Adultery Indian Wife descent into depravity

[cuckravi]

A descent into depravity

i’m ravi, a 32-year-old desk jockey at a mumbai-based tech firm, scraping by in a world that’s always one bad day from chewing me up. my wife, meera, is the light of my damn life—26, voluptuous, a goddess in human form. she’s got curves that could stop traffic, and she knows it. always draped in these sheer, transparent saris that cling to her like a second skin, paired with sleeveless blouses cut so deep you’d swear they’re begging for attention. her navel, that perfect little tease, peeks out just enough to drive any man mad. we’ve been married five years, and our love’s rock solid, but our bedroom talk? it’s filthy. we fantasize about the wildest shit—cuckolding, hotwife scenarios, swinging—but it’s always stayed in our heads. until now.

shit hit the fan last month. my performance at work tanked; i’m on the verge of getting canned. my boss, wasim, is a beast of a man—dark, muscular, a walking slab of dominance with a reputation as a womanizer. word is, he’s packing something unholy down there, and he’s not shy about using it to get what he wants. i’ve seen the way he smirks, like he owns the damn world. turns out, he might just own me too.

it started with a stupid mistake. i left my phone on my desk during a break, screen unlocked, and a photo of meera popped up as my wallpaper. not just any photo—one from diwali last year, her in a red sari so sheer you could see the outline of her thighs, blouse plunging to show off that creamy cleavage, navel exposed like a forbidden fruit. wasim saw it. i knew the second i came back and caught that glint in his eye, predatory as hell.

“nice piece you’ve got there, ravi,” he said, voice low, almost a growl. “didn’t peg you for the type to hide such… assets.”

i froze, heart hammering. “sir, that’s my wife. please—”

“relax, beta,” he cut me off, leaning back in his chair, all smug. “i’m not judging. but let’s talk business. you’re on thin ice here. one word from me, and you’re out on the street. unless…” he paused, letting the weight of it sink in. “unless you share some of that beauty with me. one night with meera, and your job’s safe.”

i wanted to punch him, to tell him to shove it, but the reality of bills, rent, and meera’s disappointed eyes if i came home jobless—it gutted me. i went home that night, hands shaking, and told her everything.

meera sat on our bed, sari slipping off one shoulder, looking like a fantasy even in her shock. “ravi, are you serious? he wants… me?” her voice was soft, but i saw something flicker in her dark eyes—fear, yes, but also that twisted curiosity we’ve played with in whispers.

“i don’t know what to do,” i admitted, head in my hands. “we can’t afford to lose this job. but i can’t bear the thought of him touching you… unless you’re okay with it.”

she bit her lip, fingers tracing the edge of her blouse. “if it’s just once, and it saves us… maybe. but only if you’re there. i won’t do it alone.”

my gut twisted—part dread, part sick arousal from those late-night fantasies creeping into reality. we agreed, reluctantly, setting up a ‘meeting’ at wasim’s penthouse that weekend.







Guys comment if you want me to continue ,
NOTE:- this story may seem to be copied but its not ive only taken the story theme "indian wife blackmailed and fucked my hubbys boss", but this story is completely diffirent form any kind you read , weekly updates promised and this is my first time writing please support comments and compliments along with suggestions or mockery all are welcome

 

[GiveMeExtra]

Pls post next

 

[cuckravi]

than

Pls post next

thanks for your comment it mean a lot i will post the next part shortly 1,2 days until then have a look at my new story " https://xforum.live/threads/an-indian-mothers-debauchery.186916/ "

 

[cuckravi]

The first night: a line crossed into hell


wasim’s penthouse was a fortress of glass and steel, perched high above mumbai’s chaos—a cold, sleek monument to power that stank of money and menace.

the bastard greeted us at the door himself, shirt half-unbuttoned, revealing a chiseled chest glistening with a sheen of sweat, his dark skin catching the dim light like polished obsidian. a smirk curled his lips as he sized up meera like a fucking predator about to feast. she stood beside me, draped in a black sari so sheer it was damn near obscene, the fabric clinging to every curve of her voluptuous frame. her blouse—cut so deep it barely held her massive tits—showcased a neckline that plunged straight to sin, her navel peeking out teasingly through the translucent drape. her nervousness only made her hotter, those trembling lips and wide eyes screaming vulnerability in a way that twisted my gut and, fuck me, something else i hated to name.

