21-01-2026, 03:41 PM
Part 3 – The Breaking Point
Friday evening arrived like a guillotine.
Karthik had spent the entire day in silent war with himself. Every meeting, every email, every glance at the
red-flagged cash-flow dashboard on his laptop felt like another nail in the coffin of his pride. The bank had
already sent the formal notice — full facility call-in within seven days if the ₹18 crore wasn’t repaid. Two more
clients had quietly shifted volume to competitors. The containers were still rotting at the ICD; demurrage
charges were now climbing past ₹4 lakh a day.
He came home at 6:30 p.m. — earlier than he had in months.
Shailaja was in the bedroom, changing after her evening bath. She wore only a thin cotton petticoat and a
half-worn blouse, hair still wet and dripping onto her shoulders. The moment she saw his face she froze.
“Karthik…?”
He closed the bedroom door very softly. Locked it.
Then he crossed the room in three strides and pulled her into his arms so fiercely her breath left her in a
small, startled sound.
He didn’t speak for a long minute. Just held her, face buried in the crook of her neck, inhaling the jasmine oil
she always used after bathing. His hands roamed her back — not with lust at first, but with something
desperate, almost reverent. Like a man memorizing the shape of the woman he was about to lose.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes were red-rimmed.
“I have to tell you something,” he whispered.
She searched his face. Fear flickered in her dark eyes.
He told her everything.
The containers. The bank. The photo. Vikram’s offer. One night. Her body in exchange for saving everything
they had built.
He spoke in short, broken sentences. When he finished he couldn’t look at her anymore. He sank onto the
edge of the bed, elbows on knees, head in hands.
Shailaja stood motionless for what felt like forever.
Then she walked to him slowly. Sank to her knees between his legs the way she had so many nights before.
She took his face in both palms and lifted it until their eyes met.
Tears were already falling down her cheeks.
“Is there no other way?” she asked in the smallest voice he had ever heard.
He shook his head once.
She closed her eyes. A single sob escaped her.
Then she leaned forward and kissed him — not the soft, obedient kisses of a traditional wife, but something
raw, hungry, grieving. Her tongue pushed into his mouth like she was trying to drink him, to keep a piece of
him inside her forever.
Karthik groaned against her lips and pulled her onto his lap. Her wet hair curtained them both as they kissed
— messy, desperate, tasting of salt and fear.
His hands found the drawstring of her petticoat. He yanked it open; the fabric pooled around her hips. She
wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Her sex was already slick — shame and terror and love all twisted together.
He lifted her just enough to free himself from his trousers. No foreplay tonight. No slow teasing of her navel or
sucking her nipples until she begged. Just raw need.
He guided himself to her entrance and pulled her down in one long, merciless stroke.
Shailaja cried out — half pain, half relief — and wrapped her arms around his neck so tightly he could barely
breathe. She began to move on him immediately, hips rolling in frantic little circles, taking him deeper with
every downward motion.
Tears kept falling onto his collar as she rode him.
“I love you,” she sobbed between gasps. “I love you… I love you…”
Karthik gripped her hips hard enough to bruise and thrust upward to meet her. The wet slap of their bodies
filled the room. Her heavy breasts bounced against his chest; he caught one in his mouth and sucked hard,
teeth grazing the nipple until she whimpered.
“Mine,” he growled around her flesh. “Always mine. No matter what happens tomorrow.”
“Yes… yes…” She was crying openly now, tears streaming, but her hips never slowed. “Only yours… even if…
even if he touches me… it’s only you inside me… always you…”
The words broke something in him.
He flipped her onto her back on the bed without pulling out. Hooked her legs over his shoulders — the
deepest angle he could manage — and fucked her with punishing strokes. Each thrust drove a sob from her
throat. Her nails raked down his back; she bit his shoulder hard enough to draw blood.
When she came it was violent — body seizing, walls clamping around him like a fist, a long, keening wail
tearing from her throat. Karthik kept going, chasing his own release through her aftershocks, until he buried
himself to the root and emptied inside her with a guttural roar.
They stayed locked together for long minutes afterward.
