12-06-2025, 04:06 AM
Nadia woke up with the same heaviness that had become a familiar friend in the last few months. At 32, she felt the weight of the world on her shoulders. The soft light of the Mumbai morning peeked through the curtains of her modest apartment, painting the room in shades of gold and dust. She rolled out of bed, her body feeling the protest of too little sleep and too much tension. Her reflection in the mirror was a testament to her beauty - long, dark hair cascading down her back, high cheekbones, and eyes that could make a poet weep. But she knew that beauty was a double-edged sword, especially in her line of work.
Her job as a receptionist at a mid-sized tech firm was a far cry from what she had imagined for herself. Her university degree in economics had promised so much more, but life had taken a sharp turn when she discovered her husband's infidelity. The divorce had been swift and brutal, leaving her with their young son and a mountain of debt. The job market had been unforgiving, and she had taken what she could get. The only solace she found was in her son's laughter and the occasional compliment from a colleague on her resemblance to Chahat Khanna, the sultry Bollywood star.
Her boss, Mr. Patel, had noticed that resemblance too. His eyes had lingered on her when she had first walked into the office, dressed in a simple yet alluring sari that revealed just enough of her curvaceous figure. His leers had turned into whispers, and the whispers into suggestions. The job had come with strings attached, strings that grew tighter with each passing day. He had made it clear that her employment was contingent on her willingness to satisfy his carnivorous desires. The thought made her stomach churn, but she had a son to raise and a life to rebuild. So, she had succumbed, letting the fear of unemployment and destitution silence her protests.
The office was a maze of cubicles and cold, grey walls that seemed to close in on her with every step she took. The air was thick with the scent of stale coffee and the murmur of keyboards. She sat at her desk, her hands trembling as she adjusted her sari, making sure it was just tight enough to show off her ample cleavage without being too revealing. It was a delicate dance she had learned to perform, balancing her dignity with the need to keep her job. As the day progressed, she felt the eyes of the other employees on her, some filled with lust, others with pity. She knew they all knew about her arrangement with Mr. Patel. The whispers followed her like a shadow, a constant reminder of her new role in the office hierarchy - his personal entertainment.
Lunchtime came as a brief respite, but it was during this reprieve that she felt the most isolated. While the others talked and laughed in the cafeteria, she sat in the corner, picking at her food, her mind racing with thoughts of how she had ended up here. The humiliation was almost too much to bear, but she gritted her teeth and reminded herself of her son's sweet face. He was the reason she endured, the beacon of hope that kept her going.
As the afternoon dragged on, the inevitable call from Mr. Patel's assistant came. "Nadia," the voice cooed over the intercom, "Mr. Patel would like to see you in his office." Her stomach lurched, and she felt the heat rise to her cheeks. She took a deep breath, willing herself to stay calm, and walked to the elevator, the clack of her heels echoing through the otherwise silent corridor. His office was a stark contrast to the rest of the floor - plush carpets, dark wood paneling, and a large desk that seemed to loom over the room like a throne. The door closed with a click that seemed to echo through her very soul.
Mr. Patel looked up from his paperwork, his beady eyes lighting up with anticipation. He was a man in his early 50s, his once-handsome face marred by the excesses of his wealth. "Come in, Nadia," he said, his voice thick with lust. "I have a special client coming in today, and I want you to look your best." He gestured to the chair in front of his desk, where a garment bag lay open, revealing a stunning, yet scandalously sexy bridal lehenga. The gold and red fabric glinted in the artificial light, a stark contrast to her usual office attire.
Her heart pounded in her chest as she stepped closer, her eyes filling with tears of rage and despair. She knew what was expected of her - to be the entertainment, the eye candy, the slut that would help seal a deal. She had done it before, but each time it felt like a piece of her soul was being chipped away. With trembling hands, she began to undress, the fabric of her sari whispering against her skin as she revealed the lacy lingerie beneath.
Mr. Patel's eyes feasted on her as she stepped into the lehenga, the tight-fitting blouse hugging her curves and the flowing skirt leaving little to the imagination. The outfit was a mockery of the sacred tradition, a perversion of the purity it was meant to symbolize. He instructed her to wear minimal makeup, to look as innocent and vulnerable as possible. She knew the kind of men that would be coming in, the ones who liked their conquests easy and unblemished.
