23 Years of Manjus Enslavement
Copyright© 2026 by MASTERRAJJ
Chapter 2
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 2 - 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
Dubai: Year Twenty-Four
The Septum
Fatima’s club was a converted villa in Al Quoz, hidden behind high concrete walls and unmarked steel gates. Inside, it was a palace of pain and pleasure—soundproofed rooms, medical-grade equipment, a play space with rings bolted into every surface.
Manju arrived in a cargo crate, naked, collared, her body still bearing the marks of Rohan’s final sessions. Fatima opened the crate herself, smiling down at the crumpled form.
“Stand up.”
Manju obeyed, her muscles screaming after the long journey. She kept her eyes down, her hands clasped behind her back.
Fatima circled her slowly, running a manicured finger over the old nose hooks, the faded scars, the sagging openings of her used holes.
“You need new jewelry,” Fatima said. “Everything replaced. Everything upgraded.”
The piercing table was stainless steel, cold against Manju’s back. Fatima worked with professional precision, a registered body modification artist in addition to everything else she was.
“Your septum is already stretched,” Fatima said, threading a tapering rod through the hole. “But not enough. Not for what I want.”
Manju lay still as Fatima worked the taper deeper, stretching the flesh millimeter by millimeter. The burn was familiar, almost comforting.
“13 millimeters,” Fatima announced, sliding a hollow grommet into place. It sat heavy in Manju’s nose, a thick ring of polished steel that pressed against her upper lip when she closed her mouth.
She looked in the mirror. The grommet made her look animalistic, feral. Her nostrils were stretched wide, the steel visible from every angle.
“Beautiful,” Fatima whispered, gripping the grommet and using it to pull Manju’s head back. “Now your cunt. Your ass. Your nipples. Everything gets pierced. Everything gets locked.”
The Lebanese Mistress
The first session at Fatima’s club involved a woman Manju recognized—a Lebanese socialite who had been at some of Rohan’s parties in Bangkok. She remembered watching this woman get fucked by three men while wearing a diamond choker worth more than Manju’s entire village.
Now the woman stood before her in black latex, holding a flogger.
“You remember me,” the woman said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Good. I bought time with you specifically. I want to see how much further you can break.”
The session lasted six hours. The Lebanese woman used every implement in the room—canes, paddles, electricity, clamps. She made Manju crawl through the club on all fours, the 13mm grommet clinking against the floor as she lowered her head.
“You used to be a wife,” the woman laughed, straddling Manju’s face and grinding her wet cunt against Manju’s mouth, using the grommet for purchase. “Now you’re just a nose with a hole. A set of holes attached to a nose.”
Manju licked and sucked, her tongue finding the woman’s clit through the latex. She felt nothing but the need to please.
The Delivery Boy
Three months into her new life, Manju was allowed outside.
Not freedom—never freedom. But Fatima needed supplies from the market, and Manju was useful as a beast of burden. She walked two steps behind Fatima, her wrists cuffed, her mouth gagged, the grommet visible to anyone who looked.
She carried bags of vegetables and meat while Fatima shopped.
And then she saw him.
A delivery boy, no older than twenty-five, balancing a crate of mangoes on his shoulder. He was from her hometown—she recognized the dialect immediately. He must have emigrated like so many others, looking for work in Dubai.
His eyes landed on Manju. On the grommet. On the cuffs. On the brand on her neck that read “PROPERTY OF FATIMA.”
He froze.
“Manju ... didi?”
She couldn’t answer. The gag was too deep.
Fatima noticed him staring. “Problem?”
“No, madam,” he said, bowing quickly. “Sorry, madam.”
But his eyes never left Manju’s face.
The Blackmail
He found her three days later.
Manju was cleaning the villa’s entrance, scrubbing the marble floor on her hands and knees, when she heard the gate buzzer. She answered it, and there he was—Ajay, the delivery boy.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered.
“I followed Fatima’s truck,” he said. “I had to know.”
“Go. Please. If she finds you...”
“I remember you from the village,” he said, his voice shaking. “You were married to that man. Rohan. Everyone said you moved to Bangkok. Your parents think you’re a doctor’s wife.”
Manju said nothing.
“I can go to them,” he said slowly, the threat forming in his mind like a snake uncoiling. “I can tell them what you are now. What you’ve become.”
“What do you want?”
He looked at her—the grommet, the brand, her swollen nipples visible through the thin shirt Fatima made her wear.
“I want to fuck you,” he said. “And I want you to suck my cock. Regularly. Whenever I want. My friends too. Without Fatima knowing.”
The Secret Sessions
Every Tuesday, while Fatima attended her business meetings, Ajay would arrive at the service entrance.
Manju would let him in, her heart pounding, terrified of discovery but more terrified of her parents learning the truth.
“You’re late,” she said one Tuesday.
“Shut up,” he said, grabbing her by the grommet and pulling her to her knees. “Suck.”
She opened her mouth. His cock was average, uncut, smelling of sweat and soap. She took him deep, her throat accepting him without gag reflex—years of training had eliminated that.
