EXPENSIVE TRASH
He spat on my dignity, called me his thing, then left without a glance. But when I saw the bundle of notes he dropped — my worth screamed louder than his cruelty.
It had been a week since that night at the Taj — the night that changed more than just how I saw myself. It changed how I saw the world. How I touched my skin. How I walked past mirrors and men and money.
I had returned to the office as if nothing had happened. The same desk, the same passwords, the same stale coffee in the chipped mug with my name on it. But inside me, something had shifted. I wasn’t the same girl who once worried about salary dates and attendance slips. I was the girl who had stepped out of a five-star hotel with sore thighs and ₹2.5 lakh in her purse.
And now, I was pretending.
I clicked through Excel sheets without reading the numbers. I nodded in meetings I didn’t care about. When colleagues asked what was wrong, I smiled with tired eyes and blamed “hormones” or “the heat.” But the truth was deeper — quieter. I missed it.
Not the man. Not even the sex.
I missed the luxury. The silence of big rooms. The click of my heels on marble. The way my hair smelled when I stepped out of a hotel shower, freshly fucked and full of power.
Khalid hadn’t messaged. Not once.
I kept checking my phone between breaks, pretending I was waiting for a cab or food delivery, but I was hoping for his name to pop up again. It didn’t. No blue ticks. No voice notes. Not even a cold “busy this week.”
Was it a one-time thing? Was I forgettable? Disposable?
I took those thoughts with me to the salon — a quiet weekday afternoon. The women there scrubbed and waxed me like I was preparing for something. I didn’t tell them I wasn’t. I just closed my eyes and imagined his call coming as they massaged my legs and blow-dried my hair.
I spent more than I should have. Hair spa, full-body polish, nails, bleach, threading. The works. When I left, my skin was warm and fragrant, my arms soft like silk. I looked like I had a date with someone rich. But I didn’t. I had no one.
By Friday, my mood had turned sharp and restless.
After office, some of the team decided to go out for drinks — one of those loud, cheap pubs where the music’s bad and the cocktails are worse. I didn’t want to go, but I needed a distraction. So I wore a short skirt, lined my eyes dark, and let myself be pulled along.
Inside, the air smelled like beer and sweat. A man approached me near the bar. Handsome, freshly shaved, confident enough to lean in and say hello. I looked at him once, then looked away.
He wouldn’t be able to afford me.
Not anymore.
We stepped out past midnight, still laughing from some stupid joke, waiting for our cabs to arrive. My phone was buried deep inside my bag, forgotten.
It buzzed once.
Then again.
Then it rang.
Khalid.
My pulse jumped. I didn’t answer immediately. I fumbled, fingers clumsy, breath caught somewhere in my chest. By the time I tapped to answer, the call had ended. A message followed, short and to the point:
“Check your phone, madam.”
I opened WhatsApp. His name glowed at the top.
Four messages.
“You’re booked.”
“Two nights. Two clients.”
“Saturday 7 PM — Pick-up. Indian sari. Obedient wife experience.”
“Sunday 8 PM — Pick-up. Wild western girlfriend experience.”
No emojis. No details. Just business.
I stared at the screen for a long moment. Then I smiled. A slow, private smile that had nothing to do with jokes or office friends or cheap whiskey.
I was back.
Back where I belonged — wrapped in silk, dripping in perfume, hands gripping the edge of a hotel bed while men paid to use every inch of me.
I was expensive again.
And someone had just paid for a taste.
I had been preparing since morning.
There was something ritualistic about it — the long bath, the oil massage, the careful laying out of my outfit. My hands moved slowly over the bangles, the earrings, the jasmine flowers. I wasn’t rushing. I was transforming.
By 6 PM, I was ready.
I stood in front of the mirror and let my eyes travel across the reflection — the soft green blouse clinging to my curves, the translucent pink saree draped perfectly over my breasts, the gold embroidery shimmering against my skin. My braid was thick and glossy, coiled neatly with gajra tucked in like a final promise of submission. A small bindi between my brows. Lips painted a shade of soft rose. Bangles that clinked with every move. I smiled at myself — not the shy kind, but the kind that said “You know exactly what you’re doing.”
I packed two bags — my usual handbag, and a second one with a change of clothes. Just in case.
Then the nerves kicked in.
My fingers trembled. I lit a cigarette, then another. Drank two pegs of whiskey far too fast. My heart was racing — not out of fear, but performance pressure. This wasn’t just a role. This was a test. And I wanted to pass.
At exactly 7 PM, my phone rang.
“They’re at the gate,” said the voice.
I stepped out. The car was black, luxurious. The driver didn’t speak. I didn’t either. We drove in silence through the fading light of Mumbai, my bangles tapping softly against my thighs with every bump on the road.
By 7:45, we pulled into the Grand Hyatt.
The guards opened the gate like they knew who I was — like I was someone powerful, someone kept hidden, someone expensive. And in that moment, I was.
