08-06-2026, 03:13 AM
Part 3: The Silent Departure
The terrifying reality of the security officer phone call hung in the air of the apartment like thick, suffocating smoke. Iqbal didn't say another word. His face was entirely devoid of color, his jaw set in a rigid line of absolute defeat and fear. He turned away from Shazia and walked stiffly into the bedroom.
Shazia followed him, her heart hammering violently against her ribs. She stood by the doorframe, her hands nervously wringing the dupatta of her peach salwar kameez. She watched in sheer panic as Iqbal mechanically pulled a fresh shirt from the wardrobe.
"Iqbal... kuch toh boliye," (Iqbal... say something at least,) she pleaded, hot tears spilling over her eyelashes and tracking down her flushed cheeks. "Main kya karun? Aap aise akele kaise jaa sakte hain? Kisi ko... kisi ko phone karun?" (What should I do? How can you go alone like this? Should I…. Should I call someone?)
Iqbal buttoned his shirt with trembling, clammy fingers. He didn't look at her. The crushing weight of his destroyed male ego made it impossible to meet his wife's eyes—the very eyes that had witnessed his utter cowardice. "Tum yahan ruko," (You stay here,) he muttered, his voice hollow and dead. "Main jaa raha hoon. Sab theek ho jayega. Main waapas aa jaunga." (I am going. Everything will be fine. I will come back.)
It was a pathetic, empty promise, and they both knew it. He grabbed his wallet and walked past her, his shoulder brushing hers. The front door opened and closed with a heavy thud, leaving Shazia entirely alone in the suffocating silence of their home.
The Facade of Normalcy
Frustration and sheer terror boiled over in Shazia’s chest. She collapsed onto the edge of the unmade marital bed, burying her face in her hands, sobbing uncontrollably. She wandered aimlessly around the apartment, her mind spinning with horrifying images of Iqbal in handcuffs, of the security officer arriving to search their home, of the neighborhood gossiping about the thief who lived in their apartment.
She walked into the living room. Her two young sons were sitting on the rug, deeply engrossed in building a tower out of plastic blocks, completely, blissfully unaware that their father was walking into a jail cell. Seeing their innocent faces twisted her heart.
Her immediate, deeply ingrained instinct was to seek the warm comfort of her mother. She grabbed her smartphone with shaking hands and dialed her maternal home. The phone rang twice before her mother picked up.
"Hello? Shazia beta?" (Hello? Shazia child?)
Hearing the familiar, loving voice, Shazia opened her mouth, a desperate sob rising in her throat. But Iqbal’s furious, stubborn words from the previous night violently echoed in her brain: 'My social prestige, my respect will mix in the dirt!' If she told her traditional family that her husband was a corporate thief, the shame would destroy them.
She swallowed the massive lump in her throat, her nails digging painfully into her own palm to ground herself. She forced her facial muscles to relax, brutally shoving her panic deep down into her gut.
"Haan maa... kaisi hain aap?" (Yes mom... how are you?) Shazia replied, her voice strained but artificially calm. She forced herself to act completely normal, discussing the weather, what she cooked for breakfast, and the children's health. It was mental torture. As soon as she finally managed to disconnect the call, she threw her head back against the wall, gasping for air, feeling utterly trapped.
The Call to the Master of the Night
Holding the sleek mobile phone in her sweaty hands, a dark, desperate thought pierced through her panic. Her family couldn't help. Her husband was useless. There was only one man she knew who possessed the wealth, the power, and the influence to stop Singhania - Mr. Verma.
The memory of his hairy chest, his erect cock, and the way he had worshipped her body flooded her mind. Because of the spectacular, mind-blowing night of pure, unadulterated pleasure she had given him—letting him drink her breast milk and utterly destroy her pussy—she felt a twisted, filthy confidence that he would protect her. He had claimed her; surely, a dominant man protects what he claims.
She quickly ran to her leather handbag resting on the dining chair. Her hands frantically rummaged through the compartments until her fingers brushed against a crumpled piece of dried semen-soaked white tissue paper that Raju, the driver, had slipped it to her after using it to wipe his cock. She carefully unfolded it, staring at the ten digits scrawled in blue ink.
She dialed the number, holding her breath. The phone rang.
"Hello?" a deep, gruff, impatient voice answered. It was Verma.
Shazia let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. "Hello... Sir," she stammered, her voice thick with weeping. "Main... main Shazia baat kar rahi hoon." (I... I am Shazia speaking.)
There was a heavy pause on the other end. To Shazia, the night in Room 508 was a life-altering, identity-shattering awakening. But to the billionaire political aide, she was just another high-class, wet hole that he had used for a few hours of pleasure. He remembered the incredible tightness of pussy and the size of breasts, but he hardly bothered to remember the names of the women he fucked.
"Kaun Shazia?" (Which Shazia?) Verma asked, genuinely confused, the sounds of a busy office echoing in the background.
The blunt question stung her ego, but she had no time for pride. She had to explicitly remind him of her body. "Iqbal ki biwi hoon, Sir..." (I am Iqbal's wife, Sir...) she whispered, her cheeks flushing hot. "Singhania Sahab ke saath aap mile the... hotel mein pichle hafte... Room mein..." (You met with Singhania Sir... in the hotel last week... in Room...)
