Marriage Apocalypse – Part 5

Hello all, welcome to the fourth part of my fantasy world, inspired by real life. Please read the earlier parts if you haven’t read them yet. Without wasting time, let’s get started with this part.

After Karwa Chauth, everything changed.

Samar kept his promise. Property papers were being finalised. Three-bedroom flat in the richest area of the city. Worth 80 lakhs. In my name. Payment for Isha’s anal virginity.

Isha was transformed. Not just physically. Emotionally also.

She wore his mangalsutra permanently now. She called him constantly. “Good morning, hubby.” “What did you have for dinner, hubby?” “missing you, hubby.” natural. Easy. Like they’d been married for years. Like I didn’t exist.

With Samar, she was becoming a different person. Not just sexual. Emotional. She’d mention things casually. “Samar took me shopping today. Introduced me as his companion to his friends. They thought we were a couple. It felt… nice.”

or “Samar wants to take me to Dubai next month. Business trip. He needs a companion. I said yes.”

At the factory, workers had stopped even pretending. Saw me and smirked openly. Orders ignored. Sahil would watch from a distance. He became a floor supervisor now. Rising slowly despite his background.

With me, Isha was different now. The shy, accommodating wife who’d once apologised for everything was gone. In her place was someone who knew exactly what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to demand it.

Isha’s dominance over me had increased dramatically. She started giving me tasks. All of them. Cooking, cleaning, laundry, everything. She spent her time at the gym, getting her hair done, shopping with Samar’s money, and preparing for her evenings with him.

She also made me start wearing women’s undergarments at home. Not just the cage and panties anymore. Full sets. Bra and panties.

“You need to get used to them,” she said. So I did. I wore them under my regular clothes at home, and sometimes in the office too.

The morning routine became a ritual. Isha would wake me early, before she needed to get ready. I’d make her tea, bring it to bed, and help her with whatever she needed. Some mornings, she’d have me apply oil to her body before she showered.

Other mornings, before meeting Samar, she’d have me help her dress. Making her beautiful for him. Making her perfect for another man. This was my role. This was what I was for.

Then one Tuesday evening, six weeks after Karwa Chauth, Isha’s phone rang while getting ready. Her face lit up completely.

“Salma aunty! Kaise ho aap?” bright. Happy. “Haan haan bilkul yaad hai… this Friday? Eid dinner? Of course! We’d love to! Haan dono aayenge definitely… thank you so much, aunty! Allah hafiz!”

Hung up. Looked at me with excitement barely contained. “Sahil’s mother invited us for Eid.”

My stomach dropped. “Sahil will be there.”

“I know.” That look. Eyes sparkling. “can’t refuse. Aunty is so sweet. Would be rude.”

That week, she prepared obsessively. Wednesday came home with shopping bags. “For Eid. Need a proper outfit.”

Showed me. Green sharara. Fitted kurta with a deep neckline. Flared pants with sparkles. Matching a dupatta with golden zari work. Eyes distant. Dreamy. “it’s eid. Should look proper.”

Thursday evening, she sat applying mehendi. Covering palms completely. Backs of hands. Up wrists. Then feet. Swirls around ankles. Over tops. Around each toe. Dark reddish-brown henna. Lost in memory.

Memory of Sahil. Memory of when they were together. When they were happy. When they were possible.

Friday arrived heavy with anticipation. Isha spent the whole day getting ready. The sharara fit perfectly. Hugged her narrow waist. Flared over wide hips. A fitted kurta showed the hourglass figure clearly. Deep neckline revealing smooth, fair skin.

Sparkles catch light with every movement. Dupatta draped elegantly. Golden zari work is glittering. Her mehendi-decorated hands looked bridal. Feet in delicate golden heels. Mehendi designs peeking out. Hair in loose waves. Minimal jewellery. Just earrings. Few bangles.