I stepped out, my saree brushing the marble. My heels clicked confidently as I walked past the lobby, flanked by two men in black. I saw heads turn. Eyes follow. Some tried to guess who I was — an actress? A politician’s wife? A secret mistress? A rich man’s gift?
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to.
Yes, I was a VIP. But only for those who paid enough to unwrap me.
We took the lift to the 17th floor. The air got quieter the higher we went, the kind of silence that money can buy. When the door opened, I followed them down the plush hallway to the Presidential Suite.
One of the men opened the massive double door and nodded, “Sir will come in a while. Please wait inside.”
I stepped in — and gasped.
The suite was at least three times bigger than my house. A massive king-sized bed stood at one end, and two queen beds were made up with crisp white linens in the adjoining rooms. A formal dining area with 8 chairs, a plush waiting lounge, and a separate kitchenette gleamed under soft golden lights. Rich carpets. Velvet drapes. A walk-in bar. A marble-floored bathroom with a Jacuzzi tub. Everything reeked of wealth and indulgence.
I dropped my bags at the corner, undid the pleats of my saree just slightly to breathe easier, and walked barefoot across the thick carpet to the balcony.
It was huge — with a view that glittered. The Mumbai skyline stretched out like a seductive promise, the night rising in waves over the city.
I lit another cigarette and helped myself to a crystal glass of whatever expensive whiskey they’d stocked. There were strawberries on a golden tray. I bit into one, slowly, juice lingering on my tongue.
I was no longer nervous.
I was glowing.
I belonged here.
At 10 PM, I heard it.
The soft mechanical click of the door.
Then it shut.
Footsteps. Slow. Heavy.
And I turned to meet the man who paid for the “Obedient Wife.”
I adjusted my saree, tightening the pleats, making sure the pallu draped low and delicate over my chest. My hands reached for the tiny gold bottle of perfume I always carried — one dab behind the ears, one on my wrists, and one just above the navel, where the saree hugged my skin. The scent bloomed, soft and sensuous.
I stepped out of the bedroom and into the lounge.
There he was.
Seated on the velvet sofa, a glass ashtray beside him, a thick cigar between his fingers. He didn’t stand. He didn’t speak. Just looked at me — long and slow, like he was evaluating merchandise, not a person.
Late 50s. Large, solid build. Sharp jaw. Balding crown. Clean-shaven face. His grey suit looked custom-stitched, the silk tie loosened just enough to say he’d had a long day of power and paperwork. And now, he wanted his reward.
I walked toward him.
He smiled. Not warmly. Not cruelly. Just… knowingly. Like a man who had paid well and was now here to collect what was his.
We sat. Talked a little. His voice was deep, the kind that fills a room without needing to rise. He asked about my name, but not my real one — only the one he wanted to call me that night. I said “Priya.” He approved.
Then he asked me to stand.
And turn.
Slowly.
I obeyed.
He watched every movement — the sway of my braid, the snug fit of my blouse, the fall of my pallu as I turned, revealing my back, my curve, my quiet submission. He nodded once.
“You’re exactly what I asked for.”
Then, casually, he said, “Make me some tea.”
I nodded and walked to the kitchenette. My bangles jingled like temple bells. The hot water bubbled, and I focused on the act — placing the tea leaves just right, the sugar measured, the milk warm but not boiled over. I wasn’t just making tea. I was building a ritual.
When I returned with the cup, he was no longer in the business suit.
He had changed — now wearing a plain black T-shirt and loose shorts. Barefoot. Relaxed. Dangerous.
He didn’t touch the tea.
“Didn’t really want it,” he said, not looking at the cup. “Just wanted to see if you’d do it.”
I smiled, but something in me twisted. This wasn’t just play. This was control. This was a test.
And I had passed.
He looked at me again, slower this time. His eyes scanned my face, my hands, my chest, the thin saree clinging to my damp waist.
“Make me a drink now,” he said.
His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.
I moved to the bar and poured whiskey over ice, two fingers like he’d asked. My hands were steady, but inside, a storm was starting. This wasn’t the same Khalid-style game of power and money. This was older. More rooted in old-school masculinity. I wasn’t afraid — not yet — but I was unsure.
He patted the sofa beside him.
“Sit.”
I obeyed.
His arm came around me, strong and warm, pulling me into his side. My head rested against his shoulder, and I let it. The room fell into a strange silence — not awkward, not heavy, just real. He sipped his drink, then held the glass to my lips.
“Drink.”
I did.
Three pegs disappeared between us — shared from the same glass. His fingers played with my bangles, one hand resting on the back of my neck. He didn’t speak. Just breathed. I could feel his chest rise, his scent mixing with mine.
And then he turned.
Suddenly, without warning, he grabbed my chin and pulled me in — his mouth crashing against mine in a kiss that wasn’t romantic, or sweet, or gentle. It was raw. Deep. Claiming.
His lips devoured mine, tongue forcing its way in, hands gripping my waist as if trying to pull my soul out through my breath. My bangles clattered. My breath hitched. My body melted against him like butter on fire.
The obedient wife was gone.
The beast had risen.
And I was about to be devoured.