“welcome, lovebirds,” wasim drawled, voice thick with mockery as he poured whiskey from a crystal decanter without even asking if we wanted any. he swirled the amber liquid in his glass, eyeing meera’s body up and down like she was on auction. “let’s skip the bullshit pleasantries. ravi, plant your sorry ass over there.” he jerked his chin toward a leather chair in the corner of his massive bedroom, the message clear as day: sit, watch, and shut the fuck up.



meera shot me a glance, her dark eyes pleading for some kind of reassurance i couldn’t give. my throat was tight as a noose, but i nodded anyway, feeling like a coward as she took a shaky step toward him. wasim didn’t waste a fucking second—his big hands were on her instantly, yanking the pallu off her shoulder with a rough tug, exposing more of that scandalous blouse. her creamy skin gleamed under the low lights, and he let out a low growl, murmuring, “damn, woman, you’re built to be fucking worshipped… or ruined. guess which one I’m picking tonight.”

“please… be gentle,” she whispered, her voice quivering like a leaf in a storm, hands fidgeting with the edge of her sari as if she could shield herself from what was coming.



“gentle ain’t my fuckin’ style, sweetheart,” he chuckled darkly, gripping her waist with both hands and pulling her flush against his bulk. “you’re gonna take what i give, and you’re gonna love every second of it.” i sat there, paralyzed, as he buried his face in her neck, kissing and biting hard enough to leave marks while his hands roamed over her curves like he owned every inch. he squeezed her tits through the thin blouse fabric, making her gasp—a sound that cut me deeper than any blade. then he looked over at me, grinning like the devil himself. “see this, ravi? this is what a real man does with a fine piece of ass like her. you’re just a pathetic spectator now, you limp-dick cuck.”



humiliation burned through me like wildfire, searing my insides, but fuck if there wasn’t something else there too—some primal, twisted heat i despised admitting even to myself. wasim took his sweet time stripping her sari off, peeling the fabric away inch by torturous inch, savoring every reveal like a sick connoisseur. the black material pooled at her feet, leaving her standing there in just that slutty blouse and a petticoat . she shivered under his gaze, arms crossed instinctively over her chest, but he pried them apart with ease, drinking in the sight of her trembling body. “fuck me, look at these curves,” he muttered, running a rough hand down her hip. “prime pussy just begging to be wrecked.”



“wasim, please… don’t do this in front of him,” meera begged softly, her voice breaking as she glanced at me again, eyes wet with shame.



“oh, darlin’, that’s the whole fucking point,” he sneered, turning her face back to him with a firm grip on her chin. “your little bitch-boy husband gets to watch me claim what’s mine. ain’t that right, ravi? tell her how much you want to see me fuck her brains out.”



i opened my mouth, but nothing came out—just a choked sound that made his grin widen. “thought so,” he said with a laugh, then shoved meera backward onto his king-sized bed, the black silk sheets crumpling under her as she landed with a small cry. he climbed over her, his massive frame dwarfing hers completely, a predator pinning prey with no chance of escape. his hands were everywhere—ripping at her blouse until buttons popped off, exposing her lacy black bra barely containing those perfect tits, nipples already hard under the fabric from fear or something worse.



“tell your husband how it feels to be under a real cock for once,” he ordered, voice low and cruel as he undid his belt with a slow, deliberate clink. he shoved down his trousers just enough to free himself, revealing what the rumors hadn’t exaggerated—a monstrous fucking dick, thick as my wrist and long enough to make meera’s eyes widen in raw terror. veins bulged along its length, the head already glistening as he stroked it once, twice, watching her reaction with sadistic glee.