Recognition finally sparked. A low, dark chuckle rumbled through the speaker. "Arey haan, jaaneman! Kaise ho?" (Oh yes, sweetheart! How are you?) Verma’s tone shifted instantly to a sleazy familiarity. "Ye tumhara number hai? Badi yaad aa rahi thi tumhari aur tumhari un mast jawani ki." (Is this your number? I was really missing you and your amazing youth.)
Shazia ignored the dirty compliment, her desperation overriding the filthy thrill. "Ji haan, Sir... Suniye... ek bahut badi problem ho gayi hai." (Yes, Sir... Listen... a very big problem has happened.)
Verma’s sleazy tone vanished, replaced by cautious annoyance. "Kyun? Kya hua?" (Why? What happened?)
"Mere husband thaane gaye hain... unko arrest kiya jaa raha hai..." (My husband has gone to the security officer station... he is being arrested...) Shazia sobbed, the tears finally flowing freely.
"Kab? Kis wajah se?" (When? For what reason?) Verma asked, his voice tightening.
"Singhania Sir ne complaint ki hai," (Singhania Sir has complained,) Shazia stammered, her chest heaving. "Woh kuch paison ke maamle mein problem hua tha. Mujhe theek se nahi maalum kya hua hai... bas itna pata hai ki unhe jail ho jayegi!" (There was some problem regarding some money matter. I don't exactly know what happened... I just know he will go to jail!)
Verma paused. His sharp, political mind instantly calculated the risks. A corporate financial crime involving Singhania was not something he wanted his name attached to, especially not on the pleading of a woman he had just casually fucked.
"Sir..." Shazia whimpered into the silence.
"Haan, main soch raha hoon..." (Yes, I am thinking...) Verma muttered coldly.
"Please Sir... aap hi meri madad kar sakte hain..." (Please Sir... only you can help me...) Shazia begged, explicitly hoping her submissive tone would trigger his protective instincts.
"Arey main kya kar sakta hoon isme?" (Oh, what can I do in this?) Verma replied, immediately washing his hands of the mess. "Pehle toh mujhe maalum hi nahi ki kya hua hai, aur tumhe bhi theek se maalum nahi..." (Firstly I don't even know what has happened, and you also don't know properly...)
"Sir aap please Singhania Sir se baat karo..." (Sir, please you talk to Singhania Sir...)
"Arey nahi, main usse kyun baat karne laga?" (Oh no, why would I start talking to him?) Verma refused bluntly, completely shattering her illusion of being special to him. "Ye unke aapas ka maamla hai. Corporate matter hai. Mera isme padna theek nahi hoga." (This is their internal matter. It's a corporate matter. It won't be right for me to get into this.)
Shazia broke down, crying out loud into the receiver, the terrifying reality of her utter helplessness crashing down on her.
Hearing her wail, Verma sighed. "Arey mera matlab ye nahi tha. Rona band karo," (Oh, I didn't mean that. Stop crying,) he said, offering a cheap, empty consolation. "Kuch nahi hoga. Tum sambhalo apne aap ko. Main Singhania ko jaanta hoon. Woh bina wajah kuch galat nahi karega. Hua hoga kuch jiske wajah se usne case daali ho." (Nothing will happen. You handle yourself. I know Singhania. He won't do anything wrong without a reason. Something must have happened because of which he filed a case.)
He delivered his final, dismissive advice. "Main baat karunga toh maamla aur badh sakta hai. Behtar ye hoga ki tum Singhania se pehle khud baat karo. Baat kya hi hai pehle jaan lo, aur agar meri madad ki zaroorat padegi toh main hoon yahan tumhare liye. Koi tension mat lo." (If I talk, the matter might escalate. It would be better if you talk to Singhania yourself first. Find out the matter first, and if my help is needed, then I am here for you. Don't take any tension.)
"Par Sir... main unse kaise... unka number bhi..." (But Sir... how do I with him... even his number...) Shazia hiccuped.
"Number mere paas hai... message kar dunga tumhe," (I have the number... I will message it to you,) Verma said quickly, eager to end the call. "Tum pehle Singhania se baat karo... phir dekhenge. Apna khayal rakhna. Send kar raha hoon, dekh lo message." (You first talk to Singhania... then we will see. Take care of yourself. I am sending it, check the message.)
"Ji Sir... Shukriya," (Yes Sir... Thank you,) Shazia whispered.
The call disconnected. A second later, her phone vibrated with a WhatsApp notification. Verma had sent a contact card: Singhania.
The Unanswered Prayers and The Caged Husband
With extreme hesitation, but following the billionaire's advice, she tapped the number and dialed. As she listened to the long, rhythmic dial tone, her mind raced, trying to construct the perfect, pleading words to soften the CEO's heart. Unfortunately, the call rang out. Singhania did not answer.
She threw the phone aggressively onto the bed and collapsed beside it, sobbing in sheer frustration. A violent clash of thoughts tore through her mind. Should she go to the office? Should she beg? But Iqbal's strict instructions to stay home and wait patiently echoed in her ears. She decided to suppress her panic and wait for her husband to return.
She mechanically prepared lunch for the children, feeding them while her own stomach remained completely tied in knots of anxiety. She didn't eat a single bite.
