Slave Life of Manju
Copyright© 2026 by MASTERRAJJ
Chapter 4: The Courtroom
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 4: The Courtroom - 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
Manju sat at the prosecution table, her navy blue pencil skirt riding up her thick thighs as she crossed her legs. The opposing counsel—a balding man with sweat beading on his forehead—was droning through objections, but she barely heard him.
Because Mistress Deepa was in the gallery.
Third row, center seat, wearing a cream silk blouse and black trousers. Her legs were crossed elegantly, her hands folded in her lap. To anyone else, she looked like a spectator, maybe a law student observing proceedings.
But Manju knew. The gold septum ring was back in her nose, no retainer. Deepa had removed it herself that morning, sliding the thick metal through the piercing with a cruel twist.
“You’ll wear it today,” she’d whispered, her breath hot against Manju’s ear. “All day. Through every hearing. Every conference. Every time you open your mouth to speak, you’ll feel it. And you’ll remember who owns that mouth.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
Now, as the judge peered over his reading glasses and asked for her response, Manju rose. She felt the weight of the ring in her nostril, the cool metal pressing against her septum. Her voice came out steady, practiced.
“Your Honor, the prosecution’s motion is without merit. The evidence clearly shows—”
She paused. Deepa shifted in her seat, uncrossing and recrossing her legs. The whisper of nylon against nylon was barely audible, but Manju heard it like a gunshot. Her cunt clenched.
“—shows that the defendant’s claim of coercion is unsupported by any documentation.”
The judge nodded, making notes. The opposing counsel shuffled papers. No one noticed the way Manju’s breath caught, the way her hand trembled slightly as she gestured toward the bench.
But Deepa noticed. And Deepa smiled.
During recess, Manju retreated to the restroom. She locked herself in a stall, leaning against the cold tile, her forehead pressed to the door. Her pussy was soaked, the moisture seeping through her panties and staining the crotch of her stockings.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Deepa:
Good girl. Now go back out there and win. I want to see you destroy him. And when you get home, I’ll destroy you.
Manju typed back: Yes, Mistress.
She splashed cold water on her face, reapplied her lipstick, and walked back into the courtroom. Her heels clicked against the marble floor. The ring in her nose caught the fluorescent light.
She won the motion. Three to one. The judge commended her preparation. Opposing counsel looked ready to vomit.
And Deepa watched from the third row, her fingers tapping a slow rhythm on her knee.
The Next Session: The Visitor Returns
Two days later. Wednesday, 9 PM.
Manju stood at Mistress Deepa’s door, still in her courtroom clothes—a charcoal blazer over a white silk blouse, her hair pinned in a tight bun. She knocked three times.
The door opened. Deepa stood there in a black leather corset that pushed her small breasts up, her nipples peeking over the top edge. She wore tight leather pants and held a riding crop in one hand.
“Inside. Strip. The playroom.”
Manju stepped in, her hands already moving to unbutton her blazer. She folded it carefully, placed it on the entryway chair. Then the blouse, unbuttoned from top to bottom, revealing the heavy swell of her breasts, still bearing the faded yellow-green bruises from the last session. Her nipples were already hard.
She kicked off her heels, unzipped her skirt, let it fall. Her panties—black lace—followed. She stood naked, her hands clasped behind her back, head bowed.
“Follow.”
Deepa led her to the playroom. The masked woman was already there, sitting in the same chair, wearing the same burgundy silk saree, the same black sequined mask. A fresh glass of wine rested in her hand.
“She performed well,” the masked woman said, her low voice carrying across the room. “I heard about the motion.”
“She did.” Deepa circled behind Manju, running the tip of the riding crop along her spine, from the nape of her neck down to the cleft of her ass. “But she needs to be reminded of her place.”
The masked woman took a sip of wine. “Show me.”
Deepa clicked open a drawer and pulled out a leather strap—wide, thick, doubled over at one end to form a handle. She slapped it against her palm. The sound was sharp, wet, final.
“Against the wall. Palms flat. Ass out.”
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