"Reema ko saath le ja," Papa had insisted last night when Devraj’s mother called to inform us about the shopping trip. "Ladki akeli nahi ja sakti. Koi toh saath hona chahiye."
(Take Reema with you. A girl shouldn't go alone. Someone should be with her.)
His voice had been firm, almost anxious, the way it gets when he is trying to sound authoritative but is really just trying to protect me. In our village, distance is measured not in kilometers but in safety—how far a girl can walk before someone starts asking questions, how far a family’s honor can stretch before it tears.
Reema is my cousin—Mummy’s sister’s daughter. Twenty-two, unmarried, and already spoken of in hushed tones by relatives as “achhi ladki hai, par shaadi ka kuch pata nahi.” She works as a teacher in the small government school one village over, and though she earns little, she carries herself with a confidence that I’ve always envied.

She arrives early in the morning, carrying a small cotton bag and wearing her best salwar kameez, the one with the faded pink flowers. Her face is glowing—part excitement, part curiosity.
Her hug crushes the air out of me.

"Meera!"
Her energy is a living thing; mine feels corded tight, trapped under my ribs.

When Devraj’s mother sees her, her lips press into a thin, displeased line. Her eyes flick over Reema in that quick, assessing way the city people have—as if scanning price tags.
"Yeh kaun hai?" she asks sharply.
(Who is this?)

"Meri bhanji, ji," Mummy replies at once, humility softening her voice. "Reema. Humne socha—Meera akeli nahi jana chahiye, toh—"
(My niece, ma’am. Reema. We thought—Meera shouldn’t go alone, so—)

His mother waves her hand dismissively. Not angrily, just with the casual indifference of someone used to having their decisions accepted without question.
"Theek hai, theek hai."
(Alright, alright.)

The car starts moving, and my stomach turns in knots. I’ve never ridden in a hired car for more than an hour. Six hours feels like stepping into another world.

We leave behind the slow, dusty rhythm of our village—the buffaloes lazily swatting flies with their tails, the children running barefoot in the lanes, the smell of cow dung cakes drying on walls. Soon, the fields stretch endlessly on both sides: wheat turning golden, mustard flowers still clinging to patches of yellow, scarecrows leaning like tired men.

Reema watches everything with wide eyes, sometimes pointing out a billboard or a bus as though discovering it for the first time. “Dekho Meera, kitna bada pull! Aur woh building—do floors se zyada!”

(Look Meera, such a big bridge! And that building—more than two floors!)

His mother occasionally glances back at us, her expression unreadable. The crisp edge of her sari pleats, the slight perfume clinging to her, the way she sits straight without ever slouching—everything about her seems crafted. Polished. Controlled.

By the time we reach the city, the roads have become smoother, the noise louder, the air thicker. Buildings rise like giants, close enough to block out the sky. I keep my face near the window, trying to take it all in, trying not to look completely lost.

The first shop is bigger than the largest house in our entire village. Bright tube lights glare overhead. Mirrors everywhere make it feel like there are hundreds of versions of me wandering around, each more nervous than the last.

His mother sits with a practiced authority, her handbag placed neatly beside her, her expression sharp.

Reema sits beside her, clutching her own bag like a lifeline.

I try on saree after saree.
Each time I step out, his mother studies me with the unemotional precision of someone selecting furniture.
"Yeh wala nahi,” she says. “Color thoda dull hai."
(Not this one. The color is a bit dull.)
"Iska border bohot heavy hai. She’ll look short."
(The border is too heavy. She looks short.)

Reema always smiles encouragingly, whispering, “Meera, yeh toh bohot sundar lag raha hai,” but her opinion doesn’t matter here. Not really.

Hours pass. My feet burn inside the borrowed sandals—too small, the straps biting into my skin. But they were the nicest we owned, and Mummy had insisted I wear them.

At the jewelry shop, they place pieces on red velvet trays. The gold looks heavy—like something meant not for a woman, but for a statue in a temple.

Reema gasps at every set, her excitement unfiltered.
I just feel tired. And small.
The salesmen speak to his mother, not to me.

She decides the weight of the bangles.
She compares the gold quality on the receipts.
She checks every clasp, every lock.

I stand there as they drape jewelry on me like I’m a mannequin.