He finished the third peg with a long gulp and set the glass down with a thud. His arm, heavy and commanding, tightened around my waist like a leash being shortened. Then, without a word, he grabbed a fistful of my braid and yanked my head back so sharply that a cry left my lips before I could stop it.
“Smile,” he said, eyes locked on mine. “You said you were an obedient wife. Let me see it.”
I smiled. Weakly. My lips trembled. The skin on my scalp burned from the force of his grip, and already my thighs were sore from the earlier rounds, my saree clinging damply between them.
“Fake,” he snapped. Before I could blink, he dragged me by my braid, down onto the thick carpet, forcing me onto my knees between his legs. My breath hitched as my knees hit the floor with a muffled thud, the plush rug offering no real comfort.
“You girls are all the same. You think saree and bangles make you ready. But you don’t even know what real submission feels like.”
He unzipped slowly, casually, as if I were a boring task to complete rather than a woman to be devoured. His cock emerged heavy, thick, semi-hard already, hanging with weight and promise. I swallowed.
His eyes never left mine. He didn’t stroke himself. Didn’t tease. Just pressed the flushed, veiny head to my lips and said, “Open.”
I obeyed.
The first thrust made me gag. He didn’t stop. His hand tightened on the back of my head, fingers tangled in my braid, holding me in place as he began to use my mouth with raw, unforgiving rhythm. My kajal began to run within seconds. My lipstick smeared, my eyes watered. My throat convulsed against him, trying to adjust to the size and stretch. I couldn’t breathe through my nose anymore.
“Take it,” he hissed. “All of it.”
My jaw ached. My lips burned. I tried to find a rhythm, to please, but he didn’t allow space for it. He thrust like my mouth was just a hole — a tool. Spit gathered and overflowed, dripping down my chin, soaking my chest. His scent filled my nose, musky and masculine, while my mind floated somewhere between pain, pressure, and the terrible thrill of obedience.
The ache in my throat deepened. The back of my neck ached from his hold. My hands were balled into fists on the floor. My chest heaved. I felt humiliated and strangely alive. My cunt clenched without permission. My body, traitorous, responded even as it broke.
Finally, with a grunt, he pulled out. Saliva clung to my lips in glossy threads. I was gasping, dazed.
I reached to wipe my mouth.
He slapped my hand away. “No. Stay messy.”
He stood and walked to the bar, leaving me crouched and breathless.
“Crawl. Over here.”
I crawled across the carpet, thighs aching, knees raw. My bangles jingled like tiny bells, mocking my helplessness. I could feel his cum still seeping from my used hole, my panty damp and clinging to swollen skin.
He sat on a heavy chair and pointed to the floor between his feet.
“On all fours. Show me your back.”
I turned. Presented myself. My saree had come undone in places, pleats dragging. He yanked it up to my waist, pulled my panties down in one brutal motion. Cold air hit my bare skin.
He slapped me. Not my face. A sharp, unforgiving smack on the curve of my ass. I cried out, forehead dropping to the floor.
He laughed. A low, cruel chuckle.
“That’s better.”
Then — he entered me.
No warning. No permission.
Just the thick, unrelenting pressure of his cock stretching my ass in one brutal, unforgiving thrust. I screamed. My back arched. My whole body tightened in panic and pain. My hands flew forward, grabbing onto the carpet as I tried to breathe.
The stretch was unbearable. My asshole throbbed, unfamiliar with this size, unprepared for this kind of raw invasion. The pressure built fast — thick, deep, scorching. I whimpered, sobbed. Each thrust tore into me with violent ownership. I could feel the sting rising along my spine, and the pulsing pain in my ass felt like fire.
He grunted, grabbing my hips hard, pulling me back onto him again and again.
“Tight. Like you’re still trying to resist. But your body’s learning.”
I wasn’t just stretched. I was split. My skin felt hot and wet, like it might tear. Tears ran down my cheeks as I whimpered his name in broken fragments. Shame mixed with something darker — something that made my pussy throb, even as my ass screamed.
He bent over me, one hand squeezing my breast, the other wrapping around my throat.
“Whose are you?”
“Yours,” I gasped, my voice barely a breath.
“Say it again.”
“Yours, Sir.”
He moaned, low and hungry, then slammed deeper. I could feel every inch of him, feel the bruises forming inside me. He wasn’t fucking me. He was punishing me. Owning me. My body jolted with every thrust. My ass clenched and trembled, burning from the stretch and friction.
He used me like he had paid for every second — and maybe he had.
Then with one final, guttural sound, he emptied inside me, thick heat flooding deep. He stayed buried, twitching, marking.
My ass pulsed. My knees were numb. My arms had given out, my body collapsed onto the floor. But he wasn’t finished.
I collapsed.
Not just onto the floor — into it. My body gave out, melting into the thick carpet, my face turned to the side, lips parted as I gasped for breath. The carpet scratched against my cheek, and yet, I barely noticed. My limbs had turned to water. My knees stung, scraped raw from the friction, and my ass… my ass was a throbbing, blazing ache — stretched far beyond comfort, still clenching around the lingering heat he had left inside me.
