Yesterday, 02:32 PM
**Chapter 3: The Night That Would Not End**
The drug had finally left my body.
I knew the exact moment it happened. One second the ceiling fan was still a slow, dreamy blur; the next, every sense snapped into cruel, razor-sharp focus. The ache between my legs was no longer a distant throb—it was a burning, sticky reality. My thighs were slick with his cum and my own blood. My wrists still carried the faint red marks from where he had held them. My nipples stung where his teeth had been. And worst of all, my mind was completely, horribly clear.
I was naked in my older brother’s bed.
I sat up so fast the room spun for a different reason now—pure panic. The sheets pooled at my waist. My hair hung wild and tangled over my breasts. I looked down at myself and felt bile rise in my throat: bite marks on my inner thighs, dried streaks of white on my stomach, the unmistakable red stain on the sheet beneath me.
“Ya ,.'…” The whisper tore out of me like a sob. “What have I done?”
I scrambled off the bed, legs shaking so badly I almost fell. My salwar kameez lay crumpled on the floor. I snatched it up, trying to cover myself, but my hands trembled too much. Tears blurred everything.
“Anna… please… the drug is gone. I can think. I can feel. Let me go home. I beg you on everything holy. I am married. I have a husband. I have a child. This is the worst sin a woman can commit. Please… let me leave.”
Abdullah was leaning against the wardrobe, arms crossed, watching me with that same dark, hungry calm. He had pulled on his track pants, but the bulge was already back, thick and obvious. His eyes dragged over my naked body like he owned every inch.
“You’re not going anywhere, Nasreen.”
I backed away until the wall stopped me. “I am begging you. Look at me—I am crying. My voice is raw from screaming. I said no. I said stop. I said haram. The drug made me weak, but now I am clear. I do not want this. I will never want this. Let me go. I will never tell anyone. I will pray extra, fast, give sadaqah—anything. Just let me walk out that door.”
He pushed off the wardrobe and walked toward me slowly. I tried to sidestep. He caught my wrist, spun me, and pinned both my hands above my head against the wall with one of his large palms. The other hand cupped my chin, forcing me to look at him.
“Listen to me,” he said, voice low and steady. “You can cry. You can beg. You can call it haram until your throat bleeds. But your body already knows the truth. And tonight, I’m going to remind it again and again until you can’t pretend anymore.”
“No—no—no—” I thrashed, trying to twist free. “Let go of my hands! I am your sister! I am married! My husband is waiting for me—please, Anna, you are hurting me—let me go—,.' is watching—stop this madness—”
He didn’t stop. He leaned in and kissed me—hard, deep, claiming. I kept my lips sealed, turning my face away as much as his grip allowed. He bit my lower lip until I gasped, then his tongue pushed inside. I tasted myself on him again. Shame flooded me so hot I thought I would vomit.
When he finally pulled back, I was gasping for air. “Please… I am begging you… don’t kiss me like that… I am not yours… I belong to my husband… this is zina… this is incest… stop… stop touching me…”
He released my wrists only to scoop me up like I weighed nothing. I kicked, I scratched, I screamed. “Put me down! Put me down right now! I will scream for the neighbours—let me go—Anna, please—I am crying—can’t you see the tears? I do not want you inside me again—please—”
He dropped me onto the bed on my back. Before I could roll away he was over me, knees forcing my thighs apart, hands pinning my wrists above my head once more. His 7.5-inch cock—thick, veined, already leaking—slid hot and heavy against my swollen, cum-slick folds.
“Feel that?” he growled. “That’s going back inside your married cunt. And you’re going to take every inch.”
I bucked wildly. “No—no—no—pull back—take it away—Anna, I am begging on my knees in my heart—do not push—do not enter me—I am still sore—there is blood—please, for the love of ,.', stop—”
He pushed.
One long, relentless thrust and he buried all 7.5 inches to the hilt. The stretch burned fresh. I screamed, back arching off the mattress.
“It hurts! Take it out—take it out right now! You are too big—my husband is smaller—you are splitting me—pull out—pull out—,.' forgive me—I do not want this pleasure—stop moving—stop thrusting—”
He didn’t stop. He pulled back until only the head remained, then slammed home again. And again. And again. Deep, powerful strokes that made the bed slam against the wall. Wet, filthy sounds filled the room—skin slapping skin, my unwilling wetness coating every inch of him.
“Stop—stop—stop pounding me—Anna, please—I am married—I am your sister—haram—haram—haram—do not make me come again—I do not want to come on my brother’s cock—please—”
But my body betrayed me. The thick head of his cock dragged over that spot inside me with every thrust. My clit rubbed against his pubic bone. My nipples scbangd his chest. Heat coiled low and tight despite every scream, every tear.