As she sat back down in the chair, he circled her like a predator, inspecting his prize. His hands reached out to adjust the neckline, his fingers brushing against her bare skin, sending a shiver down her spine. She gritted her teeth, willing herself not to flinch. His touch was cold and greasy, a stark contrast to the gentle caresses she had once known in happier times. The air in the room grew thick with the scent of his cologne, mixing with the sickly sweet aroma of fear.
The door to the office opened, and in walked a group of men, their eyes immediately drawn to Nadia. They were wealthy, their suits tailored and their smiles predatory. She recognized the hunger in their gaze, the same hunger she had seen in Mr. Patel's eyes countless times before. The introductions were made, and she was presented as if she were a trophy, a prize to be claimed. They talked business, their voices a cacophony of power and greed, while she sat in silence, a silent participant in a game she never wanted to play.
The meeting dragged on, the tension in the room palpable. Every so often, Mr. Patel would place a hand on her thigh, his grip tightening as the negotiations grew more heated. She could feel his excitement, his anticipation of what was to come. Her stomach churned with every lecherous look thrown her way, her mind racing with thoughts of escape. But she had nowhere to go, no one to save her from this twisted reality she was forced to endure.
The deal was made, the papers signed, and the men stood to leave. As they did, one lingered behind, his gaze never leaving her. "Mr. Patel," he said, his voice dripping with insinuation, "you have excellent taste in... decor." The implication was clear, and the bile rose in her throat. She knew what was expected of her now. To be used, to be degraded, all for the sake of keeping a job that had become her very own personal hell.
The door closed, leaving her and her boss alone. He looked at her with a smug smile, his hand reaching out to stroke her cheek. "You've done well today, Nadia," he murmured, his voice a snake's hiss. "Very well indeed." His hand trailed down her neck, and she felt the bile rise even higher. The next few hours would be a blur of pain and humiliation, but she would survive, as she always did. For her son, she would survive.
The weekends were the worst. It was then that Mr. Patel would invite his friend, Mr. Sharma, over to the office. The two men would spend the day locked away with her, passing her back and forth like a toy, using her body to satisfy their every whim. The office, once a place of professional refuge, had become her own personal hell, a stage for their depraved theater. The sound of their laughter and the smack of flesh against flesh echoed through the otherwise silent corridors, a constant reminder that she was trapped.
"Take off the lehenga," Mr. Patel ordered, his voice cold and commanding. She complied, the fabric pooling around her feet. She stood there in nothing but her lingerie, feeling more naked than she ever had in her life. Mr. Sharma's eyes raked over her body, his gaze a physical assault that made her want to shrink away. "Such a beautiful piece," he said, his eyes lingering on the swell of her breasts. "But it's what's underneath that we're really interested in, isn't it?"
The two men talked about her as if she weren't there, discussing her as if she were a piece of property. They had no care for her thoughts, her feelings, or her dignity. She was merely a vessel for their pleasure, a tool to be used and discarded. Her heart felt like it was breaking into a million pieces, but she had to keep going, had to find a way to keep her son safe.
As Mr. Sharma approached her, she could see the hunger in his eyes. His hand reached out, and she braced herself for his touch, for the pain that was sure to come. But instead, he grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back. "Look at me," he growled, his breath hot on her face. "You're going to take us both, aren't you?" There was no question in his tone, only a declaration of what was to come. She nodded, her eyes filling with tears, and he smiled, a cruel twist of his lips that made her want to scream.
The rest of the weekend was a blur of pain and degradation. They took turns with her, using her in every way imaginable. She was a rag doll in their hands, a plaything to be used and abused. Her body was bruised and sore, her spirit all but broken. Yet, she held on, her mind retreating to a place far away from the grim reality of the office. It was only when she was back in her apartment, her son asleep in the next room, that she allowed herself to cry, the sobs racking her body as she mourned the life she had once known.