By 2:00 PM, the waiting became absolute psychological torture. Iqbal hadn't returned. His phone was unreachable. Unable to sit in the apartment for another second, she made a decision. She went to the wardrobe and pulled out her black burqa. She dbangd it over her body, hiding her curves, wrapping the niqab over her face. The garment felt suffocating and alien after the freedom of the past week, but she needed it to navigate the security officer station without drawing dirty stares. She left her children at Kamala aunty’s home and took an auto-rickshaw to the security officer Station. The harsh, chaotic environment of the station made her shrink back. After quietly inquiring at the desk, a constable pointed her down a bleak corridor. She walked slowly, her eyes scanning the holding cells. And then, she saw him.
Iqbal was sitting on a cold, concrete bench behind thick iron bars. His expensive formal shirt was wrinkled and stained with sweat, his hair a disheveled mess. He looked entirely defeated, a broken man stripped of all his arrogant corporate pride.
"Iqbal..." Shazia gasped, rushing to the cold iron bars, her hands gripping the rusted metal. She broke down into heavy tears. "Aapne khana khaya? Ye sab kya ho gaya?" (Did you eat food? What has all this become?)
Iqbal looked up, his eyes bloodshot. He quickly stood up and approached the bars, his hands reaching out to touch her fingers through the gaps. He tried to force a brave, consoling smile, but it failed miserably.
"Tum kyun aayi yahan, Shazia? Rona band karo. Sab theek ho jayega," (Why did you come here, Shazia? Stop crying. Everything will be fine,) he whispered, glancing around nervously. "Maine Tariq se baat ki hai... Chacha ka beta. Lawyer hai woh. Wo meri bail par kaam kar raha hai. Par aaj chhutti ka din hai, thoda mushkil ho raha hai." (I have talked to Tariq... he is uncle’s son, he’s a lawyer. He is working on my bail. But today is a holiday, so it's a bit of a struggle.)
Shazia sobbed behind her veil. "Humein ghar walon ko batana chahiye... wo kuch karenge..." (We should tell the family members... they will do something...)
"Nahi!" (No!) Iqbal hissed sternly, his grip on her fingers tightening painfully. Even from behind bars, his toxic obsession with his social image ruled him. "Kisi ko kuch pata nahi chalna chahiye! Ye baat sirf humare beech rahegi. Main jaldi bahar aa jaunga. Aur suno, Singhania ne tumhare jism ki maang ki thi, ye baat galti se bhi bahar mat nikalna! Khandaan mein meri izzat mitti mein mil jayegi. Tariq ko lagna chahiye ki ye sirf corporate fraud hai. Samajh gayi?" (No one should find out anything! This matter will remain only between us. I will come out soon. And Listen! Singhania demanded your body, do not let this out even by mistake! My respect in the family will mix in the dirt. Tariq should think this is just a corporate fraud. Understood?)
He pulled a small, crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and pushed it through the bars. "Ye Tariq ka number hai. Agar kuch zaroorat pade toh usse baat karna. Aur kisi se nahi. Ye apna khoon hai, Shazia. Ghar ki baat hai. Samajh gayi?" (This is Tariq’s number. If you need anything, talk to him. And no one else. He is our blood, Shazia. It’s a family matter. Understood?)
Shazia looked at the pathetic man behind the bars. He had sold her body to save himself, and now he was willing to rot in jail rather than ask his family for help. "Ji..." (Yes...) Shazia whispered behind her veil. She walked out of the suffocating security officer station, the black burqa feeling like a shroud covering her sadness.
The Siren’s Negotiation
Returning back home, Shazia threw the burqa off, tossing it aggressively onto the floor. The stifling garment felt like a symbol of her husband's useless pride. She sat on the bed, staring at her smartphone.
Iqbal’s lawyer might take days. Singhania held all the cards. She took a deep breath, steeling her nerves, and dialed Singhania’s number one more time, possessing absolutely no hope that he would answer.
This time, the call connected.
"Hello?" Singhania’s voice was sharp, cold, and dripping with corporate authority.
Unprepared for him to actually pick up, Shazia stammered. "Hello... Singhania Sir... Main Shazia... Iqbal ki biwi..." (Hello... Singhania Sir... I am Shazia... Iqbal's wife...)
Singhania’s tone instantly turned dismissive and irritated. "Arey tum... dekho Shazia, Iqbal ko jo saza dilani hai woh main dila ke hi rahunga... tumhe uski khatir call karne ki zaroorat nahi hai. Main phone rakh raha hoon." (Oh you... look Shazia, the punishment that Iqbal needs to be given, I will make sure he gets it... you don't need to call for his sake. I am keeping the phone.)
"Sir... please... meri baat toh suniye..." (Sir... please... at least listen to me...) Shazia pleaded desperately, her heart pounding.
Singhania paused. The memory of her breasts and her dripping wet pussy flashed in his mind. He decided to play along, enjoying the absolute power he held over the situation. "Haan...? Bolo??" (Yes...? Tell me??)
Shazia took a deep, trembling sigh. "Mujhe maalum hai ki aap unki baat par naraaz hain aur unhone jo rakam chori ki hai woh galat hai. Par aap mere aur mere bachhon ke baare mein bhi toh sochiye. Woh ab jail mein hain..." (I know that you are angry at his words and the amount he has stolen is wrong. But you think about me and my children too. He is in jail now...)
