[tharkibudda]

Chapter 22 : April 21 

I clicked on the next file, my finger hovering over the mouse. It was unusually large in size—massive, bloated with data. Even before I opened it, I knew. Lakhan had arrived that day. The timestamp screamed it: April 21st. The file size alone was a confession, a digital monument to the violation that had unfolded in my absence. My stomach twisted into knots as the video loaded, the screen flickering to life with the familiar, hateful clarity of Lakhan's surveillance.


The scene unfolded in agonizing detail. Dhristi sat rigidly on the edge of the couch, bathed in the harsh afternoon light filtering through the sheer curtains. She wore a simple green kurti, the cotton fabric clinging to the nervous sweat dampening her skin. Her hands were clenched in her lap, knuckles white. Every few seconds, her gaze darted toward the front door, then flickered away as if burned. She’d completed her morning chores with frantic efficiency—dishes stacked, floors gleaming, laundry folded.

At precisely 1:05 PM, the door chime echoed through the silent house. Dhristi flinched as if struck. Her breath hitched audibly, trapped somewhere between dread and anticipation. The door swung open, revealing Lakhan. He filled the doorway, his presence instantly warping the air. He wore dark trousers and a tailored charcoal shirt, the fabric straining against his broad shoulders. A predatory smile played on his lips.

"Dhristi," he greeted, his voice smooth as velvet over gravel. "Been busy?"

His gaze swept over her trembling form, lingering on the pulse fluttering at her throat. Without waiting for a reply, he strode past her, the scent of aggression clinging to him. The leather couch sighed beneath his weight as he settled into the spot—the indentation still warm from Dhristi's anxious vigil.

"Come." The command sliced through the silence.

Dhristi didn't move. Her fingers dug into the fabric of her kurti, knuckles bleached white. Lakhan's smile widened, a predator savoring resistance. He leaned back, spreading his thighs deliberately. The rasp of his zipper echoed like gunfire in the stillness.

"Don't make me ask twice," he murmured, fingers working the waistband. The dark trousers slid down powerful thighs, pooling at his ankles. What emerged wasn't just a cock—it was a weapon. Thick, veined, and already half-hard, it lay against his thigh like a resting serpent. The afternoon light glinted off the angry red head, slick with pre-cum. A single drop fell onto the leather cushion.

Dhristi's breath hitched. Her gaze locked onto it, hypnotized by the monstrous intrusion into her sanctuary. She remembered its brutal stretch, the tearing ache, the impossible fullness that had become a twisted benchmark for her body's betrayal. Her knees trembled, threatening to buckle.

Slowly, mechanically, her hands drifted to the waistband of her leggings. The soft cotton felt like armor she was surrendering. Each inch of exposed skin was a defeat. Her thumbs hooked under the elastic, the movement sluggish, laden with dread. She pushed the fabric down over her hips, revealing the pale curve of her belly, the dark triangle of her panties beneath the green kurti. Her eyes remained fixed on Lakhan’s face, searching for mercy she knew wasn’t there, her movements a silent plea for the nightmare to end. She bent slightly, preparing to slide the leggings further down her thighs, the air cool against her exposed skin.

Suddenly, Lakhan’s hand shot out—not violently, but with unnerving precision. His fingers clamped around her wrist, halting her descent. The contact was electric, jolting her upright. His grip was iron wrapped in velvet, impossible to break. He didn’t yank or twist; he simply held her there, suspended in mid-motion, her leggings pooled around her knees like shackles. His eyes narrowed, pupils darkening with impatience. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, vibrating through the oppressive silence.

"No," he purred, his voice a blade honed to cruelty. "That’s not what I want." His thumb traced slow, deliberate circles over her pulse point, savoring its frantic flutter. "Your mouth, Dhristi. Only your mouth."

Dhristi froze. Her breath stopped dead in her lungs, replaced by icy dread. Horror washed over her face—a stark, visceral recoil that twisted her delicate features. Her eyes widened, pupils dilating with pure terror. *His cock?* In her mouth? The thought alone was a violation deeper than any physical act. She’d never done this—not for me , not for anyone. The intimacy felt obscene, a desecration of her sanskari upbringing. Her stomach clenched, bile rising sharp and acidic in her throat.

Lakhan saw her expression and gave a knowing smile. He chuckled, low and grating. "So," he murmured, thumb digging into the frantic pulse beneath her wrist, "I guess your husband never made you do this." The words weren't a question; they were a scalpel slicing through her marriage. "Too pure for him? Too delicate?" His gaze raked down her trembling form, lingering on the exposed skin above her trapped leggings. "Or is Manav just… inadequate?"

Dhristi flinched as if slapped. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged—only a choked gasp. The accusation hung thick in the air, poisoning the room. Lakhan leaned closer, his breath hot against her ear. "Poor little sanskari wife," he cooed, mockery dripping like venom. "Bet he worships your untouched mouth. Treat it like a temple." His free hand drifted down, fingers splaying possessively over her belly, pressing through the thin green kurti. "But temples get desecrated, Dhristi."

Tears welled instantly, spilling over her lashes in hot streams. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs as Lakhan’s thumb brushed the corner of her trembling lips. The touch was obscene—a violation before the act. Her voice shattered the silence, raw and fractured: "Please..." A whimper escaped, then swelled into desperate pleading. "I’ll do anything—anything else! Just... not this. Don’t make me..."

Lakhan chuckled, low and resonant, vibrating through the oppressive stillness. "What’s wrong, Dhristi?" His fingers tightened around her wrist, pulling her closer until his erection pressed hot against her thigh. "This is also part of sex." The words slithered out, mocking her resistance. "Or did your husband never teach you that?"

Dhristi’s breath hitched. "I'm a decent woman," she whispered, her voice fraying at the edges. "Only randis do such cheap things." Her eyes darted away, unable to meet his gaze. "Please... fuck me anyway you want... anything but—"

Lakhan threw his head back and laughed—a harsh, grating sound that echoed off the sterile walls. "Oh god," he sneered, fingers tightening like vices around her wrist. "You're overselling yourself, Dhristi." His other hand slid up her thigh, beneath the green kurti, fingers digging into the soft flesh above her trapped leggings. "A sanskari woman from a backward village who thinks blowjobs are sinful?" He leaned in, his breath hot and sour against her ear. "You just made this irresistible."

Dhristi flinched, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Please," she choked out, voice trembling. "I didn't even do this with Manav." The confession tore from her lips—raw, desperate. "It’s... unholy. Dirty."

Lakhan’s grip tightened, yanking her forward until his swollen cock brushed her lips. The musky scent filled her nostrils, thick and suffocating. "Blame your husband," he hissed, eyes gleaming with cruel triumph. "Months married and he left your mouth untouched? Pathetic." His thumb forced her jaw open, pressing down on her tongue. "Consider this an education."

Dhristi gagged as the thick head breached her lips. Saliva pooled, tears blurring her vision. Her body convulsed—a violent rejection—but Lakhan held her skull firm, fingers tangled in her hair. She choked, nostrils flaring, as he thrust deeper. The stretch burned, her throat protesting against the invasion. Her gag reflex kicked in hard; she retched, bile mixing with spit that slicked his shaft. Her muffled whimpers dissolved into wet, guttural sounds—half-sob, half-choke—as he began rocking her head back and forth. Every thrust scbangd her palate raw, the rhythm brutal, degrading. Her hands fluttered uselessly against his thighs, nails scratching but finding no purchase against the fabric of his trousers.

Watching the CCTV feed, my stomach clenched. Her shyness—that delicate reserve I’d cherished—was being violated before my eyes. I remembered our wedding night, how she’d trembled when I kissed her neck, how she’d hidden her face in my shoulder. I’d found it endearing, pure. Even after marriage, I never pushed. I’d seen porn—women taking cocks deep, eyes watering—but forcing that on Dhristi felt wrong. Sacrilegious. Consent was sacred. Yet here was Lakhan, turning her innocence into a weapon, forcing her to kneel while he claimed what I’d fantasized about but refused to demand. The irony tasted like ash.

On screen, Lakhan groaned, his hips snapping forward. Dhristi gagged, tears streaking her cheeks as her throat bulged obscenely. Her hands fluttered helplessly against his thighs—a stark contrast to the eager performers I’d watched online. This wasn’t submission; it was desecration. Her muffled whimpers cut through the speakers, raw and broken. I’d imagined this act as intimacy, a shared hunger. Instead, it was domination. Lakhan’s fingers tightened in her hair, yanking her deeper. "Swallow it all, sanskari," he snarled, grinding against her face. "Your husband’s too weak to teach you."

Suddenly, her body arched violently. A wet, choking sound tore from her throat—half-sob, half-gurgle—as Lakhan forced himself deeper. Her eyes rolled back, whites flashing. Saliva dripped down her chin, mixing with tears and the viscous fluid coating his shaft. Her gag reflex screamed, muscles spasming around him. Still, he pistoned her head relentlessly, hips slamming against her face. The wet slap of flesh echoed through the room. Her nose pressed into his pelvis, breath whistling through flared nostrils. Every thrust seemed to steal oxygen, her lips swollen and raw.

"That's it, Dhristi," Lakhan groaned, fingers tightening like iron bands in her tangled hair. His voice was thick, predatory. "So easy once you get into rhythm." He forced her deeper, grinding the swollen head against her soft palate until her throat convulsed. "Feel that? Your throat opening up for me. Like it was made for this." Her choked whimpers only spurred him. He timed his thrusts to her involuntary swallows, using her body's desperate bid for air to bury himself further. Her hands clawed at his thighs now, not resisting, but clinging—anchoring herself against the drowning sensation. Saliva dripped down her chin, pooling on the couch beneath them.

Her movements shifted. Tentative at first, then deliberate. Her head began bobbing without his brutal guidance—a slow, shaky rhythm born of suffocating necessity. Lakhan laughed, low and victorious. "There you go. Natural talent." He loosened his grip slightly, letting her take over. Her eyes squeezed shut, tears still leaking, but her jaw worked mechanically. Up, down. Up, down. The slick, wet sounds filled the room—a grotesque counterpoint to her silence. Her neck muscles strained, tendons standing out in sharp relief. She moved faster, almost frantically, as if speed might end the violation sooner. Her lips stretched obscenely around his girth, a pink ring of raw flesh.

Lakhan watched her with hooded eyes, one hand resting possessively on the back of her head. Not forcing now. Just owning. Her rhythm became desperate, uneven—a drowning woman gasping for air between thrusts. He groaned, fingers tightening briefly in her hair. "Good girl," he rasped. "Swallow it down. All of it." Her throat convulsed visibly with each descent, a reflexive battle against gagging. Saliva pooled beneath her chin, dripping onto her kurti. Fifteen minutes crawled by in the wet, rhythmic torture. Her shoulders trembled, but her head kept moving. A broken marionette.

