It had been nearly three weeks. The days were passing with discipline. Vikram had made a breakthrough in the case. He didn’t celebrate.
He just showed me the screen for ten seconds and shut the laptop. He didn’t say he would save me. He just reminded me that he was the only one who could.
One afternoon, when I was walking through the hallway. I heard a sound that stopped me midway. A woman’s voice, a moan of orgasm. It was a climax.
It came from the kitchen, and it was intense before cutting off. Then it started again. Moan… gasp… scream… silence.
The sound came from Laxmi’s phone on the kitchen counter. She was standing there, chopping onions.
“What was that, Lakshmi?” I asked in a low voice.
Laxmi didn’t look up. “That’s me. Three years ago. Sir caught me when I was looking at Sir’s pic on my phone. I was screaming. He made it my ringtone.”
“He said next time I make a mistake,” she continued, chopping again, “It will be my caller tune. Everyone who calls me, my mother, the vegetable vendor, and the bank. Will hear me orgasm for thirty seconds.”
She paused and, after a moment, spoke, “At first, it was shame. Every time it rang, I wanted to die. Now? It took me back to a memory. You’ll understand soon.”
I was not surprised knowing it. By now, I was familiar with such madness. I walked away and continued my work.
It may sound crazy, but it’s too normal in Vikram’s world. He was the man who made you vulnerable, break you in such a way that even his pinch on bloody cut feels like you crave for.
A few days back, Vikram was in my room. Vikram didn’t speak. He just pointed to the balcony. I followed him. I was in my grey T-shirt. It was the only thing I wore.
He stopped near the iron hook where a swing once hung. He grabbed my hair, not gently, and twisted it into a thick pony, pulled tight.
He took a thin rope and tied it around my pony so tightly that I felt my scalp stretch. He looped the hair-rope over the hook. I had to stand on my toes to ease the pressure. If I lowered my heels, the rope yanked my head back.
“Hold still,” he said.
He placed a high-powered vibrator on a low stool. He adjusted its height until the humming head aimed directly at my pussy. The machine was thick and veiny like dick is vibrating.
He stepped back. “This is today’s game. The clit wants this dick. But to reach it, you must drop your heels. And if you drop your heels…” He gave the rope a sharp tug. Pain shot through my skull. “…you get this. Haha.”
He stood there, watching me struggle. He said, “Stay here. Until I return.” And walked inside. I was alone.
I stood there, trembling. My toes were already cramping. The vibrator, a promise of release. The rope promised agony.
I tried to move. My heels inched down, seeking the vibrator. The rope yanked my head. Pain shot through my scalp. I gasped and rose back on my toes.
I tried again. I bent my knees slightly, letting my body sink. The vibrator’s head brushed my inner thigh. Pleasure sparked, but the rope. God, the rope, it felt like my hair was being ripped out. I cried out, straightening again.
I lowered my eyes. The vibrator’s head was glistening. My own wetness was on my thighs. I wanted it. I needed it.
I lowered my heels. This time, I went deeper. The rope pulled hard, but I suffered it. The vibrator touched my clit. But the pain was too much. I rose back on my toes again, and the vibrator left my skin.
Time passed. I stood there, trapped between pain and need. Every time I lowered my heels, the rope punished me. Every time I rose, the vibrator was too far. Shit.
I tried again. And again. Each time, the same fight. My body was a battlefield. My mind was a mess. Then, I heard a door opening sound from across the street.
She came out. The neighbour lady. She stood on her balcony; she was in a nightgown. She saw me. Tied. Struggling. Helpless.
She didn’t look away. She stared. Her eyes moved over my body, the bare legs, the vibrator in between, the wet T-shirt, the rope in my hair.
She smiled. A slow, cruel smile. Then she lifted her nightgown. Up, up, until it was bunched at her waist, she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Her body was smooth. Her pussy was neatly trimmed, too.
She grabbed a ribbon from her railing. She tied one end around her right ankle. On the other end, she looped around the railing itself. She pulled it tight. Her leg was stretched wide, bound in place.
Her every action was slow; she was always looking at me. Her eyes locked on mine. She wanted me to watch. She was completely exposed.
Her hand moved between her legs, near her clit. Two fingers. She started slowly. Circling. Teasing. Her head tilted back. Her mouth opened in a silent “O.”
I couldn’t look away. I was tied, but my eyes were free. I watched her fingers work. Slow and sensual at first, but gradually became faster, harder.
It was a few minutes, and she rubbed her clit in quick, sharp circles now. Her hips bucked against her hand. She kept her eyes on me. Always on me. Her gaze and smile were like a challenge. Look what I can do, it said. Look what you can’t.
Her breath came in short gasps. I could feel them. The sound of her arousal. Then it happened. Her body shook. Her back arched. A low moan came out. Her fingers dipped inside pussy. Once. Twice.
And then, she squirted. A clear, small stream shot out and spread on the floor. Her legs shook. She cried out in a sharp, satisfied sound. She kept her fingers moving, milking every last drop of pleasure.
Slowly, she came down. Her body relaxed. She pulled her fingers out. They were wet. She brought them to her lips. Licked them. Slow. Deliberate. And in all this, she never broke eye contact.
She untied her ankle. Lowered her nightgown. She blew me a kiss. A mocking, cruel gesture. Then she laughed in a low, throaty sound. She turned and walked inside. The door closed. And it was all silence.
I was alone again. Tied. My scalp burned. My legs were numb. The vibrator still hummed below, a constant reminder of what I couldn’t have.
My body was on fire. The need between my legs was a physical ache. I could still see her, the way she cum, the way she looked at me.
Jealousy twisted in my gut. She was free. She could touch herself. But I, I was trapped. Denied. And that’s when it hit me. The truth.
