Slave Life of Manju
Copyright© 2026 by MASTERRAJJ
Chapter 3: The Session
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 3: The Session - A secret sex life of a lawyer
Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fa/Fa Consensual Lesbian Fiction High Fantasy BDSM FemaleDom Humiliation Sadistic Spanking Torture Indian Female Anal Sex Exhibitionism Big Breasts Body Modification Needles Public Sex Indian Erotica Nudism Transformation Violence
The knock came at exactly 8 PM—three soft taps, the signal.
Mistress Deepa opened the door to find Manju already in position. The lawyer had driven straight from chambers, still wearing her navy blue pencil skirt and cream silk blouse, but her eyes already held that glazed submission. She knelt without being told, her large breasts pressing against the polished floor, ass high in the air.
“Good slut,” Deepa murmured, running a hand through Manju’s dark hair. “You’re early tonight. Eager?”
“Yes, Mistress.” Manju’s voice came muffled against the wood.
Deepa reached down and found the clear silicone retainer in Manju’s left nostril, pulling it free with a wet pop. From her pocket, she produced the gold septum ring—thicker than before, with a small loop at the bottom. She slid it through the piercing, clicking it into place.
“You’ll wear this all weekend. No retainer. Let the court clerks wonder.”
Manju shivered but said nothing.
Deepa grabbed the ring between two fingers and tugged, forcing Manju to crawl forward on her knees, following the pull. They moved through the dimly lit apartment—past the living room, past the kitchen, into the converted study that now served as Deepa’s playroom.
And there, in the corner, sitting on a wooden chair with her legs crossed, was a woman in a black mask. It covered the upper half of her face—sequined, elegant, with slits for eyes. Her lips were painted dark plum. She wore a silk saree in deep burgundy, her arms bare, a glass of wine in her hand.
Manju’s breath caught. A witness.
“Don’t mind her,” Deepa said, tugging the septum ring again. “She’s just here to watch. You perform for her tonight, understand?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Take off your clothes. Slowly. Face our guest.”
Manju rose on shaky legs. Her fingers went to the buttons of her blouse, working each one with deliberate slowness. The silk parted, revealing her heavy 38DD breasts, the skin pale and creamy, the nipples already hardening in the cool air. She shrugged the blouse off her shoulders and let it fall.
The woman in the mask took a slow sip of wine, watching.
Manju unzipped her skirt, pushing it down over her wide hips, letting it pool at her ankles. She stepped out of it, now standing in nothing but her panties—black lace, already damp at the center.
“Those too,” Deepa ordered.
Manju hooked her thumbs into the waistband and slid them down, revealing the neatly trimmed thatch of dark hair below, and the glistening folds beneath. She stood completely exposed, hands at her sides, eyes fixed on the floor.
“Look at her,” Deepa commanded. “Look at the woman who’s going to watch you break.”
Manju raised her eyes to the masked stranger. The woman’s gaze traveled slowly down Manju’s body—over the heavy swell of her breasts, the curve of her stomach, the wetness glistening between her thighs. She smiled, just slightly, and raised her glass in a silent toast.
Deepa circled behind Manju and clicked open a metal case on the table. Inside: a cane whip, thin and flexible; a box of black candles; two brass nipple clamps with small chains and weights; a leather leash with a silver clip.
Manju swallowed hard.
“Hands on the floor. Ass up. You know the position.”
Manju bent forward, planting her palms flat on the cold wooden floor. Her breasts swung heavily beneath her, nipples brushing the wood. Her ass rose high and round, the pale flesh split by the dark cleft of her cunt, already slick with arousal.
Deepa picked up the cane whip and swished it through the air. The sound made Manju flinch.
“Count,” Deepa said.
The first stroke landed across Manju’s left breast—not the ass, but the breast, the cane catching the underside of the heavy mound with a sharp crack that sent a shockwave through the flesh. Manju gasped.
“One. Thank you, Mistress.”
The second stroke caught the right breast, a diagonal slash that left a red line blooming across the pale skin. Manju’s knees buckled slightly.
“Two. Thank you, Mistress.”
The third came harder, catching both breasts as they swung together, the cane snapping across both nipples simultaneously. Manju cried out, her voice breaking.
“Three! Thank you, Mistress!”
Deepa worked methodically, alternating breasts, sometimes targeting the nipples directly, sometimes the soft undercurve where the breast met the ribcage. Each stroke left a vivid red welt. Soon Manju’s breasts were crisscrossed with angry lines, the flesh swollen and hot, her nipples standing rigid and dark.
The masked woman leaned forward slightly, watching.
“Fourteen. Thank you, Mistress.”
“Fifteen. Thank you, Mistress.”
By twenty, Manju was sobbing openly, tears dripping onto the floor, but her cunt was streaming wetness down her inner thighs. Deepa paused, running a finger through the slick moisture and bringing it to Manju’s lips.
“Taste that. That’s what pain does to a whore like you.”
Manju licked the finger clean, her eyes closed.
Deepa set down the cane and picked up the candles. She lit three of them, letting the black wax pool in the shallow wells. Then she knelt behind Manju, positioning the first candle over the rounded curve of her ass.
“Drip,” she whispered.
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