Yesterday, 11:00 PM
Part 6: The Silent Preparation
Back in the air-conditioned safety of his plush corporate cabin, the adrenaline that had kept Iqbal standing in Singhania’s office rapidly faded, replaced by a cold, creeping, nauseating dread. Iqbal sank heavily into his ergonomic leather chair, closing his eyes and violently rubbing his throbbing temples. But the darkness behind his eyelids offered absolutely no relief. Mr. Singhania’s sinister, commanding words played on a relentless, terrifying loop in his mind: Transparent. Sleeveless. Sexy.
Involuntarily, vivid, intrusive images of Shazia floated before his eyes. He pictured his wife—the woman he aggressively forced to hide under loose cotton kurtas and heavy, suffocating black burqas—suddenly stripped of her armor. He visualized her standing in the harsh, unforgiving light of a hotel suite, dbangd only in the highly revealing, sheer fabrics Singhania had explicitly demanded. He imagined the deep, inward curve of her soft waist, the wide, fleshy flare of her hips, and the blinding fairness of her milky skin clearly visible through fine netting. He pictured her heavy, milk-swollen breasts spilling out of a low-cut blouse, the dark silhouettes of her prominent nipples pressing against the thin silk. It was a deeply perverse, sickening mixture of a jealous husband’s possessiveness and a desperate man’s willingness to use his own wife's body as a bargaining chip to save his miserable life. He shook his head violently, trying to physically dislodge the dirty image. I can’t do this, he thought, his chest tight with panic. I am Iqbal Khan. I am a respectable man.
Desperate for any alternative to pimping out his wife, he snatched up his smartphone. He frantically scrolled through his contacts, bypassing his office colleagues, and stopped at a few old friends—successful businessmen he had arrogantly drifted apart from over the years, viewing them as beneath his new CFO status. Swallowing his massive pride, he dialed the first number.
"Ramesh? Yes, it’s Iqbal... long time, brother. Listen, I have a very small, temporary situation with an offshore investment. I need liquid cash urgently. About 20 Lakhs. Just for a week."
There was a long, awkward pause on the other end. His friends, so used to Iqbal relentlessly bragging about his stock market wins and his luxury flat, were taken completely aback. "20 Lakhs? That’s a lot of liquid cash, Iqbal. I don't have that kind of liquidity lying around right now. The market is tight."
Iqbal hung up and tried another number. And then another. The answers were always the exact same—initial surprise, followed by a polite, firm refusal. Iqbal couldn't possibly tell them the humiliating truth, and his vague, desperate excuse of "investments" sounded incredibly suspicious coming from a high-ranking corporate CFO. As he put the phone down, he realized with a sickening, heavy heart that he had absolutely no safety net. He was totally, utterly alone. The trap was locked.
He returned to his cramped apartment that evening, carrying the crushing weight of the world on his shoulders. Later that night, Shazia was in the sweltering kitchen, wiping down the counters. He stood silently at the doorway, his eyes tracing the modest curve of her back under her loose house-dress.
"Shazia," he said, his voice tight and strained. "Tomorrow evening. My boss, Mr. Singhania, has invited us for dinner."
Shazia turned around, wiping her wet hands on a towel, her eyes wide with genuine surprise. "Us? Me also?"
"Yes. A family gathering."
"But... why suddenly? You never take me to your office parties. You always say they are not for respectable women. Is everything okay?" she asked, taking a step closer, immediately sensing the dark, nervous tension radiating from him.
Iqbal snapped, his own unbearable guilt manifesting instantly as aggressive anger. "Why the hell do you have to question everything I say? It’s just a dinner! Just do as I say and prepare yourself. Don't probe me!" He turned on his heel and stormed into the bedroom, slamming the door, leaving her standing in the kitchen, confused, slightly hurt, but completely silenced.
Despite his aggressive outburst, a rare, bubbly excitement began to brew within Shazia. For five long, suffocating years, her entire world had been the four walls of this grilled flat. A dinner at a big, luxurious five-star hotel felt like an impossible dream finally coming true.
The next morning, while Iqbal was standing before the mirror getting ready for the office, she hovered near the door, hesitating. "Iqbal... can I go to the local beauty parlor today? Just for some threading and a facial? Since we are meeting such big, important people..."
Iqbal frowned deeply, aggressively adjusting his silk tie. "What is the need for all that? You stay at home all day. Don't waste my money on useless things. You already look good enough to be my wife."