Shailaja’s sobs slowly quieted to trembling breaths. She clung to him like a drowning woman.
Eventually he rolled to the side, pulling her with him so she lay half across his chest. He stroked her hair, kissed her temple.
“I hate myself,” he whispered.
“Don’t.” Her voice was hoarse. “You’re saving our life. Our home. Everything we built.”
He closed his eyes. “I should have protected you better.”
“You still are,” she said softly. “In the only way left.”
She lifted her head and looked at him — eyes swollen, but strangely calm now.
“Tell him yes,” she said. “Tomorrow. Before I lose my courage.”
Karthik’s throat worked. He couldn’t speak.
She kissed him once more — gentle this time, almost maternal.
Then she rose, walked naked to the wardrobe, and pulled out the saree she had worn to the temple the day
the photo was taken: cream silk, sheer enough to show every curve when the light hit it right.
She dbangd it slowly over her body in front of the mirror — no blouse, no petticoat, just the saree wound low
on her hips so the deep navel was fully exposed.
She turned to him.
“If he wants me,” she said quietly, “he should see exactly what he’s taking from you.”
Karthik stared at her — at the woman who had once been too shy to undress with the lights on — now
standing there offering herself like a sacrifice.
Something inside him died a little more.
He nodded once.
Then he picked up his phone.
Sent one message to the number Vikram had left.
“Tomorrow. 9 p.m. Your place. She’ll come alone.”
He dropped the phone like it burned him.
Shailaja walked back to the bed, climbed onto his lap again, and guided his softening cock back inside her
still-dripping sex.
She didn’t move this time. Just sat there, filled with him, rocking very gently.
“Make love to me all night,” she whispered against his mouth. “Until the sun comes up. So that tomorrow…
when I go to him… I still smell like you. Taste like you. Feel like you.”
Karthik pulled her down and rolled them so he was on top again.
He made love to her slowly then — long, languid strokes, kissing every inch of her skin, worshipping the body
he was about to hand over to his enemy.
They didn’t sleep.
They just clung to each other in the dark, bodies joined, hearts breaking, counting down the hours until
morning.
End of Part 3
Friday evening arrived like a guillotine.
Karthik had spent the entire day in silent war with himself. Every meeting, every email, every glance at the
red-flagged cash-flow dashboard on his laptop felt like another nail in the coffin of his pride. The bank had
already sent the formal notice — full facility call-in within seven days if the ₹18 crore wasn’t repaid. Two more
clients had quietly shifted volume to competitors. The containers were still rotting at the ICD; demurrage
charges were now climbing past ₹4 lakh a day.
He came home at 6:30 p.m. — earlier than he had in months.
Shailaja was in the bedroom, changing after her evening bath. She wore only a thin cotton petticoat and a
half-worn blouse, hair still wet and dripping onto her shoulders. The moment she saw his face she froze.
“Karthik…?”
He closed the bedroom door very softly. Locked it.
Then he crossed the room in three strides and pulled her into his arms so fiercely her breath left her in a
small, startled sound.
He didn’t speak for a long minute. Just held her, face buried in the crook of her neck, inhaling the jasmine oil
she always used after bathing. His hands roamed her back — not with lust at first, but with something
desperate, almost reverent. Like a man memorizing the shape of the woman he was about to lose.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes were red-rimmed.
“I have to tell you something,” he whispered.
She searched his face. Fear flickered in her dark eyes.
He told her everything.
The containers. The bank. The photo. Vikram’s offer. One night. Her body in exchange for saving everything
they had built.
He spoke in short, broken sentences. When he finished he couldn’t look at her anymore. He sank onto the
edge of the bed, elbows on knees, head in hands.
Shailaja stood motionless for what felt like forever.
Then she walked to him slowly. Sank to her knees between his legs the way she had so many nights before.
She took his face in both palms and lifted it until their eyes met.
Tears were already falling down her cheeks.
“Is there no other way?” she asked in the smallest voice he had ever heard.
He shook his head once.
She closed her eyes. A single sob escaped her.
Then she leaned forward and kissed him — not the soft, obedient kisses of a traditional wife, but something
raw, hungry, grieving. Her tongue pushed into his mouth like she was trying to drink him, to keep a piece of
him inside her forever.
