[rajboy]

Update please next part .

[Blackdick11]

Bro next update?

[mkgkkr]

Please update

[ricah43165]

Bro, when can we expect the next update? 
I’m eagerly waiting for saundarya’s first Instagram post. 
I’m also curious, will she be posting reels too?

[xboard1986]

Waiting

[Aryan256]

Thank you all the readers for appreciating innocent wife Saundarya's story. I know it is taking time to post new but I was busy with some other stuff. I am preparing the update and I will be posting in next week.

Meanwhile, I want to know which woman or actress you imagine as Saundarya. Please post photos of your imagination. I am very eager to know that. I will also try to describe Saundarya's appearance according to the image if it is interesting photo.

Thank you again for your love and keep hitting likes on my updates as always !!!

[Blackdick11]

Thank you all the readers for appreciating innocent wife Saundarya's story. I know it is taking time to post new but I was busy with some other stuff. I am preparing the update and I will be posting in next week.

Meanwhile, I want to know which woman or actress you imagine as Saundarya. Please post photos of your imagination. I am very eager to know that. I will also try to describe Saundarya's appearance according to the image if it is interesting photo.

Thank you again for your love and keep hitting likes on my updates as always !!!

While reading, no specific actress comes to my mind as saundarya. 
But I mostly prefer two actresses, first Akanksha Puri 
and second Yashika Anand.

[Lovecraft]

I want to know which woman or actress you imagine as Saundarya. 

Janhvi kapooooooooooooor!!!!!!!

[rajis]

akanksha puri is the best choice

[veenaimo]

nice idea to make anyone expose, that what insta id doing

[Aryan256]

Chapter 17: Saundarya did bold thing

Kavya ended the call and looked at me, eyes bright with a new kind of hunger—less explanatory now, more operational.

“Instructions are over, Saundarya. It is time for some action.”

My stomach dropped. “Action…?”

“We enable your Instagram tonight,” Kavya said simply. “Which means we need your profile photograph now. The photographer is on his way. There is no second schedule. The account cannot sit empty until morning.”

The gravity of it hit me like ice water poured straight down my spine and into my wet heat at the same time.

A photo. Here. Now. Still in this top. Still in these jeans. Still completely braless underneath. My heavy boobs free and natural, nipples soft or hard depending on the air and my shame, the thick fabric hiding everything in ordinary light—and hiding nothing if the camera was cruel enough, or talented enough. That picture would become the face of an account my husband would never find, but thousands of other men would. My first modeling image would be taken while I was still carrying the secret bounce of a woman who had sold her bra a few hours ago.

“Kavya… ma’am… can we please do this tomorrow?” I tried, polite, careful, almost sweet. My fingers twisted together under my boobs as if I could hold them modest by force of will. “I am not camera ready. This top is simple, and I… I would feel more comfortable after proper styling. Please. Just one night.”

Kavya’s expression cooled.

She did not raise her voice. She simply picked up the contract I had signed less than five minutes earlier and held it where I could see my own ink.

“You signed this,” she said firmly. “Five minutes ago you accepted full company control of your image and private wardrobe authority. And already you are turning around. The company cannot tolerate this behavior, Saundarya. Not from Role B or C material. Not from a woman who just begged for a multi-lakh privacy firewall.”

My throat closed. My braless boobs felt suddenly enormous under the top, as if every rejection made them more visible.

Kavya stepped closer, perfume and power wrapping around me.

“This should be the last time you oppose,” she continued, quieter and far more dangerous. “If you create this kind of resistance later—especially in front of your boss—he may decide the software is more trouble than you are worth. He can revoke the filter with one instruction. Just think about the consequences of that firewall disappearing. Your husband finding the Santorini set. Your family seeing the transparent saree shots. Your friends zooming in on the exact shape of your bare nipples under crystal beads. All of it. Overnight. Public. Permanent.”

Shock tore through me so hard my knees weakened. My pussy clenched in pure fear—and underneath the fear, a filthy pulse of arousal at how completely trapped I already was. One act of defiance could undress my entire double life in front of the people I loved. The software was not just a perk. It was a leash made of mercy. And Kavya had just reminded me who held the end of it.

“I… I understand,” I whispered. My body moved before my pride could catch up. Shoulders lowering. Chin dipping. Obedience arriving like heat between my legs. “I won’t oppose. I’ll… I’ll do the photo.”

Kavya’s face softened at once, the predator becoming the mentor again—sweetness layered over steel.

“Good girl. Now stop drowning in the negatives,” she said, reaching out to smooth a strand of hair from my face with almost sisterly tenderness. “There are so many positives in this role if you stop fighting them. If you back us, we will have your back completely. No one in public will be allowed to disrespect you, harass you, or diminish you. Your reputation outside becomes armored. Doors open. Men with real power treat you like a prize. But yes…” Her eyes dropped briefly to the braless shape of my boobs and then returned to mine, honest and wicked. “…you also have to surrender to a few. That is the trade. Protection in the open world. Obedience in ours. Give us that, and we will make you untouchable to everyone except the people we choose.”

The words sank into me like warm liquor.

Untouchable to the world. Soft and available to the chosen few. My mind was still scared—scared of the camera, scared of the zoom, scared of tomorrow. But my body… my body liked the armor. My heavy boobs felt fuller at the idea of being protected and displayed at the same time. Fresh wetness gathered between my thighs. I drew a shaky breath, smoothed my top over my free chest without really hiding anything, and nodded.

“I’m ready,” I said, though my voice betrayed the split inside me. “For the pose.”

My mind remained a little scared. My body was already getting excited.

The photographer arrived within minutes—tall, focused, carrying lights and a black bag that looked like it had undressed better women than me. He worked quickly. Softboxes bloomed to life in the corners of the meeting room. A reflector angled toward the mahogany table. The boardroom stopped looking like a place of contracts and started looking like a studio built for beautiful mistakes.

“Rian,” Kavya introduced simply. “Make her profile unforgettable.”

He studied me with professional hunger, not personal—though the difference did not protect my nerves. He stepped in and did a light touch-up: a dab of gloss on my lips that made them look freshly bitten, a brush of highlighter along my collarbones, a subtle darkening at the outer corners of my eyes. His fingers never openly groped, but when he adjusted the neckline of my top by half an inch, the back of his knuckles skimmed the upper swell of my braless boob and a shameful spark shot straight to my clit. He styled my hair looser, letting a few strands fall toward my cleavage, then guided me to sit on the edge of the conference table at a three-quarter angle.

