Arahan sometimes managed to wake up early in the morning—rare, precious days when his body didn't betray him with exhaustion. On those mornings, Sabiha would whisk him straight to the office with her.
She had turned one of the back rooms of the factory into a lavish, soundproofed bedroom complete with a king-sized bed, silk sheets, dim lights, and even a small fridge stocked with chilled water and snacks. It was basically their private fuck-den disguised as "executive rest space."
There, between back-to-back client calls or after a long meeting, they would disappear for "urgent discussions." Sabiha would lock the door, push him onto the bed, and ride him until both of them were sweaty and breathless, her heavy breasts bouncing as she whispered filthy praises about how good her young husband felt inside her.
By evening, when they finally returned home, Arahan's real shift began.
First came Sana and Bushra—hot, impatient, already wet from texting him dirty messages all day. He would take turns cooling their eager pussies with his cock: Sana bent over the kitchen counter, Bushra riding him reverse on the living-room sofa, both of them moaning his name like it was a prayer.
Sometimes they competed—who could make him cum faster, who could take him deeper—turning it into a giggling, sweaty contest.
A little later, Sahil would appear. Arahan would bend him over the edge of the bed, lube him up, and fuck his tight ass slow and deep until Sahil was whimpering, "Please, Arahan… harder… don't stop." By the time Sahil came untouched across the sheets, it was already 1 or 2 a.m.
Only then would Arahan drag his tired body to Sabiha's bedroom.
There, for at least two hours—often stretching to four—he gave her every bit of "husbandly duty" she craved. Missionary with eye contact and sweet dirty talk, doggy with hair-pulling, her on top grinding until she squirted, anal when she was feeling extra filthy. She would beg, "My love, harder... push it all the way in... make your wife happy," and he would oblige until they both collapsed in a sticky, satisfied heap.
Sleep finally claimed him around 5 or 6 a.m.
And like clockwork, by 11 or 12 noon, Sabiha would slip into the room, climb onto the bed, and wrap her warm hand around his soft cock. A few gentle strokes, a wet kiss on the tip, and suddenly he was rock-hard and wide awake—no alarm clock required.
"Good morning, sleepy husband," she would purr, already guiding him inside her as she straddled him. After a quick, lazy morning fuck, she bathed him like he was her favorite doll—scrubbing his back, soaping his chest, even drying him off with a fluffy towel.
Then she dressed him (usually picking out something sharp and sexy), fed him breakfast bite by bite while sitting in his lap, and finally drove him to the office like a proud wife showing off her trophy.
Before Arahan ever came to Prayagraj, the plan had been simple: finish school, maybe get a job, live a normal life.
But Sabiha had other ideas.
Using her connections, she got him admitted straight into 11th grade at a local school. Then she spoke to the owner and arranged "full attendance without attendance"—meaning he never had to show up, yet his record stayed perfect and his exam marks mysteriously stayed high. School became optional; factory time with Sabiha became mandatory.
Whenever he asked why, she gave the same calm, unshakable answer: "When you turn legal age, the factory will be transferred to your name. It's already in the works."
Arahan didn't even want the damn factory. And which legal age he required, he was already towards 19.
But then came the guilt trip: "You're my husband now… it's your duty… remember the promises we made… our wedding vows…" She would say it so sweetly, so sincerely, that he always backed down.
Deep down, he cursed the day he first saw her naked and decided he had to have her. That single moment of lust had turned into this beautiful, exhausting, unbreakable trap.
One morning, as Sabiha buttoned up a crisp black shirt on him in front of the mirror, she caught him staring into space.
"What are you thinking about, my love?" she asked, tilting her head with that teasing smile.
Arahan blinked, then decided to test the waters—half-joking, half-serious.
"I was just wondering why the hell I even go to the office with you," he said lightly. "You never actually teach me anything useful. I just sit there watching your meetings, looking pretty, and then the second they're over you drag me to the bedroom and fuck me senseless. Honestly, if the only reason you take me is to have sex with me, we could save the commute and just do it at home. I'm flexible."
Sabiha froze mid-button, narrowed her eyes, and gave him a long, dangerous look.
"Are you saying something, husband?" she asked, voice dangerously sweet.
Arahan immediately backpedaled, grabbing her face and planting a quick, dramatic kiss on her pink lips.