Suddenly, Lakhan stiffened. A low, guttural sound tore from his throat—part growl, part groan. His thighs tensed, knuckles whitening where they gripped her hair. Dhristi sensed the shift instantly. The impending eruption. Panic flared in her tear-swollen eyes. She tried to pull back, her mouth straining to disengage, her hands pushing weakly against his hips. A muffled plea escaped around the shaft filling her throat: "*Mmmph—nngh!*"

But Lakhan was faster. His hand slammed down on the back of her skull, fingers twisting cruelly in her hair. "*No*," he snarled, voice thick with impending release. "*You swallow every drop.*" Her attempt to retreat became a violent shove forward as he yanked her deeper, grinding her nose into the coarse hair at his base. Her jaw screamed—bone and muscle stretched beyond endurance. She gagged, throat convulsing wildly, but he held her trapped, impaled. His hips snapped upward in short, brutal thrusts, fucking her mouth with frenzied precision. Spit flew, tears streamed, and Dhristi’s choked whimpers dissolved into wet, desperate gulps.

Suddenly, Lakhan stood—towering over her kneeling form—and locked his thighs around her head. His grip was iron, fingers digging into her scalp as he began pistoning his hips. Front. Back. Front. Back. Not gentle guidance, but raw, animalistic force. This wasn't a blowjob; it was domination. Her head jerked violently with each thrust, neck straining at unnatural angles. Her lips tore against his relentless rhythm, the friction burning raw. Every forward slam forced his cock deeper, scbanging her throat until her gag reflex became a constant, wet rattle. Her hands flew up, clawing at his thighs, nails drawing thin red lines through the fabric of his trousers. But he ignored her struggle, eyes glazed with lust, hips hammering faster. The wet *thud-thud-thud* of flesh on flesh echoed—a brutal metronome marking her degradation.

Her gasps were trapped beneath him—desperate, choked sounds muffled by the thick shaft filling her mouth. Each violent thrust stole her breath. Her lungs screamed for air, but Lakhan's relentless pace allowed no respite. Tears streamed freely now, mixing with spit and the metallic tang of blood from her bruised lips. Her throat convulsed wildly, muscles spasming against the invasion, triggering agonizing gagging fits that only tightened around his cock. Her body arched backward, spine bowing in protest, but Lakhan's thighs clamped tighter, forcing her face deeper into his groin. Her nostrils flared uselessly against the suffocating press of skin and musk. This was annihilation—her mouth reduced to a wet, ragged hole for his pleasure.

Suddenly, Lakhan froze. Not a gradual slowdown, but an abrupt, jarring halt. His hips locked mid-thrust, buried to the hilt inside her. Dhristi felt the shift—the unnatural stillness where brutal movement had been. His grip on her scalp tightened painfully, fingers digging into bone. A low, guttural groan ripped from his throat, primal and raw. His expression transformed: eyes wide and unseeing, jaw slack, every muscle in his face taut with the intensity of release. He wasn't thrusting anymore—he was *pulsing*. Deep inside her throat, his cock swelled impossibly thicker, throbbing against her shredded soft palate.

Then it came. A scalding jet of cum erupted directly down her throat—thick, viscous, and violently hot. There was no warning spurt, no teasing dribble. Just a sudden, pressurized flood that bypassed her tongue entirely, firing straight into her esophagus like liquid fire. Dhristi convulsed, eyes bulging as the first thick rope hit her gag reflex. But Lakhan’s iron grip on her skull held firm, grinding her face deeper onto him. "*Swallow!*" he snarled, voice ragged with climax. The second blast followed instantly, hotter, denser. It coated her throat, burning as it forced its way down. Her body bucked wildly, desperate to reject the invasion, but his thighs clamped around her ears like a vise. She couldn’t cough, couldn’t spit—could only choke on the torrent filling her. Saliva, tears, and thick semen overflowed, streaming from her flared nostrils in thick rivulets, dripping onto the leather couch beneath her knees.

Lakhan groaned, low and triumphant, as the third pulse surged—deeper, thicker. Dhristi’s throat spasmed violently, struggling to accommodate the sheer volume. Her face flushed crimson, veins standing out like blue lightning across her temples. Her lungs screamed for air, starved by the relentless flood blocking her windpipe. She gagged wetly, a strangled *glurk* escaping as her diaphragm contracted uselessly. Still, Lakhan held her impaled, hips jerking erratically as he emptied himself. The fourth rope hit, then the fifth—each thicker than the last. Her neck strained backward at a brutal angle, tendons taut as bowstrings. Her fingers scrabbled blindly against his thighs, nails tearing fabric and skin alike. Panic flared in her bloodshot eyes—pure, primal terror. She was drowning. Drowning in him.

Suddenly, Lakhan’s grip slackened. Not gentleness—recognition. He saw the terrifying shade of her skin—not pink, but deep, mottled purple—and the way her eyes rolled back, whites gleaming like porcelain. Her choked gurgles turned thin and wheezing. He yanked his cock free with a wet, tearing sound, leaving her throat gaping open. Dhristi collapsed forward, coughing violently. . She gasped, shuddering, gulping air like a landed fish. Her lips were swollen, split at one corner; blood mingled with the viscous mess dripping from her chin. She retched again, body convulsing, her forehead pressed against the couch as she struggled to breathe.

Lakhan stared down at her trembling form, his expression shifting from predatory triumph to something colder—assessment. He hadn't meant to break her this far. A broken toy offered no resistance, no delicious terror. He placed a heavy hand on the back of her head, fingers tangling in her damp hair. Not tender. Possessive. "Dhristi," he said, voice stripped of mockery, flat and demanding. "Look at me." Her shoulders shook, but she didn’t lift her head. He tightened his grip, pulling her up by her hair until her tear-streaked, blood-smeared face tilted toward him. "Are you alright?" The question was clinical, detached.

Dhristi’s swollen lips parted. She tried to form words—a plea, a curse, anything. But instead, her eyes widened in sudden, silent horror. Her skin flushed crimson, veins bulging like dark rivers across her temples and neck. Then, terrifyingly fast, the crimson deepened into a mottled, suffocating blue. Her hands flew to her throat, fingers clawing uselessly at her skin as if trying to tear open an invisible blockage. A strangled, wet gurgle escaped her—a sound like drowning from the inside.

Suddenly, she lurched sideways, scrambling off the couch on unsteady legs. Her bare feet slapped against the cold tile floor as she stumbled toward the kitchen, clutching her stomach. Lakhan watched, frozen for a heartbeat, his expression shifting from annoyance to dawning alarm. "Dhristi?" he called sharply, but she didn’t turn. Didn’t stop.

Her knees hit the kitchen linoleum hard beside the sink. A violent convulsion ripped through her—shoulders heaving, spine arching like a drawn bow. She tore her hands away from her mouth just as the first torrent erupted: thick ropes of pearly semen mixed with bile and undigested fragments of her meager lunch—rice grains and yellow dal splattering against the stainless steel basin. The acidic stench flooded the small space instantly—sour, cloying, unmistakable. Her body rejected him violently, each retching a shuddering expulsion that left her gasping, tears streaming anew as strands of saliva and vomit clung to her chin.

On the CCTV monitor—the wide-angle lens capturing the entire open-plan ground floor—Lakhan paused near the hallway entrance. He watched Dhristi's trembling back for a moment, her shoulders hunched over the sink, her green kurti riding up to expose the delicate curve of her spine. His expression remained impassive. No concern, no triumph. Just... observation. Like noting weather patterns. He adjusted his charcoal trousers, zipped them smoothly, then buttoned the fly with deliberate, unhurried precision. The metallic *click* echoed faintly through the audio feed. Then, without a backward glance, he turned toward the front door. His footsteps were measured, unhurried, retreating across the living room tiles. The heavy oak door opened silently, admitting a sliver of afternoon light from the porch, then clicked shut behind him. Gone. Leaving Dhristi alone with the wreckage of herself.

[tharkibudda]

reggie 12 forever




how to picture

[tharkibudda]

I have been a lurker on this site for a long time now and this is the first story that made me want to reply. You have built up a great story so far. Keep up the good work and don't be hasty with posting if you feel like your draft isn't up to the mark. I'd rather see this story maintain its quality than to get updates just for the sake of them. I hope to see you finish this sordid tale!!

Thank you for the encouragement. As I said I only get time rarely nowadays because of office tension and the holidays that come up during second half of the year. 

I will put a board when I abandon this story but the updates wont be frequent as before

[tharkibudda]

This is a gif, open it separately

[tharkibudda]

Chapter 23- Aftermath of April 21st

But my focus stayed locked on the kitchen sink. The sound—oh god, the sound. Not delicate retching, but something primal, guttural. Dhristi’s entire body convulsed, spine arching violently with each expulsion. It wasn’t just vomit. It was a purge. A desperate, physical rejection of Lakhan’s violation. Wet, tearing coughs ripped from her throat, mingled with choked sobs and the thick, splattering splat of liquid hitting stainless steel. Pearly ropes of semen swirled with bile and half-digested dal—yellow grains stark against the mess. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the sink’s edge, tendons straining like frayed cables. Every heave seemed to come from deep within her pelvis, a visceral attempt to expel not just the fluid, but the memory, the taste, the invasion. She gagged again, a raw, scbanging sound, and spat violently. A thin strand of saliva and semen clung to her chin, trembling.


Slowly, trembling subsided. She slumped against the counter, forehead pressed to the cool metal. Minutes crawled by. Her breathing remained ragged, shallow. Finally, she pushed herself upright, movements stiff, mechanical. She rinsed her face under the tap—cold water sluicing away tears and filth—then scrubbed her mouth with trembling fingers until her lips were raw. She avoided her reflection in the chrome faucet. Turning, she shuffled back to the living room, bare feet dragging on the tiles. The green kurti hung limp on her frame, stained dark at the neckline. She sank onto the couch—the same spot Lakhan had pinned her—but perched on the very edge, as if the leather itself burned her skin. Her posture was rigid, spine unnaturally straight, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She stared blankly at the opposite wall, eyes wide and unseeing. Cleaned outside. Hollow inside.

