08-06-2026, 03:09 AM
Part 1: The Shattered Illusion and The Devil’s Demand
The Friday morning following the explosive Thursday night confrontation broke with a cold, suffocating silence. The domestic front was a picture of a completely shattered facade. Friday Morning, Iqbal woke up with a mixed feeling of shame and guilt. The only way of relief from these thoughts was the professional front, which was demanding. Unable to meet eyes with his wife, Shazia, he quickly got ready and quietly left the apartment. Iqbal left for the office feeling entirely castrated, heavily burdened by the crushing reality that his wife had completely neutralized his anger and claimed dominance over their marriage.
At Singhania Infrastructure & Projects Ltd., Iqbal tried to bury his destroyed male ego under corporate duties; however, deep within, his thoughts continued to remain around the accusations raised by Shazia the previous night. He thought about the source of all these issues. His one big mistake of using the company funds for himself and losing it all. He began to realize that the crushing, paralyzing anxiety of the two-crore embezzlement made him feel weak. Iqbal was now a desperate man looking for a way to prove to his wife—and to himself—that he was still a real man.
That Friday afternoon, the intercom on his mahogany desk buzzed sharply. "Iqbal, cabin mein aao," (Iqbal, come to the cabin,) Singhania’s voice crackled through the speaker.
Iqbal walked down the carpeted corridor and pushed open the door of the CEO’s massive corner office. Singhania was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, a wide, friendly smile plastered across his face. "Aao, aao Iqbal. Baitho," (Come, come Iqbal. Sit,) Singhania gestured warmly.
Spreading out financial blueprints on the large mahogany desk, "Sir, pehle phase ka budget allocate ho gaya hai. Raw materials ki supply Friday tak site par pahunch jayegi," (Sir, the budget for the first phase has been allocated. The supply of raw materials will reach the site by Friday,) Iqbal reported confidently, his posture straight, his voice carrying the authority of a Chief Financial Officer who had just secured the company's biggest win.
Singhania sat back in his plush leather executive chair, swirling a cup of green tea. He looked at Iqbal with a calm, unreadable expression, playing the role of the benevolent, satisfied boss to absolute perfection.
"Excellent work, Iqbal," (Excellent work, Iqbal,) Singhania replied smoothly, a faint, calculating smile touching the corners of his lips. "Tumne company ke liye bahut bada kaam kiya hai. Yeh Metro project hamare liye game-changer hoga." (You have done a very big job for the company. This Metro project will be a game-changer for us.)
Iqbal beamed with pride. "Thank you, Sir. Sab aapki guidance ka nateeja hai." (Thank you, Sir. It is all the result of your guidance.)
"Haan, haan... guidance," (Yes, yes... guidance,) Singhania chuckled softly, his dark eyes briefly flashing with a hidden, predatory amusement. "Bura waqt nikal gaya hai, Iqbal. Ab sirf aage dekhna hai." (The bad time has passed, Iqbal. Now we just have to look forward.)
Iqbal nodded eagerly, completely oblivious to the double meaning behind the billionaire's words. He genuinely believed that his debt was forgiven, his crime was buried, and his professional and personal life were finally perfectly secure, completely unaware that the devil sitting behind that mahogany desk was quietly, patiently sharpening his claws, preparing to rip his perfectly constructed illusion of normalcy to absolute shreds.
The Casual Bomb Drop
"Aur Sir, Metro tender ke advance payments ka schedule..." (Sir, the advance payments schedule for the Metro tender...)
Singhania waved his hand dismissively, cutting him off with a soft chuckle. "Arey chhodo kaam ki baatein. Friday hai aaj. Kaam toh poora hafta chalta rehta hai.” (Oh, leave the work talks. It's Friday today. Work keeps going on all week.
