Hello all, welcome to the seventh part of my fantasy world. Thank you for your positive response to this series. This is a continuation of a series. Please read the earlier parts if you haven’t read them yet. Let’s get started with this part.
We returned from Dubai on a December evening. For three days, Isha barely moved from her bed. I’d been trying to help, to comfort, but she wouldn’t let me in.
On the fourth morning after our return, I tried anyway. Tried to be a husband. “Isha, we’re still married. Still us. Let me help you through this.”
She looked at me with something worse than anger. Pity. “There’s no us, Shailesh. There never really was. You’re kind, but you’re not what I need. You’re not even a man, really. The hormones have shown us both that. You’re something else. Something softer.”
“I can try to be—”
“You can’t change what you fundamentally are. And honestly? I don’t want you to. After Dubai, after being sold like property, I can’t pretend anymore. I need a real man. And you need to be what you actually are.”
I agree with her. For the past three months, ever since the cage, Isha had been giving me hormone pills. She said they were to help with the pain, to make the cage more comfortable, to reduce my arousal so I wouldn’t suffer. I took them faithfully every day.
But they’d changed me. My body first – my chest had developed small but definite breasts, and my hips had widened noticeably. The way I thought about things had shifted. When I looked at Isha getting ready – draping a saree, applying makeup, wearing jewellery – I didn’t just admire her beauty.
I envied it. Wanted to experience it. Wanted to be her. And when Samar would visit, when I’d see his masculine strength, his confident dominance, his powerful presence, I didn’t just feel inadequate in comparison. I felt attracted. Not as a man attracted to another man. But as a woman attracted to a man.
I’d imagine him holding me like he held Isha. Touching me as he touched her. Taking me as he took her. The submissive feelings felt natural. Right. Like something that had always been there, just waiting for permission to emerge. The hormones had unlocked what I truly was inside.
And honestly? I wasn’t fighting it anymore. Being feminine felt better than pretending to be masculine ever had.
That evening, Sahil arrived. Clean white kurta, deliberate effort in his appearance. His dark eyes found Isha immediately, concern evident. “Is she okay?”
I tried weakly to assert something. “She doesn’t want visitors.”
“Move.” One word. Absolute authority. I stepped aside immediately, my body responding to his dominance before my mind could even process it.
Isha saw him and broke. Ran into his arms like he was salvation itself. “You came. You actually came.”
“Always.” His arms wrapped around her protectively, and I felt a sharp pang of envy – not of him having her, but of her being held like that by him. “I’ve been planning revenge against Samar. But I need help. Financial evidence. Can you be strong?”
“With you? I can do anything.”
He kissed her then. Tender but claiming. Real. I watched my wife choose another man completely, and part of me understood. He was what a man should be. I wasn’t. I had never been.
Sahil looked at me, his gaze assessing. “You work in accounts. You’ll gather evidence against Samar. Everything – fraud, kickbacks, fake vendors. All of it. Help us, or I’ll make your life much worse.”
“Please, Shailesh,” Isha added. “You couldn’t protect me from Samar. At least help me destroy him now.”
What choice did I have? “Fine. I’ll help.”
After Sahil left, I thought that would be it. But Isha sat me down, her expression serious. “We need to talk. Really talk.”
“About what?”
“About us. About the future. About truth.” She took a breath. “I’m leaving you, Shailesh. After we destroy Samar, after everything settles, I’m divorcing you and marrying Sahil. Properly. Legally. I love him. I want to be his wife.”
The words should have devastated me. But instead, I felt relief? “I understand.”
She looked surprised. “You’re not upset?”
“I don’t know. The hormones you’ve been giving me have changed how I think, how I feel. How I see things.” I gathered courage. “I look at you with Sahil, and I’m not jealous of him having you. I’m jealous of you having him. I want to be like you. Feminine. Desired by a man like him. Taken care of by someone strong.”
Isha studied me carefully. “You’re saying you feel like a woman? Inside?”