"Please, Iqbal," she pleaded softly, stepping closer. "I want to look presentable. What will your boss think if I look dull and tired?"
What will your boss think?
The innocent question violently triggered Singhania’s dark, commanding voice in Iqbal’s head. She should look attractive. Sexy. Captivate him. Iqbal stopped adjusting his tie. He turned and looked at his wife—her simple, unadorned face, her natural, raw beauty, and her naive hopefulness. He realized with a sick twist in his gut that for Singhania’s twisted "plan" to actually work, she desperately needed to look her absolute, devastating best. Her body needed to be a flawless, irresistible trap for Verma.
"Fine," he said abruptly, unable to meet her eyes. "Go. Do what you want. Take the money from the drawer."
Shazia smiled brightly, a beautiful, radiant expression, genuinely thinking she had managed to convince her strict husband. She was completely unaware that she was merely grooming and preparing her own body for the slaughterhouse.
Back at the SIPL office, the atmosphere was electric with corporate anxiety. Mr. Verma arrived at exactly 11:00 AM—a powerful, corrupt government aide with a heavy, thick paunch, dark, heavy-lidded eyes that looked perpetually hungry, and a practiced smile that never quite reached his eyes. Singhania welcomed him with open, exaggerated arms. Iqbal stood nervously in the background, his palms sweating profusely.
Later, Iqbal was summoned into the cabin. He walked in, forcing his chest out, desperately wearing a fragile mask of corporate confidence.
"Ah, here is our brilliant financial wizard," Singhania introduced him smoothly. "Mr. Iqbal."
"Good work on the Nizamabad project, Iqbal," Verma grunted, shaking Iqbal’s damp, trembling hand with a crushing grip.
They sat and discussed numbers, budgets, and projections for twenty minutes. Iqbal played his part perfectly, talking about profit margins and cash flows, while Singhania sat back, watching his trapped CFO with a look of dark, predatory amusement.
"He is a very dedicated man," Singhania said, suddenly winking blatantly at Verma. "That is exactly why I invited him to join us tonight at the Grand Hotel. He... and his wife."
"Excellent," Verma nodded slowly, his heavy eyes lighting up with a sudden, dirty interest at the mention of a wife.
"You can go now, Iqbal," Singhania dismissed him with a flick of his wrist. "Go home. Get ready. Meet us at the Grand Hotel suite." As Iqbal turned to leave, his stomach churning, Singhania called out one last time. "I will send my personal driver to pick you up. We don't want you to be late... otherwise, Mr. Verma and I will get incredibly bored just seeing each other."
Iqbal walked out of the cabin, the sound of the two older men's shared, knowing laughter echoing down the corridor, taunting him like a physical blow.
Iqbal reached his apartment late in the afternoon to find the house eerily quiet. Shazia had already dropped their two young sons off at her aunt’s house for the night. As Iqbal walked into the bedroom, Shazia walked out of the attached bathroom, smiling radiantly. She had returned from the parlor—her eyebrows were perfectly arched, her fair skin glowed with a soft, pinkish hue from the facial, and she looked incredibly fresh, youthful, and devastatingly beautiful.
"I am getting ready," she said, her voice laced with subtle, nervous excitement. She went back into the bathroom to bathe, while Iqbal took the guest bathroom, his mind racing with panic.
When Iqbal stepped out of his bathroom, vigorously rubbing his hair with a towel and wrapping it around his waist, he froze in the bedroom doorway.
Shazia was standing in front of the full-length mirror, smiling happily at her reflection. She had already tied her thick, cotton petticoat securely around her waist and was holding a heavy Kanchipuram silk saree against her body to check the dbang. It was a magnificent, deeply traditional piece of fabric—a rich, dark maroon with a thick, heavy gold border. It was grand, it was highly respectable, and most importantly, it was completely opaque. It covered every single inch of her voluptuous curves.
Iqbal stared at the thick silk, and a freezing, paralyzing wave of panic washed over him. Singhania will literally kill me, he thought, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. If she walks into that luxury hotel suite looking like a conservative, fully-covered housewife, Verma will turn refusing in his attitude, and I will go straight to jail.
"What happened?" Shazia asked, her excited smile fading instantly as she saw his pale, terrified expression in the mirror. "Is this color okay? It’s the most expensive one I have. I wore it for my cousin's wedding."
Iqbal walked aggressively past her to the large wooden wardrobe, his mood snapping from fear to tyranny. "No. Not that. Take it off. It’s too... old-fashioned."
