Arahan barely had time to catch his breath after the quick, frantic session with Anshika. His cock was still half-hard, tucked back into his pants with a hasty wipe from a tissue Sabiha handed him like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Anshika had scurried off to the bathroom to clean up, legs still shaky, a dazed, satisfied smile plastered on her face that would probably last the rest of the day.
Sabiha adjusted her saree pallu with casual elegance, kissed Arahan on the cheek, and murmured, "Go sit in the meeting room, darling. I'll handle the clients for the first half. You look like you need a minute."
He nodded numbly and headed toward the glass-walled conference room, trying to ignore the knowing glances from a few girls on the sewing floor who had clearly heard muffled sounds through the thin office walls.
He hadn't even sat down when the door opened again. Suhani Rajput stepped in without knocking.
She was taller than most of the girls, with sharp features, long black hair tied in a high ponytail, and a body that looked like it had been sculpted for sin—full breasts straining against her fitted blouse, wide hips hugged by a pencil skirt that ended just above mid-thigh. As production manager, she carried an air of quiet authority, but right now her eyes were pure hunger.
She locked the door behind her.
"Suhani—" Arahan started, already raising a hand in protest.
She didn't let him finish.
"I heard," she said simply, voice low and steady. "Anshika got her turn. And now the whole floor is buzzing. They think the dam has finally broken."
Arahan rubbed his temples. "It was one time. Sabiha insisted. It's not happening again."
Suhani walked toward him slowly, hips swaying with deliberate intent. She stopped right in front of his chair, close enough that he could smell her perfume—something expensive and faintly musky.
"I'm not Anshika," she said. "I don't beg. I don't cry. I take what I want."
Before he could respond, she hiked her skirt up to her waist in one smooth motion. No panties. Just smooth, shaved skin and a pussy already glistening with arousal. She climbed onto his lap, straddling him, knees pinning his thighs to the chair.
"Suhani, wait—"
"No." She grabbed his wrists and placed them on her hips, forcing his hands to grip her. Then she reached down, unzipped him with practiced ease, and pulled his still-sensitive cock free.
He hissed at the sudden exposure. "I just came inside her five minutes ago—"
"Good," Suhani whispered against his ear. "Then you'll last longer with me."
She sank down onto him in one slow, controlled motion.
Arahan groaned as her tight heat enveloped him. She was hotter, wetter, and somehow even tighter than Anshika—years of self-control and Kegel exercises had clearly paid off. She didn't bounce right away; she ground in deep circles, rolling her hips like she was savoring every inch.
"Fuck… you're so full already," she murmured, voice husky. "I can feel the leftover cum from Anshika. It's making me even wetter."
Arahan's hands tightened on her hips instinctively. "This is a bad idea. The meeting—"
"Meeting can wait ten minutes." She leaned forward, pressing her breasts against his chest, lips brushing his. "I've waited months. I'm not waiting another second."
She started riding him then—slow at first, then building into a steady, punishing rhythm. The chair creaked under them. Her blouse buttons strained as her tits bounced with each downward thrust.
Arahan tried to hold back, tried to think of Sana, Bushra, Sabiha, anything to slow himself down, but Suhani was relentless. She clenched around him deliberately, milking him with expert control.
"Look at me," she commanded.
He did. Her dark eyes locked onto his, fierce and unblinking.
"You think you're the only one who gets tired?" she said between breaths. "I run this floor. I keep 100 girls on schedule. I fix every crisis. And every night I go home and finger myself thinking about this cock. About you finally giving in."
She sped up, slamming down harder, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room.
"I don't want romance," she continued. "I just want this. Once a week. Once a month. Whatever you can give. But give it."
Arahan felt the pressure building again—too soon, too fast. "Suhani… I'm gonna—"
"Do it," she growled. "Inside. Mark me like you marked her. Let me walk out of here dripping with you."
He gripped her ass hard, thrust up one last time, and came with a choked groan—pumping what little he had left deep into her. Suhani shuddered above him, her own orgasm hitting silently but powerfully; her walls fluttered and squeezed, drawing out every drop.
For a long moment they stayed like that—her forehead against his, both breathing hard.
Then she lifted herself off slowly, a thick trickle of cum leaking down her thigh. She didn't wipe it away. Instead she let her skirt fall back into place, trapping the mess against her skin.
She leaned down and kissed him once—hard, possessive, then soft.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "That's all I needed."
She straightened her blouse, smoothed her hair, and unlocked the door.
"Meeting at five," she told him over her shoulder. "Don't be late, boss."
And just like that, she walked out—calm, composed, the perfect manager again.
Arahan slumped back in the chair, cock softening, head spinning.
He had lost his patience once.
Now twice.
And he had the sinking feeling that the factory's "employee welfare" program was only just beginning.
Once the dam broke, nothing could hold back the flood.
---
Few days later, what started as a single, reluctant mercy fuck with Anshika turned into an unstoppable chain reaction.
The very next day, the team leaders, ten confident, ambitious women who ran the production groups, began showing up in corners, in the storage room, in the small pantry, even in the executive bathroom during lunch breaks.
