Adultery Who Watches The Watchmen (continued)

[samgreenvalley]

The installation happened without incident.
 
Prakash had called Sharma that morning, posing as a friend of Karthik's who needed to inspect the generator shed for a "security audit." Sharma, eager to please anyone connected to the inner circle, had given him the keys and told him to take his time.
 
Pinto worked quickly, his BSNL uniform providing the perfect cover. Within an hour, three cameras were in place—one above the door, one in the corner behind the generator, and one hidden in the ceiling tiles directly above where the mattress would go. Each camera had a microphone sensitive enough to capture a whisper.
 
The feed went directly to Prakash's hotel room, encrypted, password-protected, and backed up to a cloud server that Pinto had assured him was "government-grade secure."
 
Prakash tested the connection on his laptop, watching the empty shed in high definition. The LEDs weren't on yet, but the camera's night vision was crisp, rendering the concrete floor in shades of green.
 
It was done. He would see everything.
 
He sat back in his hotel chair and thought about what he had set in motion. His wife. His old friend. A gangbang in a generator shed. Hidden cameras. A husband watching from a hotel room, thousands of kilometers from where he was supposed to be.
 
What kind of man does this? he wondered. What kind of husband?
 
The answer came easily: the kind who had watched his wife get fucked by a watchman and felt nothing but arousal. The kind who had installed cameras in his own home to capture every illicit moment. The kind who had encouraged his wife to explore her sexuality and then complained, silently, when she did it without him.
 
He was not a good man. He had never been a good man. But he was honest about it, and that had to count for something.
 
Didn't it?
 
---
 
The night before Holika Dahan, Menaka couldn't sleep.
 
She lay beside Dara in the dark, listening to his breathing—slow, even, the breathing of a man who had worked a double shift and would work another tomorrow. His arm was dbangd across her stomach, heavy and warm. His leg was tangled with hers.
 
She should be content. She should be happy. She had everything she had asked for—Dara's attention, Prakash's permission, the promise of a night that would satisfy every dark hunger she had discovered in herself over the past months.
 
But her mind wouldn't stop racing.
 
She thought about the generator shed. About the mattress Gupta had moved there, hidden under a tarp. About the LEDs Karthik had installed, the dimmable lights that would cast the room in a warm, forgiving glow. About the men—Sharma, Singh, Mehta, Gupta, Karthik, and Joshi, if he found the courage. Six men, all of them hungry, all of them waiting.
 
She thought about what they would do to her. What she would let them do. What she would demand they do.
 
Her cunt throbbed at the thought.
 
Beside her, Dara stirred. His hand moved from her stomach to her hip, his fingers tracing the curve of her waist.
 
"You're awake," he murmured.
 
"I'm always awake."
 
He turned toward her, his body pressing against hers. His cock was half-hard, pressing against her thigh. "You want to—"
 
"Yes."
 
He entered her without preamble, without the gentle questions that had become his habit. She gasped at the suddenness of it, the thickness of him stretching her in that familiar, wonderful way. For a moment, she thought the old Dara had returned—the one who took without asking, who fucked without apologizing.
 
But then he slowed. Softened. His thrusts became measured, careful, as if he were afraid of hurting her.
 
"Is this okay?" he whispered against her neck.
 
"Yes," she said, because it was easier than saying what she really wanted. No, this is not okay. This is not what I need. I need you to fuck me like you used to. I need you to grab my hair and call me your slut. I need you to remind me why I chose you in the first place.
 
But she didn't say any of that. She closed her eyes and let him move inside her, his rhythm gentle, his breath warm on her skin. She thought about the generator shed. About Sharma's soft hands and Singh's commanding voice. About Karthik's knowing eyes and Mehta's hungry gaze. About Gupta's nervous fingers and Joshi's desperate need.
 
She came, finally, but it was a small thing, a flicker rather than a fire. Dara came a moment later, his body shuddering against hers, and then he rolled off and was asleep within minutes.
 
Menaka lay awake, staring at the ceiling, her body unsatisfied and her mind churning.
 
Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow, everything will be different.