"Old-fashioned? Iqbal, this is a pure wedding silk!"
"Wear something nice!" Iqbal muttered loudly, rummaging frantically through the neatly folded shelves, violently shoving aside piles of starched cottons, heavy silks, and modest salwar kameez sets. "They are modern, high-class people, Shazia. You need to look the part. You can't go there looking like a village auntie."
His sweating hands dug deep into the very back of the top shelf until his fingers felt the slippery, distinct texture of plastic. He pulled it out. Packed in a plastic cover was a black chiffon transparent saree, carefully folded inside it. They had bought it years ago for their honeymoon, a rare moment of indulgence that Iqbal had insisted upon. She had worn it exactly once, strictly inside the locked privacy of their hotel bedroom, solely for his eyes.
It was incredibly sheer, feather-light, and entirely translucent, acting more like a dark, provocative filter than actual clothing. Within the plastic cover was also the matching stitched black blouse that came with it. It was a daring, scandalous cut—a plunging, deep U-neck designed to push both breasts together, completely sleeveless to expose her soft arms and underarms, with a back that was barely there, held together only by two flimsy strings.
He threw the plastic packet onto the center of the bed. "Wear this."
Shazia turned, looking at the heap of sheer, jet-black fabric. Her eyes widened in absolute shock. "This?" she asked, her voice dropping to a horrified whisper. "Iqbal, this is... this is completely transparent! I haven't worn this for so long… and the black blouse is so deep… my stomach and back will show completely!"
Iqbal didn't answer. He couldn't look at her face. He turned his back to her, vigorously drying his hair with the towel to avoid meeting her pleading, confused eyes.
"Just wear it, Shazia. We are getting late. At least today, you don't argue with me!" he commanded harshly.
Seeing his brutal dismissal, and completely unwilling to start a screaming fight that would ruin the one magical evening she had been looking forward to for years, Shazia let out a long, defeated sigh. She removed and slowly folded the heavy, modest maroon silk saree and hung it back in the dark cupboard. With trembling hands, she reached out and picked up the packet containing the sheer black chiffon saree, preparing to strip away her modesty and dbang her voluptuous body exactly as her husband—and his boss—demanded.
Back in the air-conditioned safety of his plush corporate cabin, the adrenaline that had kept Iqbal standing in Singhania’s office rapidly faded, replaced by a cold, creeping, nauseating dread. Iqbal sank heavily into his ergonomic leather chair, closing his eyes and violently rubbing his throbbing temples. But the darkness behind his eyelids offered absolutely no relief. Mr. Singhania’s sinister, commanding words played on a relentless, terrifying loop in his mind: Transparent. Sleeveless. Sexy.
Involuntarily, vivid, intrusive images of Shazia floated before his eyes. He pictured his wife—the woman he aggressively forced to hide under loose cotton kurtas and heavy, suffocating black burqas—suddenly stripped of her armor. He visualized her standing in the harsh, unforgiving light of a hotel suite, dbangd only in the highly revealing, sheer fabrics Singhania had explicitly demanded. He imagined the deep, inward curve of her soft waist, the wide, fleshy flare of her hips, and the blinding fairness of her milky skin clearly visible through fine netting. He pictured her heavy, milk-swollen breasts spilling out of a low-cut blouse, the dark silhouettes of her prominent nipples pressing against the thin silk. It was a deeply perverse, sickening mixture of a jealous husband’s possessiveness and a desperate man’s willingness to use his own wife's body as a bargaining chip to save his miserable life. He shook his head violently, trying to physically dislodge the dirty image. I can’t do this, he thought, his chest tight with panic. I am Iqbal Khan. I am a respectable man.
Desperate for any alternative to pimping out his wife, he snatched up his smartphone. He frantically scrolled through his contacts, bypassing his office colleagues, and stopped at a few old friends—successful businessmen he had arrogantly drifted apart from over the years, viewing them as beneath his new CFO status. Swallowing his massive pride, he dialed the first number.
"Ramesh? Yes, it’s Iqbal... long time, brother. Listen, I have a very small, temporary situation with an offshore investment. I need liquid cash urgently. About 20 Lakhs. Just for a week."
There was a long, awkward pause on the other end. His friends, so used to Iqbal relentlessly bragging about his stock market wins and his luxury flat, were taken completely aback. "20 Lakhs? That’s a lot of liquid cash, Iqbal. I don't have that kind of liquidity lying around right now. The market is tight."