They didn't beg like Anshika had. They cornered him with calm, knowing smiles and whispered promises of discretion.
"Ma'am already approved Anshika," one would say.
"Suhani told us it was quick and painless," another added.
"We won't tell anyone. Just once. We've waited years."
Arahan tried to resist at first. He locked doors, avoided eye contact, muttered excuses about being exhausted, about his real family at home.
But the factory was small, the girls were persistent, and Sabiha, his supposed protector, did nothing to stop it. In fact, she watched with quiet amusement, occasionally giving a subtle nod or a "go ahead, darling".
Within a week, all ten team leaders had taken their turns. Quick, efficient fucks bent over desks, against walls, on the floor of the design room after hours. Each one left him more drained, more conflicted, and somehow more aroused by the sheer taboo of it.
Then the floodgates truly opened.
The regular sewing girls, shy at first, then bolder, started approaching in pairs, in groups of three, whispering in the break room or slipping notes into his pocket. "Please, sir… just like you did for Anshika." "We promise we'll be quiet." "We've never… we want it to be you."
He was also tired of saying no and couldn't to all of them. Especially when Sabiha would lean in during a quiet moment and murmur, "They work so hard for us, darling. A little reward won't hurt."
In just two months, every single one of the 150 girls in the factory had lost her virginity to him.
Some were fast and frantic—quickies in the stairwell during shift changes. Others were slower, almost ritualistic—late nights when the machines were silent, and he took them one by one on the big cutting table under dim emergency lights.
A few even begged for anal after they lost their virginity. He gave it all: pussy, mouth, ass, whatever they asked for in their desperation.
By the end, the factory smelled faintly of sex no matter how much they aired it out. Cum-stained tissues were hidden in trash bins, skirts were adjusted hastily when someone walked by, and every girl carried the same secret glow—the knowledge that Arahan had claimed them first.
Arahan was wrecked. Physically spent, emotionally numb, cock sore from overuse. He barely had energy left for Sana, Bushra, Sahil, or even Sabiha at home anymore. He would collapse into bed at 3 a.m., only to be woken at noon by Sabiha's hand on his dick again.
One evening, after the last girl, a quiet 19-year-old from the packing department, had finally been deflowered in the back storeroom, Arahan stormed into Sabiha's private office.
She was sitting at her desk, reviewing production reports, looking serene as ever.
He slammed the door behind him.
"You did this," he said, voice low and furious. "All of it."
Sabiha looked up slowly, eyebrows raised in mild surprise.
"Darling?"
"How did Suhani know about Anshika the very next day?" he demanded. "Anshika swore she wouldn't tell anyone. She was too embarrassed, too blissed-out to even speak properly afterward. So there are only two possibilities."
He stepped closer, hands clenched.
"Either Anshika lied and blabbed to her friends… or you told them. You spread the word. You turned this place into my personal breeding ground."
Sabiha set her pen down carefully. She stood, walked around the desk, and stopped in front of him. Her expression was calm—almost tender.
"I may have… mentioned it in passing," she admitted softly. "To Suhani. And perhaps to one or two team leaders. Just to make sure they understood the rules: discretion, no drama, no jealousy."
Arahan's jaw tightened. "You set me up."
"I gave them hope," Sabiha corrected gently. "These girls have given me everything. Years of loyalty, hard work, no complaints. They were starving for touch, for pleasure, for a man who wouldn't use them and discard them. You're safe. You're kind. You're… well-endowed." She smiled faintly. "I thought it would be a kindness."
"A kindness?" He laughed bitterly. "I've fucked 150 virgins in two months. My dick feels like it's going to fall off. I can barely walk straight. Sana and Bushra are starting to notice I'm too tired for them. Sahil thinks I'm avoiding him. And you—you're still waking me up every morning like nothing's changed."
Sabiha stepped closer, placing both hands on his chest.
"I know you're tired, my love. But look at what you've done." She gestured vaguely toward the factory floor beyond the door. "Every single girl here is happier. More focused. Production is up 18% this quarter. Morale has never been higher. They feel seen. Valued. Claimed."
She leaned in, lips brushing his ear.
"And you… you proved you're more man than any of them could have dreamed. My powerful, unstoppable husband."
Arahan closed his eyes, anger warring with exhaustion and, damn it, the twisted pride her words stirred in him.
"I didn't want this," he muttered.
"I know," Sabiha whispered. "But it's done now. And they're grateful. They won't ask again, not unless you allow it."
She kissed him softly, then pulled back.
"Now come home. Let me take care of you tonight. No factory girls. Just us. I'll run you a bath, massage every sore muscle, and suck you so gently you'll forget your own name."
Arahan looked at her, and saw the woman who had trapped him, owned him, and somehow made him love every exhausting second of it.
He sighed.
"Fine. But no more 'employee welfare' programs."
Sabiha smiled sweetly, "Of course not, Darling." While she thought, 'From now on there will be monthly welfare programmes.'
And somewhere on the factory floor, 150 girls whispered his name like a secret prayer, content, marked, and quietly hoping that maybe, just maybe, "once" would turn into "again" someday.