“ravi…” she whimpered, looking at me with those haunted eyes as he positioned himself between her thighs, forcing her petticoat up around her waist to reveal matching black panties so sheer they hid nothing. “i’m so sorry… i don’t want this…”



“don’t fucking apologize to him,” wasim snapped, slapping her thigh hard enough to leave a red handprint on her skin. “he’s gonna sit there and jerk off to this whether he admits it or not. ain’t that right, cuck? bet your tiny prick’s already twitching watching me take your slutty wife.” without another word or any warning, he tore her panties off in one brutal yank, the fabric ripping audibly, and thrust into her raw and hard. she screamed—a piercing sound of pain and shock—as her hands clutched the sheets, knuckles white, body arching under the sudden invasion.



i couldn’t look away even if i wanted to; my eyes were glued to the nightmare unfolding. every grunt from him, every stifled moan and cry from her, stabbed me deeper than any fucking knife could reach. yet i was rooted to that chair, chest tight, watching him take her apart stroke by brutal stroke. he pounded into her without mercy, the bed creaking under his force, her legs trembling as she tried to brace herself against the onslaught. “fuck yeah, tight little cunt,” he growled through gritted teeth, one hand pinning her hip down while the other mauled her tit through the bra he hadn’t bothered to remove yet. “gripping me like a goddamn vice. bet you’ve never had it this good, huh?”



meera bit her lip hard, tears streaming down her cheeks as she shook her head faintly, but another sharp thrust forced a gasp from her—a sound laced with something i didn’t want to name but couldn’t ignore. wasim caught it too, laughing darkly as he leaned down to bite at her neck again. “that’s it, bitch, moan for me. let your loser husband hear how much you love this fat cock stretching you out.”



he kept taunting me through it all, each word a lash cutting deeper into my soul. “look at your wife, ravi. she’s fuckin’ mine tonight. bet she never screamed like this for your pathetic ass. watch how she takes every inch—born for this shit.” he pulled back slightly just to slam into her harder, making her cry out again, voice raw now. “tell him, slut. tell him how much better I am.”



“ravi… please don’t hate me,” she sobbed between gasps, turning her head to meet my eyes for a fleeting second before another brutal thrust made her wince and look away.



“he don’t hate you, whore—he’s loving this,” wasim sneered at me over his shoulder, not slowing his pace for a goddamn second. “look at him sitting there all quiet. probably creaming his pants seeing his precious wife turned into my personal fuck-toy. wanna come closer for a better view, cuck? see how I’m splitting this pussy open?”



i stayed silent, hands clenched into fists on the chair arms, nails digging into my palms until they bled. the room filled with the obscene sounds of flesh slapping against flesh, meera’s broken whimpers, and wasim’s guttural grunts as he used her like she was nothing more than a hole to conquer. minutes bled into what felt like hours; he flipped her onto her stomach at one point, yanking her hips up to take her from behind, smacking her ass hard enough to echo through the room. “fuckin’ perfect view,” he muttered, spreading her cheeks apart for a moment as if displaying her degradation just for me. “this ass is next on my list, ravi. gonna train it real good soon.”



when he finally finished—after dragging it out far longer than any man should be able to—he pulled out with a satisfied groan, unloading across her back in thick streaks that glistened under the light. meera collapsed face-down on the sheets, sobbing quietly into the silk as he stood up, zipping himself back into his trousers like nothing happened. he grabbed her torn sari off the floor and tossed it at her carelessly, the fabric landing across her bruised thighs. “cover up, slut,” he said dismissively. “don’t want you catching cold before I’m done with you.”



then he turned to me, that smug smirk back in full force as he poured himself another glass of whiskey. “job’s safe for now, cuck. but don’t get comfy—this ain’t no one-time deal. I’ve got big fuckin’ plans for this piece of ass you call a wife. parties, trips, clients who’ll pay top dollar to ruin a beauty like her. you’re both mine now—get used to it.”



meera slowly sat up, clutching the sari to cover herself as best she could, avoiding my gaze while fresh tears dripped onto the bed. i wanted to say something—anything—to ease the weight crushing us both, but words failed me under the suffocating reality of our new hell. wasim just laughed softly at my silence before taking a long sip of his drink. “get out of my sight for tonight. but don’t think you’re off the hook—I’ll be calling for round two soon enough.”