Singhania stood up and walked around the desk and leaned casually against the edge, crossing his arms. He looked down at Iqbal, his friendly smile remaining perfectly intact, but his dark eyes suddenly sharpening with a predatory gleam. “Ghar pe sab theek? Bachhe, aur tumhari khoobsurat biwi… kya naam hai uski… Shazia... sab theek hain?" Everything fine at home? Kids, and your beautiful wife… What’s her name?... Shazia... Is everyone fine?)
Iqbal smiled, feeling a genuine wave of warmth at his boss's personal inquiry. "Ji Sir, bilkul theek. Sab teek hain." (Yes Sir, absolutely fine. Everyone is fine.)
"Achhi baat hai," (That is a good thing,) Singhania nodded slowly. "Suno Iqbal, iss weekend mein apne woh hamare farmhouse haina, wahan rukunga. Tum Shazia ko le ke aajao udhar." (Listen, this weekend I will be staying at our farmhouse. You bring Shazia along with you there.)
Iqbal completely froze. The friendly, corporate atmosphere in the glass cabin vanished in a single microsecond. The blood drained entirely from his face. The mention of his wife's name in conjunction with a farmhouse sent a massive, suffocating wave of terror straight to his gut. He stared at his boss, his mind desperately trying to find an innocent professional context for the invitation.
"Kyon Sir... kya hua?" (Why Sir... what happened?) Iqbal questioned, his voice instantly losing its confident timbre, trembling slightly.
Singhania kept his tone incredibly light, trying to play it off as a casual, friendly gesture. "Arey kuch maza karenge. Saath mein. Party varty... Weekend hai." (Oh, we will have some fun. Together. Party and all... It's the weekend.)
The Polite Resistance
Iqbal’s heart began to hammer violently against his ribs. He immediately realized the dark, filthy hint hidden beneath the invitation – Singhania wanted to fuck his wife, Shazia. Singhania didn't want him there; He just wanted his wife. The terrifying realization that his boss viewed his wife as an accessible, shared commodity shattered Iqbal's fragile illusion of safety. A sudden, desperate reserve of courage flared up inside Iqbal. He remembered his pathetic cowardice in Room 508 with Verma, and his humiliating defeat at the hands of Rohan just days ago. He was not going to pawn his wife again. He had to be a hero this time. Shazia’s words struck on his mind. He had to shut this down immediately. The deeply protective, possessive husband resurfaced.
He swallowed hard, forcing a polite, highly respectful tone to mask his rising dread.
"Nahi Sir. Hum nahi aayenge," (No Sir. We will not come,) Iqbal replied, keeping his eyes lowered to the desk.
Singhania’s casual smile slipped just a fraction. He uncrossed his arms. "Kyon, kya hua?" (Why, what happened?)
Iqbal desperately grasped for a traditional, domestic excuse, hoping to close the door on the topic permanently. "Nahi Sir, woh party varty pasand nahi karti aur ghar ka kaam hi pada rehta hai." (No Sir, she doesn't like parties and all, and there is always house work pending.)
The Mask Slips
The silence that followed was deafening. Singhania stared down at his Chief Financial Officer. The friendly, benevolent boss completely vanished, replaced by the ruthless, calculating billionaire who held Iqbal’s entire life in his hands. The air in the cabin turned freezing cold.
"Iska anjaam kya hoga maalum hai tumhe?" (Do you know what the consequence of this will be?) Singhania asked, his voice dropping to a dangerously low, venomous whisper. It was an explicit, indirect threat, secretly but undeniably referencing the massive 2 Crore embezzlement and the looming threat of a security officer arrest.
Iqbal felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead. His hands, resting on his lap, curled into tight, trembling fists. The memory of the hotel corridor, where Singhania had blackmailed him into leaving his wife behind, rushed back with agonizing clarity.
"Agar main tumhare upar chori ka koi action abhi tak nahi liya hoon, uski wajah sirf tumhari biwi hai. Chup-chaap tum apni biwi ko kal subah farmhouse bhej do... bas." (If I haven't taken any action against you for the theft until now, the reason for that is only your wife. Quietly send your wife to the farmhouse tomorrow morning... that's it.)