Her mangalsutra. Samar’s mangalsutra. Light makeup but perfect. Kajal is making her eyes huge. Pink lipstick on full lips. Subtle blush. Fresh sindoor in parting. Traditional yet stunning.

We drove to Sahil’s area. Not a middle-class neighbourhood. This was a slum. Proper slum. Narrow lanes barely wide enough for a car. Tin-roofed shanties packed together. Open gutters. Poverty everywhere. Barefoot children.

Women washing clothes outside. Men sitting idle. Dogs. Dirt. The smell of sewage and cooking fires mixed.

My modest flat suddenly felt luxurious. And Isha. Dressed in expensive sharara. Smelling of French perfume. Looked completely out of place. Like a goddess descended into a slum.

“He lives here?” couldn’t hide shock.

Isha’s voice is soft. Understanding. Maybe respect. “Factory wages. Whole family to support. This is reality for most workers. He does his best.” No judgment. Admiration even. For his struggle. For supporting the family despite poverty.

Reached a two-room tin-roofed shanty. Salma aunty, in a burkha, opened the door. Face lighting up seeing Isha. “Isha beta! Aao aao!” (Come in.) Warm hug. Immediately noticed mehendi. “Mashallah! Kitni sundar mehendi! Bilkul dulhan jaisi lag rahi ho!” (You look so beautiful, like a bride.)

Then she looked at me. Politely but coldly. “Andar aao.” (Come in.)

And there in the corner. Sahil. Clean white kurta. Dark skin glowing. Powerful build is obvious even sitting. Beside him, Nagma is in a simple pink hijab. Simple girl. Nothing like Isha.

When Sahil saw Isha, the world stopped. Literally stopped breathing. His whole face transformed. Eyes locked onto hers. Dark. Intense. Hungry.

Isha’s eyes dropped. Demure. Shy. Perfect modest girl. Then slowly raised. Met his. Held. God, they held so long. Conversation in silence. Longing. Memory. Everything unspoken. Everything visible.

Salma made introductions. “Purane dost. College, se,” from before. Before everything got complicated. Before caste. Before religion. Before reality.

Dinner is served on a floor mat. Everyone together. Sahil positioned himself across from Isha. Their eyes meet constantly. She is looking down. Colour rising in cheeks. Looking up. He stared openly. Not caring who noticed. Not hiding. Not pretending. Just staring.

Twenty minutes passed. Sahil caught Isha’s eye. Tiny gesture. Head tilt toward the back. So subtle. Only she saw. Only she understood. Then stood casually. “Thodi fresh air chahiye. Peeche jaa raha hoon.” (Need some fresh air. I am going outside.)

Went to a small, dirty yard behind a shanty. Cramped. Tin sheets. Garbage. But relatively private.

Five minutes later, Isha stood. “Washroom kahaan hai, aunty?” (Where’s the washroom?)

“Peeche.” (Behind)

She went. I waited. Anxiety building. Unable to stop. Then stood. “Main bhi…” (I’ll also…)

Went back. Hid behind a tin sheet. Saw them. Close. Intense. Emotional. Sahil is holding her mehendi-decorated hand. Examining patterns. Tracing them reverently.

“You remembered,” Sahil’s voice thick with emotion. “You applied mehendi. Like before. Like you used to do for me.”

Isha’s voice is shaking. “I… I don’t know why I did it.”

“No,” he lifted her hand. Kissed it gently. “You did it because you remember us. Because part of you is still mine. Has always been mine.”

“Sahil…I… Yes. I did it for you. I couldn’t help myself. I knew I’d see you tonight and I just… I wanted to.”

“Is it?” he looked at her intensely. “Why? Why do this for me when you’re married to someone else? While you’re…” he stopped. Eyes hardening. “While you’re fucking Samar?”

She pulled her hand back. “What?”

“Don’t act innocent. I know everything. About you and Samar. About the affair. About you being his mistress. His whore. I know it all.”