 

[cuckravi]

The silent drive and a fractured intimacy



the drive home from wasim’s penthouse was a suffocating void. the hum of the car engine was the only sound, drowning out the storm in my head as i gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white. meera sat beside me, staring out the window into the mumbai night, her face a mask of unreadable emotion. we didn’t look at each other—couldn’t. the weight of what had just happened hung between us like a noose, tightening with every passing second. yet, shamefully, my body betrayed me. my cock throbbed painfully in my trousers, hard as iron, the memory of wasim’s monstrous size claiming her replaying on a sick loop in my mind. i hated myself for it, but the image of her gasping under him, torn between pain and something else, wouldn’t leave me.



i stole a glance at her hands in her lap, fingers twisting nervously at the edge of her sari—the same black one, now wrinkled and hastily draped after being tossed aside like garbage. i wondered if she was thinking of it too, that unholy girth stretching her in ways i never could. her silence screamed louder than any words; i knew she felt it, the ghost of his dominance lingering on her skin.



we stumbled into our modest flat just past 2 am, the door clicking shut behind us with a finality that mirrored my dread. meera didn’t bother changing, collapsing onto our bed still in that damned sari, her eyes red-rimmed as she finally looked at me. “ravi…” her voice cracked, tears spilling over as she sat up, clutching a pillow to her chest like a shield. “i don’t know how to say this. i… i liked it. some part of me did. and i hate myself for it.”



her confession hit like a gut punch, echoing my own twisted shame. i sat beside her, head in my hands, unable to meet her gaze at first. “meera, i’m just as fucked up. watching you with him… it killed me. but god help me, it turned me on too. i’m sitting here hard as hell even now, and i loathe myself for it.” my voice was raw, breaking under the weight of truth. “we’ve fantasized about this—hotwife, cuckold, all that dark shit—but reality’s a different beast. it’s tearing us apart.”



she reached for my hand, her touch trembling but warm. “we’re trapped, aren’t we? between what we want deep down and what we’ve been taught to be—good indian husband and wife, bound by culture, by shame. but ravi, we can’t fight this alone. if we stop, wasim will destroy us. we have no choice but to go with the flow, to… to let these fantasies play out, even if we hate parts of it.”



i nodded slowly, her words slicing through the fog of guilt. “you’re right. we’ve whispered about this in bed for years—me watching you with others, you being taken by someone stronger. maybe this is our chance to live it, even if it’s under his bloody thumb. we’ll ride this wave together, no matter how filthy it gets.” my throat tightened as i spoke, a mix of resolve and resignation settling in.



we sat there for a long moment, tears drying on her cheeks as we reminded each other of those late-night fantasies—her being a hotwife paraded for hungry eyes, me reduced to a cuckold reveling in humiliation. re-imagining tonight’s horror through that lens shifted something in us. i pulled her close, kissing her fiercely, tasting salt and desperation on her lips. she responded with equal hunger, shedding the sari as we fell back onto the bed, her curves bared to me once more—but this time, it was different. more intense, more feral than our usual lovemaking. my cock, pitifully small compared to wasim’s beast, couldn’t match his raw power, but the emotional charge—the shared shame and perverse thrill—fueled us. she moaned louder than usual, clawing at my back as i thrust into her, both of us chasing a release that burned hotter than before, even if it couldn’t touch the brutal ecstasy she’d felt hours ago. “imagine it’s him again,” i rasped against her ear, and her sharp gasp told me she did, pushing us both over the edge in a tangled mess of guilt and desire.



the morning after was a haze of unease. neither of us spoke much over chai, the ghosts of last night lingering in every glance. around noon, my phone buzzed with a message from wasim himself—an invitation for a “private talk” at his office cabin at 3 pm sharp. no details, just a cold command. my stomach churned as i relayed it to meera, whose face paled but hardened with that same resigned grit from last night.