"Sir, aap aise nahi kar sakte mere saath," (Sir, you cannot do this to me,) Iqbal pleaded, his voice cracking with genuine desperation. His newly rebuilt male ego desperately fought against the overwhelming blackmail. "Aap bhool gaye Metro contract ka tender ke liye meri wife ko Verma Sir ke saath sona pada! Main aage se apni biwi ka sauda nahi karunga! Uss raat Verma Sir ke saath jo hua, woh galat tha..." (Sir, you forgot that for the metro contract tender my wife had to sleep with Verma Sir! I will not trade my wife anymore! What happened that night with Verma Sir, that was also wrong…).
The Brutal Reality Check
Singhania’s face contorted with sheer, arrogant anger. He pushed himself off the edge of the desk, towering over the sitting man.
"Achha..." (Oh really...) Singhania sneered, his tone dripping with absolute disgust. "Aur tumne jo 2 Crore aise hi company ke account se utha ke apne aiyashi ke liye uda diye, kya woh sahi tha? Sahi aur galat tum sikhaoge mujhe?" (And the 2 Crores you just lifted from the company's account for your luxuries, was that right? You will teach me right and wrong?)
Iqbal visibly flinched at the harsh reminder of his crime. He kept his tone subservient, desperately trying to de-escalate the explosive situation. "Nahi Sir. Aisa nahi hai, woh meri galti hai aur main maafi bhi maang chuka hoon aur abhi bhi maang raha hoon. Aap bas time dijiye mujhe..." (No Sir. It is not like that, that is my mistake and I have already apologized and am still apologizing. You just give me time...)
Singhania completely blocked his speech, bluntly and aggressively refusing to entertain his pleas. "Time? Tum mere liye ho kaun ki main tumhe time doon?" (Time? Who are you to me that I should give you time?) Singhania barked, his voice echoing sharply off the glass walls. "Tum toh ulta mere upar ilzaam daalne lage jaise maine tumhari biwi ko bang karwaya ho? Jaake apni biwi se khud pooch lo. Woh khushi khushi Verma ji ka lund le rahi thi uss raat!" (Instead, you are putting the blame on me as if I got your wife bangd? Go and ask your wife yourself. She was happily taking Verma ji's cock that night!)
The explicit, highly vulgar use of the word 'lund' (cock) to describe his wife's actions hit Iqbal like a physical punch to the gut. The professional boundaries were completely obliterated. Singhania was deliberately speaking to him not as an employee, but as a pathetic cuckold.
Singhania leaned forward, slamming both of his palms flat onto the mahogany desk, his face inches from Iqbal’s. "Jaake pooch le kya sahi hai aur kya galat. Agar tumhe itna hi sahi banne ka shauk hai toh tumhe mere paise chori nahi karna tha. Agar main tumhare upar koi action abhi tak nahi liya hoon, uski wajah sirf tumhari biwi hai. Verma ji se woh chudwakar gayi hai, aur ab kya tumhari biwi Sati Savitri hone ka natak kar rahe ho? Tumhari shakal dekh ke hi maine uss raat usse nahi pela. Warna tumhare saamne hi tumhari biwi ko nanga khada karke usse Verma ke saath pel dethe. " (Go ask her what is right and what is wrong. If you are so fond of being righteous, then you shouldn't have stolen my money. If I haven't taken any action against you until now, the reason for that is only your wife. She went after getting fucked by Verma ji, now what drama are you doing projecting your wife as some Sati Savitri? I only didn't fuck her that night looking at your face. Otherwise, I would have made your wife stand naked in front of you and fucked her along with Verma).
Singhania let out a dark, mocking laugh that cut right through Iqbal’s soul. He paused, letting the dark, filthy reality completely sink into Iqbal's brain. The message was crystal clear: Shazia's body was the only currency keeping him out of prison. Iqbal was completely broken by the aggressive vulgarity, but he was absolutely not ready to accept the horrific offer. To send her to Singhania’s farmhouse and to willingly hand her over to him to be stripped, used, and fucked all weekend, would permanently destroy his marriage and his entire identity as a man.