Saying so, she began to weep softly into the receiver, playing the ultimate card of the helpless, traditional wife.
"Woh jail mein hai kyunki uske liye wahi sahi hai..." (He is in jail because that is what is right for him...) Singhania replied callously, utterly unmoved by her tears. "Maine bahut samjhaya usse. Ab aur nahi." (I explained to him a lot. Not anymore.)
Shazia began to plead harder, her voice cracking. "Sir... please... main unki taraf se aapse maafi maang leti hoon... aap unhe chhod dijiye..." (Sir... please... I apologize to you on his behalf... you let him go...)
"Arey maafi se kya hoga?" (Oh, what will happen with an apology?) Singhania scoffed loudly. "Kya mera paisa wapas mil jayega? Khud ek chor hai aur upar se mujhe sahi galat samjhane aa gaya tha mere hi cabin mein!" (Will I get my money back? He is a thief himself and on top of that he came to teach me right and wrong in my own cabin!)
"Sir... aap jo chahenge waisa hi hoga..." (Sir... whatever you want, it will happen exactly like that...) Shazia begged, blindly offering anything. "Aap please unhe ek aakhiri mauka de dijiye. Hamari izzat ka sawal hi nahi, balki meri aur mere bachhon ki zindagi ka sawal hai..." (You please give him one last chance. It's not just a question of our respect, but a question of my and my children's lives...)
Singhania paused for a long while. Sitting in his luxurious home, he felt a strange tightening in his groin. He felt genuinely uncomfortable hearing the incredibly sexy, voluptuous woman he had seen almost naked in Room 508 now crying and begging in distress.
He took a breath, calming his aggressive tone down, shifting from the angry boss to the calculating predator.
"Dekho Shazia. Jo hua woh hua," (Look Shazia. What happened has happened,) Singhania said, his voice dropping to a smooth, dark whisper. "Main Iqbal ko mauka de chuka hoon apni izzat bachane ke liye. Maine usse ek bahut aasaan offer diya tha ki tum iss weekend farmhouse mein mere saath raho." (I have already given Iqbal a chance to save his respect. I had given him a very easy offer that you stay with me at the farmhouse this weekend.)
He let the explicit truth hang in the air between them. "Par usne saaf inkaar kar diya tha... ab tum hi bolo... isme kaunsa bada nuksaan ho gaya uska ki mere se jhagda karke gaya? Ab pachtane do usse." (But he clearly refused... now you tell me... what big loss would he have suffered in this that he fought with me and left? Now let him regret it.)
Shazia’s breath hitched. She saw the filthy, explicit offer laid out indirectly but clearly right in front of her. Singhania wasn't asking for money. He was asking for her. She had to actively accept or reject being his personal whore for a weekend. The fate of her family rested entirely on her pussy.
"Haan Sir... Woh main samajh gayi... " (Yes Sir...That I understand) Shazia whispered, her voice losing its frantic panic, replaced by a slow, calculating realization.
Singhania’s lips automatically curled into a massive, victorious smile. She was willing. "Wahi toh... iss bewakoof ko kaise samjhaye koi..." (Exactly... how to explain to this fool...)
"Ji sir.. maanthi hun Woh unki galti hai... jaldbaazi mein kuch bhi bol diye unhone. Kam se kam mujhse aake baat toh ki hoti, toh ye na hota... aisa tha ki hum donon ke beech jagda hua tha iss cheez ko leke ki main unki pathni hone ke wajah se kisi aur mard ke saath unhe mujhe chodna nahi chahiye tha … unhe maine sikhaya tha…. iss wajah se shayad unhone socha ki main aane se mana karungi... isiliye ye sab ho gaya... " (Yes Sir... I agree that is his mistake... he said whatever in a rush. At least if he had come and talked to me, then this wouldn't have happened... Actually, we both had a fight that me being his wife he should not have let me with another man… I taught him that… Maybe because of that he thought I will not agree. That’s why all this happened).
There was a dead, heavy silence on the line. Shazia's words struck Singhania's massive ego like a sledgehammer. "Achha... toh ye tumhari natak thi?" (Oh really... so this was your drama?) Singhania growled, his voice dropping to a smooth, dark whisper of a calculating predator.
Shazia continued, smoothly paving the way. "Aap please unhe maaf kar dijiye aur case wapas le lijiye... main unse baat karungi." (You please forgive him and take the case back... I will talk to him.)
Singhania immediately recoiled when he heard the words 'take the case back'. He needed absolute submission, not any kind of conditional promise.
"Nahi... ye toh nahi ho sakta," (No... this cannot happen,) Singhania stated firmly, snapping the trap shut. "Jaise uski izzat ka sawal hai, ye ab meri izzat ka sawal hai... woh kya sochta hai ki chhodne ke liye iss duniya mein sirf tum hi ho? Ye main nahi kar sakta jab tak woh khud aake maafi naa maang le..." (Just as it is a question of his respect, this is now a question of my respect... what does he think, that you are the only one in this world to fuck? I cannot do this until he comes and apologizes himself...)
Saying so, Singhania aggressively and abruptly disconnected the call. Shazia stared at the screen. The game had just changed. Iqbal's hollow rebellion had failed entirely, and now, if she wanted to save him, she had to rely entirely on Tariq’s legal support.