The vomit was gone. The mess rinsed away. Yet the violation remained—deeper than skin, deeper than muscle. It coiled inside her belly, a phantom weight. Lakhan’s semen. Not just fluid, but him. His essence, his dominance, his filth. She could still feel the scalding flood forcing its way down her throat, the thick, choking pressure. Her stomach clenched violently again, a dry heave that brought nothing but bile to sting the back of her tongue. She swallowed hard, fingers digging into her thighs. Sanskari. The word echoed in the hollow chamber of her mind. Pure. Devoted. A temple of virtue. Lakhan hadn’t just invaded her body; he’d shattered that temple. He’d turned her mouth into a gutter for his lust. The taste of him lingered coating her tongue. She wasn’t Manav’s wife anymore. She was  a receptacle. A classless Randi who would do anything for a few hundred rupees. The thought slammed into her chest, stealing her breath. Her hands flew to her mouth, trembling violently.

Dhristi lurched off the couch, stumbling toward the kitchen sink again. Her bare feet slapped cold tile, echoing in the suffocating silence. She gripped the stainless steel edge, knuckles white, spine arching as another wave of nausea crashed over her. She gagged, retching violently—shoulders heaving, throat straining—but nothing came. Only a thin string of saliva dripped from her lips, swaying like a broken thread. Her stomach was empty, purged. Yet the violation remained. It wasn't a physical matter she needed to expel. It was the memory. The sensation. . Lakhan’s triumphant groan, the pulsing heat inside her throat, the suffocating grip on her skull… They played behind her eyelids every time she blinked. She retched again, a desperate, hollow sound that scbangd her throat raw. Tears blurred her vision, hot and silent. She was empty. Clean outside. Poisoned within.


Suddenly, she pushed away from the sink. Her movements were jerky, uncoordinated, like a puppet with severed strings. She needed to be clean. Truly clean. Not just her skin. Her soul. Her hands trembled as she fumbled with the hem of her green kurti. The fabric felt heavy, contaminated. She lifted it, peering down at the neckline. A dark, damp patch stained the cotton where Lakhan’s release had overflowed, mixed with her tears and spit. The sight triggered another convulsive swallow. She could still smell him—musky, thick, clinging to the fibers. Her fingers traced the stain, then recoiled as if burned. It wasn’t just on the fabric. It was on her. Inside her. She ripped the kurti over her head, the motion frantic, almost violent. T. She stood there for a moment, clad only in her leggings and a simple cotton bra, shivering in the middle of the kitchen floor. Her eyes scanned her body—her collarbone, her throat, the swell of her breasts above the bra. Searching for any trace, any invisible mark left by him. Her skin felt sticky, crawling. She could almost feel phantom semen clinging to her, a greasy film she couldn’t wash off.

Her leggings came next.  She kicked the leggings aside, sending them skittering across the tile. Only the bra remained. She reached behind her back, fingers fumbling with the clasp.. The bra fell away, leaving her completely naked.

she walked stiffly toward the bathroom,. The air felt thick, suffocating, carrying the phantom scent of Lakhan’s sweat and musk. . Each step echoed the pounding in her skull. She needed the water. Scalding, purifying water. Something strong enough to scour the memory of his invasion from her flesh, to erase the feeling of his hands, his cock, his seed burning inside her throat. She pushed the bathroom door open and went in.

The camera feed flickered. Static danced across the screen for a heartbeat, then darkness swallowed the image. Inactivity.  Silence stretched. An hour bled away.

When the picture snapped back, Dhristi stood in the bathroom doorway. Not walking. Just standing. Naked. Water streamed down her skin in rivulets, tracing paths over her collarbones, her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. Her hair hung in dark, dripping ropes, plastered to her neck and shoulders. The air shimmered faintly with steam, but her skin… her skin was raw.Angry. Abraded. Her shoulders, her breasts, the curve of her belly, the tops of her thighs – everywhere the light touched, her flesh screamed. It looked flayed. Scoured. As if she’d attacked herself with gravel, not soap..

She moved like a sleepwalker. Her wet feet left dark prints on the tile that faded almost instantly. She climbed the stairs to the bedroom, each step slow and deliberate, water dripping onto the polished wood steps behind her. She didn't pause. Didn't glance at the rumpled sheets. She simply walked to the bed and fell forward. Face down. Arms limp at her sides. Legs slightly apart. . She didn't move to get under the covers. Didn't curl up. She just lay there. Sprawled. Water soaked into the expensive cotton duvet beneath her, spreading dark stains. Her skin glistened under the overhead light, the raw patches stark and livid against the pale bedding. Her hair fanned out, a wet, dark halo on the pillow. Her breathing was shallow, almost imperceptible.

Her eyes were open. Fixed on the ceiling. Not seeing the recessed lights or the smooth plaster. Seeing something else. Something far away and terrible. It was the same stare. The exact, vacant, thousand-yard stare she’d had that first night after Lakhan had finished with her. When she’d lain on the cold marble floor of the living room, her new blue sari ripped and tangled around her waist, her body trembling uncontrollably..

I kept watching. The CCTV feed was a silent, unforgiving window into her private hell. She hadn’t moved since collapsing onto the bed. Minutes bled into an hour. Water still darkened the duvet beneath her, the raw patches on her skin – shoulders, breasts, the curve of her hip – looked even more livid under the harsh overhead light. Her breathing was shallow, barely stirring the damp hair fanned across the pillow. She was utterly still.

And then, a tremor. A single, violent shiver that rippled through her naked body. Her hands, limp at her sides, clenched into white-knuckled fists. Her spine arched slightly off the mattress, muscles taut. Her eyes, fixed on the ceiling, blinked rapidly, then widened. A choked gasp escaped her lips, audible even through the silent feed. She rolled onto her side, curling in on herself, knees drawn up to her chest. A low, guttural moan vibrated in her throat. She pressed a fist against her mouth, stifling it.

Suddenly, she surged off the bed. Not the slow,  but a frantic, desperate scramble. Her raw skin scbangd against the damp duvet as she pushed herself upright. She stumbled, bare feet slipping slightly on the wet floor, but caught herself against the doorframe. Her head whipped toward the en-suite bathroom, eyes wide with panic. She lurched forward, staggering the few steps across the bedroom, one hand clutching her belly, the other pressed hard against her mouth. She vanished into the bathroom.

Then, a low, guttural retch shattered it. Not the wet splatter of vomit hitting porcelain, but a dry, scbanging convulsion. It echoed again—harsher this time—a raw tearing sound from deep in her diaphragm. A choked sob followed, muffled but unmistakable. The sound of her body trying desperately to expel what was no longer there. To purge the phantom violation lodged deep within her core.

She emerged minutes later, her skin still glistening, raw patches inflamed. She moved with the stiffness of exhaustion, dragging a towel from the rack. Her motions were mechanical, almost detached, as she ran the rough terrycloth over her limbs, her back, her abraded breasts. She didn’t linger. Didn’t look at her reflection in the steamed mirror. The towel fell to the floor, forgotten. From the wardrobe, she pulled out clothes without seeing them: a faded blue salwar kameez, . She dressed slowly, fingers trembling as she fastened the tiny buttons at her neck. The fabric settled over her scoured skin like a shroud.

The evening crawled past. Dhristi drifted through the house—a ghost in blue cotton. She wiped the kitchen sink where she’d retched, her movements listless, eyes avoiding the stainless steel basin. She picked up her discarded green kurti from the kitchen floor, balled it up, and shoved it deep into the laundry bin, as if burying evidence. Later, she stood at the living room window, staring out at the darkening street, her knuckles white where they gripped the sill. Suddenly, her breath hitched. A violent tremor ran through her. She clamped a hand over her mouth and bolted back to the kitchen sink. The dry heaves came first—shoulders hunching, spine bowing—a brutal, convulsive effort that produced nothing but a thin string of bile and saliva. She spat it out, gasping, tears welling. She rinsed her mouth under the tap, scrubbing her tongue with her fingers until it bled. The taste of him lingered. Phantom. Unshakeable.

I watched it all unfold on the CCTV timeline. My own footsteps echoed in my memory as I rewound to the moment I’d arrived home. There I was on the screen, bursting through the front door at 6:45 PM,

"Dhristi!" my recorded voice called out, too loud, too cheerful for the tomb-silent house. "Look what I got! Still hot!"

On the screen, I saw myself holding up the greasy paper bag like a trophy. Kachori chat – Her absolute weakness. . I watched my past self beam, oblivious, as Dhristi shuffled into the foyer from the kitchen. Her face was a mask of exhaustion, eyes red-rimmed and hollow, lips slightly swollen. She flinched almost imperceptibly as the pungent smell reached her.

"Manav," she murmured, her voice a raspy whisper, like gravel dragged over glass. She didn’t meet my eyes. "I… I’m not hungry. I’ve been…" She paused, swallowed hard, her throat working visibly. A flicker of raw panic crossed her face before she smoothed it into weary resignation. "Vomiting. Since afternoon. Must be something I ate." She wrapped her arms tightly around herself.

I frowned, stepping closer. The kachori bag suddenly felt greasy and foolish in my hand. "Vomiting? Why didn’t you call me?" My voice was laced with concern, but underneath, a thread of frustration snaked through me. *Always keeping things inside, Dhristi.* I scanned her face – the pallor beneath her dusky skin, the unnatural flush high on her cheekbones, the slight tremor in her clasped hands. She looked shattered. "You should lie down. Do you need medicine? Water?"

She flinched at my proximity, taking a half-step back. "No," she rasped, the word scbanging out. "Just... rest. I just need to lie down." Her eyes darted past me, towards the stairs, desperate for escape. T She swallowed again, a visible, painful bob of her throat, her knuckles white where she gripped her own elbows.

I watched my past self hesitate, the kachori bag lowering. "Okay," I said, my voice softer now, tinged with helplessness. "Go rest. I'll... I'll be here if you need anything." The frustration simmered beneath the concern. Why wouldn't she let me in? Why did she always build walls after the slightest discomfort? I didn't see the violation etched into her raw skin beneath the blue salwar, the phantom cock choking her throat, the taste of Lakhan’s seed she couldn’t scrub away. I saw only my wife, unwell and shutting me out.

On the screen, Dhristi nodded jerkily, a quick, bird-like motion. She didn’t look at me again. She turned and shuffled towards the stairs, her movements stiff, wooden, as if each step cost her immense effort. Her hand gripped the banister like it was the only thing keeping her upright. I watched her climb, a slow, painful ascent, disappearing into the gloom of the upper hallway. The camera in the bedroom caught her entering. She didn’t turn on the light. She walked straight to the bed, the one still damp from her earlier collapse, and sank onto the edge. For a long moment, she simply sat there, head bowed, shoulders slumped under the weight of invisible chains. Then, slowly, mechanically, she lowered herself onto her side, drawing her knees up towards her chest in a tight, protective curl. She pulled the edge of the duvet over her raw shoulders, hiding the angry abrasions. Her eyes stared blankly at the wall, wide and unseeing. The hollow echo of her dry heaves seemed to hang in the room.

