Adultery Wife's Submission to husband's Enemy

[girrich9486]

Hi to every one. This is my first and new story about how an innocent 

wife is submits to her husband's enemy... So this is some dark theme like submission and bdsm activities like that.....


Please give support if u interest

[girrich9486]

All are give suggestions to me and negative comments also.. So that i can change story as per ur precious valuable comments...

[Pvzro]

Keep going and  start the story all the best

[Kalyan143]

Start writing bro

[me.you]

seriously. Another women degrade story.. Not intrested... Show some dignity guys.. Why every one writing cuckold or Spoil women dignity. Show some respect. Atleast minimum respect guys.

[Pvzro]

seriously. Another women degrade story.. Not intrested... Show some dignity guys.. Why every one writing cuckold or Spoil women dignity. Show some respect. Atleast minimum respect guys.

Dear author 

You can continue your story ,those who don't want to read it can leave the story

It is your imagination and thoughts author ubcan plz continue

[me.you]

Dear author 

You can continue your story ,those who don't want to read it can leave the story

It is your imagination and thoughts author ubcan plz continue

Dear author 

You can continue your story ,those who don't want to read it can leave the story

It is your imagination and thoughts author ubcan plz continue

I never told the writer to stop.I was just sharing my point of view. Feel free to give your opinion however you want. But if you’re only replying to attack or mock my view without adding anything real, then yeah, I’ll step up and defend my dignity.

Dear PVZRO, if you’re such a ‘real man’ (sure you are), why don’t you go hand your wife over to your enemy and enjoy the show? That’s some truly pathetic mentality.”

[Pvzro]

I never told the writer to stop.I was just sharing my point of view. Feel free to give your opinion however you want. But if you’re only replying to attack or mock my view without adding anything real, then yeah, I’ll step up and defend my dignity.

Dear PVZRO, if you’re such a ‘real man’ (sure you are), why don’t you go hand your wife over to your enemy and enjoy the show? That’s some truly pathetic mentality.”

Dear me.you

I also can spit on personal shits,so i had responded to the author and i have just replied on your ID in that
But was pointing it to author only

Firstly read the comments properly and revert likewise,if u are not interested in reading in such stuffs why the hell u are giving useless advice to the  author,and it is his decision so respect it man

And also dear try not to involve personal stuffs mind u i can also be personal and comment on your personal stuffs so stop it asap

And try reading other stories


Thanks enjoy

[Pvzro]

@me.you

I know all your threads are mostly posted on soft ore and emotional stuffs which also has female dominance in it

Why don't u open new threads of yours instead of giving opinions of your personal likings

[me.you]

@me.you

I know all your threads are mostly posted on soft ore and emotional stuffs which also has female dominance in it

Why don't u open new threads of yours instead of giving opinions of your personal likings

To keep dignity and show respect, i dnt need to write. I can express my emotion via comment. sorry if my comments hurt u. really i did not mean that way.. Sorry. God Bless u

[me.you]

@me.you

I know all your threads are mostly posted on soft ore and emotional stuffs which also has female dominance in it

Why don't u open new threads of yours instead of giving opinions of your personal likings

and onemore think , I guess reply option is for provide our feed back, either is negative or positive

[girrich9486]

Sorry readers please.... for delay......

Note: As already mention it is some dark theme story. If any one not interested in type of stories they

may not to be read. It is better...


Part: Intro






In the upscale Defence Colony bungalow of South Delhi, life moved with the quiet confidence of old money

newly multiplied. Karthik Mehra, 35, had turned his father's modest trading firm into a mid-size logistics

empire in just nine years. Container yards, cold-chain warehouses, last-mile delivery contracts — his

signature was everywhere in the northern supply chain. Tall, broad-shouldered, always dressed in crisp Tom

Ford shirts even at home, Karthik carried the easy arrogance of a man who had never truly lost.