The terrifying reality of the security officer phone call hung in the air of the apartment like thick, suffocating smoke. Iqbal didn't say another word. His face was entirely devoid of color, his jaw set in a rigid line of absolute defeat and fear. He turned away from Shazia and walked stiffly into the bedroom.
Shazia followed him, her heart hammering violently against her ribs. She stood by the doorframe, her hands nervously wringing the dupatta of her peach salwar kameez. She watched in sheer panic as Iqbal mechanically pulled a fresh shirt from the wardrobe.
"Iqbal... kuch toh boliye," (Iqbal... say something at least,) she pleaded, hot tears spilling over her eyelashes and tracking down her flushed cheeks. "Main kya karun? Aap aise akele kaise jaa sakte hain? Kisi ko... kisi ko phone karun?" (What should I do? How can you go alone like this? Should I…. Should I call someone?)
Iqbal buttoned his shirt with trembling, clammy fingers. He didn't look at her. The crushing weight of his destroyed male ego made it impossible to meet his wife's eyes—the very eyes that had witnessed his utter cowardice. "Tum yahan ruko," (You stay here,) he muttered, his voice hollow and dead. "Main jaa raha hoon. Sab theek ho jayega. Main waapas aa jaunga." (I am going. Everything will be fine. I will come back.)
It was a pathetic, empty promise, and they both knew it. He grabbed his wallet and walked past her, his shoulder brushing hers. The front door opened and closed with a heavy thud, leaving Shazia entirely alone in the suffocating silence of their home.
The Facade of Normalcy
Frustration and sheer terror boiled over in Shazia’s chest. She collapsed onto the edge of the unmade marital bed, burying her face in her hands, sobbing uncontrollably. She wandered aimlessly around the apartment, her mind spinning with horrifying images of Iqbal in handcuffs, of the security officer arriving to search their home, of the neighborhood gossiping about the thief who lived in their apartment.
She walked into the living room. Her two young sons were sitting on the rug, deeply engrossed in building a tower out of plastic blocks, completely, blissfully unaware that their father was walking into a jail cell. Seeing their innocent faces twisted her heart.
Her immediate, deeply ingrained instinct was to seek the warm comfort of her mother. She grabbed her smartphone with shaking hands and dialed her maternal home. The phone rang twice before her mother picked up.
"Hello? Shazia beta?" (Hello? Shazia child?)
Hearing the familiar, loving voice, Shazia opened her mouth, a desperate sob rising in her throat. But Iqbal’s furious, stubborn words from the previous night violently echoed in her brain: 'My social prestige, my respect will mix in the dirt!' If she told her traditional family that her husband was a corporate thief, the shame would destroy them.
She swallowed the massive lump in her throat, her nails digging painfully into her own palm to ground herself. She forced her facial muscles to relax, brutally shoving her panic deep down into her gut.
"Haan maa... kaisi hain aap?" (Yes mom... how are you?) Shazia replied, her voice strained but artificially calm. She forced herself to act completely normal, discussing the weather, what she cooked for breakfast, and the children's health. It was mental torture. As soon as she finally managed to disconnect the call, she threw her head back against the wall, gasping for air, feeling utterly trapped.
The Call to the Master of the Night
Holding the sleek mobile phone in her sweaty hands, a dark, desperate thought pierced through her panic. Her family couldn't help. Her husband was useless. There was only one man she knew who possessed the wealth, the power, and the influence to stop Singhania - Mr. Verma.
The memory of his hairy chest, his erect cock, and the way he had worshipped her body flooded her mind. Because of the spectacular, mind-blowing night of pure, unadulterated pleasure she had given him—letting him drink her breast milk and utterly destroy her pussy—she felt a twisted, filthy confidence that he would protect her. He had claimed her; surely, a dominant man protects what he claims.
She quickly ran to her leather handbag resting on the dining chair. Her hands frantically rummaged through the compartments until her fingers brushed against a crumpled piece of dried semen-soaked white tissue paper that Raju, the driver, had slipped it to her after using it to wipe his cock. She carefully unfolded it, staring at the ten digits scrawled in blue ink.
She dialed the number, holding her breath. The phone rang.
"Hello?" a deep, gruff, impatient voice answered. It was Verma.
Shazia let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. "Hello... Sir," she stammered, her voice thick with weeping. "Main... main Shazia baat kar rahi hoon." (I... I am Shazia speaking.)
There was a heavy pause on the other end. To Shazia, the night in Room 508 was a life-altering, identity-shattering awakening. But to the billionaire political aide, she was just another high-class, wet hole that he had used for a few hours of pleasure. He remembered the incredible tightness of pussy and the size of breasts, but he hardly bothered to remember the names of the women he fucked.
"Kaun Shazia?" (Which Shazia?) Verma asked, genuinely confused, the sounds of a busy office echoing in the background.
The blunt question stung her ego, but she had no time for pride. She had to explicitly remind him of her body. "Iqbal ki biwi hoon, Sir..." (I am Iqbal's wife, Sir...) she whispered, her cheeks flushing hot. "Singhania Sahab ke saath aap mile the... hotel mein pichle hafte... Room mein..." (You met with Singhania Sir... in the hotel last week... in Room...)