We take what she calls a “lift.”
Reema grabs my hand when the box jerks upward. Her grip tightens when the buttons flash numbers we’ve only ever heard about.

I pretend to be brave for her sake, even though my stomach feels like it’s floating somewhere near my throat.

Ding.
Eighth floor.

We step out into a quiet corridor that smells faintly of paint and some floral room freshener I can't recognize.
His mother opens a door.
And then—

I forget how to breathe.
The living room alone is larger than our entire house. Not just larger—emptier, cleaner, like no dust has ever dared enter.

The floor is smooth, pale marble, cool enough that I feel it even through my sandals. Glass tables reflect the ceiling lights. Leather sofas sit arranged in perfect symmetry, untouched.

The air conditioning hums softly, spreading a coldness that feels unnatural—like breathing inside a refrigerator.
There are paintings on the walls—large ones, abstract swirls of color and gold leaf.
I stare at one for too long, wondering if that single canvas cost more than what Papa makes in a year.

Reema stands beside me, her mouth slightly open. She whispers, “Yeh log yahan rehte hain?”
(They live here?)
I can only nod.

We haven’t been inside for more than fifteen minutes when his mother finally speaks again, her voice cutting cleanly through the quiet.

"Meera, tayyar ho jao," she says, adjusting the edge of her expensive saree. "Devraj tumhe dinner par le jaana chahta hai."
(Meera, get ready. Devraj wants to take you to dinner.)

The words float in the cold air-conditioned room like they don’t belong to my life.
She’s already walking toward the inner hallway.

"Woh bas thodi der mein aa jayega," she adds over her shoulder.
(He’ll be here shortly.)

The sentence lands like an announcement, not an invitation. A decree.

My pulse jumps painfully.
Reema beams, hands clasped under her chin. "Arrey, kitna romantic! Dekho Meera, Devraj tumhe special time dena chahte hain!"
(How romantic! Look Meera, Devraj wants to give you special time!)

Romantic.
The word clangs inside me like a metal plate dropped on marble.
When the doorbell rings, the sound ricochets through my bones.

Then he enters—Devraj.
His mother calls out, “Devraj aa gaya. Chalo.”
(Devraj has come. Come.)
My heartbeat thuds in my ears.
“Ready?” he asks.
His voice is calmer than I expected.

I manage a nod.

His mother gives him a quick, approving glance. "Zyada der mat lagana. Ladki ko thaka mat dena."
(Don’t take too long. Don’t tire the girl.)

He just murmurs, "Haan, Maa," then turns to me.
“Chalein?”
(Shall we?)

He drives himself. No driver. No witnesses.

As the car moves through the city streets, he places his hand on my thigh—high up, possessive, a statement of ownership.

My hands clench in my lap. I stare out the window, watching the city lights blur, and I feel like I'm drowning.
Devraj orders for both of us without asking what I want. Expensive dishes with names I don't recognize.

The waiter brings wine—actual wine, alcohol, something I've never had before.

"Drink," Devraj commands."I don't—" I start.
"I said drink."
I take a sip. It tastes bitter, foreign, wrong. But I drink it because he's watching, because refusal would have consequences.

He leans back, studying me like I'm an exhibit in a museum.

The food arrives, but I can't eat. My stomach is in knots.

He eats calmly, methodically, occasionally feeding me bites that I have to accept.

Each bite feels like submission. Each swallow feels like surrender.

"Khol," he commands, holding a piece of naan to my mouth.
(Open.)
I open. He feeds me. I chew. I swallow.

"Good girl," he says, and the condescension in his tone makes me want to scream.

Under the table, his hand returns to my thigh, moving higher, more insistent.

His fingers find their way inside my underwear. Right there. In the restaurant. With people around.
"Devraj ji, please—" I whisper urgently, panicking. "Someone will see—""No one will see," he says calmly. "Aur agar dekh bhi liya, toh kya? Tum meri hone wali biwi ho. I'm allowed to touch what's mine."
(And even if they see, so what? You're my bride-to-be. I'm allowed to touch what's mine.)
His fingers move inside me, and I bite my lip to suppress the sounds trying to escape. My face burns with shame, with humiliation, with the complete degradation of being violated in public while having to maintain a facade of normalcy.

He pulls his fingers out and brings them to his mouth, tasting me right there at the dinner table."Delicious," he says, his eyes locked on mine.