My thighs trembled uncontrollably. My hips twitched in aftershock. Every part of me felt used — and claimed.
He didn’t speak.
He watched.
His breath was still ragged, towering over me. Then, with brutal simplicity, he bent and gathered a fistful of my hair again, dragging me up by the braid. I whimpered, legs folding beneath me.
“Move,” he said.
He hauled me across the room, not even letting me walk. My knees dragged behind me, bare skin catching on the rug. My saree had become a ruined mess around my waist, torn and soaked. The blouse barely hung on.
He threw me onto the chaise lounge by the window.
“Lie back.”
I obeyed, legs falling open without instruction. My body was no longer mine. It responded to his presence like muscle memory — flinching, offering, surrendering.
He stared.
My breasts rose and fell with every breath, slick with sweat. My stomach trembled, my inner thighs gleamed with his release. My bindi was still there, but barely. The only things intact were my bangles, clicking softly against the fabric.
“You still don’t know what you are, do you?” he murmured, kneeling between my legs.
I shook my head.
His mouth descended without another word.
He didn’t kiss. He fed. He consumed.
His tongue was rough, fast, impatient. It wasn’t meant to please. It was meant to conquer. He buried his face between my thighs, his tongue licking, probing, his teeth grazing the most tender places. My hands clawed at the cushions, my back arched as waves of pressure built.
I moaned. Loud. Raw.
He pulled away just as I hit the edge.
“Not yet.”
I cried out. My thighs twitched in protest. My eyes filled with helpless tears.
He flipped me over without pause. My face hit the cushion, my ass still sore, still leaking.
I heard the click of a bottle. Cold oil poured across my back, running down my spine. Then hands — his hands — strong and fast, rubbing it over my bruises, massaging me like he was preparing me for another war.
And then he slid into me again — this time into my pussy.
I cried out. The pain was there, yes, but so was the fullness, the friction, the unforgiving pressure of his length driving deep, over and over.
He gripped my wrists, pinning them to the cushion above my head. His pace was feral now. Faster. Deeper. My body jolted with every thrust. My ass clenched with each impact. I could feel my orgasm clawing its way up, desperate and messy.
“Please…” I whispered.
“Please what?”
“Let me… come.”
He grunted, didn’t answer. Just kept going, harder. Until I screamed, my voice cracking, body convulsing as the climax hit me like fire. It burned through my limbs, my core, my broken throat.
He moaned — a sound full of weight and power — and came inside me again. Hard. Deep. Groaning like he’d split something loose.
And still, he wasn’t done.
He pulled out, lifted me off the couch like I weighed nothing, and dropped me to my knees before him.
“Open again.”
I obeyed. My jaw ached. My body shook.
He used my mouth again — faster this time, brutal, short strokes — and unloaded in a final wave of hot salt and shame. It hit the back of my throat and I swallowed without thinking.
Then, finally, finally, he stepped back.
I was on the floor.
Hair wild. Face streaked. Bangles blood-flecked from rug burn. Cum leaking down both holes. Chest heaving.
He lit a cigarette. Took one drag. Looked at me like I was a masterpiece and a mess.
“Now you’re ready.”
Then he turned.
And walked away.
I stayed on the floor, forehead pressed to the carpet, breath ragged and shallow. My jaw still throbbed from how he’d used it, my ass a burning ache, pulsing with the memory of every violent thrust. There was cum dripping down my thighs, pooling under me. My body trembled in slow, broken waves.
He didn’t offer a towel. Didn’t ask if I was okay.
He walked to the bar, poured himself another drink, and leaned against the counter. The silence thickened.
“You’re not done.”
I flinched. But I didn’t argue. I nodded, slowly, as I gathered enough strength to lift myself back onto my knees.
His voice was steady. Cold. Practical.
“Go to the bathroom. Rinse yourself. Just enough to be presentable. Don’t wash the night off. I want to see it in your skin.”
I didn’t look at him as I crawled toward the bathroom, limbs protesting. My reflection in the mirror startled me — hair wild, cheeks flushed, mouth red and swollen. Bite marks littered my breasts. My bindi was smudged. My eyes held something dark. Something… changed.
I didn’t reach for the soap. I splashed warm water on my face, between my legs. Enough to feel slightly human again. But not enough to erase what he’d done. I caught a glimpse of my backside in the mirror — red, bruised, gaping slightly, still glistening from the brutal invasion. I winced but couldn’t look away. It wasn’t shame I felt. It was something darker. Something blooming.
The ache in my ass was sharp and deep, like an echo of his cock still embedded inside me. I could feel the slight gape, the soreness spreading through my lower back, a dull throb in my gut that made it hard to stand straight. I cupped my own hip in the mirror, almost wondering if I’d ever walk the same.
When I stepped out, he was waiting.
“Undress,” he said. “Everything except the bangles and bindi.”
I peeled off the shredded blouse, the destroyed saree, the damp panties. I stood before him, naked but for those two symbols. My skin glowed with a mix of sweat, oil, and marks. I felt exposed, vulnerable, but not weak. There was something sacred in this unveiling.