“Yes. I think I always have been. Just didn’t have the words or permission to accept it. The hormones just brought it to the surface. Made it undeniable.”
“Then we’re both becoming who we really are,” she said softly. “Me – Sahil’s woman. You – yourself. Your true self. Whatever that looks like.”
“You’re so lucky,” I said quietly. “To have someone like Sahil.”
“Maybe someday you’ll find your own version of that,” Isha said. “Someone who sees the woman you’re becoming and wants her. Values her. Cherishes her.”
“Maybe.” I paused. “Until you marry him, can I stay? Here? I have nowhere else to go.”
“Of course. You can stay until the divorce is final. Until everything is settled. We’ll get through this together. All three of us. Honestly. Truthfully. As who we really are.”
The next six weeks were a transformation. Every evening, Sahil would visit to plan revenge. They’d sit close on the sofa, discussing strategy, gathering evidence, building the case.
They were physical, too. I’d hear them in the bedroom – soft sounds, muffled moans, the bed creaking. But Sahil maintained boundaries. He wouldn’t fuck her in front of me.
“This is sacred,” I heard him tell her once. “Private. Between us. He doesn’t need to see this.” It made me respect him more. He valued her too much to degrade her that way.
During this time, I gathered evidence meticulously. Samar had been stealing for years – fake vendors, inflated invoices, kickbacks, offshore accounts. Crores were stolen from the company.
I documented everything and handed it all to Sahil weekly. He’d review it with sharp intelligence, nodding approval. “Good work. Keep going.”
My body continued changing, too. The hormones were working powerfully now. My breasts were definitely B-cups, needing a bra. My hips had widened significantly. My waist had narrowed. Face is soft and pretty. No body hair at all. I looked feminine. Felt feminine. Was feminine in every way that mattered.
Isha noticed and started helping. She’d give me her old clothes sometimes – soft shirts, comfortable pants that fit my new shape. Once she showed me how to apply basic makeup – just moisturiser and lip balm, nothing obvious. But enough to make me feel right. More of myself.
She didn’t mock me. Didn’t judge. Just helped me become.
“You look good,” she’d say. “Natural. Like this is who you were always meant to be.”
And it was. Every day, I felt more comfortable in this changing body. More at peace with these feminine thoughts and feelings. More accepting of my truth.
One evening after Sahil left, I was helping Isha with dishes. “He’s wonderful,” I said quietly. “The way he plans, the way he thinks, the way he handles everything. You’re so lucky to have him.”
“I am,” she agreed. “He’s everything I need. Everything I never knew I was missing.”
“I wish-” I trailed off.
“What?”
“I wish I could find someone like that. Someone strong who’d want me. The me I’m becoming. Someone who’d make me feel the way he makes you feel.”
She squeezed my hand. “You will. Someday. When you’re ready. When you’re fully yourself, someone will see you and want exactly who you are.”
“Thank you. For understanding. For helping. For not judging.”
“We’re both becoming who we’re meant to be,” she said. “Just in different directions. That deserves support, not judgment.”
In mid-February, everything came to a head. Isha wore a wire to Samar’s flat, got him confessing everything – the blackmail, the videos, the attempt to sell her. Perfect evidence. The next day was chaos.
Factory workers struck. Sahil presented evidence to the board: years of fraud, the recorded confession, and worker testimonies. Samar tried to defend himself, threw accusations, and threatened. Useless. He was fired immediately. Police called. Arrested within hours. Everything he’d built collapsed completely.
The board promoted Sahil on the spot. Made him a board member, gave him Samar’s department, all his authority. And the final touch of poetic justice – the company flat. The 80-lakh flat Samar had given Isha was now reassigned as Sahil’s official residence.
When they discussed my involvement, Sahil barely defended me. “He helped gather evidence, but his name is on documents. He’s a liability.” The decision was quick – fired, no charges out of courtesy for cooperation, but finished at that factory.
