Chapter 10

Divya’s defiance burned like a slow fuse in Aliyah’s twisted heart. The high-profile lawyer, with her sharp suits and commanding presence in Delhi’s Supreme Court, had always been a puzzle to Aliyah—elegant on the surface, but a quivering mess of submission underneath. Divya’s refusal to convert to Islam, to recite the Shahada and surrender her Hindu roots, had ignited Aliyah’s rage. ‘You’re mine, body and soul,’ Aliyah had hissed during their last session, her fingers twisting Divya’s nipple rings until tears streamed down the lawyer’s face. But Divya gasped out her refusal, even as her pussy clenched in masochistic thrill. Worse, Divya had vanished to Pattaya and Jeddah without a word, chasing depraved BDSM highs in Bangkok clubs and Arab dens, her body marked anew with welts and piercings that she hid from the world.

Aliyah seethed in her upscale Delhi home, surrounded by veils and restraints disguised as decor. She decided to strike back, leaking Divya’s secret life to shatter her facade. The target: Ahmed, the religious Muslim clerk in his late twenties, married with four kids, who shuffled files at the Supreme Court. Aliyah had met him multiple times during her own divorce case, which Divya had fought and won with ruthless precision. Ahmed had always eyed Divya’s big, sexy nose—the side hoops glinting under the courtroom lights—with quiet suspicion, whispering to colleagues about her ‘un- religious adornments.’ But Aliyah knew the truth: those piercings weren’t for the astrological reasons Divya lied about to everyone, including Ahmed. They were for control, for yanking her into submission like a beast.

One humid afternoon, Aliyah cornered Ahmed at a quiet coffee shop near the court. He sipped his chai nervously, his modest kurta hiding a body toned from mosque prayers. ‘Ahmed bhai, you suspect the lawyer’s secrets?’ Aliyah purred, sliding into the booth. He nodded warily. ‘Her nose ... it’s improper.’ Aliyah laughed, low and wicked, pulling out her phone. ‘That’s nothing. Divya Sharma is my horny sex slave. The poised advocate? A lie. She craves being broken, fucked like an animal.’ Ahmed’s eyes widened, his faith clashing with the forbidden curiosity. He couldn’t believe it—not to this extent. Aliyah leaned in, showing him photos: Divya’s massive 38DD tits clamped and whipped in her own Greater Kailash house, the lawyer’s face contorted in ecstasy. Then the Bangkok shots Divya had shared in a moment of vulnerable trust—chained in a dimly lit club, nose hooked wide, tongue pierced and lolling as strangers rammed her throat.