“Chin a little down. Shoulders back. No—more. Arch just slightly. Yes. Let the fabric do the talking.”

I hesitated. Then I obeyed.

Shoulders rolling back made my heavy boobs push forward against the thick top. Without a bra they settled into a natural, dangerous shape—full, slightly separated, nipples faintly suggested where the material pulled. He had me rest one hand on the table behind me, which lifted my chest another shameless degree, and part my lips as if I had just been told a secret I liked too much. Elegant. Controlled. And underneath the elegance, unmistakably available. Exactly what people wanted to see, wrapped in just enough class to pretend it was corporate.

“Perfect,” Rian murmured. “Hold.”

The shutter clicked.

Again.

Again.

Each flash felt like a hand cupping my free boobs in public. My mind screamed that this was too much, too soon, too permanent. My body heated under the lights until I was afraid he could smell how wet I was. I posed through the war—scared eyes trying to look bold, modest instincts forced into invitation, married shame trembling under professional obedience.

When he finished, he worked on a tablet for several quiet minutes while my pulse refused to slow. Then he connected to the meeting room projector.

The wall lit up with my face.

No—my body.

Kavya actually clapped once, delighted. “Rian, this is excellent. Bold without being cheap. Look at that. Perfect profile asset.”

I stared, shocked hollow.

The woman on the screen was me and not me. Same light-colored top. Same jeans. Same face. But the angle, the arch, the fall of light across fabric made my braless state a quiet scandal. On a small mobile screen it might pass as a confident corporate portrait—pretty wife, polished candidate, nothing openly vulgar. But the projector was merciless. Anyone who zoomed even a little would see it: the soft natural hang of my firm boobs, the faint shadow beneath each swell, the unmistakable points of my nipples pressing into the thick material, the absence of any supporting line. My assets were on display in the most elegant act of exposure I had ever witnessed. A slutty pose wearing the costume of professionalism. My heavy boobs looked fuller under the light, almost proud, as if they had been waiting years to be photographed without permission from my old morals.

I wanted to stop it.

I wanted to demand a retake with my arms crossed, with a jacket, with anything that returned me to safety.

But there was no point opposing now. The contract was warm with my signature. The firewall depended on my surrender. Kavya’s warning still rang in my ears like a collar bell.

Rian glanced over at me, waiting—professionally curious, a little pleased with himself.

I wanted to shout.

I wanted to say delete it, that is not me, my husband can never even imagine this version of my boobs.

Instead my lips curved into something polite and broken and newly trained.

“It’s… really good work,” I heard myself praise, voice soft. “You made it look… expensive.”

My body loved his job. Loved the attention already forming in the imaginary comments under that photo. Loved the filthy knowledge that men would zoom, pause, understand, and want. My nipples tightened under the very top that had just betrayed me on the wall, and a fresh slow drip of arousal reminded me that parts of me were celebrating.

My mind was not ready.

Not even close.

But readiness no longer seemed to be a requirement—only obedience, wetness, and the next instruction.

Kavya smiled at the projector like a woman admiring a newly sharpened weapon for Amanor Products Pvt Ltd.

“Welcome to your double life, Saundarya,” she said quietly. “By tonight, this face goes live on the company’s Instagram network. And from tomorrow, here in Pune… the real posts begin.”

Kavya looked genuinely relieved once the final clicks were done. She checked her watch and exhaled.

“Five PM,” she said. “Perfect. We finished everything on time.”

She turned fully toward me, her tone shifting from operational heat to polished corporate warmth.

“Your Instagram account will go live at nine PM tonight. You will receive the account details by email. That gives you until eight PM to send every mobile number you want blocked—husband, family, friends, anyone from your personal world. If those numbers are not added in time, anyone can search and see your profile until the filter is enabled. Including Aditya. Do not cut it close.”

My stomach tightened. Aditya Sharma. My husband. The man who still believed his wife had spent the day in a normal interview at Amanor Products Pvt Ltd, not selling her bra, signing away her image, and posing braless for a profile picture that would soon belong to strangers.

Kavya extended her hand formally, fingers smooth and confident.

“Welcome to the family, Saundarya,” she said. “Officially enough for today. Best of luck. Do your best tomorrow—and go beyond your mental boundaries. I would very much like to see you in Role C.”

The words landed deeper than praise should have. Someone powerful wanted me to win. Someone was watching my transformation with appetite and investment. My braless boobs rose with a shaky breath under my top, nipples grazing fabric as a confused warmth spread through my chest and lower.

Then came the first perk.

Kavya typed something quickly on her phone and looked up with a small smile. “I have booked your taxi home. Black Honda Accord. Visitor parking. It is waiting now.”

I blinked, startled. “A taxi…? But I am not even hired yet.”

“You are in the final process,” Kavya corrected lightly. “And if you take care of Amanor, Amanor takes care of you. Take proper rest tonight. Come to the office tomorrow morning at ten AM for the photoshoot. I will brief all three candidates together with full details.”

Something soft and hungry opened inside me.

I had been exhausted by the full day of sessions, by the mental war, by the constant drip of shame and arousal fighting for control of my body. Yet here was encouragement. Protection. A luxury car waiting because the Head of HR did not want her newly claimed candidate bouncing braless through Pune in an auto-rickshaw like prey.

“Thank you,” I whispered, and I meant it more than I wanted to admit. “I… I needed someone to want me to succeed.”

Kavya’s eyes gleamed. “Then succeed. Tomorrow, ten AM. Do not be late.”

I walked out of Amanor Products Pvt Ltd with my form signed, my profile photo captured, and my heavy boobs still completely free under my thick top. Every step across the lobby made them sway with that soft, secret rhythm that had haunted me since the sales round. My panties were no longer just damp from memory—they were warm again from the simple act of moving through a corporate building while unprotected and freshly owned.

Visitor parking.

A black Honda Accord sat gleaming under the evening light, exactly as promised. I had never sat in a car like that in my life. In our two-BHK reality with Aditya, taxis were rare, luxury was rarer, and a chauffeur opening the rear door for me was something that happened to other women.

