The Pretend Wife Pt. 03

It's been two damn weeks since I shook on Praveen's deal, and I've been drowning in this--practicing every day, turning into some chick for his cash, living in his swanky vacation home with glass walls and leather that smells too rich for me. Two weeks of this shit, and Praveen's been dumping women's clothes on me--boxes, bags, a fucking avalanche of silk and lace--like I'm his personal runway slut. I'm 23, broke as hell, and this cash--rent paid, diner wages covered--keeps me here, but fuck, it's a grind--heels, skirts, makeup, voice, all of it sinking into my skin like a slow, sticky burn.

First week was a mess--me, raw and clueless, waking up that first morning on the guest bed, still tangled in that red skirt and white blouse from Maisie's makeover, the fabric wrinkled and clinging to my thighs, sweat beading down my spine. I didn't know shit--shaving, tucking, walking in heels, talking like a girl, nothing. Maisie rolled in that afternoon--all 5'9" of her, leather jacket slung loose, curls bouncing--smirking, "Let's get you smooth again, Savan." She hauled me to the bathroom, marble cold under my bare feet, razor gleaming in her hand. "Legs first," she said, voice low, and I groaned, stripping down--naked, thick thighs rubbing, dick dangling free. She shook the can--floral foam hit my calves, cool and wet, sliding up slow, coating every inch to my knees, then higher, brushing my inner thighs. Razor dragged--long, deliberate strokes, peeling hair off, leaving my skin bare, glistening, too soft. "Fuck, this is weird," I muttered, shifting as she worked, the air kissing my legs--smooth, exposed, tingling like hell. Chest next--she lathered my manboobs, soft flesh quivering under her touch, razor nicking sparse hairs, leaving me raw, nipples sharp in the chill. Then--fuck me--my junk. "Tuck it," she said, eyes glinting, kneeling close, her breath warm near my crotch. She showed me--pushing my dick back, balls up, tight and flat, a slow ache blooming as I hissed, "This fucking kills." She handed me panties--black lace, delicate, stretchy--watching as I tugged them on, the fabric biting my hips, then settling--cool, slick, hugging my ass, flattening me out. "Keeps it sleek," she purred, and I glared, lace whispering against my skin--fuck, it's tight, wrong, but... not nothing, sliding soft where I didn't expect.

Heels came next--those black leather two-inchers, sleek and cruel. I stumbled out, ankles wobbling, "Bullshit," I growled, crashing into the wall, the click echoing sharp on the hardwood. Maisie steadied me--"Small steps, hips loose"--her hands firm on my waist, guiding me slow. I stomped--clumsy, loud--then softened, heels sinking into a rhythm, clicking like a tease across the floor. Day three, I hit ten steps--day five, a full lap, thighs brushing under that red skirt, calves flexing, the leather gripping my feet snug, warm. "Getting it," she said, and I muttered, "Still sucks," but my hips swayed--fuck, it's smoother now, legs stretching long, the click a low pulse I couldn't shake.

Voice--fuck, that was a nightmare. Day two, Maisie plopped a recorder on the counter--"Talk like a girl," she said, smirking, "soft, high--go." I tried--"Hi, I'm..."--gruff, low, my usual growl, and she laughed, "Nope--lift it, Savan, throat up." "Fuck this," I snapped, but tried again--voice cracking, straining high, sounding like a choked cat--"Hi, I'm..."--pathetic. She leaned in--"Relax your jaw, breathe light"--her fingers brushing my neck, warm, guiding me. Day four, I hit it--"Hi, I'm..."--higher, softer, a lilting tease--recorded it, played it back--"Fuck, I sound stupid," I muttered, but it stuck--smooth, girly, too right. Week two, I practiced solo--mirror glaring, "Hi, I'm..."--voice purring out, silky, sexy--fuck, it's not me, but... not bad, sinking in deep.

