First day in Sasural

Ishan stepped into the en suite bathroom, his eyes widening at the grandeur that greeted him.

The bathroom looked like something out of a Hollywood movie, with its gleaming marble floors, gleaming chrome fixtures, and an oversized bathtub that could easily fit three people. Ishan had never seen a tub like this before, let alone used one. He approached the gleaming chrome tap with a mix of excitement and trepidation, turning the knob to let the water flow into the tub.

"Finally going to take bath like those people in hollywood, just need to find some scented candle"

As the tub filled with steaming water, Ishan slowly began to unbutton his lacy nightdress. The material slithered off his shoulders, revealing his bare chest.

Ishan looked down at his body, noticing the way the soft light of the bathroom cast shadows on his muscles. His eyes were drawn to the lifelike silicone breasts that had been strapped to his chest.

"They look too real to be true," he whispered, his fingers tracing the curves of the breasts.

'The first ever boobs that I get to look and touch are my own..... ', he sighed, 'I am definitely dying as a virgin'

Ishan's gaze shifted to the mirror, and his breath caught in his throat. The reflection staring back at him was that of a beautiful, yet unmistakably feminine figure.

Even without makeup, his face looked radiant, his skin glowing with a soft, ethereal light. His long hair cascaded down his back like a waterfall of silk, framing his face with a delicate elegance.

"This chick in the mirror is definitely out of my league," Ishan joked, trying to hide his nervousness.

His soft hands, puffy lips, and trimmed eyebrows made him look like a supermodel. Ishan's mind was a jumble of conflicting emotions, his body responding to the sensual curves of his new form.

But as he stared at his reflection, his hand hovered over his crotch, the reality of the situation crashing down on him.

He felt like a peeping tom, invading the privacy of the woman he was pretending to be. But as he gazed deeper into his own eyes, he wondered if he actually liked the look, if it felt more closer to him than his old body.

"Ahhh!! Can't even masturbate without feeling guilty now," Ishan muttered, shaking his head in frustration.

He needed to focus on the task at hand - getting clean. He decided to just take a quick shower instead of a long, relaxed bath in the bathtub.

As Ishan stepped into the shower, he was greeted by a torrent of water that seemed to have a personal grudge against him. The liquid deluge cascaded down his head, drenching his long hair and sending water streaming down his face.

But the real kicker was the red sindoor, which had been carefully applied to his forehead just hours before. Now, it was  streaming down his face like a river and reaching his eyes with a stinging sensation.

"Aagh, what is that?!" Ishan yelped, his hands flying up to his face in a futile attempt to stem the tide. He stumbled backward, his eyes streaming with water and his vision blurred.

As he stood there, sputtering and cursing his own stupidity, Ishan couldn't help but think that this was not exactly the most auspicious start to his new life as a bride.

"Of course, you forgot the sindoor, you stupid shit!" he berated himself, his frustration boiling over.

In a fit of pique, Ishan grabbed the body wash and rubbed it all over his body with a few quick, angry strokes. He didn't even bother to lather it up, just scrubbed himself down with a few hasty swipes and then rinsed off under the still-running shower.

The whole process took about 30 seconds, and by the end of it, Ishan was feeling like a cross between a wet cat and a failed science experiment. His hair was plastered to his head, his eyes were red and stinging, and his skin was covered in a sticky film of soap residue.

'But at least the sindoor was gone. That was something, right?'

Ishan thought to himself, as he turned off the shower and stepped out onto the bath mat, dripping wet and feeling like a total idiot.

As Ishan emerged from the shower, wrapped in a plush bathrobe, he was greeted by the sight of Aryan's three assistants surrounding his husband's prone form. The male assistant, their faces set in determined expressions, were moving Aryan's legs in a series of awkward, jerky motions.

The old female assistant, her eyes fixed intently on the task at hand, was busily massaging oil into Aryan's left leg, which was bent at an unnatural angle.

Ishan stood there, dumbfounded, wondering if this was really some sort of exercise or just a bizarre form of torture. He had never seen anyone being so inefficient in their work. The assistants seemed to be moving Aryan's limbs with all the finesse of a group of drunken elephants.

Ishan's eyes narrowed as he watched, his mind racing with questions.

'What were they trying to achieve? And why were they going about it in such a ham-fisted way?'

"What are you guys doing?" Ishan called out, his voice firm and commanding.

The old lady, her face creasing into a greasy smile, bowed low in a customary gesture of respect.

"Good morning, Radhika ma'am," she said, her voice dripping with obsequiousness. "Have you showered? Should we get your breakfast ready?"

Ishan's eyes flashed with annoyance. "I asked you a question," he repeated, his tone firm. "What are you doing to Aryan?"

The old lady, her smile never wavering, launched into a lengthy explanation of the exercise, peppering her speech with random technical terms in an apparent attempt to demonstrate her expertise.

"You see, Radhika ma'am, this is a form of proprioceptive neuromuscular facilitation, designed to stimulate the muscle spindles and improve Aryan baba's range of motion. We are using a combination of isotonic and isometric contractions to strengthen his muscles and improve his flexibility."

Ishan's eyes glazed over as the old lady droned on, her words becoming increasingly incomprehensible.

Finally, she concluded with a flourish, "We are professionals, specifically trained to get Aryan baba to walk again."

Ishan's expression was skeptical.

"Well, it doesn't look like professional work to me," he said, his arms folded across his chest. "You can leave him."

Aryan, who had been watching the exchange with a mixture of amusement and annoyance, spoke up, his voice low and soothing. "Radhika, it's okay..."

But Ishan was unmoved. "Leave," he repeated, his tone firm.

The assistants, their faces betraying frustration and anger, began to pack up their equipment and file out of the room. As they departed, the young woman assistant shot Ishan a venomous glance, her lips curling into a snarl.

"Bitch," she muttered under her breath. Ishan's eyes narrowed.

"What did you say?"

The assistant's face smoothed into a fake smile.

"Nothing, ma'am."

Ishan's gaze lingered on her for a moment before he turned to Aryan. "Call in Keerthika, I need her help."

The assistant nodded, her face still twisted in a scowl, and closed the door behind her as she departed.

Ishan was left standing alone with Aryan, who was still lying on the bed, his left leg covered in oil and bent at an awkward angle. The atmosphere in the room was tense, the air thick with unspoken emotions.