[tharkibudda]

free photo uploading

[tharkibudda]

[tharkibudda]

Chapter 25- April 25th and 26th

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.


Slowly, I woke up from the chair. My neck cracked, stiff from hours slumped before the monitor. The grainy CCTV footage still played silently: Dhristi pinned beneath my sleeping form, tears drying on her temples. My entire life felt like a lie. Every "ji" from her lips, every hesitant touch, every morning smile – all meticulously crafted performances. A wife pretending to enjoy me in bed. Was it always like this? From our shy village wedding night? Or only after Lakhan showed her what a real man could force from her body? Worse – did she compare us? My frantic two-minute humping to Lakhan’s hour-long degradations? Did she lie there counting ceiling cracks while I snored, aching for the brutal fullness only he provided? The thought curdled my stomach. Would it ever come back to normalcy? Could I ever touch her without seeing Lakhan’s shadow flinch in her eyes? Or was I doomed to be the inadequate husband, forever failing to measure up to the monster who broke her?

I didn't know what to do. The Ahmedabad shipment files lay stacked neatly beside the Desktop. Javed Khan expected them by evening. Work. Order. Control. Things I understood. Things I could dominate. Unlike Dhristi’s shattered spirit. I checked the time on the CCTV playback screen: 1:30 PM. Sunlight glared outside, harsh and accusatory. The office. Yes. Drive to the office. Give Javed the files. Breathe air not thick with Dhristi’s silent disappointment and the phantom scent of Lakhan’s sweat. Maybe… maybe normalcy waited there. Amongst invoices and tile samples. Maybe I could pretend, for a few hours, that I wasn’t the man who made his wife cry silently after sex. I grabbed the files, my fingers digging into the cardboard edge. Purpose. Direction. Anything to escape the suffocating replay of my inadequacy on screen.

The Chand Tiles office hummed with an unfamiliar lightness. Javed Khan sat behind his desk, scrolling through his phone, a slight smile playing on his lips. He looked… relaxed. Unburdened. The usual tension that coiled around Lakhan’s presence was absent. Outside his glass door, the junior staff chatted freely, laughter bubbling over the clatter of keyboards. Someone had brought samosas;  It felt… open. Like minds unfurling petals without the looming shadow of a predator. Javed looked up as I entered, his smile widening. "Manav ! Early bird catches the worm?" His voice was warm, lacking its usual guarded edge.

I slid the Ahmedabad shipment files onto his desk. "All done, sir. Quantities confirmed, transport routes optimized, supplier acknowledgments filed. Ready for dispatch Thursday." My voice sounded flat to my own ears, hollowed out by the grainy images still replaying behind my eyelids: Dhristi’s silent tears soaking into the pillowcase.

Javed Khan’s eyes scanned the top sheet. Not quickly—slowly, appreciatively. His finger traced a column of numbers. "Kota Grey… fifteen thousand square feet…" He looked up, genuine warmth crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Manav, this is meticulous. . Cleaner. Faster." He leaned back, the leather chair sighing. "Take the rest of the day. Go home. Relax. You’ve earned it."

The words hit like cold water. *Home*. Where Dhristi moved like a ghost through rooms thick with unsaid things. Where the CCTV recordings waited, whispering Lakhan’s name with every grainy frame. My knuckles whitened on the file edge. "Actually, sir…" The lie slipped out smooth as oiled tile. "The carpenters.  They didn’t show up today. Promised yesterday. Useless fellows." I forced a chuckle, brittle. "Whole house echoing. Hammering would’ve started by now. Nothing." I gestured vaguely toward the door. "Might as well… take the Indore project files? Work from home. Quieter there now, anyway. Get ahead."

Javed Khan’s smile softened into understanding sympathy. "Ah, these *mistris*! Always promises, no punctuality. Go, go! Handle your home. Family first." He waved a dismissive hand. "Take the Indore files. Finish when you can. No hurry."

Relief flooded me—cold, sharp, temporary. Escape. Not home *to* Dhristi, just... away. Away from Javed’s warm approval that felt like sandpaper on raw skin. Away from the tile samples whispering comparisons I couldn’t bear. I grabbed the Indore project folder, its cardboard edge digging into my palm like an anchor.

My scooter coughed to life outside Chand Tiles, the familiar rumble vibrating up my thighs. Ahmedabad’s midday heat pressed down, thick and dusty, smelling of diesel fumes and frying oil from the street vendors near the crossroads. I gunned the engine harder than necessary, weaving through the sluggish traffic near Sardar Patel Marg. Auto-rickshaws belched smoke, cyclists wobbled precariously, and the sheer *normalcy* of it all felt like a punch. Everyone moving, oblivious. Didn’t they see the CCTV footage replaying behind my eyes? Dhristi’s rigid shoulders beneath my sleeping weight? The silent tears?

"Kya chahiye, saab?" The waiter’s voice cut through the clatter of steel plates and the drone of ceiling fans. *Shreeji Dhaba*.  I slid into a corner booth, . "Ek plate aloo paratha," I ordered, voice rough. Then, on impulse: "Aur ek plate plain paratha pack kardo. Dinner ke liye.". The gesture felt hollow, pointless. Like stacking tiles while the house crumbled.

I ate mechanically. The paratha tasted like cardboard, the spiced potatoes like damp earth. Around me, men laughed, argued politics, slurped dal—oblivious. My phone lay face-down beside the thali, its screen dark but screaming. Those recordings. Hundreds of hours. Dhristi brushing her hair. Dhristi folding laundry. Dhristi staring blankly at the TV while my sleeping form filled half the frame. Dhristi getting fucked . Each file a tombstone marking a moment where I failed to see her drowning. The CCTV app mocked me—a neat calendar grid, dates blinking like accusing eyes. *April 24th. April 25th. May 3rd.* Each click a descent into hell. I gulped lukewarm water, washing down the bitterness. Paid cash and left.

The scooter ride home blurred. Heat. Horns. The oppressive weight of the Indore project file digging into my thigh. At home, silence greeted me—thick, watchful. The fridge hummed its lonely song as I shoved the takeaway parcel inside. The foil crinkled loudly in the stillness. . The computer monitor glowed accusingly from the study. My fingers trembled slightly as I tapped the trackpad, waking the beast. The CCTV interface loaded—a stark grid of camera feeds. Living room: empty. Kitchen: empty. Bedroom: empty. My eyes flicked to the date selector. *April 25th. Monday.* The file size was minuscule—.. Yet… my index finger hovered. *Click.*

The timestamp glowed **12:47 PM**. Living Room Camera. Dhristi sat rigidly on the edge of the faded floral sofa. Pink kurti too bright against the muted upholstery, black leggings clinging tautly. Her posture screamed tension—spine unnaturally straight, elbows locked at her sides, palms pressed flat onto her knees. Not reading. Not sewing. Not gazing out the window. Just… waiting. Utterly still. Only her foot betrayed her—a tiny, frantic tapping against the worn rug beneath the coffee table. *Tap-tap-tap-tap.* Like a trapped bird’s heartbeat against glass. Her gaze remained fixed on the front door, unblinking. The stillness wasn't peace. It was coiled wire.

I fast-forwarded. The digital clock on-screen jumped: **12:51 PM**. **12:58 PM**. **1:03 PM**. Her stillness grew more brittle. The tapping foot accelerated—a frantic drumroll against the silence. Once, she lifted a hand, fingers brushing the hollow of her throat where Lakhan’s teeth had left purple blooms just days before. A tremor ran through her. Her lips moved silently. Praying? Cursing? Begging? Then, abruptly, she stood. Paced three sharp steps towards the door. Stopped. Turned back. Sank onto the sofa again, knees pressed tight together. Her hands twisted in her lap now, fingers knotting and unknotting the thin cotton of her kurti. Her chest rose and fell visibly beneath the pink fabric—short, shallow breaths. The desperation radiated off the grainy image like heat shimmer. This wasn't just waiting. It was *hunger*. Raw, feral, terrifying. After my frantic, pathetic burst inside her Saturday night—leaving her cold and stranded—she wasn't flinching from touch. She was *starving* for his. Craving the brutal fullness, the degrading stretch, the unwanted peaks Lakhan ripped from her while I slept obliviously. She needed him to *undo* my failure. To fill the hollow I’d carved deeper.

**1:15 PM**. The tapping foot stopped. Froze mid-air. Her head snapped towards the door. Had she heard something? A scooter engine? Footsteps? Hope flared in her posture—a sudden, electric tension. She leaned forward, eyes wide, straining towards the peephole. Five seconds. Ten. Nothing. The tension bled out, leaving her slumped. Deflated. Her shoulders rounded inward. She pressed the heels of her palms against her closed eyes, hard. A shuddering breath escaped her lips—audible even through the muted CCTV audio. When she lowered her hands, her eyes were red-rimmed. Not crying. Bleak. Empty. The kind of emptiness that comes after hope dies. Her gaze drifted away from the door, landing blankly on the dusty vase atop the TV cabinet. Resignation settled over her like dust. *Nahi aaya.* He wasn't coming. Not today. The anticipation curdled into something colder, heavier. Disgust? At herself? At him? At the aching emptiness between her legs? Her hand drifted down, fingers brushing the waistband of her leggings. A fleeting touch. Then snatched away as if burned. Shame? Or just… futility?

I slammed the laptop shut. The plastic groaned. Fury—hot, sour, useless—burned through my ribs. I understood that hunger. That desperate, humiliating need gnawing at her core. After Saturday night… after my frantic, pathetic burst inside her… leaving her cold and stranded… *of course* she’d crave Lakhan’s brutal fullness. To feel *something*, anything, even pain, even degradation, to fill the hollow *I’d* carved deeper. To be *used* properly. To be stretched, filled, overwhelmed—not pitied and discarded after two clumsy minutes. I understood. **And I couldn’t do a fucking thing about it.** My cock—small, thin, vanishing slickness—was a pathetic stub next to Lakhan’s remembered girth. My stamina? Two frantic minutes. My technique? Non-existent. Clumsy fumbling. Tearing fabric. Frantic rutting like a starved animal. No finesse. No artistry. Just desperation. How could I compete? How could I *satisfy* that ravenous need? The fury curdled into self-loathing, thick and choking. *Kitna bekar tha main.* How useless I was. My hands shook. Not from anger now. From helplessness.

My gaze snagged on the date grid. April 26th. Wednesday. The file size was bigger. Much bigger. Fat with data. Lakhan definitely came the next day. He’d answered her silent, desperate prayer. Answered it with a lot of thrusting i guess. My finger hovered—a trembling moth drawn to the flame. The cursor blinked over the date. *Click.*

**1:02 PM**. Living Room Camera. Yellow cotton saree, the pallu dbangd neatly over her shoulder. Green blouse bright against the dull sofa fabric. Dhristi sat perched on the edge, spine rigid as a steel rod. No tapping foot this time. Just absolute stillness. Hands folded primly in her lap. Eyes fixed on the door. Waiting. Not with yesterday’s frantic hunger, but with a chilling certainty. She knew. She *knew* he was coming. This wasn't hope. It was grim appointment. Her jaw was clenched tight enough to crack walnuts. A tiny muscle pulsed beneath her left eye. *Thump-thump-thump.* Like a trapped heartbeat against bone. She didn't blink. Didn't fidget. Just sat there, radiating a brittle tension that made the screen feel cold. Monumental. Waiting for the avalanche.

**1:14 PM**. The doorbell rang. A sharp, electronic *brrrring!* Dhristi flinched violently. A full-body jerk, like she'd been jabbed with a cattle prod. Her eyes snapped wide—pure, unguarded terror flashing across her face. Gone in a nanosecond, replaced by that flat, guarded lake. She stood slowly, deliberately smoothing her saree pleats. Her hands trembled faintly. She took three measured steps to the door. Paused. Inhaled sharply through her nose. Then unlocked it. Pulled it open.

Lakhan stood framed in the doorway. Sunlight glared behind him, turning him into a hulking silhouette. He didn't look at her. Didn't greet her. Didn't acknowledge her existence. Just pushed past her shoulder like she was a curtain.  He strode straight to the sofa, the worn springs groaning under his weight as he dropped onto it. He sprawled, legs wide apart, arms flung over the backrest. A king claiming his throne. His gaze fixed straight ahead on the blank television screen.

Dhristi remained frozen by the door, hand still clutching the knob. Her knuckles were bone-white. The silence thickened, curdled. Only the ticking clock and the ragged hitch of her breathing. Lakhan shifted, leather belt creaking. His thick fingers went to his fly. A sharp *zzzzip* ripped through the quiet. He didn't glance down. Didn't speak. Just shoved his dark grey office trousers and underwear down his thick thighs in one rough motion. The fabric pooled around his ankles like discarded snakeskin.

There it was. Thick, heavy, already half-hard against the coarse hair of his thigh. Eight inches of blunt, brutal power. Veins pulsed beneath the flushed skin. It lay there, exposed, a silent command carved in flesh against the faded floral sofa. Not triumphant. Not vulgar. Just... *there*. An undeniable fact. A tool waiting to be used. He rested his thick forearms on his knees, staring straight ahead at the blank TV screen as if contemplating stock prices. Utter indifference radiating from every pore. The sheer *normality* of it was obscene.

Dhristi stared. Not with yesterday’s desperate hunger, but with a kind of horrified fascination. Her gaze locked onto it—wide, unblinking. Like seeing a cobra uncoil on your kitchen floor. Familiar, yet utterly alien every single time. Her fingers twitched at her sides. Yesterday, she’d gripped *mine*. Hesitant, clumsy fingers wrapping around my small, thin cock—barely four inches, vanishing slickness—trying to coax life into it like pumping a stubborn bicycle tire. A futile, awkward dance. Her touch had been... careful. Tentative. As if handling fragile, cheap glassware that might shatter. The memory flickered across her face—a tightening around her eyes, a minuscule flinch at the corner of her lips. The sheer *difference* wasn't just size. It was... presence. Mine felt like a nervous apology tucked away. His was a declaration of war. Heavy. Demanding. Utterly indifferent to her terror. A monument to pure, functional force.

Lakhan didn’t move. Didn’t glance down. Didn’t smirk. Just kept staring ahead at the blank television screen, thick fingers drumming a lazy rhythm on his knee. But his lips—oh, his lips betrayed him. A slow, serpentine curl crept upwards. Not triumphant. Cunning. Calculating. Like a chess player spotting the king’s exposed flank. He’d seen it. The shift. Yesterday, she’d recoiled—flinched violently when he’d shoved past her, shoulders hunched inward like a shield. Today? Her eyes weren’t darting away in panic. They were glued. Fixed. Drawn downwards against her will. The raw, primal magnetism of it—eight thick inches of brutal, veined flesh resting casually against his thigh. Her breath hitched, audible even through the CCTV’s tinny speaker. A tiny, involuntary gasp. Not disgust. Recognition. The horror was still there—tightening her jaw, blanching her knuckles—but beneath it... a flicker. A reluctant, terrifying acknowledgment. His submission tactics weren't just breaking her body. They were rewiring her hunger. Turning revulsion into a twisted kind of reverence. He knew. He fucking knew.

