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Note: 18+
Please do not proceed if you are a minor.
If you have suicidal thoughts, turn around. Give this one a skip.
If you have issues with drugs, this is not for you.
If you are disturbed/offended by scenes of violence/graphic content that is sexual in nature, please turn around now.
Chapter 1 Below
Chapter 2 Page 5
Chapter 3 Page 7
Chapter 4 Page 13
Chapter 5 Page 14
Chapter 6 Page 16
This story was a nagging thought in my head so I am freestyling it. I don't have a complete plot in mind, I will write as I go. Okay, with the disclaimers out of the way, let's begin.
"You are my wife. Mine!" he roared as he thrust into me. "Mine", he roared.
He ran a finger over my cheek, looking directly into my eyes with those piercing blues of his.
"Who's f**king you ahn?"
This was not a rhetorical question. He often asked me this when he was holding himself deep inside me. Like I was likely to forget! His shape was seared inside my core. I couldn't forget even if I tried.
"Answer me! Who is f**king you right now?"
I stared blankly back. I didn't have the courage or the willpower to push him off. He wasn't unpleasant per say, he just was. And maybe I didn't want to be touched, atleast not this way. Not without a kind word or two. Not without sweetnothings that I knew were untrue. I too craved a pinch of little lies, jaded as I was.
"Say my name", he ordered.
"Shivaay", I obliged.
"Again". His pitch was reaching a cresendo. He was close to peaking. His fingers hovered over my wrists until suddenly he caged them above my head in one swift move. It hurt if I moved an inch but his hold did not loosen.
"Shivaay", I answered dutifully.
"Who am I?"
He wanted more but what? What did he want to be called?
"My husband...", I took a shot in the dark.
"That's right. Your husband and don't you forget it".
His breathing slowed as he released inside me. He held my head between his hands as recovered from his climax. Then, he let go and pulled away. His body plopped itself on the other side of the giant bed as I seemed to fold into myself. The wet, stickiness between my thighs reminded me it was time to rid myself of the reminders of the night. I picked up whatever shreds of my dignity he scattered in the room and headed for the door. Girls like me did not get privilege of sleeping with the man even if he made me his wife. A title did not award power, not if the other party held all the cards.
As I made for the exit, he got up from his side and his cock still stood to attention. I don't know I looked back but I was sometimes aware of the tiniest of his movements. He moved close to me until our chest were pressing together. His fingers laced in my hair and he tugged until I was forced to look at him. I cried out in pain and he took the opportunity to invade my mouth. His tongue battled for dominance when I was not prepared to put a fight. I surrendered on the spot his palm pressed on the top of my scalp urging my downward. I knew what was required of me. This was not the first time a man had ordered me to my knees. In that, he was nothing special. They wanted the same thing.
The tip entered my mouth on his hiss. I tasted his salty liquid trying to build a rhythm. With the hum-hum-hum of his approval I felt myself drifting back to yesteryear.
"Eyes up here", he ordered as he felt my gaze glazing over.
He wanted me attentive, wanted me knowing who was in charge at all times. I looked up at him as I tried to forget why I was cowardly enough to put with a rotten life for twenty seven years.
Life, for some, is a bed of roses- there are enough petals mixed in with thorns to make living worth the pain. But for people like us, the abandoned ones, God did not leave any hope. When she created us, she knew we were meant for suffering so either we put with the pain or we end it before we face her wrath. God must have been angry with my kind because she resolved my fate before I was a speck in my mother's womb. Born in a brothel, I was put on the job at age nine. By age twelve, I had been used so many times I forgot what living was like without a man rutting over my body. Finally, at twelve, I found a reprieve. School gave me a way out. My mother enrolled me into a boarding school run by an NGO. I would like to say that she did it out of the goodness of her heart but that would be lying. She was slowly withering with AIDS and the aid worker offer her a lump sum to take me away and put me in an orphanage disguised as a school. The orphanage became my second prison equipped with its own jailers and wardens. I was no longer tortured but I was not protected either.
If I spent my entire middle school career staring into space, the teachers were none the wiser. It was only in high school that I came to my senses. I studied till I dropped, worked till I dropped, and applied to every college that would offer me scholarship. There was no man or god looking out for me so I had to look out for myself.
I somehow managed to push my way into an elite college. I was a fake from the beginning and the rich kids never let me forget it. It was not in my nature to be loud so I took the heat with my head up. Rumors, mostly true, some not, began to spread about me. In my final year, some overenthusiastic brat with too much time on his hands did a background check on me and submitted it to my school. When they found out I was a wh**e's child, a former prostitute myself, they withdrew my funding.
So, yet again, I found myself out of options as if God herself was laughing at my illusion that even had any. I earned enough with my many part-time jobs to pay for rent but tuition was never going to happen.
It was inevitable. A brothel's daughter returns to the brothel, one way or another. I began "working" again. This time, as an escort for the same men who were responsible for my outcome. They were a group of horny friends. I was a once tainted girl who had not forgotten her scars. I knew how to please a man drunk with lust. I did not know what to do with three men hunting me down in the middle of campus, declaring to all who would hear, what they were going to do to me. They had even promised pictures. I managed to talk them out of it.
"No cameras or no deal".
They agreed perhaps because I was like the cornered prey who could turn on the predators. The night of the incident I learned what they meant when they said they would "pull a train". I didn't particularly dwell on other details. I had snorted enough nose candy before to f**k me up beyond recognition. I had wanted to forget and the powder did its job.
The only problem- he found out. My now husband was like a prince among the sea of rich people who all looked the same to me. He was special somehow, though I did not know it at the time. With his one command, the men from that night disappeared, never to be heard from again. He paid for my tuition and barred me from seeing more clients. I knew what this was, I had seen at the brothel. My mother had told me, "There is nothing scarier that a protector. He will circle after you until all the other men drop you. He will pull you out of the gutter and lift you up so high that you forget you ever lived like dirty worm. And when you are feeling secure in his arms, flying high with absolute trust, he will drop you. You are only protected until another man is around. When that threat is gone, no one can protect you from him. Never let a protector find you. You will regret it".
I did not have a choice. He married me. Without asking me, or even telling me. He simply proclaimed it and it was done. We were married because he made it so.
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I woke up from a deep sleep on the floor of his bedroom. I had no recollection of how I got there. Only that it was five o clock- my usual time to wake up. I started my days earlier than most because he commanded it. I lived my life, minute by minute, by his command. Wake up, make up, gym, shower, make up, breakfast, ask him what he wants, do it, lunch, touch up, call him, do what he wants, makeup, go where he wants, meet whom he wants, laugh at his jokes, pretend I love him, pretend he loves me, smile, do not cry, never let him see me crack, smile, do what he wants, take off make up, smile, do what he wants, f**k how he wants, sleep if he wants, wake up, repeat.
I lifted my lips up and practiced my shadow of a smile for the day. Every muscle hurt. He walked into the kitchen behind me. I pulled my arms at my sides as I waited for him to speak. His eyes ran over my body for inspection and stopped at my wrists. His handprints were marked on both arms where he'd held them too tight.
"What is that?" He charged toward me with doubtful eyes, his voice rising, eyes flaring with anger. "Who did this? Who touch you this way? Who touch my wife?!"
I quivered in fear. I don't know why I suddenly became afraid. It wasn't like he ever hit me. I just didn't like raised voices, an old habit from long before him.
"Y...y..you", I stuttered.
"Oh", he said anti-climatically and receded into his study. I stood rooted in spot waiting for my apology and, I suppose, I will have to keep on waiting another lifetime.
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