One clear morning, Arahan and Sabiha arrived together at Anisha's official residence, carrying two large black rifle cases between them. The security detail let them through without question—by now, the visits had become routine.
Anisha received them in her private study again, the same heavy teak door closed behind them. She wore a deep maroon saree today, the pallu draped modestly, but the silk clung a little too tightly across her breasts, betraying the quick rise and fall of her breathing the moment Arahan stepped inside.
Sabiha placed the cases on the desk with a polite smile.
"Today we have the suppressed DMR variant and the compact PDW you requested," she said smoothly. "Arahan will demonstrate the key features."
Arahan opened the first case, lifting the rifle with practiced ease. He ran through the specs—barrel length, suppressor attachment points, recoil mitigation, zero jams in 1,000-round torture tests. His voice was calm, professional, but every time he shifted his weight or flexed his forearm while adjusting the sight, Anisha's gaze lingered a fraction too long.
Sabiha watched it all.
The way Anisha's fingers twisted the edge of her pallu. The faint flush creeping up her neck. The way her thighs pressed together under the desk whenever Arahan leaned forward to point out a detail.
Sabiha knew that look intimately. She had seen it on 150 factory girls, on Sana, on Bushra, on Noorzadi, even on herself, when she wanted Arahan to fucked her.
Arahan didn't even have to try. He just existed—tall, quiet, radiating that effortless masculine pull—and women went into heat around him.
This was no different.
If this was any other woman, she felt jealous, how can someone look and crave her husband.
But Sabiha was different, instead of jealousy, she saw it as opportunity.
She stepped casually to Anisha's side of the desk, close enough that their arms nearly brushed.
"Anisha," she began in a regretful tone, "I've been thinking about our deal. I'm still not entirely satisfied."
Anisha blinked, pulled from her trance. "What regret? The terms are generous. Thirty-two percent is already a compromise."
Sabiha gave a small, sad sigh. "Exactly. Thirty-two percent is too much. I want it reduced to fifteen."
Anisha's eyes narrowed instantly. "Impossible," she said sharply. "The Ministry won't accept less than thirty. We've already bent the rules considerably."
Sabiha leaned in, close enough that only Anisha could hear her next words. A mischievous smile curved her lips.
"Fifteen percent share," she whispered, "and my husband's cock."
Anisha froze. Color flooded her face—deep crimson from neck to ears.
"What… what are you saying?" she stammered, voice barely above a breath.
Sabiha didn't flinch. Her tone stayed low, intimate, filthy.
"Yes, Anisha. My husband's thick, long cock… sliding into your dry, untouched pussy after fifteen long years. Stretching you. Filling you. Breeding you." She paused, letting the words sink in.
"You're still young. Thirty-three is nothing. You could easily carry his child. Imagine, an heir for the rest of your property. Someone strong. Someone worthy. All because you let him fuck you the way you've been dreaming about since that first handshake."
Anisha's breath hitched audibly. Her hands trembled on the desk. She didn't deny it. Didn't slap Sabiha. Didn't call security.
She just stared at Arahan, her eyes wide, pupils blown, chest heaving.
Sabiha straightened, smile serene again.
"Take your time," she said lightly. "Think about it."
For the next hour, the room was silent except for the occasional rustle of papers and the soft click of rifle parts being handled. Arahan demonstrated features on autopilot; Anisha nodded mechanically, barely hearing.
Finally, after staring at the floor for a long minute, she lifted her head.
She extended her hand across the desk, and said quietly, "Fifteen percent. Deal."
Sabiha shook it firmly, smile widening.
Arahan frowned, confused. "What deal?" he asked, looking between them.
Sabiha stepped close to him, rose on her toes, and whispered the entire arrangement in his ear.
When she pulled back, Arahan's face darkened with anger. He turned to Sabiha first.
"How can you do this to me?" he hissed under his breath. "You're selling me like some commodity, without even asking? Without my permission?"
Sabiha didn't flinch. She placed a gentle hand on his chest.
"Husband," she said softly, "you're getting fifteen percent extra share in a multi-crore arms contract. And she is the District Magistrate. Future clearances, land allotments, security cover, everything we need will require her signature. If she's lying beside you, warm and satisfied, she'll sign anything without a single question from me. You just have to put in a little effort… and fuck her properly."
Arahan's jaw tightened. He looked furious.
Then he turned to look toward Anisha. She stood there, still flushed and trembling slightly, but she didn't look away. Instead she met his gaze head-on, chin lifted just a fraction.
The shy girl inside her wanted to run. The woman who had clawed her way to power refused.
And the part of her that had ached for him every night for weeks simply waited, wet, ready, desperate, for whatever came next.
Arahan's face twisted with raw fury as he glared at Sabiha first, then swung his gaze back to Anisha.
"You fucking bitch," he snarled, voice low and venomous, "you're so old, and you still want to ride a cock like some desperate whore?"
