Lawyer Divya’s secret life as BDSM slave chapter 16

Divya plunged deeper into the BDSM slavery with a point of no return

Divya stepped into the opulent airport lounge, her form-fitting abaya clinging to every curve like a second skin. The overhead niqab draped over her head, the black fabric sheer enough in places to hint at the voluptuous body beneath, but opaque where it mattered—hiding her face entirely. No bra restrained her massive 38DD breasts; they bounced heavily with each step, nipples hardening against the rough material from the constant friction. Below, her pussy lips rubbed together without panties, already slick from the anticipation of submission. At 5'7", she towered over Ahmed, the dark, ugly short man shuffling beside her in his ill-fitting thobe, his eyes gleaming with unearned pride. Passersby stared at the odd pair: the hefty, covered woman led by this unremarkable dark short and ugly man. Whispers followed them—curiosity, envy, judgment—but Ahmed swelled inside, thanking Allah silently. This sexy slave, once a distant dream, was his reality, a cash cow he'd milk dry.

The imam had hooked them up with the client weeks ago: a 65-year-old Saudi tycoon with a harem of wives, seeking fresh meat for his depraved games. The fortune offered was staggering—enough to buy Ahmed loyalty forever. His marriage to Divya was a sham from the start, lust for the unreachable lawyer twisting into greed once Aliyah's leaks handed him the reins. Now, she was no wife, just a doormat to fuck day and night, her body and career his ATM. When the Arab demanded Divya in Jeddah, Ahmed jumped, his first trip abroad a sacred pilgrimage to Mecca's shadow. 'I'll go too,' he'd insisted, voice thick with excitement. The tycoon agreed, amused by the greedy little man's audacity.

Divya suggested the lounge, her voice muffled through the niqab. Ahmed blinked, clueless—a class 12th dropout who'd never seen an airport beyond Delhi's chaos. 'What's that? Free?' She nodded, explaining the perks of her elite bank card. His eyes widened at the spread: platters of grilled meats, fresh salads, gleaming bottles of whiskey and champagne. Though a Muslim, he drank with court buddies, cheap hooch in dingy bars. Here, it was paradise. He beelined for the bar, grabbing a scotch neat, then another, the burn lighting his greedier fires.

Divya craved a cocktail—her usual wine or whiskey to steady nerves—but Ahmed snapped, 'No. You're Muslim now, covered like this. Rich folk stare; they'll think you're a whore sipping booze.' She bit her pierced lip, the metal tugging pain that pooled heat between her thighs. His first wife, Hajira, roamed bare-headed at home and whenever she went outside, rules bending for her. But Divya? Strict submission only, her masochistic core thriving on the hypocrisy.

Hunger gnawed; she eyed the food warily. How to eat veiled? Ahmed returned with finger foods—olives, cheese cubes—grinning like a conqueror. 'Corner seat, against the wall. Lift the niqab just enough.' She obeyed, backing into the shadows, heart racing. Her gloved hand slipped under the fabric, pulling it aside fractionally. She popped an olive into her mouth, chewing slowly, the tongue piercing clinking against her teeth. Like a caged beast stealing scraps, the humiliation flooded her pussy with wetness. She shifted, breasts heaving, nipples scraping the abaya.

Ahmed vanished for more drinks—two pegs of premium bourbon, far beyond his usual watered-down swill with laborer friends. The alcohol hit hard, flushing his face, stirring his cock. He returned, eyes glassy, commanding, 'Leash. Now.' Divya fished the thin chain from her abaya pocket, handing it over with trembling fingers. In their secluded corner, she faced the wall as he threaded it through her quarter-inch septum ring inside the niqab. The metal grommet, stretched wide from endless tugs, bit into her flesh as he yanked.

Pain exploded—sharp, searing—her big nose distorting under the pull. Side hoops strained, the silver rings pulling her nostrils apart. Tears welled, but her pussy clenched, arousal dripping down her thighs. Ahmed's fetish burned bright; tugging her snout was his ultimate high, reducing the supreme lawyer to a sniveling cow. He jerked harder, rhythmically, her head snapping forward with each rip. 'Feel this,' he growled, guiding her hand to his hardening cock through his pants. She stroked the bulge, thick and insistent, while his free hand mauled her breasts through the abaya—squeezing the heavy globes, pinching nipples until she whimpered into the veil.

