[Suresh@123]

Super hot.. Next what? happens . Eagerly waiting

Thankyou

[Suresh@123]

So the game is still on this time who wins who loses

We get best play

Thank you very much broo

[Suresh@123]

Thank you all


That night, Gupta couldn't sleep. The betrayal burned in his chest like acid, every word from Athidhi's

mocking phone call replaying in his mind. He paced the study, the Mumbai skyline mocking him with its

indifferent glow. Shailaja had slunk off to bed, her body still carrying the evidence of her infidelity, but Gupta's

rage wasn't just at her—it was at them. Kamal and Athidhi, the smug couple who thought they could toy with

his marriage, his pride, his empire. He was no ordinary man; as one of Mumbai's most influential real estate

tycoons, with ties to politicians, bureaucrats, and the underworld, Gupta had built his fortune on knowing

how to crush obstacles. And now, Kamal and Athidhi were obstacles.

By dawn, he had a plan. It wasn't impulsive; it was surgical. He'd dismantle their lives piece by piece, starting

with what they valued most: their careers, their security, their freedom. He'd make them beg, just as they'd

made him feel small. And then, he'd break them completely—both couples, until no one was left unscathed.

First, Kamal's software empire. Kamal ran a thriving IT firm, specializing in cybersecurity for high-profile

clients—banks, corporations, even government contracts. Gupta had been the one to introduce him to half

those clients, back when they were "partners." A few discreet calls to his contacts in the Ministry of

Electronics and IT, and whispers of data breaches and embezzlement began circulating. By noon the next

day, an anonymous tip led to a raid on Kamal's office. Auditors swarmed in, seizing servers and files. Kamal's

biggest client, a multinational bank, pulled out immediately, citing "security concerns." The stock of his

publicly traded subsidiary plummeted 40% in hours. Kamal was left scrambling, his phone blowing up with

panicked calls from investors.

Gupta watched it unfold from his penthouse office, a satisfied smirk on his face as he sipped black coffee. But

he wasn't done. Next, Athidhi's interior design boutique. She catered to Mumbai's elite—bollywood stars,

industrialists—with her sleek, modern aesthetic. Gupta knew her secrets; she'd confided once about cutting

corners on imported materials to boost profits. He fed that intel to a rival designer with ties to customs

officials. Within days, her shipments were held at the port, accused of smuggling undervalued luxury goods.

Clients bailed, scandals erupted in the gossip columns: "Athidhi Designs: Style Over Substance? Fraud

Allegations Surface." Her studio, once buzzing with assistants and mood boards, emptied out. She was

blacklisted from key events, her reputation in tatters.


But Gupta's real power play was the property. Kamal and Athidhi's high-rise apartment in South Mumbai

was their crown jewel, bought with loans backed by Gupta's own endorsements. He pulled strings with his

political allies—a minister owed him for campaign funding—and zoning violations were "discovered." The

building's permits were revoked retroactively, citing environmental lapses. Bailiffs arrived with eviction

notices, sealing the doors. Their furniture, their art collection, even Athidhi's precious antique vases—seized

and auctioned off to "cover fines." The couple was forced into a dingy rental in the suburbs, their luxurious life

reduced to cardboard boxes and shared walls with noisy neighbors.

As the weeks dragged on, Gupta escalated. He fabricated a "deceiving" case—accusing Kamal of falsifying

documents in a joint venture they'd once discussed. Lawyers on Gupta's payroll filed charges, twisting old

emails into evidence of fraud. The security officer, greased with bribes, arrested Kamal at dawn, hauling him away in

handcuffs while Athidhi watched in horror from the doorway. Bail was denied; Gupta's judge friend saw to

that. Ten years minimum, the prosecutor thundered in court, for defrauding investors.

And then, the coup de grâce: a murder case. Gupta didn't flinch from the darkness. He planted evidence—

hired thugs to stage a hit-and-run linked to Kamal's car, using a body double and forged CCTV footage. The

victim? A low-level informant who'd crossed Gupta years ago; no one would miss him. The charges stuck:

vehicular manslaughter, upgraded to murder when "witnesses" claimed Kamal had argued with the man

earlier. Life sentence loomed.

It was time to gloat. Gupta dialed Athidhi from his study, the same room where he'd shattered his phone

weeks before. She answered on the first ring, her voice ragged, broken.

"Hello?" No more lazy arrogance; just raw desperation.

"Athidhi," Gupta purred, leaning back in his leather chair. "How's life in the suburbs? I hear the view's not quite

the same."

She sucked in a breath. "You... you monster. What have you done?"

He laughed, deep and triumphant. "Tit for tat, darling. You laughed at me, humiliated me. Now look at you—

broke, evicted, your husband rotting in a cell. And it's only beginning. Tomorrow, I file the murder charges

officially. Kamal will never see daylight again. Ten years for fraud? That's nothing. Life for murder. Your perfect

little world? Shattered."

Athidhi wept then, sobs choking through the line. "No, please... Gupta, don't. We were wrong, I admit it. I was

cruel, but this... this is destroying us. Kamal's innocent! Please, I'll do anything. Anything to stop this."

Gupta's pulse quickened. This was the moment he'd waited for—the power shift, the begging. "Anything? Oh,

Athidhi, you have no idea what that means. But fine. It depends on you. How well you please me. Be at my

office in an hour. Alone. Dress like the whore you are."

She hesitated, but the line went silent. An hour later, the elevator dinged, and Athidhi stepped into Gupta's

opulent office overlooking the Arabian Sea. She wore a sheer black saree that clung to her curves, the blouse

low-cut, revealing the swell of her full breasts. No bra, he noted with approval—her nipples hardened against

the fabric from the air conditioning or nerves. Her makeup was flawless, but her eyes were red-rimmed,

defeated.









host portfolio images



Gupta stood behind his desk, arms crossed. "On your knees," he commanded, voice like steel.


Athidhi dropped without protest, the marble floor cold against her skin. She crawled forward, her saree

pooling around her, until she knelt at his feet. "Please, Gupta... save Kamal."

He unzipped his trousers, freeing his hardening cock. It was thick, veined, already throbbing at the sight of

her submission. "Suck it. Show me how sorry you are."

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she leaned in, her soft lips parting to take him in. Gupta groaned,

tangling his fingers in her silky hair, guiding her deeper. She gagged slightly, but he didn't relent, thrusting

into her mouth with deliberate slowness. "That's it, you bitch. Remember how you mocked me? Now you're

choking on my dick like the slut you are."

Athidhi worked him with desperate fervor, her tongue swirling around the head, her hands cupping his balls.

Saliva dripped down her chin, mixing with tears, as she bobbed her head. Gupta watched, his anger fueling

his arousal. He pulled out suddenly, slapping her face lightly with his wet shaft. "Strip. Show me everything."

She rose shakily, unwrapping the saree to reveal her naked body beneath—no panties, just smooth, waxed

skin and the faint tan lines from their island trips. Her pussy was already glistening, betraying her body's

response despite the humiliation. Gupta stepped forward, pinning her against the desk. His hands roamed

roughly—squeezing her breasts, pinching her nipples until she whimpered.

"You liked fucking my wife, didn't you?" he growled, sliding two fingers into her slick folds. She was wet,

clenching around him. "Admit it."

"Yes," she gasped, hips bucking involuntarily. "I... I loved it."

He finger-fucked her hard, his thumb circling her clit. Athidhi moaned, her body arching, but he stopped just

as she neared the edge. "Not yet. Bend over."

She obeyed, dbanging herself over the desk, ass up. Gupta admired the view—her round cheeks, the pink slit

peeking between. He spanked her once, hard, leaving a red mark. "This is for laughing at me." Another slap.

"This for touching Shailaja." He entered her in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. Athidhi cried out,

a mix of pain and pleasure, her walls gripping him tightly.

Gupta fucked her relentlessly, his hips slamming against her ass. The office filled with the wet sounds of skin

on skin, her moans growing louder. "Beg for it," he demanded, pulling her hair back.

"Please... fuck me harder," she sobbed. "I'll do anything... just save him."

He flipped her onto her back, spreading her legs wide. Pinning her wrists above her head, he drove into her

again, his free hand rubbing her clit. Athidhi came hard, her body convulsing, squirting onto the desk as she

screamed his name. Gupta followed, pulling out to cum across her stomach and breasts, marking her.

But he wasn't satisfied. "Clean up. We're not done."

That night, Gupta brought Athidhi home—to the flat he shared with Shailaja. His wife was waiting, dressed in

a silk robe, her expression a mix of shock and arousal as Gupta pushed Athidhi inside.