Shailaja, his wife of seven years, was the perfect counterpoint. At 33 she still looked like the demure bride

from a small Andhra town who had walked into an arranged marriage with wide, frightened eyes. Fair-

skinned, long jet-black hair almost always braided or pinned in a traditional knot, she wore only silk sarees at

home — never salwar kameez, never anything modern. Her figure had ripened beautifully after two early

miscarriages: 36D breasts that strained gently against every blouse, a deep, perfectly round navel that

Karthik loved to tease with his tongue, and wide childbearing hips that swayed with unconscious grace when

she moved between kitchen and pooja room.

Their bedroom on the first floor smelled permanently of jasmine agarbatti, Chandan paste, and the faint

musk of their nightly coupling.

Tonight was no different.

Karthik returned at 10:40 pm, tie already loosened, the top two buttons of his shirt open. He found Shailaja

waiting near the staircase in a deep maroon Kanjeevaram, the pallu dbangd modestly over both shoulders.

She had lit the diya in the small mandir alcove; the flame danced across the gold zari border of her saree.

“You ate?” she asked softly, eyes lowered the way her mother had taught her.

“Meeting ran late. Just want you now.”

He didn’t wait for her reply. His large palm cupped the side of her face, thumb brushing her lower lip. Then he

pulled her against him, crushing the silk between their bodies. Shailaja gave the tiny gasp she always did —

half surprise, half surrender — even after seven years.

He walked her backward into their bedroom, kicking the door shut. The moment they crossed the threshold

his hands found her waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh just above her petticoat string.

“Blouse first,” he ordered quietly.

Shailaja’s fingers trembled only a little as she reached behind to unhook the three press buttons. The deep-

red blouse parted like ripe fruit. Karthik inhaled sharply when he saw the black lace bra she had started

wearing secretly the last few months — a small rebellion against the plain cotton ones her mother-in-law

once insisted on. The upper swells of her breasts spilled over the cups; her nipples were already dark and

peaked beneath the lace.

He bent and kissed the deep valley between them, then dragged his tongue slowly upward until he captured

one covered nipple between his lips. Shailaja whimpered, fingers sinking into his hair.

“Take it off,” he murmured against her skin.

She unclasped the bra with practiced movements. Heavy breasts tumbled free, swaying slightly. Karthik

caught them in both palms, thumbs circling the wide areolas before pinching the stiff tips hard enough to

make her back arch.

“Always so ready for me,” he said, voice thick.

He pushed her gently onto the bed. Shailaja lay back, saree still dbangd across her torso, petticoat bunched

at her waist. Karthik knelt between her knees and hooked his fingers into the saree folds at her navel. He

pulled slowly, unwrapping her like a gift. When the last pleat fell away, he stared at that deep, inviting navel —

the one he had first kissed on their wedding night while she cried silently into the pillow.

He dipped his head and pushed his tongue inside it, swirling, tasting the faint salt of her skin. Shailaja

moaned, hips lifting involuntarily. His hands slid under her hips, yanking the petticoat down along with her

panties in one impatient motion.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

Her eyes fluttered open. They were glassy, pupils blown wide.

Karthik stood just long enough to shed his shirt and trousers. His cock sprang free — thick, veined, already

leaking at the tip. He stroked it once, twice, watching her gaze drop to it with that mixture of shyness and

hunger he loved.

He came over her, notched himself at her entrance, and pushed in one long, unrelenting stroke.

Shailaja cried out, nails digging into his shoulders. She was always tight — always — no matter how many

times he took her. He held still for a moment, letting her adjust, feeling the hot, wet clasp of her around every

inch.


Then he began to move.

Slow at first. Deep. Each thrust deliberate, bottoming out until his balls pressed against her ass. Shailaja’s

legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, heels digging into his lower back.

“Harder…” she whispered — the only time she ever asked for anything in bed.

Karthik grinned against her neck and obliged.

The headboard began to knock rhythmically against the wall. Her breasts bounced with every slam; he

caught one in his mouth, sucking hard while his hips pistoned. Shailaja’s moans turned into broken little sobs

of pleasure. Her fingers raked down his back, leaving faint red trails.

