Humiliation & Slavery of a High Profile Lawyer
Copyright© 2026 by MASTERRAJJ
Chapter 2
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 2 - Story of a Female lawyer blackmailed into becoming a sex slave
Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Mult Blackmail Coercion Consensual Reluctant Slavery Lesbian BiSexual Fiction BDSM DomSub FemaleDom Humiliation Rough Sadistic Spanking Torture Group Sex Indian Male Indian Female Anal Sex Exhibitionism Facial Oral Sex Sex Toys Tit-Fucking Big Breasts Body Modification Foot Fetish Public Sex Indian Erotica
The Lawyer’s Humiliation
The arrangement had been struck. Shankar sat across from Rani in the dimly lit bungalow, Manju kneeling naked between them, her new septum ring glinting under the single bulb. Her nipples were already clamped, chains hanging down past her navel, the weight familiar and grounding.
“She can keep working,” Shankar said, his voice flat. “But only high-profile clients. Businessman. Politicians. Industrialists. The kind of men who pay enough to make it worth my while.” He reached down and grabbed Manju’s chin, tilting her face up. “And you will wear this ring everywhere, Manju. Not just at work. At every dinner party. Every charity gala. Every court appearance. You will tell people it’s a style statement. A bold new look.”
She nodded, her eyes cast down. The retainer was comfortable enough for court, but he had commanded her to wear the actual ring on weekends. The thought of walking into a room full of her peers with a gold ring through her septum made her stomach churn.
“But I can’t,” she whispered. “People will know—”
“They will know you have a piercing,” he said, cutting her off. “They will think you’re having a midlife crisis. They will gossip. But they will never know the truth. Unless you want them to.” He held up his phone, the video still saved. “Now, let’s go to your house. Your precious, expensive house where you sleep alone. Tonight, I am going to use every room.”
Her own bedroom felt foreign. The expensive sheets, the crystal chandelier, the walk-in closet of silk saris. Now she was on her knees on her own Persian rug, naked except for the chains and clamps, while Shankar rummaged through a black bag he had brought.
He pulled out a pair of nose hooks. They were made of polished brass, each one curved and sharp at the tip, designed to slip into her nostrils and hook the sensitive tissue inside. Attached to each hook was a thin, strong thread.
“These are special,” he said, holding one up. “I had them custom-made. They will open your nostrils wide, Manju. Give you that piggy look I love so much.”
He sat on the edge of her king-sized bed, his trousers already open, his cock half-hard. “Come here. Let me put them in.”
She crawled forward, her heavy breasts swinging with each movement. He took her face in his hands, tilting her head back. She felt the cold metal against her nostril, then the sharp pinch as the hook slid in, curving up into the soft flesh. She gasped, her eyes watering. He did the same to the other nostril. Now both hooks were in place, the metal pressing against the inner walls of her nose.
“Breathe,” he commanded.
She inhaled. The air rushed in, unobstructed, her nostrils now stretched wide open. The sensation was alien—she could feel the cool air hitting the deepest parts of her sinuses. He leaned in and looked directly into her nostrils, marveling at the view.
“Beautiful,” he whispered. “Look at those perfect holes.”
He pulled the two threads taut, one in each hand. The hooks bit deeper, pulling her nostrils outward and upward. She felt her face distort, her nose flattening, her upper lip lifting. The piggy look he wanted. He grinned, his eyes wild with lust.
“Yes. Now you are perfect.”
He tied the threads to two heavy brass rings bolted to the headboard of her own bed. Now she was anchored, her head pulled back, her nostrils stretched wide, her neck exposed.
He stood up and walked around behind her. She heard him unzip his pants fully. Then she felt the first warm glob of his cum land directly on her exposed nostril. It dripped inside, sliding down the sensitive inner wall. She wanted to scream, to wipe it away, but her hands were tied—metaphorically—by the blackmail.
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