"Nope! Nothing at all, my jaan! I was just… admiring how killer you look in black. Seriously, you're the most beautiful woman in the world. No one even comes close. Like, damn, how did I get so lucky?"
It worked like magic, the way it always did.
Sabiha blushed, ducked her head a little, and swatted his chest playfully.
"You and your sweet talk… Come on, eat breakfast. We're getting late."
"Okay, my queen," Arahan said with an exaggerated bow, following her to the dining table.
Even as he sat down to eat the food she had lovingly prepared, a quiet thought kept circling in his head:
Arahan still often found himself wondering how he had ever thought he could control a woman so much older than him.
The truth was far simpler: now he was the one completely under her control. And it wasn't as if he could just pack up and return to his village.
Every time the thought crossed his mind, Sabiha's words would echo in his head—reminders of "husbandly duties," wedding vows, promises made in the heat of passion—and he would stop himself again.
Yes, he had married Sabiha, Sana, and Bushra.
Sabiha had arranged fake documents to increase his age on paper, making everything legally appear valid, and then performed the nikaah with him in secret. His real family and the people back in his village had no idea.
They arrived at the factory as usual. It was a garment manufacturing unit, specializing in fashionable women's clothing—mostly trendy dresses, tops, and ethnic wear for young women.
At least a hundred girls worked the sewing machines, organized into groups of ten, each supervised by a team leader. There were four girls dedicated to fashion design and trend research, one overall manager for the production floor, and another ten handling meetings, sales, accounts, dispatch, and other administrative tasks.
In total, around 150 young women worked there.
The moment Arahan stepped inside, Anshika spotted them and hurried over.
"Ma'am, you're very late today. The clients have been waiting for you," Anshika said politely.
Anshika Thakur was a stunning girl—beautiful face, perfect figure, probably no older than twenty. Despite her young age, she already handled client coordination and meeting schedules with impressive confidence.
"Anshu baby, what can I say?" Sabiha replied without missing a beat. "This husband of mine has developed a terrible habit of sleeping very late. He just wouldn't wake up this morning. You have no idea how much effort it took to get him out of bed."
She dumped the entire blame on Arahan—as she did every single day. He had grown so used to it that he barely reacted anymore. With that, Sabiha strode off toward the meeting room to meet the clients.
Anshika immediately stepped closer to Arahan. Just as Sabiha was walking away, Anshika wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug, pressing her soft, full breasts firmly against his chest. Arahan felt every curve of them molding against him.
Sabiha glanced back, saw the embrace, but didn't stop or say a word. She simply continued toward the clients.
It still felt strange in theory—another woman hugging him so openly, letting him feel her breasts, right in front of his wife.
But after it happening every day for so long, it no longer felt weird. In fact, breasts were the least of it—Arahan had felt Anshika's ass and pussy plenty of times too.
"Why do you trouble Ma'am so much?" Anshika teased, her voice low and playful. "Why can't you just wake up on time?"
As she spoke, her hand slipped straight into his pants, fingers wrapping around his cock and stroking it gently with her soft palm.
"You only wake up once this guy is awake," she added with a naughty smile.
Arahan gently pulled her hand away and gave her a stern look.
"Anshu, listen—I just fucked Sabiha this morning. I still have Sana and Bushra to handle later. I'm in no condition right now. And I have enough girls to manage already."
"So tell you and all your friends one more time—stop eyeing my cock. I'm not some callboy. I'm a family man."
Anshika pouted dramatically. "I know you're a family man. But sometimes you could treat us like family too. Our virgin pussies are aching for this hot cock of yours. Just let us meet it once properly."
"Anyway, we don't need you every day. Just once a week—give us a darshan of this magnificent thing. Your devoted servants will be perfectly happy with that."
Before Arahan could respond, Anshika tugged his black pants down just enough, pushed his underwear to the side, and freed his cock right there in the semi-private corner of the factory floor.
He tried to stop her, but she was already on her knees, taking him into her warm, eager mouth—just like she did almost every time.
Arahan sighed, half in defeat, half in reluctant pleasure, as her tongue swirled around him with practiced skill.
The factory hummed around them—sewing machines whirring, girls chatting, clients waiting in the meeting room—but at that moment, none of it mattered.
He was trapped in the most delicious, exhausting web he had ever spun. And somehow, he kept letting himself get tangled deeper.