To his—and my—utter disbelief, Dhristi moved. Not stiffly. Not hesitantly. Fluidly. Like a sleepwalker drawn to a cliff’s edge. One foot slid forward. Then the other. Silent steps on the cool marble floor. Her gaze never left it—that thick, heavy cock resting against faded sofa fabric. Her lips parted slightly. A soft exhale escaped. Not a whimper. Almost... anticipation? Her knees hit the floor with a soft thud. No hesitation. No trembling. Just smooth descent. She knelt between his spread thighs, the yellow pallu of her saree pooling around her like fallen petals. Her small hands—the same hands that trembled slicing vegetables—reached out. Not jerky. Deliberate. Fingers brushed the hot, heavy shaft. A feather-light touch. Testing. Then wrapped around the base. Firm. Possessive. Like claiming a weapon she’d been forced to wield before. Her head dipped. Dark hair falling forward, obscuring her face. Then—slowly, purposefully—she leaned in. Her lips parted wider. Not a tentative peck. Not a clumsy fumble like with mine. She opened her mouth wide—stretching obscenely—and engulfed the swollen, purplish head in one smooth, practiced motion. Deep. Taking him halfway down her throat instantly. A wet, muffled *schlurp* echoed through the speakers.

Lakhan’s head snapped down. Genuine shock froze his features. His thick fingers stopped drumming mid-air. Eyes widened—real, raw disbelief. Mouth slightly agape. This wasn’t the script. Last Tuesday—April 19th—the footage was brutal. Him grabbing her hair, yanking her head down while she gagged, choked, vomited thin bile onto his trousers before he shoved her face back, snarling "Saali randi, kha!" until she sobbed through the humiliation. Now? No command. No threat. Just... submission. Deep-throating him like a seasoned whore servicing a favored client. Her throat worked visibly, swallowing around him, hollowing her cheeks with fierce suction. A low, involuntary groan rumbled from Lakhan’s chest—surprise morphing into dark pleasure. His hand lifted, hovering above her head, fingers twitching. Not to force. Almost... to touch? To confirm this was real? He caught himself. The serpentine smirk returned, wider, crueler. Triumphant. He leaned back against the sofa, spreading his thighs wider. "Aah... haan... bas aise hi chus, saali," he grunted, voice thick with satisfaction. "Teri aukaat yaad aa gayi akhir?" *That’s it... suck just like that, bitch. Remembered your place finally?* His hips gave a shallow thrust, fucking her mouth. She didn’t pull back. Didn’t gag. Just took it, eyes squeezed shut, tears leaking from the corners—not from pain, but from the sheer, degrading *ease* of it. The surrender was absolute. Terrifying.

My own breath caught—sharp, ragged. Not fury now. Horror. Ice water dumped down my spine. This wasn’t just bang anymore. It was... conversion. Rewiring. Her body betraying her mind, craving the degradation that shattered her. The Dhristi who flinched from my hesitant touch was kneeling willingly, servicing the monster who broke her. The screen blurred. I blinked furiously, knuckles pressing hard against my lips to stifle the whimper threatening to escape. How good does she look sucking him? The vile whisper slithered through my mind, venomous and unwanted. Self-loathing curdled my stomach. I was watching my wife become Lakhan’s perfect, broken cocksleeve—and *I* had paved the way with my pathetic inadequacy.

Suddenly, Lakhan’s thick hand slammed down—not on her head, but gripping her shoulder. A sharp jerk upward. "Bas," he commanded, voice rough, gravelly. *Enough.* Dhristi froze instantly, lips still stretched obscenely around his slick, glistening shaft. Her eyes snapped open, wide and startled—wet with unshed tears, confusion flickering through the haze of submission. She pulled back slowly, saliva trailing in a thin, glistening strand from her swollen lips to his flushed tip. She knelt there, breathing hard through her nose, chest heaving beneath the thin green blouse. Waiting. Trembling faintly now. The abrupt halt seemed to fracture her grim trance.

"Ek nayi cheez sikhaunga aaj," he announced, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his spread knees. His gaze—dark, predatory—raked over her torso. Not her face. Her chest. The sheer focus pinned her like a butterfly. "Blouse utaar." *Take off the blouse.* Simple. Absolute. No please. No hesitation expected. Dhristi flinched as if struck. Her hands flew instinctively to her chest, fingers clutching the thin cotton fabric protectively. A choked gasp escaped her—half-protest, half-terror. Her eyes darted wildly towards the curtained windows, then back to Lakhan’s impassive face. The village modesty screamed inside her—*ghar mein, koi dekh lega?* But Lakhan’s stare brooked no argument. It was an order carved in stone. Slowly, mechanically, her fingers moved. Trembling violently now, she fumbled with the small plastic buttons of her blouse. One. Two. Three. Each tiny *pop* echoed like a gunshot in the tense silence. The green fabric gaped open, revealing the plain white cotton bra beneath, straining against the soft, heavy swell of her breasts.


knelt breathing hard nose chest heaving thin green blouse waiting trembling faintly abrupt halt fractured grim trance ek nayi cheez sikhaunga aaj announced leaning forward elbows resting spread knees gaze dark predatory raked torso face chest sheer focus pinned butterfly blouse utaar take blouse simple absolute please hesitation expected flinched struck hands flew instinctively chest fingers clutching thin cotton fabric protectively choked gasp escaped half-protest half-terror eyes darted wildly curtained windows Lakhan impassive face village modesty screamed inside ghar mein koi dekh lega stare brooked argument order carved stone slowly mechanically fingers moved trembling violently fumbled small plastic buttons blouse one two three tiny pop echoed gunshot tense silence green fabric gaped open revealing plain white cotton bra beneath straining soft heavy swell breasts.

Lakhan’s smirk deepened, a cruel twist of satisfaction. "Bra bhi," he commanded, voice low, gravelly. Dhristi froze, eyes squeezed shut. . Then, with jerky movements, she reached behind her back. The clasp snapped open. The bra straps slid down her shoulders. She peeled the damp cotton away, revealing herself fully. Her breasts spilled free—heavy, soft, impossibly large for her petite frame. 34C mounds of warm, yielding flesh, tipped with stiff, pinkish-brown areolas that stood taut against the cool air. They looked obscenely generous, disproportionate—a ripe fruit bursting from a slender vine. Lakhan’s gaze devoured them—not with lust, but with ownership. Appraising. Measuring.  Humiliation washed over Dhristi’s face, staining her cheeks crimson. But she obeyed. Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her hands. Palms cupped the underside of each heavy breast, fingers splaying wide. She pushed them upwards, lifting them towards him—an offering. The soft flesh spilled over her fingers, the stiff nipples pointing accusingly at Lakhan’s face. Her eyes remained fixed on the floor, burning with shame.

"Milao," Lakhan ordered, his voice flat, devoid of inflection. *Make them meet.* Dhristi hesitated. Her arms trembled visibly. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, she pushed her breasts inward. The soft mounds collided, flesh yielding against flesh. They squeezed together, forming a deep, shadowed valley between them. The stiff peaks pressed tightly against each other, trapped in the warm cleft she’d created. Her knuckles whitened from the effort of holding them compressed. Lakhan leaned forward slightly. His thick cock, slick with her saliva, bobbed impatiently against his thigh. "Ghisa," he commanded, nodding towards his erection. *Rub.* Dhristi’s breath hitched. Her gaze flickered downwards, then away. Slowly, she leaned forward, angling her compressed breasts. She pressed the hot, soft canyon of flesh against the swollen head of his cock. A wet, slick sound filled the room as she dragged the trapped mounds slowly down his shaft. Lakhan groaned—a deep, visceral rumble of pleasure. "Haan... bas aise hi," he grunted, hips lifting slightly to meet the friction. "Teri chuchiyan hi kaam aayengi teri choot ke alawa." *Your tits will be useful besides your cunt.* Dhristi flinched as if struck, eyes squeezing shut tighter. Tears welled but didn’t fall. She kept moving, rubbing her trapped breasts up and down his length—a slow, rhythmic, degrading piston. The stiff peaks scbangd against his veined skin with each pass. Her shoulders shook silently. The valley between her breasts glistened with sweat and pre-come. Lakhan watched her, his expression impassive, predatory. A king receiving tribute from conquered land. He didn’t touch her. Didn’t guide her. Just let her work, his thick fingers drumming lazily on the sofa armrest. The silence was broken only by the wet, rhythmic *shlick-shlick-shlick* of flesh on flesh, and Dhristi’s ragged, suppressed breathing. Her submission was complete—a horrifying pantomime of service performed on the altar of her own humiliation.




Suddenly, Lakhan’s hand shot out—not to touch her breasts, but to grip her chin. His fingers dug into her jawbone, forcing her head up. Her eyes snapped open, wide with fresh terror. "Sookha ho raha hai," he stated coldly, his gaze dropping to where her breasts slid stickily against him. *It’s drying.*







Dhristi froze mid-stroke. Lakhan’s eyes locked onto hers. "Thook lagao," he commanded. *Spit on it.* Dhristi stared, uncomprehending for a second. Her lips parted slightly—a silent protest forming. Then, understanding dawned. Her eyes widened further, horror flooding her features. She shook her head minutely—a desperate, tiny refusal. Lakhan’s grip tightened viciously. Her jawbone creaked under the pressure. "Thook," he repeated, voice low and dangerous. "Ispe." *On it.* He jerked his chin towards his cock.

Dhristi whimpered—a choked, animal sound. Her gaze darted frantically around the room—the curtains, the ceiling, anywhere but the thick shaft glistening with her own saliva and the sweat from her breasts. Her throat worked convulsively. She couldn’t. The village girl screamed inside her—*thookna? Itna ganda?* Spitting? How vile? Her lips trembled, pressed tightly together. She shook her head again, a fraction harder this time. Tears finally spilled over, tracing hot paths down her cheeks.


Lakhan’s eyes narrowed. Not anger. Disappointment. The slow-burning kind. His grip on her jaw tightened until her teeth ached. "Maine bola na?" he murmured, voice dangerously soft. *Didn’t I say?* He didn’t wait. His head tilted back slightly, gathering saliva thick and viscous at the back of his throat. Then—a sharp, wet *puhht!*—he spat directly onto her compressed cleavage. A heavy glob landed with a wet slap between her trembling breasts, warm and obscene against her flushed skin. Dhristi gasped—a sharp, ragged inhalation—eyes wide with utter disbelief. Humiliation scalded her face crimson. She flinched violently, trying to pull back, but his grip held her fast.

The message landed harder than the spit. *If you won’t lubricate it, I’ll do it.* Dhristi stared at the glistening mess pooling in the valley she’d created. Her breath came in shallow, panicked hitches. Lakhan’s thumb stroked her jawbone—a mockery of tenderness. "Ab?" he prompted, raising an eyebrow. *Now?* His meaning was clear: Spit, or worse comes. The threat hung thick—unspoken violence coiled beneath his stillness. Dhristi’s lips trembled. She squeezed her eyes shut. A choked sob escaped her. Then, reluctantly, her mouth opened. She gathered saliva, thin and reluctant, and let it dribble onto his waiting cock, mingling with his own spit on her skin. The sound was small, wet, utterly degrading.

Dhristi leaned forward again, pressing her slicked breasts tight around him. She moved slowly at first, dragging the heavy mounds up and down his shaft. The friction eased instantly—smooth, wet slides punctuated by the scbang of her stiff nipples against his veins. Lakhan sighed, leaning back, spreading wider.

"Haan... haan..." he murmured, eyes half-closed. *Yes... yes...* Dhristi kept working, her rhythm mechanical. Then, without warning, she dipped her head. Her lips brushed the swollen, purple tip peeking from her cleavage—a feather-light kiss. Lakhan’s eyes snapped open. Surprise flickered, replaced instantly by dark amusement.

"Achha?" he chuckled low. *Good?* Dhristi didn’t answer. She kissed it again, lingering this time—a soft press of lips against the slit. Then, gathering another thin stream of saliva, she spat directly onto the head. A small, precise *ptui*. The wetness gleamed. She rubbed faster, her breasts sliding slickly, trapping his cock in their soft vise. Kiss. Spit. Rub. A degrading rhythm born of terrified obedience.

Lakhan watched her, satisfied. "Bahut achha," he murmured approvingly. *Very good.* Her movements grew smoother, less jerky. She kissed the tip—wet, sucking kisses now—then spat again, coating him thickly. Her tears had stopped. Only a grim, focused stillness remained. The wet *shlick-shlick* filled the room, punctuated by her soft, wet kisses and the sharp little *ptui* sounds. Five minutes blurred. Ten. She didn’t falter. Her breasts glistened with spit and sweat, the valley between them slicked into a warm, obscene groove. She kept kissing—sucking lightly at the swollen head whenever it peeked free—then spitting more, ensuring the slide stayed effortless.

Suddenly, Lakhan’s breathing changed. A sharp inhale. His hips jerked upward involuntarily. His thick fingers dug into the sofa armrest, leather creaking. Dhristi froze mid-stroke, breasts still clamped tight around him. She glanced up, eyes wide—questioning, wary. Lakhan met her gaze. His own eyes were narrowed, intense. Not pleasure now. Command. "Bas," he grunted, voice tight. *Stop.* Dhristi instantly pulled back, releasing him. His cock sprang free, slick and flushed, bobbing angrily against his stomach. Pre-come glistened thickly at the slit. Lakhan didn’t hesitate. "Muh mein le," he ordered, nodding sharply towards it. *Take it in your mouth.* His tone brooked no delay. No room for the trembling hesitation of before.

Dhristi obeyed instantly. No flinch. No gasp. Her head dipped forward smoothly. Lips parted wide. She engulfed the swollen head in one swift motion—sucking hard, hollowing her cheeks. A wet, muffled *schlurp* echoed. Lakhan groaned—deep, guttural. His hand shot out, tangling roughly in her dark hair. Not forcing. Anchoring. Guiding. "Aur gehri," he commanded, pushing her head down gently but firmly. *Deeper.* Dhristi gagged softly—a tiny, choked sound—but didn’t pull back. Her throat worked visibly, muscles straining as she took more. Six inches. Seven. Almost to the coarse, wiry hair at the base. Tears welled instantly, spilling silently down her cheeks. Saliva pooled at the corners of her stretched lips, dripping onto his thighs. She breathed harshly through her nose, nostrils flaring with the effort.

Lakhan tightened his grip. Fingers knotted deep in her scalp. He began moving her head—slowly at first. A steady, rhythmic piston. Up and down. Up and down. Her lips stretched obscenely around his girth each time she rose. The slick, wet sounds grew louder—*gluck-gluck-gluck*. Her throat convulsed visibly on each descent. A choked gag escaped her when he pushed particularly deep. But she didn’t resist. Didn’t claw at his thighs. Her hands stayed limp on her own knees, fingers twitching faintly. Her eyes squeezed shut. Tears streamed freely now, mixing with spit and sweat on her chin. She looked like a broken doll being used. Efficiently. Thoroughly.