The driver stepped out, polite and professional, and opened the door.

I slid inside.

Leather. Cool air-conditioning. The quiet expensive smell of a life I had only watched from the outside. As the door shut, my unsupported boobs settled heavily against my ribs, and a proud, dangerous thrill climbed up my spine. This was what Kavya had meant. If I backed the company, the company put armor around me. If I had gone home by auto—braless, nipples sensitive, body still humming from Manav’s conditions—I would have been exposed to every random stare, every bump in the road making my boobs bounce for strangers who had paid nothing for the privilege. Instead, Amanor had sealed me into tinted glass and soft seats like a valuable asset being returned to storage for the night.

My body sent warm, approving signals straight between my thighs.

My mind, exhausted and frayed, whispered a reluctant confession:

Sometimes if you break your moral walls… you can achieve more.

The engine started.

Pune traffic flowed past the windows, but I barely saw it. The thirty-minute journey dissolved into flashbacks so vivid my pussy began throbbing all over again.

Morning confidence after the makeover.

Five girls. My thick top. Their skin.

The sales round. My pen. My hair buckle. Rohit’s eyes.

My own hands behind my back, unhooking my bra in a crowded room.

The free bounce of my heavy boobs.

Two thousand rupees.

Kavya’s crimson authority. Role A, B, C.

Fifty-five lakhs. No husband at night. Energy reserved for the CEO.

Sexy traditional. Beach wear. Bold formal.

Company styling.

Manav’s voice on speaker.

Santorini. Mykonos. Dubai glass.

Transparent mesh lingerie in his suite.

Opening his office door without covering my boobs.

A sheer saree with nothing underneath at an elite private party.

Crystal beads parting over bare nipples.

The contract. My signature.

The photographer’s lights. My arched back. My braless shape captured forever.

I had started the day as Aditya Sharma’s homely wife.

I was ending it as something else—something wetter, bolder, already addicted to the filthy progress of my own surrender. This was only the beginning, and my body knew it. My nipples stayed hard the entire ride. My clit swelled against my sticky panties every time the car took a turn and my free boobs swayed. I pressed my knees together in the back seat of the Honda Accord and bit my lip, fully aroused again, shocked at how slutty the day had made me and terrified by how much more I was about to become.

Thirty minutes vanished like a fever dream.

The car stopped at the entrance of my apartment building.

I got out swiftly, thanked the driver in a voice that did not sound entirely like my own, and hurried inside. Climbing the stairs and then the corridor to our floor became its own secret crime. Every neighbor’s door was a threat. Every distant footstep made my heart lurch. I walked fast, arms not quite crossed, trying to look normal while my heavy braless boobs moved freely under my top with every quick step. The adrenaline was incredible—sharp, electric, almost sexual. For the first time in my life I was smuggling my own exposed body through the place I called home, hiding the truth of my unbound chest from the ordinary world that still thought I was decent.

By the time I unlocked our 2 BHK flat and shut the door behind me, my pulse was racing and my pussy was slick all over again.

Silence.

Home.

I leaned back against the door for a second, breathing hard, then moved to the sofa and sank into it. The cushions accepted my body like nothing had changed. But everything had. My thick top still rubbed my naked nipples. My jeans still hugged thighs that had spent the day squeezing around forbidden heat. My signed surrender still lived somewhere in Amanor’s system, waiting for nine PM.

I was lucky.

Aditya was not home from office yet.

I closed my eyes on our quiet Pune sofa, braless and buzzing, and tried to relax—while knowing relaxation was a lie. In a few hours my Instagram would go live. Before that, I had to send the list of numbers that would keep my husband blind. And tomorrow morning at ten, I would walk back into Amanor Products Pvt Ltd for my first real photoshoot as the woman I was rapidly becoming.

My body was still excited.

My mind was still scared.

And for the first time, both of them were waiting for the same man to come home—so I could look him in the eye and pretend I was still only his.

I could not stay on the sofa for long.

Aditya normally walked through that door around seven. If he found me like this—still in the same top, still braless, still smelling of boardroom perfume and secret wetness—he would ask questions I was not ready to answer. One look at my free-swinging boobs under the fabric and the entire carefully built lie of my “normal interview day” would collapse.

I stood up fast, drank a glass of water that did nothing to cool the heat low in my belly, and went straight to the bathroom.

Hot water hit my shoulders. I closed my eyes, stripped completely, and stepped under the shower. For a moment there was only steam and the heavy, naked weight of my boobs as water ran down them in thick streams, nipples tightening at once. Then my mind, cruel and hungry, refused to stay in our small Pune bathroom.

It took me somewhere else.

A private club. Elite. Dim gold light. Thumping bass. The kind of place Amanor used when business stakes were too high for ordinary conference rooms.

Manav’s voice at my ear, calm and absolute:

“Wear this.”

The dress was deep emerald green—exactly like the legendary gown the world never forgot. A daring, plunging neckline that sliced all the way down past my cleavage and did not stop until it framed my bare belly button in a long, shameless V. The fabric clung like liquid silk, fully sheer under the club lights, open at the sides, barely held together by thin straps and intention. No bra. Of course no bra. My heavy boobs sat inside that plunging green almost naked, the inner curves fully exposed, only the outer swells and my tight dark nipples veiled by the thinnest shimmer of fabric. Below, he allowed me nothing but a tiny matching panty that disappeared between my ass cheeks. One wrong breath and everything important would spill into the open.

I walked in beside him and became eye candy before I even reached the first table.

Every elite guest turned. Investors. Foreign partners. Men who signed crores with a fountain pen. Their eyes locked on the deep green canyon between my boobs, on the bare midriff, on the way my heavy chest swayed freely with each step. Manav’s hand stayed on me the entire time—possessive, casual, branding. His palm rested on the naked skin of my back where the dress simply did not exist. When we moved through the crowd his fingers slid lower, openly cupping one full ass cheek through the sheer green, squeezing whenever he introduced me as his closest associate. I smiled. I greeted. I leaned forward to clink glasses so their eyes could fall straight down the endless plunge of my dress and stare at the bare inner sides of my boobs and the hard tips pushing against green silk.

Then the rain shower began.

Hidden ceiling jets over the dance floor activated for effect—cool, glittering water cascading down like a designed accident. Guests laughed and pulled people in. Someone pulled me. Manav did not stop them. He guided me forward himself.

