Adultery NISHA:: A Hot Spy -Female Investigator Officer - Secret mission

[girrich9486]

Nisha sat alone in the quiet of the study long after she had left Raghu and Priya’s room. The morning light had strengthened into full day, but the weight in her chest had not lightened. The CCTV had shown her the truth of the outside world: no one had entered the house during those forty-five minutes. The only man inside had been Raghu. His small, tell-tale reactions—the caught breath, the sudden cough—had only sharpened the edge of her suspicion. Yet suspicion without proof was useless. Accusing him openly would destroy whatever remained of her dignity and possibly her career. This matter could not go to the clues team. It was too personal, too intimate, too humiliating. She would investigate it herself.


Nisha can't take her team help. Because in other cases it's different now it's her about personal dignity. And how she can tell about what happens with her in nude and blindfolded other fucked her and vibrated and finger fuck... Etc... She can't tell or reveal to other team members and subordinates... So she decided to solve this by her own self hands without helping by others..



Whoever had touched her while she was blindfolded and bound would be punished. She would find the proof, and she would deal with it privately.
First she needed information. She opened her official laptop, composed a short, formal request, and sent it to the technical wing. The message asked for Raghu’s complete call data of the past month—numbers dialled, numbers received, duration, and time stamps. Within twenty minutes a junior technician replied: “Madam, okay. I will handover to you by tomorrow morning.” She answered with a brief “Good,” closed the laptop, and stood.
The rest of the day she remained at home under the pretext of a mild headache and pending paperwork. She moved through the rooms with quiet purpose, opening drawers, checking cupboards, examining the small store room and the rear veranda. She found nothing unusual. The house looked exactly as it always did. When she finished the general search she returned to the thought that had been circling since morning: if the man had been Raghu, evidence might still be in his room—something small he had overlooked in his haste to return to bed before Rajesh arrived.
She needed both of them out of the house at the same time.
She found Priya in the kitchen and spoke in a tone that mixed concern with casual authority.
“Priya, you haven’t gone out for a long time. A new movie released this week. You should go and enjoy it. I will look after things here. Take the afternoon. It will be good for you.”
Priya looked surprised, then hesitant. “Madam, there is no need. I am fine at home.”
Before she could protest further, Nisha turned to Raghu, who had appeared in the doorway.
“Raghu, I have a bad headache. The medicine I usually take is finished. There is a medical shop near the crossroads—here is the name and the prescription. Please bring it for me. It will not take long.”
Raghu’s face tightened almost imperceptibly. “Madam, please, no need. I can ask someone else to go, or—”
“It is a simple thing,” Nisha said, already holding out the small slip of paper. “I trust you to bring the correct one. Go now.”
He could not refuse without looking suspicious. He took the paper, nodded once, and left. A few minutes later Priya discovered there was no milk for the coffee Nisha had requested. She too stepped out to the nearby shop. The house was suddenly empty except for Nisha.
She moved quickly.
She entered their bedroom and closed the door behind her. Methodically she opened every drawer, lifted every folded garment, checked the side pockets of trousers and the lining of the cupboard. She examined the bed frame, the underside of the mattress, the small bathroom cabinet, the waste basket. She looked behind the mirror, inside the empty suitcase stored on top of the cupboard, even beneath the rug. Nothing. No hidden phone, no damp cloth, no bottle of gel, no trace of the vibrator that had been used on her, no headphones, no recording device. The room was clean to the point of sterility.
Nisha stood in the centre of the floor, breathing carefully. The absence of evidence should have eased her mind. Instead it deepened the confusion. Either Raghu was innocent, or he was far more careful than she had expected. The second possibility frightened her more than the first.
By the time Priya returned with the milk and prepared the coffee, Nisha had already left the room and returned to her own. She accepted the cup with a quieter voice than she had used that morning.
They sat for a while in the living room. The conversation began lightly—weather, household needs, the never-ending work at the station. Then Nisha steered it with deliberate casualness.
“Priya… is Raghu good with you? I mean, does he treat you well?”
Priya looked up, mildly surprised. “Yes, Madam. Why do you ask?”...






They sat for a while in the living room. The conversation began lightly—weather, household needs, the never-ending work at the station. Then Nisha steered it with deliberate casualness.
“Priya… is Raghu good with you? I mean, does he treat you well?”
Priya looked up, mildly surprised. “Yes, Madam. Why do you ask?”
“Nothing important. I have been observing small things lately. Does he go out at night sometimes? Or talk to people I don’t know about? Have you noticed any change in his behaviour—restlessness, secrecy, anything unusual?”
Priya shook her head at once. “No, Madam. Nothing like that. He comes home, has dinner, and sleeps. Sometimes he has a headache and takes rest early, like last night. That is all I have seen. What happened? Is something wrong?”
Nisha kept her expression neutral. “Nothing. I was only asking casually. Sometimes we notice small changes in the people who work closely with us. Leave it.”
Priya nodded, still looking slightly puzzled, but she did not press. After a few more minutes of ordinary talk Nisha rose, thanked her for the coffee, and returned to her own bedroom.
She closed the door and sat on the edge of the bed. The call data would arrive tomorrow. The physical search had yielded nothing. Priya’s answers had been steady and apparently truthful. For the first time since the morning, doubt crept in beside the suspicion.
Am I suspecting an innocent man?
The thought was uncomfortable. Raghu had served her loyally for years. He had never given her reason to question his character. Yet the CCTV left no other possibility, and his reaction when she asked about the previous night had been too sharp to ignore. She pressed her fingertips to her temples. The headache she had pretended to have earlier was becoming real.
She had searched their room thoroughly. She had not, however, searched her own.
The oversight sat at the edge of her mind, unexamined. In her own bedroom the poles still stood near the dressing table. The cupboard that had once held the vibrator and the gel remained closed. The hidden camera that recorded the outside corridor still watched in silence. And somewhere—perhaps on a phone that was no longer in the house, perhaps already deleted, perhaps still waiting—existed the recording of her own voice moaning another man’s name while that man used her body.