I closed the recording Darkness swallowed the room, but the images burned behind my eyelids   That rancid, entitled asshole had used my wife’s mouth like a common gutter, a fucking spittoon for his filth. He’d violated her sanctity, her dignity, her very breath, and then watched her choke on his poison with clinical detachment. The image of his smug face, the way he’d zipped his trousers and walked out while she convulsed over the sink… it wasn’t just anger. It was a tectonic shift, a landslide of rage that cracked the foundations of who I thought I was.

[tharkibudda]

This is gif, open separately

[tharkibudda]

virtual quarter flip




roll dice online

[tharkibudda]

This is a gif

[tharkibudda]

Sorry for this Overload of gifs....Turns out tensor.art can produce a 3 second or even higher count videos based on ur input photo or generate one completely.
They give 50 credits which last for 2 or 3 generations per day.  if anyone is bored and has time, can download the photos and create one and post back.

[tharkibudda]

Dear author request you to please finish the story. The cruelty level extreme. Even drishti not opposing fully. No women will go down this level. Even husband will not talk  about this to his wife but enjoying the moment

Hello Aravind Kumar

Please dont try to make them real. Just like we all see serial killer movies but noone wants to see a real one. Almost 90% of the readers here dont want to cheat or get cheated. This is just a fantasy.Noone likes this level of depravity on anyone's wife. Please dont get attached to characters

[tharkibudda]

Has she become pregnant????????

The basic rule of these sex stories is that noone gets pregnant or gets STD unless the plot specifically covers it. I will provide a logical explanation soon on that

[tharkibudda]

[tharkibudda]

To all those who give advice on to concentrate on the story than on the images. Please note the images take nothing of my time. I just need to feed the prompt, click generate and then check again after sometime. I can do it from my mobile while running tasks in my work computer

Writing needs a frame of mind and concentration and alone time. I have lots of tensions due to office and therefore its tough for me to concentrate on weekdays. Thats why I ship them on weekends.

Also this story needs patience because it analyses the human issues faced by both Dhristi and Manav over the course of the cctv footage. It isnt tough to make her into a slut and just move on. I know my story is very cliche and ticks almost 80% of stereotypical Indian sex story but I want to take time on this.

If anyone feels its slow, please just ignore my postings for atleast a month or two and then just read at one go. I'm doing the same for some of the stories here where the authors are slow to update.

All of them are gifs,please open separately

[tharkibudda]

Hi by seeing last update she is forced to do that thing. May be she disgusted about herself. May be the way done by lakhan may broke her heart. This is my POV.  Don't feel bad bro

He was talking about the gifs I had shared....The animation made it look real and she is enjoying it.. These were from my old images and I need at proper places

[tharkibudda]

Wish you all a Happy Navratri, Dusshera, Durja Puja, Saraswati Puja wherever you are.

Have fun with your friends and family 






free image hosting

[tharkibudda]

On a side note, how true are those wild tales about the garba nights in Gujarat??

They usually come across as fiercely conservative group in our country?

[tharkibudda]

Chapter 23 : April 22nd

My knuckles were bone-white where they gripped the edge of the desk. The wood creaked under the pressure. I hadn’t moved for hours, trapped in that digital hellscape. My throat felt raw, as if I’d been the one screaming, the one gagging. I tasted bile. With a shuddering breath, I finally dragged my gaze to the clock glowing in the gloom. 11:07 PM. Sunday night. The entire weekend—vanished. Forty-eight hours obliterated, consumed by the meticulous dissection of how Lakhan Chand systematically dismantled my wife. Not just fucked her. owned  her. Body and soul. He’d turned our home, our sanctuary, into his personal hunting ground, and Dhristi… Dhristi had been reduced to trembling prey. The CCTV files were a ledger of conquest, each timestamp a fresh wound on me.

I knew Lakhan wasn’t at the office tonight. He’d be somewhere expensive, smug, sipping single malt, utterly untouchable. But tomorrow? Tomorrow demanded my presence at Chand Tiles. The quarterly reports wouldn’t reconcile themselves. Suppliers needed paying. The mundane machinery of commerce ground on, indifferent to the raw carnage playing out in my skull. There were still so many videos to watch. Earlier assaults. Degradations I hadn’t yet witnessed. The digital archive felt bottomless, a pit of vipers waiting to strike. But my eyes burned like sandpaper. My limbs felt leaden, disconnected. If I didn’t sleep, I’d shatter before I could even step onto the battlefield tomorrow. With a grunt that scbangd my throat, I forced myself up. The chair legs shrieked against the floor. I didn’t look back at the dark monitors. Not once.

The master bedroom door felt heavier than stone. Pushing it open, the silence hit me like a physical blow. Dhristi’s absence wasn’t just empty space; it was a sucking void. Her scent lingered faintly beneath the sharp tang of bleach she must have used on the sheets – jasmine and something warm, uniquely hers. Now it was tainted, overlaid with the phantom stench of Lakhan’s musk, his sweat, the cloying sweetness of his release. I stood on the threshold, breathing it in, letting the poison settle. The bed was neatly made, the duvet smooth. Too smooth. Like a freshly dug grave. I pictured her lying there after the bathroom, raw and broken, water soaking into the fabric. My fingers traced the cool cotton. He did this. He broke her here, in this room that was supposed to be ours.

Sleep was a jagged knife. Every time I drifted, the CCTV footage flickered behind my eyelids. Lakhan’s thighs clamping Dhristi’s head. The violent thrusts. The choked gurgles. Her swollen lips, slick with his cum and her own blood. I’d jerk awake, drenched in cold sweat, the sheets strangling my legs. The digital clock on the nightstand bled red numbers into the dark: 3:17 AM. 4:42 AM. 5:58 AM. Each hour a mockery. When the alarm finally shrieked at 6:30 AM, it felt like a reprieve. Anything was better than that looping hell.

The shower was scalding. I stood under the spray until my skin burned crimson, trying to scour the images away. The water couldn’t touch the filth. Dressing felt like armoring for war  I avoided the mirror. The hollows under my eyes were bruises. The man staring back was a stranger, vibrating with a cold, focused rage. The click of the front door locking echoed like a gunshot.

The drive to Chand Tiles was a blur of honking rickshaws . I navigated on autopilot, my knuckles white on the steering wheel. Lakhan’s mocking voice played on a loop: *"Your wife swallows like a professional, Manav. You should thank me for training her."* The memory of Dhristi’s bulging eyes, her purpling face, her throat working desperately around his cock—it was etched into my retinas. I gripped the handle bar tighter, the leather groaning. Justice wasn’t enough anymore. I wanted annihilation.

Parking felt like stepping onto enemy territory. The Chand Tiles building loomed Inside, the air hummed with an unfamiliar lightness. Receptionists giggled , Sales managers were talking, shoulders relaxed, voices buoyant. The oppressive cloud of Lakhan Chand’s presence had lifted. His absence was a collective exhale.

I walked through the corridors, footsteps echoing. My own desk waited, untouched since Friday. The quarterly reports sat stacked neatly, untouched. I slid into my chair, the leather groaning.  The list of files were stacked in front of– supplier invoices, shipment delays, quality control reports. I opened a spreadsheet, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Numbers blurred. Columns swam before my eyes. The sterile glow of the monitor couldn’t compete with the lurid replay behind my eyelids: Lakhan’s thighs locking Dhristi’s head, her choking gurgles, the obscene overflow from her nostrils.

By 11 AM, the numbers had dissolved completely. The spreadsheet became a grid of meaningless cells. My pen tapped a frantic rhythm against the desk. *What else did he do?* The question was a drill bit boring into my skull. The CCTV archive wasn’t just footage; it was a Pandora’s box of horrors. I’d seen April 21st. But what about April 30th? May 5th ? what happened then?* The possibilities were endless, each more degrading than the last. Had he taken her on the prayer rug? Bent her over the dining table? Made her taste herself after he’d finished? The sheer volume of his violations, the meticulous documentation of her destruction… it screamed of a predator relishing his trophies. My stomach churned. The phantom taste of bile flooded my mouth – *her* bile, mixed with Lakhan’s seed. I shoved back from the desk, the chair legs screeching. I needed air. Needed to *move*. Needed to know. Now.

I strode towards Javed Khan’s office. He was Lakhan Chand’s second-in-command, the calm, competent counterpoint to the owner’s volcanic temper. Javed’s door was open. He sat behind his desk, meticulously reviewing a shipment manifest.He looked up as I filled the doorway, his expression shifting from mild surprise to concern.

"Manav?" Javed leaned back, his gaze sharpening as it took in my appearance – the hollow eyes, the tension radiating off me like heat waves. "You look like hell walked over you. What’s wrong?"

I forced a tight smile, leaning against the doorframe. "Gas leak," I rasped, the lie tasting like ash. "Friday night. At the house. Had to kick the damn doors in to vent the place." I gestured vaguely, picturing Dhristi’s broken form collapsing onto the bed, not phantom fumes. "Owner’s sending carpenters today. Needs me there to oversee the repairs, point out the damage." The fabrication felt flimsy, desperate. "I need to take some files home. Quarterly supplier reconciliations, the Ahmedabad shipment …Can I work remotely this afternoon?."

Javed’s eyes narrowed slightly, scanning my face – He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t need to. With a slow, deliberate nod, he pushed the heavy ledger and the Ahmedabad shipping folder across the polished wood towards me. "Take them," he said, his voice low, devoid of judgment, heavy with a weary resignation that mirrored my own. "Just… get it done, Manav." The permission was implicit, a lifeline thrown across a chasm of unspeakable truths.

I snatched the files, the thick paper rough against my trembling fingers. The drive home was a blur of screeching tires and near-misses,. My knuckles were white as Lakhan’s phantom laughter echoing in the roar of the engine. *Professional swallower.* The words were barbed wire wrapped around my lungs. I parked the scooter urgently outside. The house loomed, a mausoleum filled with ghosts.

Inside, the silence pressed down like a physical weight. Dhristi’s absence screamed from every corner – . No sound. Just the lingering ozone sharpness of bleach and the phantom musk of Lakhan’s violation. I bypassed the kitchen, the living room. Straight to the study. The door clicked shut behind me, sealing me in with the ghosts.