"What's this?" Shailaja asked, eyes widening.

"Revenge," Gupta said simply. "And redemption. Athidhi's here to please us both. Aren't you?"

Athidhi nodded meekly, still disheveled from the office encounter. Gupta poured whiskey for all, the tension

thick. "Strip her, Shailaja. Show me you choose me."

Shailaja hesitated, but the fire in Gupta's eyes—and the lingering thrill from her own adventures—pushed her

forward. She approached Athidhi, slowly peeling off the remnants of her clothes. Athidhi stood passive, her

body on display: full breasts heaving, pussy still swollen from earlier.

"Kiss her," Gupta ordered, settling into an armchair to watch.


Shailaja leaned in, their lips meeting tentatively at first, then deepening. Athidhi's hands roamed Shailaja's

back, slipping under the robe to cup her ass. Soon, they were tangled on the sofa, Shailaja's robe discarded.

Gupta stroked himself as he watched his wife straddle Athidhi's face, grinding against her tongue. Shailaja

moaned, her hands pinching Athidhi's nipples, riding her to orgasm.

But Gupta joined in, pulling Shailaja off and positioning Athidhi on all fours. "Fuck her mouth while I take her

ass," he told his wife.

Shailaja, aroused beyond reason, grabbed a strap-on from the drawer—a toy she'd hidden for her secret

trysts. She buckled it on, sliding the silicone cock into Athidhi's mouth. Gupta lubed up and eased into

Athidhi's tight ass, groaning at the heat. They spit-roasted her, Athidhi's muffled cries vibrating around the

dildo. Gupta thrust deep, spanking her as he went, while Shailaja face-fucked her with abandon.

"You're ours now," Gupta grunted, close to the edge. "No more games."













Athidhi came again, her body shaking, as Gupta filled her ass with his cum. Shailaja pulled out, spraying her

own release from the friction.

The breaking continued over hours. Gupta dropped the murder charge but kept the fraud looming as

leverage. Kamal was released on bail,

Orgasms crashed like waves—Athidhi squirting on Gupta's cock. Gupta marking both women with his seed.


One night, as Athidhi knelt between Gupta's legs, slurping his cock while Shailaja whipped her ass lightly,

Gupta leaned back. "Tit for tat," he murmured, laughing. The power was his, and the pleasure endless.











Gupta threatened athidhi we just given him bail. If you not accepted to our proposals again he will be


punished...... You have to our personal slut... And from now you have to follow my orders then She replied with tears

OK...


To be continued........

[Suresh@123]

Are you hurrying since most of them asked you to continue?

Thank you.......anything feel bored of story?

[Suresh@123]

Not At all, you are just good. I had just thought I would let you know that I appreciate your effort and its your story where you are the creator. So you exercise your complete creative liberty and express your imaginations without a compromise and not lose your story to fulfil others' fantasies. 
I felt that the island episodes were more exciting and had lots of suspense and you took time to bring her to bed which was missing in the latest chapter. You had structured the island episodes to build the excitement keeping the reader engaged which I would say was your unique story telling & was your signature however, the latest episode was a waterfall moment for Gupta and easy to guess even without reading fully what was going to happen unlike how it was in the earlier episodes. The Shylaja part was indeed special which nobody could have assumed.

Thank you very much to support me.. And I will change in gripping story which is lost from latest episodes as per your reference.

[Suresh@123]

Not At all, you are just good. I had just thought I would let you know that I appreciate your effort and its your story where you are the creator. So you exercise your complete creative liberty and express your imaginations without a compromise and not lose your story to fulfil others' fantasies. 
I felt that the island episodes were more exciting and had lots of suspense and you took time to bring her to bed which was missing in the latest chapter. You had structured the island episodes to build the excitement keeping the reader engaged which I would say was your unique story telling & was your signature however, the latest episode was a waterfall moment for Gupta and easy to guess even without reading fully what was going to happen unlike how it was in the earlier episodes. The Shylaja part was indeed special which nobody could have assumed.

OK I would like to change in writing pattern to engage in story and 

Thank you very much. I will take negative or positive anything. Send 

me pvt msg

[Suresh@123]

Thank you all

[Suresh@123]

super

Thank you bro...

[Suresh@123]

silky hair, Athidi lips glistening with saliva and the remnants of his release, when he decided the

night’s entertainment needed one final, exquisite layer. Shailaja’s whip had left faint, blushing stripes across

Athidhi’s rounded ass, but the real sting would come later. He pulled her head back gently, forcing her to

meet his eyes. The room smelled of sex, whiskey, and expensive cologne. Athidhi’s chest heaved, her full

breasts rising and falling, nipples still stiff from Shailaja’s earlier attentions.

“Next Wednesday night,” Gupta said, his voice low and velvet-smooth, like a promise wrapped in steel, “I will

come to your little suburban flat. I will walk straight into your bedroom—the same bed where you once

whispered ‘I love you’ to Kamal. And I will fuck you there, slowly, thoroughly, while your husband sits in the

corner and watches every single second. Do you understand me, Athidhi?”

Her eyes widened, the haze of submission clearing into raw panic. She shook her head slightly, still on her

knees. “Sir… please… not in front of him. I’ll come to your office every single day. I’ll let Shailaja madam tie me

up, whip me, use me however she wants. I’ll crawl to you on my hands and knees in public if you command it.

But not in front of Kamal. He’s already broken. Seeing me like that… in our own bed… it will kill whatever is left

of him.”

Gupta chuckled softly, tracing her lower lip with his thumb. “Oh, my sweet, desperate whore. You still think

you have the right to negotiate? I said in front of Kamal. And there will be a surprise waiting for both of you—

something deliciously familiar. Refuse, and the murder charge files tomorrow morning. Kamal spends the rest

of his life rotting in a cell while you visit him once a month in a faded saree. Choose wisely.”

Athidhi’s shoulders slumped. Tears welled up again, but she nodded. “Yes, sir. Wednesday. Our bedroom. I…

I’ll be ready.”

He patted her cheek like a pet. “Good girl. Now crawl back to Shailaja and thank her properly for the marks

she gave you.”



The rest of that night blurred into more tangled limbs and whispered commands, but Athidhi’s mind had

already left the penthouse. She kept replaying his words, the casual cruelty, the promise of a “surprise.”

It was nearly 3 a.m. when the elevator deposited her back into the dingy corridor of their suburban flat. The

building smelled of cheap curry and damp walls. Kamal was waiting exactly where she had left him—on the

threadbare sofa, still in the same vest and lungi, eyes hollow. The moment she closed the door, she sank to

her knees in front of him, the sheer black saree clinging to her sweat-damp skin, the faint scent of Gupta’s

cologne and Shailaja’s perfume clinging to her like guilt.

She told him everything. Every word. The exact order. The insistence on their marital bed. The mysterious

surprise. Kamal listened without interrupting, his hands clenched so tightly the knuckles went white. When

she finished, silence stretched between them like a blade.

“We have no choice,” he whispered finally, voice cracking. “If we run, he’ll destroy us again. If we refuse…” He

couldn’t finish. Instead, he pulled her into his arms, and they clung to each other on the sofa, two broken

people trying to hold onto the last fragments of dignity. That night they didn’t make love. They simply held

each other, trembling.

The next six days were exquisite torture.

Every morning Athidhi woke with a knot in her stomach. She dressed for her now-empty design studio in

simple salwar suits, but her mind kept drifting to Wednesday. She imagined Kamal’s face, the way his eyes

would hollow further.



At night she showered for hours, scrubbing herself raw, yet every time she closed her e

yes she felt Gupta’s hands, Rahul’s muscular body from the island memories.

Kamal barely ate. He sat in their tiny living room staring at the wall, replaying the island trip again and again—

the way Rahul, Gupta’s young, powerfully built assistant manager, had taken Athidhi so casually while they all

watched. He knew, deep in his gut, who the “surprise” would be. But knowing didn’t prepare the heart.

By Tuesday night they were both exhausted. Athidhi cried silently in the bathroom so he wouldn’t hear.

Kamal stared at the ceiling, wondering if he would be able to sit there without dying inside.

Wednesday arrived, thick with Mumbai humidity. The clock on their bedroom wall read 8:15 p.m. Athidhi had

prepared exactly as Gupta liked: a deep maroon chiffon saree dbangd low on her hips, the pallu barely

covering her heavy breasts. The blouse was backless, tied with thin strings, no bra, no panties. Her

mangalsutra—the sacred black-beaded gold chain that symbolized her marriage—hung prominently between

her cleavage, the pendant resting just above her navel. She had oiled her skin until it glowed, applied kajal to

make her eyes look larger, and left her long hair open the way Gupta preferred.







