One year had slipped by in a haze of sweat, moans, and relentless rhythm.
The factory in Prayagraj had never run smoother. Productivity soared—up 42% year, numbers that made suppliers, clients, and even the local chamber of commerce whisper in awe.
The girls worked with a strange, glowing focus: no sick leaves, no drama, no complaints. The secret was simple and unspoken, every month, the ten highest-performing workers received the company's "special welfare reward."
It wasn't cash. It wasn't a bonus voucher.
It was Arahan's sperm.
Delivered personally, in the executive bedroom after hours, usually in a quiet rotation: five girls on the first Saturday of the month, five on the second.
Sometimes more if a girl had hit an exceptional target (new design sold out in three days, zero defects in a 10,000-piece order).
They lined up like obedient students, skirts hiked, panties around ankles, begging for their "prize" while Sabiha supervised from the corner chair, occasionally stroking Arahan's back or whispering encouragement.
"Because you earned it, beta," she would say to the winner of the month. "Take every drop. It's good for morale."
HR (three girls), the production manager Suhani, and a couple of senior team leaders had quietly added themselves to the reward list early on.
"Administrative oversight," Sabiha called it with a straight face. They got fucked first each cycle—often in a small group session while the top performers waited outside, listening to the muffled cries.
In twelve months, Arahan had taken every factory girl at least three or four times. Not the frantic virginity-losing rush of the first two months, but a steady, scheduled claiming. Quickies in the design room for stress relief.
Slow, deep sessions on slow days. A few girls even started bringing their own toys or asking for specific positions—"Sir, last time you fucked me doggy and I came three times… can we do that again?"
He stopped counting after the first hundred loads. His body adapted out of sheer necessity: extra protein shakes, longer naps in the car on the way home.
At home, the changes were even more profound.
Sana was five months pregnant, belly already rounding under her crop tops, nipples perpetually hard and sensitive.
Bushra was four months along, shyly asking him to fuck her from behind so she could feel "full in both places."
Sabiha was sixth months pregnant, so he stopped fucking her.
Anshika and Suhani had both tested positive three months earlier. Anshika cried happy tears the day she showed him the strip, then immediately dropped to her knees to thank him properly.
Suhani was more pragmatic—she simply moved a few things into the house and started sleeping in the guest room three nights a week, saying, "The baby needs both parents close."
The house felt fuller, louder, and warmer. Sahil helped with cooking and errands, still taking Arahan's cock whenever he needed it, though gentler now that everyone was pregnant or recovering.
And then came the biggest shift of all.
The District Magistrate of Prayagraj had a daughter, Noorzadi Khatoon, twenty-two, educated in Delhi, sharp-tongued, beautiful in that regal, unapproachable way.
Fair skin, kohl-lined eyes, always in elegant anarkalis or sarees that cost more than most people's monthly salary. Her mother had been quietly impressed by the factory's growth and Sabiha's "business acumen." After a few discreet dinners and a lot of back-channel negotiation, the wedding was fixed.
Sahil weds Noorzadi.
The engagement ceremony was held at the DM's sprawling bungalow on the banks of the Ganga—lights, music, VIP guests, media photographers pretending not to notice the whispers.
Sahil looked nervous in his sherwani; Noorzadi looked composed, but her eyes kept flicking toward Arahan across the lawn, curious, assessing.
The engagement ceremony had been a spectacle, strings of fairy lights draped across the sprawling lawns of the DM's bungalow, the Ganga flowing dark and quiet in the background, soft qawwali music mingling with the clink of champagne flutes.
VIP guests in designer sherwanis and heavy silk sarees circulated, air-kissing and smiling for the discreet media photographers who pretended the whispers weren't happening.
Sahil had stood stiff in his cream sherwani, hands clasped too tightly, sweat beading at his temples despite the cool river breeze.
Noorzadi Khatoon, radiant in a deep maroon lehenga heavy with zardozi and gota-patti, had kept her chin high, eyes calm, the picture of composed royalty.
That night, after the guests had left and the bungalow quieted, Noorzadi sat alone on the edge of the massive four-poster bed in the bridal suite.
The room smelled of fresh roses, jasmine, and sandalwood incense. Red and gold cushions were scattered everywhere; a silver tray held a glass of kesar milk and a bowl of almonds. She had changed into a lighter ivory silk nightgown that clung softly to her curves, hair loose down her back, kohl still dark around her eyes.
She is waiting for her husband.
Her heart beat in strange, conflicting rhythms. Although the wedding has happened between her and Sahil.
She didn't want this wedding, but she understand, that this marriage was political, strategic, and convenient.
Her mother needed the alliance with Sabiha's growing business empire; Sabiha needed the protection and prestige of the DM's name.
Noorzadi had listened to the negotiations in her father's study, heard the quiet terms laid out like a contract: that after the wedding, her mom and Sahil's mom were opening a project, and the deal was related to something like this.
She also accepted it, because she didn't marry him, she still needs to marry someone else. And mostly looking at her mom position, it was maybe some IPS or IAS officer.
And she knew, marrying some dull IAS officer, who would expect vanilla missionary sex twice a month and call it passion, was unbearable.
So, she just accepted him, after all he was also quite handsome.
Waiting on a wedding night, pulse racing, thighs pressed together under silk, was another.
The door finally opened. Sahil stepped in, still in his sherwani, looking pale and distant.
Noorzadi stood, cheeks warming. This was it. Her first time. With her husband. She offered a shy smile. Sahil closed the door quietly, hesitated, then walked over and sat beside her on the mattress.