Her face went pale. “Sahil… how…”

“Factory. Everyone knows. Everyone talks. Workers see. Workers gossip. At the same time, your actual husband stands there. Being nothing.” he grabbed her shoulders.

“How could you? How could you do this? You couldn’t marry me because of religion. Because of caste. Because of what people would say. But you can be Samar’s mistress? Can you be his whore? That’s acceptable, but loving me wasn’t?”

Tears streamed down her face. “It’s not like that… I’m helpless!” she cried out. “Don’t you understand? I’m trapped! I have no choice!”

“Then what is it like? Explain! Make me understand!”

“It’s not my fault!” she blurted. Desperate. “It’s theirs! Shailesh’s and Samar’s! Shailesh is weak! He can’t be a man! He pushed me to this! He wanted me to be with someone else because he knew he wasn’t enough! And then Samar has money. Power. He gives me things. Makes me feel loved. Makes me feel beautiful. What was I supposed to do? Say no? I developed feelings for him! I didn’t choose this! It just happened!”

Sahil’s face hardened. “Don’t play the victim card? You chose to fuck him. You chose everything. Every step. Every decision. Every betrayal. Own it. Stop playing victim. Stop lying to yourself.”

“I had no choice!”

“You always had a choice! Choose me! You could have come to me! Years ago, when we had the chance! You could have fought for us! Choose me now! Leave him! Leave Samar! Leave everything! Be with me! We can still—”

“Your family would never have accepted me! Mine would have disowned me! We would have had nothing! Living in this…” she gestured at the poverty around them, “This is what our life would have been? You live in a slum! You’re poor! You have nothing! Samar gives me luxury! What can you give me? Love doesn’t give me the life I want! Samar does! He gives me everything!”

Sahil’s voice dropped. Cold. “I see. So, it’s about money. About comfort. About luxury. Nothing else matters. Not love. Not us. Just what he can buy you. What can he give you?”

“Sahil, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean… love doesn’t buy security. Love doesn’t… Oh god, Sahil, I’m so confused. I don’t know what I want anymore. I love Samar. I’ve always loved you. I don’t know what’s right. And I hate myself for not being brave enough to choose you.”

He pulled her into his arms. She collapsed against his chest, sobbing. Years of pain and regret are pouring out. He held her, one hand stroking her hair, the other wrapped around her waist.

“Shh,” he murmured. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay! Nothing’s okay! I’m stuck! Samar has videos of us together. He records everything. If I try to leave, he’ll ruin me. He’ll show everyone. My family. Shailesh’s family. Everyone. I’m trapped now!”

He held her tighter. “Give me a chance, Isha. I can fix this,” he said softly. “Let’s forget about being trapped. Let’s forget about Samar and Shailesh and money and videos and everything else. Just for tonight. Just us. Like it should have been, can we do that?”

She looked up at him, tears still streaming. “Yes. Please. I need you even if it’s just once. Even if it changes nothing, I need to be with you. The way we should have been all along.”

He grabbed her. Kissed her. Hard. She resisted, “Someone will see. Please stop.” He pushed, “Come with me,” he commanded, “Friend’s garage. Two streets away. I want to finish what we started.”

“No! Sahil, people will notice!”

“I don’t care!” he grabbed a full black burkha from a pile. “Wear this. No one will know.”

She hesitated. Then took it. Put it on. Full coverage. Even a face veil. But a burkha couldn’t hide her. Those curves. That hourglass figure is visible even under loose cloth. The way it draped. The way she moved. Sensual. Feminine.

“Go a different way. Meet at the garage. Blue building. You’ll see,” he left first.

She waited. Then started walking. I followed at a distance. Streets full. Eid evening. People everywhere. Men outside are smoking. And they noticed her, even in a burkha.

Whistles. Stares. Comments. My wife is walking through a slum being eye-fucked by strange men. And she kept walking. Head down. But inside that burkha, I knew. She was probably flushed. Maybe even aroused by attention. Always was. Always would be.

