Pairing: Brigadier Jahangir × Reader Content Warnings: Dark themes • obsessive possessiveness • power imbalance • coercive dynamics • manipulation • military authority • jealousy • humiliation • explicit language • toxic relationship dynamics • psychological domination Synopsis: In the suffocating silence of a military household, one mistake is enough to draw the attention of Brigadier Jahangir. Behind closed doors, authority blurs into desire, punishment into possession, and every stolen glance becomes another link in the chain binding you to him. Word Count: 2407
The heavy oak door clicked shut behind Brigadier Jahangir, the sound echoing through the quiet house like a final verdict. The worn leather of his uniform creaked as he stood in the doorway of the dinning hall, his eyes adjusting to the dim lamplight. You were there, as always, setting the tea tray on the side table—the delicate porcelain cup, the steam curling upward. But today, something was different.
His gaze wasn't tired. It was sharp. Hungry. It scanned every movement you made with a precision that made your skin prickle. You felt the weight of his stare on your back, on your hands as they trembled slightly while arranging the saucer. You tried to focus, to be perfect, but the air in the room had thickened, charged with something unspoken.
You reached for the cup, your fingers brushing the rim. Then it happened—a slickness of sweat, a momentary loss of grip, and the cup slipped. Time fractured. The porcelain hit the floor with a sickening crack, splintering into jagged shards that scattered across the carpet. You flinched, your breath hitching, your heart lurching into your throat.
The silence that followed was worse than any shout.
You didn't dare turn around. You could feel him—his presence expanding, his anger radiating like heat from a furnace. You knew the rules of his house. Perfection was not an expectation; it was a requirement. Mistakes were not forgiven. They were punished.
Your knees buckled as you sank to the floor, your hands moving instinctively to gather the broken pieces. The edges bit into your palms, drawing thin lines of blood, but you barely noticed. All you could feel was the prickling awareness of him closing in. His boots made no sound on the thick carpet, but you felt the shift of air, the displacement of warmth as he drew nearer. Goosebumps erupted across your arms, your neck, your spine.
Then his hand shot out.
In one swift, brutal motion, he seized your upper arm, twisting it behind your back and yanking you upright. Your chest slammed against his chest, the rough wool of his uniform abrasive against your thin kurta. His other hand came up, fingers wrapping around your throat—his thumb pressed into the hollow beneath your jaw, tilting your face up.
His eyes bore into yours. Dark. Furious. And something else—something that made your thighs clench despite your fear.
"Yeh kya kiya?" he roared, the sound vibrating through his chest into your back.
Your eyes dropped. Your lips trembled. Your voice came out as a whisper, broken and pleading. "Sahab... mafi... galati ho gyi."
"Galati?" He spat the word like a curse. His grip on your throat tightened, forcing a whimper from your lips. Your eyes snapped back to his, wide and wet. He studied your face—the fear, the submission, the surrender—and a slow, cruel smile curled the corner of his mouth.
"Anjaam janti ho apni galti ka?"
The words hung in the air like a blade. Your throat tightened under his palm, pulse hammering against his fingers. You couldn't speak—could barely breathe—but you shook your head, a frantic, desperate motion.
"Sahab, please hume maaf kar dijie..." The words tumbled out, broken, pathetic.
"Maine pucha—anjaam janti ho ya yaad dilana padega?"
His thumb pressed harder, cutting off your air for a split second before sliding upward along the column of your throat. You gasped, eyes wide, tears already pricking at the corners. The pad of his thumb traced your jaw, rough and deliberate, stopping at your lower lip. He pressed down, parting your lips, forcing them open.
You knew what was coming. Your heart hammered so hard you could feel it in your temples, in your cunt, in the tremble of your knees. But your body remained still. Obedient. You had no choice.
The thick, calloused thumb slid past your teeth - he pressed down, forcing your jaw wider, and squeezed your cheeks, pinching the hollows until pain flared sharp and bright across your face. You whimpered, a pathetic sound muffled by his skin.
He leaned in, his breath hot and metallic against your ear. The brass buttons of his uniform jacket dug into your chest through the thin fabric of your kurta. You could smell him—sweat, tobacco, leather, power.
"Ab tumhare poora jism ko" he whispered, each word a nail being driven into your coffin. "Har galati ki keemat chukani padegi."
Your feet stumbled. The world blurred. He had you by the arm, fingers digging into the soft flesh, dragging you towards the long mahogany table gleamed under the overhead lights, cold and unyielding.