I walked out jobless. That evening, Sahil came to our flat triumphant. This time, his arrival was different – he walked in like he owned everything. Because he did. Isha rushed to him immediately, kissed him fully on the mouth right in front of me. No more pretence of boundaries.
“It’s done,” Sahil announced. “Samar’s destroyed. And I have everything now – his position, his authority, his flat. The 80-lakh flat.”
Isha’s eyes widened with wonder. “That flat? The one he gave me?”
“Mine now. Official company residence for a board member. Perfect justice, don’t you think?” He pulled her close, his hand possessive on her waist. “Move in with me. Live there. Be mine publicly. Properly.”
“Yes!” Isha said immediately. “I want to! We’ll marry, everything proper.”
“Then it’s settled,” Sahil said. “We’ll plan the wedding. Private ceremony with my mother as witness. One month from now. You’ll be my wife officially.”
They kissed again, deep and passionate, completely absorbed in each other. I stood there watching, feeling strange. Not jealous. Not hurt. Just accepting. This was right. This was how things should be. She belonged with him. And I was becoming something else entirely.
Sahil finally acknowledged me. “You’ll stay at the flat too. Servant quarters. Help around the house. Until you figure out your next steps. Until you’re ready to fully transition or whatever you’re planning. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” I said. It was generous, actually. More than I deserved.
“Good. Tomorrow, we celebrate. Factory party for my promotion. Both of you come. This victory belongs to all of us.”
The next evening, Sahil called. “Get ready. The factory celebration starts in two hours. Isha, I’m sending you something special to wear. And Shailesh – you come too. This is our victory. All of us.”
An hour later, a package arrived. Isha opened it to reveal a full burka – traditional black abaya with niqab. She looked at it, confused. “Why this?”
“Everyone at the factory knows you as my wife,” I explained quietly. “If you go openly as Sahil’s woman, there’ll be a scandal. Questions. Problems. The burka lets you be there, be with him, but hidden. Protected.”
Understanding dawned. “Smart. That’s smart.” She disappeared into the bedroom.
When she emerged forty minutes later, I gasped. The burka covered her completely – head to toe in flowing black fabric. But underneath, she was absolutely ravishing.
Through the narrow eye slit, I could see her eyes were heavily kohled, made enormous and dramatic with thick kajal and dark eyeshadow. Her eyelashes were long and dark, batting seductively.
Her hands were visible at the wrists – fair skin, perfectly manicured nails painted deep red. Gold bangles stacked on both wrists. Rings on several fingers. Even just her hands looked expensive. Desirable. Feminine.
And I could tell from the way the fabric draped that underneath, she was dressed to kill. The burka couldn’t quite hide her curves – those magnificent breasts, that narrow waist, those wide breeding hips, that perfect ass. The fabric clung and moved with her body, revealing the shape of femininity underneath.
When she walked, I caught glimpses of her feet – also perfectly pedicured with matching red nail polish. Delicate anklets. Expensive heels clicking on the floor. Even her walk was different – confident, sensual, knowing she looked incredible even if no one could see most of it.
“Ready,” she said, and even her voice sounded different. Sultry. Confident. Powerful. She knew exactly what she was – a bomb wrapped in a traditional covering. Dangerous. Irresistible.
Sahil picked us up in his car. When he saw Isha in the burka, his eyes darkened with desire. “Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Get in.”
The drive to the factory was charged. Sahil kept glancing at Isha, his hand occasionally reaching over to touch her knee, her thigh, her hand. Possessive touches. Claiming touches. She’d respond with soft sighs, leaning toward him, clearly aroused.
I sat in the back seat watching them, feeling that now-familiar envy.
The factory courtyard was transformed. Lights strung everywhere. Music playing. Food was laid out. Workers celebrating. Everyone cheered when Sahil arrived. “Sahil Sir! Congratulations!” “Board member!” “You saved us from that corrupt bastard!”
Sahil accepted the adulation naturally, as he deserved it. Because he did. He’d won. Completely. Isha stayed close to him, the mysterious woman in the burka. Workers glanced at her curiously but respectfully. She was clearly with Sahil. That was all they needed to know.
