Lakhan groaned approval, her tongue flattening against his underside like she'd been born for it.

Lakhan's fingers twisted tighter in her hair, forcing her nose flush against his pelvis. His scent—musky, oppressive—flooded her sinuses as her vision swam. She scrabbled at his thighs, not to push away but to anchor herself against the dizzying lack of air. Just as spots danced behind her eyelids, he yanked her back—only to shove forward again, deeper this time, his cock pulsing against her spasming throat.

The CCTV footage showed everything: the practiced curl of Dhristi's fingers around his base, the way her free hand crept up to cradle his balls—an instinctive gesture learned through brutal repetition. Her eyelashes fluttered wetly as she timed her breathing to the rhythm of his thrusts, exhaling sharply through her nose whenever he buried himself to the hilt. The contrast was sickening: her meek village-wife exterior versus the obscene expertise of her lips stretching obscenely around him.

Lakhan groaned, his fingers tightening possessively in her hair—not guiding, just claiming. Dhristi’s throat convulsed around him, her gag reflex suppressed through what Irealized was grim experience. The grainy footage couldn’t hide the way her tongue swirled under his frenulum on every retreat, a calculated trick that made Lakhan’s thighs tense. She knew. She fucking knew exactly how to milk him, her hollowed cheeks and fluttering lashes performing worship for a god she simultaneously feared and craved.

Suddenly, Lakhan stood—jerking her forward by the roots of her hair—and Dhristi scrambled to her knees, the movement so practiced it looked choreographed. Her hands flew to his hips, not to resist but to brace as he began fucking her face in short, brutal snaps. Each thrust carved a wet obscenity into the air—the slap of skin, the choked gurgles she no longer tried to stifle. Spit dripped from her chin onto her trembling fingers, her knuckles whitening where they gripped his thighs. The CCTV timestamp ticked mercilessly: 10 minutes. 10 minutes of this.

Her tears streaked  down her cheeks, but her lips—swollen, parted—never resisted. When Lakhan’s rhythm stuttered, she knew. Her throat relaxed instinctively, her tongue flattening in surrender. He groaned loud enough to rattle the windows, palming the back of her skull like a basketball—forcing her nose into the coarse hair at his base. "Take it," he snarled—not an order but a declaration—as the first hot pulse hit her throat. Dhristi’s eyelids fluttered shut, her swallow reflexive, her body wired to consume him without spillage.

Lakhan swore through clenched teeth, his hips jerking erratically as he emptied himself down her gullet—each spurt punctuated by a sharp thrust, ensuring nothing escaped. The CCTV footage captured her throat bobbing obediently, her fingers flexing against his thighs not to push away but to cling tighter. When he finally withdrew, slick with spit and come, she stayed kneeling—chin glistening, chest heaving—waiting for permission to move.

His hand tangled in her hair again—gentler now—tilting her face up to meet his gaze. The smirk on his lips didn’t match the cold calculation in his eyes as he wiped a stray droplet from her lip with his thumb. "That," he mused, pressing the digit into her mouth, "was barely passable." Dhristi's tongue swirled around it instinctively, hollowing her cheeks in silent apology, but Lakhan only chuckled darkly. "Don't worry," he murmured, fingers tracing the reddened outline of her lips. "You'll get plenty of practice."

With a sudden shove, he sent her sprawling backward onto the floor, her palms slapping against the marble to break her fall. Rising to his feet, he adjusted himself lazily, tucking his softening cock back into his trousers while she knelt there, trembling. "I think it's time for me to leave," he announced, voice casual, as if commenting on the weather. His fingers lingered at his waistband, scooping the last remnants of sticky release before dragging them deliberately across the silk of her saree's pallu—leaving a glistening streak like a perverse signature.

Dhristi didn't move—couldn't—her limbs locked in mute obedience even as her breath hitched unevenly. He smirked, buttoning his shirt with slow, exaggerated care, savoring the way her eyes flickered to his fingers, then away. "In another hour or two," he said, smoothing the creases from his sleeves, "my man will come with the pills." The words were clinical, transactional—like ordering groceries. "Start consuming from today." Not a suggestion, not even a command—just inevitability, carved into the air between them like a tombstone inscription.