Karthik groaned against her lips and pulled her onto his lap. Her wet hair curtained them both as they kissed
— messy, desperate, tasting of salt and fear.
His hands found the drawstring of her petticoat. He yanked it open; the fabric pooled around her hips. She
wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Her sex was already slick — shame and terror and love all twisted together.
He lifted her just enough to free himself from his trousers. No foreplay tonight. No slow teasing of her navel or
sucking her nipples until she begged. Just raw need.
He guided himself to her entrance and pulled her down in one long, merciless stroke.
Shailaja cried out — half pain, half relief — and wrapped her arms around his neck so tightly he could barely
breathe. She began to move on him immediately, hips rolling in frantic little circles, taking him deeper with
every downward motion.
Tears kept falling onto his collar as she rode him.
“I love you,” she sobbed between gasps. “I love you… I love you…”
Karthik gripped her hips hard enough to bruise and thrust upward to meet her. The wet slap of their bodies
filled the room. Her heavy breasts bounced against his chest; he caught one in his mouth and sucked hard,
teeth grazing the nipple until she whimpered.
“Mine,” he growled around her flesh. “Always mine. No matter what happens tomorrow.”
“Yes… yes…” She was crying openly now, tears streaming, but her hips never slowed. “Only yours… even if…
even if he touches me… it’s only you inside me… always you…”
The words broke something in him.
He flipped her onto her back on the bed without pulling out. Hooked her legs over his shoulders — the
deepest angle he could manage — and fucked her with punishing strokes. Each thrust drove a sob from her
throat. Her nails raked down his back; she bit his shoulder hard enough to draw blood.
When she came it was violent — body seizing, walls clamping around him like a fist, a long, keening wail
tearing from her throat. Karthik kept going, chasing his own release through her aftershocks, until he buried
himself to the root and emptied inside her with a guttural roar.
They stayed locked together for long minutes afterward.
Shailaja’s sobs slowly quieted to trembling breaths. She clung to him like a drowning woman.
Eventually he rolled to the side, pulling her with him so she lay half across his chest. He stroked her hair, kissed her temple.
“I hate myself,” he whispered.
“Don’t.” Her voice was hoarse. “You’re saving our life. Our home. Everything we built.”
He closed his eyes. “I should have protected you better.”
“You still are,” she said softly. “In the only way left.”
She lifted her head and looked at him — eyes swollen, but strangely calm now.
“Tell him yes,” she said. “Tomorrow. Before I lose my courage.”
Karthik’s throat worked. He couldn’t speak.
She kissed him once more — gentle this time, almost maternal.
Then she rose, walked naked to the wardrobe, and pulled out the saree she had worn to the temple the day
the photo was taken: cream silk, sheer enough to show every curve when the light hit it right.
She dbangd it slowly over her body in front of the mirror — no blouse, no petticoat, just the saree wound low
on her hips so the deep navel was fully exposed.
She turned to him.
“If he wants me,” she said quietly, “he should see exactly what he’s taking from you.”
Karthik stared at her — at the woman who had once been too shy to undress with the lights on — now
standing there offering herself like a sacrifice.
Something inside him died a little more.
He nodded once.
Then he picked up his phone.
Sent one message to the number Vikram had left.
“Tomorrow. 9 p.m. Your place. She’ll come alone.”
He dropped the phone like it burned him.
Shailaja walked back to the bed, climbed onto his lap again, and guided his softening cock back inside her
still-dripping sex.
She didn’t move this time. Just sat there, filled with him, rocking very gently.
“Make love to me all night,” she whispered against his mouth. “Until the sun comes up. So that tomorrow…
when I go to him… I still smell like you. Taste like you. Feel like you.”
Karthik pulled her down and rolled them so he was on top again.
He made love to her slowly then — long, languid strokes, kissing every inch of her skin, worshipping the body
he was about to hand over to his enemy.
They didn’t sleep.
They just clung to each other in the dark, bodies joined, hearts breaking, counting down the hours until
morning.
End of Part 3
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