From Beloved Wife to Cruel Mistress: The Femdom Story of Suruchi and vishal (Part-one)

Suruchi and Vishal had been married for two years. Their love story was built on the foundation of simplicity and stability. Suruchi, as everyone knew, was a highly educated girl. Before marriage, she had worked in a reputable MNC in a good position. Her sharp intelligence and quick wit were her identity. However, after marriage, she voluntarily left her job, thinking she would now focus on family life. Vishal's financial stability at that time was such that Suruchi did not feel the need to work.

Vishal, in contrast to Suruchi, was not very educated. He had only passed the tenth grade, but no one could compete with him in practical knowledge and hard work. For the past ten years, he had been running his own crockery shop at a prime location. The shop was small, but his monthly earnings were consistent enough that they enjoyed a good lifestyle even in an expensive city like Mumbai. Vishal was a straightforward, simple-minded, and honest man who considered Suruchi his biggest achievement. Their life was smooth sailing—perfectly normal, perfectly happy.

Then one day, the tsunami came that shook the foundations of their stable life. The shop owner suddenly asked Vishal to vacate the premises. The reason? They wanted to give that space to a big franchise at triple the rent. The ground slipped from beneath Vishal's feet. Ten years of established business, his comfort zone, his identity—everything was going to end in a single stroke. He desperately requested the owner and tried to mediate, but in the ruthless world of business, his simple appeals held no value.

Forced, Vishal vacated the shop. Putting all his savings at stake, he re-established the shop in a new location slightly further inside the city. But the location wasn't good, and the footfall was zero. The regular customers avoided traveling that far. Vishal struggled for two months. He stayed in tension day and night. His easy-going nature had now turned into irritation and anxiety. When the savings began to deplete rapidly and meeting household expenses became difficult, he spoke to Suruchi with a heavy heart.

"Suruchi, you know... my new business isn't working at all. All my savings went into this new setup. Could you please, for the time being, search for a job? Until I can stabilize something, your earnings will help in running the house."

Without any argument, Suruchi listened to him. Her old contacts were still active. On the strength of her brilliant resume and excellent interview skills, Suruchi joined a top corporate firm in a mid-level managerial position within a few weeks. Exactly one month after she joined the office, Vishal had to permanently close his new shop. The losses were so high that sustaining it became impossible. Vishal was now literally unemployed.

Over the next three months, Suruchi was in her element. Her talent and ambition skyrocketed. She achieved rapid promotions. Now she was a senior manager, attending high-profile meetings and bringing home fat checks. But along with this success, a big and bad change came into Suruchi's behavior. Where previously she considered Vishal a loving husband, she now looked at him only as deadweight (a burden). For her, Vishal was no longer her partner, but a failure. She wouldn't say anything to him directly, but the contempt was clearly visible in her taunts, her silent expressions, and her degrading body language. Six months after she started working, their relationship had completely transformed. Suruchi had gone from a working woman to the main breadwinner, and Vishal from a shop owner to an unemployed house-husband.

One evening, Suruchi came home late from the office, already stressed. Vishal naturally asked her, "Why is it so late? You weren't even picking up the phone."

This concern from Vishal, the slight tone of authority or worry in his voice, acted like fuel to the fire for Suruchi. She became furious. She slammed her expensive leather bag to the side and stood defiantly in front of Vishal.

"Do you even have the status to speak to me in a loud voice, Vishal? Seriously?" she looked at him with scorn. "Do I have to explain myself to you? Who are you? Do you know who has been running this house for the last six months? Me! Me! You are just lying around like an unemployed person, zero earning! Look at my account statement and then your empty wallet! What is your limit to stand before me? Who gave you permission to cross-question me?"

Vishal lowered his eyes in shock and shame. Suruchi's big words and sharp phrases were piercing his heart like a sword. Suruchi was not going to stop now. The accumulated frustration and superiority complex in her mind were coming out.

"Fine! If you cannot take responsibility for the outside, then take the responsibility for the inside. There should be a purpose in your life. From tomorrow, you will do all the chores of this house. I am running the house by going to the office, so you will stay in the house and work for me. Got it?"

Vishal, who was a very simple man, got scared by her dominating tone. There was a protest inside him, but not a word came out of his mouth. He nodded in silent submission.

The next morning, with the sunrise, Suruchi's new regime began. In the morning, she spoke in a commanding tone, "Bring tea! And hurry up. My day is packed."

Vishal quickly made tea and served it to her in bed. Suruchi didn't even look up. She was multitasking in a smooth and effortless way—tea in one hand, checking office emails with the other. After that, Suruchi began getting ready for the office. She had applied fresh nail polish to her manicured nails, which she was carefully protecting.