The computer screen flickered to life, casting a cold, blue pallor over the desk. My fingers, slick with sweat, fumbled over the mouse. The CCTV interface loaded, its sterile grid layout a mockery of the horrors it contained. Friday’s date glared back – April 21st. The blowjob. The choking. The vomit. The raw skin. I scrolled down. Saturday, April 22nd. Blank. Sunday, April 23rd. Blank. Lakhan hadn’t come. Two days of blessed, terrifying emptiness. But the archive was meticulous. It wouldn’t skip. I clicked on April 22nd.

The file opened. Grainy grey footage filled the screen. Saturday morning. The timestamp glowed: 7:47 AM. The kitchen. Sunlight streamed through the window, dust motes dancing in the beams. It felt jarringly normal, obscene in its banality. Dhristi stood by the sink, her back to the camera. She wore a simple yellow cotton salwar kameez, the colour dulled by the monochrome feed. Her shoulders were slumped, defeated. She held a chipped mug, staring blankly out the window. The stillness was absolute. No movement. Just the heavy weight of aftermath pressing down on her frame. She hadn’t slept. You could feel it in the rigid line of her spine, the unnatural stillness. The ghost of Lakhan’s hands seemed to hover just inches from her skin.

Suddenly, I burst into the frame –  oblivious. Energetic. Alive. I wore faded jeans and a wrinkled blue t-shirt I moved with a lightness Dhristi couldn’t possibly fathom. I crossed to the fridge, humming tunelessly, pulling out milk. "Morning!" My voice, piped through the tinny speakers, sounded painfully bright. "Sleep okay?" Dhristi didn’t turn. Her head dipped lower, a tiny, almost imperceptible flinch tightening her shoulders. She lifted the mug to her lips, took a tiny sip. "Fine," she murmured, the word thick, muffled. Her knuckles were white around the mug handle. She was drowning in the silence of what happened yesterday, while I floated on the surface of ignorance.

I fast-forwarded. The footage jumped. Dhristi was sitting rigidly on the living room sofa now, midday sun harsh through the window. She stared blankly at the wall opposite, hands folded tightly in her lap. Her posture was unnaturally still, like a statue carved from grief. The timestamp read 1:15 PM. I asked her to watch a movie. Supposed to be mind-blowing. Matinee show at 3:30?" On screen, Dhristi’s head turned slowly. Her eyes were hollow pits. She looked at me, then through me. A tremor ran through her folded hands. She swallowed, a visible, painful movement. "Movie?" Her voice was a dry leaf scbanging stone. "I… I have laundry, Manav. And… the kitchen floor…" Her excuses were frail, transparent shields against the world. Against me.

I pushed. Leaned into the frame, grinning. Oblivious. Insistent. "Come on! Laundry can wait. It’s that new movie everyone’s raving about.  We deserve a break." My hand landed on her shoulder. On screen, Dhristi flinched violently, jerking away as if burned. Her breath hitched, a sharp, audible gasp. She recovered instantly, forcing a brittle smile onto her face. "Okay," she whispered, the word brittle. "Okay. Just… let me change." She rose stiffly, avoiding my touch, and shuffled out of frame towards the stairs. Her movements were those of someone walking to the gallows.

The camera shut off due to inactivity after we left. The screen dissolved into grey static, a digital void mirroring the emptiness Dhristi carried inside. Four hours of blessed, terrifying silence. When the feed flickered back to life at 7:18 PM, the scene was jarring.

We stumbled through the front door, the frame crowded with our return. Me, grinning broadly, holding a half-eaten tub of caramel popcorn. And Dhristi. Dhristi was *smiling*. Not the brittle, fractured thing she’d forced earlier. This was different. Tentative, yes, the corners of her lips trembling slightly, but genuine. Light touched her eyes again, chasing away some of the hollow shadows. Her shoulders weren’t hunched defensively; they were relaxed, almost loose. The darkness Lakhan Chand  had poured into her seemed pushed back, just an inch, by the flickering magic of a darkened cinema hall and a story not her own. She looked… lighter. Fragile, still, like spun glass, but present. Alive.

Dinner was a revelation. Dhristi moved through the kitchen with a semblance of her old rhythm. Not the frantic energy of before, but a quiet competence. She heated leftover dal and rotis, the familiar clatter of pots and pans filling the silence comfortably, not oppressively. She served us both, her movements fluid, her gaze occasionally meeting mine. There was a softness there, a flicker of the connection Lakhan had tried to strangle. We ate at the small dining table Conversation wasn’t forced. We talked about the movie – the improbable plot twists, the hero’s ridiculous stunts, the villain’s over-the-top sneer. Dhristi even laughed once, a soft, breathy sound that startled her as much as it did me. Her eyes widened briefly, then crinkled at the corners. It was the sound of a forgotten melody. She didn’t flinch when my hand brushed hers reaching for the salt. She ate. Properly. Not pushing food around her plate, but taking deliberate bites, savoring the simple comfort of home-cooked warmth. The raw, haunted creature from the CCTV footage felt worlds away, replaced, for this precious moment, by my wife.

Later, settled on the worn velvet couch, the familiar glow of the television filled the living room. Our favorite serial played , its melodramatic dialogue a comforting anchor. Dhristi sat beside me, tucked into the corner, knees drawn up. She wasn't pressed against me, not yet, but the space between us felt charged with possibility, not dread. Her eyes were fixed on the screen, genuinely absorbed. When the scheming mother-in-law unveiled her latest plot, Dhristi gasped softly, leaning forward slightly. "She wouldn't!" she murmured, disbelief tinged with familiar indignation. It was a tiny spark, but it was hers. Her own voice, her own reaction, unprompted by terror or obligation. The tension in her shoulders eased further, melting into the cushions. She reached for a cushion, hugging it loosely against her stomach – a shield, perhaps, but a soft one. For the first time in days, the house didn't feel like a crime scene. It felt like a refuge, fragile but fiercely held.

As the final credits rolled over a dramatic freeze-frame, Dhristi sighed, a sound of weary contentment. "Bed?" she asked softly, turning her head towards me. Her eyes, still reflecting the TV's dying light, held a quiet exhaustion but no panic. No hunted look. Just the tiredness of a long day ending. I nodded, reaching for the remote. The screen blinked into darkness, plunging the room into near-complete blackness. Only the faint glow from the streetlamp outside filtered through the curtains, painting long, distorted shadows on the wall. Dhristi stood slowly, stretching her arms above her head. The movement was fluid, unguarded. She didn't flinch when her elbow accidentally brushed mine. Instead, she offered a small, sleepy smile, barely visible in the gloom. "Come on," she whispered, her voice a low hum in the sudden quiet. She turned towards the stairs, her silhouette graceful against the dim backdrop. She didn't hurry. She walked steadily, her bare feet making soft, rhythmic sounds on the wooden steps. The climb wasn't a retreat; it was a journey towards rest.

I followed, a step behind, watching her shape ascend. The air felt different – lighter, less charged with the ozone tang of trauma. In the bedroom doorway, she paused, silhouetted against the deeper darkness within. She didn't flick the switch. Instead, she moved to the window, pulling the heavy curtains shut with a soft *whoosh*, sealing out even the faint streetlight. Utter, consuming blackness swallowed the room. It was a velvet blanket, thick and silent. There was only the sound of our breathing, the soft rustle of sheets. I slid under the cool cotton, my body finding the familiar dip in the mattress beside hers. She shifted slightly, turning onto her side, facing away from me. Her back was a warm curve inches from my chest. The silence stretched, peaceful, heavy with the promise of unbroken sleep. I didn't reach for her. The fragile peace felt too precious, too newly formed, to risk shattering with an assumption. The exhaustion, physical and mental, was a lead weight pulling me down. My eyes, gritty and burning from hours of screen-staring and suppressed rage, fluttered shut. Sleep crashed over me like a wave, immediate and absolute. Oblivion.

On the grainy, grey CCTV feed playing on my study monitor, I watched myself sleep. The timestamp glowed: 9:38 PM. The camera, mounted high in the corner, captured the bed in stark monochrome. My form was a dark lump under the duvet, face buried in the pillow, utterly still. Dhristi lay beside me, a smaller shape, also seemingly asleep. The room was a tableau of stillness, the only movement the slow crawl of the digital clock. Then, a subtle shift. Dhristi’s arm, tucked under the covers, moved. Slowly, deliberately. It slid across the minimal space between us. The duvet shifted, bunching slightly. Her hand, small and pale in the monochrome feed, disappeared beneath the edge of my shorts. I watched my sleeping form on screen. No reaction. Deep in oblivious slumber. Her fingers moved with a hesitant, exploratory tenderness. Tracing the length of my flaccid cock through the thin cotton of my underwear. A feather-light touch, almost reverent. Her thumb brushed the tip, a slow, circling caress. It was a gesture startling in its intimacy, its vulnerability. On the screen, my body remained inert, lost in dreams. But Dhristi’s profile, barely visible, seemed focused, intent. Her breathing, picked up faintly by the room’s sensitive mic, hitched slightly. This was her first time. Not just initiating sex, but touching me like *this* – taking control of the desire, reaching for connection on her own terms, in the profound safety of darkness and my unconsciousness. A fragile, desperate attempt to reclaim her body, her chastity, her right to touch and be touched without violation. To find her marriage again, through the only language that felt untainted in that moment.

[tharkibudda]

it stopped midway, are you going to upload anything else today bro?

I'm stopping at her initiating sex for the first time....

[tharkibudda]

why adding STD into the story, it makes the story complicated and non-relevant. Pregnancy can come but i think it is too early for this, however i think it would be interesting if the husband buys her wife pills and ask her to take regularly, knowing that even he is not fucking her, she is having regular sex!

Not sure how the discussion became too logical 

To anyone who is virgin, please note that sex stories are a fantasy and doesn't work on real life.. that's why I wrote how pregnancy and STD doesn't appear in them.. 

Also only experienced men know how tough it is to make a woman actually orgasam and an average session lasts between to 5 to 10 min and maybe 15 min at a stretch...

[tharkibudda]

Chapter 24 - April 23 and 24 - The Weekend

Suddenly, my sleeping body reacted. A sharp intake of breath. A subtle tensing of the thigh muscles beneath the sheet. On screen, my cock, under Dhristi’s persistent, gentle ministrations, began to stir. Slowly at first, then with undeniable urgency, thickening, lengthening, tenting the fabric of my shorts. Dhristi’s hand paused, then resumed, her touch growing bolder, more confident, wrapping around the burgeoning hardness. Her thumb rubbed firm circles over the head. I watched myself jerk awake. Not startled, but pulled violently from sleep by a wave of pure, electric lust. My eyes snapped open in the grainy footage, blinking rapidly, disoriented by the sudden, intense sensation. I turned my head on the pillow, searching the darkness. Dhristi’s face was inches away, her eyes wide pools reflecting the faint light from the window. They held a complex mix – fear, yes, a flicker of the hunted animal Lakhan had made her, but underneath, blazing brighter, was a raw, desperate *need*. A need for connection, for affirmation, for proof she could still ignite this fire without coercion. "Dhristi?" My voice on the recording was thick with sleep and instant, overwhelming arousal. A question, but also a groan of pure sensation.