The hip chain she knew he would bring would complete the humiliation.


Kamal sat on the edge of their double bed in just a thin vest and lungi, staring at the floor. The room was

small—barely enough space for the bed, a rickety cupboard, and a single chair. The cheap ceiling fan whirred lazily.

At 8:30 sharp, the doorbell rang once.

Athidhi’s heart slammed against her ribs. She opened the door with shaking fingers.

Gupta stood there in a crisp white linen shirt and tailored trousers, looking every inch the untouchable

tycoon. Beside him loomed Rahul—six-foot-two of raw, sculpted muscle. His black polo shirt strained across

boulder-like shoulders and thick biceps. His dark skin gleamed under the corridor’s cheap bulb, and his jeans

did nothing to hide the powerful thighs or the obvious bulge. The same Rahul who had fucked her senseless

on the island while Kamal had been forced to listen from the next room. Rahul’s dark eyes locked onto

Athidhi with immediate, hungry recognition.

Both husband and wife froze in the doorway.

Gupta smiled that slow, predatory smile. “Surprise,” he said softly, stepping inside without waiting for

invitation. Rahul followed, closing and locking the door behind them with a quiet click. “I thought we should

make this reunion special. Rahul has been asking about your tight little married pussy every single day since

the island. He says you still moan the same way.”

Kamal’s face twisted—rage, shame, helplessness all crashing together. Athidhi’s knees nearly gave out; she

had to grip the doorframe.

Gupta didn’t waste time. He walked straight into the bedroom as if he owned it, the same room where Kamal

and Athidhi had once planned their future. He snapped his fingers at Athidhi. “Come here, my beautiful slut.”

She obeyed on trembling legs. Kamal remained seated on the bed, unable to move.

Gupta reached into his pocket and pulled out a delicate gold hip chain—thin, intricately carved, with tiny

silver bells at intervals. He knelt slowly in front of her, right there in front of her husband, his face level with

her navel. With deliberate, almost reverent slowness, he wrapped the chain around her hips, just above the

low waistline of her saree. His warm fingers brushed her bare skin, sending involuntary shivers through her.

He fastened it securely, then leaned in and pressed his lips directly to her deep navel.







The kiss was not quick. He lingered. His tongue traced the rim of her navel in slow, wet circles, dipping inside

the hollow, tasting the faint salt of her skin. The tiny bells jingled softly with every tremor of her body.

Athidhi’s breath hitched; she bit her lip hard to stop a moan from escaping.

“Sir… please… not like this… in front of him,” she whispered, voice barely audible, face burning with shame.

Kamal looked away, jaw clenched so tightly the muscle jumped, but his eyes kept darting back. His lungi

tented slightly despite everything.

Gupta stood up, still holding the end of the hip chain like a leash. He reached up and lifted her mangalsutra

with one finger, letting the black beads and gold pendant sway in front of her flushed face. “This sacred

thread that binds you to him? Tonight it means nothing. You are mine to display.” He let it fall back between

her breasts, the cool metal brushing her stiffening nipples through the thin blouse. The contrast—sacred

symbol against her whorish attire—made her thighs clench.

Rahul stepped forward now, his massive presence filling the small room. The two men began their slow,

deliberate seduction.

It started with touches so light they were almost cruel.

Gupta’s hands slid under the pallu of her saree, palms gliding over the soft, oiled skin of her belly. His thumbs

traced lazy circles just below her navel, making the hip chain tinkle with every breath she took. Rahul moved

behind her, his large, calloused hands resting lightly on her bare waist, thumbs stroking the dimples at the

base of her spine. They didn’t rush. They circled her like predators savoring the kill.






Gupta leaned in and brushed his lips along the side of her neck, not kissing, just breathing warm air against

her pulse point. “You smell like fear and arousal, Athidhi. Your husband can see how your nipples are already

poking through this tiny blouse.” His fingers found the edge of her pallu and slowly, inch by inch, pulled it

aside, exposing the deep valley of her cleavage. Rahul’s hands slid lower, cupping the curve of her ass

through the saree, squeezing gently, then releasing, then squeezing again—rhythmic, teasing.

Athidhi’s breathing grew ragged. Her body betrayed her; a fresh wave of wetness slicked her thighs. “Please…

sir… Rahul sir…” she whimpered.

Gupta’s mouth finally closed over the sensitive spot just below her ear, sucking softly, tongue flicking. At the

same time, Rahul’s thick fingers traced the cleft of her ass, pressing the fabric between her cheeks. They

peeled the saree off her body with agonizing slowness—first the pallu, letting it slide down her shoulders like

liquid, then unwrapping the yards of maroon fabric fold by fold. Each turn of the saree revealed more skin: the

soft swell of her hips, the smooth waxed mound, the faint tan lines from their island days.

When the saree finally pooled at her feet, she stood in only the backless blouse and the hip chain. Gupta

unfastened the blouse strings one by one, his knuckles deliberately brushing the sides of her breasts. Rahul

reached around from behind and cupped both heavy globes the moment they spilled free, lifting them,

weighing them, thumbs circling the dark, stiff nipples without touching the peaks yet.


Athidhi moaned low in her throat, hips jerking. The hip chain jingled. Her mangalsutra swayed between her

breasts as Rahul finally pinched both nipples—gently at first, then harder, rolling them between his strong

fingers. Gupta dropped to his knees again, this time kissing his way down her body: sternum, the underside

of each breast, her ribcage, the soft curve of her belly, until his mouth reached her navel once more. He

sucked on it deeply while Rahul continued tormenting her nipples.


They explored every inch.












Gupta’s tongue traced the line from her navel down to the top of her slit, stopping just short of her clit.

Rahul’s mouth replaced Gupta’s on her neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark while his fingers finally

dipped between her thighs from behind. He stroked her slick outer lips slowly, parting them, circling her

entrance without entering, spreading her wetness up to her clit and back down again.

Athidhi’s legs shook violently. “Ahh… sir… I can’t… my husband is watching…”

Kamal sat frozen on the bed, eyes glued to the scene, shame and helpless arousal warring on his face.

The foreplay stretched on for nearly fifteen minutes—teasing touches, wet kisses, fingers gliding but never

quite giving her what she craved. They made her beg with every whimper. Gupta finally slid one finger inside

her, curling it slowly against her front wall while Rahul pinched her clit lightly. Athidhi’s first small orgasm

rippled through her, but they didn’t let her ride it; they pulled back, leaving her trembling on the edge.

“Please, sir,” she gasped, voice breaking completely. “Do anything you want to me… use every hole… make

me your whore… but send my husband outside. I can’t bear his eyes on me like this. Please… I’ll do anything.”

Gupta straightened, lips glistening with her juices. He glanced at Kamal, then back at her. “Beg properly. On

your knees.”

Athidhi dropped instantly, mangalsutra swaying, hip chain tinkling. “Gupta sir… Rahul sir… please send him

out. Fuck me senseless. Break me. Fill me. But not in front of him. I’ll scream for you. I’ll squirt for you. Just let

him wait outside.”

Gupta smiled. “You heard your wife, Kamal. Living room. Now. And don’t you dare leave the flat.”

Kamal stood on shaky legs, face burning, and walked out. The bedroom door clicked shut.

For ten long minutes there was only heavy breathing and the creak of the bed. Kamal sat on the sofa, heart

hammering. Then the sounds began.










The first moan tore through the thin walls like a blade. “Ohhhhhh… nooooo…” Athidhi’s voice, high and

broken. Then deeper, desperate: “I can’t take it… oh goddd… pls…”

Kamal crept back to the door and pressed his eye to the narrow gap.

Inside, the scene was pure depravity.

Athidhi was on her back on their marital bed, legs spread obscenely wide. Gupta was between them, his

thick, veined cock sliding in and out of her pussy in long, deliberate strokes—slow at first, letting her feel

every inch. Rahul knelt by her head, his massive nine-inch cock sliding between her swollen lips, fucking her

mouth with controlled depth. The hip chain jingled with every thrust. Her mangalsutra bounced between her

jiggling breasts.

Gupta angled his hips and hit her G-spot perfectly. Athidhi screamed around Rahul’s cock—her first powerful

squirt exploding around Gupta’s shaft, soaking the bedsheet and his thighs. Her body convulsed, eyes rolling back.