Vikram didn’t just deny me release. He made me crave the torture. All these weeks. He had built this need inside me. He had wired my brain to link pain with pleasure. And I had to choose between them.
I gave up by evening, just stayed there. My legs gave out. I hung by my hair, my feet barely touching the floor. The vibrator was brushing against my butts groin. The T-shirt rode up, exposing everything.
No energy left to fight. But my mind was running. I was getting thoughts of Laxmi’s ringtone. Her screams of climax were used as punishment. She didn’t hate it. She needed it.
Then about the neighbour. Her freedom. Her release. And I realised, I didn’t want to be like Meera anymore. I wanted Vikram to make me scream, just like Lakshmi, my neighbour’s craving.
The thought was terrifying. It was sick. But it was true. My legs were shaking. I closed my eyes. I imagined Vikram’s voice. Good girl.
I imagined his touch. His control. And I understood, I was becoming his toy. And a toy doesn’t want freedom. It wants to be played with.
The breaking me wasn’t a crash. It was to make me surrender, not by force but by changing my mindset. I stopped fighting the rope. I let it pull my head back. I let the pain sink in.
I didn’t want to escape. I wanted him to come back. I didn’t know how long it lasted. Minutes. Hours.
It was sunset time, and Vikram came back. Stood watching me for a while and said, “Don’t move.”
Then he turned the vibrator off. He cut my hair loose. I collapsed on the balcony floor, gasping. My scalp was burning.
“Stand,” he said. I couldn’t. He grabbed my arm and pulled me up. He forced me to face him. “What you chose, darling,” he said in a flat, silent smile.
As soon as he left, I collapsed again. I didn’t know when I fell asleep. Lakshmi came to my room late at night, fed me, and I was again in a deep sleep.
It was a week later. Nighttime. Vikram was sitting in his study, on his PC. Lakshmi informed Vikram about calling me in the study. As I entered the room, I knelt at his feet like I used to do.
“Stand,” he said. I stood. And he continued, “Bend over the desk.”
I understood my job. I removed my gown, my inner wares. I bent naked as Vikram said. My boobs pressed against the cold wood.
He continued his work for some time, and I was bending in the same position. After some time, he turned off his machines, went inside the washroom and came back. He took a long breath and sat on his teak swing chair beside me, bending.
My ass was facing him. He picked up a thick candle. Red wax. He lit it. He held the candle above my butts. Slowly, he tilted it. A drop of hot wax fell. It hit my skin.
He did it again. Another drop. Lower down. It ran down the crack of my ass this time. The burning sensation lasts for a few seconds.
Then he pushed the candle into my asshole. Not easily, he built pressure by pushing the base of the candle in. He left the candle there. The flame danced, inches from my ass. I had to hold still.
He picked up a cigar. He leaned in close. I felt his breath on my lower back. The candle flame wavered, and a golden tongue was flickering over my skin. I held my breath, waiting for the burn.
He puffed. The cigar glowed red. He sat back, holding a whiskey glass in one hand and a cigar in the other. He took a deep drag and leaned over my back. He poured smoke over me.
The smoke curled across my skin. It stung my eyes. I blinked. My nose filled with the smell, and I breathed it in, letting it fill my lungs.
He was enjoying his drink and chilling out. He was touching my back, running fingers over my butts, my curves.
He was relaxed, enjoying the comfort, and his hand was roaming on my body. ” Tell me what you are,” he said. “Ass. Describe.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I said what my ass was being used for. “My ass…” My voice was just a whisper. “My ass is a candle holder.”
He pressed his thumb near my asshole, by the candle base. “And your back?”
“My back… is a table,” I answered.
He ran his hand down my spine. “Keep going.”
“My skin… My skin is a dirty rag,” I continued with whatever came to mind.
He slapped my ass. Not hard. Just enough to make the candle move. “Good. But I am not in the mood to hear a story.”
I stopped describing myself. He smoked his cigar. He drank his whiskey. The candle’s wax was dripping down slowly.
He said, “I want to listen to some melody instead.”
He remained silent for a moment and said, “Sing for me. Teacher, teacher, I am bad…Punish me, or I’ll be sad.”
My voice trembled. I said his words, but he interrupted, “Nah! Like a poem in school, childish.”
I sang, this time in a high-pitched, childish voice like I used to sing Twinkle Little Star. “Again,” he said. I did, then it continued.
In between, He took a mouthful of whiskey. He leaned over my head and spat it out. The whiskey shot out of his mouth like a fountain.
It hit my scalp first. Then it ran down my face, into my eyes. I gasped, blinking. It dripped off my nose. My hair was soaked. I tasted some on my lips.
He took another mouthful. This time, he walked to my side. He grabbed my hair and pulled my head back. He spat the whiskey directly into my open mouth.
I choked. It went up my nose, down my throat. I coughed, whiskey dripped from my lips. He locked his lips to mine. It was a strong, deep kiss for a few seconds. Some of the whiskey he pulled back from my mouth to his.
He broke the kiss and stared at me. Brushed his thumb on my lip hard, and my lipstick spread to my cheeks.
“Continue,” he commanded.
I somehow swallowed the whole whiskey I had in my mouth to continue the poem. He let go of my hair. My head dropped back down. My face was wet, sticky.
He returned to his position, and I was repeating the lines. The candle in my ass was wavering. The smoke from his cigar was filling my nose.
Each word of the poem felt like spit on my face. Minutes passed, and the candle blew out in between. Vikram fell asleep on the chair. His whiskey glass remained on my back, the ash of his cigar spread over me.
But I couldn’t dare to stand up. I kept singing his lines, again and again. “Teacher, teacher, I am bad! Punish me, or I’ll be sad.”
To be continued.
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