Underwear--Christ, Praveen went overboard. Boxes spilled on the couch day two--lace thongs, satin bikinis, cotton briefs--red, black, ivory, every cut imaginable, a sea of fabric screaming wear me. "Figure it out," he said, smirking, and I dug in--red lace thong first, thin straps cutting my hips, ass spilling out, barely holding my tuck--too tight, too raw, "Fuck this," I tossed it. Navy cotton briefs--soft, stretchy, but bunching under skirts, chafing my thighs--"Nope." Black satin bikinis landed--smooth as hell, cool against my skin, sliding over my tucked junk, hugging my ass like a glove--flat, sleek, a whisper of fabric that clung too close. "Fine," I muttered, adjusting the waistband, satin brushing my hips--wrong, fuck yes, but... slick, easy, sticking in my head.

Corsets--fuck, they owned me. Maisie laced me daily--that black boned beast, satin gleaming, wrapping my middle like a vice. "Arms up," she'd say, and I'd grunt, her fingers tugging laces--tight, tighter, ribs creaking, waist pinching in slow, my breath catching as she pulled. "Fuck, I'm dying," I gasped, hands braced on the sink, but she tied it off--sharp, final--hips flaring wide, ass popping, manboobs lifting under the bra. Skin flushed--satin cool, sliding against me, a tight, secret grip I couldn't shake. Week two, I did it myself--mirrored it, lacing slow, feeling the bones dig, the fabric kiss my sides--hurts, fuck, it does, but... routine now, almost easy, my shape curving too right.

Clothes--Praveen's obsession hit hard. Wardrobe's a jungle--skirts, dresses, tops--silk, velvet, cotton, piling up like I'm some rich bitch. Week one, I tried a gray wool pencil skirt--scratchy, stiff, clinging to my thighs, gray as a storm cloud, too tight to stride--"Fuck this shit," I peeled it off, wool itching my skin. Yellow cotton sundress--light, swishing loud, butter-yellow folds brushing my knees, too frilly--"Not a goddamn picnic," I snarled, ditching it fast. Blue denim skirt--short, rough, faded wash chafing my ass, "Hell no." That red cotton-spandex stayed--knee-length, stretchy, blood-red, hugging my corset curves, sliding soft over my thighs--tight, movable, a slow tease when I walked. Tops--white silk blouse stuck, sheer sleeves fluttering, cool against my arms, buttons straining over the bra--but I tested more: black cashmere sweater--soft, jet-black, warm, clinging to my chest, itching my neck--"Too damn hot"; purple chiffon tank--slippery, sheer, violet haze showing lace underneath, "Too slutty," I muttered, tossing it. Praveen kept it coming--green velvet dress, deep emerald, heavy as hell, clinging tight to my hips, sliding slow when I moved; pink linen skirt, crisp rose blush, stiff against my legs--wore them, cursed them, felt them sink in. Fabrics brushed me--silk whispering, velvet stroking, cotton grazing--wrong, fuck, it's wrong, but... not shit, not always, sticking too close.

Makeup--Maisie's crash course fucked me up. Day two, she plopped me on a stool--"Your turn"--handed me foundation, sponge cool in my grip. "Smooth it," she said, and I smeared--clumpy, streaky, "Fuck, I'm a corpse," I growled, but she guided--slow drags, creamy slick blending my freckles out, skin glowing too soft. Eyes--week one, I stabbed myself with mascara--"Son of a bitch," I yelled, black rivers down my face; week two, I nailed it--taupe shadow dusting my lids, gold flick at the edges, liner sharp, mascara curling--eyes popping big, lashes brushing my cheeks. Lipstick--red, slick, painting slow, sticky as hell--"Too loud," I muttered, but she smirked, "Bold's your vibe." By week two, I ran it solo--mirror glaring, skin even, eyes sultry, lips full--fuck, it's too much, but... not ugly, sticking too deep.

Two weeks--shaving every curve, tucking tight, heels clicking sexy, voice purring high, corsets molding me, clothes draping, makeup painting--Praveen's drills sinking in--"Hi, I'm..."--nameless still, but close, too close. Cash keeps me tethered--rent, wages, that's it. Right?

It's a week before New York, that family weekend creeping up, and Praveen's home early, pacing the living room, all 6'3" of him sharp--blazer hugging his shoulders, muscles flexing under the shirt. I'm sprawled on the couch, boxers loose, dodging the routine--fuck, I'm not ready. He stops, hands in pockets, eyes dark, raking me slow. "Savan," he says, voice low, husky, "we're going out."