I want to disappear. I want to cease to exist. I want anything but this.

After dinner, he drives us back to the apartment. My heart pounds with each turn of the wheel, each kilometer bringing me closer to whatever horror awaits.

He locks the door and turns to face me, his expression purely predatory—no pretense of romance, no false gentleness, just raw, brutal hunger.

"Chal, mere kamre mein," he commands, not asks. His grip on my wrist is bruising.
(Come on, to my room.)

"Strip," he commands, his voice shifting from conversational to authoritative. "Saare kapde utar. Ab."
(Take off all clothes. Now.)

"Devraj ji, please—" I start, my voice trembling.

"I said strip." His voice takes on an edge of danger.

When I'm naked, he circle me appreciatively as he removes his own clothes methodically. When he's naked, I see exactly how aroused he is—his erection prominent, intimidating, a physical manifestation of the danger I'm in.

I am shivering with fear.
He sits on the edge of the bed and points to the floor in front of him."Ghutno pe baith. Ab."
(Sit on your knees. Now.)

I don't want to but I kneel, the carpet soft but suffocating beneath me. I'm at eye level with his erection now, and I can't look away even though I desperately want to.

This is my first time seeing a mans cock. I have seen small kids but this is scary and so different.

"Aaj raat," he says, his voice thick with cruel anticipation, "aaj raat main tumhe sikhaunga kaise mere land ko properly satisfy karna hai. Kaise mere lund ko worship karna hai. Kaise apne muh se mujhe khush karna hai."
(Tonight, I'll teach you how to properly satisfy my cock. How to worship my cock. How to please me with your mouth.)
He grabs my hair—not gently, but not violently either. Controlling.

"Pehle, choom," he commands. "Mere land ko kiss kar. Softly. Like you're worshipping it. Like it's the most important thing in your life. Kyunki ab se, yeh hai. This is your master. This is your god. Samjhi?"

(First, kiss. Kiss my cock. Softly. Like you're worshipping it. Like it's the most important thing in your life. Because from now on, it is. This is your master. This is your god. Understand?)

God?? Seriously I want to spit at him and this god of his.
Tears stream down my face as I lean forward.

My lips touch the head of his erection—soft, warm, alive.
"Ahhohhh," he groans. "Aur. Chuma de re. Har jagah.Apne malik ki salami de ."

(Good. More. More kisses. All over. Show me how much you respect your master.)

I kiss along the length of him, my tears falling onto his skin, my entire being revolting even as my body obeys.

"Achha, saali. Ab jeebh laga. Chaatt ise. Bilkul kutte ki tarah chaatt."(Good, bitch. Now use your tongue. Lick it. Lick it like a dog.)

"Niche se upaar. Deehre dheere. Mujhe teri jeebh mahsus honi chahiye."
(Now lick. With your tongue. From bottom to top. Slowly. Let me feel your tongue.)

I obey.

My tongue traces the upper length of him, and I taste salt, musk, something fundamentally masculine that makes my stomach turns.

"Haan, bilkul aise. Dekh, re, kitni achi raandi ban rahi hai. Natural talent hai tere andar. Shayad pehle bhi kisi ke saath"
(Yes, just like that. Look, you're becoming such a good whore. You have natural talent. Maybe you've done this before with someone)

"No!" I protest. "I've never—"
I open my mouth, and he shoves inside—not gradually, not gently, but hard and fast, making me gag immediately."Mmmmph—MMMMPH—" I choke, tears streaming.

"Relax kar, saali," he commands without sympathy. "Breathe through your nose. Gala dils kar. Kyunki ab main properly chudayi karunga tera muh ka. Aur tu bas legi. Chup chap. Like a good little raandi."
(Relax, bitch. Breathe through your nose. Loosen your throat. Because now I'm going to properly fuck your mouth. And you'll just take it. Quietly. Like a good little whore.)

A choked whimper escapes me—"Mmmph!"—as he seizes fistfuls of my hair, yanking my head forward brutally, using my mouth like a disposable toy, fucking my face with no regard for my comfort, my pain, my ability to breathe.