When he felt her walls begin to flutter, he slipped one hand between them and rubbed firm circles over her

swollen clit.

“Come for me, jaan,” he growled. “Let me feel it.”

She shattered almost instantly — back bowing, mouth open in a silent scream, thighs clamping around him

like a vice. Karthik fucked her through it, drawing out every tremor until her body went limp beneath him.

Only then did he let go.

He buried himself to the hilt and came with a low, guttural groan, flooding her with heat. Pulse after pulse. He
stayed inside her long after, kissing her damp forehead, her closed eyelids, the corner of her trembling mouth.

“I love you,” he murmured — rare words from a man who usually showed rather than spoke.

Shailaja just held him tighter, legs still locked around his waist, keeping him deep inside her.

Outside, the Delhi night was quiet.

But across the city, in a glass-and-steel tower in Gurgaon, Vikram Oberoi sat in his penthouse office staring

at a single spreadsheet.

Karthik’s latest container shipment — 180 TEUs of electronics bound for the Northeast — had been “delayed

indefinitely” at the ICD due to a sudden customs audit. The same audit that Vikram’s lobbyist had quietly

requested forty-eight hours earlier.

Vikram swirled the single malt in his glass and smiled thinly.

He was forty-one, sharper-featured than Karthik, more ruthless, and — most importantly — far wealthier.

Their rivalry had started in college, turned personal when Karthik outbid him for a major warehouse contract

three years ago, and had simmered ever since.

Tonight the simmer was about to become fire.

Vikram opened another file on his screen: a discreetly taken photo of Shailaja stepping out of a temple in a

cream silk saree, pallu slipping just enough to show the deep curve of her navel.

He stared at it for a long moment.

Then he dialled a number.

“Start phase two tomorrow,” he said quietly. “I want his cash flow choked by end of month.”

He ended the call without waiting for confirmation.

In the Mehra bedroom, Shailaja had already drifted into light sleep against her husband’s chest, unaware that

the comfortable world she had known for seven years was about to fracture.

[girrich9486]

Part 2 – Cracks Appear


The next three weeks passed like a slow-motion car crash.

Karthik’s office on the 14th floor of Eros Corporate Tower smelled increasingly of stale coffee and tension. The

customs hold on the 180-TEU electronics consignment had stretched from “indefinite” to “under intense

scrutiny.” Then came the bank — one of his main working-capital lenders suddenly demanded an early partial

repayment of ₹18 crore citing “revised internal risk assessment.” Two major clients (both quietly nudged by

competitors) deferred payments on outstanding invoices worth another ₹11 crore. Cash flow, once a roaring

river, shrank to a trickle.

Karthik spent nights on calls with lawyers, bankers, and angry vendors. He came home later and later, face

drawn, voice clipped. The man who used to walk through the door already unbuttoning his shirt now entered

carrying files and a laptop bag, barely looking at Shailaja before disappearing into the study.

Shailaja noticed everything.

She noticed the way his shoulders stayed rigid even in sleep. She noticed how he no longer reached for her

the moment the bedroom door closed. She noticed the new lines around his eyes and the way he rubbed his

temples when he thought she wasn’t watching.

She tried to help the only way she knew.

She woke at 5:30 a.m. to prepare his favourite filter coffee exactly the way his mother had taught her —

strong, frothy, no sugar. She ironed his shirts herself instead of leaving them for the maid. She lit extra diyas

in the pooja room and prayed longer, whispering mantras for prosperity and protection. At night she wore the

sheerest chiffon sarees she owned, hoping the sight of her body would pull him back to her.

Sometimes it worked.

One Thursday night, two weeks into the crisis, Karthik came home at 1:20 a.m. He found Shailaja waiting in

the living room in a sheer black saree, blouse so low-cut the upper curves of her areolas were faintly visible

through the fabric. She had unpinned her hair; it fell in a glossy curtain down her back.

He stopped in the doorway.

For a moment the exhaustion lifted from his face.

“Shailaja…” His voice cracked on her name.