"Out?" I sit up, gut twisting--heat prickling my neck. "Like, out there?"

"Yeah," he says, lips curling slow, "as a girl--fancy restaurant, date night. Test you before the party."

"No fucking way," I snap, standing fast--boxers slipping low, bare thighs brushing. "I'm not strutting around like some chick."

"Savan," he says, stepping close--too close--his cologne sharp, woodsy, "you've been at this two weeks--you're damn good. We need to see it live."

"Live?" I laugh, sharp, pacing--skin prickling under his stare. "I can barely handle this house--out there? Fuck that."

"Come on," he says, voice dropping softer, warmer, "one night--make sure you're ready. Maisie says you're there."

"Maisie's full of it," I mutter, arms crossing tight--chest bare, nipples sharp in the cool air. "People'll clock me--done."

"They won't," he says, firm--eyes locking mine, steady, dark. "You're smooth--heels, voice, hips--I've watched you."

"Fuck you," I growl, turning away--heat creeping up my spine, "I'm not your toy."

"Savan," he says, hand on my shoulder--warm, heavy--"cash is flowing--rent, wages--one night out, prove it sticks."

I glare, pulse thumping--cash, that damn chain yanking me back. "Fine," I mutter, low, shaking him off, "but this is bullshit."

He grins--slow, wicked--clapping my back, fingers lingering. "Get dressed--olive slip dress, closet, sexy as hell. First, we need a story."

"Story?" I ask, voice flat--sinking back to the couch, boxers riding up my thighs.

"Yeah," he says, sitting close--knee brushing mine, pulling a notepad. "How we met, how long--your girl name, all of it. Let's brainstorm."

"Fuck," I groan, leaning back--skin sticking to leather, "let's get this over with."

He flips the pad, pen tapping--eyes glinting. "Alright--girl name first. What's it gonna be?"

"Fuck if I know," I say, rubbing my face--rough stubble under my palms. "You pick--I'm the prop."

He laughs--low, warm--"Nah, you're in this. Something... soft, sexy--Sanya?"

"Sanya?" I snort, shifting--thigh brushing his. "Sounds like a stripper."

"True," he says, smirking--scribbling. "Suhani?"

"Too... cutesy," I mutter, "fuck that."

"Okay," he says, tapping slow, "Saanvi--smooth, rolls off the tongue."

"Saanvi," I echo--voice catching, testing it--soft, lilting high from practice. "Fuck, fine--Saanvi's... alright."

"Saanvi it is," he says, writing--eyes flicking to me, dark. "How'd we meet, Saanvi?"

"Jesus," I mutter--skin tingling at the name--"you're the liar--pick."

"Goa," he says, leaning in--breath close, "beach, drinks--hot night, easy sell."

"Goa," I say--imagining it, sweat, salt--"When?"

"Two years back," he says, scribbling--hand brushing my arm, "long enough to blur."

"Two years," I mutter--pulse quickening, "your mom'll buy that?"

"Yeah," he says--voice low, "say it's been casual--'off and on.'"

"Off and on," I snort--leaning closer, "so I'm your flaky fuck?"

"Works," he says--grinning sharp, "Saanvi's wild--artist, maybe?"

"Artist?" I raise an eyebrow--his knee pressing mine, "what, I paint your ass?"

"Freelance," he says--laughing, "sexy, free--fits those hips."

"Fits," I mutter--heat rising, "fine--artist. What else?"

"Age," he says--pausing, eyes raking me slow, "you're 23, right?"

"Yeah," I snap--shifting, boxers tight, "don't rub it in."

"Saanvi's 26," he says--writing fast, "shrinks the gap--Mom won't care."

"26," I say--nodding slow, "three years--fuck, okay."

"Good," he says--pen twirling, "Goa, two years, Saanvi's 26, artist--how'd we click?"

"Drinks," I say--shrugging, skin warm, "beach bar--booze flows."

"Nice," he says--smirking, "sunset, cocktails--I charmed you."

"Charmed," I scoff--elbow nudging him, "your shitty lines?"