Suddenly, his hips snapped upward. Hard. Brutal. The pace quickened. No longer guiding—forcing. Her head jerked violently under his control. Faster. Faster. *Gluck-gluck-gluck-gluck*. The sound became frantic, obscene. Her nose mashed against the coarse hair at his base each time he slammed her down. Breath whistled harshly through her nostrils. Her throat worked frantically—swallowing, gagging, fighting not to vomit. Saliva sprayed in thin arcs with each ragged pullback. His thighs tensed. A low, guttural groan rumbled from his chest—building. "Haan... aa raha hai..." he gasped. *Yes... coming...* His thrusts turned erratic. Jagged. Desperate. His fingers twisted tighter in her hair—anchoring her for the final, brutal shoves. Her body rocked violently with each impact. Eyes wide now—terrified, drowning—staring blankly at the ceiling fan above. Waiting for the flood.

But unlike last time, he didn't finish inside her throat. Not this time. With a sharp, choked roar—"Bas!"—he ripped her head backward. Yanked brutally. Her lips tore free with a wet, sucking *pop*. Tears flew sideways. Strands of hair ripped from her scalp. She gasped—a ragged, shuddering inhale—mouth gaping wide. Eyes streaming. Face slick with spit and tears. Disoriented. Blinking furiously. He didn't hesitate. Didn't let her recover. His thick cock pulsed angrily in his fist—purple, slick, swollen beyond belief. Pre-come glistened thickly at the slit. "Dekh!" he snarled. *Look!* His other hand shot out—fingers digging into her jawbone—forcing her face upward. Aiming her eyes straight at the throbbing head. She tried to duck—instinctively, desperately—twisting her neck sideways. "Nahi!" she choked out—half-protest, half-terror.  His grip tightened instantly. Vicious. Cruel. Fingers like iron clamps digging into her jawbone. Holding her firm. Immobile. Trapped. Her eyes widened—pure animal panic—just as the first thick rope erupted.

A hot, viscous stream hit her right cheekbone—hard. Like flung paint. Thick. Creamy. White. It slapped wetly against her skin. Warmth bloomed instantly—sticky, alien. She gasped—shocked. Eyes squeezed shut instinctively. Her breath caught—a ragged, choked sound. More followed. Fast. Relentless. Another thick jet hit her forehead—splattering across her brow. Painting her hairline. Seeping into her scalp. Warmth trickled down her temple. Another—hotter, thicker—hit her eyelid. She flinched violently—tried to wrench away. His grip held. Iron. Unyielding.Her lips trembled—parted slightly—as another thick wad landed directly on her chin. Slid down her neck. Warm. Wet. Degrading. The smell hit her—salty, musky, thick—like defrosted prawns left in the sun. Her stomach lurched. She gagged—dry, painful heaves—but kept her mouth obediently open. Waiting. Terrified. Tears streamed freely now—mixing with the sticky mess on her face.

Lakhan watched her—eyes narrowed, predatory. Satisfied. Not done. His cock pulsed angrily in his fist—still thick, slick, swollen. Pre-come glistened thickly at the slit. He shifted his grip. Not releasing her jaw. Aiming lower. Purposefully. Deliberately.  Dhristi froze. Eyes wide—understanding dawning. Horror flooding her features. She shook her head minutely—a desperate, tiny refusal. "Nahi..." she choked out—half-protest, half-terror. His grip tightened instantly. Vicious. Cruel. Fingers digging deeper into her jawbone. Holding her firm. Immobile. Trapped. Her gaze flickered downwards—towards her own exposed breasts—heavy, soft, glistening with sweat and spit. The valley between them slicked into a warm, obscene groove. His eyes locked onto hers. Dark. Commanding. She obeyed. Slowly. Reluctantly. Her eyes lowered—staring at her own trembling flesh.

The next jet hit her collarbone—a thick, viscous stream—hotter than the last. Slapping wetly against her skin. Warmth bloomed instantly—sticky, alien. She gasped—shocked. Eyes squeezed shut instinctively. Her breath caught—a ragged, choked sound. More followed. Fast. Relentless. Another thick rope landed directly on her left breast—splattering across the soft swell. Painting the stiff nipple. Creamy white against flushed pink-brown. Warmth trickled down her ribcage. Another—hotter, thicker—hit the valley between her breasts—pooling in the groove she'd created for him. She flinched violently—tried to wrench away. His grip held. Iron. Unyielding. Her lips trembled—parted slightly—as another thick wad landed directly on her sternum—sliding downwards towards her navel. Warm. Wet. Degrading. The smell intensified—salty, musky, thick—like defrosted prawns left in the sun. Her stomach lurched. She gagged—dry, painful heaves—but kept her mouth obediently open. Waiting. Terrified. Tears streamed freely now—mixing with the sticky mess on her skin. The jets became weaker—less forceful—but still insistent. A thin dribble spattered across her right nipple. Another landed messily on her abdomen. The final spurts were barely more than thick droplets—landing softly on the slick mess already coating her upper body—like paint splatters on a ruined canvas. Warmth seeped everywhere—sticky, clinging, impossible to ignore.

Lakhan finally released her jaw—fingers unclenching slowly—leaving deep red imprints on her bone. Dhristi collapsed instantly—like a puppet with its strings cut. Her upper body slumped forward—face pressed into the sticky pool forming between her breasts—hair matting against her semen-slicked forehead. She didn't move. Didn't make a sound. Only the frantic rise and fall of her shoulders betrayed her ragged breathing—shallow, panicked gulps of air. Semen coated her—from her hairline down to her navel—a thick, drying glaze. White streaks painted her cheeks—pooled in the hollow of her throat—dripped sluggishly from her chin onto her thighs. Her breasts shone obscenely—glistening under the overhead light—nipples stiff and painted pale. Like an animal marked—claimed—territory staked with brutal finality. The smell hung thick—heavy—unmistakable—in the silent room.

He leaned back—sprawled deeper into the sofa—elbow resting casually on the armrest. His gaze travelled slowly—deliberately—over the canvas he'd created. Down her spine—the knobs visible beneath her thin blouse—to the curve of her hips—the trembling dip of her waist—the ruined landscape of her back—smooth skin interrupted only by the strap of her discarded bra. His smirk deepened—a slow, satisfied curve—as his eyes lingered on a thick droplet clinging stubbornly to her eyelash—another sliding down the delicate ridge of her collarbone—into the dark valley between her breasts. Speechlessly, he watched—lord be praised—as a lone housefly—drawn by the scent—buzzed lazily near her shoulder—landing briefly on a drying streak—before lifting off—unsettled—repelled—perhaps—by the sheer intensity of the degradation. His thumb rubbed idly against his own lower lip—appreciating the utter stillness—the complete surrender—the silence broken only by her choked, wet sniffles muffled against her own skin. No weeping—just the raw scbang of breath—like sandpaper on wood. Perfect.

Dhristi didn't move. Didn't flinch. Her breath hitched—a tiny, trapped sob—lost against the sticky mess coating her sternum. He didn't expect a reply. Didn't need one. The visual—the smell—the utter stillness—was its own answer. His gaze drifted lower—past the ruin of her breasts—to the small puddle of thick, pearly fluid pooling on the polished marble floor beneath her knees—the droplets that had dripped from her chin—her elbows—her trembling thighs. Like spilled milk—but infinitely fouler. He inhaled deeply—savoring the dense musk hanging heavy—a mixture of sex and salt and something uniquely *him*—marking the air—marking *her*. His territory. His victory.

Then—just like the other days—Lakhan shifted. A grunt—low and satisfied—as he pushed himself upright from the sofa cushions—leaving deep indentations in the leather. His thick fingers worked mechanically—pulling up the crumpled trousers pooled around his ankles—zipping them closed with a metallic *shhhhk*. No glance at Dhristi—still slumped forward—her face buried in the drying filth on her chest—hair plastered to her temples—shoulders shaking silently. He buttoned his shirt—fingers thick and clumsy The fabric strained across his broad shoulders—tight—uncomfortable—but he didn't care. Efficiency. Purpose. He smoothed the front—a quick, dismissive swipe—as if brushing off lint—not the ghost of her touch—her tears—her degradation and then he calmly left the house.

[tharkibudda]

HAPPY DIWALI,FOLKS

[tharkibudda]

link to full-size image

[tharkibudda]

Feedback Time

As I have told before ,this story is a slow burner and I took time to establish the plot,setting,characters before I introduced sex. I wanted it to be different from the other sex stories where women eagerly cheat on their husbands at the drop of the hat. 

I took time to establish how Dhristi despite getting better sex wasnt happy with what Lakhan did to her and tried her best to resist. The previous 2 chapters highlighted the difference between the sex and how Dhristi feels inadequate with her current life.

Now that she is looking forward for Lakhan, should I fast forward the episodes or should i add more ways they do sex at home which Manav never knew.

I've given few easter eggs before on what all things Lakhan tried with Dhristi which Manav didnt know at that.

I dont want people to feel like the Nukkad guys of Shiprat where every 5 chapters a new guy was introduced and he force her and she allows him. Atleast she was a NRI wife so had the time to write but I dont have.

Whats ur next direction u expect from the story? Porn scenes rushed over to reveal the plot until the end or go at the current pace where Manav discovers his wife becoming more direct and participating with Lakhan. Also do u want a third or fourth person in this midst?

She moved from reluctance to a submissive participant.

[tharkibudda]

I suggest keeping the games between the two of them. Bringing in new players seems counter-intuitive to the story you have written so far.
You have previously given timeframes of when Dhristi left to her home (and hinted with Lakhan's absence that she may not have gone home afterall), so I suggest that you write more revelations leading up to her leaving.
Keep in mind that life happens and a lot of authors end up leaving the story unfinished without that being their original plan. I think that a mixed approach where there are some more kinky episodes but a finale not soon after is the way to go here.
As always, keep up the good work and keep the episodes coming.

Sure the new player will take time. As I want to establish the core relationship with Lakhan and I did leave easter eggs. Just wanted to know if people would be ready for several chapters of just 2 people having sex?

[tharkibudda]

Happy Diwali bro...we want Diwali Update Episode.. Special one..

Thanks, wish u the same..

Bro, THIS is the DIWALI UPDATE.... I cannot sit with a laptop at home instead of spending time with my family and fireworks tomorrow

[tharkibudda]

You've worked hard to develop the story so far. though a well written slow burn at just under one update per week always makes for a "dil maange more" vibe, I hope you don't screw up the story by fast forwarding the story. keep going the way you are going. don't think about the reader now. think about the reader who starts reading about two years - will that reader see erotica or smut. current readers are like beta version users - they get an early peak but suffer usage(reading) pains(delays). The best stories are read and remembered for years. Just don't abandon it. If life comes to a point where you feel, you can no longer give time to this, the announce the warp speed, fast forward and dump reveal the plot till the end nd bid goodbye. But not otherwise. So - add more ways they do sex at home the Manav never knew - is what I say.

Let the easter eggs hatch - one by one. She's only move to submissive participant. By the time she left Manav to "go home for a few weeks" she had moved way beyond submissive participant. You mention increased work travel for Manav - that implies sleepovers. There is a lot of lurid ground to cover. Cover it one patch at a time.

I hope the porn scenes are not rushed over. This is xossipy and is a platform for sharing pretty ribald stuff. That's why we are her. If we wanted rushed over sex scenes, we wood have gone to a bookstore for a paperback. So - go at the current pace where Manav discovers his wife becoming more direct and participating with Lakhan - is what I say .

Regarding a third or fourth person in this(their?) midst, I wish you had not asked this question. Writers like you should not ask this question. Stories die because of this question. Its your plot. You know where you want to take it. So why the question. Add whatever or whoever is essential to the plot, not  anyone more, not anyone less. Definitely not to add "variety", "spice", or body count. that would be fatal for the story. And anyway, you are pressed for time. Why go on side tracks. Se what happened to "Cheating Wife?" on this forum. started well, then added everyone and anyone from their postman to the granny college fried, and see where it is now - dead. The author seems to have no idea of how to collect ithe story togther again and quips inane things like "... there is no such thing as too many females."

To sum it up - Stay the course, buddy stay the course.

Though the transition has been building up, and the forced fellatio was not the trigger, but I do wish it had started after a vaginal copulation. She did not want it. she did not get moist thinking bout him. she was not blown over by his personality. he did not have a reputation - as far as she knew. but her body responded. that because there are nerve ending there that trigger pleasure and pain responses in the brain between her legs. There are no such nerve ending in the mouth. An oral violation is disgusting and dignity shattering experience for a girl with her background and can break her spirit. Sure it underlined her helplessness. But even granting all that, in my opinion it would have been better if the transition emerged after a vaginal intercouse rather than forced fellatio. The shock of the forced fellatio could takes weeks to recover from. As I said, just my opinion.

Thank You Khemucha for your analysis and others for echoing... its so refreshing you replied to my feedback request so soon.

My biggest fear is that I might have to abandon the story and leave it hanging in middle without a logical conclusion. Just like how the writer of "Shipra's ordeal" had to take a break and he was messaged continuously to come back.

I want to write in peace, as a hobby, as a therapy, but not with continous feedback from others.So I thought should i keep continuing another 15 to 20 chapters of just Dhristi and Lakhan go through various levels of sex and would the readers find it stuck with no plot...

thats why i raised this question because I've plans for a lot of easter eggs including that missing file... The plot goes through a path i had defined before but I just wanted to know if people dont feel continous sex would be a speed breaker.

I hope the porn scenes are not rushed over. This is xossipy and is a platform for sharing pretty ribald stuff. That's why we are her. If we wanted rushed over sex scenes, we wood have gone to a bookstore for a paperback.

I'm happy that if other readers have the same attitude because a lot of them feel bored that its the same two people just another day, another setting

Definitely not to add "variety", "spice", or body count. that would be fatal for the story. And anyway, you are pressed for time. Why go on side tracks.

The next person would be important for the plot. The only time I might go for side track is if i had to explore the previous tenant wife which I'll do as a separate spinoff if needed. but not in here

Though the transition has been building up, and the forced fellatio was not the trigger, but I do wish it had started after a vaginal copulation

Her felattio has a meaning which will be revealed in next few chapters...

To sum it up - Stay the course, buddy stay the course.

Thanks I got overwhelmed because of the lack of time and update comments so i felt if I might ever finish. So I will go my own pace even if it means abandoning it and then restarting later

[tharkibudda]

My opinion is almost 2nd to khemucha. That -
1. Go by your pace - it's your story. Don't rush.

2. "Add more ways they do sex at home which Manav never knew."