“That’s right,” he groaned, fucking her face. “Your husband used you for twenty-three years, and now you’re just a free-use cocksucker for delivery boys.”
He came in her mouth. She swallowed.
“More,” he said, pushing her onto the kitchen tiles. “I brought two friends.”
They filed in—other delivery boys, laborers, men from construction sites. They smelled of hard work and cheap cigarettes.
“Show them,” Ajay said, pulling her shirt up. “Show them the cunt that cost a million dollars to break.”
Manju spread her legs. Her pussy was smooth, pierced with a ring that connected to a chain that ran to her grommet.
“Fuck,” one of the men whispered.
Ajay pushed his cock into her without warning, fucking her on the cold floor while his friends watched. When he finished, the next man took his place.
“One by one,” Ajay said, stroking himself to get hard again. “We use every hole. And then you’re going to clean us up with that tongue.”
The Web Grows
It became routine.
Every Tuesday, Manju would service Ajay and whoever he brought. Sometimes two men, sometimes five. They would use her mouth, her cunt, her ass—all the openings that Fatima had pierced and prepared.
But Fatima was no fool.
“You’re distracted,” Fatima said one evening, pulling Manju’s grommet to force eye contact. “Preoccupied. What changed?”
“Nothing, Mistress.”
Fatima slapped her. “Liar.”
She had Manju strapped to the interrogation table, electrodes attached to her cunt, clamps on her nipples.
“I’ll ask again. What changed?”
Manju said nothing.
Fatima turned on the current.
The electricity made Manju’s body convulse, her back arching off the table. But she didn’t speak. Couldn’t speak. The terror of her parents learning the truth was stronger than any pain Fatima could inflict.
After twenty minutes, Fatima stopped.
“Fine,” she said, removing her gloves. “Keep your secrets. But know this—if you’re planning something, if you think you can leave me...”
She picked up a branding iron, fresh from the fire.
“I’ll make sure no one recognizes you ever again.”
That night, Manju knelt in her corner, her body aching, her cunt still twitching from the shocks.
Tomorrow was Tuesday.
Ajay would come.
And she would serve—both Fatima and the delivery boys—caught between two masters, owned by all, belonging to none.
Her 13mm grommet gleamed in the dark, the only thing about her that still held its shape.
Dubai: The Businessman
Ajay was not stupid. He was poor, ambitious, and had stumbled upon the most valuable asset a man in Dubai could find—a fully broken slave with no legal protections, no voice, and no escape.
The first few weeks had been pure pleasure. He and his friends used Manju’s mouth, cunt, and ass whenever they wanted. They came in her, on her, made her swallow every drop. It was satisfying, addictive even—the ultimate power trip for a delivery boy who spent his days hauling crates for rich men.
But Ajay had bigger dreams.
The First Transaction
It happened by accident. One of his friends, a Pakistani laborer named Imran, mentioned a supervisor at the construction site who was always complaining about his wife.
“He says she won’t suck his cock anymore,” Imran laughed, taking a drag of his cigarette behind the villa. “Says he’s thinking of going to a brothel in Deira.”
Ajay’s mind clicked.
“How much would he pay?”
Imran blinked. “What?”
“For a blowjob. A really good one. From a woman who has been trained for twenty-three years.”
Imran’s eyes widened. “You’re joking.”
“I never joke about money.”
The supervisor’s name was Farid. He was a heavy-set Iranian man with sweat stains on his shirt and a gold watch that probably cost more than Ajay’s yearly salary.
“She’s clean?” Farid asked, his voice low in the back room of a tea shop.
“Cleaner than your wife,” Ajay said. “And she doesn’t talk back. She does what she’s told.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred dirhams. For thirty minutes. You can do whatever you want—mouth, pussy, ass. But no marks. Her owner can’t know.”
Farid pulled out a wad of cash. “Show me.”
That Tuesday, Ajay brought Farid through the service entrance while Fatima never used. Manju was waiting, naked, kneeling, her 13mm grommet gleaming in the dim light.
“This is Farid,” Ajay said, gripping her collar. “He paid for you. You will please him better than you’ve ever pleased anyone. Understand?”
“Yes, Ajay,” she whispered.
Farid looked at her—the piercings, the brand, the empty eyes of a woman who had been broken so thoroughly that nothing remained but obedience.
“On your knees,” Farid ordered.
Manju dropped immediately, her hands clasped behind her back, her mouth open, waiting.
Farid unzipped his pants. His cock was thick, circumcised, half-hard. Manju leaned forward and took him into her mouth without hesitation, her tongue working the shaft with practiced skill.
“Holy shit,” Farid gasped. “She’s ... she’s good.”
“Twenty-three years of training,” Ajay said, leaning against the counter, counting the money. “She can deepthroat for ten minutes straight. She can take two cocks at once. She can keep going even after she’s been fucked for hours.”
Farid grabbed Manju’s head, the grommet pressing against his thigh as he thrust into her throat. She gagged, tears streaming down her cheeks, but she didn’t stop.