Recognition finally sparked. A low, dark chuckle rumbled through the speaker. "Arey haan, jaaneman! Kaise ho?" (Oh yes, sweetheart! How are you?) Verma’s tone shifted instantly to a sleazy familiarity. "Ye tumhara number hai? Badi yaad aa rahi thi tumhari aur tumhari un mast jawani ki." (Is this your number? I was really missing you and your amazing youth.)
Shazia ignored the dirty compliment, her desperation overriding the filthy thrill. "Ji haan, Sir... Suniye... ek bahut badi problem ho gayi hai." (Yes, Sir... Listen... a very big problem has happened.)
Verma’s sleazy tone vanished, replaced by cautious annoyance. "Kyun? Kya hua?" (Why? What happened?)
"Mere husband thaane gaye hain... unko arrest kiya jaa raha hai..." (My husband has gone to the security officer station... he is being arrested...) Shazia sobbed, the tears finally flowing freely.
"Kab? Kis wajah se?" (When? For what reason?) Verma asked, his voice tightening.
"Singhania Sir ne complaint ki hai," (Singhania Sir has complained,) Shazia stammered, her chest heaving. "Woh kuch paison ke maamle mein problem hua tha. Mujhe theek se nahi maalum kya hua hai... bas itna pata hai ki unhe jail ho jayegi!" (There was some problem regarding some money matter. I don't exactly know what happened... I just know he will go to jail!)
Verma paused. His sharp, political mind instantly calculated the risks. A corporate financial crime involving Singhania was not something he wanted his name attached to, especially not on the pleading of a woman he had just casually fucked.
"Sir..." Shazia whimpered into the silence.
"Haan, main soch raha hoon..." (Yes, I am thinking...) Verma muttered coldly.
"Please Sir... aap hi meri madad kar sakte hain..." (Please Sir... only you can help me...) Shazia begged, explicitly hoping her submissive tone would trigger his protective instincts.
"Arey main kya kar sakta hoon isme?" (Oh, what can I do in this?) Verma replied, immediately washing his hands of the mess. "Pehle toh mujhe maalum hi nahi ki kya hua hai, aur tumhe bhi theek se maalum nahi..." (Firstly I don't even know what has happened, and you also don't know properly...)
"Sir aap please Singhania Sir se baat karo..." (Sir, please you talk to Singhania Sir...)
"Arey nahi, main usse kyun baat karne laga?" (Oh no, why would I start talking to him?) Verma refused bluntly, completely shattering her illusion of being special to him. "Ye unke aapas ka maamla hai. Corporate matter hai. Mera isme padna theek nahi hoga." (This is their internal matter. It's a corporate matter. It won't be right for me to get into this.)
Shazia broke down, crying out loud into the receiver, the terrifying reality of her utter helplessness crashing down on her.
Hearing her wail, Verma sighed. "Arey mera matlab ye nahi tha. Rona band karo," (Oh, I didn't mean that. Stop crying,) he said, offering a cheap, empty consolation. "Kuch nahi hoga. Tum sambhalo apne aap ko. Main Singhania ko jaanta hoon. Woh bina wajah kuch galat nahi karega. Hua hoga kuch jiske wajah se usne case daali ho." (Nothing will happen. You handle yourself. I know Singhania. He won't do anything wrong without a reason. Something must have happened because of which he filed a case.)
He delivered his final, dismissive advice. "Main baat karunga toh maamla aur badh sakta hai. Behtar ye hoga ki tum Singhania se pehle khud baat karo. Baat kya hi hai pehle jaan lo, aur agar meri madad ki zaroorat padegi toh main hoon yahan tumhare liye. Koi tension mat lo." (If I talk, the matter might escalate. It would be better if you talk to Singhania yourself first. Find out the matter first, and if my help is needed, then I am here for you. Don't take any tension.)
"Par Sir... main unse kaise... unka number bhi..." (But Sir... how do I with him... even his number...) Shazia hiccuped.
"Number mere paas hai... message kar dunga tumhe," (I have the number... I will message it to you,) Verma said quickly, eager to end the call. "Tum pehle Singhania se baat karo... phir dekhenge. Apna khayal rakhna. Send kar raha hoon, dekh lo message." (You first talk to Singhania... then we will see. Take care of yourself. I am sending it, check the message.)
"Ji Sir... Shukriya," (Yes Sir... Thank you,) Shazia whispered.
The call disconnected. A second later, her phone vibrated with a WhatsApp notification. Verma had sent a contact card: Singhania.
The Unanswered Prayers and The Caged Husband
With extreme hesitation, but following the billionaire's advice, she tapped the number and dialed. As she listened to the long, rhythmic dial tone, her mind raced, trying to construct the perfect, pleading words to soften the CEO's heart. Unfortunately, the call rang out. Singhania did not answer.
She threw the phone aggressively onto the bed and collapsed beside it, sobbing in sheer frustration. A violent clash of thoughts tore through her mind. Should she go to the office? Should she beg? But Iqbal's strict instructions to stay home and wait patiently echoed in her ears. She decided to suppress her panic and wait for her husband to return.
She mechanically prepared lunch for the children, feeding them while her own stomach remained completely tied in knots of anxiety. She didn't eat a single bite.