Unseen, an Arab businesswoman watched from across the lounge. Young, 25, with a model's lithe frame poured into a tight skirt and blouse, her dark eyes devoured the scene. She sipped espresso, thighs pressing together at the raw dominance.

They boarded the flight to Jeddah, business class courtesy of Divya's card—Ahmed's first taste of luxury. Reclining seats, privacy screens half-drawn. As the plane taxied, his hands roamed again, slipping under her abaya to grope bare skin. Fingers twisted her nipple rings, pulling the hoops until milk-white flesh bulged red. Divya gasped, arching into the pain, her pierced tongue flicking out to wet her hidden lips.

Mid-flight, the businesswoman approached from her front row seat, heels clicking. 'Excuse me,' she purred to Ahmed, voice smooth Arabic-accented English. 'Can I borrow your wife for a bit? I'll make it worth your while.' She flashed cash—thick wad of riyals. Ahmed's greed lit up; he nodded eagerly, waving Divya off like luggage. 'Go on, slut. Earn your keep.'

The woman—Laila—led Divya to the empty rear business section, a few passengers dozing ahead. She pushed Divya into a seat, hands immediately cupping those massive breasts through the abaya. 'So full,' Laila murmured, squeezing hard, thumbs circling the stiff peaks. Divya moaned, the pressure sending jolts to her clit. 'Show me your face. I want to see the beauty under there.'

Divya hesitated, then lifted the niqab. Laila's breath caught. Divya's long, elegant nose dominated—triple pierced: quarter-inch septum bar gleaming, large silver hoops stretching the sides wide, giving her a perpetual bull-like snout. Lower lip bore three studs. Eyebrows arched with bars, adding to the slutty allure. The leash still dangled from the septum, swaying.

'Allah, what a pierced bitch,' Laila whispered, tracing the septum with a manicured nail. 'Now I get the lounge show. He was yanking this?' Divya nodded, flushing. 'How are you with that ugly troll?' Questions tumbled: origins, piercings' purpose. 'I'm his wife,' Divya confessed, voice husky. 'And his sex slave. I crave the torture, the punishments.' Laila laughed. 'Muslim with all this metal? Scandalous. But veiled, who cares? In India, niqab hides everything.'

She fetched Ahmed, pulling him aside. He spilled it all—Divya's BDSM slave life, her love for nose hooks and whippings. He flashed phone pics: Divya bound, septum leashed to a hook splitting her nostrils, ass striped red from canes; another with needles through her breasts, blood trickling as she begged. Laila's nipples hardened under her blouse; she bit her lip, aroused. 'Famous Supreme Court lawyer? The great Divya, reduced to this? Hot.' Ahmed said to Laila , pocketing more cash she'd slipped him.

Laila returned, eyes feral. She shoved Divya back, yanking the abaya open at the chest. Massive 38DD tits spilled free, veined and heavy, nipple rings glinting—thick bars through each areola, chains linking them. Laila twisted one viciously, the metal gouging flesh, Divya's cry echoing softly. 'Scream for me, slave.' Then the leash—Laila seized it, hauling the septum ring with brutal force. Divya's nose stretched grotesquely, nostrils flaring wide around the hoops, pain lancing to her core. She bucked, pussy gushing, as Laila pulled harder, forcing her head down until her chin hit her chest. 'Beg like the whore you are.'

Divya whimpered, 'Please, hurt me more. I'm your toy.' Laila's free hand dove lower, fingers plunging into Divya's soaked pussy, labia clamps clinking as she fucked roughly. The tongue piercing bobbed with each gasp, drool slicking her chin. Turbulence rocked the plane, but Laila didn't stop—twisting nipples until bruises bloomed, yanking the leash to deform that proud nose into a piggish mess.

As descent began, Laila relented, shoving Divya's tits back under the abaya. 'Back to your master. Tell him I'll bid high for a night in Jeddah.' Divya stumbled to Ahmed, niqab readjusted, body throbbing with fresh marks. He grinned, groping her ass possessively. The plane touched down in Jeddah, the tycoon's fortune—and more humiliations—awaiting.