“Good,” he murmured.
He pointed to the far wall. “Stand there. Arms behind your back. Eyes down.”
I obeyed.
He circled me like a predator inspecting prey. Like a collector evaluating a sculpture he’d finally claimed. I heard the sound of his footsteps behind me. Felt his gaze travel over every inch. My nipples tightened. My thighs quivered. My body was betraying me again, craving more, even as it begged for rest.
He tilted my chin up. “Open.”
I parted my lips.
Two fingers slid inside, slowly, pressing down on my tongue. Testing me. I gagged softly but held the pose.
He pulled out. His fingers smelled of whiskey and my surrender.
Then he crouched.
Spread my legs with his knee.
Ran his fingers between them — first gently, then deeper, checking the slickness, the stretch, the aftermath. I felt a jolt when he pressed against my used asshole, inspecting the damage, rubbing the soreness like he owned it. I clenched and whimpered, and he laughed under his breath.
He didn’t speak for a long time. Just felt. Possessed. Examined like a thing that belonged entirely to him.
Then he reached up, cupped both my breasts, and lifted them like weighing fruit. He pinched one nipple hard enough to make me gasp. Then leaned in and bit the other.
“Still sensitive. Good.”
He straightened. Stepped back. Then spat — a slow, deliberate stream — onto the inside of my thigh. The warmth slid down like a brand. I shivered.
Not hate.
Not contempt.
Claiming.
“You’re mine now,” he said.
And I believed him.
He didn’t ask. He commanded.
“There’s a folded white bedsheet in the wardrobe. Bring it here. Lay it out on the floor.”
His voice was ice — not cruel, but precise. I turned, legs heavy, my body aching with each step. Every movement made the soreness in my ass flare like a bruise being pressed from the inside. My thighs stuck slightly with the remnants of his seed, and I could still feel the stretch, the way my body had opened for him and stayed open, unwilling to close.
The wardrobe was massive, lacquered wood with golden handles. I opened it and found the sheet — thick, clean, ceremonial. My fingers trembled as I pulled it free. Carrying it felt surreal. Like I was preparing my own altar.
When I brought it back, he pointed wordlessly to the open space in the center of the lounge. I knelt down and spread it out slowly, smoothing every crease with the flat of my palm. I could feel his eyes on me, watching the way I moved, the way my back curved, the quiet obedience in my fingers.
“Lie down,” he said. “Centre. Arms above your head.”
I obeyed. My back pressed to the cotton, my breasts rising and falling, nipples hard in the cold air. The sheet felt sacred beneath me. My legs fell open without being told. My cunt was already throbbing again. My asshole still pulsed in pain.
He returned with a silk tie. Deep maroon. Thick and soft.
“Do you know why this matters?” he asked, kneeling beside me.
I shook my head.
“Because this is where obedience becomes permanence. Not play. Not performance. Ritual.”
He tied my wrists first — snug, precise, binding them together, then securing them to the leg of the nearby table. My arms stretched above my head, exposing every part of my body, from breasts to belly to the still-wet mess between my legs.
Then my ankles — each one fastened to a heavy chair leg, forcing my legs apart until my thighs ached from the stretch. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t hide.
I was open. Exposed. Owned.
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He knelt again, a bowl of ice in one hand, a bottle of oil in the other. And he smiled — not kindly, not cruelly. Just like a man about to begin a ritual he’d waited too long for.
“Now,” he said, “you become mine forever.”
The first touch of ice wasn’t on my skin — it was on my breath.
He leaned over me, close enough for his warmth to graze my chest, then slowly dragged an ice cube across the softest part of my breast. I arched, instinctively. My nipples had already hardened in anticipation, but the sudden cold made me gasp, hips jerking against the restraints.
“Don’t move,” he said, voice lower now. “This isn’t for pleasure.”
He circled the ice around my areola, then traced it down the curve of my body — ribs, stomach, hipbone. It melted in rivulets, running down my sides and pooling in my navel. I moaned — not from ecstasy, but from how the cold pierced through the heat of my bruises.
Then he replaced the cold with fire.
His hands slicked with oil, warm, fragrant, and slow. He didn’t massage. He rubbed it in like a man preserving something precious — and punishing it all at once. His fingers dipped between my thighs, and I gasped as he slicked my small, twitching cock and then, deliberately, my aching hole.
“You feel that?” he murmured.
I nodded, barely able to speak. My ass clenched from the touch.
“I’m not going to fuck you yet. Not until your body begs for it.”
He poured more oil on my breasts, watching it glide down between them. Then he used his hands to rub it in — hard, kneading, pinching, gripping. My wrists twisted in their bonds. I bit down on my lower lip.
His hand moved to my throat. Not choking. Just holding. Containing.
He leaned in close to my ear. “You think you were ruined before? That was just the door opening. Now I walk in.”
Another ice cube. He slid it down my inner thigh, let it melt along the length of my cock, then pressed the cold directly to the head.