Reached the garage. Sahil waiting. She went in. Door closed. I crept to the window. Peered in. Inside was dim. Small garage. Few cars. Tools. And them. Sahil is removing the burkha slowly. When it fell away. There stood Isha in that green sparkly sharara. Looking ethereal. Everything perfect.

He pulled her close. Kissed her. Rough. Demanding. Not gentle. Angry. Possessive. His hands are everywhere. Groping. Squeezing. Taking. She kissed him back with everything she had. Her arms wrapped around his neck. Pulling him closer. Deepening it. Her tongue meets his.

When they broke apart, both were breathing hard.

“I’ve missed you,” he said, voice rough. “Missed this. Missed us.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” she whispered. “So much. Every day. Every moment.”

He started undressing her. Kurta unbuttoned slowly, each button revealing more of her fair skin. He slid it off her shoulders, down her arms. She wore a black bra underneath. He unhooked it, let it fall. Her breasts spilt free. 36d. Round. Fair. Dark nipples are already hard.

Samar’s mangalsutra is between her breasts. Sahil’s eyes were burning with rage. He grabbed the mangalsutra. Yanked the chain, broke. Threw it across the garage. “Not tonight. Tonight, you’re mine. Only mine.”

“Sahil! That’s expensive!”

“I don’t care! Tonight, you’re just Isha. My Isha. Nothing else.”

“Yes,” she breathed. “Yours. Only yours.”

He cupped her breasts, squeezed gently, thumbs circling those hard peaks. “Beautiful,” he murmured. “You’re so fucking beautiful.” he leaned down and took a nipple in his mouth, sucked it. She gasped, hand going to his hair.

His hands moved to her sharara. Untied it. Pulled it down over her wide hips, her thick thighs. She stepped out of it. Just her panties now. Pushed her against the car hood. Bent her over. She gasped. “Sahil, wait—”

He hooked his fingers in her panties and pulled them down slowly. She was completely naked now except for her jewellery. Her body was perfection. Fair, smooth skin. Narrow waist flaring to wide hips. Round, jiggly ass. Thick thighs. Smooth waxed pussy already glistening.

He stepped back to look at her. His hands traced her curves. Down her sides. Over her hips. Grabbing her ass with both hands, squeezing, kneading. “This ass. God, this ass. I’ve dreamed about this body every single day of my life.”

She blushed under his gaze and his touch. “Tonight, it’s all yours. All of it.” He turned her around, pressing her against the car hood. His hands roamed her back, her ass, her thighs. Appreciating every inch.

Then she turned and dropped to her knees. Looked up at him with those huge eyes. “I want to taste you. Please. Let me.” He quickly stripped off his kurta and pants. His cock sprang free. Seven thick circumcised inches. Dark. Hard. Ready for her.

She wrapped her mehendi-decorated hands around it. The visual was stunning – bridal henna on her hands, wrapped around his cock. She stroked it slowly, appreciatively. Then leaned forward and licked the head. Tasted his precum.

“Mmmm,” she hummed, and took him in her mouth.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “Isha…”

She bobbed her head, taking him deeper each time. Her lips stretched around his thickness. She was enjoying this; you could see it in her eyes. The way she moaned around him. The way her free hand went between her own legs.

“That’s it, baby. Take it. Take me deep. Show me how much you want this.”

She pushed deeper, gagging as he hit her throat. Eyes are watering but not stopping. Determined. Wanting to please him. Wanting to show him. She took him all the way down until her nose pressed against his pubic hair. Deep throated completely.

“Holy fuck, Isha!” his hands went to her hair, gentle but guiding. “You’re amazing. So fucking amazing.”

After a few minutes, he pulled her off. “Come here. I need to be inside you. Need to feel you.”

He lifted her and positioned her on the car hood. Spread her thick thighs. His cock at her entrance. Wet. Ready. Welcoming. He looked into her eyes. “Ready?”

“Yes. Please. I need to feel you. Please, Sahl.”