The click of the latch was deafening in its finality. Lakhan didn't glance back—didn't need to—his shadow stretching long across the floor before snapping shut with the door. Dhristi stayed coiled on the tiles, her fingers tracing the wet smear on her saree with something between horror and reverence. The marble leached warmth from her skin, but the heat between her legs throbbed traitorously—a pulsing reminder of degradation that felt more like absolution.

Unlike last time, she didn't do the elaborate ritual of vomiting. No dramatic retching over the toilet bowl, no fingernails clawing her own throat to purge him. Just the faucet's icy scream as she bent over the sink, fingertips digging into porcelain while she gargled mechanically—spitting cloudy strands into the drain until her tongue felt scbangd raw. Then she froze mid-gargle, throat closing around a sudden realization: he'd wiped himself on her pallu. The saree clung damply to her collarbone where Lakhan's careless fingers had smeared his ownership.

Dhristi peeled the saree away from her skin like a scab, watching the fabric ripple in the bathroom's yellow light. The stain glistened—translucent now, but still there, still his. Her reflection in the mirror above the sink showed a stranger: lips swollen pink, hair tangled where his grip had wrenched it, pupils blown wide with something that wasn't quite shame. She turned abruptly, the pallu hissing against her wrist as she stalked toward the bedroom—not fleeing, but migrating with the grim purpose of a soldier changing armor between battles.

The saree slithered to the floor in a crimson puddle, pooling around her ankles like shed skin. She stepped over it without glancing back, her skin tightening in the air-conditioned chill. The shower's roar drowned out everything—even her own jagged breaths—as she scrubbed methodically: nails raking her scalp, loofah scbanging her throat raw, fingers probing the seam of her lips as if checking for structural damage. The water ran cold long before she turned it off.

Drying herself with mechanical precision, she avoided the mirror—no need to confirm what her body already knew. The fresh saree slithered over her damp skin, the fabric whispering secrets against her thighs as she knotted the pallu with practiced efficiency. Only then did she glance at the discarded heap in the laundry basket—the saree already curling in on itself.

The living room light flickered to life as I forwarded the footage—4:03 PM, the timestamp glowed garishly.

At the door, the deliveryman's shadow stretched gaunt across the marble. Dhristi’s fingers hovered near the latch, her knuckles whitening before twisting it open. The man—early 30s, cheap polyester shirt clinging to sweat-slicked shoulders—extended a crumpled paper bag without meeting her eyes. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he mumbled, "Madam, Lakhan Sir sent."


The bag rustled like dried leaves as she peeled it open. Nestled inside: a box of pills. Something about the way they sat there—neat, clinical—made her stomach clench. The deliveryman cleared his throat, pressing a scrap of paper into her palm. "Ma’am," he whispered, eyes darting past her shoulder, "I put... inside Vitamin supplements bottle. Just tell your husband u have iron deficiency in case he sees it" His fingers trembled slightly against hers—not with fear, she realized, but a kind of grim solidarity.

Dhristi’s thumb traced the handwritten digits on the paper—ten numbers scrawled in rushed blue ink. A lifeline disguised as a grocery list. The man shifted his weight, polyester shirt sticking to his back. "I'll come at around same time every month to refill your pills. If you need anything , Message anytime, Sir pays the bill " he added softly, gaze dropping to the floor. The unspoken hung between them: *whenever you need extra pills or even abortion pills". She folded the paper sharply, the crease cutting through the digits like a scalpel.

The door clicked shut, sealing her inside with the pills and the silence. She pressed her forehead against the cool wood, the crumpled bag crackling against her palm. The kitchen tiles chilled her bare feet as she crossed to the cabinets—the ones Manav never opened, where lentils and forgotten spices collected dust. She tucked the pills behind a half-empty jar of turmeric, her fingers lingering on the glass.



My knuckles whitened around his mouse, the CCTV feed freezing on her guilty glance over her shoulder—that furtive check to ensure the kitchen was empty. The turmeric jar clinked softly as she twisted it back into place, her movements precise, rehearsed. How many times had she done this? How many pills had dissolved into her throat without my knowledge, their chemical rebellion humming beneath her skin while I was thinking whether she was in her safe or unsafe day?