3.  There is no point of adding more characters unless the plot demands.

And most importantly, a climax for the story you have ready in mind, right? A logical one? That's the main concern. As the number of good stories but unfinished, is pretty high here. Many writers just leave the plot mid-way. So, please make sure that the climax of the story is well thought and done well in advance, and then the story unravels slowly with that kept in mind.

You are doing a faveolus job. Really enjoying your writing. Keep up the good work.  

Thanks for ur feedback

1. Go by your pace - it's your story. Don't rush.

Thanks I will go from now

2. "Add more ways they do sex at home which Manav never knew."

Yes that was initial plan but I thought if it might get repetitive 

3.  There is no point of adding more characters unless the plot demands.

Yes, the other characters come late but are needed

[tharkibudda]

Happy Diwali tharkibudda

Thanks,same to u

[tharkibudda]

Chapter 26 - April 26th Aftermath

The heavy front door clicked shut. A final sound. Like a vault sealing.


Dhristi stayed frozen, folded over her own lap, face pressed into the cooling mess between her breasts.. She didn't weep. Not yet. Shock held her rigid, a statue carved from humiliation. Her mind replayed the last ten minutes in jagged fragments: the brutal yank backward, the hot slap of the first jet hitting her cheekbone, the panicked struggle against his iron grip, the helpless flinch as another rope painted her eyelid shut. And then… *then* the deliberate targeting. Her collarbone. Her breasts. The valley *she* had made for him. Deglamorized. Tainted. Everywhere.





Only after the heavy *thud* of the door sealing him out did the full realization crash over her. It wasn't just the sticky trails drying on her skin, tightening like cheap glue. It wasn't just the overpowering, thick musk of him – salty, animal, utterly alien – that filled her nostrils, replacing the familiar scent of home. It was the *everywhereness* of it. She felt it *in* her hair, matted strands glued to her forehead. She felt it *on* her eyelashes, crusting her vision. She felt it *under* her chin, a cooling slickness sliding down her neck. She felt it pooling *between* her breasts, thick and congealing. It was *on* her, *in* her pores, *under* her fingernails where she’d instinctively clawed at her own thighs. He hadn't just used her; he'd *marked* her. Inside and out. The violation wasn't just physical; it was a contamination of her very self. A choked sob finally tore loose, muffled against her own sticky skin.



Dhristi lay folded over her own lap on the plush sofa, face pressed into the cooling, thickening mess between her breasts. The initial shock solidified into a cold, heavy dread. Her shoulders shook, not with delicate weeping, but with deep, silent tremors that vibrated through her entire frame. Each ragged inhale sucked the thick, salty-musk scent deeper into her lungs, a constant reminder. Tears flowed freely, carving pale tracks through the drying streaks on her cheeks, mingling with the semen, dripping onto her saree pallu pooled on her thighs and onto the marble floor. *"Kyun?"* she whispered again, a choked sound muffled against her own skin. Why did she kneel? Why did she press her breasts together? Why did she kiss him? Why did she spit? Why did she take him so deep? Each question was a barbed hook tearing at the fragile membrane separating terror from a horrifying complicity. Lakhan hadn't just taken her body; he’d forced her to *collaborate* in her own ruin. The realization was a slow-acting poison, freezing her tears momentarily, leaving her utterly still except for the frantic pulse hammering in her throat.



It made no sense. Just minutes ago, kneeling between his thighs, she'd been focused. Efficient. She'd moved with a practiced rhythm born of dread and necessity. She'd squeezed her breasts together, creating that valley for him, felt the slick slide of his cock against her skin, heard his groans of approval. She'd even kissed the tip – a desperate, instinctive attempt to appease, to *control* the uncontrollable through submission. She'd spat when ordered. She'd taken him deep, gagging silently. There had been a grim purpose then, a terrible momentum. Survival. Avoidance of worse. But now? Now he was gone, and the purpose evaporated, leaving only the sticky, degrading residue and this crushing, bewildering *regret*. It wasn't just disgust at the filth coating her; it was a profound, terrifying self-betrayal. Her own obedience, her own practiced movements, felt like a betrayal of the woman who wept silently beneath Manav. That woman felt distant, like a stranger. This woman – covered in Lakhan's seed, smelling of his musk – was horrifically real.The willing act felt worse than the forced one. She hadn't just been used; she'd *participated*. She'd become an instrument of her own degradation.

Ten minutes. Slowly, agonizingly, Dhristi pushed herself upright. The movement felt monumental. Her muscles screamed protest, stiff from kneeling and terror. Semen, now tacky and thick, pulled at her skin as she peeled her face away from the mess between her breasts. Strands of hair, glued to her forehead and cheek with the stuff, tore free with a faint, sticky *rip*. She blinked, her vision blurred by tears and the crust forming on her eyelashes. Looking down was worse. Her upper body was a grotesque map of degradation – white streaks painted her flushed skin, pooled in the hollow of her throat, matted the hair at her temples. Her breasts, heavy and slick, shone obscenely under the ceiling light, nipples stiff and pale-tipped. Each movement felt heavy, drugged. She shuffled forward, avoiding looking at the sticky puddle on the floor, the fly buzzing lazily nearby. The hallway stretched before her, impossibly long. The bathroom door, usually mundane, seemed like a sanctuary miles away.

The CCTV camera switched off as Dhristi was inside the bathroom for a long time trying to scrub away all the resides of his semen from her body. Then it switched on again after she had cleaned herself and emerged naked from the bathroom. She walked slowly to the bedroom, her shoulders slumped, her eyes hollow. The degradation wasn't something that could be washed away with soap and water. It clung to her insides, a thick, suffocating sludge. Her legs felt like lead weights grafted onto her hips. She just fell on the bed like a rock dropped from a height. Face-first into the cool cotton sheet. The impact jarred her teeth, rattled her bones. A choked gasp escaped her, not of pain, but of sheer, overwhelming exhaustion. The dam broke then. Not delicate weeping. Great, heaving sobs ripped through her. Deep, guttural cries that tore at her throat. Her body convulsed, trembling violently against the mattress. Tears soaked the sheet beneath her cheek instantly, warm and salty. She cried for the filth she’d scrubbed away, knowing it still stained her soul.  Above all, she cried for the stark, undeniable proof replaying in her mind: Lakhan’s satisfaction, thick and final, painted across her skin, a trophy he’d claimed without resistance.

Minutes bled into each other. The violent tremors subsided, leaving behind a hollow ache and sticky trails of tears and mucus on the sheet. Dhristi rolled onto her back, staring blankly at the ceiling fan’s slow rotation. Its rhythmic hum was a monotonous counterpoint to the frantic replay in her head: Lakhan’s smirk, the iron grip on her jaw, the hot slap of each degrading jet. Her hand drifted slowly, hesitantly, downwards. Fingers brushed over her stomach, tracing the faint, drying trails the water hadn't reached fully. The skin felt hypersensitive, alien. Her touch lingered near her navel, then crept lower, slipping beneath the elastic waistband of her underwear. She was dry. Unaroused. Empty. Yet, her fingers moved with a will of their own, sliding through coarse curls, dipping shallowly into the cleft beneath. A choked whimper escaped her lips. Not pleasure. A desperate, shameful exploration. *Was he right?* The thought slithered in, venomous. *Is this all I'm good for? Taking it? Spreading for it?* Her fingers pressed harder, seeking something – friction, sensation, proof she could still feel *anything* besides degradation. But the touch felt disconnected, clinical. Like probing a wound. A fresh wave of tears blurred the spinning fan blades overhead. She withdrew her hand sharply, curling it into a fist against her chest, nails digging into her palm. The sting was real. It was hers. She clung to it.

Half an hour crawled by. The hollow ache intensified, morphing into a crawling sensation beneath her skin. Not just *on* her, but *in* her. The phantom smell of salt and musk clung stubbornly to her nostrils, thick as paint fumes. She could *feel* it – Lakhan’s filth – clinging to her pores, seeping into her scalp, lurking in the damp crevices between her thighs despite the frantic scrubbing. It wasn't rational. She knew she’d washed. But the violation felt cellular. Dhristi pushed herself off the bed, her limbs heavy as wet sandbags. The cool cotton sheet clung briefly to her damp skin before peeling away. She shuffled back towards the bathroom, a sleepwalker drawn to a cursed place.

She came out of the bathroom half an hour later. She stood before the mirror, avoiding her own eyes. Her gaze travelled downwards instead, scrutinizing her skin inch by inch. Was that a faint streak near her collarbone? A dried speck in her eyebrow? Her fingers, trembling slightly, rubbed fiercely at her sternum, then her throat, then her cheekbone. The skin turned pink, raw. Nothing. Just clean skin. Yet the phantom stickiness persisted, a ghostly residue. She splashed cold water on her face, the shock jolting her. Water dripped from her chin onto her bare breasts. She watched the droplets roll, half-expecting them to turn milky white. They didn't. Logic screamed *clean*. Instinct screamed *tainted*. The disconnect was a physical nausea churning low in her gut. She gripped the cold porcelain sink, knuckles white, staring at the drain where the evidence had swirled away. Gone. But not gone. Never gone.

Dhristi moved like a clockwork doll wound too tight. She pulled a faded cotton salwar kameez from the cupboard – loose, shapeless, the colour of dust. The soft fabric felt abrasive against her hypersensitive skin. Every brush of the cloth was a reminder. She tugged the kurta top over her head swiftly, the motion jerky. The dupatta followed, a flimsy shield dbangd hastily over her shoulders. Next, the discarded clothes: the blouse ripped open by Manav’s frantic hands days ago, the bra stained with Lakhan’s spit and her own tears, the saree pallu soaked with his release and hers. She gathered them into a tight, crumpled ball, avoiding looking directly at the stiffened patches, the faint, lingering musk that seemed to bloom anew as she handled them. Her nostrils flared. . She carried the bundle stiffly, arms extended, as if holding toxic waste, straight to the washing machine tucked away in the service balcony. She shoved them inside, poured an excessive amount of Surf Excel powder – the sharp, artificial floral scent battling the phantom musk – slammed the lid shut, and punched the buttons for the longest, hottest cycle. The machine groaned to life, churning violently. Only then did she lean her forehead against its cool, vibrating metal flank, breathing shallowly. A temporary erasure. A fragile lie.

The afternoon bled into evening, thick and slow as drying glue. Dhristi drifted through the rooms, performing chores with robotic precision. She swept floors already clean, wiped counters spotless, rearranged cushions unnecessarily. Her movements were silent, efficient, utterly devoid of life. The television flickered unwatched, some garish Hindi serial playing at low volume – dramatic music, shrill arguments – a jarring counterpoint to the tomb-like silence she cultivated. She avoided the sofa where Lakhan had sprawled, the patch of marble floor where his seed had pooled. She avoided her own reflection in darkened windows. Hunger was a distant concept, a faint echo from another person’s body. The only sound was the relentless churn of the washing machine in the balcony, a mechanical heartbeat mocking her internal chaos.

My  scooter sputtered into the driveway just past sunset. The familiar sound, usually a welcome anchor, now scbangd raw nerves Dhristi hadn’t known she possessed. She froze mid-step in the hallway, dust cloth clutched like a shield. The key rattled in the lock, the door swung open. I  stepped in.

"Hey, Dhrishti!" I called out, voice deliberately bright, pushing cheer like a salesman hawking optimism. "Traffic was hell near Kalupur, yaar" I kicked off my shoes, the *thud* echoing in the unnervingly quiet house. . "Whatcha doing? Everything okay?"

She stood frozen in the hallway doorway, dust cloth limp in her hand. Her eyes, hollowed out and bruised-looking, flickered towards me, then away. No smile. No greeting. Just a slow blink, like a lizard sunning itself. "Safai kar rahi thi," she mumbled, her voice a dry scbang. Cleaning. As if the house wasn't already spotless, sterile. She turned and shuffled towards the kitchen, her movements stiff, deliberate, avoiding brushing against the doorframe .

The air felt thick, heavy with unspoken filth. My forced cheer curdled in my throat. "Brought paneer from Shreeji!" I announced, too loud, holding up the greasy packet like a peace offering. "palak panner bana lo?"  Silence. Only the clatter of a pan being moved unnecessarily on the stove. I shoved the paneer into the fridge, the cold blast doing nothing to cool the heat prickling my neck. Her silence wasn't village shyness anymore. It was a wall, freshly plastered with Lakhan’s filth. I dropped onto the living room sofa – *his* sofa – and the leather felt cold, accusing. The CCTV monitor beside the TV seemed to pulse. *Move the cursor*. Just a flick. See what happened *after* he left. See the wreckage. My finger hovered over the mouse. Dhristi walked past, carrying a glass of water. She didn’t look at me. Didn’t look at the sofa. Her gaze was fixed somewhere on the floor, miles away. The evening dragged on, thick with the smell of parathas she barely touched .

Night fell like a shroud. The house settled into an unnatural quiet. Dhristi sat rigidly on the edge of the bed, braiding her hair with jerky, mechanical movements. The bedside lamp cast deep shadows under her eyes, hollowed-out pits. I watched the tense line of her shoulders, the way her fingers trembled slightly as they worked the plait. I  watched myself slid across the cool sheet towards her, the friction loud in the silence. My hand, tentative, landed on her hipbone beneath the thin cotton nightie. She flinched, a sharp, involuntary jerk. "Dhrishti," I murmured, leaning closer, my lips brushing the tense muscle of her shoulder. My other hand slid upwards, cupping the heavy weight of her breast through the fabric. She went utterly still, like prey sensing a predator. "Aaj..." I started, my voice thick, fingers tracing the curve. She didn't melt. Didn't sigh. Her hand shot out, cold and firm, clamping over mine, stopping its exploration dead. "Nahi," she whispered, the word brittle, final. "Safe day nahi hai." Her gaze remained fixed on the wall ahead, refusing to meet mine. The lie hung in the air, sharp as shattered glass. Safe day? After what Lakhan had done? After what the footage showed? It wasn't safety. It was disgust. Directed squarely at me. My hand fell away, numb. The rejection wasn't just physical; it was a confirmation of everything the CCTV screamed. I rolled back to my side of the bed, staring at the ceiling fan's slow, mocking rotation. The silence wasn't just quiet. It was the sound of her relief .

[tharkibudda]

[tharkibudda]

Manav should divorce and leave his wife and give to lakhan. I read one old story where husband take revenge by fuking his friend wife.

The actions by Manav will be in the climax....At present, he is just watching the past from the  recordings...

[tharkibudda]

Chapter 27 - April 28th- The Revelation

I sat hunched before the CCTV monitor, the glow painting my face sickly pale . I reminisced the footage. The scene after Lakhan left played out in stark, silent horror: Dhristi slumped on the sofa, coated, frozen. Then the slow, agonizing collapse inward. The frantic scrubbing, the desperate self-touch seeking something she could control, the second shower, the clothes bundled like contamination. I watched it all unfold frame by frame, a brutal documentary of degradation and its aftermath. My gut churned, a sour mix of nausea and something uglier. She knelt willingly. She pressed her breasts together for him. She spat when commanded. Then she wept like her soul was being ripped out. The contradiction was a jagged puzzle piece I couldn't force into place. Why submit so completely, then drown in such profound self-loathing? Was it terror? Was it... something else? And then, the cold calculation: punish me. Use the denial of sex, wrapped in the flimsy excuse of 'safe days', as a weapon.