She rose silently, walked to him, and pressed her palms to his chest. Without a word she sank to her knees on

the carpet.

Karthik exhaled sharply.

She unzipped him with trembling fingers, freed his half-hard cock, and took him into her mouth without

hesitation. She had never been this bold before their marriage; even now it was rare. But tonight she sucked

him like it was the only language left between them — slow, deep, wet, her tongue swirling around the head

every time she pulled back. One hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently; the other stroked the thick base

she couldn’t fit.

Karthik groaned, fingers sinking into her hair. He didn’t speak. He just fucked her mouth in shallow thrusts,

watching her lips stretch around him, watching tears gather at the corners of her eyes from the depth.

When he was close he pulled out, hauled her to her feet, and bent her over the back of the sofa. He hiked the

saree up to her waist, ripped her panties to the side, and drove into her in one brutal stroke.

Shailaja cried out — pain and pleasure tangled together. He didn’t wait. He fucked her hard, hips slapping

against her ass, one hand wrapped around her throat from behind, the other pinching and twisting her

nipples through the thin blouse.

“You’re mine,” he growled against her ear. “No one else gets this.”

“Yes… only you…” she gasped, pushing back to meet every thrust.

He came inside her with a choked curse, grinding deep, holding her pinned until every drop was spent.

Afterward he carried her to bed like he used to in the early years. They didn’t speak. She curled against his

chest and fell asleep listening to his heartbeat, telling herself it would be okay.

It wasn’t.

The next morning Vikram Oberoi’s black Range Rover pulled up outside the Eros Corporate Tower at exactly

9:15 a.m.

He wore a charcoal three-piece suit, lavender pocket square, Patek Philippe glinting on his wrist. At 41 he

looked dangerously polished — salt-and-pepper at the temples, jawline still sharp, eyes the colour of old whisky.

He didn’t have an appointment.

He didn’t need one.

Karthik’s secretary tried to stop him. Vikram smiled — the smile of a man who had already bought the

building — and walked past her.

Karthik looked up from his desk when the door opened without a knock.

“Vikram,” he said flatly.

“Morning, Karthik.” Vikram closed the door, took the chair opposite without being invited. “Heard you’re

having a spot of liquidity trouble.”

Karthik’s jaw tightened. “If you’ve come to gloat—”

“I’ve come to offer help.” Vikram leaned back, legs crossed. “I can release your containers tomorrow. I can

speak to the bank. I can even front you the ₹18 crore you need by end of day — clean, no strings… almost.”

Karthik laughed once, bitter. “And the price?”

Vikram studied him for a long moment.

Then he took out his phone, opened a photo, and slid it across the desk.

It was Shailaja.

Taken two Sundays ago outside the ISKCON temple in Hauz Khas. She was wearing a cream silk saree,

laughing at something off-camera, pallu slipping just enough to reveal the deep, shadowed navel Karthik had

kissed a thousand times.

Karthik’s face went white.

“You son of a bitch.”

“Language,” Vikram said mildly. “I’m offering a gentleman’s arrangement. One night. My place. She comes

willingly — or at least pretends to. In return, your consignments clear, your loans restructure, your clients stay.

Business returns to normal. You keep your empire. I get… a taste.”

Karthik lunged across the desk.

Vikram didn’t flinch. Two of his men — discreetly stationed outside — stepped in the moment the scuffle

started. They pulled Karthik back without effort.

Vikram stood, straightened his cuff.

“Think about it,” he said. “You have till Friday evening. After that the next container shipment gets ‘lost’ at

Nhava Sheva. And the bank calls in the entire facility.”
He walked to the door, paused.

“She’s beautiful when she prays, by the way. The way her lips move… quite something.”

The door clicked shut.

Karthik stood frozen behind his desk, breathing hard, staring at the photo still glowing on the screen.

That night he came home early for the first time in weeks.

Shailaja was in the kitchen, preparing dinner in a simple cotton saree, hair in a loose braid. She smiled when
she saw him — a real smile, relieved.

He didn’t smile back.