I lost count of the orgasms.
The first one hit me like a slap. My pussy clenched so hard around his 7.5-inch dick that he groaned. I screamed his name, horrified, tears pouring into my hair. “No—no—I’m coming—I’m coming on my brother—,.', no—stop—stop—don’t make me—”
He didn’t slow. He kept pounding—relentless, deep, punishing. The second orgasm crashed right on the heels of the first. My thighs shook. My toes curled. Juices gushed around his cock, soaking the sheets. I sobbed brokenly, “I hate you—I hate my body—stop—please stop—I can’t—too much—”
Third. Fourth. I stopped counting. Every time I thought the pleasure would fade, he changed the angle, hit deeper, ground against my clit. My voice grew hoarse from screaming. My wrists were raw under his grip. Sweat poured off both of us. His balls slapped wetly against my ass with every thrust.
“Tell me to stop,” he panted, never slowing.
“Stop! Stop! Stop! I am begging—pull out—do not come inside me—please, Anna, I will die—my husband—my marriage—do not fill me again—haram—haram—”
He laughed darkly and drove harder. I came again—violent, squirting, soaking his stomach. My vision whited out. When I could see again, he was still pounding, face tight with effort, eyes locked on mine.
“Turn over,” he ordered suddenly.
I shook my head frantically. “No—no—please—not from behind—I can’t—Anna, I am exhausted—let me rest—please—”
He flipped me onto my stomach as if I were a doll. He yanked my hips up, knees spreading me wide. One hand pressed between my shoulder blades, pinning me down. The other guided his cock back to my entrance.
“No—no—don’t—Anna, I am begging—do not enter me again—I am too sensitive—too sore—please—let me go home—”
He slammed in. The new angle was deeper, brutal. His 7.5 inches reached places I didn’t know existed. I screamed into the pillow. He started pounding again—fast, merciless strokes that made my breasts swing, my belly slap the mattress.
I lost count once more. Five. Six. Seven. Each orgasm tore another piece of my soul away. My voice cracked. I was babbling now—half prayers, half pleas.
“Astaghfirullah… stop… please… I am married… haram… no more… no more… I can’t come again… Anna, mercy… mercy…”
He reached under me and found my clit. Two fingers rubbed in tight circles while his cock kept hammering. I shattered again—squirting so hard it sprayed the sheets, my thighs, his balls. My whole body convulsed.
Finally he pulled out, flipped me onto my back, and straddled my chest.
“Open your mouth.”
I clamped my lips shut, shaking my head wildly, tears streaming. “No—no—I will not—please—do not make me taste—Anna, I beg you—”
He pinched my nose. When I gasped he pushed the head of his cock past my lips. The taste of us—cum, blood, my own juices—was overwhelming. He fucked my mouth in short, shallow thrusts, groaning.
“Swallow what you can, chinna.”
He came with a guttural sound, flooding my throat. I choked, coughed, tears pouring. Some spilled down my chin. He pulled out, wiped the rest across my lips like lipstick.
I lay there gasping, chest heaving, body trembling. I thought it was over.
It wasn’t.
He lay beside me, pulled me on top of him. My legs straddled his hips. His cock—still hard, still 7.5 inches of thick, veined steel—stood straight up between us, glistening.
“Ride me.”
I stared at him in horror. “No. Never. I have never done that. Not even with my husband. I will not ride my own brother. I will not. Please—Anna—let me get off—let me go—”
He gripped my hips, lifted me, and lowered me onto his cock. The stretch was still shocking. I cried out, hands flying to his chest to push away.
“Move,” he ordered.
I shook my head, sobbing. “I can’t… I won’t… please… take me off… I am begging… this is too deep… too much… I am married… haram…”
He started thrusting up from below—hard, deep strokes that made me bounce. My breasts jiggled. My clit ground against his pubic bone. Pleasure flared again despite everything.
“No—no—stop moving—stop thrusting up—Anna, please—I do not want to ride you—let me get off—let me lie down—I am exhausted—please—”
But my hips—traitor that they were—began to roll on their own. Small, involuntary circles. Every time I tried to stop, he thrust up harder, forcing me to move with him.
“Ride me properly, Nasreen. Show me how much your married cunt loves your brother’s dick.”
I cried harder, but my body obeyed. I started moving—slow at first, then faster, hips rolling, rising and falling on that thick 7.5-inch cock. The wet sounds were obscene. My juices ran down his shaft, soaked his balls.