But I could see some of them noticing her anyway. The way she moved. The curve of her ass under the abaya when she walked. Her fair hands with their red nails. Her kohled eyes when they caught glimpses.
Some workers’ gazes lingered too long. Hungry. Appreciative. They couldn’t see most of her, but what they could see was enough to make them imagine. Want.
Sahil noticed too. His hand went to her waist possessively. “Mine,” that touch said. “Look all you want. You’ll never have her. She belongs to me.”
After an hour of celebration, Sahil leaned down to whisper in Isha’s ear. She nodded. He looked at me. “Guard my office door. Don’t let anyone in. For anything. Understood?”
“Understood,” I said.
They walked toward the administrative building. I followed at a distance. Sahil unlocked his new office – previously Samar’s, now his. They went inside. I heard the lock click. Took my position outside the door.
For a moment, there was silence. Then Isha’s laugh. “This was his office. Samar’s. And now it’s yours. You took everything from him. Everything.”
“Everything,” Sahil agreed. “His position. His power. His flat. His woman. All mine now. As it should be.”
“Show me,” Isha’s voice was breathy, eager. “Show me I’m yours. Here. In his old office. Claim me where he used to work.”
Sound of fabric rustling. The burka coming off. Then Sahil’s sharp intake of breath. “Fucking hell. What are you wearing under there?”
“You like it?” Teasing. Confident.
“Like it? You’re wearing – is that – fuck, Isha. Red lingerie? Here? Under the burka?”
“I wanted to surprise you. Wanted to be perfect for our celebration. Do I look perfect?”
“You look like sin. Like every fantasy. Like mine. All mine. Get on your knees. Now.”
Sound of movement. Then Sahil groans. “Yes. Fuck yes. Take it. Take all of it. Good girl. My good girl. My woman.”
Wet sounds. Isha’s muffled moans. She was sucking him. Right there in the office. I stood outside guarding the door, my face burning, my small breasts aching, my caged cock completely irrelevant.
Through the frosted glass of the office door, I could see silhouettes. Her kneeling form. His standing is one. Her head is moving. His hands in her hair.
“Deeper,” Sahil commanded. “Throat it. Show me how much you want to please me.”
Gagging sounds. Then Isha’s voice, hoarse: “I want to please you. Always. Any way you want.”
“Then bend over the desk. I’m going to fuck you on it. Mark it as mine. Mark you as mine. Right where he used to sit.”
Movement. Then the unmistakable sound of flesh meeting flesh. Sahil had entered her. Isha cried out. “Ah, yes! God yes! Fuck me! Fuck me on his desk! Make it yours! Make me yours!”
“Already mine,” Sahil growled. “Always been mine. Just took me time to claim you.” The sound of hard thrusting. The desk creaks. Isha’s moans are getting louder.
The pace increased. Brutal now. The desk slammed against the wall. Her screams echo. “Yes, yes, yes! Sahil! Oh god! So good! So deep! You’re so much better than him! Than anyone!”
Through the frosted glass, the silhouettes were pure pornography. His powerful form dominates hers. Her smaller form bent and yielded. His hips are pistoning. Her body is rocking. Dark and fair. Strong and soft. Male and female. Conqueror and conquered.
“I’m close!” Isha screamed. “Sahil! I’m so close!”
“Then cum for me. Cum on my cock. Show everyone in this building who you belong to now.”
“Yours! I belong to you! Only you! Cumming! I’m cumming! Fuck! Fuck!”
Her scream of release was primal. Absolute. A few workers passing by glanced at the office door curiously. I stood there, face burning, blocking them. “Private meeting,” I said. They smirked but moved on.
Inside, Sahil wasn’t done. “Again,” he demanded. “On the floor. On your hands and knees. Like an animal. Like my bitch. Because that’s what you are, aren’t you? My bitch. My slut. My everything.”
“Yes!” Isha agreed eagerly. “Your bitch! Your slut! You’re everything! Use me! Fuck me! Own me!”