Iqbal hung up and tried another number. And then another. The answers were always the exact same—initial surprise, followed by a polite, firm refusal. Iqbal couldn't possibly tell them the humiliating truth, and his vague, desperate excuse of "investments" sounded incredibly suspicious coming from a high-ranking corporate CFO. As he put the phone down, he realized with a sickening, heavy heart that he had absolutely no safety net. He was totally, utterly alone. The trap was locked.
He returned to his cramped apartment that evening, carrying the crushing weight of the world on his shoulders. Later that night, Shazia was in the sweltering kitchen, wiping down the counters. He stood silently at the doorway, his eyes tracing the modest curve of her back under her loose house-dress.
"Shazia," he said, his voice tight and strained. "Tomorrow evening. My boss, Mr. Singhania, has invited us for dinner."
Shazia turned around, wiping her wet hands on a towel, her eyes wide with genuine surprise. "Us? Me also?"
"Yes. A family gathering."
"But... why suddenly? You never take me to your office parties. You always say they are not for respectable women. Is everything okay?" she asked, taking a step closer, immediately sensing the dark, nervous tension radiating from him.
Iqbal snapped, his own unbearable guilt manifesting instantly as aggressive anger. "Why the hell do you have to question everything I say? It’s just a dinner! Just do as I say and prepare yourself. Don't probe me!" He turned on his heel and stormed into the bedroom, slamming the door, leaving her standing in the kitchen, confused, slightly hurt, but completely silenced.
Despite his aggressive outburst, a rare, bubbly excitement began to brew within Shazia. For five long, suffocating years, her entire world had been the four walls of this grilled flat. A dinner at a big, luxurious five-star hotel felt like an impossible dream finally coming true.
The next morning, while Iqbal was standing before the mirror getting ready for the office, she hovered near the door, hesitating. "Iqbal... can I go to the local beauty parlor today? Just for some threading and a facial? Since we are meeting such big, important people..."
Iqbal frowned deeply, aggressively adjusting his silk tie. "What is the need for all that? You stay at home all day. Don't waste my money on useless things. You already look good enough to be my wife."
"Please, Iqbal," she pleaded softly, stepping closer. "I want to look presentable. What will your boss think if I look dull and tired?"
What will your boss think?
The innocent question violently triggered Singhania’s dark, commanding voice in Iqbal’s head. She should look attractive. Sexy. Captivate him. Iqbal stopped adjusting his tie. He turned and looked at his wife—her simple, unadorned face, her natural, raw beauty, and her naive hopefulness. He realized with a sick twist in his gut that for Singhania’s twisted "plan" to actually work, she desperately needed to look her absolute, devastating best. Her body needed to be a flawless, irresistible trap for Verma.
"Fine," he said abruptly, unable to meet her eyes. "Go. Do what you want. Take the money from the drawer."
Shazia smiled brightly, a beautiful, radiant expression, genuinely thinking she had managed to convince her strict husband. She was completely unaware that she was merely grooming and preparing her own body for the slaughterhouse.
Back at the SIPL office, the atmosphere was electric with corporate anxiety. Mr. Verma arrived at exactly 11:00 AM—a powerful, corrupt government aide with a heavy, thick paunch, dark, heavy-lidded eyes that looked perpetually hungry, and a practiced smile that never quite reached his eyes. Singhania welcomed him with open, exaggerated arms. Iqbal stood nervously in the background, his palms sweating profusely.
Later, Iqbal was summoned into the cabin. He walked in, forcing his chest out, desperately wearing a fragile mask of corporate confidence.
"Ah, here is our brilliant financial wizard," Singhania introduced him smoothly. "Mr. Iqbal."
"Good work on the Nizamabad project, Iqbal," Verma grunted, shaking Iqbal’s damp, trembling hand with a crushing grip.
They sat and discussed numbers, budgets, and projections for twenty minutes. Iqbal played his part perfectly, talking about profit margins and cash flows, while Singhania sat back, watching his trapped CFO with a look of dark, predatory amusement.
"He is a very dedicated man," Singhania said, suddenly winking blatantly at Verma. "That is exactly why I invited him to join us tonight at the Grand Hotel. He... and his wife."
"Excellent," Verma nodded slowly, his heavy eyes lighting up with a sudden, dirty interest at the mention of a wife.
"You can go now, Iqbal," Singhania dismissed him with a flick of his wrist. "Go home. Get ready. Meet us at the Grand Hotel suite." As Iqbal turned to leave, his stomach churning, Singhania called out one last time. "I will send my personal driver to pick you up. We don't want you to be late... otherwise, Mr. Verma and I will get incredibly bored just seeing each other."