She didn’t answer with words. Her hand tightened around my cock, a silent, urgent plea. On screen, I reacted instinctively. A low groan ripped from my throat. My arm shot out, wrapping around her waist, pulling her fiercely against me. The duvet tangled around our legs as I rolled partially onto my side, closing the gap. My other hand plunged into the darkness, fingers tangling in her hair, pulling her face towards mine. Our lips crashed together. Not gentle. Hungry. Desperate. A collision of pent-up terror and aching longing. My tongue pushed past her lips, seeking hers, tasting the faint salt of her skin, the lingering ghost of toothpaste. Dhristi met the kiss with equal fervor, her body melting against mine, her free hand clutching at my shoulder. The kiss was deep, messy, oxygen-starved – a drowning man gulping air. It was the kiss of someone reclaiming stolen ground, inch by frantic inch.

My hand slid down, impatient. It pushed beneath the hem of her soft cotton kameez, finding warm skin. My fingers traced the dip of her waist, the subtle curve of her ribcage, climbing higher. Her breath hitched against my mouth. Then my palm found the swell of her breast, still confined beneath her simple cotton bra. I cupped it, my thumb brushing roughly over the nipple straining against the fabric. Dhristi gasped, arching her back, pressing herself harder into my touch. Her hand on my cock tightened its rhythm, stroking faster, urging me on. The kiss broke, both of us panting, foreheads pressed together in the suffocating dark. My fingers fumbled behind her back, clumsy with haste and lust, seeking the clasp of her bra. The grainy CCTV showed the frantic movement beneath the duvet, the desperate grappling. A sharp *click* echoed faintly through the room’s mic. The clasp gave way.



The bra loosened. My hand slid back around, pushing the thin straps off her shoulders. The fabric fell away. Dhristi’s breasts spilled free into my waiting hands – soft, heavy, warm. The grainy CCTV showed only shadows, but I remembered their weight, the smoothness. My thumbs circled her nipples, already hard pebbles against my calloused skin. She whimpered, a high, needy sound. Then I lowered my head.

My mouth closed over her right breast, hot and wet. Not rough. Not demanding. Gentle. Reverent. My tongue traced slow, deliberate circles around the stiff peak before drawing it deep. Suckling softly, rhythmically. Like tasting something precious. Dhristi’s breath caught. A shudder ran through her. Her fingers tangled in my hair, pressing my face tighter against her flesh. Not pushing away. Holding me there.

"Kitne pyar se kar rahe ho ji," she gasped. The words trembled, thick with tears unshed. *How lovingly you're doing this, ji.* Her voice wasn't honeyed seduction. It cracked. Raw. Awe-struck. Devastated.

My mouth froze on her breast. Warmth turned to ice. Lakhan hadn't been gentle. Lakhan had clamped, bitten, used her flesh as stress relief. Her choked cry wasn't pleasure – it was revelation. A scalpel slicing open the scar tissue. This wasn't just sex. This was Dhristi measuring *me* against the monster who'd broken her. Testing if tenderness could exist where brutality had reigned. Her fingers still clutched my hair wasn't passion. It was desperation. Anchor against drowning. Proof the ground wasn't poison.


Her words echoed in the dark. *Kitne pyar se...* They hung between us like incense smoke. Fragile. Sacred. My tongue softened its circling. Became a slow, deliberate tracing of the areola. A silent vow etched onto her skin. My thumb brushed her other nipple – feather-light, barely there. Dhristi gasped. Not pain. Shock. Shock at the absence of teeth. Shock at sensation untainted by violation. Her body trembled beneath me. Not fear now. Release. A dam cracking. Tears welled in her wide, unblinking eyes, catching the faint streetlight bleeding around the curtains. They traced hot paths down her temples, disappearing into her hairline. Silent. Profound.

I suddently realised that this was the first time we were having sex ever since Lakhan violated her. The CCTV footage froze on my study screen: Dhristi's hand vanishing beneath my shorts, my sleeping body stirring. But my real eyes weren't on the monitor anymore. They were squeezed shut in the present, drowning in the visceral memory of that night – Dhristi’s choked gasp, *Kitne pyar se*, the tears hot against my lips. Every touch had been a minefield. Every sigh a potential landmine. My hands on her breasts, my mouth on her nipple – gentle, deliberate acts that felt like defusing bombs wired to her shattered psyche. The fear wasn't just hers; it was mine. A terror that tenderness might trigger a flashback, that my touch, however loving, might be mistaken for *his* violation. The air crackled with unspoken trauma. Her trembling wasn't just arousal; it was the aftershock. My reverence wasn't just desire; it was a desperate prayer against reopening wounds Lakhan had carved.

My fingers trembled as they hooked into the waistband of her soft cotton salwar. The fabric felt impossibly thin, fragile. Dhristi lay beneath me, her breath shallow and quick, eyes wide and fixed on mine in the suffocating dark. There was no resistance, only that profound stillness – the stillness of someone bracing for impact or awaiting revelation. I pulled the salwar down, the elastic yielding easily, sliding over her hips, down her thighs. The simple cotton panties beneath followed, a whisper against her skin. She lifted her hips slightly, a silent, trusting cooperation that made my throat tighten. Naked from the waist down now, the pale expanse of her belly and thighs glowed faintly in the gloom. I kicked off my own shorts, the movement frantic, desperate. Fabric pooled around my ankles. We were completely naked now. Skin to skin. The heat radiating from her was intense, primal. My cock, hard and aching, throbbed against her inner thigh. I shifted my hips, my hand guiding myself, adjusting the swollen head of my penis right at the slick, trembling entrance of her pussy. The contact was electric, intimate, terrifying. Her body tensed instantly beneath me, a sharp intake of breath hissing through her teeth. Not rejection. Anticipation. Terror. Hope. All knotted together in that single flinch.

I pushed forward slowly, deliberately, my entire focus narrowed to that point of connection. My cockhead pressed against her soft folds, encountering a surprising, yielding warmth. There was no barrier, no tightness fighting me. Just slick, molten heat welcoming me inward. My hips moved instinctively, sinking deeper. Inch by inch, my shaft slid into her with astonishing ease. Four inches vanished entirely into her welcoming wetness before my hips met the softness of her thighs. She barely gasped – a tiny, choked sound, more surprise than pain. Her eyes, wide and luminous in the dark, blinked rapidly. Her body remained taut beneath me, but not resisting. Accepting. Waiting. The sheer lack of friction, the effortless glide… it stunned me. My voice, thick with disbelief and sudden, overwhelming lust, rasped out in the silence. "Wow," I breathed, the word trembling. "Look how wet you are, Dhristi. It just… slipped right in." My hips rocked instinctively, shallowly, feeling the incredible slickness hugging my shaft. "Soaked… like you've been waiting… aching for this…" The truth of it pulsed through me, a revelation written in her body's liquid surrender.

Her reaction was instantaneous. Violent. Her hands flew up, small fists pressing hard against my chest, pushing me back. Not far – just enough to break the intimate seal. Her breath came in ragged, panicked gasps. "Please!" Her voice was a raw scbang, thick with tears she hadn't shed yet. "Please, don't talk like that ji!" The words tumbled out, desperate. "Don't say… those things. It makes me…" She choked, unable to finish. Her eyes, wide pools of terror and shame now visible even in the gloom, searched my face frantically. "It makes me sound like… like a dirty woman." The last words were a broken whisper, laden with self-loathing. Her gaze darted away, fixing on the dark ceiling, her body trembling violently beneath mine. The raw vulnerability was a physical blow. Lakhan's ghost filled the room, his crude words echoing: *Look at you, soaking wet for me, slut. Begging for it.* My clumsy, lust-drunk observation had ripped open the wound, superimposing his violation over my touch. Her frantic denial wasn't rejection of *me*; it was a desperate defense against the label Lakhan had branded onto her skin – *dirty, used, aching slut*. Her body's involuntary readiness wasn't desire; it was trauma's cruel trick, a physiological betrayal she couldn't control.



The implications slammed into me like a truck. My stomach clenched, ice water replacing the fire of lust. *Oh God. Oh fuck.* She thought I was comparing her to *him*. That her wetness wasn't a sign of *her* desire for *me*, but proof of Lakhan's lingering contamination. Proof she was somehow… ruined. Broken. Unclean. The sheer horror of misunderstanding froze me for a second. Then, instinct took over. A low, soft chuckle rumbled in my chest. Not mocking. Warm. Gentle. Almost… playful? I leaned down, brushing my lips against her damp temple. "Not like that, dear," I murmured, my voice thick with sudden tenderness, deliberately lightening the suffocating tension. "You're always my precious wife." The words were simple, deliberate. *Precious*. Not dirty. Not used. *Wife*. Belonging, safety, sanctity. I felt her rigid body beneath me flinch at the words, then… hesitate. The frantic pushing against my chest eased slightly. A tiny, almost imperceptible sigh escaped her lips – a release of the breath she'd been holding, a tremor of relief shaking through her frame. She hadn't heard suspicion. She'd heard… reassurance. Affirmation. A lifeline thrown back to her.

Slowly, deliberately, I began to move. Not the frantic, desperate plunge I'd instinctively craved moments before. Instead, shallow, deliberate thrusts. An inch in, an inch out. Gliding effortlessly through the slick heat that welcomed me. My focus wasn't on my own building pleasure, but on *her*. On the feel of her body beneath mine. On the subtle shifts in her breathing. On the tension coiling and uncoiling in her muscles. My hands slid down, palms pressing flat against her hips, anchoring her, grounding her. My thumbs traced slow circles on the soft skin of her lower belly, just above the dark triangle of curls. A silent counterpoint to the gentle rhythm inside her. "Just feel me," I breathed against her ear, my voice barely a whisper. "Just feel this, Dhristi. Nothing else." It was a command, but soft, wrapped in velvet. An invitation to exist only in this moment, in this safe, dark space we were carving together. Her eyes, wide and searching in the gloom, flickered shut. Her lashes were damp. Not with tears of terror now, but… something else. Concentration? Surrender? She nodded faintly, a tiny movement against the pillow.

