Bullies cuckold

Introduction

The company was theirs. Gangadhar’s name headed every contract. Deepak’s signature released every salary. The men who worked for them—brothers, husbands, fathers—had learned that the only way to keep their own jobs, and their own bodies intact, was to do exactly what they were told after dark. They worked on other floors or in other buildings during the day. At night they were called in and given one instruction: bring the girl.

Tonight three of them stood in the twelfth-floor corridor under the humming lights, each holding a trembling arm. The first was a senior developer whose younger sister had joined as an intern two weeks earlier. The second was an accounts manager whose wife had been summoned from their flat twenty minutes ago. The third was a compliance officer whose fiancée still lived with her parents; he had driven across the city to collect her. None of them looked at the women. Their faces were gray. Their hands were tight enough to leave marks.

Gangadhar waited inside the open office with the phone already recording, red light steady. Deepak stood beside him, sleeves rolled, watching the elevator. When the doors opened he smiled.

“Bring them in,” he said. “One at a time. Start with the sister.”

The developer pushed his sister forward. She was twenty-one, still in the clothes she had worn to the office that morning, hair tied back, eyes wide and wet. She tried to dig her heels into the carpet. Her brother tightened his grip and forced her the last few steps.

“This is Ananya,” Gangadhar said to the camera, voice calm. “Her brother works for us. He brought her because we told him to. Tell the recording why, brother.”

The man’s voice cracked. “Because… because you’ll fire me. Because you’ll hurt me. I brought her so you won’t.”

Ananya began to cry at once. “Bhaiya, please—please don’t—please take me home—” Deepak caught her by the hair and bent her over the nearest desk. Gangadhar stepped closer so the lens caught her face. They stripped her slowly while she begged, kurta pulled up, leggings torn at the seam, panties yanked down and left around one ankle. She was a virgin. The blood showed when Deepak pressed into her the first time, one hand on the back of her neck, the other forcing her legs wider. She screamed into the desk. The sound was high and broken.

“Please—it hurts—please stop—please I’m begging—”

Gangadhar recorded every thrust. He made the brother stand close enough that her tears hit his shoes and ordered him to count. Deepak fucked her hard, hips slamming, fingers leaving bruises on her waist. They switched. Gangadhar took her mouth while Deepak stayed inside her, stretching her until she sobbed continuously. They slapped her breasts, pinched her nipples, forced two fingers in alongside the cock so she stretched and cried harder. The recording caught the wet sounds, the blood, the way her voice cracked every time she said “mercy.” When they finished they left her on the floor, half-naked, one hand pressed between her legs, still whispering “please” under her breath. The brother stayed frozen until they told him he could leave.

The accounts manager came next with his wife. She was twenty-eight, married three years, still wearing the gold chain her husband had given her. She saw the intern on the floor and started shaking before they touched her.

“This is Priya,” Deepak said to the camera. “Her husband brought her from their house. Tell them why, husband.”

“Because you said you’d ruin me,” the man answered, eyes on the carpet. “Because I’m scared. I brought her so you wouldn’t.”

Priya begged from the first moment. “Please—please not me—please I’m married—please have mercy—” They bent her over the same desk. Gangadhar recorded while Deepak entered her from behind, one hand around her throat, the other forcing her to look at the lens. She cried the entire time, voice high and wet, body jerking with every thrust. They made the husband kneel and slap her face twice while she sobbed his name mixed with “stop.” Deepak pulled out and pushed into her ass without warning. She screamed. Gangadhar filmed the stretch, the tears running into her open mouth, the way she kept saying “please no more” even when her voice broke. They used her for a long time—mouth, cunt, ass—trading places, leaving marks, forcing her to beg louder for the recording. When they were done the mess ran down her thighs onto the carpet. They left her there, blouse open, skirt twisted, while her husband wiped her face with his own shirt because they told him to.

The third man brought his fiancée last. She was twenty-three, still living with her parents, engagement ring still on her finger. She had been crying in the car. Now she cried harder when she saw the other two women on the floor.

“This is Meera,” Gangadhar said. “Her fiancé works in compliance. He drove across the city to bring her. Tell the camera why.”

The man could barely speak. “Because you ordered me. Because I’m afraid of what you’ll do if I don’t.”

Meera dropped to her knees the moment they reached for her. “Please—please don’t—please I’m still a virgin—please let me go—” Deepak dragged her up by the hair and forced her onto the desk. They stripped her while she begged, the engagement ring catching the light every time her hand moved. Gangadhar set the phone close so the lens caught her face when he pushed into her for the first time. The blood was bright. She screamed and kept screaming, voice raw, hands clawing at the desk. “It hurts—please stop—please I’m begging you—mercy—”

They recorded everything. Deepak held her ankles high while Gangadhar fucked her hard, then switched so Deepak could take her ass while Gangadhar used her mouth. They made the fiancé stand between her spread legs and watch the stretch, made him say out loud that he had given her to them. She cried the entire time, tears and saliva mixing on her chin, voice cracking into pure sound every time they thrust too deep. They slapped her, marked her breasts and throat, forced extra fingers inside her until she sobbed continuously. The red light stayed on. Every plea, every wet sound, every broken “please no more” was captured under the fluorescent lights.

When they finished they left all three women on the floor of the open office—half-dressed, shaking, still whispering fragments of mercy. The men stood where they had been told to stand, empty-eyed, waiting for permission to leave. Gangadhar checked the phone, battery still half full, and smiled at the recording.

“Plenty left,” he said.

Deepak nodded. They walked toward the elevator. Behind them the women kept crying, soft and continuous, while the men who had brought them stayed silent because they had already been told not to speak.

You had learned the sound of those footsteps on the twelfth-floor corridor. The moment the elevator chimed and the air changed, you took the service stairs or stayed inside a locked bathroom stall until the red recording light disappeared down the street. You already knew what they made the men bring, and what they did to the girls once they arrived, and how long the begging lasted under the cameras. You never stayed close enough to hear it.