29-10-2024, 05:36 PM
As Raj moved behind Muskan,
![[Image: 670bbd46805edfe8f40e9ab0.jpg]](https://cdn2.imgpog.com/670bbd46805edfe8f40e9ab0.jpg)
he hesitated for a long moment. His heart raced, and his palms felt damp as he hovered, unsure of how to proceed. The words Salman had asked him to say—those degrading, cruel words—stuck in his throat. He didn’t know if he could bring himself to speak them, much less act them out. Muskan’s bare back was inches away, and the weight of what they were about to portray hung heavy in the air.
Muskan, sensing his hesitation, took a deep breath, trying to ground herself. Her mind began to drift towards the countless women she knew suffered through this for real—not as an artistic exercise, but as a daily reality. Women who were silenced, humiliated, and degraded by the very people they trusted, who sacrificed everything and still faced violence and cruelty in return. Muskan's heart ached for them, but she remained resolute. This, she told herself, was for them.
Raj finally placed his hands on her shoulders, his grip light at first, as though he might withdraw at any second. His touch was hesitant, almost apologetic, but Muskan steeled herself, giving a subtle nod of encouragement. She needed him to go through with it, to commit. It was the only way they could capture the truth of the piece.
“You’re nothing,” Raj’s voice was low, barely above a whisper, as though the words themselves hurt him. His hands tightened slightly on her shoulders as he spoke. His grip, though firm, was still shaky, betraying his inner conflict. He didn’t want to hurt her—not even for the sake of art—but the gravity of the moment demanded authenticity.
Muskan felt the weight of his words sink into her, and though she knew it wasn’t real, the sting was still there. She forced herself to think of those women who heard these kinds of words every day—who were told they were worthless, who were made to feel small, broken, and insignificant. She blinked, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to fall, but the overwhelming flood of emotions was already rising inside her.
“You give everything,” Raj continued, his voice growing harsher, more commanding, as he tried to push through his discomfort. He was fully in character now, though his heart pounded with guilt. His fingers dug into her shoulders slightly, mimicking dominance, but it felt wrong to him on every level. “But it’s never enough.”
Muskan’s breath hitched as she heard the words, her mind swimming with thoughts of the women trapped in cycles of abuse, of mothers and wives who were told these very same things. The enormity of what they were trying to portray hit her all at once. Her eyes began to glisten as she imagined the countless faces of women who had suffered this, who had silently endured, and her body tensed as if she could feel their pain.
Raj’s hands slid down her sides, gripping her waist more tightly now. The script Salman had given him required him to physically dominate her, to degrade her further. He leaned in closer, his voice harsh in her ear. “You belong to me,” he growled, his breath hot against her neck, and Muskan couldn’t help the shiver that ran through her body.
Muskan’s mind was racing. She thought of how these same words, this same control, had been forced upon women for generations. Women who, despite their sacrifices, were reduced to objects, their bodies claimed as if they had no agency, no voice. Her tears began to well up, despite her effort to hold them back, the weight of those lives pressing heavily upon her.
Raj’s hands moved up her body again, this time more confidently, as he attempted to embrace the character. He groped her, his touch harsh, but beneath the surface, he hated every second of it. His heart ached as he degraded her, calling her vile names, each word feeling like a dagger to his conscience.
“Worthless,” he spat out, as his hands roamed her chest, grabbing her roughly, as though trying to make the degradation real. “This is all you’re good for,” he said, his voice cracking as he tried to push through the scene. But Raj could barely breathe, torn between his role in this performance and the love and respect he had for Muskan.
Muskan’s eyes began to overflow, tears spilling down her cheeks as the full emotional weight hit her. She wasn’t just thinking about herself anymore. She was thinking of the women who were told these things, who had to endure these actions in reality, without the luxury of consent or safety. The pain of those women filled her heart, and she let the tears fall freely now, her face a mask of sorrow, humiliation, and strength all at once.
“You’re mine,” Raj said again, his voice quieter this time, the words almost trembling as he realized what this performance was doing to Muskan. He could feel her body shaking under his grip, her tears falling silently, and he knew that they had reached the heart of what Salman had wanted to capture—the raw emotion of a woman pushed to the edge, fighting to retain her dignity and strength despite everything.
Salman, standing just a few feet away, worked furiously on his canvas. His eyes flicked between Muskan’s face and his work, trying to capture every detail of her expression—the tears, the sorrow, the quiet defiance. Her eyes were the focal point, filled with all the emotions she couldn’t express with words. Salman felt the gravity of the moment, knowing this piece would be one of the most powerful representations of the truth women lived every day.
