Adultery Innocent Housewife Tricked by Luck By Chance

[Luck by chance]

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Chapter 6 - The Maze of Deceptions

The hospital disappeared behind him, but the chaos stayed stuck in Ravi’s head. He sat in the car, engine running, the city noises muffled outside. The doctor’s words played on repeat—rules for a game he never thought he’d be part of. He turned it all over in his mind, cold and calculating, weirdly excited by how messed up it was. The plan was simple:

First, he couldn’t tell Ankita he was her dead husband. Her grief had been too real, too raw. If he tried to step into that role, she’d sniff out the lie eventually. He had to be someone else—her rock while she was confused.

Second, no way could he let her talk to Arjun. That kid was useless, hadn’t even bothered with his mom when she needed him. One call from him and Ravi’s whole house of cards would collapse. He had to cut that tie completely.

Third—and this was the big one—Chitra had to go. The maid knew too much. She’d seen Ravi as just the driver. If she came back, she’d blow his cover. Firing her would look suspicious, so she needed to disappear for good, her absence just another part of the accident’s fallout.

The pieces clicked into place in his head, a twisted puzzle with Ankita as the prize. Back inside the hospital, he put on his best worried face. Two orderlies helped him get unconscious Ankita into a wheelchair. The drugs had knocked her out cold—head lolling, lips slightly open, like a doll. Wheeling her out, his grip tight on the handles, he scanned the halls. Nobody paid attention. To them, he was just some concerned relative taking his sick wife home.

The drive back to Swades Apartments was tense and quiet. Ravi’s heart pounded—not from lust, but the thrill of pulling this off. Every green light felt like a win. He parked smooth, took the service elevator up. The empty halls were a relief. No Chitra around—perfect.

Ankita’s bedroom smelled like her—jasmine, baby powder, that clean scent he’d catch when passing her door. He lifted her limp body from the chair, laid her on the bed. The mattress barely moved under her weight. There she was—his prize, out cold and helpless in her own room. He pulled out his phone. First few shots were just proof of her condition. Then something darker took over. He started posing her—arm across her stomach, head tilted to show her neck. The power trip was unreal, like he was a god arranging his creation.

His hands shook as he touched her saree—soft, worn cotton. He found the little safety pins holding the pleats, undid them one by one. The clicks sounded huge in the quiet room. He peeled back the fabric, revealing the petticoat underneath, snug against her hips. He tugged the saree lower, showing a strip of skin at her waist, the dip of her belly button. Snap—another photo, this one just for him.

Next, her blouse. The hook at the back was easy. He didn’t take it all the way off, just pulled it open enough to see her plain white bra. He framed her back with the loose fabric, her spine curved delicate under smooth skin. Spread her hair over the pillow like a dark halo. Pulled the saree’s end down to her waist, showing off her breasts in that simple bra. More photos from every angle.

Not enough. He needed to be in the shot. Carefully, he lay beside her, propped up on one elbow. Took her limp hand, put it on his chest where his heart hammered. Held the phone up—click. A couple’s portrait. The caring husband with his sick wife. He took several, face all solemn while his eyes burned with victory.

Got braver. Pressed his cheek to hers—click. A fake intimate moment that got him hard. Wanted more. Thumb parted her lips—soft, slack. Slid a finger into her mouth, warm and wet. Imagined her waking up, sucking on it. Another photo, his finger between her teeth like some dirty secret.

His gaze dropped to the skin he’d exposed. Traced from her ribs to where the petticoat sat low on her hips. Undid the drawstring—simple knot came loose easy. Peeled back the cotton, saw plain white panties. To him, they might as well have been lace. Hand inside, palm flat on her belly, fingers creeping lower through coarse hair until—

A groan escaped him. She was warm, slick. Completely still. He circled her clit, felt it swell under his thumb—her body reacting even if her mind was gone. Two fingers inside, tight and wet. Wasn’t just taking photos now—was claiming her. Held the phone, snapped the nasty scene—his hand buried in her underwear, her face peaceful while he—

Pulled his fingers out, shiny with her. Brought them to his nose—that musky smell drove him wild. But this was just the start. Photos were proof, but he wanted all of her. Put the phone down. Finished undressing her—unhooked the bra, saw her breasts heavy and perfect in his hands. Took more pictures. Slid the petticoat and panties off, tossed them aside. Now she was bare—every curve, every shadow his to explore.

Phone back in hand, breathing rough. Close-ups of everything—blue veins on her wrists, dimple above her ass, fine hairs on her thighs catching light. Spread her legs, photographed her pink folds glistening. Rolled her onto her stomach, spread her cheeks—click—got everything.

Still looked too much like an accident victim. Wanted her how she’d be in his world. Went to her wardrobe, opened it—her smell poured out, cedar and perfume. Pushed past sarees, found nighties in a drawer. Passed the plain ones, grabbed a pink silk one—strappy, a bit of lace. Soft and girly, not her usual. Perfect.

Back to the bed. Dressed her like dressing a doll—arms through straps, silk dbanging over her curves. Pink clinging to her breasts, waist, hips. Looked like some sleeping beauty—except this was no fairy tale. One last photo—her in pink, him beside her. Not a couple’s shot. A trophy. No going back now. Looked at the picture—no guilt, just dark satisfaction. This wasn’t opportunity anymore. This was ownership.