The following Monday, she walked back into the office with her head held high, her makeup expertly applied to cover the dark circles under her eyes and the bruises on her neck. She wore her sari like armor, a silent declaration of war against the men who thought they owned her. But she knew the truth - she was trapped in their web, with no way to escape the cycle of humiliation and pain that had become her weekly ritual.
As the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, the whispers grew louder. The other employees knew what was happening behind the closed doors of the conference room every weekend. Some looked at her with lust, others with pity. But no one dared to speak up, to offer her a lifeline. She was a cautionary tale, a warning of what could happen if you didn't play by the rules in the cutthroat world of corporate Mumbai.
Mr. Patel's grip on her tightened, his demands becoming more depraved with each passing week. He began to bring in other men, colleagues and clients alike, to share in the degradation. The leers grew more brazen, the whispers turned to open discussions about her body and her willingness to please. She felt like a piece of meat on display, and every time she saw the look of hunger in their eyes, she died a little inside.
One fateful Friday evening, she found herself dressed in a bridal outfit that was more scandalous than sacred. The lehenga was a crimson red, the blouse cut so low it barely contained her breasts, and the choli so sheer it left little to the imagination. The skirt was adorned with silver beads that shimmered in the dim office lights, and her hair was styled in an elaborate updo with loose strands framing her face, giving her an innocent yet seductive look.
Two political leaders had arrived, their smiles as fake as the flowers in the vase on the desk. They were notorious for their appetites, and Mr. Patel had promised them an evening they would not soon forget. They eyed her like hungry predators as she was led into the conference room on a leash, her wrists bound together with velvet ropes that matched the crimson of her outfit. A butt plug was in place, the uncomfortable intrusion a constant reminder of her role for the night.
"Ah, Mr. Patel," one of them said, his eyes roving over her body, "you've truly outdone yourself this time."
"Thank you," Mr. Patel replied, his voice smug. "Nadia here is quite the versatile performer."
The first leader, a man with a pot belly and a greasy comb-over, stepped closer to her. "Let's see what she can do," he said, a wicked grin spreading across his face. He grabbed the remote control from the desk and pressed a button, causing music to fill the room. The second leader, younger and more handsome but equally as vile, took her by the elbow and led her to the center of the floor.
The music was a popular Bollywood number, one that spoke of love and passion, but here it was a twisted soundtrack to her humiliation. She danced for them, her movements forced and mechanical, her heart heavy with the weight of her situation. The beads on her outfit clicked together with every step, the sound a mockery of the wedding bells she had once dreamed of hearing. The men watched, leering and laughing, as she twirled and dipped, her body on display for their amusement.
"Very nice," the younger leader said, his hand reaching out to caress her hip. "But I think it's time we see what else she's capable of." He reached behind her and tugged on the leash, pulling her closer. "Dance for us, my little slut," he murmured in her ear, his breath hot and moist.
The music grew louder, the lights flashing in time with the beat. She danced, her heart racing with fear and anger, as the two men whispered lewd suggestions to her, their hands exploring her body without permission. Her cheeks burned with humiliation, but she knew better than to protest. The leash grew taut as she was led from one to the other, her body used and discarded like a piece of trash.
As the night grew longer, so did their appetites. They ordered her to perform increasingly degrading acts, the butt plug replaced with larger, more intrusive objects. They talked about her as if she weren't there, discussing the best ways to use her, the most pleasurable positions, the tightest parts of her to claim. She bit her lip until it bled, the pain a welcome distraction from the horror of her reality.
The men grew bolder, their hands rougher, their demands more explicit. She was ordered to service both of them simultaneously, her mouth and her body a battleground for their depraved desires. They took her, one after the other, her cries of pain muffled by their grunts of pleasure.
The following morning, as the first light of dawn seeped into the office, she was allowed to leave, her body bruised and her spirit shattered. She stumbled home, the lehenga a tattered mess, the remnants of her dignity clinging to her like a second skin. She knew she couldn't go on like this forever, but for now, she had to endure, for the sake of her son.
The week passed in a blur of pain and degradation, each day worse than the last. But then, on Thursday, she overheard a conversation that filled her with a new kind of dread. Mr. Patel had rented a farmhouse for the weekend, and he had something special planned for his son's 18th birthday. A gift that would be shared among the boy and his friends - her.
