ASYA OS: Plan Isse Kehte Hain - Page 4

Originally posted by: surbhiholic-1

Awesome

Originally posted by: Klondy

res

Originally posted by: A.Kh_20

why a res here J?😉

"Come Undone"

Isn't it ironic ... don't you think?

That stupid Alanis Morisette song--

"It's like rain on your weddin' day

It's a free ride when you've already paid"

Like the runaway bride who can't run away any more ...

The secret life she'd erected was a funhouse mirror that distorted your body. It made it bloaty and squatty in one frame and then stretched and elasticky in the other.

She wished it was as much fun though.

Hah, she'd even go to a hotel room once a week (OK, may be twice) to have a herself a good cry without having to worry that someone would overhear her and ask her: what's wrong?

Because how would she even begin to answer that question? No, it was better to stuff her mouth with a towel when she cried in the bathroom. But what the hell. Once in a while, (OK, twice in a while) a girl needed to throw herself a bawl party. Where she didn't have to muffle her sobs with sheets or towels or sequined dupattas.

And by god, she needed one today. Because this secret that she was carrying around inside her like an unholy pregnancy ...

... no, more like a secret she was dragging around behind her like a rotting corpse that was getting gassy. And it was leaking. And like a dead body on a CSI episode it was this close to exploding and splattering its brainy and gutty lava all over the Khan Villa. The same Khan Villa that was being sumptuously decorated for their first anniversary party tonight.

She'd go to the parlor later. They could trowel her face with concealer and foundation to cover up her self-therapy. They could plaster on as much face armor as they wanted--at least it would prevent the cracks from showing.

Boy, would they need a lot of time to repair the damage--well, some of the damage at least. Because her eyes would still burn; her bones would hurt. But they weren't miracle-workers.

Oh god, how she ached.

For now she let the tears roll down. Why bother scrubbing them? There'd be no end to them. She lay back on the strange bed; let the show begin.

The sobs came. As powerful as an orgasm. As hollow as a false contraction.

But she couldn't do it.

She felt too exposed. She smothered her face in a pillow.

Broken words came too: "I'm sorry."

"I love you."

"I'm sorry."

"I love you," she had held and kissed his foot. Her hot tears had scalded his instep. "Don't do this, please," she'd begged.

But it was done.

And now, no matter how much he wished he could turn back time, that word had been said. Once. He'd held the next two iterations of that word for a later date--a dagger hanging over their marriage.

On some days she'd begged for him to say it and end it all. She'd bug him to move on. He should get married again. Be a father. He'd seen her mouth tremble. She'd caught her lower lip in her teeth and cleared her throat. Funny, it was his throat that burned.

"What if I say it, will it have the same power? Will it set you free?" she'd asked that night. "Tala--"

But she couldn't say it without breaking down and shutting herself in the bathroom.

And he'd felt sick. How'd he even think that he could that hurl that word at her? Just because he was a man? He'd done a fine job of doing what he hated his father for.

And this farce of an anniversary party tonight?

He'd given her the suhaag raat of their dreams. And then yanked the rug out from her feet as their bodies cooled. She had thought he was joking first. She'd growled and even punched him playfully.

"Apne haathon se apni khushiyaan ka gala kyun ghota, Asad?" Ammi would ask if she knew. She'd probably kill him for what he'd done to Zoya--for being his father's son.

But Ammi didn't know. She wouldn't. Because Zoya didn't let on.

Her shell of calm scared him. He thought she would fight, scream. Run. But she did nothing. She didn't even go silent. She couldn't. Everyone would know then.

A whole year.

He'd seen her clothes hang on her--the jeans cinched tighter at the waist because she'd lost weight. He'd seen her haunted pacings at night. He'd known that the nightmares and much more were keeping her up. He'd seen the soot in her eyes ... the ashes on her lips.

She'd tried to get him to talk to Ammi and Najma to call off the party. But he hadn't been able to talk them out of it.

And she hadn't pressed him further. She'd asked just once. And he couldn't even do that for her.

Isn't it ironic?

Fu*ck you, Morisette. It's the dumbest song. Ever.