“I hate this… I hate myself… stop making me move… I am not riding you willingly… please… make it stop… I am coming again—,.', no—don’t let me come while riding my brother—”
I came. Hard. My pussy clamped around him, milking, fluttering. I screamed, nails digging into his chest. He didn’t stop. He kept thrusting up, forcing me to keep riding through the orgasm.
Another one followed. Then another. I lost count completely. My thighs burned. Sweat poured down my back. My voice was gone—only broken whimpers and sobs remained.
“Anna… please… I can’t… no more… I am going to die… too many… too much… stop… let me rest… I beg you…”
He sat up suddenly, arms wrapping around me, still buried deep. We were face to face. He kissed my tears, then my mouth, while I kept moving on him—exhausted, broken, hips still rolling because he wouldn’t let me stop.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he whispered against my lips.
“No… I am married… I am your sister… haram… please… let me go…”
He flipped us again—me on my back, him on top—and started pounding with fresh fury. Deep, punishing strokes. His balls slapped my ass. My breasts bounced wildly. I came again—smaller, weaker, but still devastating.
Finally, after what felt like hours, his rhythm faltered. He buried himself to the hilt and came—hot, thick spurts flooding my womb again. I felt every pulse. My body answered with one last helpless orgasm, pussy fluttering around him, drawing out every drop.
He collapsed on top of me, still inside, breathing hard. I lay beneath him, completely spent. My limbs felt like water. My throat was raw. My eyes were swollen from crying. Cum and blood and my own juices leaked out around his softening cock.
I tried to push him off. My arms had no strength left.
“Get off me… please… let me go home… I am begging… I am so tired… so ashamed…”
He rolled to the side, pulling me with him. I was too exhausted to fight. My head fell against his chest. His arm wrapped around me, hand splayed possessively over my lower belly.
I whispered one last broken plea, voice barely audible.
“Anna… this is wrong… I am married… haram… please… let me go…”
But my eyes were already closing. My body—battered, used, wrung out—betrayed me one final time. I drifted into sleep curled against my brother’s chest, his cum still leaking from me, his heartbeat steady under my ear.
The last thing I felt was his lips brushing my forehead and his whisper:
“Sleep, chinna. Tomorrow we begin again.”
And even in the darkness, I knew I would wake to the same nightmare.
The drug had finally left my body.
I knew the exact moment it happened. One second the ceiling fan was still a slow, dreamy blur; the next, every sense snapped into cruel, razor-sharp focus. The ache between my legs was no longer a distant throb—it was a burning, sticky reality. My thighs were slick with his cum and my own blood. My wrists still carried the faint red marks from where he had held them. My nipples stung where his teeth had been. And worst of all, my mind was completely, horribly clear.
I was naked in my older brother’s bed.
I sat up so fast the room spun for a different reason now—pure panic. The sheets pooled at my waist. My hair hung wild and tangled over my breasts. I looked down at myself and felt bile rise in my throat: bite marks on my inner thighs, dried streaks of white on my stomach, the unmistakable red stain on the sheet beneath me.
“Ya ,.'…” The whisper tore out of me like a sob. “What have I done?”
I scrambled off the bed, legs shaking so badly I almost fell. My salwar kameez lay crumpled on the floor. I snatched it up, trying to cover myself, but my hands trembled too much. Tears blurred everything.
“Anna… please… the drug is gone. I can think. I can feel. Let me go home. I beg you on everything holy. I am married. I have a husband. I have a child. This is the worst sin a woman can commit. Please… let me leave.”
Abdullah was leaning against the wardrobe, arms crossed, watching me with that same dark, hungry calm. He had pulled on his track pants, but the bulge was already back, thick and obvious. His eyes dragged over my naked body like he owned every inch.
“You’re not going anywhere, Nasreen.”
I backed away until the wall stopped me. “I am begging you. Look at me—I am crying. My voice is raw from screaming. I said no. I said stop. I said haram. The drug made me weak, but now I am clear. I do not want this. I will never want this. Let me go. I will never tell anyone. I will pray extra, fast, give sadaqah—anything. Just let me walk out that door.”
He pushed off the wardrobe and walked toward me slowly. I tried to sidestep. He caught my wrist, spun me, and pinned both my hands above my head against the wall with one of his large palms. The other hand cupped my chin, forcing me to look at him.
“Listen to me,” he said, voice low and steady. “You can cry. You can beg. You can call it haram until your throat bleeds. But your body already knows the truth. And tonight, I’m going to remind it again and again until you can’t pretend anymore.”
