🛏️ A Week in Ryan's Arms
It had been seven nights since Geeta signed her "contract" under Ryan's domination — seven nights where her body had become little more than a vessel for his pleasure.
She lost track of time easily. In Ryan's penthouse, there were no clocks, no demands, no outside world — only a continuous cycle of baths, massages, fine meals, lingerie fittings, and endless, devastating sex.
Every morning, she woke with her body aching and satisfied — her thighs sticky from Ryan's seed, her skin bearing bruises in the shape of his fingertips, her voice hoarse from nights spent screaming into satin sheets.
And she loved it.
She reveled in the fact that every moan, every orgasm, every collapse onto the bed was recorded and tucked away into the vaults of his system space, proof of her total, willing submission.
There was no shame.
Only pride.
She had never been more alive.
🛬 Returning to Mumbai – A New Geeta
When she finally boarded Ryan's private jet back to Mumbai, Geeta was no longer the meek housewife who once tiptoed around her husband's moods.
She wore a custom designer dress Ryan had ordered for her — an off-shoulder black satin gown with a slit that exposed the full length of her thigh and the rose vine tattoo now crawling up her hip. Diamond studs glittered in her ears. A Cartier anklet clinked lightly around her ankle — a silent, permanent reminder of her ownership.
As she sat back in the leather seat, legs crossed, sipping vintage wine, she realized she felt nothing for her "home" in Mumbai. Nothing for the tiny apartment she once called her world. Nothing for the man she had once called husband.
When the plane touched down, she didn't rush.
She moved through the private terminal like a queen returning to her kingdom.
And that night, she returned — one last time — to Arun's home.
🏚️ The Confrontation
Arun was waiting when she arrived, pacing the living room like a wounded animal.
His face was pale. His eyes were bloodshot. He hadn't shaved in days.
"Geeta," he said the moment she stepped inside, voice cracking. "Where the fuck have you been?!"
She didn't answer right away.
She took her time — walking slowly into the room, letting her heels click against the tile, letting the scent of her expensive perfume — Ryan's chosen scent — fill the space.
She dropped her clutch onto the sofa casually.
"I was busy," she said, voice dripping with disdain.
Arun's fists clenched. "Busy?! Busy ignoring me?! Busy ignoring your own fucking husband?! Where were you?"
Geeta tilted her head, smiling coldly.
"I was with a real man," she said.
Arun froze.
"What... what are you saying?"
She stepped closer, until she was right in front of him, close enough for him to smell the lingering scent of sex that clung to her skin.
"I'm saying," she whispered, "that while you were jerking off into your dirty underwear every night, I was getting my pussy wrecked by a man who can fuck me until I scream."
Arun staggered back, as if she had slapped him.
"You—you're lying."
She laughed. A cruel, musical sound.
"You think so?" she purred.
She reached into her dress, between her breasts, and pulled out her phone.
She opened a video — just a few seconds of footage — just enough to show Ryan pounding into her against the glass balcony of the Burj Khalifa, her naked body bouncing with every savage thrust, her voice raw with screaming pleasure.
She held the screen up to Arun's face.
"That's me," she said sweetly. "While you sat here crying like a little bitch, that's what I was doing."
Arun's face twisted in horror.
"Whore," he hissed.
"Whore?" she echoed, laughing again. "No, darling. A whore gets paid. I did it for free. For love. For pleasure. Because he made me cum like you never could in your miserable fucking life."
💔 The Mockery
Tears welled in Arun's eyes.
"You're my wife," he said, voice breaking.
Geeta leaned in close, until her lips brushed his ear.
"Not anymore," she whispered. "You're not a husband. You're a cuckold. A pathetic, useless little man who couldn't even make his wife moan, let alone orgasm."
She pulled back, smiling savagely.
"I had to moan for myself every night with you. Fake it. Pretend. Pity fuck you."
Arun sank to the floor, crumpled.
Geeta watched him coldly for a moment.
Then she turned away.
🎒 Evacuation
She packed nothing.
None of her old clothes. None of her sentimental trash.
She walked to the bedroom closet, pulled out only the suitcases she had brought from Dubai — filled with designer dresses, lingerie, jewelry.
The rest?
She left it.
She didn't even glance back as she rolled her Louis Vuitton luggage toward the door.
"Where are you going?" Arun choked.
She paused, glancing over her shoulder.
"Home," she said.
And she left him there — broken, sobbing, ruined — without a second thought.
🏢 Jasmine's Apartment – The True Story
The building was breathtaking—one of Mumbai's most prestigious skyscrapers, towering over the city like a monument to power.
It wasn't Jasmine's inheritance.It was Ryan's gift.
Before submitting to Ryan, Jasmine and her aging grandfather had lived a modest, crumbling life—renting a tiny two-bedroom flat in a middle-class neighborhood. Money was always tight. Dreams were rationed.
Jasmine had struggled to maintain appearances—cheap makeup to hide sleepless nights, borrowed designer handbags to impress co-workers, secondhand shoes buffed to look new.
When Ryan entered her life, he changed everything.
After her complete submission, he rewarded her — not just with orgasms and commands — but with an apartment fit for a queen.
This new penthouse was a symbol of her rebirth:
Sprawling marble floors.
Floor-to-ceiling glass walls.
Private spa and infinity pool.
The bedrooms are larger than her entire living room in old flat.
A kingdom built on degradation.
🥀 Jasmine and Geeta: Sisters in Corruption
Now, Jasmine's penthouse wasn't a home.
It was a shrine of submission.
And as Geeta rolled her designer luggage into the space, Jasmine welcomed her not as a guest, but as a sister-slut—a fellow woman who had burned her past for a future soaked in sex and surrender.
They toasted with champagne.
They stripped off their designer clothes.
And they curled into bed together, two fallen queens, waiting for the next time Ryan would summon them.