He threw you onto it.
Before you could scramble away, his hands were on you—ripping, tearing, pulling. Your clothes discarded somewhere as he tore the scraps from your body leaving you completely naked under his lusted gaze. Your hands shot up to cover yourself, but he caught them, twisted them, and wrapped his belt around your wrists. He pulled your arms above your head, stretching you out flat on the polished surface.
You moved—just a twitch, a reflex—and his palm came down across your cheek with a crack so loud it echoed.
"Move again," he said, voice flat, cold, "and I'll make sure you can't sit for a week."
You stopped. Held still. Every muscle locked.
He stepped back, surveying you. His gaze traveled slowly from your bound wrists, down your bare arms, over your full breasts, your stomach, the dark patch of hair between your legs. You felt his eyes like fingers, violating you before he even touched you again. He grabbed your thighs apart under his gaze spreading you - your sensitive pussy exposed to him completely.
He stepped forward, hooking one hand under your right knee and slid two fingers inside you without warning.
" Sahab.. please mafhii... ahhhh". You choked on a cry. There was no preparation, no gentleness—just the sudden, shocking intrusion of his digits thrusting deep, spreading you open. The table creaked beneath you as he worked, curling his fingers, hooking them, pumping them in and out with violent precision.
His mouth came down on your nipple, and he bit.
Not a tease. Not a nibble. A bite—hard enough to make your vision white. "Ahhhhh.......", you screamed, back arching off the table, but his fingers inside you kept moving, kept thrusting, kept ruining you. His teeth ground down on the tender bud, pulling, stretching, before he released it with a wet pop and moved to the other one.
Your body arched, back bowing off the table, every muscle taut. He growled against your skin and you felt the stretch, the burn—a third finger forcing its way inside your tight hole.
Your scream tore through the room, raw and broken. Your eyes rolled back, tears streaming down your cheeks, your body trembling as he pumped his fingers in and out, in and out, each thrust deeper, harder. He mouth bites your nipples hard, leaving red marks behind on your breasts. The wet sounds of your own arousal—betraying you—filled the space between your sobs.
Then his head was between your thighs. His tongue lashed out, flat and hot, dragging from your entrance up to your clit. He licked like he was starving, like he owned every inch of you. His fingers never stopped—pushing inside, curling, stretching, while his mouth worked your bundle of nerves with savage focus. Your breasts bounced with each convulsion. Your lips were agape, eyes half-closed, mind dissolving into static. He worked in and out of you like a madman, fingers and tongue in perfect, brutal rhythm.
"Sahab, log aa gaye hain meeting ke liye." - the guard's voice cut through the haze. He stood at the entrance of the dining hall, eyes wide, frozen. The sight of the brigadier's head buried between a woman's thighs, her legs spread wide on the table, the creak of wood and the wet sounds of fucking.
Jahangir glanced up from between your thighs, lips glistening, a slow smirk spreading across his face. "Baitha unko. Kaho 5 minute mein aa raha hoon"
The servant fled. The door swung shut.
But you heard them—voices in the hallway. Major Iqbal, Rehman, Uzair. Their boots clicked on the marble floor. One of them glanced to the right, toward the dining room. Through the gap in the door, Iqbal saw the brigadier from the side— his body positioned between a pair of spread thighs before settling on over the naked body spread on the table.
They couldn't see your face properly. But they saw enough.
And then he stood.
His trousers dropped just enough to free his cock—thick, flushed, slick with your wetness already. He grabbed your ankle, lifted your leg, hooked your foot over his shoulder. The new angle opened you completely, exposed you, made you a offering.
He stepped forward, one foot braced on the edge of the table, and drove his entire length inside you in one brutal, unforgiving stroke.
Your body convulsed. A scream caught in your throat, emerging as a choked sob. He leaned forward, using his full weight, grinding his hips against yours, forcing himself deeper still. The table groaned. Your wrists strained against the belt. Every nerve in your body was fire.
He fucked you mercilessly. His breath came in harsh grunts, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. Each thrust slammed into you, pounding the table, rattling the china in the sideboard. You could hear the guests in the next room—voices, laughter —while he took you apart on this polished surface.