Raj’s hands roamed once more, settling at her hips, and he debated whether to continue with the act of penetration as Salman had suggested. The degradation was already heavy enough—did they really need to go further? He looked to Muskan, who, through her tears, gave him the smallest of nods, her silent consent urging him on.
With a deep breath, Raj made his final move, entering her with a roughness that matched the dark tone of the piece they were creating. Muskan gasped at the sudden intrusion, her body tensing once again, but she remained resolute. She thought again of the women who never had the luxury of choice, whose bodies were treated like property, and the tears came harder now. Not for herself, but for them.
As Raj moved inside her, his hands gripped her hips tightly, and he whispered more degrading words, though his heart wasn’t in them. He couldn’t even bring himself to look at her face, knowing that this was pushing both of them to their emotional limits.
![[Image: 66ba85578a69e88b912569a9.jpg]](https://cdn2.imgpog.com/66ba85578a69e88b912569a9.jpg)
Muskan’s thoughts were distant, far from the room they were in. She saw the faces of women she had read about, heard about—the survivors of abuse, the ones who had lived in silence, trapped by fear and control. She felt connected to them, as though this act of degradation wasn’t just about her, but about giving voice to their pain, to their resilience.
Raj finished, his body trembling as he withdrew from her, his heart heavy with guilt. He immediately let go of her, stepping back as if he couldn’t bear to be a part of it anymore.
Muskan collapsed forward, her hands trembling as she wiped away her tears. The pain in her heart was real, not from what Raj had done, but from what it represented. She had felt, in those moments, the reality of the countless women who lived this nightmare every day.
Raj knelt down beside her, his voice filled with regret. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, placing a gentle hand on her back. “I didn’t mean to—”
Muskan shook her head, wiping the tears from her eyes. “It’s okay, Raj,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “It’s not about us. It’s about them. We had to do this—for them.”
Salman, standing nearby, quietly placed his brush down, the canvas finished. He stepped forward, looking at Muskan and Raj with a solemn expression. “You both were incredible,” he said softly. “This piece—this will speak to people. It will show them the truth.”
Muskan and Raj remained where they were, the weight of what they had just done still lingering in the air. It was art, yes. But it was also a reflection of a dark, painful reality—one that neither of them would soon forget.
muskan cried while talking to raj
he hesitated for a long moment. His heart raced, and his palms felt damp as he hovered, unsure of how to proceed. The words Salman had asked him to say—those degrading, cruel words—stuck in his throat. He didn’t know if he could bring himself to speak them, much less act them out. Muskan’s bare back was inches away, and the weight of what they were about to portray hung heavy in the air.
Muskan, sensing his hesitation, took a deep breath, trying to ground herself. Her mind began to drift towards the countless women she knew suffered through this for real—not as an artistic exercise, but as a daily reality. Women who were silenced, humiliated, and degraded by the very people they trusted, who sacrificed everything and still faced violence and cruelty in return. Muskan's heart ached for them, but she remained resolute. This, she told herself, was for them.
Raj finally placed his hands on her shoulders, his grip light at first, as though he might withdraw at any second. His touch was hesitant, almost apologetic, but Muskan steeled herself, giving a subtle nod of encouragement. She needed him to go through with it, to commit. It was the only way they could capture the truth of the piece.
“You’re nothing,” Raj’s voice was low, barely above a whisper, as though the words themselves hurt him. His hands tightened slightly on her shoulders as he spoke. His grip, though firm, was still shaky, betraying his inner conflict. He didn’t want to hurt her—not even for the sake of art—but the gravity of the moment demanded authenticity.
Muskan felt the weight of his words sink into her, and though she knew it wasn’t real, the sting was still there. She forced herself to think of those women who heard these kinds of words every day—who were told they were worthless, who were made to feel small, broken, and insignificant. She blinked, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to fall, but the overwhelming flood of emotions was already rising inside her.
“You give everything,” Raj continued, his voice growing harsher, more commanding, as he tried to push through his discomfort. He was fully in character now, though his heart pounded with guilt. His fingers dug into her shoulders slightly, mimicking dominance, but it felt wrong to him on every level. “But it’s never enough.”
Muskan’s breath hitched as she heard the words, her mind swimming with thoughts of the women trapped in cycles of abuse, of mothers and wives who were told these very same things. The enormity of what they were trying to portray hit her all at once. Her eyes began to glisten as she imagined the countless faces of women who had suffered this, who had silently endured, and her body tensed as if she could feel their pain.