Her response came, hesitant at first. Soft whimpers, low in her throat. Not the cries Lakhan had likely demanded, but something fragile, genuine. They grew louder, punctuating my shallow thrusts. "Haan… ji…" she gasped. *Yes… ji…* Then, a beat later, her voice strained, pushing against the intimacy I was trying to build: "Aur… aur zor se, ji." *Harder… harder, ji.* Her hips lifted slightly, meeting my next thrust with more force than I was giving. The movement felt… performative. Strained. Like she was reciting a script learned under duress. Her eyes squeezed shut tighter, her brow furrowed not in pleasure, but in effort. "Ji… aur… aur tez…" *Ji… faster… faster…* The words tumbled out, breathless, urgent, but the desperation in them wasn't for *her* climax. It was a frantic attempt to *give* me mine. To fulfill what she thought was expected. To prove she wasn't broken, wasn't failing *me*. Beneath the encouraging moans, her body remained taut, guarded. The effortless wetness was still there, a physiological betrayal, but the deep, melting surrender I remembered from before Lakhan was absent. Replaced by a heartbreaking determination to please, born from fear, not desire.

Just when I was going strong, finding a rhythm fueled by her desperate pleas and the incredible slick heat gripping me, I froze. Utterly still. Buried deep inside her warmth. The CCTV footage, grainy and silent except for the timestamp ticking forward, captured it perfectly: my sudden rigidity. Dhristi’s reaction was immediate. Her eyes snapped open in the gloom, wide with shock. A sharp, involuntary gasp escaped her lips – a sound of pure surprise, almost irritation. "*Huh?*" It was choked off instantly, swallowed down. Her hand flew to her mouth, fingers pressing hard against her lips, silencing herself. Panic flared in her wide eyes, visible even in the low-res monochrome. She’d reacted instinctively, revealing frustration at the sudden halt, the interruption of the momentum she was desperately trying to maintain for *my* sake. She’d shown impatience… and instantly recoiled, terrified I’d interpret it as rejection or failure. Her body tensed beneath mine like a trapped bird.

Just when I was going well, finding a rhythm fueled by her desperate pleas and the incredible slick heat gripping me, I froze. Utterly still. Buried deep inside her warmth. The CCTV footage, grainy and silent except for the timestamp ticking forward, captured it perfectly: my sudden rigidity. Dhristi’s reaction was immediate. Her eyes snapped open in the gloom, wide with shock. A sharp, involuntary gasp escaped her lips – a sound of pure surprise, almost irritation. "*Huh?*" It was choked off instantly, swallowed down. Her hand flew to her mouth, fingers pressing hard against her lips, silencing herself. Panic flared in her wide eyes, visible even in the low-res monochrome. She’d reacted instinctively, revealing frustration at the sudden halt, the interruption of the momentum she was desperately trying to maintain for *my* sake. She’d shown impatience… and instantly recoiled, terrified I’d interpret it as rejection or failure. Her body tensed beneath mine like a trapped bird.

I remembered before Lakhan absent replaced heartbreaking determination please born fear not desire. Manav freezes abruptly mid-thrust buried deep inside Dhristi. CCTV captures sudden rigidity. Dhristi reacts instantly: eyes snap open wide shock sharp involuntary gasp escapes lips "*Huh?*" sound pure surprise/irritation choked instantly swallowed. Hand flies mouth fingers press hard lips silencing herself panic flares eyes visible low-res monochrome. Instinctive reaction reveals frustration sudden halt interruption momentum desperately maintaining *Manav’s* sake. Shows impatience instantly recoils terrified Manav interprets rejection/failure. Body tenses beneath Manav trapped bird.

Then the dam broke. The stillness shattered as violently as glass. A guttural groan tore from my throat, primal and raw, shaking the bedframe. My hips slammed forward, burying myself to the hilt inside her molten core. Not once, but in three savage, involuntary jerks. Dhristi cried out – a sharp, startled sound swallowed by the darkness. Her nails dug into my shoulders as my body seized, convulsing against hers. Deep within her, my cock pulsed like a frantic heart, throbbing rhythmically as hot jets of semen erupted. The grainy footage showed only the violent shuddering of my back, the clench of my jaw, the way Dhristi’s head snapped back against the pillow, her mouth forming a silent ‘O’ of shock. Warmth flooded her, thick and insistent, marking her inner walls with my release. Each spurt was a punctuation mark to the frantic, halted rhythm – a sudden, overwhelming surrender to the pleasure I’d momentarily held back. The tension dissolved into pure, shuddering release. My forehead dropped to her collarbone, breath ragged and hot against her skin. Beneath me, Dhristi lay perfectly still, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her eyes wide and unblinking in the dark, absorbing the aftershocks vibrating through my frame into hers.

I rolled off her instantly. The sudden withdrawal felt jarring, cold air hitting sweat-slicked skin where our bodies had fused. I landed heavily on my back beside her, staring at the ceiling, gasping. The frantic energy drained away, leaving a hollow satisfaction… and a nagging, practical thought. My voice, thick with spent lust and lingering breathlessness, cut through the heavy silence. "*Is it a safe day?*" The question landed like a stone tossed into a still pond. Dhristi didn't turn her head. Her reply was a single, curt syllable, bitten off sharp as flint: "*Haan.*" Yes. A satisfied grin stretched across my face in the gloom. Relief washed over me – the practical concern addressed. No consequences. Just the clean simplicity of release. I sighed, contentment settling over me like a warm blanket. Mission accomplished. Wife pleasured (or so I thought), seed safely deposited where it couldn't take root. Blissful ignorance cocooned me.



Beside me, Dhristi lay utterly still. The silence wasn't peaceful; it was charged, brittle. In the grainy monochrome of the CCTV footage, her stillness was unnerving. Her eyes, wide open, stared fixedly at the ceiling. Her jaw was clenched tight, the muscles visibly bunched beneath the skin. Her lips, swollen from our kiss, were pressed into a thin, bloodless line. She didn't move. Didn't sigh. Didn't relax into the afterglow. Her hands lay stiffly at her sides, fingers curled inward, knuckles white. The disappointment was a physical presence radiating from her rigid form – a stark, silent counterpoint to my sprawled satisfaction. It wasn't just the abrupt end; it was the *comparison*. Lakhan, the brute, took his time. He savored her degradation, drew out her humiliation. He made her choke, made her gag, made her endure until *he* was sated. And here I was, her husband, the man who loved her, finishing in a frantic, shuddering burst that left her untouched, unfulfilled, stranded on the precipice she'd been desperately trying to climb back towards. The sheer *speed* of it felt like another violation, a dismissal. Her body, slick and ready, had been a vessel, used and discarded the moment *my* need was met. The bitter taste of ashes filled her mouth.

Dhristi looked at the ceiling. Not *saw* it. Looked *through* it. The ornate plasterwork, faintly visible in the streetlight bleeding through the heavy curtains, might as well have been smoke. Her body felt like borrowed clay – cold where his sweat had cooled on her skin, numb where his weight had pressed, hollow where he’d been buried inside her moments before. The wetness between her thighs was sticky now, cooling rapidly. His seed. Her husband’s seed. It should have felt like warmth, like belonging. Instead, it felt like… leakage. Like something unclean pooling inside her, indistinguishable in its physical sensation from the filth Lakhan had forced into her throat, onto her skin. The frantic, shuddering climax that had ripped through Manav – the groans, the violent thrusts, the sudden stillness – hadn't ignited anything within her. It had simply… stopped. Leaving her stranded on a barren plateau, the fragile tendrils of tentative pleasure he'd coaxed evaporating instantly. The ceiling offered no answers, only the same blank indifference she felt spreading through her veins, chilling her from the inside out. Beside her, I was sleeping, breathing deepened, evening out into the soft, rhythmic sighs of untroubled sleep. Blissful oblivion. I had gotten what I needed. I  asked his practical question – *safe day?* – and received satisfactory answer. Duty done. Pleasure taken. Sleep claimed me effortlessly. The contrast was a physical ache. Lakhan’s violation had been a screaming horror, a violation that scbangd her soul raw. This… this felt like a quieter, deeper wound that my sex cannot undo the things.

I banged his hands on the computer desk with frustration. The CCTV footage mocked me mercilessly. Dhristi's hesitant fingers tracing my sleeping form. Her bravery in initiating intimacy for the first time in her life. And my response? Pathetic. Weak. A frantic, shuddering mess that lasted barely minutes. "*Kitna bekar tha main*," I muttered, disgust thick in my throat. I'd spent months tiptoeing around her village-bred shyness, treating her like fragile porcelain, never pushing, never demanding. And look where it got me: buried deep inside her for mere seconds before exploding like a teenage boy. Lakhan, that bastard, violated her brutally, but at least he *fucked* her like a man possessed. I? I couldn't even last long enough to touch her properly, let alone make her feel anything but hollow disappointment. My caution wasn't respect; it was cowardice. My "niceness" was a pathetic shield hiding my own inadequacy. The screen froze on Dhristi's rigid, silent form beside my sleeping, satisfied self – a monument to my failure as a husband, as a man.

I slammed the laptop shut. The sharp crack echoed in the study's silence. My hands trembled. Not from grief, but pure, incandescent rage. Rage at Lakhan's shadow poisoning everything. Rage at Dhristi's flinches, her terror disguised as duty. But most of all, rage at *myself*. That tiny, flaccid cock on screen. That humiliatingly quick finish. Treating her like a timid village girl, never daring to awaken the woman beneath, and when she finally reached out? I crumbled. Failed her utterly. The Ahmedabad shipment files lay stacked neatly beside the laptop – Javed Khan expecting them by evening. Work. Order. Control. Things I understood. Things I could dominate. Unlike my own body. Unlike my wife's shattered spirit. I grabbed the top file, fingers digging into the cardboard. Focus. Shipments. Quantities. Logistics. Anything to drown out the image of Dhristi’s clenched jaw, her eyes staring blankly at the ceiling while I slept the sleep of the oblivious, the satisfied, the utterly useless.

The numbers blurred. Columns of tile quantities swam before my eyes. My pen scratched furiously across the paper, calculations flowing faster than thought. Ahmedabad needed 15,000 square feet of Kota Grey by Thursday? Done. Transport costs optimized? Done. Supplier confirmation drafted? Sent. It was a frenzy of efficiency, a desperate channeling of volcanic fury into neat rows of figures and crisp action points. Two hours. Barely two hours, and the entire complex shipment was planned, costed, confirmed, and filed. A record. My mind, usually meticulous, felt like a scalpel wielded by a surgeon in a blind rage – precise, devastatingly effective, but fueled by a terrifying inner storm. The final email pinged off to Javed Khan. Silence descended again. Heavy. Oppressive. The rage hadn't dissipated; it had merely coiled tighter, waiting. Waiting for the inevitable pull back to the abyss. Back to April 24th. Back to the morning after.