Iqbal looked up, directly meeting his boss's furious gaze.
"Nahi Sir... aap please meri biwi ke baare mein bhool jaiye... Main kisi bhi tarah..." (No Sir.. you please forget about my wife... I will somehow...)
This direct, desperate refusal—telling the billionaire to completely forget about Shazia’s body—triggered a massive, uncontrollable spike of ego in Singhania. The infuriating thought of losing the highly anticipated opportunity to finally spread Shazia’s thick thighs and fuck her tight, wet pussy made him instantly vindictive.
Before Iqbal could finish his sentence, Singhania exploded.
"Itni himmat aa gayi tumhe?!" (You've gotten this much courage?!) Singhania yelled, his face turning a dark shade of red. He walked around the desk, invading Iqbal's personal space, his voice laced with venom and filthy truths. "Lagta hai tumhe meri baat samajhne ke liye mujhe tumhari aukaat dikhani padegi. Tumhari biwi kya koi Sati Savitri hai jo tum usse bhejne se inkaar kar rahe ho?" (It seems to make you understand my point, I will have to show you your status. Is your wife some Sati Savitri [pure/chaste woman] that you are refusing to send her?)
"Yaad rakh abhi tum ek criminal ho. Utho kursi se!" (Remember right now you are a criminal. Get up from the chair!)
Iqbal immediately stood up, his head bowed down, completely physically submissive but verbally defiant.
Not ready to listen to a single word of his subordinate's pathetic excuses anymore, Singhania pointed a sharp finger directly at the glass door.
"Ye baat hai toh niklo abhi ke abhi yahan se! Time de raha hun tujhe.. Aaj shaam 5 baje se pehle account mein saare paise aa jaane chahiye! Warna jail mein sadega tu! Agar aur time chahiye, toh chup-chaap tum apni biwi ko kal subah farmhouse bhej do... bas," (If that is the matter then get out of here right now! I will give you time… Today before 5 PM all the money should arrive in the account! Otherwise you will rot in jail! If you want more time, then quietly send your wife to the farmhouse tomorrow morning... that's it,) Singhania delivered the ultimate ultimatum, straightening his posture.
Iqbal’s eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated terror. "Itne paise itne kam time mein, main kahan se le ke aunga Sir... aap sochiye... maine kaam mein company ke liye..." (This much money in such little time, where will I bring it from Sir... you think about it... For the company, at work, I have …)
Singhania brutally blocked his speech. "Sirf tum hi nahi ho jo company ke liye kaam karta hai yahan! Aur maine dekha tumne company ka aur mere vishwas ka kaise galat fayda uthaya. Ab niklo bahar!" (You are not the only one who works for the company here! And I saw how you took wrong advantage of the company and my trust. Now get out!)
Before Iqbal could even open his mouth to utter a single, pathetic reply, Singhania yelled with absolute, terrifying finality. "Get out! Aur 5 baje se pehle... yaad rakhna." (Get out! And before 5 PM… remember.)
Iqbal turned around slowly. His legs felt like heavy lead. He walked out of the cabin, the door swinging shut behind him, sealing his fate.
The Fall of the Cuckold
Iqbal returned to his own small cabin, his mind entirely blank, his breathing shallow and erratic. He was completely disappointed and terrified, but deep down, buried beneath the mountain of anxiety, a tiny, strange spark of pride flickered in his chest. He had finally been protective of himself and his wife. He had drawn a line.
He sat back heavily in his office chair, pressing both of his shaking hands tightly over his head. The stress was unbearable. He looked at the clock. It was completely impossible that he could fill in that massive amount of money by 5 PM. It was equally impossible for him to share or pawn his wife to his boss. He was absolutely not ready to go through the same, soul-crushing humiliation again, to let another man tear his wife's pussy apart. He thought it was far better for him to pay the ultimate price himself. He took a deep breath, staring blankly at the wall, and silently prepared for the absolute worst. The illusion was over.