They didn’t stop.


Round one ended with Gupta flooding her pussy, pulling out slowly so Kamal could see the thick cream pie

dripping from her stretched hole. Rahul took his place immediately, flipping her onto all fours. He entered her

from behind in one smooth, deep thrust, his muscular hips slapping against her ass. Gupta fed her his cock

again, making her clean every drop of their mixed juices while Rahul pounded her relentlessly.

The second round was faster, harder. Rahul’s heavy balls slapped her clit with every thrust. Athidhi’s moans

turned into continuous wails: “Aaghhhh… ahhhhaa… ahhhhaa… too deep… my husband is right outside…

ohhhhh goddd…” Her second squirt sprayed across the mattress in an arc as Rahul repeatedly hit her cervix.

Gupta came down her throat this time, holding her head still until she swallowed every drop, tears streaming

down her face.

Still they continued.


Round three: double penetration. Gupta lay beneath her, cock buried deep in her pussy. Rahul, slick with her

own juices, pushed slowly into her tight ass, stretching her inch by inch while she whimpered and moaned.

They found a perfect rhythm—Gupta thrusting up, Rahul thrusting down. Athidhi’s screams echoed through

the entire flat—“Nooooo… I can’t… both holes at once… please… ohhhhh fuckkkk…” The hip chain and

mangalsutra were tangled and sticky between her breasts. She squirted a third time, then a fourth in quick

succession, her body shaking so violently the bedframe banged against the wall. Rahul filled her ass with a

deep groan; Gupta pumped her pussy full again.

For the final, merciless round they stood her up between them like a living doll. Gupta lifted one of her legs,

entering her pussy while standing. Rahul took her ass from behind. They fucked her suspended, feet off the

ground, bodies slick with sweat. Athidhi’s fifth and most explosive squirt shot out in a powerful arc, splashing

the floor as she screamed incoherently: “Ohhhhh… no more… I’m breaking… aaghhhh ahhhhaa… pls… my

husband… he can hear everything… I’m yours… I’m yours forever…”

Both men came together—one deep in her pussy, one in her ass—filling her until thick streams of cum ran

down her thighs in rivers. They lowered her gently onto the ruined bed. Athidhi lay there twitching, chest

heaving, body covered in sweat, cum, and her own squirt, the hip chain still jingling softly with every

aftershock, her mangalsutra sticky and tangled.

Gupta zipped up, looking utterly satisfied. Rahul flexed his massive arms and smirked. “Same time next

week?” he asked casually.

Gupta glanced toward the door. “Maybe next time we’ll let Kamal sit inside and hold her hand while we ruin

her. Or maybe we’ll make him clean her up with his tongue.”

He opened the bedroom door. Kamal stumbled back, face flushed crimson with humiliation and unwanted

arousal, cock straining painfully against his lungi.

“Enjoy the show, cuck?” Gupta asked coldly. “Your wife is ours now. Every Wednesday. And if you ever forget

that…” He left the threat hanging in the air.

Rahul patted Kamal’s shoulder with mock affection as they walked out. “She still squirts the same way she

did on the island. Good little married slut.”

The door shut behind them.

Inside the bedroom, Athidhi curled into a fetal position, tears mixing with the mess on her body. But beneath

the burning shame, her pussy still clenched rhythmically with the afterglow of five shattering orgasms.

Outside, Kamal sat on the sofa, the echoes of her desperate cries still replaying in his ears on an endless loop.



Tit for tat had become something far darker, far more permanent, and the slow seduction had only just

begun.....


To be continued.........

[Suresh@123]

Readers Pls give comments. it gives us to write the best.

[Suresh@123]

Hot going. Unexpected twists. Keep rocking.........

Thank you

[Suresh@123]

very hot update

Thankyou

[Suresh@123]

Any suggestion pls msg me pvt...

Pls give any suggestions...

[Suresh@123]

Very nice twist. Good hot update. Bro before your giving regular updates.
Pls give regularly

Thank you very much

[Suresh@123]

This is the power of money

This is truly there mistakes they played with his wife

Now she is paid for her husband life

Wonderful man
Super erotic update every time with different colours

Keep entering us like this

Thank you bro... Sure I will update like entertaining mode

[Suresh@123]

The days after that fateful Wednesday blurred into a haze of dread and reluctant acceptance for Athidhi and

Kamal. The suburban flat, once a fragile sanctuary of their broken marriage, now felt like a prison of

memories. Every creak of the bedframe, every faint jingle of the hip chain she hadn’t dared remove, echoed

Gupta’s promise of permanence. But the tycoon was not a man who left loose ends dangling.

Two days later, at precisely 7:00 a.m., Athidhi’s phone vibrated on the nightstand. She was still curled against

Kamal’s chest, both of them awake but silent, when the screen lit up with Gupta’s name. She answered with

trembling fingers.

“Listen carefully, my beautiful puppet,” Gupta’s voice purred through the speaker, smooth as aged whiskey

and twice as intoxicating. “Your little suburban charade ends today. Pack everything you own—clothes,

documents, that pathetic mangalsutra you still cling to like a shield. Both of you. Wednesday morning, 10:00

a.m. sharp, my driver will collect you and your luggage. You are moving into my residence permanently. No

more hiding behind cheap curry smells and threadbare sofas. You will live as my personal puppets—available,

obedient, displayed whenever I desire. Refuse, and the murder files land on the commissioner’s desk by

noon. Kamal rots. You visit in a widow’s white saree. Understood?”

Athidhi’s breath caught. She glanced at Kamal, whose eyes had gone dead again. “Yes… sir,” she whispered.

“Good girl. Oh, and one more thing—bring the hip chain. I want it on you the moment you cross my threshold.

Rahul has been… impatient.”


The line went dead.

The next forty-eight hours were mechanical hell. They packed in silence: two battered suitcases for Kamal’s

faded lungis and vests, three for Athidhi’s sarees, salwar suits, and the few pieces of jewelry that still carried

the ghost of their old life. She folded the deep maroon chiffon from that night with shaking hands, the fabric

still carrying the faint scent of sweat, cum, and expensive cologne. Kamal said nothing. He simply stared at

the suitcase as if it were a coffin.


Wednesday dawned humid and merciless. At 9:45 a.m., a sleek black Mercedes glided up to their crumbling

building. The driver—silent, uniformed, eyes averted—loaded their luggage without a word. Athidhi wore a

simple cream salwar suit, hair tied in a loose braid, mangalsutra hidden beneath the dupatta like a guilty

secret. Kamal sat beside her in the back seat, staring out the window at the Mumbai traffic that had once felt

like freedom.


The drive to Gupta’s residence took them from the suburbs into the glittering heart of South Mumbai.

Towering glass spires gave way to a private gated estate overlooking the Arabian Sea. The mansion was a

modernist palace: white marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, a private infinity pool shimmering under the

morning sun, and an underground garage that could swallow twenty cars. As they stepped out, the salty sea

breeze mixed with the scent of gardenias from the manicured lawns.


Gupta waited on the grand steps, dressed in a casual white linen kurta and trousers, looking every inch the

king in his domain. Rahul stood two steps behind him—six-foot-two of sculpted menace in a black tank top

and joggers, arms crossed over his massive chest, that familiar hungry smirk playing on his lips.


“Welcome home, puppets,” Gupta said, voice velvet and steel. He didn’t wait for greetings. He snapped his

fingers at the staff—two silent maids in crisp uniforms appeared instantly. “Take their luggage to the east
wing servants’ quarters. Kamal will sleep there when I allow it. Athidhi… you belong wherever I decide.”

Kamal’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Athidhi’s knees felt liquid.

Gupta stepped forward, cupping Athidhi’s chin with two fingers, tilting her face up. “Tonight is our first night

under this roof. My large master bedroom—king-sized bed, mirrors on every wall, soundproofed for your

screams. You will be ready by 8:00 p.m. Shower with the rose-oil I sent last week. Oil every inch of that silky

skin until it glows. Wear only the hip chain, the black-beaded mangalsutra, and that sheer black saree from

the island. No blouse. No panties. Hair open, kajal heavy, lips glossed. Kamal will sit in the corner chair—

watching, silent, unmoving. But you, my sweet whore, will not look at him. Not once. Not even a glance. If

your eyes stray toward your husband, I will have Rahul fuck you in the corridor while Kamal holds the door

open. Clear?”


Athidhi’s voice was barely a whisper. “Yes, sir.”

Rahul chuckled low. “Can’t wait to hear those moans again, memsaab. Louder this time, now that you’re home.”