“No—no—no—” I thrashed, trying to twist free. “Let go of my hands! I am your sister! I am married! My husband is waiting for me—please, Anna, you are hurting me—let me go—,.' is watching—stop this madness—”
He didn’t stop. He leaned in and kissed me—hard, deep, claiming. I kept my lips sealed, turning my face away as much as his grip allowed. He bit my lower lip until I gasped, then his tongue pushed inside. I tasted myself on him again. Shame flooded me so hot I thought I would vomit.
When he finally pulled back, I was gasping for air. “Please… I am begging you… don’t kiss me like that… I am not yours… I belong to my husband… this is zina… this is incest… stop… stop touching me…”
He released my wrists only to scoop me up like I weighed nothing. I kicked, I scratched, I screamed. “Put me down! Put me down right now! I will scream for the neighbours—let me go—Anna, please—I am crying—can’t you see the tears? I do not want you inside me again—please—”
He dropped me onto the bed on my back. Before I could roll away he was over me, knees forcing my thighs apart, hands pinning my wrists above my head once more. His 7.5-inch cock—thick, veined, already leaking—slid hot and heavy against my swollen, cum-slick folds.
“Feel that?” he growled. “That’s going back inside your married cunt. And you’re going to take every inch.”
I bucked wildly. “No—no—no—pull back—take it away—Anna, I am begging on my knees in my heart—do not push—do not enter me—I am still sore—there is blood—please, for the love of ,.', stop—”
He pushed.
One long, relentless thrust and he buried all 7.5 inches to the hilt. The stretch burned fresh. I screamed, back arching off the mattress.
“It hurts! Take it out—take it out right now! You are too big—my husband is smaller—you are splitting me—pull out—pull out—,.' forgive me—I do not want this pleasure—stop moving—stop thrusting—”
He didn’t stop. He pulled back until only the head remained, then slammed home again. And again. And again. Deep, powerful strokes that made the bed slam against the wall. Wet, filthy sounds filled the room—skin slapping skin, my unwilling wetness coating every inch of him.
“Stop—stop—stop pounding me—Anna, please—I am married—I am your sister—haram—haram—haram—do not make me come again—I do not want to come on my brother’s cock—please—”
But my body betrayed me. The thick head of his cock dragged over that spot inside me with every thrust. My clit rubbed against his pubic bone. My nipples scbangd his chest. Heat coiled low and tight despite every scream, every tear.
I lost count of the orgasms.
The first one hit me like a slap. My pussy clenched so hard around his 7.5-inch dick that he groaned. I screamed his name, horrified, tears pouring into my hair. “No—no—I’m coming—I’m coming on my brother—,.', no—stop—stop—don’t make me—”
He didn’t slow. He kept pounding—relentless, deep, punishing. The second orgasm crashed right on the heels of the first. My thighs shook. My toes curled. Juices gushed around his cock, soaking the sheets. I sobbed brokenly, “I hate you—I hate my body—stop—please stop—I can’t—too much—”
Third. Fourth. I stopped counting. Every time I thought the pleasure would fade, he changed the angle, hit deeper, ground against my clit. My voice grew hoarse from screaming. My wrists were raw under his grip. Sweat poured off both of us. His balls slapped wetly against my ass with every thrust.
“Tell me to stop,” he panted, never slowing.
“Stop! Stop! Stop! I am begging—pull out—do not come inside me—please, Anna, I will die—my husband—my marriage—do not fill me again—haram—haram—”
He laughed darkly and drove harder. I came again—violent, squirting, soaking his stomach. My vision whited out. When I could see again, he was still pounding, face tight with effort, eyes locked on mine.
“Turn over,” he ordered suddenly.
I shook my head frantically. “No—no—please—not from behind—I can’t—Anna, I am exhausted—let me rest—please—”
He flipped me onto my stomach as if I were a doll. He yanked my hips up, knees spreading me wide. One hand pressed between my shoulder blades, pinning me down. The other guided his cock back to my entrance.
“No—no—don’t—Anna, I am begging—do not enter me again—I am too sensitive—too sore—please—let me go home—”
He slammed in. The new angle was deeper, brutal. His 7.5 inches reached places I didn’t know existed. I screamed into the pillow. He started pounding again—fast, merciless strokes that made my breasts swing, my belly slap the mattress.
I lost count once more. Five. Six. Seven. Each orgasm tore another piece of my soul away. My voice cracked. I was babbling now—half prayers, half pleas.