Water hit me and the emerald dress surrendered in seconds.

The already sheer fabric turned completely transparent, plastered to my skin from collarbone to thigh until I looked naked from top to bottom under the lights. My heavy boobs were suddenly public property—full, wet, bouncing, nipples dark and obvious, every soft jiggle visible as if I wore only rain. The tiny panty became a useless dark triangle. Water ran between my ass cheeks and down my inner thighs. I wanted to cover myself. I wanted to run.

I was not allowed. Stakes were high. A deal hung in the air between champagne and contracts. My discomfort was irrelevant. My dignity was not invited. I had to stay. I had to dance. I had to entertain.

Bodies closed around me. Wet hands found wet skin in the name of rhythm. A guest’s palm slid up from my waist and openly groped the full underside of my boob, thumb flicking my nipple as if testing fruit. Another man danced behind me, grinding, both hands clamping onto my ass cheeks and spreading them slightly while water poured down my spine. Someone in front “steadied” me by holding both my boobs completely, squeezing the heavy wet flesh through transparent green while laughing into my neck. Manav remained at my side, hand still owning the small of my bare back, watching everything with cool approval, occasionally leaning in to murmur which investor needed more attention. I kept dancing. I kept smiling. My soaked, transparent body became the party’s favorite instrument—boobs groped, ass groped, waist handled, nipples brushed by passing knuckles—while I obeyed the only rule that mattered:

Entertain them.

Do not run.

Do not show that you are breaking.

My pussy clenched hard around nothing in the fantasy, dripping hotter than the rain, ashamed and ecstatic that my CEO was using my wet, nearly naked married body as living hospitality.

BEEEEEP. BEEEEEP. BEEEEEP.

The six PM alarm on my phone shattered everything.

I gasped under the real shower, forehead against tiles, fingers dug into my own wet thighs, heavy boobs rising and falling hard, nipples aching, pussy throbbing so violently I almost cried. The private club vanished. The transparent green dress vanished. Only steam and my own filthy breathing remained.

One hour.

Aditya could be home in one hour.

I shut off the water with shaking hands, wiped my body with a towel, and forced myself toward the wardrobe like a woman walking back into a cage she used to call safety.

I pulled out my old salwar kameez—the conservative one I had worn for years. Soft pastel. High neck. Dupatta ready to hide every line. Then the bra. My ordinary, sturdy, respectable bra.

The moment I hooked it, my heavy boobs lifted into neat, modest shape. Supported. Contained. Hidden. For a few seconds pure relief washed through me. No more free bounce. No more secret sway. No more fear that a neighbor might notice. I was covered. I was proper. I was Aditya Sharma’s wife again.

I dbangd the salwar kameez, fixed the dupatta, and looked into the mirror.

Reality struck like a slap.

I was still beautiful. My face was the same. My inherent features had not vanished. But there was no charm. No voltage. No command. Just a normal, homely, traditional girl from a 2 BHK in Pune—pleasant, decent, forgettable. The woman on the projector at Amanor had been a diva. Shoulders back. Chin lowered just enough. Light kissing braless shape through fabric. Eyes that promised trouble. Desirable. Dangerous. Expensive.

Here, I looked like someone’s good daughter-in-law.

Modern me whispered immediately, cruel and seductive:

Look at yourself. This is inferior. This version of you gets polite smiles. That version gets billionaires leaning forward. That version makes Manav keep his hand on your ass in a private club. That version has power. This one only has morality.

Conservative me tried to fight:

This is real life. This is marriage. This is decency. Aditya loves this woman. Your parents raised this woman. The green dress, the rain, the groping—that is corruption wearing perfume. You should feel proud that you can still return to this.

Modern me laughed softly in my blood:

Proud? You felt more alive in one braless hour at Amanor than in years of this fabric. Your bra already feels like a cage. Don’t lie. Your boobs want out. Your pussy is still wet from a fantasy your husband must never hear. This “actual life” is just the costume you wear so nobody revokes your firewall.

I pressed my palms over my supported chest. The bra held me neatly, and for a moment I truly liked the security. Then, within minutes, the feeling soured. The underwire dug. The cups felt restrictive. My boobs, which had spent the day learning freedom and attention and filthy importance, now sat imprisoned in respectable foam and cotton. A restless ache spread under the fabric—not pain, but protest. I wanted the freedom zone again. I wanted the thick top with nothing underneath. I wanted the dangerous bounce. I wanted the version of me that made Kavya say Role C.

How?

How could a single day change me this much?

Morning me would have died before selling a bra. Night me was grieving the loss of being braless in a Honda Accord.

I gripped the edge of the wardrobe and forced the war toward the old answer.

No. Stop. This conservative life is your actual life. The office is a role. The camera is a tool. Manav’s conditions are corporate strategy, not your identity. You are Aditya’s wife. You will wear this salwar kameez. You will cook. You will smile. You will not let one day of wet surrender rewrite your soul.

It took everything.

I had to crush the modern voice under moral duty, under wedding vows, under the image of Aditya trusting me. Again and again I repeated that modesty was strength, that freedom without boundaries was just polished shame, that the projector woman was a performance and the mirror woman was truth. The argument was ugly and exhausting. Modern me kept showing me transparent green fabric and CEO hands and the proud leather seat of the company car. Conservative me kept showing me my marriage, my name, my fear of becoming unrecognizable.

Finally—after a long, shaky struggle—conservative life won.

Barely.

I exhaled, adjusted my dupatta like armor, and nodded at the ordinary woman in the mirror.

“This is me,” I whispered.

But even as I said it, I knew the victory was temporary. The cage was already rattling from inside.

There was still work to do before Aditya arrived.

I opened my laptop on the dining table, heart beating too fast, and began the list. Husband. Parents. In-laws. Cousins. College friends. Neighbor aunties. Every number that belonged to the world where I was still decent. My fingers moved with desperate focus. If I left this for after he came home, I would never be able to explain why I was emailing fifty phone numbers to Amanor Products Pvt Ltd’s technical team.

Forty minutes of hard concentration.

Seventy contacts.

I stared at the completed list. Aditya Sharma at the top. My throat tightened. I was actively building a wall so my own husband would never see the woman his wife was becoming. The thought was so intimate and so treacherous that my supported boobs rose with a guilty breath inside my conservative bra.