By 2:00 PM, the waiting became absolute psychological torture. Iqbal hadn't returned. His phone was unreachable. Unable to sit in the apartment for another second, she made a decision. She went to the wardrobe and pulled out her black burqa. She dbangd it over her body, hiding her curves, wrapping the niqab over her face. The garment felt suffocating and alien after the freedom of the past week, but she needed it to navigate the security officer station without drawing dirty stares. She left her children at Kamala aunty’s home and took an auto-rickshaw to the security officer Station. The harsh, chaotic environment of the station made her shrink back. After quietly inquiring at the desk, a constable pointed her down a bleak corridor. She walked slowly, her eyes scanning the holding cells. And then, she saw him.
Iqbal was sitting on a cold, concrete bench behind thick iron bars. His expensive formal shirt was wrinkled and stained with sweat, his hair a disheveled mess. He looked entirely defeated, a broken man stripped of all his arrogant corporate pride.
"Iqbal..." Shazia gasped, rushing to the cold iron bars, her hands gripping the rusted metal. She broke down into heavy tears. "Aapne khana khaya? Ye sab kya ho gaya?" (Did you eat food? What has all this become?)
Iqbal looked up, his eyes bloodshot. He quickly stood up and approached the bars, his hands reaching out to touch her fingers through the gaps. He tried to force a brave, consoling smile, but it failed miserably.
"Tum kyun aayi yahan, Shazia? Rona band karo. Sab theek ho jayega," (Why did you come here, Shazia? Stop crying. Everything will be fine,) he whispered, glancing around nervously. "Maine Tariq se baat ki hai... Chacha ka beta. Lawyer hai woh. Wo meri bail par kaam kar raha hai. Par aaj chhutti ka din hai, thoda mushkil ho raha hai." (I have talked to Tariq... he is uncle’s son, he’s a lawyer. He is working on my bail. But today is a holiday, so it's a bit of a struggle.)
Shazia sobbed behind her veil. "Humein ghar walon ko batana chahiye... wo kuch karenge..." (We should tell the family members... they will do something...)
"Nahi!" (No!) Iqbal hissed sternly, his grip on her fingers tightening painfully. Even from behind bars, his toxic obsession with his social image ruled him. "Kisi ko kuch pata nahi chalna chahiye! Ye baat sirf humare beech rahegi. Main jaldi bahar aa jaunga. Aur suno, Singhania ne tumhare jism ki maang ki thi, ye baat galti se bhi bahar mat nikalna! Khandaan mein meri izzat mitti mein mil jayegi. Tariq ko lagna chahiye ki ye sirf corporate fraud hai. Samajh gayi?" (No one should find out anything! This matter will remain only between us. I will come out soon. And Listen! Singhania demanded your body, do not let this out even by mistake! My respect in the family will mix in the dirt. Tariq should think this is just a corporate fraud. Understood?)
He pulled a small, crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and pushed it through the bars. "Ye Tariq ka number hai. Agar kuch zaroorat pade toh usse baat karna. Aur kisi se nahi. Ye apna khoon hai, Shazia. Ghar ki baat hai. Samajh gayi?" (This is Tariq’s number. If you need anything, talk to him. And no one else. He is our blood, Shazia. It’s a family matter. Understood?)
Shazia looked at the pathetic man behind the bars. He had sold her body to save himself, and now he was willing to rot in jail rather than ask his family for help. "Ji..." (Yes...) Shazia whispered behind her veil. She walked out of the suffocating security officer station, the black burqa feeling like a shroud covering her sadness.
The Siren’s Negotiation
Returning back home, Shazia threw the burqa off, tossing it aggressively onto the floor. The stifling garment felt like a symbol of her husband's useless pride. She sat on the bed, staring at her smartphone.
Iqbal’s lawyer might take days. Singhania held all the cards. She took a deep breath, steeling her nerves, and dialed Singhania’s number one more time, possessing absolutely no hope that he would answer.
This time, the call connected.
"Hello?" Singhania’s voice was sharp, cold, and dripping with corporate authority.
Unprepared for him to actually pick up, Shazia stammered. "Hello... Singhania Sir... Main Shazia... Iqbal ki biwi..." (Hello... Singhania Sir... I am Shazia... Iqbal's wife...)
Singhania’s tone instantly turned dismissive and irritated. "Arey tum... dekho Shazia, Iqbal ko jo saza dilani hai woh main dila ke hi rahunga... tumhe uski khatir call karne ki zaroorat nahi hai. Main phone rakh raha hoon." (Oh you... look Shazia, the punishment that Iqbal needs to be given, I will make sure he gets it... you don't need to call for his sake. I am keeping the phone.)
"Sir... please... meri baat toh suniye..." (Sir... please... at least listen to me...) Shazia pleaded desperately, her heart pounding.
Singhania paused. The memory of her breasts and her dripping wet pussy flashed in his mind. He decided to play along, enjoying the absolute power he held over the situation. "Haan...? Bolo??" (Yes...? Tell me??)
Shazia took a deep, trembling sigh. "Mujhe maalum hai ki aap unki baat par naraaz hain aur unhone jo rakam chori ki hai woh galat hai. Par aap mere aur mere bachhon ke baare mein bhi toh sochiye. Woh ab jail mein hain..." (I know that you are angry at his words and the amount he has stolen is wrong. But you think about me and my children too. He is in jail now...)