"Vishal," she ordered while sitting on the lounge chair. She leisurely placed both her feet on the marble top table while scrolling through her mobile. "Look at this. My nail polish is still wet. I can't put on socks and heels. You bring them and put them on me." you read this story on www.indianfemdomstories.com

Vishal's self-respect took a huge blow. He was an independent businessman, and today he was receiving an order to put socks and heels on his wife—and that too, as if he were her personal servant. Vishal slowly brought her socks. Suruchi had her feet on the table; the smell of her silky nightsuit and expensive perfume was wafting. Vishal bowed. He delicately put the socks on Suruchi's fair and beautiful feet.

Then he brought her office heels. While he was putting on the heel, his fingers accidentally touched Suruchi's feet. Suruchi immediately pulled her foot back and glared at him in anger.

"Careful! Keep your hands off. Don't touch me unnecessarily," she said with hesitation.

Vishal felt ashamed. He started putting on the heel. When he lifted the heel, he saw a light layer of dust on the polished leather. Perhaps it was from the previous day. Suruchi's eagle eyes also spotted that dust.

"What is this, Vishal? Are you blind? Don't you have any self-initiative? Can't you see this dust yourself to clean it? Now that you are free the whole day, can't you even maintain basic cleanliness?" Suruchi's voice became louder.

Vishal was about to admit his mistake when Suruchi leaned forward aggressively. She grabbed Vishal's face in anger and brought his trembling face close to her heel.

"Look," she shouted, "this is how you will clean it!"

And she slowly grabbed her heel and roughly rubbed it against Vishal's cheeks to wipe the dust. Vishal was stunned. His throat went dry. He felt the pressure of the hard edge of the heel on his cheeks, and tears of shame and humiliation began to float in his eyes. Suruchi smiled triumphantly at his helplessness.

"Get used to this, Vishal. A man who cannot earn for his woman has no more value than a pet dog. And dogs even clean their master's shoes."

Vishal stood there as Suruchi delivered her final blow. Before leaving for the office, she gave a long list of orders.

"Listen carefully, Vishal. I will come home in the evening, and not a single task should be incomplete."

"All my socks—all of them! The ones I’ve worn all week—must be washed and dried. There should be no smell of sweat in them."

"My underwear too. Those must also be washed and dried."

"All shoes and heels—whichever need polishing must be perfectly polished. I should be able to see the reflection of my face in them."

"And most importantly—I went to the toilet this morning. Perhaps the flush wasn't working properly. Fix it, and make the whole toilet shine. I want it sparkling clean, there should be no smell at all. Understood?"

"And yes, be ready in the evening to know your worth (aukaat). Have a good day, house-husband."

Saying this, Suruchi walked toward the door, the clacking sound of her heels hitting Vishal's broken heart like a hammer. As soon as Suruchi left, Vishal broke down in the kitchen. He could still feel the touch of the heel on his cheeks. He looked at himself in the mirror—a broken man whose identity and self-respect had both been shattered. He shed tears with hiccups. Was this the same Suruchi he had loved? Does money change a person so much?

But he didn't have time to cry. Orders had been given, and fear had crept into his every nerve. Vishal went to the laundry basket. In it lay Suruchi's sweaty socks and underwear from the whole week, which Suruchi hadn't touched even by mistake. He was putting them into the bucket one by one. His nose caught the strong smell of sweat, but the pain in his heart was much greater than this physical discomfort.

"I was the owner of a crockery shop," he muttered softly. "People respected me. And today, I... I am washing my wife's dirty clothes."

Scrubbing with his hands, he cleaned those clothes, removing every stain so that Suruchi wouldn't find a fault in the evening. As he was hanging the clothes to dry, his tears and sweat merged in the sunlight.

The most difficult task of the afternoon—the flush was jammed. Vishal brought the tools. Ignoring the feeling of disgust, he fixed that dirty flush. After that, he scrubbed the toilet bowl and the floor. He had resolved in his heart—it must be perfect. Suruchi should not get a chance to complain. Every corner, every tile was made to shine.

After that, polishing the shoes and heels. Suruchi had at least ten pairs. High heels, loafers, boots—everything. Vishal carefully applied the polish, rubbed it, and brought out the shine. He remained hunched over for hours. While polishing every heel, he remembered the morning's humiliation. Evening began to fall. Vishal was exhausted, physically and emotionally. His fear had now increased. He had become feverish. He cleaned the house and prepared the food. He sat waiting for Suruchi, like a prisoner waiting for his verdict.

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