Aditya’s office colleagues were missing. Those numbers lived only in his phone. I had no access tonight.

I typed the email to the technical team, attached the seventy numbers, and wrote that the remaining contacts would follow tomorrow. Send.

Message away.

Firewall almost closed.

By the time I shut the laptop, the clock showed seven.

I sat back on the sofa in my salwar kameez like a perfect traditional wife, hands folded, dupatta in place, boobs properly locked away—and began the hardest task of the night.

What would I tell him?

Aditya would ask about the interview. He always did. He would sit close, eyes warm with pride, expecting the honest report I had given him for years. I had never lied to him. Not once. Not about money, not about friends, not about how my day felt. Tonight I would have to hand him a filtered version neat enough to fit inside our marital image: a professional process, some tasks, a shortlist, a second round tomorrow. No bra auction. No Rohit. No Manav on speaker. No transparent future. No profile photo where anyone who zoomed could see I had been unbound.

I rehearsed sentences that tasted like betrayal even before I spoke them.

My body was quiet now under conservative cloth.

My mind was not.

Outside, a key might turn any minute. Inside, Saundarya Sharma sat on her own sofa, looking every inch the homely wife of Pune—while the other woman, the wet and newly leash-trained one, waited patiently beneath the bra and the morals, already counting the hours until ten AM at Amanor.

(To be continued ...)

[rajboy]

Just super.nicely written

[Muralimm]

After so long time the update was good it helps up coming hot update

Waiting for your update

Don't take too much time it's spoiled the model of the story

[Blackdick11]

Totally awesome.

Thank you again for the effort you’re putting in to continue this story, despite being busy.

Regarding Role C, I’m expecting saundarya to serve looks and confidence at tomorrow’s photoshoot.

[Lovecraft]

Excellent update...right now, she’s torn between her conservative nature and her newly awakened, more modern, sensual side, which makes the whole thing feel more arousing.

[ricah43165]

Loved this update — the scenes, the situation, and her thoughts were all captured so beautifully.

[Blackdick11]

When will the next update be DROPPED, bro???

[Bakchod Londa]

It is truly hard to believe that the woman who was guided by strong morals and values until yesterday is now ready to compromise them or, in a way, break free from them. I hope that by the end of the Instagram round, SAUNDARYA will have overcome whatever fear and hesitation still remain within her...the journey toward transformation is far more captivating than the person she will ultimately become.

[Aryan256]

Chapter 18: Saundarya lies to Aaditya for the first time

The key turned in the lock at 7:08 PM.

I stood up too quickly from the sofa, dupatta sliding half an inch off my shoulder before I yanked it back into place like a shield. My conservative bra held my heavy boobs in neat, respectable shape under the salwar kameez. No bounce. No secret sway. Just Aditya Sharma’s good wife waiting in our 2 BHK in Pune—while under the cotton and morality, my pussy still carried a low, traitorous throb from the green-dress fantasy in the shower.

The door opened.

Aditya walked in with his office bag and that familiar tired smile he wore every evening after another day of earning twelve lakhs a year against EMIs that never forgave anyone. Delhi’s unfinished flat. The forged documents. The bank that still wanted its money. Rent here plus EMI there. Our savings thinning month after month. He did not know that today I had signed away pieces of my body to Amanor Products Pvt Ltd so those numbers might finally stop choking us. He only knew his wife had gone for an interview.

“I’m home,” he said.

I went to him and hugged him the way a conservative wife hugs her husband—mild, brief, chest to chest with proper distance, arms around his shoulders without melting in. My supported boobs pressed lightly against him for one second and then I stepped back, smiling soft and decent.

“Welcome home,” I said. “How was office?”

“Same chaos.” He dropped his bag, searching my face. “More important—how was your day? The interview? You’ve been gone since morning.”

I had planned to keep it short. Clean. Controlled.

“I got confirmation,” I said, almost lightly, as if I were announcing tea was ready. “I am through to the next stage. They shortlisted me. I have to go again tomorrow morning at ten for another round. It looks positive, Aditya. Really positive.”

His whole face changed.

Pride first. Then relief so raw it almost hurt to watch. For a moment he was not the man crushed under a one-crore ghost flat in Delhi and a loan that outlived the builder’s honesty. He was a husband who might finally breathe.

“Saundarya… are you serious?” He held my shoulders. “Confirmation? Meaning they want you?”

“Yes. Not the final offer letter yet, but they said I am selected for the advanced round. Three of us remaining. Tomorrow is important.”

I tried to stop there.

I failed—because he did not let me.

“Sit. Tell me everything.” He pulled me to the sofa, eyes bright, hungry for details the way our bank account was hungry for oxygen. “What did they ask? What rounds? How did you perform? Don’t summarize like a news ticker. I want to know. This job… you know what this could mean for us.”

I knew.

Role B or C could rewrite our nights. No more silent mental math over groceries while EMI reminders sat in his inbox like curses. I wanted him happy. I needed him happy. And to give him that happiness I had to feed him a story that contained none of the truth that had left my panties ruined in a boardroom.

I folded my hands in my lap. The perfect wife posture. Inside, modern me leaned forward with wet interest.

“It was… structured,” I began carefully. “First they had a short interaction after the makeover session from yesterday. Then a practical round. Salesmanship. They wanted to see how we handle pressure and persuasion. I did well. Highest among the girls, actually.”

Aditya laughed, delighted. “Of course you did. You’ve always been good at talking sense into people. What did you have to sell? Pens? Imaginary products?”

My mouth went dry.

In my head Rohit’s voice returned—BARGAIN for BRA GAIN—and my own hands slid under my top in a crowded room, unhooking my bra while my heavy boobs fell free and my pussy clenched with first-time public filth. I felt again the slow bounce as I walked without support. The two thousand rupees. The way my nipples hardened when men looked.

On the sofa I smiled politely.

“Yes… kind of like that. Items. Small things we had with us. Pen, accessories. Normal corporate games. I negotiated hard and scored the best margin.”

A small mistake. My voice dipped on accessories. My fingers tightened in my lap. Heat crawled up my neck.

Aditya tilted his head. “You’re blushing.”