 

[Regime9532]

next update

 

[Cuckh]

The silent drive and a fractured intimacy



the drive home from wasim’s penthouse was a suffocating void. the hum of the car engine was the only sound, drowning out the storm in my head as i gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white. meera sat beside me, staring out the window into the mumbai night, her face a mask of unreadable emotion. we didn’t look at each other—couldn’t. the weight of what had just happened hung between us like a noose, tightening with every passing second. yet, shamefully, my body betrayed me. my cock throbbed painfully in my trousers, hard as iron, the memory of wasim’s monstrous size claiming her replaying on a sick loop in my mind. i hated myself for it, but the image of her gasping under him, torn between pain and something else, wouldn’t leave me.



i stole a glance at her hands in her lap, fingers twisting nervously at the edge of her sari—the same black one, now wrinkled and hastily draped after being tossed aside like garbage. i wondered if she was thinking of it too, that unholy girth stretching her in ways i never could. her silence screamed louder than any words; i knew she felt it, the ghost of his dominance lingering on her skin.



we stumbled into our modest flat just past 2 am, the door clicking shut behind us with a finality that mirrored my dread. meera didn’t bother changing, collapsing onto our bed still in that damned sari, her eyes red-rimmed as she finally looked at me. “ravi…” her voice cracked, tears spilling over as she sat up, clutching a pillow to her chest like a shield. “i don’t know how to say this. i… i liked it. some part of me did. and i hate myself for it.”



her confession hit like a gut punch, echoing my own twisted shame. i sat beside her, head in my hands, unable to meet her gaze at first. “meera, i’m just as fucked up. watching you with him… it killed me. but god help me, it turned me on too. i’m sitting here hard as hell even now, and i loathe myself for it.” my voice was raw, breaking under the weight of truth. “we’ve fantasized about this—hotwife, cuckold, all that dark shit—but reality’s a different beast. it’s tearing us apart.”



she reached for my hand, her touch trembling but warm. “we’re trapped, aren’t we? between what we want deep down and what we’ve been taught to be—good indian husband and wife, bound by culture, by shame. but ravi, we can’t fight this alone. if we stop, wasim will destroy us. we have no choice but to go with the flow, to… to let these fantasies play out, even if we hate parts of it.”



i nodded slowly, her words slicing through the fog of guilt. “you’re right. we’ve whispered about this in bed for years—me watching you with others, you being taken by someone stronger. maybe this is our chance to live it, even if it’s under his bloody thumb. we’ll ride this wave together, no matter how filthy it gets.” my throat tightened as i spoke, a mix of resolve and resignation settling in.



we sat there for a long moment, tears drying on her cheeks as we reminded each other of those late-night fantasies—her being a hotwife paraded for hungry eyes, me reduced to a cuckold reveling in humiliation. re-imagining tonight’s horror through that lens shifted something in us. i pulled her close, kissing her fiercely, tasting salt and desperation on her lips. she responded with equal hunger, shedding the sari as we fell back onto the bed, her curves bared to me once more—but this time, it was different. more intense, more feral than our usual lovemaking. my cock, pitifully small compared to wasim’s beast, couldn’t match his raw power, but the emotional charge—the shared shame and perverse thrill—fueled us. she moaned louder than usual, clawing at my back as i thrust into her, both of us chasing a release that burned hotter than before, even if it couldn’t touch the brutal ecstasy she’d felt hours ago. “imagine it’s him again,” i rasped against her ear, and her sharp gasp told me she did, pushing us both over the edge in a tangled mess of guilt and desire.



the morning after was a haze of unease. neither of us spoke much over chai, the ghosts of last night lingering in every glance. around noon, my phone buzzed with a message from wasim himself—an invitation for a “private talk” at his office cabin at 3 pm sharp. no details, just a cold command. my stomach churned as i relayed it to meera, whose face paled but hardened with that same resigned grit from last night.

next update bro. ......

 

[cuckravi]

The next day: an invitation to deeper degradation



morning dawned as a haze of dread. we barely spoke over chai, last night’s ghosts haunting every stolen glance. around noon, my phone buzzed with a cold summons from wasim—a “private talk” at his office cabin, 3 pm sharp. no details, just an order. my gut twisted as i told meera, whose face blanched but set with the same grim resolve from hours before.



we arrived at the office on time, stepping into the corporate cesspool where i’m just another disposable pawn. meera dressed conservatively—a beige sari with a high-necked blouse, pallu draped neatly over her shoulder, the image of a traditional housewife dodging gossip. yet even in this modest attire, her figure screamed allure—curves subtly straining the fabric, hips swaying with unintended seduction as we crossed the open-plan floor to wasim’s lair. i felt the stares—raw, lustful—from my own colleagues, their eyes devouring my wife like she was prey. whispers trailed us; rumors of last night must’ve spread like wildfire. humiliation seared my skin, but that cursed arousal pulsed again, low and insistent, as i saw how their gazes clung to her.