He walked straight to her, pulled her into his arms, and held her so tightly she could barely breathe.

“Karthik? What happened?”

He buried his face in her neck.

“Nothing,” he lied. “Just… I need you tonight. More than ever.”

She felt the tremor in his arms.

She felt the desperation.

And somewhere deep inside, a small, cold fear began to bloom.



End of Part 2


I will post images from 4th chapter

[girrich9486]

Part 3 – The Breaking Point



Friday evening arrived like a guillotine.

Karthik had spent the entire day in silent war with himself. Every meeting, every email, every glance at the

red-flagged cash-flow dashboard on his laptop felt like another nail in the coffin of his pride. The bank had

already sent the formal notice — full facility call-in within seven days if the ₹18 crore wasn’t repaid. Two more

clients had quietly shifted volume to competitors. The containers were still rotting at the ICD; demurrage

charges were now climbing past ₹4 lakh a day.

He came home at 6:30 p.m. — earlier than he had in months.

Shailaja was in the bedroom, changing after her evening bath. She wore only a thin cotton petticoat and a

half-worn blouse, hair still wet and dripping onto her shoulders. The moment she saw his face she froze.

“Karthik…?”

He closed the bedroom door very softly. Locked it.

Then he crossed the room in three strides and pulled her into his arms so fiercely her breath left her in a

small, startled sound.

He didn’t speak for a long minute. Just held her, face buried in the crook of her neck, inhaling the jasmine oil

she always used after bathing. His hands roamed her back — not with lust at first, but with something

desperate, almost reverent. Like a man memorizing the shape of the woman he was about to lose.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were red-rimmed.

“I have to tell you something,” he whispered.

She searched his face. Fear flickered in her dark eyes.

He told her everything.

The containers. The bank. The photo. Vikram’s offer. One night. Her body in exchange for saving everything

they had built.

He spoke in short, broken sentences. When he finished he couldn’t look at her anymore. He sank onto the

edge of the bed, elbows on knees, head in hands.

Shailaja stood motionless for what felt like forever.

Then she walked to him slowly. Sank to her knees between his legs the way she had so many nights before.

She took his face in both palms and lifted it until their eyes met.

Tears were already falling down her cheeks.

“Is there no other way?” she asked in the smallest voice he had ever heard.

He shook his head once.

She closed her eyes. A single sob escaped her.

Then she leaned forward and kissed him — not the soft, obedient kisses of a traditional wife, but something

raw, hungry, grieving. Her tongue pushed into his mouth like she was trying to drink him, to keep a piece of

him inside her forever.
Karthik groaned against her lips and pulled her onto his lap. Her wet hair curtained them both as they kissed

— messy, desperate, tasting of salt and fear.

His hands found the drawstring of her petticoat. He yanked it open; the fabric pooled around her hips. She

wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Her sex was already slick — shame and terror and love all twisted together.

He lifted her just enough to free himself from his trousers. No foreplay tonight. No slow teasing of her navel or

sucking her nipples until she begged. Just raw need.

He guided himself to her entrance and pulled her down in one long, merciless stroke.

Shailaja cried out — half pain, half relief — and wrapped her arms around his neck so tightly he could barely

breathe. She began to move on him immediately, hips rolling in frantic little circles, taking him deeper with

every downward motion.

Tears kept falling onto his collar as she rode him.

“I love you,” she sobbed between gasps. “I love you… I love you…”

Karthik gripped her hips hard enough to bruise and thrust upward to meet her. The wet slap of their bodies

filled the room. Her heavy breasts bounced against his chest; he caught one in his mouth and sucked hard,

teeth grazing the nipple until she whimpered.

“Mine,” he growled around her flesh. “Always mine. No matter what happens tomorrow.”

“Yes… yes…” She was crying openly now, tears streaming, but her hips never slowed. “Only yours… even if…

even if he touches me… it’s only you inside me… always you…”

The words broke something in him.

He flipped her onto her back on the bed without pulling out. Hooked her legs over his shoulders — the

deepest angle he could manage — and fucked her with punishing strokes. Each thrust drove a sob from her

throat. Her nails raked down his back; she bit his shoulder hard enough to draw blood.