Saying so, she began to weep softly into the receiver, playing the ultimate card of the helpless, traditional wife.
"Woh jail mein hai kyunki uske liye wahi sahi hai..." (He is in jail because that is what is right for him...) Singhania replied callously, utterly unmoved by her tears. "Maine bahut samjhaya usse. Ab aur nahi." (I explained to him a lot. Not anymore.)
Shazia began to plead harder, her voice cracking. "Sir... please... main unki taraf se aapse maafi maang leti hoon... aap unhe chhod dijiye..." (Sir... please... I apologize to you on his behalf... you let him go...)
"Arey maafi se kya hoga?" (Oh, what will happen with an apology?) Singhania scoffed loudly. "Kya mera paisa wapas mil jayega? Khud ek chor hai aur upar se mujhe sahi galat samjhane aa gaya tha mere hi cabin mein!" (Will I get my money back? He is a thief himself and on top of that he came to teach me right and wrong in my own cabin!)
"Sir... aap jo chahenge waisa hi hoga..." (Sir... whatever you want, it will happen exactly like that...) Shazia begged, blindly offering anything. "Aap please unhe ek aakhiri mauka de dijiye. Hamari izzat ka sawal hi nahi, balki meri aur mere bachhon ki zindagi ka sawal hai..." (You please give him one last chance. It's not just a question of our respect, but a question of my and my children's lives...)
Singhania paused for a long while. Sitting in his luxurious home, he felt a strange tightening in his groin. He felt genuinely uncomfortable hearing the incredibly sexy, voluptuous woman he had seen almost naked in Room 508 now crying and begging in distress.
He took a breath, calming his aggressive tone down, shifting from the angry boss to the calculating predator.
"Dekho Shazia. Jo hua woh hua," (Look Shazia. What happened has happened,) Singhania said, his voice dropping to a smooth, dark whisper. "Main Iqbal ko mauka de chuka hoon apni izzat bachane ke liye. Maine usse ek bahut aasaan offer diya tha ki tum iss weekend farmhouse mein mere saath raho." (I have already given Iqbal a chance to save his respect. I had given him a very easy offer that you stay with me at the farmhouse this weekend.)
He let the explicit truth hang in the air between them. "Par usne saaf inkaar kar diya tha... ab tum hi bolo... isme kaunsa bada nuksaan ho gaya uska ki mere se jhagda karke gaya? Ab pachtane do usse." (But he clearly refused... now you tell me... what big loss would he have suffered in this that he fought with me and left? Now let him regret it.)
Shazia’s breath hitched. She saw the filthy, explicit offer laid out indirectly but clearly right in front of her. Singhania wasn't asking for money. He was asking for her. She had to actively accept or reject being his personal whore for a weekend. The fate of her family rested entirely on her pussy.
"Haan Sir... Woh main samajh gayi... " (Yes Sir...That I understand) Shazia whispered, her voice losing its frantic panic, replaced by a slow, calculating realization.
Singhania’s lips automatically curled into a massive, victorious smile. She was willing. "Wahi toh... iss bewakoof ko kaise samjhaye koi..." (Exactly... how to explain to this fool...)
"Ji sir.. maanthi hun Woh unki galti hai... jaldbaazi mein kuch bhi bol diye unhone. Kam se kam mujhse aake baat toh ki hoti, toh ye na hota... aisa tha ki hum donon ke beech jagda hua tha iss cheez ko leke ki main unki pathni hone ke wajah se kisi aur mard ke saath unhe mujhe chodna nahi chahiye tha … unhe maine sikhaya tha…. iss wajah se shayad unhone socha ki main aane se mana karungi... isiliye ye sab ho gaya... " (Yes Sir... I agree that is his mistake... he said whatever in a rush. At least if he had come and talked to me, then this wouldn't have happened... Actually, we both had a fight that me being his wife he should not have let me with another man… I taught him that… Maybe because of that he thought I will not agree. That’s why all this happened).
There was a dead, heavy silence on the line. Shazia's words struck Singhania's massive ego like a sledgehammer. "Achha... toh ye tumhari natak thi?" (Oh really... so this was your drama?) Singhania growled, his voice dropping to a smooth, dark whisper of a calculating predator.
Shazia continued, smoothly paving the way. "Aap please unhe maaf kar dijiye aur case wapas le lijiye... main unse baat karungi." (You please forgive him and take the case back... I will talk to him.)
Singhania immediately recoiled when he heard the words 'take the case back'. He needed absolute submission, not any kind of conditional promise.
"Nahi... ye toh nahi ho sakta," (No... this cannot happen,) Singhania stated firmly, snapping the trap shut. "Jaise uski izzat ka sawal hai, ye ab meri izzat ka sawal hai... woh kya sochta hai ki chhodne ke liye iss duniya mein sirf tum hi ho? Ye main nahi kar sakta jab tak woh khud aake maafi naa maang le..." (Just as it is a question of his respect, this is now a question of my respect... what does he think, that you are the only one in this world to fuck? I cannot do this until he comes and apologizes himself...)
Saying so, Singhania aggressively and abruptly disconnected the call. Shazia stared at the screen. The game had just changed. Iqbal's hollow rebellion had failed entirely, and now, if she wanted to save him, she had to rely entirely on Tariq’s legal support.
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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