The Friday morning following the explosive Thursday night confrontation broke with a cold, suffocating silence. The domestic front was a picture of a completely shattered facade. Friday Morning, Iqbal woke up with a mixed feeling of shame and guilt. The only way of relief from these thoughts was the professional front, which was demanding. Unable to meet eyes with his wife, Shazia, he quickly got ready and quietly left the apartment. Iqbal left for the office feeling entirely castrated, heavily burdened by the crushing reality that his wife had completely neutralized his anger and claimed dominance over their marriage.
At Singhania Infrastructure & Projects Ltd., Iqbal tried to bury his destroyed male ego under corporate duties; however, deep within, his thoughts continued to remain around the accusations raised by Shazia the previous night. He thought about the source of all these issues. His one big mistake of using the company funds for himself and losing it all. He began to realize that the crushing, paralyzing anxiety of the two-crore embezzlement made him feel weak. Iqbal was now a desperate man looking for a way to prove to his wife—and to himself—that he was still a real man.
That Friday afternoon, the intercom on his mahogany desk buzzed sharply. "Iqbal, cabin mein aao," (Iqbal, come to the cabin,) Singhania’s voice crackled through the speaker.
Iqbal walked down the carpeted corridor and pushed open the door of the CEO’s massive corner office. Singhania was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, a wide, friendly smile plastered across his face. "Aao, aao Iqbal. Baitho," (Come, come Iqbal. Sit,) Singhania gestured warmly.
Spreading out financial blueprints on the large mahogany desk, "Sir, pehle phase ka budget allocate ho gaya hai. Raw materials ki supply Friday tak site par pahunch jayegi," (Sir, the budget for the first phase has been allocated. The supply of raw materials will reach the site by Friday,) Iqbal reported confidently, his posture straight, his voice carrying the authority of a Chief Financial Officer who had just secured the company's biggest win.
Singhania sat back in his plush leather executive chair, swirling a cup of green tea. He looked at Iqbal with a calm, unreadable expression, playing the role of the benevolent, satisfied boss to absolute perfection.
"Excellent work, Iqbal," (Excellent work, Iqbal,) Singhania replied smoothly, a faint, calculating smile touching the corners of his lips. "Tumne company ke liye bahut bada kaam kiya hai. Yeh Metro project hamare liye game-changer hoga." (You have done a very big job for the company. This Metro project will be a game-changer for us.)
Iqbal beamed with pride. "Thank you, Sir. Sab aapki guidance ka nateeja hai." (Thank you, Sir. It is all the result of your guidance.)
"Haan, haan... guidance," (Yes, yes... guidance,) Singhania chuckled softly, his dark eyes briefly flashing with a hidden, predatory amusement. "Bura waqt nikal gaya hai, Iqbal. Ab sirf aage dekhna hai." (The bad time has passed, Iqbal. Now we just have to look forward.)
Iqbal nodded eagerly, completely oblivious to the double meaning behind the billionaire's words. He genuinely believed that his debt was forgiven, his crime was buried, and his professional and personal life were finally perfectly secure, completely unaware that the devil sitting behind that mahogany desk was quietly, patiently sharpening his claws, preparing to rip his perfectly constructed illusion of normalcy to absolute shreds.
The Casual Bomb Drop
"Aur Sir, Metro tender ke advance payments ka schedule..." (Sir, the advance payments schedule for the Metro tender...)
Singhania waved his hand dismissively, cutting him off with a soft chuckle. "Arey chhodo kaam ki baatein. Friday hai aaj. Kaam toh poora hafta chalta rehta hai.” (Oh, leave the work talks. It's Friday today. Work keeps going on all week.
Singhania stood up and walked around the desk and leaned casually against the edge, crossing his arms. He looked down at Iqbal, his friendly smile remaining perfectly intact, but his dark eyes suddenly sharpening with a predatory gleam. “Ghar pe sab theek? Bachhe, aur tumhari khoobsurat biwi… kya naam hai uski… Shazia... sab theek hain?" Everything fine at home? Kids, and your beautiful wife… What’s her name?... Shazia... Is everyone fine?)