When she came it was violent — body seizing, walls clamping around him like a fist, a long, keening wail

tearing from her throat. Karthik kept going, chasing his own release through her aftershocks, until he buried

himself to the root and emptied inside her with a guttural roar.

They stayed locked together for long minutes afterward.

Shailaja’s sobs slowly quieted to trembling breaths. She clung to him like a drowning woman.

Eventually he rolled to the side, pulling her with him so she lay half across his chest. He stroked her hair, kissed her temple.

“I hate myself,” he whispered.

“Don’t.” Her voice was hoarse. “You’re saving our life. Our home. Everything we built.”

He closed his eyes. “I should have protected you better.”

“You still are,” she said softly. “In the only way left.”

She lifted her head and looked at him — eyes swollen, but strangely calm now.

“Tell him yes,” she said. “Tomorrow. Before I lose my courage.”

Karthik’s throat worked. He couldn’t speak.

She kissed him once more — gentle this time, almost maternal.

Then she rose, walked naked to the wardrobe, and pulled out the saree she had worn to the temple the day

the photo was taken: cream silk, sheer enough to show every curve when the light hit it right.

She dbangd it slowly over her body in front of the mirror — no blouse, no petticoat, just the saree wound low

on her hips so the deep navel was fully exposed.

She turned to him.

“If he wants me,” she said quietly, “he should see exactly what he’s taking from you.”

Karthik stared at her — at the woman who had once been too shy to undress with the lights on — now

standing there offering herself like a sacrifice.

Something inside him died a little more.

He nodded once.

Then he picked up his phone.

Sent one message to the number Vikram had left.

“Tomorrow. 9 p.m. Your place. She’ll come alone.”

He dropped the phone like it burned him.

Shailaja walked back to the bed, climbed onto his lap again, and guided his softening cock back inside her

still-dripping sex.

She didn’t move this time. Just sat there, filled with him, rocking very gently.

“Make love to me all night,” she whispered against his mouth. “Until the sun comes up. So that tomorrow…

when I go to him… I still smell like you. Taste like you. Feel like you.”

Karthik pulled her down and rolled them so he was on top again.

He made love to her slowly then — long, languid strokes, kissing every inch of her skin, worshipping the body

he was about to hand over to his enemy.

They didn’t sleep.

They just clung to each other in the dark, bodies joined, hearts breaking, counting down the hours until

morning.
End of Part 3

[girrich9486]

Please give feed back readers.... It may help in part.4

[me.you]

Please give feed back readers.... It may help in part.4

if u say, its not another cuckold story i will read and give very good fedback. But if it is cuck story,  what feedback i can give writer ji. its my personal POV. Not to  hurt to any one feelings.

[me.you]

Dear me.you

I also can spit on personal shits,so i had responded to the author and i have just replied on your ID in that
But was pointing it to author only

Firstly read the comments properly and revert likewise,if u are not interested in reading in such stuffs why the hell u are giving useless advice to the  author,and it is his decision so respect it man

And also dear try not to involve personal stuffs mind u i can also be personal and comment on your personal stuffs so stop it asap

And try reading other stories


Thanks enjoy

i just read this, U dont need to mention my comment until unless ur directly pin point me. U men always brave in stories only. U dont have spine to talk directly. Any ways,.... like u said, i will comment what i like. My all comments are never cross the line. always i keep dignity and respect for both gender even in other language also. 

I respecet womens and as well as good men also. I dnt need to respect any spineless person, who does not know how to talk to face.

[girrich9486]

if u say, its not another cuckold story i will read and give very good fedback. But if it is cuck story,  what feedback i can give writer ji. its my personal POV. Not to  hurt to any one feelings.

Thank you very much... But it is not cuck story... Bro...... 

OK I told initially I can take negative comments also... Fine....

[girrich9486]

Keep going and  start the story all the best

Thank you bro

[girrich9486]

Start writing bro

I think a good start....