I screamed. Twitched. My body went still — shocked into surrender.
He kept it there.
The burn of cold was worse than any heat. I tried to twist away, but the bindings held me. My hips bucked. I cried out.
He replaced the ice with his fingers — warm, slow, slippery now. He wrapped his hand around my cock, not to stroke, but to hold it down. Contain it. Control it.
“You want to be filled,” he whispered. “But I want you to be empty first.”
His other hand returned to my ass, sliding oil around the sore rim, gently, almost lovingly. The contrast made me moan in confusion. My hole clenched from sensitivity, but the oil soothed and coaxed it.
“Say it,” he said.
“Say what?” I barely choked.
“Say you belong here. Tied. Owned. Used.”
“I belong here,” I whispered. “Tied. Owned. Used.”
He pulled his hands away, both from my cock and from my hole.
“Now,” he said, standing. “Let’s begin.”
He knelt between my legs and stared.
Not just at my body — at what he had done to it. My chest, oiled and bruised, heaving. My cock, red and leaking, twitching without permission. My thighs, slick and trembling. My ass — his favorite part — was swollen, stretched, and still glistening from the last time he claimed it.
“Spread wider,” he said.
I whimpered. “I can’t.”
He said nothing. Just grabbed my ankles and tugged them farther apart, until the bindings pulled taut and my legs shook. My hole was fully exposed now — pink, open, twitching.
He leaned forward, ran his tongue around the rim, and I sobbed. The tenderness made it worse. He kissed it. Then bit it.
“You’re beautiful like this,” he said. “Ruined and waiting.”
He stood and finally undressed. His cock was thick and hard, already angry with need. Veins bulged along its shaft. The head shone.
“Don’t close,” he warned.
He didn’t enter slowly this time.
He rammed into me in one brutal thrust — forcing his entire length into my raw, open hole. I screamed. My body bucked against the restraints, my back arching, every muscle in my body locking from the shock. He didn’t care. He growled.
“That’s it. That’s how a beast marks what’s his.”
He gripped my hips with both hands, hard enough to bruise, and began to pound. Not fuck — pound. My body jolted with each violent thrust. His cock slammed into me with the rhythm of a man who had lost all restraint.
His groans turned animal. Guttural. His sweat dripped onto my chest. My wrists burned from the strain of the bindings. My legs trembled, fully splayed, held wide open like meat.
I was sobbing. Moaning. Gasps, cries, everything blending into raw sound. My small cock throbbed, leaking untouched.
He leaned over me and bit into my shoulder — hard. I cried out.
“Mine,” he snarled.
He slapped my ass, my thigh, even my cheek. He wanted noise. He wanted reactions. He wanted me ruined.
“Say it,” he demanded.
“I’m yours,” I choked.
“Louder.”
“I’m yours! I belong to you!”
“That’s right.”
He drove in harder, deeper, faster — the bed creaked beneath us, the air thick with sex, oil, and sweat. My hole stretched to its limit, every inch of him claiming me.
Then his rhythm shattered — a feral growl escaped him as he exploded inside me. I felt it. Every hot, forceful pulse, every twitch.
He stayed buried in me, grinding slowly, milking the orgasm deeper, like he wanted to brand me from the inside.
My head fell back. My mouth hung open.
I wasn’t just taken.
I was consumed.
He collapsed forward, still buried inside me, breath crashing against my shoulder. His cock twitched once more inside my ruined hole before he finally pulled out, slow and wet, leaving me open, dripping, and trembling.
My wrists ached. My thighs were burning from the stretch. My ass — gaping, sore, leaking — pulsed with the weight of everything he had poured into me. My cock had gone limp from sheer overwhelm, twitching weakly as it leaked over my belly. I couldn’t speak. Could barely move.
But he wasn’t done.
He untied my ankles first, then my wrists, and dragged me by my hair down to the edge of the sheet. I was weightless. Boneless. A doll.
“On your knees,” he growled. “Open wide.”
I obeyed. My throat was raw, my jaw still sore from earlier, but I knelt and parted my lips, tongue out.
He stood before me, cock glistening with oil and my insides. He rubbed it across my cheek, then slipped it between my lips. I gagged as he hit the back of my throat.
“You don’t stop until I finish. Got it?”
I nodded with his cock deep in my mouth.
He began to thrust. Slow, but hard. His balls slapped against my chin. My nose buried in his sweat. He grabbed the back of my head and held me there — just held — until I was gasping through my nose, drool sliding down my chest.
Then he grunted. Twitched. And burst.
Thick, bitter ropes of cum filled my mouth, hitting the roof, flooding under my tongue. I moaned around him, swallowing without pause, tears running down my cheeks as he pulsed again and again.
He didn’t pull out until he was empty.
And when he did, he slapped his cock against my lips.
“Open,” he said.
I obeyed.
He looked into my mouth — checked that I had swallowed everything — then finally stepped back.
He was done.
And I was wrecked.
I collapsed onto my side, arms limp, body covered in oil, cum, and sweat. My hole was leaking. My mouth hung open. My eyes were dazed.