Iqbal smiled, feeling a genuine wave of warmth at his boss's personal inquiry. "Ji Sir, bilkul theek. Sab teek hain." (Yes Sir, absolutely fine. Everyone is fine.)
"Achhi baat hai," (That is a good thing,) Singhania nodded slowly. "Suno Iqbal, iss weekend mein apne woh hamare farmhouse haina, wahan rukunga. Tum Shazia ko le ke aajao udhar." (Listen, this weekend I will be staying at our farmhouse. You bring Shazia along with you there.)
Iqbal completely froze. The friendly, corporate atmosphere in the glass cabin vanished in a single microsecond. The blood drained entirely from his face. The mention of his wife's name in conjunction with a farmhouse sent a massive, suffocating wave of terror straight to his gut. He stared at his boss, his mind desperately trying to find an innocent professional context for the invitation.
"Kyon Sir... kya hua?" (Why Sir... what happened?) Iqbal questioned, his voice instantly losing its confident timbre, trembling slightly.
Singhania kept his tone incredibly light, trying to play it off as a casual, friendly gesture. "Arey kuch maza karenge. Saath mein. Party varty... Weekend hai." (Oh, we will have some fun. Together. Party and all... It's the weekend.)
The Polite Resistance
Iqbal’s heart began to hammer violently against his ribs. He immediately realized the dark, filthy hint hidden beneath the invitation – Singhania wanted to fuck his wife, Shazia. Singhania didn't want him there; He just wanted his wife. The terrifying realization that his boss viewed his wife as an accessible, shared commodity shattered Iqbal's fragile illusion of safety. A sudden, desperate reserve of courage flared up inside Iqbal. He remembered his pathetic cowardice in Room 508 with Verma, and his humiliating defeat at the hands of Rohan just days ago. He was not going to pawn his wife again. He had to be a hero this time. Shazia’s words struck on his mind. He had to shut this down immediately. The deeply protective, possessive husband resurfaced.
He swallowed hard, forcing a polite, highly respectful tone to mask his rising dread.
"Nahi Sir. Hum nahi aayenge," (No Sir. We will not come,) Iqbal replied, keeping his eyes lowered to the desk.
Singhania’s casual smile slipped just a fraction. He uncrossed his arms. "Kyon, kya hua?" (Why, what happened?)
Iqbal desperately grasped for a traditional, domestic excuse, hoping to close the door on the topic permanently. "Nahi Sir, woh party varty pasand nahi karti aur ghar ka kaam hi pada rehta hai." (No Sir, she doesn't like parties and all, and there is always house work pending.)
The Mask Slips
The silence that followed was deafening. Singhania stared down at his Chief Financial Officer. The friendly, benevolent boss completely vanished, replaced by the ruthless, calculating billionaire who held Iqbal’s entire life in his hands. The air in the cabin turned freezing cold.
"Iska anjaam kya hoga maalum hai tumhe?" (Do you know what the consequence of this will be?) Singhania asked, his voice dropping to a dangerously low, venomous whisper. It was an explicit, indirect threat, secretly but undeniably referencing the massive 2 Crore embezzlement and the looming threat of a security officer arrest.
Iqbal felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead. His hands, resting on his lap, curled into tight, trembling fists. The memory of the hotel corridor, where Singhania had blackmailed him into leaving his wife behind, rushed back with agonizing clarity.
"Agar main tumhare upar chori ka koi action abhi tak nahi liya hoon, uski wajah sirf tumhari biwi hai. Chup-chaap tum apni biwi ko kal subah farmhouse bhej do... bas." (If I haven't taken any action against you for the theft until now, the reason for that is only your wife. Quietly send your wife to the farmhouse tomorrow morning... that's it.)
