Adultery Who Watches The Watchmen (continued)

[samgreenvalley]

Chapter 8: The Reckoning
 
The generator shed had become a tableau of frozen depravity.
 
Six men stood in various states of undress, their bodies glistening with sweat and other fluids, their eyes wide with the particular terror of being caught in the act. Gupta had his cock halfway into his pants, the zipper stuck on his shirttail. Mehta was still holding a condom wrapper, his fingers trembling. Joshi had backed into the corner, his hands covering his groin as if that would somehow undo what had just happened. Sharma was adjusting his glasses with shaking hands, and Singh—Colonel Singh, the architect of this entire enterprise—had the decency to look ashamed, his military bearing crumbling in the face of the situation.
 
And in the center of it all, Menaka.
 
She lay sprawled on the mattress, her body a canvas of depravity. Cum streaked her face in viscous rivulets, some of it still dripping from her chin onto her chest. Her breasts were covered in handprints—red, angry marks from men who had gripped too hard in their desperation. Her thighs were slick with a mixture of lubricant, sweat, and the combined seed of six different men. Her hair was a wild tangle around her face, and her lipstick had long since been kissed off, leaving her lips swollen and red from other kinds of use.
 
The red saree she had arrived in was crumpled in the corner, a discarded symbol of the woman she had been. Now she wore only the evidence of what she had become.
 
THUMP THUMP THUMP.
 
The knock came again, harder this time. More insistent. A fist pounding against the metal door with the force of a man who had stopped caring about discretion.
 
"DARA JI, PLEASE CALM DOWN!" a younger voice called out, trembling with fear. "LET ME EXPLAIN—"
 
But the older voice cut through like a blade.
 
"MENAKA! OPEN THIS DOOR!"
 
Singh was the first to move. He strode to the door, his trousers hastily pulled up, his belt still unbuckled. "Dara," he said through the metal, his voice commanding despite the situation. "This is not what it looks like."
 
"THEN WHAT IS IT, COLONEL SAHIB?" Dara's voice was a snarl. "BECAUSE IT LOOKS LIKE MY WIFE IS IN THERE WITH SIX MEN, AND I CAN SMELL THE DEED FROM OUT HERE!"
 
The men in the shed exchanged panicked glances. Sharma was already pulling on his pants, his hands shaking so badly he nearly fell over. Mehta was trying to wipe the sweat from his forehead with a towel that turned out to be Menaka's discarded petticoat. Gupta was hyperventilating, his face pale as milk.
 
Karthik was the only one who seemed calm. He walked to the corner, retrieved his gym bag, and began dressing with measured efficiency. "He's going to kill us," he said, his voice flat. "Or at least try to."
 
"Then let him try," Singh shot back. "I've faced worse than an angry watchman."
 
"You've never faced an angry Gurkha," Karthik replied. "There's a difference."
 
Menaka, still lying on the mattress, found herself smiling.
 
Not because she was amused. Not because she was enjoying the chaos. But because, in the middle of all this—in the middle of being caught, of being exposed, of being reduced to what she had done—she felt something she hadn't felt in weeks.
 
Alive.
 
The old Dara—the one who had bent her over the water tank in Mumbai, the one who had shoved a hundred-rupee note into her cunt and called it choot-dikhayi, the one who had made her kneel on a dirty floor and suck his cock while Banke watched—that Dara was back.
 
And he was furious.