He lit a cigarette and watched me.
“You did well,” he muttered.
Then he turned, walked to the bathroom, and shut the door.
And I lay there, on the white sheet — ruined, claimed, but glowing with a strange pride.
Because I had taken it all.
And I was still here.
I heard the sound of the shower running. The rustle of a towel. The soft click of a drawer being opened, then shut. Colognes being dabbed. A belt tightening. He was getting dressed.
I stayed where I was — still on the floor, knees folded beneath me, body naked and ruined, waiting for his next command. My eyes didn’t blink. My arms rested loosely in my lap. The carpet beneath me was damp from oil and sweat and the weight of everything I had given.
He emerged, fully dressed, his face unreadable.
He looked at me — once. No words. No smirk. No thank you.
Then he left.
The door clicked shut behind him.
I didn’t move.
I was confused.
What just happened?
I had done more — more men, longer nights, harder sessions — but nothing had broken me like this. Not physically. Emotionally. There was something hollow in the space he left behind.
He had paid for the entire night. So why did he leave? Would he come back? Was I done?
The doorbell buzzed.
I jolted. For a moment I thought it might be him again.
I scrambled up and looked for something to cover myself with. Nothing. The saree was ruined. The bedsheet was soaked.
So I walked to the door naked, hiding my body behind it as I opened it just enough for my face to peek through.
A man in his late twenties stood there. Lean, sharply dressed, hotel name tag pinned to his blazer. Pratik Waghmare — Manager.
“Ma’am, anything you need?” he asked, polite, professional, but his eyes flicked — just once — over my face. My smeared kajal, swollen lips, damp skin. I must’ve looked like a storm had passed over me.
I didn’t answer.
He spoke again. “Sir said — anything you want. He’s left for the night.”
I stayed silent, still unsure of what this meant.
He added, more softly, “He won’t be returning.”
I swallowed. Nodded faintly.
“I… I want to eat,” I finally said, my voice dry.
“Of course, ma’am.” He nodded and left.
I shut the door.
Rested my back against it.
And a single tear fell.
Not from pain.
But from not knowing what came next.
CHAPTER 12: THE BATH AND THE BOTTLE
I found a towel.
It was thick, white, still warm from the dryer. I wrapped it around my body, not to cover myself from shame — there was none left — but to gather myself, to keep my pieces from falling apart.
I sat on the sofa. Lit a cigarette. My hand trembled as I brought it to my lips, but the drag calmed me. The taste of smoke dulled the sting in my throat.
Then I rose, walked barefoot to the bar, and reached for the bottle that caught my eye.
Glenfiddich. Twenty-five years.
The label whispered class, indulgence, stories bottled in oak. I grabbed it by the neck, opened it, and poured two cubes of ice into a glass.
But I didn’t use the glass.
I took the bottle to my lips and drank straight from it.
The burn on my tongue felt like penance. I didn’t stop. Sip after sip, it went down — fire chasing fire.
I was broken. Not from pain. But from humiliation.
How could someone use me like that — tear me open, empty me, and then leave like I was nothing but a spent napkin after dinner? I had given more than my body. I had given obedience. And he just… walked away.
I sat at the bar counter in silence, naked beneath the towel, bottle in hand, smoke coiling around me like ghosts.
The doorbell buzzed.
Again.
I stood slowly. Still barefoot. Still dazed.
When I opened the door — just a crack — it was the same man. The hotel manager. Pratik Waghmare. This time, he wasn’t alone.
Two service boys stood behind him, pushing a large trolley. A girl was with them — another hotel staffer, younger, elegant. She had a nameplate too, but I didn’t read it.
They entered the room without waiting.
Still holding the bottle, I followed.
The boys began to move with practiced rhythm. One rolled the trolley toward the lounge, carefully uncovering silver-domed platters. The other moved to the bathroom, disappearing behind the marble door.
“Please prepare the tub,” Pratik instructed.
I watched, dazed, as one tray after another was opened — not just food, but art. Fifteen, maybe sixteen dishes. Desserts that sparkled. Aromas that made my stomach clench.
Nothing I could’ve ordered. These weren’t on the menu.
The boy came out of the bathroom and nodded. “It’s ready.”
Pratik turned to me.
“Shall I open the champagne?”
I didn’t speak. Just nodded.
With a practiced twist, he popped the cork. The girl stepped closer and asked gently, “Would you like to have it here… or in the bath?”
I still said nothing.
She smiled kindly and took the bottle from my hand.
“Come, ma’am,” she said softly.
And I followed.
As she led me toward the bathroom, the other three bid me good night. Pratik was the last to speak.
“Anything you need… just call.”
Then they were gone.
And I stepped into the steam, unsure if I was about to cleanse myself.
Or disappear entirely.
The bathroom had been prepared fresh.
The Jacuzzi tub was filled — steaming, bubbling, scattered with rose petals. Candles flickered at the corners, and soft instrumental music played from an invisible speaker. The scent of roses curled into my nose before I even stepped in.
The girl placed the champagne glass gently beside the tub.