My fingers moved before my conscious mind could protest. The CCTV application flickered open. The date selector mocked me. April 24th. Sunday. The day after. The footage loaded, grainy and silent. The timestamp glowed: 7:15 AM. The kitchen camera angle. Dhristi stood at the counter, her back mostly to the lens, slicing vegetables with rhythmic, deliberate strokes. Her posture was stiff, shoulders slightly hunched. The salwar kameez she wore seemed to hang looser than usual.

Then, I appeared. Entering frame from the hallway, stretching theatrically, a wide, satisfied grin plastered across my sleep-softened face. Me on screen radiated a boyish, post-coital glow.. I approached Dhristi from behind.

My arms slid around her waist, pulling her stiff back flush against my chest. My chin nestled into the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply. "*Mmm... good morning, my beautiful wife,*" I murmured, voice thick with affection and lingering contentment. My lips pressed a soft, lingering kiss just below her ear – a familiar gesture, one I’d performed countless times after nights of intimacy in our earlier marriage. Back then, Dhristi would melt, turn in my arms, offer a shy, genuine smile, perhaps whisper something soft.

This Dhristi froze. The rhythmic chopping ceased abruptly. Her shoulders tensed beneath my embrace like carved stone. She didn't turn. Didn't lean back. Didn't sigh. For a heartbeat, she remained utterly rigid, trapped. Then, slowly, mechanically, she tilted her head just enough to offer her cheek. A clear, silent signal. I kissed it – dry, perfunctory. Her skin felt cool, distant. "*Breakfast is almost ready, ji,*" she stated flatly, her voice devoid of warmth or inflection. Her eyes remained fixed on the half-sliced cucumber, her knuckles white around the knife handle. The enthusiasm was a brittle shell, a performance etched with exhaustion and something deeper – a profound disconnection. She endured the embrace, tolerated the kiss, but every line of her body screamed a desperate plea: *Let me go.*

My grin faltered slightly on screen. Confusion flickered across my features – a puppy denied its expected pat. "*You look tired, dear. Did you sleep well?*" I asked, my voice still buoyant, oblivious. My hands slid lower, settling possessively on her hips, squeezing gently. A familiar gesture, meant to convey affection, claiming. Dhristi flinched, a tiny, involuntary jerk. "*Haan ji. Bas… thoda sa,*" she murmured, barely audible. *Yes ji. Just… a little.* Her gaze stayed locked on the counter, refusing to meet mine in the reflection of the polished steel backsplash. She shifted her weight subtly, trying to create space where my body pressed against hers. The knife resumed its chopping, but the rhythm was faster, sharper – the frantic beat of trapped wings against glass. She was building a wall, brick by silent brick, right there in our sunny kitchen.

I watched myself on the CCTV replaying the next few months with horrifying clarity. Each encounter followed the same brutal script: Dhristi’s hesitant initiation, fueled by a desperate need to reclaim *something* stolen by Lakhan; my clumsy, earnest attempts that invariably ended too fast, leaving her stranded; my immediate, satisfied collapse into sleep; and then the mornings. Oh, the mornings. They were a gallery of Dhristi’s silent despair. The way she’d pull the sheets tighter around her neck when I tried to spoon her awake. The monosyllabic answers over breakfast – "*Haan ji*," "*Nahi ji*," "*Thik hai ji*." The way she’d find urgent chores whenever I lingered near her, her movements quick and efficient, designed to avoid touch, avoid conversation. Her eyes, once soft pools reflecting the morning light, became flat, guarded lakes reflecting nothing but weary endurance. She moved through the house like a ghost haunting her own life, the vibrant woman I’d glimpsed initiating intimacy buried beneath layers of disappointment and resignation. My obliviousness on screen was grotesque. I’d chalk it up to her village shyness, stress, or tiredness, never connecting the dots between my bedroom inadequacy and her daytime withdrawal. I’d try harder, be sweeter, buy her gifts – anything but face the humiliating truth reflected in her hollow eyes.

The cursor hovered over April 24th, 9:30 PM. My finger clicked. The bedroom footage loaded. Dhristi lay on her side, facing away, her back a rigid line beneath the thin cotton saree. Her breathing was slow, deliberate, the rhythm of someone pretending sleep. On screen, I rolled towards her, my arm dbanging heavily over her waist. She stiffened instantly, a tiny intake of breath audible even through the recording’s low hum. I nuzzled the nape of her neck, my lips finding the delicate skin behind her ear. My kiss was soft, lingering – an invitation, a plea. "*Dhristi…*" I murmured, my voice thick with sleep and desire. My hand slid lower, palm flattening possessively over her hip bone. She didn’t move. Didn’t relax. Didn’t turn. Her stillness was absolute, a statue carved from ice. Only the faintest tremor in her shoulders betrayed the tension coiling within. She was holding her breath. Waiting. Enduring. My lips trailed kisses down her neck, my hand drifting lower still, fingers brushing the hem of her nightgown, seeking the warmth beneath. Her knuckles, visible where her hand clutched the edge of the pillow, turned bone-white.

My fingers tangled in the delicate silk of her pallu, yanking it roughly away from her chest. The fabric slithered off her shoulder, pooling uselessly on the mattress. Her gasp was sharp, cut off as my other hand went to the row of tiny buttons down the front of her blouse. Fingers fumbled, clumsy with haste. One button popped, then another, pinging softly against the wall. I didn't pause. I ripped the blouse open, parting the fabric like tearing paper, exposing the soft swell of her breasts straining against the thin cotton of her bra. The fear in her eyes deepened, morphing into something raw and primal. "*Ji—?*" she choked out, her voice trembling.

I didn't answer. My mouth descended, hot and hungry, covering the lace-covered peak of her left breast through the bra. A muffled groan escaped me – pure, desperate need. The heat, the softness beneath the thin barrier, the faint salt-taste of her skin through the fabric. It was overwhelming. My tongue pressed hard, circling the stiffening nipple beneath, sucking fiercely through the cotton. Her back arched involuntarily, a choked gasp escaping her lips. My hand slid down her trembling belly, fingers hooking into the waistband of her petticoat and panties. I pulled. Down, down, dragging the layers over her hips in one urgent motion. The silk rasped against her skin. She lay exposed from waist to knees, the cool air hitting her damp skin, making her flinch violently. Her thighs snapped together instinctively, a futile shield.

Looking at the CCTV footage, all I could think was *why*? Why was I so frantic? So urgent? Her breasts... gods, her breasts were perfection. Soft, full, tipped with dusky nipples that hardened instantly under the slightest attention. They deserved worship. Slow, reverent worship. Not my greedy, clumsy mouth sucking through cotton like a starving man at a feast he didn't deserve. I should have traced every curve with my tongue. Learned the map of her shivers. Made her gasp my name until the neighbors complained. Instead? I tore fabric. Rushed.

My shorts came off in a frantic scramble on screen. My cock – small, thick, already leaking – bobbed against my thigh. No grace. No tenderness. Just raw, desperate need. I pushed Dhristi’s thighs apart. Not gently. A rough shove. She gasped, a sharp, startled sound choked back instantly. Her eyes squeezed shut. I positioned myself clumsily, my hips jerking forward. The tip nudged her slick entrance.. My body’s betrayal to her mind. With a grunt, I shoved myself inside. All the way. One brutal thrust. She cried out – a tiny, bitten-off sound of surprise, not pleasure. "*aanhha... ji...*" she whispered, strained. "aahhhn... ji...* Her voice thick with unshed tears.



My hips pistoned. Short, frantic strokes. Deep, shallow, erratic. No rhythm. Just frantic friction. My hands gripped her hips, fingers digging into soft flesh, holding her pinned beneath me. Her face was turned away, buried in the pillow. Her shoulders trembled. Her breathing came in ragged gasps that sounded suspiciously like suppressed sobs. I didn’t notice. Lost in my own clumsy urgency, my own pathetic need. "*Dhristi… Dhristi…*" I panted, my voice thick, slurred with lust. My thrusts grew wilder, sloppier. My balls tightened. Pressure built low in my spine. "*Ah! yeah!*" A guttural groan ripped from my throat. My hips slammed forward one last time, burying myself to the hilt. My cock pulsed violently inside her, hot jets of semen flooding her depths in three frantic spurts. "*Haaah… haaa…*" I collapsed onto her, crushing her beneath my weight, my breath ragged gasps against her damp neck. "*Oh god…*" I mumbled, utterly spent.

The screen showed my eyes fluttering shut almost instantly. My body went slack, heavy. Within seconds, my breathing deepened into the slow, rhythmic pattern of deep sleep. Oblivion. Complete. Utterly satisfied. Mission accomplished. Seed deposited. Pleasure taken. Sleep claimed.

Beneath me, Dhristi lay pinned. My dead weight crushed her hips, my arm flung possessively across her ribs. She didn't move. Didn't push me off. Just stared blankly at the wall beside the bed. Her chest hitched once, twice. A tiny, choked sound escaped her lips – a whimper swallowed by the pillow. Then, silent tears began to track down her temples, soaking into the cotton. Her shoulders trembled faintly, a tremor suppressed with iron control. Her fingers curled into the sheet, knuckles white. The CCTV captured the slow, deliberate blink of her wet eyelashes, the utter stillness of her body beneath mine, the silent weeping that lasted long after my snores began to rasp softly in the quiet room. A monument to emptiness beside satisfied oblivion.

I watched the playback now, months later, with a hollow ache gnawing at my ribs. Just last Saturday, I'd jerked off furiously to this my sec video – the frantic thrusts, the groan of release, Dhristi’s choked gasp. Back then, it fueled a twisted fantasy of *my* prowess, *my* claim. Now? The screen mocked me. My technique was non-existent: clumsy fumbling, tearing fabric, frantic rutting like a starved animal. No finesse, no artistry. Just desperation. My cock? Small, thin, vanishing inside her slickness – a pathetic stub compared to Lakhan’s brutal girth. Stamina? two minutes. Maybe four. A frantic sprint ending in a whimpering collapse onto her unfulfilled body. I hadn't satisfied her. Not once. Not in months. Not *ever*. She hadn't even known what satisfaction *was* until Lakhan ripped it from her core with teeth and force, leaving her shuddering through multiple unwanted peaks. My "love-making" was just another chore she endured, another failure etched in her silent tears.