More sounds. Rougher. Harder. Her moans turned to screams, turned to sobs of pleasure. “Too much! Too good! Can’t take it! But don’t stop! Never stop!”
Thirty minutes. Forty-five. An hour. They fucked for a solid hour. Different positions. Different intensities. Sometimes fast and brutal. Sometimes slow and deep. Always passionate. Always connected. Always completely absorbed in each other.
Finally, Sahil’s roar. “Isha! Fuck! Take it! Take my cum!” and Isha’s answering scream. “Yes! Fill me! Breed me! Make me yours! Completely! Forever!” Silence. Panting. Then soft sounds. Kissing. Murmuring. Coming down from the high.
Twenty minutes later, the door unlocked. Isha emerged first, burka back on, but I could see the satisfaction in her eyes through the slit. The glow. The complete contentment. Sahil followed, looking equally satisfied. Victorious. Like a king who’d just claimed his queen in his new castle.
“Let’s go,” he said simply. “Home. We have planning to do.”
In the car ride back, Isha was cuddled against Sahil, both glowing with satisfaction. But then she sat up straight, her expression suddenly serious.
“I need to tell you something,” she said softly. “Something important.”
Sahil looked at her. “What?”
“I’m pregnant.” The words hung in the air. “Two months. I just found out last week. I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you. I’m carrying your baby, Sahil.”
The car swerved slightly as Sahil processed this. He pulled over to the side of the road, put it in park, and turned to face her fully. “Pregnant? You’re carrying my child?”
“Yes. Our child. Yours and mine. I know we’re not married yet, I know this complicates things, but—”
He kissed her. Hard. Passionate. Claiming. When they broke apart, his eyes were wet. “My child. You’re carrying my baby. My heir. This is everything. Everything I’ve ever wanted. You. A family. A future. All of it.”
“You’re happy?” Isha asked, tears streaming down her face.
“Happy? I’m fucking ecstatic. We’re getting married immediately. Not in a month. Two weeks. I want you to be legally mine before you start showing. Before anyone questions anything. My wife. My child. My family. Mine.”
They kissed again, both crying now, both overwhelmed with emotion. I sat in the back seat watching, feeling happy for them. This was how it should be. They belonged together. They were creating a family.
Sahil looked at me in the rearview mirror. “You understand what this means? She’s pregnant with my child. She’s marrying me. You’ll be divorced and out within two weeks. Are you okay with that?”
“I’m okay with it,” I said honestly. “This is what should happen. What needs to happen. For everyone.”
“Good. Then let’s go home. Tell my mother. Plan this wedding. Make everything official.”
The next two weeks were a blur. Salma cried with joy when talking about the pregnancy and the upcoming wedding. “A grandchild! My son to be married! Everything Allah willed! Everything I prayed for!”
The wedding was planned quickly but carefully. Private ceremony. Just immediate family and closest friends as witnesses. Papers were prepared for the marriage and my divorce simultaneously. Everything legal and proper, just hidden from public view to avoid scandal.
During those two weeks, Isha transformed completely. She shopped for wedding clothes, bridal jewellery, and everything she’d need. The pregnancy made her glow even more. Her breasts were swelling, her hips widening, her face radiant. She looked fertile. Made for bearing strong men’s children.
She’d practice her bridal walk in the flat, showing me her outfits. “What do you think? Too much? Not enough?”
“You look beautiful,” I’d say honestly. “He’s a lucky man.”
“I’m the lucky one,” she’d correct. “I’m getting the man I actually love. The life I actually want. The future I actually deserve.”
And she was right. She deserved this. Deserved him. Deserved happiness.
One evening, helping her pin her dupatta for a fitting, I said quietly: “Thank you. For everything. For helping me understand myself. For not judging. For supporting this.”
“We’re both becoming who we’re meant to be,” she said. “Just in different directions. That deserves support. Always.”
Hope you liked this part. Please write to me at [email protected] with your comments and feedback.