The oversight sat at the edge of her mind, unexamined. In her own bedroom the poles still stood near the dressing table. The cupboard that had once held the vibrator and the gel remained closed. The hidden camera that recorded the outside corridor still watched in silence. And somewhere—perhaps on a phone that was no longer in the house, perhaps already deleted, perhaps still waiting—existed the recording of her own voice moaning another man’s name while that man used her body.
Nisha lay back against the pillows, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. The determination to punish whoever had violated her dignity remained, but it was now tangled with the first real fear that she might be chasing a shadow of her own making. Tomorrow the call data would arrive. Until then she would watch, and wait, and try to decide whether the man who had always called her “Madam” with perfect respect was the same man who had stood on a chair and fucked her mouth while she believed he was her husband.
The house was quiet again. Outside, ordinary afternoon sounds drifted in through the windows. Inside, the investigation had reached a temporary dead end, and the only person who still carried the full weight of the previous night’s secret was the woman who had decided to solve it alone.




The technical team delivered the call data the following morning, exactly as promised. Nisha received the sealed envelope in her office, signed for it without expression, and brought it home at lunchtime under the pretext of reviewing personal files. She locked the study door, sat at the desk, and opened the thick printout page by page.
Most of the numbers were familiar and ordinary: the station landline, Priya’s number, two or three relatives, a medical shop, the local grocery. Call durations were short. Timings matched the pattern of a man who left for work early and returned at predictable hours. Nothing stood out for the first twenty days of the month.
Then, ten days earlier, a single entry broke the pattern.
The number was unfamiliar. The call had lasted four minutes and twelve seconds. It had been made at 11:47 p.m.—late enough that most official business was finished. Nisha underlined it twice with a red pen, then opened her own secure contact list and cross-checked. The number belonged to the personal assistant of the state minister who oversaw the home department. The same PA who occasionally appeared at high-level meetings and whose name surfaced whenever transfers or promotions were discussed in quiet corners.
Nisha leaned back in the chair. The study was silent except for the slow turn of the ceiling fan. Why would Raghu, a junior subordinate who rarely spoke unless spoken to, place a late-night call to the minister’s PA? The official channel for any request or complaint ran through her office first. A direct call at that hour suggested either urgency or secrecy.
She turned the possibilities over carefully. It could be innocent—an old acquaintance, a request for help with a relative’s file, a simple enquiry. Or it could be the first visible thread of something larger. The same man she already suspected of entering her bedroom while she was bound and blindfolded had also spoken privately to a man who moved in political circles. The two facts did not yet connect, but they sat beside each other in her mind like matched pieces waiting for the rest of the picture.
She closed the printout, locked it in the drawer, and went looking for Priya.
She found her in the kitchen, washing the midday utensils. Nisha kept her voice light, almost conversational.
“Priya, when I went to the island last month, did anyone come to the house? Any visitor, any relative, any official?”
Priya’s hands paused under the running water for half a second too long. She turned off the tap, wiped her palms on her saree, and answered without looking up at once.
“No, Madam. No one came. The house was quiet. Only Raghu and I were here.”
Nisha watched her face. The reply was quick, but the tightness around Priya’s mouth was new. A faint flush had risen along her neck.
“You look tensed,” Nisha said quietly. “Why?”
Priya’s eyes flicked up, then away again. “Nothing, Madam. Just the heat in the kitchen. That is all.”
Nisha held the silence for a moment longer than was comfortable. Priya’s fingers had begun to twist the edge of her saree, a small, restless motion she usually controlled. The denial had been too immediate, the explanation too ready. In the years they had shared the same roof, Priya had never needed to invent reasons for ordinary questions.
“All right,” Nisha said at last. “If you remember anything later, tell me.”
She left the kitchen and returned to the study. The call data still lay in the locked drawer. The PA’s number still glowed in her memory. Priya’s brief tension still hung in the air. Three separate facts now sat on the table of her private investigation: a man inside the house during the forty-five minutes she had been used, a late-night call from that same man to the minister’s PA, and a wife who became visibly uneasy when asked about visitors during Nisha’s absence.
None of them yet formed a complete chain. But the shape of something deliberate was beginning to appear. Nisha sat down again, opened a fresh page in her personal notebook, and began to write the three points in careful, precise handwriting. She did not yet know how they connected. She only knew that the matter of her dignity would not be left unfinished, and that every new detail—however small—brought her one step closer to the man who had stood over her while she moaned another name.