"Sir, aap aise nahi kar sakte mere saath," (Sir, you cannot do this to me,) Iqbal pleaded, his voice cracking with genuine desperation. His newly rebuilt male ego desperately fought against the overwhelming blackmail. "Aap bhool gaye Metro contract ka tender ke liye meri wife ko Verma Sir ke saath sona pada! Main aage se apni biwi ka sauda nahi karunga! Uss raat Verma Sir ke saath jo hua, woh galat tha..." (Sir, you forgot that for the metro contract tender my wife had to sleep with Verma Sir! I will not trade my wife anymore! What happened that night with Verma Sir, that was also wrong…).
The Brutal Reality Check
Singhania’s face contorted with sheer, arrogant anger. He pushed himself off the edge of the desk, towering over the sitting man.
"Achha..." (Oh really...) Singhania sneered, his tone dripping with absolute disgust. "Aur tumne jo 2 Crore aise hi company ke account se utha ke apne aiyashi ke liye uda diye, kya woh sahi tha? Sahi aur galat tum sikhaoge mujhe?" (And the 2 Crores you just lifted from the company's account for your luxuries, was that right? You will teach me right and wrong?)
Iqbal visibly flinched at the harsh reminder of his crime. He kept his tone subservient, desperately trying to de-escalate the explosive situation. "Nahi Sir. Aisa nahi hai, woh meri galti hai aur main maafi bhi maang chuka hoon aur abhi bhi maang raha hoon. Aap bas time dijiye mujhe..." (No Sir. It is not like that, that is my mistake and I have already apologized and am still apologizing. You just give me time...)
Singhania completely blocked his speech, bluntly and aggressively refusing to entertain his pleas. "Time? Tum mere liye ho kaun ki main tumhe time doon?" (Time? Who are you to me that I should give you time?) Singhania barked, his voice echoing sharply off the glass walls. "Tum toh ulta mere upar ilzaam daalne lage jaise maine tumhari biwi ko bang karwaya ho? Jaake apni biwi se khud pooch lo. Woh khushi khushi Verma ji ka lund le rahi thi uss raat!" (Instead, you are putting the blame on me as if I got your wife bangd? Go and ask your wife yourself. She was happily taking Verma ji's cock that night!)
The explicit, highly vulgar use of the word 'lund' (cock) to describe his wife's actions hit Iqbal like a physical punch to the gut. The professional boundaries were completely obliterated. Singhania was deliberately speaking to him not as an employee, but as a pathetic cuckold.
Singhania leaned forward, slamming both of his palms flat onto the mahogany desk, his face inches from Iqbal’s. "Jaake pooch le kya sahi hai aur kya galat. Agar tumhe itna hi sahi banne ka shauk hai toh tumhe mere paise chori nahi karna tha. Agar main tumhare upar koi action abhi tak nahi liya hoon, uski wajah sirf tumhari biwi hai. Verma ji se woh chudwakar gayi hai, aur ab kya tumhari biwi Sati Savitri hone ka natak kar rahe ho? Tumhari shakal dekh ke hi maine uss raat usse nahi pela. Warna tumhare saamne hi tumhari biwi ko nanga khada karke usse Verma ke saath pel dethe. " (Go ask her what is right and what is wrong. If you are so fond of being righteous, then you shouldn't have stolen my money. If I haven't taken any action against you until now, the reason for that is only your wife. She went after getting fucked by Verma ji, now what drama are you doing projecting your wife as some Sati Savitri? I only didn't fuck her that night looking at your face. Otherwise, I would have made your wife stand naked in front of you and fucked her along with Verma).
Singhania let out a dark, mocking laugh that cut right through Iqbal’s soul. He paused, letting the dark, filthy reality completely sink into Iqbal's brain. The message was crystal clear: Shazia's body was the only currency keeping him out of prison. Iqbal was completely broken by the aggressive vulgarity, but he was absolutely not ready to accept the horrific offer. To send her to Singhania’s farmhouse and to willingly hand her over to him to be stripped, used, and fucked all weekend, would permanently destroy his marriage and his entire identity as a man.