Was this the reason for the whiplash moods? The sudden sweetness after Lakhan’s visits, a fleeting high from his brutal satisfaction? Followed by the icy withdrawal when faced with my clumsy, inadequate touch? The pattern clicked with sickening clarity. Her sweetness wasn't for me; it was the afterglow of his conquest. Her coldness was the crashing comedown, the unavoidable comparison when I was the only one left. A pawn in their fucked-up dynamic. My fault for being weak. For lasting minutes where he lasted ages. For gentleness where she craved brutality.

My fingers, trembling with a mix of dread and morbid compulsion, stabbed at the CCTV archive. April 27th. The file size was pitifully small. Barely a blip. No Lakhan. Just Dhristi pacing, listless, staring blankly at the door, shoulders slumped deeper with each passing hour. The disappointment radiating off her was palpable even through the grainy footage. No relief. Only the gnawing hunger unfulfilled. No wonder she’d been brittle that evening, snapping about overcooked dal. Not village shyness. Withdrawal.

April 28th. Thursday. The file size loomed large, bloated with violation. My mouse hovered. Click. The timestamp glowed: 1:07 PM. Dhristi wasn’t waiting anxiously. She was wearing a pale pink salwar kameez. She stood rigidly by the window, back to the room, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Not anticipation. Resignation. Pure dread.

Suddenly, the doorbell shattered the silence – not a ring, but a violent, prolonged buzzing. Dhristi flinched violently, her whole body jerking as if electrocuted. She didn't move towards the door. Not immediately. Her shoulders rose and fell with a single, shuddering breath. Then, mechanically, she turned. Her face, pale and drawn, was utterly blank. A mask carved from ice. She walked to the door, each step heavy, deliberate. The latch clicked.

Lakhan shoved past her before she could fully open it, his bulk filling the hallway with oppressive energy. He didn't look at her. Didn't speak. He moved with the bored familiarity of ownership, heading straight for the living room sofa. Dhristi stood frozen by the door for a heartbeat, then closed it softly, the click echoing like a tomb sealing. She followed slowly, her gaze fixed on the floor tiles.

He dropped heavily onto the leather sofa, the cushions groaning. Without preamble, without even glancing her way, his thick fingers went to his belt buckle. The metallic clink was unnaturally loud. He shoved his trousers and underwear down past his hips in one rough motion, pooling them around his ankles. His half-hard cock lay thick and heavy against his thigh, already swelling rapidly in the humid afternoon air. The sheer nonchalance of the exposure was its own violence.

Dhristi stood rooted a few feet away, her pink salwar kameez suddenly feeling flimsy, inadequate. Her gaze was dragged downwards, against her will, landing on the obscene display. Compared to Manav's familiar shape, Lakhan’s was a brutal intrusion – thicker, darker, veined and demanding. He didn't speak. Didn't gesture. He simply leaned back, spreading his thighs wider on the sofa, his eyes finally lifting to meet hers. Not with command. With bored expectation. An unspoken invitation. The air crackled with the silent dare: Come. Kneel. Serve.

She didn't move forward like yesterday. Yesterday’s desperation felt like a fever dream, a weakness she couldn't afford to repeat. Her jaw tightened, a muscle flickering in her temple. Her hands, hidden in the folds of her dupatta, clenched into fists so tight her knuckles threatened to pierce skin. Nahi. The word screamed silently inside her skull. Not again.

Lakhan’s gaze sharpened. The bored expectation curdled into something colder, predatory. He saw the rigid spine, the refusal in her stillness. A low, guttural sound escaped him – not anger, yet. A warning rumble. His thick fingers tapped impatiently against his own thigh, right beside the heavy, flushed shaft lying inert against the leather. The tapping was deliberate, rhythmic. Thump. Thump. Thump. An unspoken command louder than any shout. Come. Now.

Dhristi’s breath hitched, shallow and rapid. The pink cotton of her kameez felt suddenly suffocating. She could smell him from here – stale sweat, cheap aftershave, the underlying musk of dominance. Her gaze flickered from his impassive face to the obscene display between his spread thighs, then back. The silence stretched, thick and viscous, charged with the threat coiled in his stillness. Every instinct screamed to obey, to kneel, to appease the beast before the violence escalated. Her knuckles, clenched hidden within her dupatta, turned bone-white.

Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her chin. Her voice, when it came, was low and raspy, but it didn’t waver. "Kyon na hum normal sex karenge aaj?" The words hung heavy in the air, a fragile shield against the inevitable degradation. Normal sex. The absurdity of the phrase, spoken in this context, was almost laughable. Yet her eyes, finally meeting his, held a flicker of desperate defiance. "Sirf... sirf r? Aise nahi?" The plea was raw, stripped bare.

Lakhan stared at her for a beat, utterly still. Then, a low rumble started deep in his chest. It built, vibrating the air, until it erupted into a harsh, barking laugh that echoed off the sterile walls. "Normal sex?" He repeated, the words dripping with incredulous contempt. "Normal?" He slapped his thick thigh, the sound sharp. "Tuje kya normal chahiye?"

Dhristi flinched at the sound, her composure cracking like thin ice. She swallowed hard, forcing her chin up despite the tremor in her jaw. "Haan... jo pati-patni karte hai na," she stammered, her voice thin but insistent. She gestured vaguely towards her crotch . "Wahan  pe... muh mein nahi." The plea was naked, desperate.

Lakhan stared at her, his thick lips curling into a slow, predatory grin that didn't touch his cold eyes. He leaned back further into the sofa, spreading his thighs wider, the thick shaft resting heavily against the leather. The rhythmic tapping on his thigh ceased. He chuckled, a low, grating sound like stones dragged over concrete. "What?" He snorted derisively. Then, switching to English, the words dripped with condescending amusement: "Wow, you are so innocent it’s amusing." He patted the cushion beside his bare hip. "Come. Sit."

Dhristi hesitated, her knuckles whitening beneath her dupatta. His gaze hardened, the amusement vanishing instantly. "Aja," he commanded, the single Hindi word sharp as a slap. She flinched. Her legs moved stiffly, mechanically, carrying her the few steps across the polished marble floor. She perched on the very edge of the sofa cushion, as far from his exposed flesh as possible, her body rigid, angled away.

Lakhan snorted, a sound thick with derision. "Tension mat le, kamini," he growled, shifting his bulk sideways. His thick thigh pressed heavily against her hip. The heat radiating from him felt suffocating. "It's not my fault," he continued, his voice dropping to a low, grating rumble, "that your husband only does that one missionary position like a scared collegeboy." He leaned closer, his stale breath hot on her ear. "So everything else feels abnormal to you?" He chuckled darkly. "Blowjobs? They're common as chai in every couple. Haven't you seen any sex videos? Blue films? On the phone? Surely Manav watches them?"

Dhristi jerked her head away sharply, the pink dupatta slipping slightly. Her eyes, wide and fixed on the opposite wall, burned with sudden intensity. "Nahi!" she hissed, the word sharp, brittle. "Main kabhi nahi dekhti unhein. They are dirty." Her knuckles, hidden in the folds of her salwar, tightened until the skin stretched taut. She swallowed hard, the sound audible in the thick silence. Her voice dropped to a raw whisper, trembling with a mixture of defiance and profound shame. "Aur... aur muh mein lene se... kuch maza nahi aata mujhe." The confession hung heavy, stark. "Kuch nahi."

Lakhan froze. Utterly still. His thick, dark eyebrows climbed towards his hairline. His mouth, usually curled in contempt or command, hung slightly open. For a heartbeat, maybe two, the oppressive air in the room seemed to thin. The predatory stillness evaporated, replaced by pure, dumbfounded shock. He blinked, staring at her rigid profile. She’d just… said it. Out loud. To him. Not weeping, not pleading silently, but stating a preference. A denial of his pleasure.

Then it hit him. A low rumble started deep in his gut, bubbling up. It grew, swelling into a choked snort, then erupted. A full-throated, belly-shaking guffaw exploded from him. Loud, raucous, utterly uncontrolled. He slapped his thick thigh again, harder this time, the sharp crack echoing off the walls. Tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes. He leaned forward, gasping for breath between bursts of laughter that shook the sofa. "HAH! Arrey wah! Maza nahi aata?" He wheezed, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "Oh, bhenchod, Dhrishti! You kill me!"

The laughter subsided as suddenly as it began, leaving him panting slightly, a wide, predatory grin splitting his face. Before Dhristi could react, he lunged sideways. Not rough, but deliberate. His thick arm snaked around her waist, pulling her stiff body flush against his sweaty side. His other hand clamped firmly over the front of her pink kameez, palm flat and heavy against her left breast, fingers digging possessively into the soft flesh. He squeezed hard, forcing her nipple against the fabric. She gasped, a sharp intake of breath choked off instantly.

"Shhh," he breathed directly into her ear, his voice dropping into a low, conspiratorial rumble. The Hindi evaporated, replaced by smooth, practiced English. "Let me tell you a small story." His fingers kneaded her breast rhythmically through the cotton. "I studied in St. Joseph's college(FICTIONAL college, NO RESEMBLANCE TO ANY ACTUAL ONE) in Mussoorie." The name rolled off his tongue with smug familiarity. 

"One of the richest colleges in our country." His thumb rubbed circles over her nipple, making her flinch. "And my classmates? Kids of industrialists. Movie stars." He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against her temple.

 "Lost my virginity early. Very early." He paused, his hand sliding lower, palming her entire breast possessively. "Notorious, actually." His grin widened against her hair. 

"For my 8.5 inch cock." He squeezed again, harder. "Among the girls. Especially." His free hand gestured vaguely towards the ceiling. "One of them? Famous Bollywood actress now. Big heroine." He leaned back slightly, forcing Dhristi to crane her neck to avoid his hot breath. His eyes locked onto hers, gleaming with cruel amusement. "Know what she used to beg for? Exactly what you call 'dirty'."

Dhristi remained rigidly still beneath his grip, her gaze fixed on a crack in the plasterwork near the ceiling fan. The heat radiating from his palm felt like a brand. His voice, dripping with self-satisfied reminiscence, scbangd against her raw nerves. He squeezed her breast again, a sharp reminder of his ownership in this moment. "But Cardiff?" His tone shifted abruptly, the smugness replaced by a bitter edge. "Cardiff University? For my MBA?"

 He snorted derisively. "Different story." His hand slid lower, tracing the curve of her ribs beneath the salwar kameez. "Suddenly, I was invisible." He spat the word. "Bottom of the fucking barrel." His fingers dug into her flesh, pinching sharply. 

"White girls? Forget it." He leaned closer, his stale breath washing over her face. "Brown boy? Must be having a 'tiny pecker'?" He laughed, a harsh, barking sound devoid of humour. "That's what they thought. All of them." His hand moved to her thigh, gripping it hard through the thin cotton salwar. "Stereotype beta cuck. Weak. Small." His voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "Like your husband."

Dhristi flinched violently at the comparison, a tiny gasp escaping her lips before she clamped them shut. Lakhan’s grip tightened painfully on her thigh. "So I worked," he hissed, his eyes boring into hers. "Worked fucking hard. Built muscle." He flexed his free arm, the bicep bulging. "Learned the game. Talked dirty. Dominated." 

He smirked. "Banged a few. Freshers. Drunk ones. Desperate ones." He shrugged dismissively. "Got my cock wet." His thumb traced circles on her inner thigh, dangerously high. "But desired?" He shook his head slowly, his gaze predatory. "Never like India." He leaned back slightly, his hand still clamped possessively on her thigh. "Never like here. His hand slid higher, fingertips brushing the edge of her panty line beneath the salwar.


"That’s when I realised," Lakhan murmured, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial rumble, thick with self-satisfaction. His fingers traced lazy, possessive circles high on Dhristi’s inner thigh. "Having a big cock?" He snorted softly. "Not enough." His thumb pressed hard against the thin cotton covering her mound. "Not fucking nearly enough." 

Dhristi remained rigidly still, her gaze fixed on the ceiling fan’s slow rotation. "You need to work on your strokes," he continued, his voice smooth, almost pedagogical now. "Learn the angles. Deep? Shallow? Fast? Slow?" His hand slid fully over her covered crotch, palming her roughly. She sucked in a sharp breath. "Know when to punish," his fingers dug in, "and when to tease." He released the pressure slightly. "Learn to give good oral." He chuckled darkly, leaning close enough for his breath to stir her hair. "Really good oral. Make them scream into the pillow." 

His free hand lifted her chin, forcing her hollow eyes to meet his gleaming ones. "Focus on foreplay. Build it. Edge them. Drive them fucking wild before you slide in." His grin was wide, predatory. "And soon? Soon I was a legend in my university." He released her chin, letting her head drop. "My count?" He leaned back against the sofa cushions, spreading his thighs wider, his cock fully erect now against his belly. "Three figures." His voice was thick with triumph. "Easy."

He paused, letting the silence hang heavy. Then he looked at her, his gaze sharpening, piercing through her frozen dread. "You know why I did all that?" he asked, his tone shifting, becoming oddly earnest, almost fervent. "Because I wanted those women—those equals, those above me—to get genuine pleasure from my sex." He leaned forward again, his eyes locking onto hers with unnerving intensity. 

"I wanted them gasping, shaking, begging for more. I wanted them to tell their friends, their colleagues. ‘Lakhan? Oh god, yes.’" He slapped his thigh, the sound sharp. "Satisfaction! That was the fucking goal! To be desired. To be remembered." He gestured vaguely towards the hallway, towards the world outside. "They weren’t just holes, Dhrishti. They were conquests. Proof."

Then his expression hardened. The earnestness evaporated like spilled water on hot pavement. His lips curled into a sneer. "But you?" He laughed—a harsh, grating bark that echoed off the sterile walls. "And whom do you think you are?" He leaned closer, his stale breath hot on her face. "Demanding me for what you want?" He snorted derisively.

 "You are nothing to me." His hand shot out, grabbing her chin roughly, forcing her to meet his eyes. "Just a warm body with holes to fuck when I'm bored." His thumb pressed painfully into her cheekbone. "I'm not here for an affair," he spat, each word deliberate, venomous. "I'm here to use you. Like an object." He released her chin with a shove, making her head snap back. "And when I get bored?" His smile was cold, final. "I will stop visiting."

Dhristi stared at him. Shock punched the air from her lungs. Utter despair flooded her veins like icy water. She knew she was exploited—every forced moan, every swallowed gag had screamed it—but hearing it spat so plainly? Called a warm body with holes? It stripped her bare. The fragile shield of 'normal sex' shattered into dust. Her eyes burned. Tears welled, blurring Lakhan's smug face. They spilled over, tracing hot paths down her cheeks. She didn't wipe them. Couldn't move. Everything she'd done—the submission, the degradation—it was all laid bare as nothing but convenient holes.