Najma wanted her to wear her shaadi ka joda. The same joda that he'd kissed her willing body out of when he made love to her on their suhaag raat. The same joda that couldn't cover her shame afterwards.

She'd cried for hours that night. Before he left the room that morning she couldn't help asking: "were you raping me?"

He'd snorted. "You didn't think it was rape. You consented to every slu*tty second of it."

"It wasn't for me. But in your head. You were raping me," she'd stated in a monotone. He'd slammed the door on her epiphany.

She looked down at the rusted blood of her peeled mehendi. Najma had insisted that even a year later she wanted Bhaijaan to look for his name on her dead hand.

"It's so dark!" Najma wrapped her arms around her Bhabhi's neck. It wasn't easy given that she was in the eight month of her pregnancy.

"I love you so much, Tamatar," Zoya's grateful lips whispered. She bent to kiss her sister-in-law's rounded belly. "I can't wait for the baby to come."

And she really couldn't. But please be a boy, she told the baby silently. Because girls shouldn't be brought into a world where fathers hated them and husbands--

A year ago when she'd stepped out of the bedroom to put on the show of a lifetime she'd trembled with every step because she held herself so tight. If she didn't, she'd scatter, like marbles flung across a marbled floor.

But bless Ammi and Tamatar. Just being with them had melted that tumor in her throat.

If that was meant to happen, for this, then it was all qubool hai to her.

She'd even stopped crying for the last 2-3 months. She didn't even need to go to a hotel room as often just to get her cry out.

But then they sprung this anniversary party on her.

Next Part: 131177504

Originally posted by: noesha

omg what's this O_O

I've always loved the first part (reread it a hundred times haha).. is this a part two?

nooo!

Whyyy would he do that to her?!

continue soon!

xoxo!

Previous Part: 131157566

He had made love to her seven ... or eight months ago. She had trembled under him, eyes clenched tight, skin goosey and breath erratic. Her body had responded but he hadn't been able to get her to orgasm. A tear had slid down the side of her face instead.

It was different from the first time on their suhaag raat--the night of his revenge.

That first night she had been soft, eager and aglow. She'd murmured his name, kissed and sucked and bitten him, reveled in worshipping his body ... told him how much she loved him. He'd taken her as she'd writhed under him, head thrown back in rapture ...

He'd made sure to bruise her that night and slay her the next instant.

"Main aapko pehla talaaq deta hoon," he'd said calmly, matter-of-factly, as if he was telling her to not wait up for him because he was going be late for dinner.

He'd tightened the knot in satisfaction as he watched her splinter.

"How can you joke about something like this?" her voice had trembled too.

He'd walked out on her as she protested and begged, demanding an explanation. And he'd given it to her.

"Joke? This is not a joke. What you did to me was a joke! I came back for you, to take you home with me. You turned your back on me, on what we had. You decided to stay married to Ayaan even though that marriage was a sham! A sham that you'd honor because of some 'ta umr nikaah nibahungi' nonsense!" He'd even used air quotes.

"You forced me to keep up appearances, remember? Why? Because it was more important for your sisters' marrying into a family of spineless leeches!"

"Zoya!"

"Don't you dare scream at me Mr. Khan! Since you're so good at dishing it out, learn to handle the truth yourself!" She'd breathed fire and spat nails.

"My sisters have nothing to do with this. Keep them out of it. This is between you and me!"

"There's nothing between you and me. You've made sure of that!" Her voice had begun to lower. "You used marriage and sex as revenge? How noble of you, Mr. Khan!"

He'd ignored her and it riled her even more.

"My one mistake was to stay true to the sanctity of marriage that was thrust upon me and you used it to punish me? You pimped me out to your brother as a sacrificial goat first, and then helped yourself to the leftovers?"

Her voice had wobbled at the end there. But he'd steeled himself with little effort.

She'd gone silent then and that had bothered him more even as he'd stalked to the closet.

"Why just stop with one pronouncement?" She'd asked softly after a minute or two of deafening silence. "Why not say it two more times and be done with it? It won't take but a minute, and you'll be free of me."