Iqbal looked up, directly meeting his boss's furious gaze.
"Nahi Sir... aap please meri biwi ke baare mein bhool jaiye... Main kisi bhi tarah..." (No Sir.. you please forget about my wife... I will somehow...)
This direct, desperate refusal—telling the billionaire to completely forget about Shazia’s body—triggered a massive, uncontrollable spike of ego in Singhania. The infuriating thought of losing the highly anticipated opportunity to finally spread Shazia’s thick thighs and fuck her tight, wet pussy made him instantly vindictive.
Before Iqbal could finish his sentence, Singhania exploded.
"Itni himmat aa gayi tumhe?!" (You've gotten this much courage?!) Singhania yelled, his face turning a dark shade of red. He walked around the desk, invading Iqbal's personal space, his voice laced with venom and filthy truths. "Lagta hai tumhe meri baat samajhne ke liye mujhe tumhari aukaat dikhani padegi. Tumhari biwi kya koi Sati Savitri hai jo tum usse bhejne se inkaar kar rahe ho?" (It seems to make you understand my point, I will have to show you your status. Is your wife some Sati Savitri [pure/chaste woman] that you are refusing to send her?)
"Yaad rakh abhi tum ek criminal ho. Utho kursi se!" (Remember right now you are a criminal. Get up from the chair!)
Iqbal immediately stood up, his head bowed down, completely physically submissive but verbally defiant.
Not ready to listen to a single word of his subordinate's pathetic excuses anymore, Singhania pointed a sharp finger directly at the glass door.
"Ye baat hai toh niklo abhi ke abhi yahan se! Time de raha hun tujhe.. Aaj shaam 5 baje se pehle account mein saare paise aa jaane chahiye! Warna jail mein sadega tu! Agar aur time chahiye, toh chup-chaap tum apni biwi ko kal subah farmhouse bhej do... bas," (If that is the matter then get out of here right now! I will give you time… Today before 5 PM all the money should arrive in the account! Otherwise you will rot in jail! If you want more time, then quietly send your wife to the farmhouse tomorrow morning... that's it,) Singhania delivered the ultimate ultimatum, straightening his posture.
Iqbal’s eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated terror. "Itne paise itne kam time mein, main kahan se le ke aunga Sir... aap sochiye... maine kaam mein company ke liye..." (This much money in such little time, where will I bring it from Sir... you think about it... For the company, at work, I have …)
Singhania brutally blocked his speech. "Sirf tum hi nahi ho jo company ke liye kaam karta hai yahan! Aur maine dekha tumne company ka aur mere vishwas ka kaise galat fayda uthaya. Ab niklo bahar!" (You are not the only one who works for the company here! And I saw how you took wrong advantage of the company and my trust. Now get out!)
Before Iqbal could even open his mouth to utter a single, pathetic reply, Singhania yelled with absolute, terrifying finality. "Get out! Aur 5 baje se pehle... yaad rakhna." (Get out! And before 5 PM… remember.)
Iqbal turned around slowly. His legs felt like heavy lead. He walked out of the cabin, the door swinging shut behind him, sealing his fate.
The Fall of the Cuckold
Iqbal returned to his own small cabin, his mind entirely blank, his breathing shallow and erratic. He was completely disappointed and terrified, but deep down, buried beneath the mountain of anxiety, a tiny, strange spark of pride flickered in his chest. He had finally been protective of himself and his wife. He had drawn a line.
He sat back heavily in his office chair, pressing both of his shaking hands tightly over his head. The stress was unbearable. He looked at the clock. It was completely impossible that he could fill in that massive amount of money by 5 PM. It was equally impossible for him to share or pawn his wife to his boss. He was absolutely not ready to go through the same, soul-crushing humiliation again, to let another man tear his wife's pussy apart. He thought it was far better for him to pay the ultimate price himself. He took a deep breath, staring blankly at the wall, and silently prepared for the absolute worst. The illusion was over.
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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