Noorzadi's fingers twisted in the dupatta draped over her head. She waited. Waited for him to lift her veil, to whisper something sweet, to at least look at her with desire. Seconds stretched into unbearable silence. He stared at the floor like it held answers.
He's shy, she told herself. Innocent. Dumb boy doesn't know what to do. A small, nervous laugh bubbled up inside her. Fine. If her husband was too timid on their wedding night, she would take the lead. She had dreamed of this—being wanted, being claimed. She could do this.
Slowly, trembling, she reached out and placed her hand on his thigh.
Sahil flinched as if burned.
"I… I can't," he whispered.
Noorzadi's hand froze mid-air. "What do you mean?"
He swallowed, eyes fixed on the floor. "I can't do this, Noor. I can't… be with you. Like that."
The room spun. Her chest was constricted. "Why?" The word came out small, terrified. "Tell me why."
Sahil finally lifted his gaze—eyes swimming with guilt and shame, "I'm gay, Noor," he said softly. "I've always been gay."
The words struck like a physical blow. For one endless heartbeat, everything stopped. Then the scream ripped from her throat—raw, guttural, shattering the fragile silence of the room.
"You're WHAT?!"
She lurched to her feet, dupatta slipping from her head, veil tangling around her shoulders like a shroud. Her hands flew to her neck, clutching the simple gold chain he had placed there during the nikaah as if it were choking her.
"You married me… knowing this?!" Her voice rose to a piercing wail. "You stood in front of God and the witnesses! You gave me mehr! You said the words 'Qubool hai' three times—and you knew you could never want me?!"
Tears exploded down her face, hot and furious. She staggered backward, crashing into the dressing table. Perfume bottles toppled and shattered on the floor. Her reflection stared back—kohl-streaked, broken, a bride reduced to ruins.
"You bastard!" she screamed, voice splintering into sobs. "You ruined me! You made me your wife—in the eyes of God, in front of my family, in front of the whole community—and it was all a lie!"
She collapsed to her knees, fists pounding the carpet in helpless rage. Sobs tore from her chest—deep, wrenching, the kind that stole her breath.
"Why?!" she wailed, rocking back and forth. "Why did you do this to me? I trusted you! I prayed for this night—prayed for a husband who would love me, protect me, hold me! And you… you stole everything!"
Sahil's shoulders sagged. His voice was low, almost mechanical.
"The deal." he said. "Our families... the business alliance. It was only ever on paper. That's all it was supposed to be."
Noorzadi's head jerked up. Mascara-streaked eyes blazed through the blur of tears.
Her fingers clawed at the heavy lehenga, tearing at the delicate zari embroidery as if she could rip the humiliation from her skin.
"Even if it was for the deal," she sobbed, voice hoarse and fracturing, "even if it was just business between our families… Why destroy me? Why let me hope? Why let me sit here like a fool, waiting for a husband who would never touch me?!"
Sahil remained silent, head bowed, shoulders trembling. He offered no comfort. No defense. Only the crushing weight of his truth.
Noorzadi curled into herself on the floor, body wracked with violent tremors. "I hate you," she whispered between choking sobs. "I hate you… I hate this night… I hate myself for believing…"
The door creaked open.
Arahan stepped inside.
He stood framed in the doorway—tall, calm, unshaken—his gaze sweeping slowly from Noorzadi's trembling, tear-soaked form on the floor to Sahil's guilty, averted eyes.
Noorzadi lifted her head slowly. Through the haze of pain, fury, and shattered faith, she locked eyes with the man framed in the doorway. He was tall, broad-shouldered, still wearing a black sherwani threaded with gold, sleeves rolled to his elbows, looking tired but utterly composed—like he belonged in this chaos.
"Who… who are you?" she whispered, voice hoarse from crying.
Sahil swallowed hard. "He's Arahan."
Noorzadi's tear-streaked face twisted. She nodded jerkily, fresh sobs rising. "I know he's Arahan," she spat, anger flaring again. "But what I mean is—why is he here? On my wedding night? In my bedroom?"
Sahil's cheeks flushed crimson. He looked away, lips trembling, unable to form words.
Arahan stepped forward without hesitation. He crossed the room in three calm strides and sat between them on the edge of the bed—close enough that Noorzadi could smell the faint sandalwood on his skin.
"Sahil," Arahan said quietly, voice low and commanding, "reply to her. Tell her why I'm here."
Sahil's shoulders hunched. His voice came out small, almost inaudible. "Arahan… he's my husband. In every way that matters. Tonight is our wedding too. So he came… to be with me. To… fuck me."
The words detonated.
Noorzadi's scream tore through the room again—sharper, more feral than before.
"You have a husband?!" she shrieked, lunging forward as if to claw at Sahil. "You have a man who comes to fuck you on the same night you married me—and what about me?! You sit there enjoying your life while I cry over a ruined one?! You disgusting, lying—"
Arahan's hand moved—gentle, steady. He cupped her tear-soaked cheek, thumb brushing away a streak of kohl. "Shh," he murmured. "Don't worry, Noor. I will not let anyone ruin your life."
She froze under his touch, breath hitching.
"I know you're angry," he continued softly. "I feel angry too. But what can we do? This is how life moves—cruel sometimes, unfair. Still…" His thumb traced her jawline. "I came here tonight not just for him. I came to make you happy too."
Noorzadi blinked, stunned into silence. The rage still burned, but something else flickered beneath it—shock, confusion, a dangerous curiosity.
"Will you give me permission?" Arahan asked, eyes locked on hers. "Permission to love you. To show you what it feels like to be wanted. Truly wanted."
She couldn't speak. Her mind reeled—replaying his words, the betrayal, the humiliation, the sudden offer of something she had craved all night.