He'd slammed the drawer. "I'll do it on my terms, when I please."

"I see. A slow death, right?"

He'd looked up at her then. She stood behind one of the two chairs in the room, ramrod still and face pale. He'd never seen her jawline so defined, softer than a razor's edge.

"Right," he'd answered, angry at the gruffness in his voice.

"Fine, Mr. Khan. Then it's torture that you'll get." And she'd pivoted on her heel to sail out to the bathroom like a queen.

Only later that day he'd seen the fabric gouged on the top of the chair. The maid had pointed out to it in dismay. The chair would have to be reupholstered.

And torture it had been.

But who was torturing whom? He thought he punished her daily with his words and scowls.

She didn't even flinch.

But her torture was more exquisite. She didn't let anyone know about the battle lines drawn in the bedroom. To them she was the same Zoya who had left them for a few miserable weeks because of some awful misunderstanding. The marriage to Ayaan had been brief, the divorce surgical--a clean cut.

His mother and sister were happy and ignorant of the storm behind closed doors--blind to the scorn behind wide open eyes. And that had galled him much more than he'd care to admit. He didn't know what upset him more: that she could act so well, or that she was plotting her own revenge? Or did she really believe in the beautiful illusion she had created?

And a beautiful myth it was. What sorcery she practiced he did not know. But somehow she looked even more beautiful than he remembered. She even managed to smile at him and look him dead in the eye. On some days even he believed that she still loved him and they were happily married. She could laugh and giggle, be playful and tease him. She blushed when elderly women blessed her with a brood of children and cousins teased her about the postponed honeymoon. Her shayari was just as terrible and spontaneous, her dimples just as deep and undefeated.

She played the perfect hostess at each business party and family function he tossed at her. A Barbie doll on his arm, he was the envy of colleagues and competitors. She danced when he spun her, dipped and twirled on dangerously high heels at the flick of a wrist--pliant like rubber, resilient as fiber-glass.

Just once he'd seen the mask crack.

That was the night he made love to her the second time. The time when she didn't say a word or didn't orgasm no matter how hard or long he loved her.

It was the night of Ayaan's engagement to Humaira. When he'd seen her weeping in the storeroom he'd thought his mission accomplished. What a coup it had been to get the family to agree to holding the ceremony at their house!

To see her be obliterated by her ex-husband moving on shouldn't have felt this hollow though.

Her quaking shoulders as she gagged herself with her saree palla had burned him up in jealousy. Did she love Ayaan? Why else would this shatter her, matter to her? Why else would she look so wounded when she looked at Humaira all evening? Why the haunted eyes when she saw Humaira being hugged by her father after the rings were exchanged?

No. She didn't love Ayaan. Asad had never found reason to doubt Zoya's love for himself. On their suhaag raat, she'd said it a million times: "I missed you so much ... I love you so much ... I thought I'd never be happy again but then you took me back."

It was the night he'd admitted to himself that he'd fallen in love with her again. She had her back to him when he entered the room the next morning. Looking at him in the mirror she'd asked: "Isn't it that time again?"

He'd gone still. "What do you mean?"

"Time to award me the second talaaq?"

When he didn't say a word, she laughed. "Is there a glitch? A snafu? Did Zoya Farooqui mess things up again?" She snapped her fingers after a second. "Oh my god! Do I only get the award when I climax?"

"Shut up Zoya!"

"Done! She'd announced before miming the action for zipping her lips shut. "My lips are sealed!" And then she'd laughed hysterically, tears spilling down her stony cheeks.

He wanted to shake her. But he'd have to touch her for that. And he couldn't bear to see her flinch from him ...

She struggled to find a foothold in the swirling fog that tore at her with icy fingers. She stumbled. He was making love to her. He was whispering something in her ears ... against her skin ... the rocks under her gashed her back open.

Each kiss, each nip and suck was a push closer to the jagged precipice. Each thrust a grating whisper ... a dull echo... talaaq ... talaaq ... talaaq ... she heard.

It must be time for the second round of "main aapko ... " Or was it the third?

It was their post-coital ritual.

Next Part: 131188004