Lakhan watched the tears fall. A slow, cruel smile spread across his face, stretching the thick lips wide. It wasn't amusement. It was pure, predatory satisfaction. He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming like polished obsidian. "Rone se kya hoga?" His voice was a low rasp, devoid of any pity. "Tears won't fix anything, kamini. Especially not this." He chuckled, a dry, grating sound.

"I don't care," he enunciated slowly, savouring each word like a bitter spice, "if your husband's pathetic little pecker isn't satisfying you." His gaze raked over her tear-streaked face. "If you somehow get pleasure from my sex?" He shrugged, a dismissive jerk of his shoulders. "It's just a byproduct. Like engine smoke."

His smile widened, showing teeth. "I only care about my pleasure." He paused, letting the cruelty sink in. "Even if it's pure pain for you." His eyes locked onto hers, holding her drowning gaze. "In fact," he murmured, leaning impossibly closer, his stale breath hot on her wet cheek,

"if someone said brain fuck is good?" His smile turned savage, utterly devoid of humanity. "I would drill a hole right here," his thick finger tapped her temple hard, "in your pretty little head. Just for my satisfaction."

Dhristi flinched violently at the tap, a choked sob escaping her lips. The tears flowed freely now, hot and silent. Everything shriveled inside her. Hope. Resistance. Even the shame felt distant, buried under a crushing weight of absolute worthlessness. He’d stripped her bare. Not just physically. He’d peeled back every layer, every pathetic excuse she’d clung to – village shyness, duty, fear – and revealed the ugly core: she was nothing. A receptacle. A moundbuilder raised only to be flattened.

Lakhan watched her collapse inward, the cruel smile never leaving his face. He shifted his bulk, spreading his legs wider on the sofa leather. His cock, thick and aggressively erect, slapped wetly against his lower belly. The sound was obscene in the silence broken only by Dhristi’s ragged breaths. He didn’t touch her. Not yet. He just… presented it. Like a trophy. Like a demand written in flesh.

"Ab neeche utth," he commanded, his voice flat, devoid of anger. It was worse. It was bored certainty. "Muh mein le. Chuss." He paused, letting the crude Hindi hang. His eyes, cold and assessing, scanned her tear-streaked face. "Dont think," he switched to English, the words clipped, precise, "I didn't see through your sudden willingness to suck me yesterday." A short, derisive chuckle escaped him. "That little act? Trying to be… eager?" He shook his head slowly. "Pathetic. You can't coax me into doing what you want." He leaned forward slightly, his gaze pinning her. "I'm not your husband." The contempt dripped. "I just own you."

Dhristi choked back a sob. The tears wouldn't stop. They blurred Lakhan’s smug, satisfied face. His words weren't just cruel; they were surgical instruments, dissecting her pathetic attempt at agency and laying it bare as useless theatre. Own you. The words echoed in the hollow space where her sense of self had been. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Couldn't argue. What was there to argue? He'd seen it. Seen right through her desperate, degrading performance the day before – the forced swallowing, the hollow-eyed obedience – and declared it worthless. Worse than worthless. Pathetic.

Slowly, mechanically, she slid forward off the sofa cushion. Her knees hit the cool marble floor with a dull thud that echoed the numbness spreading through her. She bent forward, her spine curving like a willow branch snapped under ice. Her face descended towards the heat radiating from his groin. The thick musk of him filled her nostrils – stale sweat, arrogance, and something metallic.

 She paused, her face inches from his rigid cock, a grotesque monument to his power. Her eyes lifted, seeking his face. Not defiance. Not anger. Just a silent, drowning plea. Please. Not this. Not again. But Lakhan’s expression hadn't shifted. It was carved from stone, etched with that same sadistic satisfaction. A sculptor surveying his finished work: broken, kneeling, exactly where she belonged. His eyes held hers, cold and gleaming. No mercy. Only ownership confirmed.

A choked sob rattled in her throat, trapped. She swallowed it down, tasting bile and despair. The tears flowed freely now, hot tracks carving paths through the dust of her dignity. They dripped onto the pale marble floor near his feet, darkening the stone. She lowered her gaze back to the thick shaft before her. It pulsed faintly, an obscene demand. Every instinct screamed to recoil, to vomit, to scream. But the weight of his words crushed her: warm body with holes. Owned. Her breath hitched, a ragged, wet sound. 

Then, with a shudder that ran through her entire frame, she leaned forward the final inch. Her lips parted slightly, trembling. The swollen head brushed against her lower lip, slick with pre-cum. She flinched, a tiny gasp escaping, but didn't pull back. Her eyes squeezed shut, lashes wet and clumped. Slowly, hesitantly, she opened her mouth wider. She took just the thick tip inside. The taste flooded her senses – salt, skin, domination. Her jaw stretched uncomfortably. She stayed frozen like that for a heartbeat, trembling, tears streaming silently down her cheeks, dripping onto her pink kameez and the floor beneath her knees.

Lakhan watched, utterly still. Not a flicker of pity crossed his face. Only cold, detached appraisal. He shifted his hips slightly, pressing the head deeper against her tongue. "Poora le," he commanded, his voice flat, bored. "Deep. Like yesterday." He leaned back against the cushions, spreading his thighs wider, settling in. "Don't stop till I tell you." His gaze remained fixed on the top of her bowed head, the intricate parting in her oiled hair. "And keep crying," he added, a cruel amusement finally touching his lips. "I like the salt."

Dhristi choked. The thick intrusion filled her mouth, pressing down on her tongue. Tears blurred her vision completely now, hot rivers mixing with the bitter slickness coating her palate. She gagged reflexively, her throat muscles clenching. She fought it down, forcing herself to take him deeper. Her jaw screamed in protest as she stretched wider, trying to accommodate his girth. The tip nudged the back of her throat. Panic flared. She pulled back slightly, gasping for air through her nose, her chest heaving.

Lakhan’s hand shot out, tangling roughly in the hair at her crown. Not pulling, just anchoring her. Controlling her. "Poora," he growled, the Hindi word thick and demanding. "Take it all. Now."

Dhristi gagged again, the thick head bumping against her soft palate. Tears streamed freely now, mixing with saliva and pre-cum on her chin. She forced her jaw wider, a low whine escaping her nose. Slowly, agonizingly, she pushed forward. The thick shaft filled her mouth, stretching her lips taut. She felt the ridge of his glans scbang the roof of her mouth, then the impossible pressure at the back of her throat. Her eyes watered violently. She choked, her throat spasming uncontrollably.

Lakhan’s grip tightened in her hair, holding her steady. "Keep going," he commanded, his voice flat. "Swallow it."

As I watched the footage, bile rose thick and hot in my throat. Dhristi’s trembling lips closing around Lakhan’s cock—her tears dripping onto the marble—wasn't just degradation. It was confirmation. " Why she was so eager yesterday to suck him?" The answer screamed from the screen: So that she could get sex from him instead of me. All these days I’d clung to the lie that she was forced, brutalized, a victim. But here, on April 28th, Lakhan had ripped that delusion apart. "Today she openly wanted Lakhan’s cock inside her pussy." The truth was a knife twisting in my gut. Her choked obedience wasn’t fear. It was bargaining. She’d swallowed him whole yesterday hoping he’d reward her with the penetration she craved—his brutal thickness instead of my gentle inadequacy. My hands shook, the mouse slick with sweat. On screen, Lakhan’s fingers tightened in her hair, forcing her deeper. Dhristi gagged, her throat convulsing around his girth, tears streaming. Yet she didn’t fight. She pushed forward, taking more, her muffled whimpers swallowed by his flesh. Salt, he’d said. He liked the salt. And all I tasted was ash.

Suddenly, Lakhan’s free hand moved—not to push her away, but to cup the back of her head. A sickening tenderness. "Shhh," he murmured, the sound distorted through the CCTV mic. "Good girl. Take it all." His thumb stroked her scalp, a mockery of comfort. Dhristi’s eyes flew open, wide with panic as the thick head breached her throat. She convulsed, body heaving, saliva dripping down her chin. Lakhan held her firm, his expression detached, almost bored. "Swallow," he commanded flatly. "Or choke."

Dhristi gagged violently. Tears streamed faster. But then—a shift. Her jaw relaxed fractionally. Her head began to bob, shallow at first, testing. Lakhan’s eyes narrowed, then flashed with surprise. Approval? Dhristi increased her pace abruptly, sucking harder, faster—a frantic, almost mechanical rhythm. Her hands, clenched uselessly at her sides moments ago, now rose hesitantly. One gripped his thigh for balance; the other curled around the base of his shaft, pumping in time with her mouth. Make him cum. End this.

Lakhan groaned openly—a deep, resonant rumble vibrating through her skull. "Fuck yes," he breathed, hips lifting slightly off the sofa to meet her thrusts. His fingers loosened their grip in her hair, sliding down to cradle her neck instead. "Just like that, kamini. Faster." His other hand wandered, rough fingertips tracing the shell of her ear, then pinching her earlobe hard. Dhristi flinched but didn’t slow. Her tears mixed with spit and pre-cum, slicking his cock, making obscene wet sounds echo in the silent room. She focused only on the rhythm: suck, pump, swallow the reflex to vomit. End it. End it.

Suddenly, his thighs tensed—a rigid hardness beneath her gripping hand. A low, guttural snarl tore from his throat. "Madarchod!" he barked, the Hindi word sharp and urgent. Dhristi froze mid-stroke, mouth stuffed full. Before she could react, Lakhan’s hand slammed against the back of her head, fingers tangling viciously in her hair. He shoved down with brutal force. Her nose crushed against the coarse hair at the base of his cock. Her throat opened reflexively, stretched impossibly wide. He held her there, impaled, as his hips jerked violently upwards. A hot, thick pulse erupted deep inside her throat. Then another. Semen flooded her, thick and bitter. She gagged, convulsed, but Lakhan kept her pinned, grinding against her face. "Swallow!" he commanded, voice thick with release. "Every drop!"

Dhristi choked. Tears streamed freely now, mixing with spit and the viscous fluid coating her tongue and throat. She swallowed convulsively, the bitter taste making her stomach heave. Lakhan groaned louder, his thrusts shallow and rhythmic as he emptied himself. Each pulse forced more down her gullet. Finally, the spasms slowed. He relaxed his grip slightly but didn’t pull out. His cock remained lodged deep, softening slightly. He patted her head, a condescending thump. "Good hole," he muttered, breathless. "Knows its job."

She stayed frozen, nose crushed against his groin, breathing shallowly through flared nostrils. The smell—musky, intimate, violating—filled her lungs. Her jaw ached. Her throat burned. Silence stretched, thick with the aftermath. Lakhan shifted, pulling his softening cock from her mouth with a slick pop. A thin strand of saliva and semen connected her lips to him for a second before snapping. Dhristi slumped back onto her heels, gasping, wiping her mouth frantically with the back of her hand. She shuddered.

Lakhan watched her, a slow, satisfied smirk spreading across his face. "Hmm," he grunted, tilting her chin up with a rough finger. Her tears had slowed to sticky tracks, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen. He studied her face, the trembling lips, the hollow defeat in her gaze. "No puking today," he observed, his voice flat, almost approving. "Good. Improvement." 

His smirk widened, cruel and knowing. He leaned down suddenly, grabbing a thick fistful of hair near her temple, yanking her head close. His breath washed over her ear as he whispered, low and dangerous: "Ab samjhi? Apni jagah?" He paused, letting the words sink like stones. "Yaad rakh Agli baar jab mein aunga..." He released her hair with a sharp flick, letting her head drop forward.

Dhristi didn't move. She stayed kneeling, head bowed, the violated stillness settling around her like dust. Her breath hitched, a wet, ragged sound. Lakhan shifted his weight on the sofa, the leather creaking loudly. He glanced down at his softening cock, slick with spit and semen. With a casual flick of his thumb, he wiped the glistening residue off the tip onto the sofa armrest. A grimace flickered across his face – not disgust, but mild annoyance at the mess. He grasped the waistband of his crumpled trousers, pulling them up smoothly over his hips. The zipper rasped shut. He tucked himself in with a single, practiced motion, adjusting the fabric over his groin. Done.

 The act was swift, impersonal, utterly detached. He stood up, the sudden movement making Dhristi flinch violently. He didn't look at her. He stretched languidly, arms reaching towards the ceiling, a low groan escaping him – the sound of pure, uncomplicated satisfaction. He smoothed his rumpled silk shirt down over his belly, patted his pockets absently. Finding his car keys, he turned towards the door. His footsteps were heavy, unhurried, echoing on the marble. He paused only to glance at his reflection in the hallway mirror, smoothing back a stray strand of hair. Then, without a backward glance, he pulled the front door open. The afternoon sunlight flooded the dim hallway for a second. He stepped out. The door clicked shut behind him with soft, final sound.

[tharkibudda]

dedupe list helper tool

[tharkibudda]

@khemucha 

I hope this update answers ur question.


Others, please dont expect 2 updates next week. I'm honestly not sure how much i give time during the upcoming holiday season for the USA

[tharkibudda]

[tharkibudda]

[tharkibudda]

Chapter 28 - April 29th

Dhristi didn't move. She stayed kneeling, head bowed, the violated stillness settling around her like dust. Her breath hitched, a wet, ragged sound. Lakhan shifted his weight on the sofa, the leather creaking loudly. He glanced down at his softening cock, slick with spit and semen. With a casual flick of his thumb, he wiped the glistening residue off the tip onto the sofa armrest. A grimace flickered across his face – not disgust, but mild annoyance at the mess. He grasped the waistband of his crumpled trousers, pulling them up smoothly over his hips. The zipper rasped shut. He tucked himself in with a single, practiced motion, adjusting the fabric over his groin. Done. The act was swift, impersonal, utterly detached. He stood up, the sudden movement making Dhristi flinch violently. He didn't look at her. He stretched languidly, arms reaching towards the ceiling, a low groan escaping him – the sound of pure, uncomplicated satisfaction. He smoothed his rumpled silk shirt down over his belly, patted his pockets absently. Finding his car keys, he turned towards the door. His footsteps were heavy, unhurried, echoing on the marble. He paused only to glance at his reflection in the hallway mirror, smoothing back a stray strand of hair. Then, without a backward glance, he pulled the front door open. The afternoon sunlight flooded the dim hallway for a second. He stepped out. The door clicked shut behind him with soft, final sound.