The day dragged in exquisite torture. The maids showed them to their assigned spaces: Kamal’s small,

windowless room off the kitchen wing; Athidhi’s clothes were taken directly to Gupta’s walk-in closet. She

spent the afternoon alone in the marble bathroom attached to the master suite, following every instruction

to the letter. Hot water cascaded over her body as she lathered the rose oil into her skin—neck, shoulders,

the heavy swell of her breasts, the soft curve of her belly, down to the smooth waxed mound between her

thighs. The hip chain—delicate gold with its tiny silver bells—clicked into place around her hips, the sound

already a Pavlovian trigger. She dbangd the sheer black saree low, the pallu barely covering her nipples, the

fabric translucent enough to reveal every contour.


At 7:55 p.m., she knelt outside the master bedroom door as instructed. Kamal was already inside, seated on

a heavy teak chair in the far corner, still in his vest and lungi, hands gripping the armrests so tightly the wood

creaked.


Gupta opened the door at exactly 8:00. He wore only black silk pajama bottoms, his chest bare and toned.

Rahul lounged on the massive bed—king-sized, four-poster, dbangd in crimson silk sheets—wearing nothing

but loose grey shorts, his muscular frame glistening under the dim golden lights. The room was a temple of

indulgence: mirrored walls reflecting every angle, a crystal chandelier casting soft shadows, floor-to-ceiling

windows overlooking the moonlit sea, and a plush velvet chair positioned perfectly for viewing.

“Come in, puppet,” Gupta commanded softly.


Athidhi crawled inside on her hands and knees, the hip chain tinkling with every movement, saree whispering

against the marble. She kept her eyes fixed on the floor, exactly as ordered. She could feel Kamal’s presence

in the corner like a burning shadow, but she did not look. Not even a flicker.

Gupta closed the door with a soft click that sounded like a prison gate sealing. “Tonight, Athidhi, you become

fully ours under this roof. No more suburban flat. No more pretending. You are my live-in whore. Kamal is my

live-in cuckold. And this room… this bed… will be where we break whatever is left of your dignity, slowly,

deliciously, night after night.”

He circled her once, like a predator admiring prey. “Stand.”

She rose gracefully, eyes still downcast. The sheer black saree clung to her oiled curves, nipples already stiff against the fabric from the cool air and rising fear.

Gupta stepped close. His fingers traced the line of her jaw, then down her throat, brushing the mangalsutra

that rested between her heavy breasts. “Look at your wife, Kamal,” he said without turning. “See how her

body already knows who it belongs to. But she won’t look at you. Not tonight. Not ever unless I allow it. Her

eyes stay on me, on Rahul, on the ceiling if I command. Your presence is for your humiliation only.”

Rahul rose from the bed, his massive frame casting a shadow. “Let’s heat her up properly this time. No rushing.”

What followed was not mere sex. It was an orchestrated symphony of seduction, drawn out over hours, every

touch calculated to make Athidhi’s body sing while her mind fractured under the weight of Kamal’s unseen gaze.

Gupta began with the pallu. He tugged it gently, letting the sheer fabric slide off her shoulders like liquid

night. It pooled at her feet, leaving her completely bare except for the hip chain and mangalsutra. The tiny

bells jingled as she shivered. He didn’t touch her breasts yet. Instead, he stepped behind her, pressing his

chest to her back, his lips hovering at her ear. Warm breath tickled her lobe. “Feel that, puppet? Your

husband is watching every inch of this. But you can’t see him. You can only imagine his eyes on your naked
body. Does that make your pussy wetter?”

A soft whimper escaped her. “Y-yes, sir…”

Rahul moved in front, dropping to one knee. His large hands cupped her hips, thumbs stroking the sensitive

skin just above the hip chain. He leaned in and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to her navel—slow, wet,

tongue circling the deep hollow exactly as Gupta had done before. The bells tinkled wildly as her belly

quivered. He sucked gently, then harder, teeth grazing the rim, tongue dipping inside to taste the rose oil and

her natural salt. Athidhi’s breath hitched; her hands instinctively reached for his shoulders.

“No hands yet,” Gupta murmured, catching her wrists and pinning them behind her back with one strong

grip. “Just feel.”

Rahul’s mouth traveled lower, kissing a trail down the soft swell of her lower belly, stopping just above her

smooth mound. He inhaled deeply, savoring her scent, then blew cool air across her heated skin. Her thighs

clenched. A single bead of wetness already glistened at the top of her slit.

Gupta released her wrists only to slide his palms up her sides, cupping the undersides of her heavy breasts.

He lifted them slightly, thumbs brushing the outer curves in lazy circles—never touching the nipples. “These

are mine now. Full-time. Every morning, every night. Kamal used to wake up to these, didn’t he? Now he

wakes up to the sound of you moaning my name from the other wing.”

Athidhi’s head fell back against Gupta’s shoulder. “Sir… please…”

“Please what, puppet?” He nipped her earlobe. “Beg properly. But remember—no looking at him.”

“I… I need more… my body is burning…”

Rahul chuckled against her thigh. He parted her legs gently with his knees, then dragged his tongue in one

long, slow stripe from the inside of her knee all the way up to the crease where thigh met pussy. He stopped

short, repeating on the other leg. Up, up, agonizingly slow. Each pass left a trail of fire. The hip chain bells

rang softly with every tremor.

Gupta finally rolled her nipples between his fingers—light at first, then pinching, twisting just enough to make her gasp. He rolled them in time with Rahul’s teasing licks, creating a rhythm that had her hips jerking

forward involuntarily. Her moans started low, almost embarrassed: soft “ahh… ahh…” that grew breathier as

the heat built.

Rahul parted her outer lips with two thick fingers, exposing the slick pink inside. He didn’t dive in. He traced

the edges with the tip of his tongue—slow, deliberate circles around her clit without touching it, then down to

her entrance, lapping at the fresh wetness but never entering. “Tastes even sweeter knowing your husband is

right there,” he growled.

Athidhi’s moans climbed higher. “Ohhh… Rahul sir… please… don’t tease…”

Gupta spun her around suddenly, pressing her back against his chest again. Now she faced the mirrored wall

directly opposite Kamal’s chair. She could see herself—flushed, breasts heaving, nipples dark and stiff—but

the angle and Gupta’s command kept her eyes from drifting to the corner. She stared at her own reflection

instead, forced to watch her own degradation.


“Eyes on the mirror, puppet,” Gupta ordered. “Watch what we do to you. Kamal sees everything. You see only what I allow.”

He cupped her breasts from behind, presenting them to the mirror like offerings. Rahul dropped to his knees

again and finally closed his mouth over one nipple—sucking deep, tongue flicking rapidly, then switching to

the other. Wet, obscene sounds filled the room. Athidhi’s moans rose another octave: “Ahhh… ahhhhaa… oh
god… it’s too much…”

Gupta’s free hand slid down her belly, fingers toying with the hip chain, making the bells jingle in a

maddening rhythm. He dipped lower, circling her clit with two fingers—light pressure, then none, then light

again—edging her mercilessly. Rahul sucked harder on her breasts, alternating sides, leaving them shiny with

saliva. Her hips bucked. The moans turned desperate: “Sir… please… I’m going to… ahhhhhh… no, don’t stop…”

They stopped.

She cried out in frustration, body trembling on the edge. Gupta laughed softly. “Not yet. We’re just heating you up. Kamal, look how her thighs are shaking. She’s never been this wet for you, has she?”

They moved her to the bed—slowly, reverently. Gupta laid her on her back in the center of the crimson

sheets. He tied a black silk blindfold around her eyes with deliberate care. “Now you truly can’t see him. Only

darkness and our voices. Feel everything. Hear everything. Moan for us, puppet.”

The blindfold plunged her into sensory overload. She could hear Kamal’s ragged breathing from the corner.

She could feel the cool silk beneath her, the heat of two bodies flanking her. But she couldn’t see. The

humiliation burned hotter than ever.

Rahul positioned himself between her thighs. He lifted her legs over his broad shoulders and began the

slowest, most torturous oral assault imaginable. His tongue traced every fold—outer lips, inner lips, circling

the clit in widening spirals, then narrowing until she was sobbing. He sucked the swollen bud gently, then


harder, then released and blew cool air. Gupta, meanwhile, straddled her chest, feeding his thick cock

between her lips. Not thrusting—simply resting it on her tongue, letting her taste him while Rahul ate her alive.

