[Umavictor32]

Chapter 29: The Nightmare Before the Meeting



[Location: ------ | Day: Friday | Date: 8th January 2027 | Time: 6:00 PM]


The leather collar was still warm from the dog's neck.



Saroja pulled it off the animal—a lean, brindled street dog that licked her fingers and trotted away—and turned it over in her hands. The leather was cracked, dark with old sweat, and the brass buckle had gone green at the edges. It stank of the dog. Of the street. Of everything Chithra had once been too clean to touch.

"Stand still," Saroja said.

Chithra stood in the center of the room in only her bra and panty. Black bra. Black panty. The cheap kind from a roadside shop, the elastic already cutting red lines into her hips. Her skin was bare everywhere else, that soft golden-brown flesh that made men turn their heads in the market. Her hair was loose, tangled, falling past her shoulders. She looked like something between a housewife and a whore, and she couldn't stop shaking.

Saroja walked around her slowly. The dog collar swung from her fingers.

"You said you'd do anything." Saroja's voice was soft, almost kind. "Didn't you?"

Chithra's throat moved. "Yes."

"Say it again. Full line."

"I said I am ready to do anything if you come back to KVK party."

Saroja smiled. The smile didn't reach her eyes. "Good. Then tonight, you will be destroyed."

She lifted the collar and wrapped it around Chithra's neck. The leather was rough and warm, and when Saroja buckled it tight, it pressed into Chithra's throat just enough to make her swallow loud. Glk. Saroja yanked the buckle once. Then again. The brass teeth dug into the leather, and the collar sat there like it had always belonged.



"There," Saroja said. "Now you look like what you are."

Chithra made a small sound—nnh—but she didn't move. Her wrists were already bound behind her back with a rough coir rope, the fibers biting into her skin. She had been standing like this for almost an hour, waiting, while Saroja's men watched from the shadows of the room.

They were all there now. Six of them. Maybe seven. She had stopped counting. They stood against the walls, on the bed, by the window, their lungis and trousers dark with sweat, their eyes moving over her body like hands. Some of them smoked. The room was thick with it—beedi smoke and stale arrack and the reek of men who had worked all day in the sun.

"Beautiful, eh?" Saroja turned to address the room. "This is Chithra. The same Chithra who used to walk through the market with her nose in the air. The same Chithra who wore her mangalsutra like a crown. Now look at her. Bra and panty. A dog's collar on her neck. And you all are going to fuck her tonight."

A murmur went through the men. Low laughter. Someone clapped once.

"Tonight," Saroja continued, "you will not stop until she forgets her own name. Until she forgets Muthu. Until she forgets she was ever a wife, a mother, a woman with pride." She turned back to Chithra, grabbing the collar and yanking her forward so their faces were inches apart. "You know what happens when a woman's ass is fucked properly?"

Chithra's eyes were wide, wet, but she shook her head.

"She changes." Saroja's breath was hot against her lips. "Her whole character changes. The way she walks, the way she sits, the way she thinks. An ass-fucked woman cannot go back to being a decent wife. She cannot look her husband in the eye. She cannot pray with a clean heart. Her body remembers. Her cunt remembers. And every time she sits, every time she moves, she feels it—the stretch, the burn, the fullness. That is what tonight will do to you."

Chithra's thighs pressed together. A small, shameful pulse of heat moved through her belly. She hated it. She hated that her body was reacting. But she couldn't stop it.

"You kept your asshole safe for Muthu," Saroja said. "Didn't you? You thought that tight little hole was valuable. Something precious. You gave him your cunt, your mouth, your pride, but the ass—ah, the ass you saved. You thought it made you special." She laughed, short and ugly. "Tonight, every man in this room will use that ass. They will fill it. They will stretch it. They will leave you gaping and leaking and crying. And by the end, that hole will be as worthless as the rest of you."