Silence. Deafening silence. Dhristi remained frozen on her knees, trembling violently. The bitter taste lingered thickly at the back of her throat. Her cheeks felt raw, scbangd. Her jaw ached. Slowly, painfully, she lifted a shaking hand to her mouth. Her fingers touched her swollen, bruised lips. She stared blankly at the damp patch on the  floor eneath her knees. The smell of him, musky and sharp, hung heavily in the air, mixing with the faint scent of his expensive cologne and the leather sofa. Minutes crawled by. The trembling intensified until it felt like her bones were vibrating. A choked sob escaped her lips. She gasped, gulping air, pressing her fist hard against her mouth to stifle the next wave. Tears welled, blurring the offending wet patch on the rug. She squeezed her eyes shut, hot tears spilling over her cheeks. Finally, her body unlocked. She collapsed sideways onto the cool floor, curling into a tight ball, her arms wrapped protectively around her stomach. The tremors wracked her frame as silent sobs convulsed through her. She didn't weep loudly; the sounds were muffled, choked gasps against the polished marble floor. The emptiness he left behind felt heavier than his presence ever had.

Suddenly, the deep, guttural roar of Lakhan’s Royal Enfield motorcycle shattered the oppressive quiet. It started with a throaty rumble, vibrating through the walls, then settled into a powerful, rhythmic throb before fading as he rode away. Hearing it leave – the final confirmation he was gone, that she was alone with the wreckage – broke something inside her. The dam burst. Dhristi rolled onto her back, staring blindly at the ceiling fan whirring uselessly above. A raw, guttural wail tore from her throat, ragged and primal. It echoed in the empty living room. Her chest heaved with violent, uncontrollable sobs. Tears streamed down her temples, pooling in her ears, soaking the hair at her temples. She clawed at her salwar kameez, pulling at the fabric bunched around her waist as if trying to rip away the violation clinging to her skin.  Lakhan’s words were knives twisting: Own you. Warm body with holes. Pathetic act. He’d seen right through her pitiful attempt to trade humiliation for the brutal penetration she craved. He’d mocked her desperate bargain and then used her exactly as he pleased, reducing her to nothing but a receptacle for his pleasure and contempt. "Apni jagah?"  The truth was unbearable. She wasn't a wife bargaining; she was just a worthless hole he’d fucked senseless and discarded.

Fifteen minutes crawled by. Fifteen minutes of raw, shuddering grief. Dhristi felt hollowed out, scbangd clean by the sheer force of her weeping. Her cries dwindled to ragged gasps, then hitched breaths. The tears slowed to a salty trickle. Silence pressed down again, heavier than before. Shakily, she pushed herself up onto her elbows. The cool marble felt jarring against her sweat-damp skin. Her jaw throbbed. Her throat burned with the phantom pressure of his cock, the bitter residue coating her tongue. She stared dully at the slick patch glistening faintly on the rug beside her knees – Lakhan’s semen mixed with her spit and tears. Shame washed over her anew, colder than before. Unlike last time, she hadn’t vomited. She hadn’t purged the violation. She’d swallowed it. Accepted it. She was his good hole. Dhristi dragged herself to her feet, legs trembling violently. She stumbled towards the kitchen, each step echoing loudly in the silent flat.

The kitchen tap hissed sharply as she turned it on full blast. She filled a steel glass, her hands shaking so badly water sloshed over the rim onto the counter. She raised it to her lips, gulping desperately, trying to drown the taste. It didn’t work. The bitterness clung stubbornly. Leaning over the sink, she took another mouthful. Tilting her head back, she gargled violently, the harsh sound echoing off the tiles. The water churned in her throat, swirling with the thick, salty slickness she’d swallowed. She spat forcefully into the basin. Again. And again. Spitting out water tinged milky-white, trying to purge him. Trying to reclaim her mouth. Her throat. Her self. But the violation felt deeper than taste. It was etched into her bones. Lakhan’s words echoed louder than the splashing water: "Warm body with holes." "Knows its job." She spat one last time, watching the faintly cloudy water swirl down the drain. It didn’t feel clean. It felt like washing away proof, not sin.

Suddenly, Dhristi tore at her salwar kameez. Fingers fumbled with the buttons at her neck. One popped off, skittering across the floor. She didn’t care. Ripping the fabric open, she peeled the kameez off her shoulders. The silk felt like a second skin of shame, sticky where Lakhan’s fingers had gripped her hair, damp where his sweat and pre-cum had smeared against her skin. She flung it towards the laundry basket. It missed, landing in a crumpled heap near the washing machine. She peeled off her leggings, her bra, her underwear – each layer discarded like contaminated bandages. Standing naked in the harsh kitchen light, she felt exposed, vulnerable, yet strangely defiant. The cold air raised goosebumps on her skin. She hugged herself tightly, shivering. Her gaze fell on the discarded clothes. They weren't just stained; they smelled of him. Musky sweat, stale arrogance, the metallic tang of semen. The scent clawed at her nostrils, triggering a fresh wave of nausea. She needed it off. All of it. Now. She turned sharply, her bare feet slapping against the cool floor, heading straight for the bathroom.

Fifteen minutes later, the steam had thinned to wisps curling towards the ceiling vent. The CCTV feed flickered silently back to life in the living room. The screen showed the bathroom door opening slowly. Dhristi emerged wrapped in a thin, faded towel. Her dark hair clung slickly to her skull like a drowned crow’s feathers, dripping onto her shoulders. Her eyes were fixed on the marble floor, avoiding the sofa entirely – the scene of the crime still radiating its invisible stain. She moved stiffly, a ghost navigating her own home, each step deliberate and silent. The towel clung damply to her hips, emphasizing the sharp angles of her collarbones above its edge. Her skin looked scrubbed raw, unnaturally pink against the cool white tiles. She padded towards the kitchen, bare feet leaving faint wet prints that evaporated almost instantly in the air-conditioned chill.

In the kitchen, she didn’t pause. She moved past the sink, past the counter where the steel glass still sat half-full. Her gaze slid over her discarded clothes near the washing machine – a crumpled heap of silk betrayal. Opening a drawer beside the fridge, she pulled out a simple cotton salwar kameez. Emerald green, modest cut. Village wear. She pulled it on mechanically; the soft fabric felt alien against her scrubbed skin. No mirror checked the fit. No comb touched her wet hair. She simply walked out of the kitchen, the damp towel abandoned on the floor. Heading down the hallway, past the CCTV camera's unblinking lens, she entered the bedroom doorway visible at the edge of the frame. The door clicked shut softly behind her. The camera captured nothing else. Only stillness. Only silence. Only the lingering scent of soap and violation.

On the bed, Dhristi lay rigidly straight atop the rumpled sheets. Eyes wide open, unfocused, fixed on the ceiling fan’s slow rotation. Lakhan’s cold words echoed inside her skull, louder than the fan’s hum: "Warm body with holes." "Apni jagah?" "Knows its job." Each syllable a hammer blow against her ribs. His detached appraisal – "Good hole" – coiled around her throat tighter than his fingers ever had. She shivered, though the room was warm. The green cotton felt like sackcloth. His laughter, mocking her confession about porn, sliced through the quiet. "Pathetic acting." He’d reduced her bargain for brutal penetration into proof of her worthlessness. She hadn’t traded humiliation for pleasure; she’d confirmed she was only ever a vessel. Owned. Used. Discarded. A choked gasp escaped her lips. Her fingers dug into the mattress, knuckles white. But she didn’t cry. The tears were spent. Only the hollow ache remained, carved deeper by his truths.

I moved the cursor to footage of the evening. April 28th, 6:45 PM. The screen flickered to life. There I was, Manav, pushing open the front door, looking weary. Dhristi stood frozen near the bedroom doorway, her emerald green salwar kameez swallowing her frame. Her eyes, dark pits in a pale face, tracked me like a cornered animal. I didn’t acknowledge her usual dreaded look – the tight-lipped silence, the shoulders hunched inward. Instead, I thrust a plastic bag heavy with vegetables toward her. "Lo, subzi le aaya," I mumbled, already toeing off my shoes. She took the bag mechanically, her fingers brushing mine for a split second. Ice cold. I barely registered it, heading straight for the bathroom to wash off the sweat of  office and the Indore shipment files.

Ten minutes later. The CCTV captured me emerging, hair damp, towel slung low. The peace shattered instantly. Dhristi stood rigidly in the kitchen doorway, clutching a rotten, pulpy brinjal. Her voice, usually a hesitant whisper, ripped through the flat like broken glass. "TUMNE QUALITY DEKHI BHI NAHI THI KYA?" she shrieked, hurling the ruined vegetable onto the marble floor. It splattered, oozing dark slime. "SAARA BRINJAL KHARAAB HO GAYA HAI ANDAR SE!" Her chest heaved, eyes blazing with a fury I hadn't seen since before Lakhan began visiting. "Market jaane ka kya faayda jab tum andhe ho? Tumhe sirf apni hi chinta rehti hai!"

I flinched, stunned. "Par... sabzi toh Ahmed ki shop se hi li thi," I stammered, stepping back instinctively. Her accusation felt like a physical blow. "Sabse achha maal milta hai wahan..."

"ACHHA MAAL?" Dhristi’s laugh was shrill, hysterical. She jabbed a trembling finger at the pulpy mess on the floor. "Aisse achha maal roadside bhikari bhi nahi lega! Tumhari aankhen khaali gadhe ke pet mein hai!" Spittle flew from her lips. Her eyes weren’t just angry; they were volcanic, burning with months of suppressed rage. "Market se sabzi laane ke liye dimaag chahiye, na ki tumhare jaise ullu ka pattha!"

I recoiled, heat flooding my face. "Dhristi, bas kar—"



"BAS?" She cut me off, voice trembling with fury. Her hand slammed against the kitchen counter, making the steel utensils clatter. "Tumhare liye sab bas karne ka time hai! Office mein bas, ghar mein bas, hamare beech mein..." Her eyes narrowed, venom dripping. "Tumhari zindagi ka sirf ek maqsad hai—apna pet bharna aur so jaana! Mard ke naam pe kalank ho tum!"

The words struck like physical blows. My fists clenched at my sides, knuckles white. Rage, hot and blinding, surged up my throat. I saw it—the sharp arc my hand would take, the crack of my palm against her cheekbone, the way her head would snap sideways. It pulsed in my temples, a drumbeat of violence. Slap her. Shut that poisonous mouth. Make her bleed like she made me bleed inside.

But I couldn’t. My arm stayed locked. Frozen cowardice. Her furious eyes dared me. Mocked me. "Mard ke naam pe kalank." The truth of it choked me.

Suddenly, I snatched my scooter keys off the hook beside the TV. The metal dug into my palm. I didn’t look at her. Didn’t speak. Just turned on my heel, boots heavy on the marble. The front door slammed behind me with a crack.

One heartbeat. Two. Silence pressed against the CCTV’s lens. Dhristi remained rigid in the kitchen doorway. Then—her shoulders crumpled. Like a puppet with its strings cut. Her hands flew to her face, fingers digging into her temples. A choked gasp escaped—raw, ragged—before dissolving into shuddering sobs. Her knees buckled. She slid down the doorframe, collapsing onto the cold floor. Her green salwar pooled around her. Sobs wracked her body, convulsive and violent. Hichki… hichki… Each gasp hitched like a knife stab. She rocked forward, forehead pressing against the tiles. Tears dripped onto the marble, darkening the stone in uneven splotches beside the rotten brinjal pulp. Her knuckles whitened against her scalp.A fresh wave tore through her. She curled tighter, arms wrapped around her stomach like armor against nothing. Against everything.

She didn’t stagger. Didn’t stumble. Just pushed herself up, legs trembling. Eyes fixed on the hallway floor. She shuffled forward, a sleepwalker navigating wreckage.  Past the untouched bag of groceries. Past the spot where Lakhan had pinned her head earlier. Her wet hair clung to her neck. She reached the bedroom door. Pushed it open. Didn’t glance back. Closed it softly behind her. Click. Silence louder than screams.

Inside, the curtains were drawn. Dim light filtered through. She crawled onto the bed, curling instantly. Knees pulled tight to her chest. Arms wrapped around her shins. Face pressed hard into the mattress. A tiny, choked gasp escaped. Then nothing. Silence. Complete stillness. Only the faint rise and fall of her back under the green salwar. Rigid. Waiting.

An hour crawled. The apartment door clicked open softly. My boots scuffed marble. Quietly, I shed them. Pad pad pad—bare feet crossed the hallway. Paused outside the bedroom door. Listened. Nothing. Not a sob. Not a sniff. Not even breath. Just… stillness. Heavy. Oppressive. I pushed the door open slowly. Peered inside. She lay in a tight ball clenched against the world.  Hair a damp, tangled mess against the pillow. Eyes squeezed shut. Face tear-streaked, red-raw. But breathing. Deep. Even. Asleep? Or pretending? Impossible to tell.

I didn’t speak. Didn’t touch her. Didn’t dare. The air crackled with unspoken venom. I stripped silently—office shirt crumpled on the floor, trousers kicked aside. Slid onto my side of the bed. Felt the mattress dip beneath my weight. She didn’t stir. Didn’t flinch. Just stayed coiled tight, back rigidly towards me. A fortress wall built of green cotton and despair. I stared at the ceiling. The fan blade slicing slow circles.Failure. Cowardice. Both truths carved deep.

Later, alone in the dark study, I closed the CCTV recording with a hard sigh. A bitter laugh choked my throat. Unjust? That word tasted like ash. Lakhan used her like a hole—detached, brutal, leaving her hollowed out and shattered. Then she turned her volcanic rage on me. Called me kalank. A stain. Her fury over rotten brinjal burned hotter than Lakhan’s semen on her skin. Why? Were all her sudden explosions—the slammed doors, the silent tears after trivial arguments—really simmering sexual frustration? Did my gentleness disgust her as much as Lakhan’s ownership? The thought slithered cold and venomous. Had every fight been a scream for brutality I couldn’t deliver?

The next day was Saturday. Lakhan might not visit—weekends were his golf or club days. Still, I decided to play it anyway. Coward’s curiosity. I dragged myself from bed at dawn, the mattress groaning under my weight. Dhristi rose at 6:00 AM sharp like clockwork. Through the CCTV’s grainy lens, I watched her move through the flat like a sleepwalker. Bare feet silent on marble. Eyes downcast. She lit the stove, the blue flame hissing to life. Atta hissed against steel as she kneaded dough—hard, rhythmic punches into the yielding mass. Parathas sizzled on the tawa, golden and crisp, but her movements were stiff, mechanical. No song hummed under her breath. No glance toward the bedroom. Just the clatter of utensils, the scent of ghee hanging heavy in the air.

I woke at 7:00 AM, splashed cold water on my face. Avoided my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Pulled on yesterday’s crumpled kurta pajama. Walked into the living room, sinking onto the sofa. The leather sighed beneath me. I stared blankly at the muted TV screen—some cricket replay flickering silently.

Dhristi emerged from the kitchen doorway clutching a plate of steaming parathas. Her eyes, dull and hollow, swept across the living room—then locked onto me slumped on the sofa. Something snapped. then she ran. Bare feet slapped cold tiles as she flew across the hall, green salwar flapping wildly around her ankles. Before I could react, she crashed to her knees at my feet. Her hands clawed desperately at my pajama legs, nails scbanging fabric.

