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Muzzammil Manzoor Muzzammil Manzoor
Recommendations: 2

The Affair

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She had a friend.

This writing contains explicit content and is only for adults. You have been warned.

Completed this after a fair amount of time. Had to refine the ideas a bit. Hope you enjoy!

It started innocuously enough. A single red rose, left on the postbox. A simple beginning of the end. He noticed it as he was backing his car up the driveway, but took no notice of it. Life went on as happily as ever between him and the wife.

A week later, the bunch of flowers came. Red and white roses, intertwined with each other. A tag saying ‘Yours eternally.’ It was then that things began to warm up.

Their first argument in many years took place. No doubt the wife was beautiful and would have her fair share of suitors after even being married, but the relationship between her and James was cast iron solid, and uneventful of any illicit relations so far.

The seeds of dissent sown by the innocent roses began to grow, stealing into James heart, the branches grasping his heart in the vice cold grip of betrayal.
An uneasy silence preceded the months that followed. The topic would seldom be brought up at dinner, the wife in a state of vehement denial, James quietly probing and retreating. Little they know that it was the quiet before the storm.

Then came the email. Ah, internet had its uses. It went straight into the wife’s inbox, and as she opened it, it downloaded a wee little virus onto the computer. As she stared at the screen, her skin blanching, the virus quietly and secretively transferred the pictures stored on the laptop and all wife-connected devices to a remote server. And when the poor wife reloaded the Gmail tab in despair, it uploaded itself to the Gmail server again as a user, and began its work.

At 11:43 am, he received it.

At 11:46, he exited the office.

And at 12:06, the husband came home, storming through the front doors and into the kitchen, his face black as a cloud.

“What the fuck, Kath!”
She was standing, a kitchen knife in one hand, albeit a trembling hand.
“The email?”
“Uhh—wwhich email?
“The one that you fucking sent!”
“I-I didn’t send any email….” She was now genuinely puzzled.
“Yes you did! Me? A selfish and mindless brute? How could you? After all these damn years!?”
“Wait, seriously, I didn’t send any email…”
“Oh and you dreamed up all that crap about you finding a gentler person and that proof of his commitment would be arriving soon?”
“Can’t you fucking believe me? I didn’t send any darn email!!”
“We’ll see about that.”

He stormed up the stairs to the bedroom, to find the laptop still on, frozen on the Gmail screen. Quickly, he reloaded the page, not giving a darn about the contents of the inbox, and clicked on the Sent tab.
The proof of her infidelity was still there. A sent email to with the title, “I despise you.”
Angered, he switched back to the Inbox, and was about to slam the laptop shut when he saw the email. “Hello Sweetie.” He opened it, whizzed through the contents in a mindless rage, when the last line caught his attention.
“We had a wonderful time last Saturday. Hope to that again soon! Nice tricks, btw… “

It took control of him. The yellow of the flame died away, leaving the blue inside him. He quietly went downstairs, like a prowler.
“Da-arling, where did you say you went last Saturday?"


She flinched, as if contorted by a disease. Of course, she had been bracing herself for this question.
“I…err went to the housewives’ seminar. I thought I-I- ttold you?
“Oh yes, I totally believe you. Did any of the other err…friends of yours go with you?” His voice was dangerously quiet.
“Err no, they declined. I just went to there to you know, be err….social.”
As if spending 9 years in the same society wasn’t social enough.
He came in for the kill, “You sure you went there to be… Or to be fucked?”
It stung him into reality. Ouch. She could slap hard.

And then she started crying.

“What do you want from me, Joe? What do you want? I didn’t do anything, I swear to God….Somebody’s messing with both of our lives….”
“Now Kath, listen..”
“No. I won’t listen to you!,” saying this she stumbled upstairs, and into her room, sobbing inconsolably. The husband felt a pang of sympathy, and feeling all the fight go out of him, he sat on a chair and took his forehead into his hands.

Life continued as normally as ever outside the household. The weeks passed, the plumbers came, fixed the leaking taps, and went. The couple did not want others to be aware of their predicament.

And then after the storm had subsided, the hurricane came, tearing apart their relationship.

She found it one Sunday morning. Tucked neatly inside her purse. How, she wondered? It was a simple brown envelope, though the contents seemed unbearably heavy.
There was a simple line scrawled on it.


Her hands trembled and the envelope fell to the floor. The photos spilled out in cascades, right as the husband entered the room.

He bent down, and clutched one of the photos.
He saw it. Proof. Scandalous, unmasked proof of the truth.

Photos of the wife in truly erotic postures with another unidentified man.

He felt the anger boil inside of him. She had lied. The blood pressure skyrocketed as his brain tried to comprehend this new information.

And then it fell out, it’s noise slicing through the tense air.

A gun. An ordinary gun. So lethal.

He went for it first, beating the wife to it. She screamed ‘No, don’t!,’ as the husband stood cautiously, gun in hand, glinting dangerously in the dim light.

“Now let’s just all calm down here for a second….Take a deep breath..”

The husband was standing quite close to the wife. Her hand carefully inched towards the hand containing the gun, whilst the husband stood unawares, staring intently into the wife’s eyes with an aura of distrust and hatred emanating from them.

The wife’s cold hand on his wrist was quite a shock. The receptors felt the coldness, relayed their message to the central nervous system, and then came back the message of an involuntary jerk of the muscles involved in the subclavian portion (shoulders to hands). Unfortunately, but quite uncontrollably the reflex action prompted the finger muscles to contract as well.

The trigger finger, that is.


And just like that, the relationship ended. The gun bucked back, the bullet neatly pierced the aortic arch of the wife, and she fell to the ground, blood spurting from her chest cavity.

They were unaware that this was all being watched by the mini-camera hidden in the water sprinkler cap.


A 1000 miles away, he stretched. Yawn. The end of this tragi-comedy. It had been so easy… He watched as the husband’s expression changed to one of rage to despair, and of hopelessness. He watched as the husband shot himself, and died.
Another couple gone. 46 murders done. 64 left.

The Pesha stared at the screen for 5 more seconds, and then turned it off. He’d need to refine his methods a bit more. The roses were fine, but he had to do it subtly…perhaps a cyanide perfumed bunch of roses?

He smacked his lips. The idea was interesting. But he would start with the rose.


It started innocuously enough. A single red rose, left on the postbox......

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