He pushed in. Not brutal. Firm. Steady. Filling her inch by inch. She moaned long and deep. “Ahh… Yes… Oh god yes… You feel so good… So right…”

He bottomed out, completely inside her. Stayed there a moment. Feeling her. Being in her. Connected. Then he started moving. Long, deep strokes. Building a rhythm. Her legs wrapped around him. Pulling him deeper. Wanting more. Always more.

“Yes! Sahil! Yes! Fuck me! Make love to me! I missed you.”

He increased his pace. Harder now. Faster. But still with that connection. That emotion. Not just fucking. Not just using. Making love with passion. With years of pent-up desire. With everything they’d denied themselves.

“You’re mine,” he grunted, pounding into her. “Should have always been mine. This pussy. This body. This heart. All mine.”

“Yes! Yours! I’m yours! Always was! Always will be! Oh god!”

His hands were everywhere. Her breasts. Her throat. Her hips. Her ass. Grabbing. Squeezing. Claiming. But also worshipping. Appreciating. Loving.

“Look at me,” he demanded. “I want to see your eyes when you cum. Want to see you recognise who’s making you feel this good.”

She looked directly into his eyes. “You! Only you! Oh god, Sahil, I’m close! So close!”

“Take it! Take what you denied me! Take what should have been mine!” started pounding. “Cum for me. Cum on my cock. Show me. Show me you’re mine.”

“Cumming! Oh fuck I’m cumming! Sahil! Ahh!” her body convulsed. Pussy clenching his cock tight. Orgasm ripping through her. Intense. Pure. Real. From connection. From love.

Then— “What the fuck is this?!”

Sahil saw me at the window. Rage exploded across his face. He pulled out of her, grabbed his pants. Burst out of the garage. I tried to run. He caught me. Dragged me back inside.

Isha screamed, covering herself with her hands. “Shailesh?! What are you doing here?!”

“What am I doing?! You’re fucking him! You just told him you love him! What about me?!”

Sahil’s face was pure rage. “You followed us?! You spied on us?!”

“She is my wife!”

“Your wife?!” he laughed, bitter and cruel. “Your wife just took my cock in her hole?”

Something in me snapped. I lunged at him. Stupid. Desperate. Completely futile. He caught my fist easily. His own fist crashed into my face. Crack. Blood. I fell. He was on top of me immediately. Punching. Again. Again. Again.

“Sahil, stop!” Isha was naked, crying, trying to pull him off me.

“How many times?!” punch. “I told you to stay away!” punch. “She’s not yours!” punch. “She’s mine!” punch. “She’ll always be mine!” punch.

My face was destroyed. Ribs cracking. I couldn’t breathe. Dying.

“Sahil, you’ll kill him! Please!”

He finally stopped. Breathing hard. “You want me to stop? Fine. But he watches. He watches what a real man does. What real strength looks like. What real love looks like.”

He grabbed a rope from the tools scattered around. Dragged me to a pole. Tied me with expert knots. Factory worker skills. “Sahil, please don’t—” Isha was begging, still naked.

He pulled her close and kissed her hard. His hand went between her legs, fingers pushing into her pussy. She gasped, resisted weakly. “We weren’t finished. And your pathetic husband gets to watch. Gets to learn his place.”

He pushed her back to the hood. Bent her over. Positioned himself behind her. “Sahil, this is wrong—”

He thrust in hard. “Ah! Oh god! ” she screamed. “Fuck! Too rough! Sahil!”

He started pounding her. Wild. Brutal now. The tenderness from before was gone. This was claiming. Dominating. Proving. “No! Stop!  Not in front of him! Oh God, it’s so good! Yes! Don’t stop!”

Her resistance crumbled within seconds. His hips against her ass. The sound echoes in the garage. “Oh god! Too much!  Sahil, please!”

“Tell him!” Sahil commanded. “Tell your husband who fucks you better! Rich boss Samar or poor factory worker Sahil?! Who?!”