"Maaf kar do ji!" The plea ripped from her throat—raw, jagged. "Kal ki baat maaf kar do! Main bahut buri biwi hoon!" Tears streamed down her cheeks, dripping onto my feet. Her shoulders shook violently. "Sirf tension deti hoon... sirf pareshaani!" Her voice cracked into a sob. "Aap jaise achhe aadmi ko..."

She stopped abruptly, breath hitching. Her fingers tightened on my pajama cloth, twisting the fabric desperately. When she spoke again, it was a choked whisper, forehead pressed against my knee. "Mujhe... mujhe bahut gussa aata hai... kyunki..." She swallowed hard, the words scbanging out. "Because I'm alone here all day... no one to talk to... not a single soul... just these walls..." Her breath hitched again, ragged. "So I lashed it all onto you... like a madwoman... That rotten brinjal... it wasn't about the brinjal..."

Her shoulders trembled violently, tears soaking my pajama. "This house..." Her voice dropped to a haunted whisper. "It's... it's making me do things... Bad things..." She shuddered, pressing harder against my leg as if trying to burrow inside it. "The silence... it screams at me... Makes me angry... ..."


I couldn't breathe. Her raw confession—her desperate claws digging into my leg—shattered something brittle inside me. Suddenly, I leaned forward, wrapping my arms around her shaking frame. She froze instantly, every muscle locked tight. My voice cracked as I pulled her close, her damp hair pressing against my chest. "Dhristi... shh... It's... it's also my fault." Her body remained rigid, unyielding stone against mine. "Ever since that income tax bastard... that audit file..." My grip tightened, fingers digging into the thin cotton of her salwar kameez. "It's eating my brain. Day and night. Figures... threats... I see nothing else." Her shallow breaths hitched against my collarbone. "I'm sorry," I rasped, the words thick with shame. "So sorry. I didn't see... didn't see your frustration boiling under the skin."

Slowly—so slowly—her trembling eased. Her forehead pressed harder against my chest, seeking anchor in my storm. I lifted her chin gently. Her eyes—red-rimmed, swollen—met mine, filled with a drowning sorrow I'd never seen. Without thought, I kissed her forehead—a dry brush of lips against fevered skin. Salt tears wet my lips. Then, hesitantly, my mouth found hers. Not demanding. Not hungry. Seeking—a fragile bridge over yesterday's wreckage. Her lips parted beneath mine, soft and yielding. A broken sigh escaped her—relief? Surrender?—as she melted against me. The taste of tears, paratha, and despair mingled on our tongues. Her hands crept up, trembling fingers clutching my kurta collar like driftwood. The kiss deepened—slow, searching—as if stitching wounds with silk thread. All the fury over rotten brinjals, Lakhan's sneering ownership, my cowardly silence—dissolved into that quiet press of lips. Blissful ignorance cocooned us. Sweet. Fragile. Deadly.


When we finally pulled apart, breath ragged, her eyes fluttered open—dazed, vulnerable. A ghost of trust flickered there. Seizing that sliver, I touched her damp cheek. "Chalo," I murmured, voice thick. "Let’s just... go. Far from these walls." Her brow furrowed slightly. "Kahan?" she whispered. I brushed a stray hair off her forehead. "Hill temple first," I said softly. "Darshan karenge. Phir lunch lakeside. Evening tak ghar wapas nahi." She blinked, uncomprehending. I leaned closer, kissing her temple. "House duty? Forget it today." A flicker—bright, startled—lit her eyes. Relief? Hope? She nodded once, sharp. "Haan," she breathed. "Chalo."

Then she flung herself against my chest again, arms locking around my ribs like iron bands. Her muffled sob vibrated against my skin. "Aap... aap duniya ka sabse achha husband ho," she choked out, repeating it like a fevered prayer. "Sabse achha." The words were raw, jagged—a shield against Lakhan’s warm body holes. Against yesterday’s kalank.  I held her tighter, burying my face in her hair—scented faintly of cheap soap and despair. Blissful ignorance wrapped us tight. Sweet. Fragile. Deadly.

We sat on the cold marble floor, knees pressed together, tearing into the lukewarm parathas. Grease smeared our fingers; flakes littered the tiles. No words. Just the soft tear of bread, the wet swallow of swallowed tears. Forgiveness tasted like stale ghee and salted dough. Dhristi chewed mechanically, eyes fixed on my collar bone, avoiding my gaze. The silence screamed louder than yesterday’s screams.

Suddenly, she dropped her half-eaten paratha. Lunged forward, arms locking around my neck. "You... you’re the best husband," she hiccuped into my shoulder, wet heat soaking my kurta. "Duniya ka sabse achha." The words trembled—raw, desperate. A shield against Lakhan’s ghost still staining this room. I held her, awkwardly patting her shaking back. Best? The word curdled.

We finished eating in thick silence. Greasy fingers, crumbs scattered like battlefield debris. Forgiveness tasted stale. Dhristi rose stiffly, vanished into the bedroom to change. I heard the rustle of silk—a sharp contrast to yesterday’s cotton despair. The CCTV camera above the entrance blinked its red eye. Watching. Waiting. Five minutes passed. Ten. Dhristi emerged in a deep blue salwar suit, hair hastily braided, eyes avoiding mine. "Ready?" My voice cracked. She nodded, mute. We stepped out. The door clicked shut behind us. Darkness swallowed the hallway. The CCTV feed flickered once, twice—then surrendered to black. Inactivity. Silence reclaimed its throne.

The CCTV feed flickered back to life at 8:42 PM. Grainy footage caught us stumbling through the doorway—Dhristi first, her cheeks flushed pink from hill wind and laughter, arms laden with garish plastic bags spilling marigold flowers and temple prasad. I followed, shoulders slumped in exhaustion but grinning like an idiot, balancing a leaking parcel of lakeside pakoras. Our footsteps echoed too loud in the silent flat. Suddenly, Dhristi tripped over her own dupatta, sending orange blossoms scattering across marble. "Arrey Bhagwan!" she squealed, collapsing against the wall in giggles. I doubled over, pakora grease staining my shirt as laughter ripped through me—raw, unfiltered, tearing at the day's tension.

In that grainy frame, we looked drunk on freedom. Dhristi’s braid had unraveled into wild tendrils clinging to sweat-damp temples. Her blue salwar knees were dusty from scrambling up temple steps. Mine too. We’d argued halfway up—her insisting barefoot pilgrims had purer faith, me snapping about broken glass—before dissolving into shared laughter at a priest's screeching parrot. Now, breathless and sticky with lake mist, Dhristi slid down the wall beside the flower-strewn mess. "Kitna mast tha na?" she sighed, eyes shining. Not Lakhan's hollow shine. This was liquid moonlight. "Sab bhool gaye," she whispered. The bhool gaye tasted like hot imarti and stolen seconds where "warm body holes" didn't exist.

Suddenly, I grabbed her wrist. Not Lakhan’s iron grip—gentle, urgent. Pulled her towards our bedroom. She stumbled, giggling against my shoulder. "Thak gayi hoon," she protested weakly, but her fingers tangled in my shirt, pulling me closer. Inside, shadows swallowed us. Only streetlamp glow sliced through the curtain crack. I pushed the door shut with my foot. Silence screamed louder than the highway outside. Then I kissed her. Hard. Not the fragile bridge-building kiss from morning. This was hunger—raw and claiming. Paratha, pakora grease, temple sweets—all erased by the salt-sweet taste of her mouth opening under mine. She gasped into it, fingers clawing my back, pulling me flush. "Haan," she breathed against my lips, ragged. "Haan…"

Tired? Yes. Bones ached from temple steps. But lust burned hotter—a wildfire in dry grass. My hands fumbled at the hooks of her blue kameez. Clumsy. Desperate. Fingers shaking. One hook snapped, plastic pinging off the wall. Dhristi didn’t flinch. She arched into me, helping, yanking the fabric down over her shoulders. Silk pooled at her waist like spilled midnight. Her bra—flimsy pink cotton—was next. A single tug. Gone. Cool air hit her skin. She shuddered. Not from cold.

Suddenly, my mouth crashed down onto her left breast. Hard. No teasing. Raw hunger. Teeth scbangd nipple. She gasped—sharp, shocked—then moaned deep in her throat. Fingers tangled in my hair, pulling me closer, harder. "Haan… haan…" Ragged. Needy. Like she’d been starved for this roughness. My tongue flicked, circled, bit down again. Her back arched off the door, pressing her flesh deeper into my mouth. Salty sweat. Lake mist. The faint sweetness of temple sindoor still smudged above her breastbone. I sucked greedily, marking her pale skin blooming red-purple. Her right breast begged attention. I switched. Same ferocity. Nipping. Sucking. Devouring. Her whimpers turned urgent, hips grinding against my thigh. "Zyada… zyada karo…" More. Do more. Her plea was thick, slurred with want. Not the broken whispers from morning. This was fire. Unashamed. Unfiltered. Blissfully ignorant.

My hand slid down her trembling belly. Over the swell of her hip bone. Rough fingers hooked into the thin elastic waistband of her panty. I yanked down. Hard. Sudden. The fabric slid over her hips, catching halfway down her thighs. Cool air kissed bare skin. She gasped again—different this time. Sharp. Panicked. Her eyes flew wide. Moonlight caught the sheer terror flashing across her face. Then her hand slammed down over mine, nails digging deep into my knuckles. Cold. Shockingly cold. "NO:" The scream tore from her throat—raw, primal, echoing off the bedroom walls like shattered glass. "NAHI!" Not a plea. A command. Absolute. Final. Her body locked rigid. Stone against my heat. Blissful ignorance shattered.

I froze. Breath ragged. Heart pounding against her ribs. Her nails drew blood. Tiny beads rose on my skin. Her eyes—wild, terrified—held mine. Not drowning sorrow now. Pure animal fear. Lakhan’s ghost stood grinning in the shadows. Suddenly, it clicked. Brutal. Sickening. Her no wasn’t coyness. Wasn’t village shyness. It was a wall. Solid. Unbreakable. She meant it. Every syllable. My hand jerked back like touching fire. I scrambled backwards off her.  Face burning with shame hotter than any lust. I rolled away. Collapsed onto my side of the bed. Sheets tangled cold around my ankles. Silence screamed louder than her scream.

Dhristi curled into a ball instantly. Knees pulled tight to her chest. Arms wrapped around shins. Face buried in mattress. Her shoulders shook—violent, silent tremors. Silk pooled at her waist. Skin gleamed pale in moonlight. Cold. Exposed. Vulnerable. Minutes crawled. Only her choked breaths filled the room. Then, muffled against sheets, thick with tears: "Aaj... aaj safe day nahi hai." Not safe day. . Lakhan’s seed forced down her throat days ago didn’t care about ovulation calendars. She knew it.  Silence swallowed the words. Her shoulders hitched harder. Ragged sob escaped. "Mujhe maaf kar do..." Her voice cracked open. Raw. Bleeding. "Main... main pehle woh baat nahi bolni chahiye thi." Shouldn't have said it earlier. The apology tore itself out—sharp, jagged.  For trusting my gentleness even for a second. Blissful ignorance lay shattered between us. Sharp shards everywhere.

Suddenly, she flipped onto her back. Stared at the ceiling fan slicing slow circles. Tears streamed sideways, pooling in her ears. "I'm sorry dear," she gasped—voice thick, wet. Hopeless. "Maine sab kuchh bigaad diya."  Her fingers clawed at the sheet. "You wanted... wanted sex..." Breath hitched violently. "But I... couldn't give..." The admission ripped through her like glass. "Main bilkul achi biwi nahi hoon..." She dissolved—shoulders crumpling. Tears flooded her temples. Hair plastered wet to skin. "Kuchh bhi theek nahi kar paati..."  The sobs came louder now—ugly, wrenching. Unstoppable. "Sab galat... sab kharab..."  Her knuckles whitened gripping the sheet.

I didn't know what to do but hug her tightly—arms locking around her trembling ribs—and said gently against her damp hair, "Look dear, sex is a holy bond between us." My lips brushed her temple. Salt tears coated my tongue. "It should be done only with our love..." She froze mid-sob. Breath held. "...not when you're unwilling." Her whole body shuddered—violent release. Melted against me. Fingers clutching my kurta. "Shh..." I murmured into her hair—cheap soap scent mixed with temple incense still clinging. "No force. Ever." Her nod pressed hard against my chest—desperate. Grateful.

She hugged me back desperately, fingers digging into my shoulders like claws. Her sobs muffled against my chest—hot, wet, and shuddering. The broken rhythm of her breathing filled the dark room. Slowly, her grip loosened. The violent tremors subsided into exhausted shivers. She pulled back just enough to lift her head.

Moonlight caught her tear-streaked face. Puffy eyes locked onto mine, swollen lips pressed tight. For a breath, silence screamed louder than her cries. Then her fingers crept up, cold against my jawline. "We can still do, dear," she whispered—hoarse, serious. Deadly serious. Her thumb brushed my lower lip. "Gentle... slow... like you always..." Her voice cracked.

I kissed her damp forehead. Soft. Dry lips against salty skin. "It’s fine, dear." The words settled like dust. "We had decided to delay children for one year." Her breath hitched. "Let’s not break it for one night." Blissful ignorance wrapped us again. Sweet. Fragile. Deadly.

Dhristi sighed—a ragged, broken sound. Then she shifted closer, her cold toes brushing my ankle. Her voice dropped to a haunted whisper against my collarbone. "Not that we can..." She stopped abruptly. Swallowed hard. Eyes squeezed shut. "Never mind." Her fingers traced my chest, trembling. "Bas... so jaate hain." Her lips pressed tight. Sealed the sentence shut. Silence screamed louder than Lakhan’s laughter echoing in my skull. I patted her shoulder. "Haan... so jaate hain." Blissful ignorance cocooned us. I didn’t see the offer hidden in her choked pause. Didn’t taste the desperation coating her words.

But now—rewatching the grainy footage hours later—it screams at me. Dhristi’s hesitant whisper: "Not that we can..." followed by that sharp swallow. The tremor in her fingers tracing my chest. The sudden shift under the sheet—hips angling subtly toward me.  Her lips pressed tight? Not resignation. Suppressed panic. Frustration. Because I didn’t move. Didn’t understand. She was offering her mouth. Offering to give a blowjob so that she can give me pleasure without chance of getting pregnant.

Unfortunately I didnt catch the drift. My sanskari village wife offered this—her mouth, her throat, her desperate compromise—and I rolled over like a dead fish. On that grainy CCTV playback, I watch my own stupidity immortalized: Dhristi shifts subtly under the sheet, hips angling towards me—an invitation written in trembling flesh. Her fingers trace my chest—not affection, but navigation. To guide my head downward. To where her lips parted slightly in shadow. "Bas... so jaate hain," she'd whispered. . But her eyes—wide, wet, fixed on the ceiling—screamed take this offering.