Athidhi’s moans were no longer contained. They echoed off the mirrored walls, raw and rising: “Mmmph…

ohhhhh… sir… your tongue… ahhhhaa… deeper… please… I can’t… ahhhhhh!” Each cry climbed higher, louder,

more broken. The blindfold amplified everything—the wet sounds of Rahul’s mouth, the jingle of the hip chain

every time her hips jerked, Gupta’s low groans of approval.

They edged her three times. Each time she approached the peak, they pulled back—Rahul lifting his mouth,

Gupta withdrawing his cock—leaving her writhing, begging incoherently. “Please… I’ll do anything… fuck me…

break me… just let me cum… oh god, Kamal is listening… I’m sorry… ahhhhaa… please!”

On the fourth build-up, Gupta finally gave the command. “Cum for us, puppet. Loud. Let your husband hear how we own you now.”

Rahul sucked her clit hard, two thick fingers curling inside her, stroking her G-spot relentlessly. Gupta

pinched both nipples at once. Athidhi exploded. Her scream tore through the room—“AAGHHHHH… OH

FUCK… I’M CUMMING… SIR… AHHHHHAAAAA!”—higher and wilder than anything she’d ever released before.

Her body convulsed; clear squirt arced from her pussy, soaking Rahul’s chin and the sheets. The hip chain

bells rang like frantic wind chimes. She thrashed against the blindfold, tears soaking the silk.

They didn’t let her recover.

Gupta flipped her onto all fours, facing away from Kamal’s corner. The blindfold stayed on. He entered her

pussy in one smooth, deep thrust—buried to the hilt. Rahul knelt in front, feeding his massive cock into her

mouth. They began a slow, synchronized rhythm: Gupta’s long, deliberate strokes grinding against her cervix,

Rahul’s thick shaft sliding over her tongue. The moans resumed immediately, even louder now, muffled

around cock but still climbing: “Mmmph… ahhh… too deep… ohhhhh god… I’m yours… both of you… ahhhhaa…

don’t stop…”

Gupta reached around and rubbed her clit in slow circles while pounding steadily. Rahul held her hair gently,

guiding her mouth. They talked to her the entire time—filthy, possessive praise mixed with reminders of her new reality.

“You’re never leaving this house, Athidhi. This bed is your new marriage bed.”

“Every morning you’ll wake up with one of us inside you.”

“Kamal gets the servant’s room. You get our cum.”

Her second orgasm hit like a tidal wave. She screamed around Rahul’s cock, the sound vibrating through him.

Her walls clamped down so hard Gupta groaned. Fresh squirt sprayed across the sheets. Still they didn’t stop.

Round after round unfolded in the vast bedroom. They took turns—Gupta in her pussy while Rahul licked her

clit from below; Rahul in her ass while Gupta sucked her nipples raw; both of them inside her at once, double

penetration that made her voice crack into hoarse, continuous wails: “AAGHHHH… BOTH HOLES… I’M

BREAKING… OH FUCK… SIR… AHHHHHAAAA… I CAN HEAR KAMAL BREATHING… I’M SORRY… I’M YOURS…

FOREVER… AHHHHH!”

They made her cum six times that night—each one louder, wetter, more shattering than the last. The

blindfold kept her world reduced to sensation and sound: the slap of skin, the jingle of bells, the wet squelch

of her overflowing pussy, Gupta’s and Rahul’s grunts of pleasure, and beneath it all, the faint, tortured

breathing of her husband in the corner.

Only when the moon had climbed high over the sea did they finally finish. Gupta came deep in her pussy with

a long, satisfied groan, flooding her until it leaked out around his shaft. Rahul followed in her mouth, holding

her head gently as she swallowed every drop, coughing and gasping. They lowered her trembling body onto

the ruined sheets—covered in sweat, oil, cum, and her own squirt. The hip chain still jingled faintly with

aftershocks. The mangalsutra lay sticky between her breasts.

Gupta removed the blindfold at last. Athidhi blinked, eyes glassy, cheeks streaked with tears and mascara.

She still didn’t look toward Kamal. She couldn’t. The shame and the afterglow fused into something new—

something permanent.

Gupta kissed her forehead almost tenderly. “Welcome home, puppet. This is just the first night. Tomorrow we

begin your training schedule. Rahul will take you in the pool at sunrise. I’ll have you in my office after lunch.

Kamal… you clean the sheets in the morning. With your tongue if I feel generous.”

Rahul stretched, muscles rippling. “Sweet dreams, memsaab. Your new life starts now.”

Kamal remained in the chair, face ashen, cock straining painfully against his lungi, eyes hollow with the

knowledge that there was no escape. The mansion had swallowed them whole.

Athidhi curled into Gupta’s side as he pulled the crimson sheet over them both. In the darkness, her body still


hummed with the echoes of her own screams—higher, louder, more broken than ever before. The slow

seduction had become a lifelong symphony, and the puppets had no strings left to cut.




















To be continued.......


Tomorrow is the last update........ Hope you enjoy

[Suresh@123]

Nice super hot erotic man... Why tomorrow last update?

Thank you bro

[Suresh@123]

hi writer frined.

Hello how R u friend

[Suresh@123]

Thank you all who support me... Today is the last update going to finish story as Athidhi will win finally.. It will

be available today episode..

[Suresh@123]

The days that followed that first shattering night in Gupta’s mansion blurred into a rhythm of servitude,

simmering rage, and carefully hidden calculation for Athidhi and Kamal. The sprawling South Mumbai estate,

with its marble corridors echoing the distant crash of the Arabian Sea, had swallowed them whole. Kamal

was relegated to the servants’ wing—a narrow, windowless room beside the kitchen where he slept on a thin

mattress and woke at dawn to scrub floors, polish silver, and fold the very sheets stained with his wife’s

surrender. Athidhi, meanwhile, was installed as Gupta’s live-in trophy: her clothes hung in his walk-in closet,

her body oiled and perfumed each evening, the delicate gold hip chain with its silver bells locked around her

hips like a permanent brand. The black-beaded mangalsutra still hung between her heavy breasts, a mocking

reminder of the marriage Gupta had shattered.

But beneath the surface, something had shifted. The haze of dread that had clouded their first forty-eight

hours began to clear into cold, calculating clarity. Athidhi moved through the mansion like a ghost in silk—

smiling demurely when Gupta snapped his fingers, dropping to her knees without hesitation, yet her mind

was a steel trap, cataloguing every detail. Kamal, his eyes hollow but no longer dead, watched her from the

shadows during the endless humiliations and felt the first spark of shared purpose flicker between them.

They were no longer just puppets. They were waiting.


The routine began simply enough. Mornings started at six. Kamal would rise first, brewing strong filter coffee

for the household staff and carrying a tray to the master suite. There, he would find Athidhi already awake,

curled against Gupta’s bare chest under the crimson sheets, her body marked with faint love-bites and dried

cum from the night before. She would meet Kamal’s gaze for one fleeting second—long enough to pass a

silent message—before lowering her eyes. “Good morning, sir,” she would whisper to Gupta, voice husky from

hours of moaning. Gupta would stir, slap her ass playfully, and order her to shower while Kamal changed the

sheets. Sometimes Rahul lounged nearby, stretching his massive frame, smirking as he watched Kamal’s

trembling hands smooth the fabric still warm from three bodies. And then there was Shailaja—Gupta’s wife of

fifteen years, a stunning 42-year-old woman with sharp cheekbones, full lips, and a body that curved like a

weapon in her silk nighties. She never slept in the master suite on those nights; instead, she watched from

the velvet chaise, her eyes gleaming with cruel amusement as she sipped morning tea, already planning how

she would join the evening’s games.

By seven, the household chores began in earnest. Athidhi, dressed in a simple cotton salwar suit that clung

to her oiled curves, helped the maids in the kitchen—chopping vegetables, stirring dal, arranging fresh

flowers in crystal vases. Gupta demanded perfection; she delivered it with a grace that made the staff

whisper in awe. Kamal scrubbed the infinity pool tiles on his hands and knees, the sea breeze stinging the

sweat on his back, while Rahul occasionally strolled by to “supervise,” cracking jokes about how the cuckold’s

place was on the floor. Shailaja would glide through the halls in flowing kaftans, issuing orders with a velvet

voice that hid steel. But in those quiet moments between tasks, Athidhi and Kamal found ways to brush past

each other. A whispered word in the pantry. A folded note slipped into his lungi pocket while she served

lunch. “Tonight,” it would say. “Servants’ quarters. After midnight.”


