23 Years of Manjus Enslavement
Copyright© 2026 by MASTERRAJJ
Chapter 1
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Husband sells his wife of 23 years
Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Mult Consensual Slavery Lesbian BiSexual Fiction High Fantasy BDSM DomSub MaleDom FemaleDom Humiliation Rough Sadistic Spanking Torture Indian Female Anal Sex Exhibitionism Sex Toys Tit-Fucking Big Breasts Body Modification Public Sex Indian Erotica
The Nose Hooks: Year One
The first night Rohan introduced the triple nose hooks, Manju thought she might die.
He had custom-ordered them from a metalsmith in Delhi—three curved steel implements, each polished to a mirror finish. The first hook curved upward through her left nostril, the tip emerging from the bridge of her nose like a sinister ornament. The second and third hooks pierced sideways through each nostril, creating a web of steel that made her nose look like a cage.
“Breathe,” Rohan commanded, standing over her as she knelt on the cold marble floor of their bedroom.
Manju tried. The hooks shifted against the sensitive cartilage, the upward hook pressing against the bridge of her nose from the inside. Each inhale was a struggle, each exhale a whimper.
“Good girl,” he said, attaching a thin chain from the upward hook to her collar. “Now you can’t look down. You can only look up at your master.”
The collar was thick black leather, two inches wide, with a silver ring at the front. It never left her neck from that day forward. She showered in it, slept in it, cooked in it. When friends visited, she wore high-necked blouses to hide it. But Rohan would find excuses to make her bend over, to expose the leather peeking above her collar.
The Ball Gag and Whipping: Year Three
By their third anniversary, Rohan had refined his punishment system. The ball gag was a solid red rubber sphere, four inches in diameter, with a leather strap that buckled tight behind her head.
“Open,” he would say, holding it up, and Manju’s jaw would clench involuntarily before she forced it open.
He would stuff the ball past her red lips, her cheeks bulging, drool escaping down her chin. Then he would make her kneel on the hardwood floor, naked except for the collar and nose hooks, and whip her breasts with a thin rattan cane.
The cane whistled through the air before landing across her 38DD breasts, leaving parallel red lines across the pale brown skin. Manju would scream into the gag, her deer eyes wide and streaming tears, her big round nose flaring against the hooks.
“Count,” Rohan would say, pulling the gag out just enough for her to speak.
“One ... master...” she’d gasp.
The cane would land again. “Two ... master...”
Some nights, he would whip her until her breasts were covered in a lattice of raised welts, her nipples hard and swollen, her entire torso vibrating with pain. Then he’d fuck her mouth, shoving his cock past her bruised lips, using her throat as a cocksleeve while she choked and gasped.
Candle Wax: Year Five
The wax sessions became a weekly ritual.
Rohan would light a dozen tall red candles and arrange them around Manju’s naked body as she lay spread-eagled on their bed, wrists and ankles bound to the four posts. The nose hooks were in place, the upward hook attached to a chain that pulled her head back against the pillow.
“Don’t flinch,” he’d warn, tipping the first candle.
Hot wax splattered across her belly, searing into her skin. Manju’s body arched, a strangled cry escaping her throat. The wax cooled quickly, hardening into red flakes that looked like blood.
He would drip wax across her breasts, her nipples, her thighs, her cunt. The heat was agonizing, each drop a tiny brand. But the worst was when he let the wax pool in her navel, the heat radiating outward, the weight of it pressing against her stomach.
Sometimes he would make her stand against the wall, her hands above her head, and drip wax down her back, watching it trace paths down her spine, pooling in the crack of her big ass.
Nipple Piercings with Weights: Year Seven
The nipple piercings were Rohan’s way of marking his territory permanently.
A professional piercer came to their apartment—a silent woman who didn’t meet Manju’s eyes. The needle went through Manju’s left nipple, a flash of white-hot pain, then the right. Rohan chose gold barbells, thick and heavy, with screw-on ends.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, watching the piercer clean the blood away. “Now you’re truly mine.”
When the piercings healed, Rohan began adding weights. Small brass charms at first, then heavier steel rings. He would clip fishing weights to the barbells and make Manju walk around the apartment, the weights swinging with each step, pulling her breasts downward, stretching the piercings.
“You’ll have to train them,” he said, “to hold more weight.”
By year ten, she could wear a pound of weights on each nipple without flinching. He would make her serve dinner wearing nothing but her collar, nose hooks, and the weighted piercings, her breasts elongated, the barbells visible through her thin blouse.
Blowjobs as Entertainment: Year Eight
Rohan had a strict rule: Manju’s mouth was always available.
While he watched TV, she would kneel between his legs, her mouth wrapped around his cock. He would hold the remote in one hand and her nose hooks chain in the other, yanking her head up and down at his preferred pace.
“Don’t stop,” he’d say, eyes fixed on the screen. “And don’t use your hands.”
Manju would work his shaft with her lips and tongue, her jaw aching, drool pooling on her thighs. Sometimes he would make her deepthroat, forcing his entire length down her throat, holding her there until she gagged and choked.
During meals, she would service him under the table. He would sit at the dining table, eating his food, while she crawled beneath it and took his cock into her mouth. Her red lips would stretch around his girth, her tongue lapping at his balls while he calmly discussed his day.
“You’re the best entertainment a man could ask for,” he said once, finishing his dinner while she swallowed his cum beneath the table.
Humiliating Manju in Front of Close Female Friends: Year Twelve
The first time Rohan humiliated Manju in front of her friends, it was Priya—her best friend since college.
Priya had come over for tea, and Manju served in a conservative salwar kameez. But Rohan had other plans.
“Show Priya your piercings,” he said casually, not looking up from his phone.
Manju froze. “Rohan, please—”