“Astaghfirullah… stop… please… I am married… haram… no more… no more… I can’t come again… Anna, mercy… mercy…”
He reached under me and found my clit. Two fingers rubbed in tight circles while his cock kept hammering. I shattered again—squirting so hard it sprayed the sheets, my thighs, his balls. My whole body convulsed.
Finally he pulled out, flipped me onto my back, and straddled my chest.
“Open your mouth.”
I clamped my lips shut, shaking my head wildly, tears streaming. “No—no—I will not—please—do not make me taste—Anna, I beg you—”
He pinched my nose. When I gasped he pushed the head of his cock past my lips. The taste of us—cum, blood, my own juices—was overwhelming. He fucked my mouth in short, shallow thrusts, groaning.
“Swallow what you can, chinna.”
He came with a guttural sound, flooding my throat. I choked, coughed, tears pouring. Some spilled down my chin. He pulled out, wiped the rest across my lips like lipstick.
I lay there gasping, chest heaving, body trembling. I thought it was over.
It wasn’t.
He lay beside me, pulled me on top of him. My legs straddled his hips. His cock—still hard, still 7.5 inches of thick, veined steel—stood straight up between us, glistening.
“Ride me.”
I stared at him in horror. “No. Never. I have never done that. Not even with my husband. I will not ride my own brother. I will not. Please—Anna—let me get off—let me go—”
He gripped my hips, lifted me, and lowered me onto his cock. The stretch was still shocking. I cried out, hands flying to his chest to push away.
“Move,” he ordered.
I shook my head, sobbing. “I can’t… I won’t… please… take me off… I am begging… this is too deep… too much… I am married… haram…”
He started thrusting up from below—hard, deep strokes that made me bounce. My breasts jiggled. My clit ground against his pubic bone. Pleasure flared again despite everything.
“No—no—stop moving—stop thrusting up—Anna, please—I do not want to ride you—let me get off—let me lie down—I am exhausted—please—”
But my hips—traitor that they were—began to roll on their own. Small, involuntary circles. Every time I tried to stop, he thrust up harder, forcing me to move with him.
“Ride me properly, Nasreen. Show me how much your married cunt loves your brother’s dick.”
I cried harder, but my body obeyed. I started moving—slow at first, then faster, hips rolling, rising and falling on that thick 7.5-inch cock. The wet sounds were obscene. My juices ran down his shaft, soaked his balls.
“I hate this… I hate myself… stop making me move… I am not riding you willingly… please… make it stop… I am coming again—,.', no—don’t let me come while riding my brother—”
I came. Hard. My pussy clamped around him, milking, fluttering. I screamed, nails digging into his chest. He didn’t stop. He kept thrusting up, forcing me to keep riding through the orgasm.
Another one followed. Then another. I lost count completely. My thighs burned. Sweat poured down my back. My voice was gone—only broken whimpers and sobs remained.
“Anna… please… I can’t… no more… I am going to die… too many… too much… stop… let me rest… I beg you…”
He sat up suddenly, arms wrapping around me, still buried deep. We were face to face. He kissed my tears, then my mouth, while I kept moving on him—exhausted, broken, hips still rolling because he wouldn’t let me stop.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he whispered against my lips.
“No… I am married… I am your sister… haram… please… let me go…”
He flipped us again—me on my back, him on top—and started pounding with fresh fury. Deep, punishing strokes. His balls slapped my ass. My breasts bounced wildly. I came again—smaller, weaker, but still devastating.
Finally, after what felt like hours, his rhythm faltered. He buried himself to the hilt and came—hot, thick spurts flooding my womb again. I felt every pulse. My body answered with one last helpless orgasm, pussy fluttering around him, drawing out every drop.
He collapsed on top of me, still inside, breathing hard. I lay beneath him, completely spent. My limbs felt like water. My throat was raw. My eyes were swollen from crying. Cum and blood and my own juices leaked out around his softening cock.
I tried to push him off. My arms had no strength left.
“Get off me… please… let me go home… I am begging… I am so tired… so ashamed…”
He rolled to the side, pulling me with him. I was too exhausted to fight. My head fell against his chest. His arm wrapped around me, hand splayed possessively over my lower belly.
I whispered one last broken plea, voice barely audible.
“Anna… this is wrong… I am married… haram… please… let me go…”
But my eyes were already closing. My body—battered, used, wrung out—betrayed me one final time. I drifted into sleep curled against my brother’s chest, his cum still leaking from me, his heartbeat steady under my ear.
The last thing I felt was his lips brushing my forehead and his whisper:
“Sleep, chinna. Tomorrow we begin again.”
And even in the darkness, I knew I would wake to the same nightmare.
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