And every few days, the real test came. Gupta would announce, “Athidhi, you’re coming to the office with me

today.” She would nod obediently, dbang a modest dupatta over her low-cut blouse, and slide into the back

of the Mercedes beside him. The drive through Mumbai’s chaotic streets gave her the first taste of freedom—

and opportunity. Gupta’s empire was vast: real estate, shipping, hotels, offshore accounts. He treated her like

arm candy at first, but her sharp mind soon proved useful. “Handle the Singapore deal paperwork,” he’d bark

during meetings. Athidhi would sit at the glass conference table in his penthouse office overlooking Marine

Drive, her manicured fingers flying over the laptop he casually left unlocked while he took calls. She was

efficient—brilliant, even. Within a week, he trusted her with more: sorting emails, cross-checking ledgers,

even logging into his secure portals when his own fingers were too impatient.


She memorised everything. User IDs typed in plain sight. Passwords glimpsed over his shoulder

—“GuptaEmpire2024!” scribbled on a sticky note he thought she hadn’t seen. Property deeds in her name

now, too—hidden clauses she discovered while “organising” files. Bank routing numbers. Offshore shell

companies in Singapore and Dubai. And Shailaja—Gupta’s wife, who co-signed every major account and held

the keys to the Kerala black-money vaults. Athidhi noted every detail, her heart pounding beneath the

mangalsutra as she forwarded innocuous-looking summaries to a secret Gmail draft folder she accessed

from the office Wi-Fi. Gupta never suspected. To him, she was just the perfect whore: obedient in bed,

competent in the boardroom. Shailaja, when she occasionally dropped by the office, would smile knowingly

at Athidhi, as if sensing the hidden fire but never imagining it could burn them.


Nights were when the mask slipped. After the household slept, Athidhi would slip from Gupta’s bed—naked

except for the hip chain and mangalsutra—pad barefoot through the marble halls, and creep into Kamal’s tiny

room. The first time, he pulled her into his arms without a word, tears streaming down his face as the bells

tinkled softly. “We can’t keep living like this,” he whispered, voice cracking. Athidhi pressed her forehead to

his, her body still scented with Gupta’s cologne, Rahul’s sweat, and Shailaja’s perfume. “We won’t,” she

replied fiercely. “I have everything. Passwords. Properties. The fake murder case he built against you—it’s all

digital. We trap him permanently this time. No escape. No mercy. And Shailaja… she’s in it too. Joint

accounts, everything.”

They talked for hours in those stolen nights, voices low, bodies pressed together for warmth and courage.

Kamal’s hands would roam her curves instinctively—tracing the hip chain, cupping her breasts—before he

stopped himself. “Not like this,” he’d murmur. “Not until we’re free.” But the plan solidified: gather irrefutable

proof of the frame-up, hack the empire dry, transfer everything to anonymous accounts they would control

through a third party. Revenge, total and final.

Gupta and Shailaja would lose it all—money, freedom, power—while they walked away rich and untouchable.

Athidhi’s eyes burned with purpose even as she kissed Kamal’s forehead. “I’ll endure anything for this.

Anything. Even when all three of them take me.”


And endure she did.



The sex only grew more relentless, now a full symphony of three tormentors. Gupta, Rahul, and Shailaja

turned the master bedroom into a playground of exquisite torture and ecstasy on alternate nights. They had

made it a ritual: every other evening, the three of them would converge on Athidhi like predators circling

prey, using her body for hours with vibrators, toys, fingers, tongues, and cocks until she was a sobbing,

squirting, broken mess of pleasure and humiliation. Kamal always watched from the corner chair, silent,

unmoving, as ordered.


The first such night came on a humid Thursday. Gupta had returned from the office with Rahul and Shailaja in

tow, all three already buzzing with wine. They found Athidhi waiting exactly as commanded—kneeling naked

in the centre of the crimson bed, hip chain jingling softly, mangalsutra swaying between her heavy, oiled

breasts, the sheer black saree from the island dbangd loosely over her shoulders like a tease.












The room smelled of rose oil and anticipation.


“Tonight, puppet, you serve all three of us,” Gupta announced, voice thick with lust. Shailaja smiled wickedly,

shedding her kaftan to reveal a toned body in black lace lingerie that hugged her full breasts and flared hips.

Rahul stood like a sculpted god, already shirtless, his massive chest rising and falling. “Let’s break her slowly,”

Shailaja purred, her voice silk over steel. “I want to hear her beg while her husband watches.”

They started with sensory overload. Gupta and Rahul lifted Athidhi onto the four-poster bed, spreading her

legs wide and tying her ankles to the posts with soft silk ropes. Shailaja straddled her face first, lowering her

lace-covered pussy onto Athidhi’s mouth. “Lick me properly, whore,” she commanded, grinding down.

Athidhi’s tongue darted out obediently, tasting the older woman’s musky sweetness through the fabric, the

hip chain bells ringing as her body trembled. Meanwhile, Gupta knelt between her thighs, sliding a thick,

ridged vibrating dildo deep into her already slick pussy—eight inches of relentless buzzing that stretched her

walls and pressed mercilessly against her G-spot. He twisted it slowly, in and out, while Rahul attached a

powerful wand vibrator to her swollen clit, taping it in place on maximum speed.


Athidhi’s moans were muffled against Shailaja’s pussy. “Mmmph… oh god… it’s too much…”










Shailaja laughed and yanked the saree pallu away, pinching Athidhi’s nipples hard, twisting them until they

stood dark and aching. “Look at her, Kamal,” Gupta growled without turning. “Your wife’s tongue is buried in

my wife’s cunt while we fuck her holes with toys. She’s dripping for it.” The wand buzzed mercilessly; the

dildo pistoned faster. Athidhi’s hips bucked wildly, bells jingling like frantic chimes. Her first orgasm hit in

under two minutes—back arching off the bed, a muffled scream vibrating through Shailaja’s body as clear

squirt sprayed around the dildo, soaking Gupta’s hand and the sheets.


They didn’t stop. Shailaja slid off her face, replaced the lace panties with her bare, shaved pussy, forcing

Athidhi to suck her clit while Rahul replaced the dildo with his own thick cock. He slammed in deep,

pounding in time with the wand still taped to her clit. Gupta straddled her chest, feeding his cock between

her lips alongside Shailaja’s grinding. “Three of us owning every hole,” he groaned. Athidhi’s world became

pure sensation—cock in her mouth, cock in her pussy, clit on fire, nipples pinched raw by Shailaja’s sharp

nails. Her moans turned into continuous wails: “AHHH… SIR… MEMSAAB… RAHUL SIR… I’M CUMMING AGAIN…

PLEASE… AHHHHHAAAA!” She squirted twice more, body convulsing so hard the ropes creaked.










They untied her only to reposition. Now on all fours, facing the mirrored wall so she could see her own

degradation but never look at Kamal. Shailaja lay beneath her in a 69 position, sucking Athidhi’s clit with

expert tongue flicks while pushing a string of thick vibrating anal beads deep into her ass—one by one, each

larger than the last. Gupta took her pussy from behind, long deliberate strokes that ground against the beads

through the thin wall. Rahul knelt in front, forcing his massive cock down her throat until she gagged and

drooled. The toys buzzed at full power; the three of them moved in perfect, cruel rhythm. Shailaja’s tongue

swirled faster, Gupta’s hips slapped wetly, Rahul’s hands gripped her hair. Athidhi’s screams were hoarse and

endless: “BOTH HOLES… YOUR WIFE IS SUCKING ME… I’M BREAKING… AAGHHHH… CUMMING… AGAIN… OH

FUCK… I CAN HEAR KAMAL… I’M SORRY… I’M YOURS… ALL THREE OF YOU… FOREVER… AHHHHHAAAA!”


They edged her mercilessly for nearly two hours—bringing her to the brink six times, then stopping the toys

or pulling out just as she tipped over, leaving her sobbing and begging. “Please… let me cum… I’ll do

anything… fuck me harder… use me…” Only when her voice cracked did Gupta finally command, “Cum for your

owners, puppet. Loud. Let your husband hear how three people own you now.” The simultaneous assault—

Gupta flooding her pussy, Rahul shooting down her throat, Shailaja sucking her clit while the anal beads

vibrated at max—sent Athidhi into the most shattering orgasm of her life. She screamed so loudly the

soundproofed walls seemed to shake: “AAGHHHHH… I’M SQUIRTING… FOR ALL OF YOU… OH GOD… I’M YOUR

WHORE… AHHHHHAAAAA!” Her body convulsed violently, clear fluid gushing in arcs, soaking Shailaja’s face

and the bed. The hip chain bells rang wildly with every spasm.