Iqbal walked out of the cabin, the sound of the two older men's shared, knowing laughter echoing down the corridor, taunting him like a physical blow.
Iqbal reached his apartment late in the afternoon to find the house eerily quiet. Shazia had already dropped their two young sons off at her aunt’s house for the night. As Iqbal walked into the bedroom, Shazia walked out of the attached bathroom, smiling radiantly. She had returned from the parlor—her eyebrows were perfectly arched, her fair skin glowed with a soft, pinkish hue from the facial, and she looked incredibly fresh, youthful, and devastatingly beautiful.
"I am getting ready," she said, her voice laced with subtle, nervous excitement. She went back into the bathroom to bathe, while Iqbal took the guest bathroom, his mind racing with panic.
When Iqbal stepped out of his bathroom, vigorously rubbing his hair with a towel and wrapping it around his waist, he froze in the bedroom doorway.
Shazia was standing in front of the full-length mirror, smiling happily at her reflection. She had already tied her thick, cotton petticoat securely around her waist and was holding a heavy Kanchipuram silk saree against her body to check the dbang. It was a magnificent, deeply traditional piece of fabric—a rich, dark maroon with a thick, heavy gold border. It was grand, it was highly respectable, and most importantly, it was completely opaque. It covered every single inch of her voluptuous curves.
Iqbal stared at the thick silk, and a freezing, paralyzing wave of panic washed over him. Singhania will literally kill me, he thought, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. If she walks into that luxury hotel suite looking like a conservative, fully-covered housewife, Verma will turn refusing in his attitude, and I will go straight to jail.
"What happened?" Shazia asked, her excited smile fading instantly as she saw his pale, terrified expression in the mirror. "Is this color okay? It’s the most expensive one I have. I wore it for my cousin's wedding."
Iqbal walked aggressively past her to the large wooden wardrobe, his mood snapping from fear to tyranny. "No. Not that. Take it off. It’s too... old-fashioned."
"Old-fashioned? Iqbal, this is a pure wedding silk!"
"Wear something nice!" Iqbal muttered loudly, rummaging frantically through the neatly folded shelves, violently shoving aside piles of starched cottons, heavy silks, and modest salwar kameez sets. "They are modern, high-class people, Shazia. You need to look the part. You can't go there looking like a village auntie."
His sweating hands dug deep into the very back of the top shelf until his fingers felt the slippery, distinct texture of plastic. He pulled it out. Packed in a plastic cover was a black chiffon transparent saree, carefully folded inside it. They had bought it years ago for their honeymoon, a rare moment of indulgence that Iqbal had insisted upon. She had worn it exactly once, strictly inside the locked privacy of their hotel bedroom, solely for his eyes.
It was incredibly sheer, feather-light, and entirely translucent, acting more like a dark, provocative filter than actual clothing. Within the plastic cover was also the matching stitched black blouse that came with it. It was a daring, scandalous cut—a plunging, deep U-neck designed to push both breasts together, completely sleeveless to expose her soft arms and underarms, with a back that was barely there, held together only by two flimsy strings.
He threw the plastic packet onto the center of the bed. "Wear this."
Shazia turned, looking at the heap of sheer, jet-black fabric. Her eyes widened in absolute shock. "This?" she asked, her voice dropping to a horrified whisper. "Iqbal, this is... this is completely transparent! I haven't worn this for so long… and the black blouse is so deep… my stomach and back will show completely!"
Iqbal didn't answer. He couldn't look at her face. He turned his back to her, vigorously drying his hair with the towel to avoid meeting her pleading, confused eyes.
"Just wear it, Shazia. We are getting late. At least today, you don't argue with me!" he commanded harshly.
Seeing his brutal dismissal, and completely unwilling to start a screaming fight that would ruin the one magical evening she had been looking forward to for years, Shazia let out a long, defeated sigh. She removed and slowly folded the heavy, modest maroon silk saree and hung it back in the dark cupboard. With trembling hands, she reached out and picked up the packet containing the sheer black chiffon saree, preparing to strip away her modesty and dbang her voluptuous body exactly as her husband—and his boss—demanded.
Disclaimer:
All photos, GIFs, and videos are either own or derived from the internet. PM for complaint/removal of any posted content.
All photos, GIFs, and videos are either own or derived from the internet. PM for complaint/removal of any posted content.
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