Each thrust triggering violent gags—"Glurk! Hrrk!"—saliva bubbling out in thick ropes, cascading down my chin onto my heaving chest. Tears flood my eyes uncontrollably, carving black mascara rivers over my flushed cheeks, blurring my vision into a hazy nightmare

My jaw screams in protest, muscles locking in futile agony, while my throat ignites with a burning scrape, raw from the relentless invasion.

"Haan, haan, bilkul sahi lag rahi hai," he groans. "Meri Meera. Meri lund ki poojaran.. tera muh mere land se bhara—yeh hai teri real jagah. kar meri land ki puja. Kar na. Bas karte rahe"

(Yes, yes, you look absolutely good. My Meera. My cock worshipper. Your mouth full of my cock. This is your real place. Worship my cock. Keep Worshiping)
I felt shameful. He's brutal, showing no mercy, no consideration.

I gag harder—"Urk! Gluck!"—stomach heaving as bile rises, but he just laughs, a dark, triumphant bark that echoes my humiliation.

"Kya hua, re? Handle nahi ho raha?" he mocks. "Toh handle karna seekh. Kyunki shaadi ke baad roz yeh hoga. Roz main tera muh chodunga. Kabhi subah, kabhi raat, jab marzi. Aur tu bas muh khol ke ready rahegi."
(What happened? Can't handle it? Then learn to handle it. Because after marriage, this will happen every day. Every day I'll fuck your mouth. Sometimes morning, sometimes night, whenever I want. And you'll just stay ready with your mouth open.)

The promise slams into me heavier than his cock—heavy with possession, finality—like a noose tightening around my future.
"Kitni garam gufa hai re tera muh, saali," he rasps, voice thick with cruel ecstasy, body shuddering as he grinds impossibly deeper.

(Your mouth is an incredibly hot cave, bitch.)

"Anhhh, bilkul tight. Roz yeh karunga. Karne degi na??? Huh Meera? Roz tujhe apna cum pilaunga. Aur tu bas piyegi. Quietly. Obediently. Like a good little cum dumpster."

(Completely tight. I'll do this every day. You'll let me, right??? Huh Meera? Every day I'll make you drink my cum. And you'll just drink it quietly, obediently, like a good little cum dumpster.)

Desperation claws at me—"Mmmph! Hrrk!"—pleading gurgles muffled around him, but he ignores it, movements turning feral, hips jerking erratically.

He pulls back to the edge of my lips just long enough to reveal my gasping desperation, then thrusts back deep into my mouth so suddenly and completely that my vision begins to darken from lack of oxygen.

His cock fills me so thoroughly it feels like an invasion—too deep, too fast, pushing past every threshold I have left.

My hands scrabble weakly at his thighs, nails scraping sweat-slick skin, but he swats them away with a grunt, pinning my wrists above my head.

A strangled sob bubbles up—"Nngh!"—as he forces me deeper, his tip strangling my airway, vision spotting black at the edges. "Karne de na Meera… Ohhh Meera… Aise hi Meera…" (Let me do this, Meera… Oh Meera… Just like this…) His voice rough, close to a growl.

His movements become more erratic, driven by some fierce need inside him, jerking faster and deeper.

"Ready, re? Ahhh...Ready to drink my cum? To ...oh meera swallow everything? Ohhhhh..hhaahhuuhh..huhhhh...Kyunki agar tune ek drop bhi giraaya—" (Are you ready ? Ready to drink my cum? To swallow everything? Because if you drop even one—)

He cuts off with a guttural roar, exploding without mercy—hot, thick pulses flooding my mouth, overwhelming my senses with bitter saltiness.

"Merrraaaa..ohhh...Ahhhhhhohhh...Eshh.. ohh.. meera...meera huuhhhhhohohuuuhhhh....Ahhhhh....Ahhh" He shivers and cries, hips bucking forward and head thrown upwards.

I choke violently—"Glurk! Cough!"—instinct screaming to expel it, but his grip ironclad, forcing me to gulp desperately amid tears and retches.

"Ghot ja, saali! Sab kuch! Pura pee!" (Swallow, bitch! Everything! Drink it all!) The violation sears through me, body convulsing in humiliated defeat.

When he finally wrenches free with a wet pop, I collapse into a coughing, gasping wreck—spit-flecked, ruined, chest heaving as the weight of his gaze lingers

A lil’ like and comment? Pretty please!🥰🫣