Chithra shook her head. "No—please—"

One of the men moved. A big fellow with a thick black moustache and a stomach that hung over his lungi. He came up behind Chithra and grabbed her hips, pulling her back against him. His cock was already hard, pressing into the cleft of her ass through his cloth. He ground against her, and she let out a cracked sob.

"Please what?" Saroja asked. "Please stop? Please more? Please fill your greedy little whore holes?" She grabbed Chithra's jaw, forcing her to look up. "I know you, Chithra. I know the kind of woman you are. You pretend to be decent. You pretend to be respectable. But underneath, you're nothing but a cunt on two legs. You just need the right men to bring it out of you."

"Ayyyyoooo—" Chithra's voice broke as the man behind her bit her shoulder. Hard. She felt his teeth sink into the soft flesh, and the pain shot through her like lightning. "Ammmma—"

"Yes, call your mother," Saroja said. "She can't help you now."

The room erupted into laughter.

Saroja stepped back and clapped her hands. "Positions. Now."

---

The men moved fast.

Two of them took Chithra by the arms and dragged her to the bed. It was an old cot with a torn mattress, the springs creaking under even the slightest weight. They threw her face-down, and she landed with a grunt—uff—her bound hands crushed beneath her. The rope around her wrists had tightened, and her fingers were numb.

Rough hands rolled her over. Another man—leaner, younger, with a face marked by pockmarks—sat on her thighs, pinning her legs. The moustache man straddled her chest, his knees pressing her arms into the mattress. She was trapped. Naked except for the ruined bra and panty, her body on display for every man in the room.

"Let's see these first," Saroja said.

She stepped forward, produced a small knife from the waistband of her saree, and hooked the blade under the center of Chithra's bra. One sharp tug and the fabric split—rrrrp. The cups fell away, and Chithra's breasts spilled free, heavy and full, the dark nipples already tight from the cold air and something else she didn't want to name.

The men groaned.

"Fuck, look at those," someone said. "Bigger than my wife's."

"Fresh milk?" another voice asked. "Or dry?"

"Only one way to find out."

Saroja yanked the panty down and off. The elastic snapped—thwack—against Chithra's thigh, leaving a red welt. Chithra whimpered. Her cunt was bare now, the dark lips already glistening with a wetness she couldn't deny.

"See?" Saroja said, pointing. "Already wet. The whore's body knows what it wants, even when her mouth says no."

"Smells like pussy," a man said, and the room laughed again.

The young man at the foot of the bed spread Chithra's legs. She tried to close them, but he held her ankles wide, exposing her fully. Her cunt opened like a flower, the pink inner flesh visible, the little nub of her clit standing stiff and needy. A thread of slickness ran down to her asshole, and the sight of it made Saroja click her tongue.

"Look at that asshole," she said. "So tight. So pink. It's never been touched, has it?"

Chithra shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Please—Saroja, please—not that—"

"Oh, it'll be touched." Saroja reached down and pressed her thumb against Chithra's asshole. The ring of muscle clenched and pulsed, but it didn't give. "Touched, opened, fucked, and flooded. Your pride lives in this hole, Chithra. That arrogance you carry, that 'I am Muthu's property' nonsense. Tonight, we kill it."

She pulled her thumb away. Chithra sobbed.

"MMPH!" The sound was torn from her as Saroja filled her mouth with a wet rag. "MMPH! MMPH!"

Saroja smiled. "That's better. I don't want to hear your lectures about how much you love Muthu. I want to hear you moan like the whore you are." Saroja started pinching chithra 's nipple.

"

Something landed on Chithra's face, and she flinched. A long, heavy rope. Two of the men grabbed her breasts, lifting them, squeezing them together, while Saroja wound the rope around the base of both tits again and again. The pressure built slowly, then sharply. Her breasts swelled, the skin turning darker, the veins standing out. The rope crossed over her nipples, biting into them, and Chithra screamed against the gag.

"Mmph! Mmmph! Mmmph!"

"Look how purple they're getting," the young man said. "Like overripe fruit."