“Am I?” I touched my cheek too fast. “It’s just… the whole day was intense. Air-conditioning. Nerves. I’m happy, that’s all.”

He kept looking. My first lie was already leaking through my skin.

“What kind of accessories?” he asked, half teasing, half curious. “Did they make you sell your watch or something?”

In my mind my hair buckle came off under a stranger’s slow fingers. My handkerchief sold with a kiss I had forced myself to give. Then the list—intimate wear—base price five hundred—and Rohit offering money for the bra wrapped around my married boobs. I saw myself pulling my top up for ten seconds, flashing milky flesh and sexy bra cups, then later opening the clasp and handing the warm garment over while my pussy dripped and my unbound boobs announced every step.

“No, no watch,” I said quickly. “Just… small things. A hair clip. A pen. Nothing important. The point was negotiation psychology. They modify rounds according to company culture at Amanor.”

Another mistake. I had said hair clip with a tiny pause, as if the object still burned my scalp where a man had removed it for pleasure and profit. Aditya’s eyes narrowed a fraction—not suspicious yet, but attentive. He had been married to an honest woman for years. He could hear when my sentences put on clothes that did not fit.

“You’re talking strangely,” he said softly. “Like you’re editing while speaking.”

My conservative bra suddenly felt tighter. Under it my nipples hardened against the cups—not from his romance, but from the filthy thrill of lying to him for the first time in our marriage. Modern me shivered in delight. Look at you. Sitting here in salwar kameez, boobs locked up like a good girl, while you smuggle boardroom sluthood past your husband’s love. Your pussy is getting wet from the lie itself.

Conservative me panicked. Stop. Correct course. He trusts you.

“I’m just tired,” I said, trying to laugh. “There were presentations after that. HR explained packages and roles. Different salary bands depending on responsibility. The higher ones are… demanding. Travel, client handling, long hours. But the money is very good, Aditya. Life-changing good.”

His hand found mine. “How good?”

I thought of fifty-five lakhs. Of twenty-five lakhs deducted. Of the zero-deduction option paid for with Instagram slavery and Manav deciding when my boobs would be mesh-naked in his suite or transparent under elite party lights. I thought of our Delhi wound and how even Role B could stop the bleeding.

“Enough to ease things,” I whispered, and that part was not a lie. “Enough that the EMI won’t feel like it’s eating us alive every month. Enough that you can finally sleep without doing arithmetic in the dark.”

His throat moved. Emotion flooded his face. He squeezed my fingers hard.

“Tell me about the people,” he said after a moment. “Interviewers? Any difficult men? You know how corporate uncles can be.”

Dangerous ground.

I saw Kavya’s cleavage and crimson authority. I heard Manav’s voice on speaker describing my bare boobs against Dubai glass and crystal beads parting over my nipples. I felt again the contract pen. The photographer’s knuckles brushing the upper swell of my braless boob while adjusting my neckline. My profile picture on the projector—elegant to a casual glance, slutty the moment anyone zoomed, nipples faintly declared beneath thick fabric.

“There was a woman from HR,” I said. “Kavya. Very sharp. And two male interviewers for the rounds. Professional. Then… later… a discussion about company image and social media responsibilities for client-facing roles. They take branding seriously.”

“Social media?” Aditya frowned lightly. “You barely use Instagram.”

Mistake number three. My body betrayed me—I shifted on the sofa, thighs pressing together as my clit pulsed at the memory of beach wear, sexy traditional, full company control, filthy comments pinned for reach, Manav’s private wardrobe authority. My voice went a shade too bright.

“Exactly. That is why I was nervous. They create professional accounts for some roles. Corporate styling. Photoshoots. It is just marketing. I may have a small shoot tomorrow related to that. Nothing glamorous. Just formal images for internal profiling.”

Formal images.

While my mind replayed Rian saying arch just slightly and my heavy unsupported boobs pushing into the camera’s mouth.

Aditya leaned back, studying me. “Saundarya… why do you keep touching your dupatta like that? And you haven’t looked me in the eye for a full sentence since I asked about the sales round.”

Because if I looked him in the eye too long, he would see the other woman. The one who had opened her bra strap in front of strangers for profit. The one who had accepted that her CEO could order her into transparent lingerie and make her open his office door without covering her boobs. The one who had signed so her husband would remain blind at nine PM when her account went live.

“I’m not hiding anything,” I said.

The sentence was so false that my own skin prickled with erotic static. Never had I said those words to him as a lie. The novelty hit me between my legs like a finger stroke. My mouth continued manufacturing cover while my memory ran the real film underneath—bra off, form signed, boobs free in a Honda Accord, green plunging dress in a fantasy rain shower, elite hands groping my wet transparent body while Manav watched and owned.

“I just… I want this badly,” I added, softer, using truth as camouflage. “For us. For the Delhi mess. For you. So I am overthinking how I sound. I performed well. I was confident. I was… bold when required. They liked that.”

Bold.

My pussy clenched around the double meaning until I felt slippery inside my respectable salwar.

Aditya’s expression gentled, but his curiosity did not die. He was a husband tasting something off in the sugar.

“Bold how?” he asked. “Give me one real example. One moment where you thought, I handled that.”

My brain scrammed for a safe story and accidentally reached into the dirty basket.

“There was a point when time was running out in the sales round,” I said, too vividly. “Everyone was struggling. I realized ordinary pitching wouldn’t win. So I… changed strategy. Used presence. Confidence. Made the buyer feel he was getting something rare. I raised my price instead of dropping it. He paid. I won.”

While I spoke, my body relived the truth in merciless detail: pulling my top up, showing my bra and the milky curve of my boobs, telling Rohit I was a respectful married woman and that the cloth’s value depended on who wore it, then reaching behind my back, freeing my heavy boobs, handing over warm lingerie, standing in a crowded room unrestrained, every step a soft obscene bounce, nipples hard, pussy wet, dignity auctioned for points and a future salary that could save our marriage from a builder’s crime in Delhi.

My face was burning. My conservative bra felt like a joke placed over a scandal.

Aditya smiled, proud and unsuspecting by force of love. “That’s my wife. Strategic.”

Then he frowned slightly again. “You said ‘he paid.’ So the buyers were men?”

“Yes,” I answered before I could stop myself. “Employees. Volunteers. It was internal.”

“And you were comfortable?”

