The Boardroom Affair That Became My Daily Degradation
SPORT
Yeh confession shayad bahut logon ko meri wajah se hate dilwayega, but I am beyond caring. Jab maine pehli baar Mr. Sharma ko dekha tha, mere husband, Sameer, ki company mein, I knew he was trouble. Sharma ji humare CEO hain—50s mein, power hungry, aur unki aankhon mein woh hunter look rehta hai.
Sameer aur mera marriage boring ho chuka tha. Sex was once a week, pre-planned, like a meeting schedule. I craved intensity, something that would shake me to my core. Sharma ji ne woh shaking offer kiya.
It started with late-night meetings. Main Sharma ji ke office mein unke PA ke jaate hi jaati thi. Pehle woh bas business baat karte the, but his compliments slowly got physical. "Renu, your saree drapes perfectly on your curves." Then one evening, woh mere paas aaye. Sameer uss din out of town tha.
Sharma ji ne mujhe pehle glass wine diya. Unhone kaha, "Today, we discuss promotion, Renu. Your promotion." Maine bola, "Sir, I am happy where I am." Woh hasa, a deep, commanding sound. "Happy? You are meant for more than spreadsheets. You are meant for my pleasure."
And then he moved. It wasn't a gentle proposition; it was an order. Us din, uske massive oak table par, maine pehli baar pure humiliation ka nasha chaka. He didn’t even remove my clothes properly. He tore my blouse open, yanked my skirt up. Usne mujhe ghutno ke bal baithne ko kaha, right in front of his CEO chair.
"Kiss my shoes first, Renu. Show me you deserve to be my secret."
Maine kiya. Meri aankhon mein aansu the—shame aur extreme arousal ke. Jab maine unke Italian leather shoes ko chaata, woh zor se hans rahe the. Woh mera chehra pakad kar table ke kinare par dhakel diya aur mere muh mein apna hard cock daal diya. It was thick, smelling faintly of expensive cologne, and so dominant.
That was the first time, and it became a routine. Every Thursday, 9 PM, I was Mrs. Sharma’s wife no more; I was Sharma ji’s office slut.
The degradation only got worse, and I loved it. Woh mujhe uski fancy leather office chair par baithne ko kehte, aur phir uske saamne hi mere chut mein apna haath daal dete, usse apni behad pyaas bujhane ko kehte, jahan koi bhi click kar sakta tha—but nobody did. The risk made it hotter.
Ek baar toh haad hi ho gayi. Sameer unexpectedly office aaya tha kuch documents lene. Sharma ji ne mujhe turant uske private washroom mein dhakel diya. "Get naked, Renu. Jab tak main waapis na aaun, wahan intezaar karo. Agar tum bahar nikli toh Sameer ko bata dunga ki tum kya karti ho office mein."
Main wahan nangi khadi thi, body shivering. Woh 15 minute baad waapis aaye. Mujhe dekhte hi unke chehre par woh dirty smirk tha. Unhone bina kuch bole mujhe washbasin ke upar jhuka diya. Woh mere peeche se aaye, aur meri tight ass mein unhe ghusna tha. Woh zor se andar ghuse, mere cheekhne ki awaaz dabaate hue, "Shhh, Renu. Your husband is just outside. Don't let him hear his wife crying for my pleasure."
That feeling—knowing my husband was metres away while I was being utterly used, degraded, and filled by his boss—was the filthiest, most ecstatic rush I’ve ever known. I am still married to Sameer, but my real life, my real fucking life, is lived in that high-rise office, under the scrutiny of the man who signs my husband's paychecks. And every time I see Sharma ji at a family dinner, I have to keep my eyes down, remembering the taste of his shoe and the sheer power he holds over my body and my secret shame.