wasim’s cabin door opened before we knocked, revealing him—towering, smug, in a tailored suit radiating untouchable power. “right on time,” he smirked, stepping aside to let us in. “come, let’s chat.” inside, a small tea table sat encircled by three plush sofa chairs, an oddly intimate setup for such a vile meeting. untouched chai cups on a tray mocked any pretense of decency. we sat across from him, meera clutching her pallu tight, hands folded nervously in her lap while i braced for whatever hell he’d unleash.



he skipped niceties, leaning back with that wolfish grin, fingers steepled. “let’s get straight to it, lovebirds. last night was merely a starter—a bloody exquisite one.” his gaze raked over meera, lingering on her covered form with lewd intent before snapping to me. “i’ve got a deal. serve me for one year as my personal… ‘slaves.’ you do everything i command, when i command it, how i bloody well command it. in return? i won’t leak that sweet video of meera getting railed last night to every soul in this city—and trust me, it’s saved in high def for my private stash. plus, you’ll pocket a fat wad of cash monthly, enough to keep you comfy while you kneel at my feet. call it payment for your… talents.”



his words exploded like grenades. meera’s breath caught beside me, fingers tightening on her sari as shock etched her face. my jaw locked tight, rage and fear clashing within—but deeper, that sick heat flared again. my cock twitched under the table at the thought of further submission, and from meera’s subtle shift—thighs pressing together under her modest drape—i knew she felt it too, a shameful wetness betraying her horror. we had no choice; he gripped us with that damned video. blackmail dressed in money was still blackmail.



“wasim, please,” meera began, voice quaking as she leaned forward, pallu slipping a fraction to show the barest hint of cleavage despite her care. “there must be another way. we’re not… objects. can’t you delete the video? we’ll pay whatever we can scrape up—”



“pay?” he cut in with a brutal laugh, leaning forward, elbows on the table, gaze piercing her. “darling, you couldn’t buy my mercy if you sold your bloody souls. why would I delete such a masterpiece? every moan, every squirm—it’s pure art. nah, this deal’s set. you’re mine for a year, or everyone from your meddling aunties to ravi’s sorry mates sees what a proper whore you are under that prim sari.”



i tried to speak, voice rough with desperation. “sir, give us time to think. this is… too much. there’s got to be another arrangement—”



“shut it, ravi,” he barked, slicing me off with a glare that could rot flesh. “time’s done. you’re in or you’re ruined. sign on the dotted line, or kiss your pitiful lives goodbye.” he slid a thick document across the table—titled “slave contract” in stark black letters at the top. seeing those words stabbed a pang through my chest; beside me, meera choked out a small sound, hand covering her mouth as tears welled.



wasim’s smirk grew at our distress, savoring our pain as he tapped the contract with a pen. “but first, let’s set the mood for your new roles. meera, stand up.” his tone turned to a sharp command, brooking no defiance. she hesitated a heartbeat before rising, pallu still clutched tight, trembling before him.



he turned to me, eyes glinting with cruel glee. “ravi, get over here and strip off her pallu. let’s see what’s under this ‘decent housewife’ act.”



my legs felt leaden, but fear—and that dark thrill—drove me forward. standing behind her, I reached for the fabric over her shoulder with shaky hands, pulling it away until it dangled at her waist. the sari hung loose around her lower half while her blouse came into view—modest cut but tight enough to outline her heavy breasts, some cleavage teasing at the neckline, navel bare above the low drape. she looked vulnerable yet sinfully enticing; I hated how my body reacted even now.



“good lad,” wasim purred mockingly before gesturing to his lap. “now bring her here. make your wife perch right on daddy’s knee while we review the rules.”



meera’s eyes met mine briefly—fear, shame, and that flicker of twisted excitement mirroring my own—as I guided her forward by the small of her back until she sat awkwardly on his lap, facing outward toward me. one of his thick arms coiled around her waist possessively while the other hand roamed upward to manhandle her breasts through the blouse, squeezing roughly; she gasped softly but didn’t dare pull away.