In my head I was braless, aroused, selling intimacy off a printed list. On the sofa I nodded too quickly.

“Completely. Very professional environment. Amanor is strict about conduct.”

The lie was so large it made me dizzy. And underneath the dizziness came something I had never tasted in our honest marriage—

Excitement.

Pure, edgy, sexual excitement.

I was sitting in traditional clothes, boobs properly caged, dupatta decent, playing the homely Pune wife… while feeding my husband a filtered script and privately replaying my own slutty origin story like pornography only I could watch. My clit swelled. My nipples roughened inside the bra cups. Modern me purred with vicious delight:

You love this. You love the double channel. Clean audio for him. Filthy video for you. This is power. This is the real Role C training. Keep smiling.

Conservative me tried one last scream:

You are destroying the only pure thing you had. You never lied to him. Stop before the taste becomes addiction.

But the taste was already sweet.

Aditya opened his mouth—another question forming, something sharper, something about why my breathing had changed—and panic fluttered hard enough that my pussy throbbed in sync with it.

I was getting stuck.

If he asked one more precise thing, the whole fragile cover would tear and spill boardrooms, bras, CEOs, and contracts across our marriage.

So I did the oldest domestic escape in the world.

I pressed a hand to my stomach and let my voice go soft and ordinary.

“Aditya… can we continue this after food? I’m very hungry. I didn’t eat properly all day. My head is spinning a little. Let me heat dinner. I want to hear about your office too, but if I don’t eat I will fall asleep mid-sentence.”

Aditya clapped his hands once, the sound bright with a happiness I had not heard from him in months.

“Then we are celebrating,” he declared. “No kitchen tonight. Pizza. Proper celebration for my brilliant wife.”

Before I could protest, his phone was already in his hand, thumbs moving with rare lightness. The Delhi EMI, the unfinished flat, the forged documents, the years of dual burden—for a moment all of it lifted off his face. He looked like the man I married, not the man who calculated survival in the dark.

“One large farmhouse and one paneer tikka pizza,” he said into the app, then glanced at me. “Extra cheese. You deserve extra cheese.”

I smiled the correct smile and picked up my own phone as if checking the time casually.

8:01 PM.

The numbers hit my blood like ice and heat together.

One hour.

At nine, the account would go live. My projector face—braless truth hidden inside elegant fabric—would exist on the internet as property of Amanor Products Pvt Ltd. My heavy boobs, captured in that arched, quietly slutty posture, would begin their secret life in front of strangers while my husband sat in this very room believing he was celebrating a normal corporate win.

A notification glowed on my screen.

Amanor Technical Team: Privacy filter updated. 70 numbers enrolled successfully. Status: Active pending profile publish at 21:00 IST.

My thumb trembled over the message.

They were blocked. Aditya. My parents. His parents. Friends. The old world. In theory I was safe. In theory I could become whatever Manav’s machine required and this sofa, this marriage, this salwar kameez would remain untouched.

Still, fear licked down my spine and curled hot between my legs. What if the software failed? What if one forgotten number remained? What if Aditya’s colleague from Delhi searched my name for fun and screenshots traveled? The fear should have killed my arousal. Instead it sharpened it. Danger made my nipples tighten inside my conservative bra until the cups felt suddenly too small, too honest, too much like a costume I was no longer sure I belonged in.

“Ordered,” Aditya announced. “Thirty minutes. I’m going to freshen up. Don’t you dare start eating without me if it comes early.”

He kissed my forehead—soft, proud, pure—and disappeared toward the bathroom.

The moment the door clicked, my body slumped and ignited at once.

Alone again.

Every minute became a countdown striptease I could not stop watching. 8:05. 8:07. 8:12. Time dragged me toward nine PM by the wrist like Manav himself. I sat on our sofa in traditional cloth, boobs neatly imprisoned, and my mind flooded with filthy previews of a world my husband would never see.

I imagined the first strangers finding the profile. Men scrolling past polished corporate pages, then stopping. Zooming. Understanding. The thick top that looked decent in thumbnail revealing, under magnification, the soft natural hang of my firm boobs, the faint dent of nipples, the absence of any bra line. Comments forming in languages I did not even read. Thirst disguised as compliments. Filth disguised as fire emojis. Someone saving the photo. Someone sending it to a friend with the caption married secretary material. My pussy clenched hard around the fantasy. I pressed my thighs together until the seam of my salwar rubbed my clit through cotton, and a helpless pulse of wetness answered.

Modern me whispered, drunk on the approaching hour:

In fifty minutes you go live. Not as Aditya’s homely wife. As Amanor’s asset. Your boobs are already on a server waiting to be desired. Doesn’t that make you drip?

Conservative me tried to pray the feeling away and failed.

I was excited.

I was terrified.

I was shamefully, continuously aroused by the idea that my double life was about to receive a timestamp.

The doorbell rang at 8:28.

Pizza.

Aditya emerged with damp hair and a clean T-shirt, paid the delivery boy with a generosity we usually reserved for festivals, and set the boxes on our small table like trophy cases. The smell of cheese and oregano filled the 2 BHK. For any other couple it would have been simple joy. For us it was the scent of a possible exit from financial strangulation—and for me, underneath, the scent of a last ordinary meal before my image belonged to other men.

We sat cross-legged and opened the boxes. Aditya put an oversized slice on my plate first.

“To my wife,” he said, eyes shining. “Shortlisted. Winning sales rounds. Making me proud. Eat.”

I bit into pizza and tasted almost nothing except countdown.

8:31.

He was too happy to notice my distraction at first. He spoke with his mouth half full, laughing, planning tiny futures. “If this package is good, we stabilize the EMI in a year. Maybe two. We stop cutting every joy into half. You don’t understand how long I’ve wanted to see you like this—confident, selected, valued.”

“I do understand,” I said softly.

He leaned in. “So tell me properly now. Packages. You mentioned bands earlier. What numbers are we talking? Don’t be shy. This is our war room.”

Our war room.

Delhi’s one-crore wound sat between us unspoken, and he was asking me to describe the weapon that might heal it—without knowing the weapon was my body.

I wiped my fingers on a napkin, buying seconds, feeling my conservative bra dig into soft flesh that had spent half the day free.