"Shitty lines worked," he says--grinning wide, "danced--slow, drunk, bodies close."

"Danced," I mutter--imagining it, hips swaying, "fuck--then what?"

"Hooked up," he says--eyes glinting, "hot night, couldn't resist."

"Fuck, Praveen," I glare--pulse jumping, "keep it PG."

"Relax," he laughs--hand on my knee, "just 'met, clicked'--Mom won't dig."

"Clicked," I say--his touch lingering, "fine--dancing, drinks. How long?"

"Year and a half," he says--scribbling, "casual, then serious--six months deep."

"Six months," I mutter--leaning back, "fuck, that's heavy--grill time?"

"Nah," he says--voice smooth, "light--'He's sweet, took me to Goa again.'"

"Goa twice," I groan--his hand still there, "you're stuck on it."

"Sells it," he says--grinning, "Saanvi, 26, artist, Goa two years, dating a year and a half, serious six--good?"

I stare--Saanvi's me, fuck--pulse loud, "Yeah," I say, low, "good enough."

"Perfect," he says--tossing the pen, standing--towering, "olive slip dress--sexy, sleek--restaurant's waiting."

"Fuck," I mutter--rising slow, boxers slipping--this is insane--but cash drags me to the bedroom, his eyes burning my back.

Bedroom's a chaos of fabric--Praveen's hauls spilling over--silk, lace, velvet, a slutty paradise. I find the olive slip dress--silk satin, deep green, liquid dark, shimmering in the low light--knee-length, thin straps dangling, a tease of a thing. Strip the boxers--bare, skin prickling--grab underwear--cream satin panties, soft as sin, stretchy--tuck my junk slow, dick pressed back, balls up, a dull ache--satin slides on, cool, clinging tight, flattening me sleek, ass hugged round--fuck, it's wrong, but... slick, brushing me too close. Bra--cream, padded, B-cup--clips snug, lifting my manboobs, satin cups kissing my chest--cleavage swells, soft, full--fuck me, it's there. Corset's out--breathing wins tonight, just the dress to mold me.

Slip it on--silk satin pours over me, cool and light, whispering down my skin--straps settle thin on my shoulders, fabric skimming my bra, clinging to my hips--olive green glows deep, rich, catching the light, draping my thighs in a slow, sensual fall. Moves with me--soft, slinky--brushing my legs, a tease I can't dodge--fuck, it's too much, but... not shit, sliding easy. Stockings--nude, sheer--roll them up slow, silk kissing my calves, thighs, gripping high--shining my legs long, sleek, a glossy sheen. Heels--black leather, two inches--step in, leather wrapping warm, snug--clicking sharp, lifting me, hips swaying slight. Wig--black, straight--pin it tight, thick bangs framing my face, strands brushing my neck--cool, smooth, swinging sexy--fuck, I'm her.

Makeup--two weeks of muscle memory ignite--foundation first, cool cream on my fingers, smoothing slow--skin glows even, freckles fade, jaw softens--too pretty, fuck. Shadow--taupe dusting my lids, gold flicking the edges--sultry, warm; liner drags tight--sharp, cold--eyes pop big; mascara curls--lashes brushing my cheeks--too much, sticking deep. Blush--pink, high, dusting soft--cheeks flush alive; lipstick--nude pink, slick--paints slow, lips full, glossy--sticky, soft--fuck, it's Saanvi.

Mirror hits--olive silk shimmering, curves draped, legs gleaming--Fuck, I'm hot--cash, cash, that's it--but... not bad, not by a mile. Praveen's in the hall--blazer sharp, eyes dark--raking me slow, "Saanvi," he breathes, voice thick, "you're a fucking vision."

"Shut up," I mutter--heels clicking close, olive dress swishing soft--this is nuts--his grin burns, and I follow--cash pulling, pulse pounding.

Restaurant's a velvet dream--dim gold lights, tables wide, waiters gliding silent--Praveen's got a corner booth, sliding in smooth--leather cool under his slacks. I wobble after--heels steady, olive satin brushing my thighs--fuck, this is real--sit, legs crossing tight--silk slips high, exposing nude stockings, a glossy tease--wrong, fuck, but... plush, warm, sticking too close. He shifts--arm sliding around my waist, slow, firm--fingers grazing my hip through the satin, heat seeping in. I freeze--pulse jumping--lean in close, whispering sharp in that high, girly voice, "What the fuck, Praveen?"