They kept going. Round after round. Shailaja riding her face while Gupta and Rahul double-penetrated her

with cocks and a thick double-ended dildo. Rahul using a fucking machine on her ass at brutal speed while

Shailaja and Gupta took turns making her suck their combined juices off their fingers. Vibrators taped to her

nipples, a suction toy on her clit, until she came so many times she lost count—eight, nine, ten—each one

wetter, louder, more broken. By the time they finally finished, painting her body with cum—Gupta on her

breasts, Rahul across her belly, Shailaja making her lick her to another orgasm—Athidhi was a trembling,

sweat-drenched wreck, voice hoarse, pussy and ass throbbing, mind floating in subspace. Yet through it all,

her eyes never once strayed to Kamal. The shame burned, but so did the secret fire of revenge.










Ten days into their new life, the perfect opening arrived.

It was a Friday night. Gupta had hosted a lavish dinner for business associates—imported whiskey flowing like

water. By eleven, he was heavily drunk, eyes glassy, laughter booming as he dragged Athidhi, Rahul, and

Shailaja upstairs. Kamal was already in position in the corner chair. Gupta pushed Athidhi onto the bed, but

tonight the three of them were too intoxicated for full games. Shailaja and Rahul lounged on the chaise,

watching lazily as Gupta ripped away her sheer red saree.


“My smart little slut handled that Singapore contract like a pro today,” he slurred, pouring himself another

glass of 30-year-old scotch. “Here—drink with me.” She sipped obediently, letting the alcohol loosen him

further. Gupta climbed over her, cock already hard, and thrust into her slick pussy without preamble. The

fucking was sloppy but brutal—deep, pounding strokes that made the bed creak and her moans echo. “You’re

mine forever now,” he grunted between thrusts, wine breath hot on her neck. “That pathetic husband of

yours… I framed him perfectly. Fake witnesses, planted evidence on that murder file. One call and he’s gone.

But why would I? Keeps you obedient, doesn’t it?” He laughed drunkenly, hips slamming harder. “The

commissioner owes me. Whole case is digital—encrypted folder on my phone. ‘KamalMurderSetup.exe’.

Password same as my main account. GuptaEmpire2024! Shailaja knows everything—she helped plant the

witnesses. Laughable how easy it was to trap that fool.”


Athidhi moaned louder to cover the sound of her racing heart. “Yes, sir… fuck me harder… I’m your whore…

and memsaab’s too…” While he pounded away, lost in drunken lust, she reached blindly for his discarded

trousers on the floor. Her fingers closed around his phone. Screen already unlocked. She opened the voice

recorder app with one trembling thumb, hit record, and slid the phone under the pillow. Gupta kept ranting

between grunts—“I own the evidence… own you… Shailaja owns half the accounts… we own everything…”—as

he flipped her onto all fours and took her from behind, one hand yanking the hip chain like reins. The bells

jingled madly. Rahul and Shailaja watched, chuckling, occasionally reaching over to pinch her nipples or slap

her ass. Athidhi’s screams of pleasure were real—raw, shattering orgasms that soaked the sheets—but her

mind was ice-cold. She let the phone record every filthy confession, every detail of the fake case, every slur

about Kamal, every mention of Shailaja’s involvement.


He came with a roar, flooding her pussy, then collapsed beside her, snoring within minutes. Shailaja and

Rahul soon followed suit on the chaise. Athidhi waited until their breathing deepened, slipped the phone

free, stopped the recording, and forwarded the entire audio file to her secret draft folder. She deleted the app

history, wiped herleaving strict orders: Athidhi was to wait naked in the master suite, toys ready for their

return. But she had other plans. She dressed quickly in a plain black salwar suit, mangalsutra tucked away,

and slipped out through the servants’ entrance while Kamal distracted the maids with a fabricated

emergency in the kitchen. A black-and-yellow taxi waited two blocks away—arranged via a burner app.


Her destination: a quiet café in Bandra. There, sitting in the corner booth, was Nisha—her childhood friend

from the old days. Nisha, now a renowned ethical hacker who consulted for banks and NGOs, looked exactly

as Athidhi remembered: sharp-eyed, short-cropped hair, simple jeans and kurti, a laptop bag slung over one

shoulder. They hugged fiercely, tears pricking Athidhi’s eyes for the first time in weeks.


“You look… different,” Nisha whispered, scanning her friend’s face. Athidhi didn’t waste time. Over two cups

of filter coffee, she poured out everything—the blackmail, the mansion, the endless nights of being used by

Gupta, Rahul, and Shailaja, the passwords, the properties, the recorded confession about the fake murder

case on Kamal. She slid a USB drive across the table containing the audio file, copied bank details (including

Shailaja’s joint accounts and Kerala vault codes), property deeds, and every scrap of information she’d

gathered. “Shailaja—his wife—controls half of it. She’s in on everything. Here’s everything. I need you to hack

it all. Transfer the liquid assets to these offshore accounts I set up under fake identities. Drain the rest. Make

it look like an inside job—maybe Shailaja turning on him out of greed. Leave just enough traces to point at

their own corruption. Permanent solution, Nisha. We destroy all three of them completely.”

Nisha’s eyes widened, but she didn’t flinch. “This is dangerous, Athidhi. But for you? For what they’ve done?”

She pocketed the USB. “I’ll start tonight. Give me forty-eight hours. The properties will be ghosted—titles

transferred to shell companies you control. Banks wiped—his and Shailaja’s. By the time they realise, they’ll

be penniless and the murder file will be public domain, sent anonymously to every newspaper and the

commissioner’s personal email. You and Kamal walk free. Rich. Safe.”


Athidhi squeezed her hand. “Thank you. I’ll endure two more nights. Then we end it.”



That night, as ordered, she waited naked on the bed—vibrators laid out like weapons, hip chain jingling softly.

Gupta, Rahul, and Shailaja returned triumphant from golf, already half-drunk. They used every toy on her with

savage glee: Shailaja strapping on a thick dildo and taking her ass while Gupta pounded her pussy in double

penetration, Rahul forcing his cock down her throat and a wand vibrator taped to her clit. Her orgasms were

shattering—“AHHHHHAAAA… SIR… MEMSAAB… RAHUL SIR… BOTH HOLES AND MY MOUTH… I’M BREAKING…

AGAIN… OH FUCK!”—body convulsing, bells ringing like a storm. She bore every thrust, every degrading word,

every load of cum painted across her breasts, face, and inside her. Kamal watched from the corner, his own

pain now laced with fierce pride. They were almost free.

The next forty-eight hours were exquisite torture. The three of them fucked her in the office during lunch—

Shailaja joining via video call at first, then surprising them by arriving early, all three using her on the desk

with toys buzzing while Gupta took calls. By the pool at sunrise, Rahul and Gupta holding her down while

Shailaja used waterproof vibrators until she screamed into the sea breeze. She endured it all with moans that

sounded more broken than ever, but inside, victory hummed like the hip chain’s bells.











On the morning of the third day, Gupta’s phone exploded with notifications while he was still buried inside

her, Shailaja and Rahul watching from the bed. Accounts frozen. Properties seized. Shailaja’s “betrayal”

splashed across every business channel. The murder file? Leaked. security officer sirens wailed at the gates by noon.

Gupta staggered back from the bedroom, face ashen. “What the fuck—”

Athidhi stood in the doorway, fully dressed for the first time in weeks, Kamal beside her. The hip chain was

gone—snapped off and thrown into the sea that morning. The mangalsutra still hung around her neck, but

now it was a symbol of survival, not shame.

“You thought we were puppets forever,” she said calmly, voice steady. “But puppets cut their own strings.

And your wife helped tie them—now she’ll rot with you.”

Rahul tried to move; Kamal’s fist connected first. The mansion, once a prison, now echoed with the sound of

justice.


By evening, Gupta, Rahul, and Shailaja were in custody. Athidhi and Kamal walked out hand in hand, the

offshore accounts already swelling with everything the trio had stolen. The suburban flat was gone, but a new

life waited—quiet, rich, free while they faces then Athidhi told yo Gupta yes your done us so bad and deceived

us from island...... This is best example for Tit for tat.... And Kamal and Athidhi laughed and said them

goodbye.... Later both couple happily lived....they moved to other city 

and piece fully lived with a baby... And

Forget everything happened in past.... Athidhi forget that past as a 

bad dream and lead happy life. 




Ultimately Athidhi and Kamal both won.......



                                ******The End*******