“There are three roles,” I began carefully. “Role A is around twenty lakhs. Entry-level secretary track. Stable. Role B is about thirty-five. Personal secretary line, more client exposure. Role C is the premium one… fifty-five lakhs.”

Aditya froze with pizza halfway to his mouth.

“Fifty-five?” he repeated, voice cracking on wonder. “Saundarya. Fifty-five lakhs?”

“Yes.”

He put the slice down as if reverence required empty hands. “That’s more than four times what I make. That’s… that’s oxygen. That’s the Delhi loan losing its teeth. That’s us finally living instead of surviving.”

My throat tightened. Under the table my toes curled. Fifty-five lakhs also meant Role C conditions: energy reserved for the company, wardrobe split between matronly home and shameless office, Instagram with no veto, Manav deciding when my boobs would be bare under crystal beads at private parties, transparent mesh in his suite, opening doors without dignity. My husband was staring at the salary like salvation. I was staring at the leash attached to it.

“Which one are you targeting?” he asked immediately.

“I… I performed well enough to be considered for the higher ones,” I said. “Nothing is final until after tomorrow and the week-long assessment.”

“Assessment?”

Mistake. My eyes flicked to the wall clock.

8:39.

“Just… extended evaluation,” I covered. “Tasks across the week. Presence, communication, brand fit. Corporate things.”

Aditya waved the vagueness away, already intoxicated by the number. “Listen to me. Don’t play safe. Don’t settle for twenty because it feels modest. You’ve always been modest. Modesty didn’t stop the builder from destroying us. Modesty doesn’t pay EMIs. If they are offering a path to fifty-five, you grab it with both hands. You hear me? I want you to go for the highest. Push yourself. Become irreplaceable. For once in our life, let’s not choose the smaller plate.”

Every word was love.

Every word was him unknowingly shoving his wife deeper into Manav Oberoi’s dark architecture.

My pussy fluttered in filthy irony. He thought he was encouraging ambition. He was encouraging the version of me that danced transparent in rain while elite hands groped my wet boobs. He was cheering for Role C without reading the terms written on my skin.

“I’ll try,” I whispered.

“Don’t try. Decide,” he insisted, smiling, proud, fatal. “Highest package. Full commitment. Whatever hours, whatever polish they want—do it. I’ll handle home. I’ll support you. Just win.”

I nodded, and the nod felt like signing again.

8:44.

He took another slice, then frowned lightly at me. “You’re barely eating. And you keep looking at the clock. Expecting a call from them tonight?”

Yes. In a way. At nine my other mouth would open to the world—the photographed mouth of my braless silhouette.

“Maybe email,” I said, too quickly. “They said some information might come tonight. Account setup… internal profile… something like that.”

“Account?”

Cover. Fast.

“Official communication channel,” I revised, cheeks warming. “For candidates in final process. Not a big deal.”

Aditya chuckled. “Look at you. My wife has ‘official channels’ now. Next you’ll have visiting cards.” He reached over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, tender. “You’re nervous. It’s cute. Don’t be. You already won the hard part by getting this far.”

If he knew what I had sold to get this far, the pizza would turn to ash.

8:51.

My phone sat face-down beside my plate like a bomb with manners. Half my mind answered Aditya’s happiness. The other half watched minutes die. I imagined the technical toggle flipping. Profile publish. First anonymous eyes. First zoom on the shape of my boobs beneath that top. First stranger deciding I was hot, available, corporate-sexy, secretly unprotected in the photo. My nipples ached inside the bra. Wet heat built again until I had to shift on the cushion and pretend it was only pizza spice.

“What kind of client exposure in the higher roles?” Aditya asked, wiping sauce from his thumb. “Travel? Evenings? I can adjust.”

I saw Manav’s private elite parties. Transparent saree. No blouse. Heavy boobs visible through chiffon. Crystal beads swinging open over bare nipples. Guests getting touchy while I smiled for the deal. His office suite. Mesh lingerie. Massage. Door knock. Open anyway.

“Some evenings,” I said, voice carefully flat. “Client dinners. Occasional travel. Presentation standards are high. They… style people for certain events.”

“Style?” He grinned. “Like makeovers? You already looked beautiful this morning when you left.”

This morning I left with a bra. I returned without one, then locked myself back into this cage before he arrived. The contrast made me so dizzy with lust and guilt I nearly dropped my crust.

“Yes, makeovers,” I managed. “Professional image. Nothing dramatic.”

On the projector it had been dramatic enough that Kavya clapped. Dramatic enough that anyone zooming would know my boobs were free.

8:56.

Aditya leaned back, satisfied, full of pizza and future. “Fifty-five lakhs,” he murmured again, as if tasting the digits. “Saundarya, if you land that, I’ll worship the ground you walk on. I’ll tell every relative the builder didn’t win. We did. You did.”

My eyes stung.

He was pushing me into darkness with the purest intentions in Pune. And part of me—the modern, wet, newly lying part—loved him for it and hated how easy the push felt.

“I’ll do everything I can,” I said.

True.

And incomplete.

8:58.

I stood to clear plates mostly so I could glance at my phone without him reading my face. The notification light was still. No new mail yet. Two minutes to a different existence. My heavy boobs rose against the conservative bra with a breath that felt too big for the cups. For a mad second I wanted to tear the bra off right here in our kitchen and feel the freedom again before the clock struck—just to match my outer body to the woman about to go live.

I did not.

I stacked plates like a good wife.

Aditya stretched, happy, unsuspecting. “After food I want ice cream if we have any. Or we can just sit and plan how we’ll spit on that Delhi EMI once your offer comes.”

“Mm,” I answered.

My pulse counted down in my clit and my throat at the same time.

8:59.

I returned to the sofa with water glasses, sat close enough to play normal, and placed the phone on my thigh under the table edge of our small dining setup—screen tilted only toward me. Aditya talked about transferring more to the loan account if the advance came fast. I made agreeing sounds. Inside me the two women fought without words now—only sensation.

Conservative me: You are one minute from betrayal becoming public record.

Modern me: You are one minute from becoming desired on purpose.

9:00 PM came.

(To be continued ...)

[Bakchod Londa]

Nice... she is lying to her husband for the very first time in her life, so she kept slipping up out of excitement while talking about the interview....she'll become a pro at this soon and lie so smoothly that her husband won't able to catch her.