You screamed again, and you knew they heard. Knew Major Iqbal paused mid-sentence. Knew Rehman looked toward the door. Knew they all knew what was happening. Brigadier fucked you mercilessly like a madman, his hands pinching and twisting your nipples until you whimpered on the table. Your hands still tied up ached as you longed for a release. Breasts bouncing with slick slaps of your thighs against him as heated polled in your stomach. Your breath fastened as you came close to release - eyes rolled back to the back of your head, lips agape, breasts bouncing and your cunt throbbed from his rough thrusting.
Your orgasm hit like a wave breaking. Your inner walls clenched around his cock, pulsing, spasming, and you cried out—a raw, animal sound—as pleasure and shame and pain and ecstasy merged into one blinding flash.
He took a step back, still hard, still glistening with your release. He looked down at you—spread, marked, cum dripping down your thighs onto the wood. A smirk curled his lips.
He adjusted himself, tucked his cock back into his trousers, and smoothed his uniform.
"Ab dekhte hain," he said, his voice low and satisfied, "phir koi galti karti ho ya nahi"
"Jao nashta aur chai banao guests ke liye" he ordered and he walked into the meeting, leaving you trembling, wet, and utterly undone on the table, the echo of your own screams still ringing in your ears.
The fabric of your shalwar felt rough against your thighs as you walked, each step a careful negotiation with the trembling in your legs. As you pushed open the heavy door to the meeting room, the air shifted - every pair of eyes turned to you. The officers, the aides, the visiting dignitaries—they all stopped their low murmurings and stared. You felt the heat crawl up your neck, pooling in your cheeks. Your fingers tightened on the tray, the porcelain cups clinking softly.
You moved around the long table, placing cups with quiet precision. Steam curled into the air, carrying the earthy scent of cardamom and black tea. When you reached Major Iqbal, you paused. His eyes found yours. There was no mistaking the look he gave you—a slow, deliberate sweep down your body, lingering on your lips before returning to meet your gaze.
He leaned forward slightly as he took the cup, his fingers brushing yours, a touch that was just a fraction too long. His voice was low, meant only for you, a velvet murmur that cut through the room’s ambient noise. “Mashallah. Kafi acha kaam karti hai aap...” he smirked.
The words hung in the air, thick with implication. His eyes held yours, dark and playful, a predator teasing its prey. He knew exactly what he was saying, and he wanted you to know it too.
Before you could react, the sound of a chair scraping against the floor snapped the tension. The Brigadier rose, his voice was sharp, cutting through the room like a blade. “That will be all. You are dismissed.”
The order was directed at you, sharp and final. You felt the weight of his command, the possessive edge in his tone that brooked no argument. You bowed your head, gathered the empty tray, and retreated from the room. His eyes followed you out, burning into your back.
The instant the last officer left the room, the Brigadier strode out, his boots pounding against the marble floor. He didn’t speak, didn’t call for you, but you felt him. The air thrummed with his presence, a storm building behind him.
You were in his private chamber, smoothing the crisp white sheet over his bed, when the door slammed shut. The sound was a gunshot in the silence. You didn’t turn. You felt his approach, the heat of his body before he even touched you.
His chest pressed against your back, hard and unyielding. His breath was hot against your ear, ragged and deep. He didn’t say a word. He simply breathed, letting his presence speak for itself. The weight of his anger, his jealousy, his desire, all of it pressed into you from behind.
His hands found your hips, gripping them tightly, then sliding up your sides. He turned you, roughly, pinning you against the edge of the bed. His hand cupped your jaw, fingers digging into the soft skin beneath your chin as he tilted your face up to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark, stormy, a feral glint in their depths.
His other hand began to move, a slow exploration over your clothes. Over the curve of your shoulder, down the slope of your breast, pausing to feel the firmness beneath the fabric. Down your ribs, over your hip, gripping your thigh through the rough cloth. Each touch was a claim, a reminder. His hands were mapping what was his.
“Tere jism pe sirf mera naam hai,” he breathed, the words a guttural growl against your lips. The echo of Iqbal’s words, the shameless invitation, had struck a nerve. It had unleashed something primal, possessive, and utterly consuming.
He didn’t wait for an answer. His mouth crashed against yours, a brutal, demanding kiss. There was no tenderness, no gentle exploration. This was a kiss of ownership, of a man staking an unyielding claim. His tongue pushed past your lips, tasting you, possessing you as his hands cupped your breasts under your salwar, kneading them before finding his way to your heat and sliding one finger inside as you clutched his collar, bracing for impact.
You knew this was going to be a long, long night.
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