“You! You Sahil! So much better! Samar can’t compare! You’re real! You’re powerful! Only you!”

“Who do you love?!”

“You! I love you! Only you! Not Samar! Not Shailesh! Just you! Only you!”

Grabbed her hair. Pulled her head back. Arched her spine. Deeper angle. “Fuck fuck fuck! So deep! Too deep!  I’m cumming again! Sahil!”

“Cum! Show him who you belong to! Who you’ll always belong to!”

“Yes! Cumming! I’m yours! All yours! Your woman! Your love!”

They both exploded together. He buried himself deep, roaring. “Take my cum! Remember this! Remember who you really belong to!”

He didn’t stop. Kept pounding. Through her orgasm. Building on another. “Again! Cumming again! How! Too much! Yes! Filling me! I’m yours! I’ll always be yours!”

He untied me eventually. “Get dressed. All of us. Going back. Act normal.”

Isha helped me. Cleaned blood. Tears in eyes. “I’m sorry. So sorry. Why did you try fighting him? He’s stronger. Bigger. More powerful. You can’t fight men like him. You’re not capable. Could’ve been seriously hurt.”

Brutal truth. I would always lose. Against strong men. Against powerful men. I was what I was. Weak. Submissive. We went back to his house separately. My face was destroyed. “Gir gaya,” (I fell). I lied. Salma aunty fussed. Applied turmeric. Everyone concerned.

Sahil is acting worried. Isha, playing a shocked wife. All are hiding the truth. We made excuses. Left early. Drive home silently. Finally, she spoke. “Why did you follow us? Why did you watch? Why did you try fighting? What did you think would happen?”

“I don’t know. I just… I couldn’t help it. Couldn’t stop myself.”

“You need to learn control. Learn acceptance. Learn your place. This is our life now. I am with powerful men. You’re watching. Accepting. Supporting. This is our reality. Our truth. Our marriage. Accept it. Please. For your own safety. For your own peace. Accept it.”

Home. She cleaned my wounds properly. Gentle. Caring. Perfect wife again. But she walked carefully. Thighs apart. Full of his cum.

“Isha… please…”

She lay back. Spread legs. Pussy destroyed. Swollen. Bruised. Cum leaking. “This is your role. Clean me. Like always. Like you should.”

Knelt. Licked. Cleaned. Tasted him. His cum in my wife’s pussy. Just me cleaning up after. Like always. Like forever.

“Good,” she moaned. “This is your place… this is your purpose… serving… accepting… being what you are…”

After, she helped me to bed. Stroked my hair. “Everything will be okay. Just accept what you are. Accept what I am. Accept our life. No fighting. No resisting. Just… just being. Being us. Being true. Okay?”

“Okay.”

She kissed my forehead. Tender. “Good boy. Now rest. Tomorrow, Samar’s coming over. Planning a Dubai trip. He wants you there, too. Samar has client meetings. Legal paperwork. He needs you. You’ll have your own room, of course. Will you accept?”

What choice? What option? “Yes. I accept.”

“Good. I love you for that. For accepting. For understanding. For being what you are. What we need you to be,” she meant it. In her way. Twisted love. Cuckold love. But love.

Lay there. Face aching. Ribs broken, maybe. Soul destroyed, certainly. But worst? Realization. She was right. I couldn’t fight strong men. Couldn’t protect her. Couldn’t satisfy her. I couldn’t be what she needed.

All I could do was watch. Accept. Clean up. Exist in margins while real men. Sahil and Samar took centre stage. Took my wife. Took everything.

Somewhere in the darkness, with her sleeping peacefully beside me, smelling of him, I accepted it. This was who I was. Who I’d always been. Just hadn’t known until now. Until Samar. Until Sahail. Until Isha showed me. Taught me. Made me. What I truly was. What I’d always been. What I’d always be.

Hope you liked the story. The next parts are coming up soon. Please write to me at [email protected] with your comments on this story. Take care.