"Relax," he whispers back--breath hot on my ear, "sells it--gotta feel natural, Saanvi."

"Natural?" I hiss--voice soft, lilting--"This ain't natural--get off."

"Trust me," he murmurs--hand tightening, thumb brushing my side--"family'll expect it--get used to it."

I glare--olive dress shifting under his grip--fuck this--but he's steady, eyes dark, and I slump back--what the hell--cash loud, tension thick. "Fine," I mutter--voice purring high--letting it sit, his arm warm, not pulling away.

"Wine?" he asks--voice low, casual now--and I nod, "Yeah--drown me, I'm shaking."

He smirks--orders red, sharp--glasses clink fast, and I chug--liquid heat sliding down, buzzing my veins--Gotta kill this fear, fuck getting caught. "Easy," he says--sipping slow, eyes glinting--"we're talking--Saanvi's life, mine--prep for the grilling."

"Talk," I mutter--glass spinning, wine sloshing--crazy shit--"your deal?"

"Finance," he says--leaning back, arm still around me--"Born in India--Mumbai--big family, most still there. Mom and Dad moved us here, but I studied back home--IIT, hardcore shit."

"India," I say--voice high, sipping deep--"Mumbai--fancy?"

"Busy," he says--grinning, "crowded, hot--relatives everywhere, uncles, cousins, all in India still. I work global now--Dubai, Africa, UK, US--wherever the cash flows."

"Global," I snort--buzz growing, his hand firm--"fucking jet-setter--family pushy?"

"Goddamn right," he says--voice low, "Mom's on my ass--'Marry, Praveen'--Dad too. Rest back home just gossip."

"Gossip," I laugh--wine warm, head tipping to his chest, soft--nuts, but whatever--arms crossing tight. "You?"

"Fuck," I say--voice lilting, "Saanvi's 26--artist, Columbus--small, artsy hole."

"Good," he says--nodding slow, "family?"

"Mom, Dad," I mutter--head swimming, "boring--Saanvi's loose, free."

"Loose," he laughs--wine swirling, "hobbies?"

"Painting," I say--slurring slight, high and sexy--fuck, I'm her--"Goa sketches--bullshit."

"Love it," he says--eyes dark, "me--swim, gym, cook--Indian shit, spicy."

"Cook?" I lean in--drunker, olive dress slipping--head nestling closer--"What?"

"Curry," he says--smirking, hand sliding lower--"hot as hell--Saanvi's taste?"

"Yeah," I breathe--wine deep, his shirt warm under my cheek--"spicy--sweet too, cakes, sticky shit."

"Cake," he notes--grinning wide, "Mom'll ask favorites."

"Red wine," I slur--glass tipping, arms loosening, hand on his thigh--"curry, chocolate--fuck it."

"Fuck it," he echoes--ordering--steak, risotto--plates land, rich, hot. We eat--talk flows--his exes (flings in Dubai, London), my "art" (drunk lies)--buzz thick, fear melting--I'm pulling this, fuck--olive silk brushes my arms, his chest firm--hand stays on his leg--wrong, yeah, but... not hell, not now.

Done--plates gone--I'm wasted--stand, heels wobble, "Fuck," I hiss--olive dress swishing, satin teasing my thighs--head spinning, leaning hard into him. Praveen's up--arm tight around me, warm, steady--"Easy, Saanvi," he murmurs--guiding me out, hand low on my waist--nuts, but I'm fine--cash loud, but... not shit, not all of it. Car's close--leather seats swallow me, slumped--Praveen drives slow--hand brushing my knee, "You killed it," he says--voice soft.

"Fuck off," I slur--head lolling, silk cool--cash, yeah, but... okay--denied fast. Home's hazy--he hauls me in--heels kicked off, olive dress clinging--bed hits soft--Saanvi's alive, and fuck, I'm not sure I hate it--cash, that's it--right?