Raj’s hands slid down her sides, gripping her waist more tightly now. The script Salman had given him required him to physically dominate her, to degrade her further. He leaned in closer, his voice harsh in her ear. “You belong to me,” he growled, his breath hot against her neck, and Muskan couldn’t help the shiver that ran through her body.
Muskan’s mind was racing. She thought of how these same words, this same control, had been forced upon women for generations. Women who, despite their sacrifices, were reduced to objects, their bodies claimed as if they had no agency, no voice. Her tears began to well up, despite her effort to hold them back, the weight of those lives pressing heavily upon her.
Raj’s hands moved up her body again, this time more confidently, as he attempted to embrace the character. He groped her, his touch harsh, but beneath the surface, he hated every second of it. His heart ached as he degraded her, calling her vile names, each word feeling like a dagger to his conscience.
“Worthless,” he spat out, as his hands roamed her chest, grabbing her roughly, as though trying to make the degradation real. “This is all you’re good for,” he said, his voice cracking as he tried to push through the scene. But Raj could barely breathe, torn between his role in this performance and the love and respect he had for Muskan.
Muskan’s eyes began to overflow, tears spilling down her cheeks as the full emotional weight hit her. She wasn’t just thinking about herself anymore. She was thinking of the women who were told these things, who had to endure these actions in reality, without the luxury of consent or safety. The pain of those women filled her heart, and she let the tears fall freely now, her face a mask of sorrow, humiliation, and strength all at once.
“You’re mine,” Raj said again, his voice quieter this time, the words almost trembling as he realized what this performance was doing to Muskan. He could feel her body shaking under his grip, her tears falling silently, and he knew that they had reached the heart of what Salman had wanted to capture—the raw emotion of a woman pushed to the edge, fighting to retain her dignity and strength despite everything.
Salman, standing just a few feet away, worked furiously on his canvas. His eyes flicked between Muskan’s face and his work, trying to capture every detail of her expression—the tears, the sorrow, the quiet defiance. Her eyes were the focal point, filled with all the emotions she couldn’t express with words. Salman felt the gravity of the moment, knowing this piece would be one of the most powerful representations of the truth women lived every day.
Raj’s hands roamed once more, settling at her hips, and he debated whether to continue with the act of penetration as Salman had suggested. The degradation was already heavy enough—did they really need to go further? He looked to Muskan, who, through her tears, gave him the smallest of nods, her silent consent urging him on.
With a deep breath, Raj made his final move, entering her with a roughness that matched the dark tone of the piece they were creating. Muskan gasped at the sudden intrusion, her body tensing once again, but she remained resolute. She thought again of the women who never had the luxury of choice, whose bodies were treated like property, and the tears came harder now. Not for herself, but for them.
As Raj moved inside her, his hands gripped her hips tightly, and he whispered more degrading words, though his heart wasn’t in them. He couldn’t even bring himself to look at her face, knowing that this was pushing both of them to their emotional limits.
Muskan’s thoughts were distant, far from the room they were in. She saw the faces of women she had read about, heard about—the survivors of abuse, the ones who had lived in silence, trapped by fear and control. She felt connected to them, as though this act of degradation wasn’t just about her, but about giving voice to their pain, to their resilience.
Raj finished, his body trembling as he withdrew from her, his heart heavy with guilt. He immediately let go of her, stepping back as if he couldn’t bear to be a part of it anymore.
Muskan collapsed forward, her hands trembling as she wiped away her tears. The pain in her heart was real, not from what Raj had done, but from what it represented. She had felt, in those moments, the reality of the countless women who lived this nightmare every day.
Raj knelt down beside her, his voice filled with regret. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, placing a gentle hand on her back. “I didn’t mean to—”
Muskan shook her head, wiping the tears from her eyes. “It’s okay, Raj,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “It’s not about us. It’s about them. We had to do this—for them.”
Salman, standing nearby, quietly placed his brush down, the canvas finished. He stepped forward, looking at Muskan and Raj with a solemn expression. “You both were incredible,” he said softly. “This piece—this will speak to people. It will show them the truth.”
Muskan and Raj remained where they were, the weight of what they had just done still lingering in the air. It was art, yes. But it was also a reflection of a dark, painful reality—one that neither of them would soon forget.
muskan cried while talking to raj
Feel free to critic
On going
a loving daughter spandana
completed
art by muskan&slaman
aisha - yes lady
On going
a loving daughter spandana
completed
art by muskan&slaman
aisha - yes lady
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