Anisha opened her mouth—shock, shame, and a flicker of protest flashing across her face—but before a single word could escape, Arahan moved.
He grabbed her by the wrist, yanked her forward, and shoved her down onto the long leather sofa in the corner of the study. She landed on her back with a sharp gasp, saree pallu slipping off one shoulder, exposing the deep neckline of her blouse.
In one brutal motion, he hooked his fingers into the front of her saree and blouse and tore downward.
Fabric ripped—loud, violent—silk and cotton giving way like paper. The blouse split open; her heavy breasts spilled free, dark nipples already stiff from the mix of fear, humiliation, and unwanted arousal. The saree bunched around her waist, petticoat torn at the seam, panties visible and already damp at the crotch.
Anisha's hands flew up instinctively to cover herself, cheeks flaming crimson. "Arahan—wait—" she whispered, voice trembling.
But she didn't push him away. She didn't scream for help. Her thighs trembled, parted slightly on the sofa, eyes wide and glassy.
Arahan didn't wait.
He shoved her legs apart roughly with his knee, yanked her soaked panties to the side, and freed his cock—already rock-hard despite (or because of) the anger boiling in his veins. Thick, veined, angry-red at the tip.
He didn't ease in.
He slammed forward in one savage thrust, burying himself to the hilt inside her tight, untouched cunt.
Anisha screamed in raw, high-pitched, pain tearing through her like fire. Fifteen years without a man had left her narrow, dry despite her arousal, walls clenching in protest around the sudden invasion. Tears sprang to her eyes; her nails dug into the leather sofa, body arching off the cushions.
"Too big—ahh—it hurts—please—" she cried, voice breaking.
Arahan didn't stop.
He gripped her hips hard enough to bruise, pulled back almost to the tip, then rammed in again, harder, deeper. Each thrust was punishing, fueled by rage, at Sabiha for pimping him out, at Anisha for wanting him, at himself for getting hard anyway.
"Shut up and take it," he growled. "You wanted this cock so bad? Now you've got it."
He fucked her mercilessly—fast, brutal strokes that made her breasts bounce wildly, made the sofa creak under them. The wet slap of flesh on flesh filled the room, mixed with her sharp, pained cries.
For the first minute she sobbed—genuine pain, body resisting the stretch, walls burning from the friction.
But then—slowly—something shifted. Her cries changed pitch. The sobs turned to whimpers. The whimpers turned to moans.
Her hips—once rigid—began to lift, meeting his downward thrusts. Her legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, heels digging into his lower back, pulling him deeper. Her hands stopped clawing the sofa and slid up to grip his shoulders.
"Oh God—yes—harder—" she gasped, voice hoarse, tears still streaming but now from overwhelming sensation rather than pain.
The pain had melted into pleasure—hot, overwhelming, filthy.
Fifteen years of pent-up need exploded inside her. Every brutal thrust dragged along nerves that had gone dormant, every slap of his balls against her ass sent sparks up her spine.
Her pussy—once protesting—now clenched greedily around him, slick and hot, coating his shaft with fresh wetness.
Arahan felt the change. Felt her start fucking him back.
His anger didn't fade—it just twisted into something darker, more possessive.
He leaned down, grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanked her head back so she had to look at him.
"You like it now, don't you?" he snarled, slamming in so deep she felt him hit her cervix. "Fifteen years without dick and now you're dripping like a bitch in heat."
"Yes—yes—fuck me—please—" she begged, voice cracking, hips bucking wildly. "Don't stop—fill me—give it to me—"
He pounded her harder, relentless, punishing, until her body seized.
She came with a scream—back arching off the sofa, walls spasming violently around his cock, gushing wet heat down her thighs and onto the leather. Her nails raked down his arms, leaving red lines; her eyes rolled back, mouth open in a silent wail of ecstasy.
Arahan didn't let up.
He kept fucking her through the orgasm—drawing it out, making her shake and sob with overstimulation, until he finally buried himself deep and came with a guttural groan. Thick ropes of cum flooded her neglected womb, spilling out around his shaft when there was no more room.
He stayed inside her for long seconds—both of them panting, sweat-slick, trembling.
When he finally pulled out, a thick stream of his seed leaked from her swollen, red pussy onto the sofa.
Anisha lay there, blouse torn open, saree in ruins, legs spread, chest heaving—looking wrecked and utterly satisfied.
She reached up weakly, touched his cheek with shaking fingers.
"Thank you," she whispered, voice raw.
Arahan stared down at her—anger spent, replaced by something colder, more calculating.
He stood, tucked himself away, and looked at Sabiha—who had watched the entire thing from the doorway with a calm, satisfied smile.
"Fifteen percent," he said flatly. "And she signs whatever we need."
Sabiha nodded once.
Anisha managed a weak, blissful smile.
"Anything," she breathed. "Anything you want."
Arahan turned and walked out without another word.
The deal was sealed.
And Anisha—once shy, once celibate—now belonged to the same addiction as every other woman in his orbit.
She would never be the same again.