"Needles," Saroja said.

A hush fell over the room. Then someone handed her a small tin box. She opened it. Inside, on a bed of cotton wool, lay six long, silver sewing needles.

Saroja took one out. The light caught the point.

"These are for your milk," she said. "They come in through the nipple, right through the duct. You'll feel it, but you'll thank me later." She passed the tin to the moustache man. "You do the honors."

The big man shifted on Chithra's chest. He took a needle and held it up, grinning. Then he pinched her left nipple between his thick fingers, rolling it, pulling it taut. Chithra's eyes went wide. She shook her head, thrashing, but the men held her fast.

"Shhh," he said. "Don't move. This will hurt more if you move."

He pushed the needle in.

Ayyyyooooo—

The scream was trapped behind the gag, but it tore through her anyway. The needle slid through the center of her nipple, slowly, deliberately, until it emerged on the other side. Chithra's back arched off the bed. Her hips bucked. A hot gush of wetness flooded her cunt, and the men watched it happen with hungry eyes.

"Look at that," the young man said. "She's dripping like a tap."

"Of course she is," Saroja said. "Pain makes a woman's cunt weak. That's how you train them."

The second needle went through her right nipple. This time, Chithra's scream came out as a low, animal moan—aaaahhhhhhhh—her whole body trembling, her thighs quivering.



 Sweat broke out across her belly and forehead. The rag in her mouth was soaked through with drool, and it dripped down her chin, mixing with her tears.

"Now the cunt," Saroja said.

They moved her legs further apart, spreading her obscenely wide. Her cunt was red and swollen, the lips puffed up, the clit jutting out from its hood like a tiny cock. The young man held her open with two fingers while the moustache man selected another needle.

"Where should it go?" he asked, tilting his head. "Through the lip? Or the clit?"

"Both," Saroja said. "But start with the lip. The clit comes later, when she's already broken."

The needle went through Chithra's left outer lip. Sssssk. The sound of it slicing through flesh. Chithra's whole body jolted, and a fresh sob wracked her chest. Then another needle through the right lip. And another, smaller one, just above her clit, piercing the hood.

She wasn't screaming anymore. She was moaning—low, continuous, a sound that seemed to come from the bottom of her belly. Haaaanh. Haaaanh. Haaaanh.

And she was wetter than ever.

"Now, milk," Saroja announced.

The moustache man squeezed her right breast from the base, working the flesh downward. Milk spurted from the nipple in thin, ragged streams, soaking her chest and belly. The room went wild. The men surged forward, their voices rising.

"Fuck, she has milk!"



"Feed us, whore!"

One of them cupped his hands beneath her breast and caught the thin white fluid. He brought it to his mouth and drank. Then another man took her left breast, kneading it roughly, and the milk ran over his fingers.



Chithra–the shamed, the starving, the starving for release–pulled against the ropes. She heard herself making sounds—uffff, aaahhh, ammma—but they felt far away, as if someone else were making them. Her nipples burned. Her cunt throbbed. And still, the milk kept coming, dribbling down her sides, pooling in her navel, slicking the sheets beneath her.

"Now you understand," Saroja said, bending close to her ear. "Your body is not yours. Your milk is not yours. Your holes are not yours. From this moment, you are nothing but a thing. A warm, wet, breathing thing for men to use."

Chithra sobbed against the gag.

Saroja pulled the wet rag out. "Speak. Tell me what you are."

Chithra gasped for air, her chest heaving. "I—I don't—"

A hard slap across her face. Thwack! Her head snapped to the side.

"Say it. What are you?"

"I'm—a thing—" Chithra whispered.

"Whose thing?"

Saroja's hand came down again, and Chithra felt her lip split. The taste of blood filled her mouth.

"Whose thing, you worthless cunt?"

"I'm your thing!" Chithra sobbed. "I'm Saroja's thing! I'm a thing for men to use—please—please, I'm sorry—"