“comfy?” he taunted into her ear, loud enough for me to hear, before grabbing the contract off the table, flipping it open to read aloud ten perverted terms and conditions of our enslavement:



“term one: absolute obedience. any command given must be followed without hesitation, or face punishment—including public release of all recorded videos online for global viewing, ensuring maximum humiliation across family and professional circles.



term two: dress code compliance. meera will wear outfits dictated by me daily—ranging from slutty saris with plunging necklines to lingerie or nothing at all during private sessions, ensuring constant accessibility and visual appeal for myself and selected guests.



term three: sexual servitude. meera’s body is mine to use at any hour, in any location—office, home, public venues if discreet—with acts including but not limited to full penetration, oral service, and experimental play as per my whims.



term four: shared privileges. meera will be offered to trusted associates and high-value clients for entertainment during business dealings, securing contracts through her participation in group sessions or private encounters as instructed.



term five: public displays. when deemed necessary for elite gatherings or personal amusement, meera will perform erotic acts or be showcased—partially or fully nude—in controlled environments before select audiences to heighten status or seal partnerships.



term six: ravi’s role as observer. ravi must witness all major encounters involving meera unless explicitly excused, remaining silent and compliant while documenting reactions for later review; failure to comply results in harsher tasks or video leaks.



term seven: domestic submission. both will serve at my residence during designated hours—meera as personal attendant for intimate needs, ravi handling menial tasks like cleaning post-session spaces while dressed in degrading attire if specified.



term eight: filmed content. all interactions will be recorded for private archives or potential leverage; refusal to participate in filming doubles duration of specific acts as penalty while videos remain weaponized assets indefinitely.



term nine: physical modifications. temporary or semi-permanent alterations—such as piercings, tattoos, or specific grooming like full-body waxing for meera—may be enforced to enhance appeal or mark ownership visibly during contract term.



term ten: contract extension clause. failure to meet any term fully allows unilateral extension of servitude by additional months per infraction; early termination by either party triggers immediate video distribution and financial ruin via fabricated debt claims.”



he read each clause with deliberate slowness, voice dripping with sadistic relish, while continuing to fondle meera openly, kneading harder to draw stifled whimpers from lips bitten shut against protest. i sat opposite them, struggling to focus between absorbing these horrific stipulations—each promising deeper degradation—and watching my wife groped shamelessly before me; my cock throbbed painfully hard again, trapped in trousers, as disgust and arousal tore my mind apart.



pausing mid-read at term five about ‘public displays,’ wasim grinned wickedly, deciding to escalate further by slipping a hand inside her blouse neckline, tugging down the left side until an entire breast popped free, bare nipple hardening instantly in the cool office air, exposed to our trio’s gaze though the door remained locked tight. he resumed fondling bare skin directly, pinching and twisting the sensitive bud between thumb and forefinger, pulling sharper gasps of pain-pleasure mix from her throat despite efforts to silence herself.



“look at this beauty,” he growled appreciatively, glancing down then locking eyes with mine, daring objection. “perky, perfect little tit begging for attention, don’t ya think, ravi? bet ya never played rough enough to make her squeal like this, huh?”



humiliation scorched hotter than ever, cheeks burning with anger and helplessness as arousal blended into a toxic brew; unable to tear my gaze away even if I wanted to, fixated on how he manipulated her flesh mercilessly. finally, he asked us to sign the cursed contract, tension, confusion, and fear thick in the air, yet beneath it lurked undeniable perverted excitement neither could fully deny despite everything.



with hands trembling worse than ever, we both signed our names at the bottom, sealing our fates for a year-long nightmare—or perverse fantasy, depending on perspective—as instructed. the moment ink dried, wasim allowed temporary leave under a humiliating condition: “meera, ya can go cover the rest of yourself, but keep that tit out, sweetheart. stroll back through the office; let the boys sneak a peek—lucky day for them, eh? luckily your sari ain’t transparent much, won’t show full goods… yet,” he chuckled darkly, adding insult to injury before turning to me. “ravi, get your arse back to work, pretend nothing’s happened till tonight. both expected at my mansion far from manking by 10 pm sharp. don’t dare be late unless ya wanna start punishments early, got it?”