“Tell her to look at me,” Farid said.
Ajay pulled her hair, forcing her eyes up. “Look at him.”
Manju’s eyes met Farid’s—hollow, submissive, utterly devoid of self.
“I’m going to cum in her mouth,” Farid groaned.
“Swallow it all,” Ajay commanded.
When Farid finished, Manju swallowed without being told. She opened her mouth to show it was empty, then resumed licking his softening cock clean.
“Fuck,” Farid said, tucking himself away. “Can I come back next week?”
“Five hundred dirhams for an hour,” Ajay said. “Bring friends. Bring your boss. Bring anyone who can pay.”
The Business Grows
Within a month, Ajay had a roster.
Tuesday became a regular rotation. Three men at a time, sometimes five, paying anywhere from two hundred to a thousand dirhams depending on what they wanted. Manju serviced them all—blowjobs, handjobs, tit-fucks between her pierced breasts, full intercourse in every hole.
Ajay timed her. He made sure she never rested more than five minutes between sessions. He kept her water-deprived of water so her throat would be tight, her mouth dry enough to create friction.
“This is what you’re good for,” he told her, shoving her back onto the floor as the next customer entered. “Your husband broke you. Fatima pierced you. But I’m the one making you useful.”
The men were varied—construction foremen, shopkeepers, a Nepali security guard who saved his salary for weeks just to have one session with her. Some were gentle, almost apologetic. Others were rough, slapping her, choking her, pulling her grommet until her head jerked back.
She never complained. She never hesitated. She was a machine designed to take cock and produce money.
The Photograph
Ajay saw an opportunity to scale up.
He had a cheap smartphone, bought secondhand from a shop in Deira. He started taking pictures—Manju on her knees, Manju spread open on the kitchen floor, Manju with three cocks in her mouth, her cunt, and her ass simultaneously.
“These are for private clients only,” he told his network. “You don’t share them. You don’t post them. But if someone wants proof before they pay, I show them what they’re getting.”
The photos circulated among a small, trusted group. More customers came. More money flowed.
The Close Call
Fatima almost discovered him twice.
The first time, she came home early from a meeting. Manju had just finished servicing four Indian businessmen, and the kitchen still smelled of sweat and cum. Ajay had slipped out the back, but Manju was barely dressed, her thighs glistening.
“You look flushed,” Fatima said, eyeing her.
“Hot, Mistress. I was scrubbing.”
Fatima stepped closer, sniffing. “You smell like sex.”
Manju’s heart stopped.
But Fatima just laughed. “Good. I’m glad you’re still being used. I worry that my sessions aren’t enough for you.”
She grabbed Manju’s grommet, pulling her toward the playroom. “Come. I need to tighten some of your piercings. They look loose.”
The second close call was worse.
A customer—an Omani businessman Farid had brought—tried to film his session without permission. Ajay caught him, dragged him out by his collar, and threatened to tell the man’s wife.
“I’m the only one who records,” Ajay hissed. “You pay for access. Nothing leaves this building. Understood?”
The man nodded, pale with fear.
But word was spreading. And money was piling up.
The Expansion
By the third month, Ajay had saved enough to rent a small apartment in Al Nahda—a studio with thin walls and a bed that sagged in the middle.
He started bringing Manju there when Fatima was at her club late at night.
The studio became another service point. Ajay would park his delivery scooter outside, walk Manju through the back alley, and have her ready for clients by midnight.
“I’m making more money from your cunt than from deliveries,” he told her one night, counting a stack of dirhams while she knelt beside the bed, waiting to be used again. “Do you know what that means?”
“No, Ajay.”
“It means I’m never letting you go.”
He pulled her up by the grommet, forced her mouth open, and fucked her throat until he came.
“You’re my investment,” he said, zipping his pants. “And investments don’t leave.”
The Future
Ajay had plans.
He wanted to buy a van. A proper van, not a delivery scooter. He wanted to transport Manju to different locations—hotels, private residences, construction camps—and set up a mobile service that wealthy men could access.
He wanted to establish a network. Other slaves, other buyers. Manju would be the flagship product—the most obedient, the most broken, the most thoroughly trained cunt in Dubai.
And if Fatima ever found out?
Ajay had already prepared for that. He had photographs of Fatima’s club, the equipment, the branding iron. He knew where the Lebanese mistress lived. He knew what happened inside those walls.
If Fatima came for him, he would burn the whole operation down.
But for now, Manju was his secret.
His cash cow.
His property.
And every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday night, she lay beneath whatever man paid for the privilege, her 13mm grommet glinting in the dim light, her mouth open, her legs spread, her body a temple of submission that anyone could enter—for the right price.
The Discovery
Fatima had always been meticulous. Every pierce, every chain, every lock on Manju’s body had been chosen and placed by her hands. She knew the weight of every ring, the exact angle of every barbell, the specific resistance of every lock’s tumblers.
So when she noticed the subtle changes, she didn’t dismiss them.