“If you need anything, dial 99. I’ll personally come,” she said softly.
Then she left.
Alone again, I stood in front of the mirror. The towel hung loose around my body. I let my hair fall free — thick, heavy, tangled, falling in waves down my back. My reflection looked strange. War-touched. Skin still flushed, lips raw, eyes too hollow to be mine.
I stepped into the Jacuzzi.
The warmth swallowed me whole.
The water fizzed around my thighs and between my legs, hugging my soreness in soft waves. The petals floated like promises. I leaned back, eyes half closed, and let the heat carry the ache from my limbs.
I reached for the champagne glass. Took a slow sip. Then another.
The bubbles tickled my throat, cleansing it of earlier tastes. Slowly, breath by breath, the rage and confusion began to dull.
When the water cooled, I stepped out. Took a long, deliberate shower — this time to truly clean myself. I scrubbed everything: my thighs, my chest, my hole, my small cock, my scalp. Until every trace of him was gone. Until the water no longer carried his scent.
I wrapped myself in a fresh bathrobe. Clean skin. Clean face. Hair wet and cascading in a dark, heavy sheet down to my waist.
I walked out, refreshed, but not whole.
Dinner was still warm. I sat, poured myself more champagne — this time straight from the bottle. Ate slowly, tasting everything. Biryani, tandoori, tender lamb, three kinds of desserts. Luxury on silver plates.
Then I stepped out onto the balcony.
Lit a cigarette.
The breeze touched my skin like fingers I didn’t flinch from. Below me, Mumbai glowed — this city of dreams that had no idea what emotional storm I was passing through. Cars honked in the distance. Music drifted from somewhere far. Life moved.
And I stood still.
All throughout, one thought gnawed at me.
Am I really this easy to discard?
Am I really just a body someone can rent for the night?
I finished the bottle.
Turned off all the lights.
Crawled into the giant bed.
Pulled the warm blanket over my shoulders.
And for the first time in days, I fell asleep like a child.
Not because I felt safe.
But because I was too tired to care.
CHAPTER 14: THE FACE IN THE PAPER
I woke to the buzz of a phone beside my bed.
The doorbell rang next, jolting me fully awake. It was 10 AM.
I wrapped my robe tightly around me and opened the door.
It was the same girl from last night. She smiled politely. “Good morning, ma’am. You’d asked to be woken up at 10 if you weren’t up before that.”
Had I? I didn’t remember.
She was accompanied by a young man pushing a trolley. I stepped aside and let them in.
Inside the suite, I saw two more staff members already at work — one folding my clothes neatly on the couch, the other laying out breakfast on the table.
Gourmet breakfast. Tea. Fresh-cut fruits. Fluffy pancakes. Delicate omelettes. Toasts without crust. Jams in miniature jars. And croissants that flaked at the touch.
I sat down slowly, still groggy, still aching.
I sipped my tea while they moved around silently — cleaning, folding, resetting the space. They placed five or six newspapers on the table. I never read newspapers, but I picked one up, mostly to avoid their glances.
I flipped through until something caught my eye.
Page six. A photo.
Him.
The man from last night. His face, perfectly lit under soft lights, wearing a tuxedo and that same disarming smile.
Business tycoon at charity event. Speaks on humanity and women empowerment.
I stared.
Then I laughed.
Loud, guttural, bitter.
He celebrated his charity while ripping me open in a suite upstairs.
The girl turned, startled. She must have thought I’d gone mad — and maybe, in a way, I had. After last night, she’d seen me at my lowest, my most broken. My laugh made no sense to anyone but me.
“How much is this suite for a night?” I asked her suddenly.
She hesitated. “It depends on the package.”
“On average?”
“Around 2.5 lakh,” she said softly.
I chuckled. “More than my body.” I murmured it, more to myself.
She tilted her head. “Sorry, ma’am?”
“Nothing,” I said.
They finished their work. The girl nodded, gave me one last glance, and left.
I went to the bathroom, washed my face, brushed my teeth. Then I picked a pair of ripped jeans, an oversized black t-shirt, tied my hair into a loose ponytail.
I came out, sat down, and had my breakfast — hot tea, sweet fruits, and two cigarettes smoked one after the other.
Then I left the suite.
At the lobby, the same two bodyguards were waiting. I didn’t know if they lived there or just always arrived on cue, but they were always there when I left.
At reception, I handed over my key.
The girl behind the desk was there again.
This time I read her name.
Deepti Sharma.
She asked no questions.
Just smiled, handed me a box — small, elegant, wrapped in cream paper.
“From sir,” she said.
I nodded, turned, and walked out.
The car was waiting.
I stepped in. The city rolled past the windows like a blur. We reached my home. Just before I stepped out, one of the bodyguards handed me a thick envelope.
My fee.
Inside — three lakh rupees in cash.
At home, I opened the gift box. Inside it — another envelope. Another three lakh.
Six lakh.
For a night that shattered me.
For a night that tried to erase me — and then dressed the wound in gold.
And strangely… I didn’t mind.