The day of the party arrived, and she found herself dressed in a freshly washed sari, the fabric sticking to her still-sweaty skin from the anxiety that plagued her. The soft rustle of the sari was a stark contrast to the roar of fear in her ears as she rode the elevator up to the top floor of the office building. Mr. Patel's son, Rohit, was a notorious playboy, his reputation preceding him like a dark shadow. The thought of what the night would hold for her made her knees wobble as she stepped out onto the plush carpet of the executive suite.
The farmhouse was a sprawling estate on the outskirts of the city, surrounded by lush greenery that seemed to whisper of better times. As she was escorted to the back of the house, the laughter and music grew louder, the anticipation in the air thick enough to cut with a knife. She was led into a room where Rohit and his friends were already waiting, their eyes lighting up like predators spotting prey as she entered.
They were dressed in designer clothes, their smiles as fake as their intentions. Rohit's friends looked her over hungrily, their eyes raking over her in a way that made her skin crawl. She was a prize, a trophy to be shared among them all. The sari clung to her, the transparency of the fabric leaving nothing to the imagination, and she felt more exposed than ever before.
The party was in full swing, and she was the main attraction. The boys took turns with her, their hands and mouths exploring every inch of her body as if they owned it. The sari was torn away, leaving her in nothing but her underwear, the flimsy material providing no protection against their eager, grasping hands. She closed her eyes and thought of her son, her only source of strength in this sea of darkness.
The night was a whirlwind of pain and humiliation. They used her in every way they could think of, their laughter ringing in her ears as she was passed around like a dirty secret. They didn't care about her cries or her pleas for mercy. She was a thing to them, a toy to be played with until they were satisfied. When they were done, she was left on the floor, a crumpled mess of fabric and bruised flesh.
The next morning, she stumbled back to the city, the memories of the night seared into her soul. The office was closed for the weekend, but she knew that on Monday, it would all start again. The cycle of fear and degradation was relentless, a never-ending hamster wheel of despair. But as she held her son in her arms that evening, she made a silent vow to find a way out, to break free from the chains that bound her to this life. For him, she would find the strength to fight back, to reclaim her dignity and show the world that she was more than just a pretty face and a willing body.
The flashbacks of the birthday party haunted her every waking moment. The way they had looked at her, their eyes full of lust and entitlement, as if she were a prize to be won at a game. The way they had torn the sari from her body, the fabric that had once been a symbol of her culture now a tool of their debasement. The cold, hard floor of the farmhouse room was a stark reminder of her new reality - she was nothing more than a plaything for their sick amusement.
Each act they had performed on her played out in her mind like a twisted movie reel, the images seared into her brain. The way Rohit had looked at her, his young eyes so much like his father's, as he claimed her for his first time. The cruel twist of his lips as he whispered sweet nothings into her ear, his voice a parody of the love she had once hoped to find. The way his friends had watched, their faces a mix of envy and excitement, as they waited for their turn with the "experienced" woman.
The pain and humiliation of that night were etched into her very being, a scar that would never fully heal. Yet, amidst the horror, she found a spark of rebellion, a fiery determination that grew with each passing day. She began to look for ways to escape, to find the key to the cage she was trapped in. Her mind raced with ideas, each one more desperate and daring than the last. But she knew that she had to be careful, that one wrong move could cost her everything she had left.
As the weekend passed, she felt a newfound rage burning within her. The whispers in the office grew more vile, the glances more daring. But she didn't flinch, didn't look away. Instead, she met each gaze with a glare that could cut glass, a promise of retribution. The time had come for her to take back control, to show Mr. Patel and his ilk that she was not a toy to be played with, not a commodity to be bought and sold.
Her job as a receptionist at a mid-sized tech firm was a far cry from what she had imagined for herself. Her university degree in economics had promised so much more, but life had taken a sharp turn when she discovered her husband's infidelity. The divorce had been swift and brutal, leaving her with their young son and a mountain of debt. The job market had been unforgiving, and she had taken what she could get. The only solace she found was in her son's laughter and the occasional compliment from a colleague on her resemblance to Chahat Khanna, the sultry Bollywood star.
Her boss, Mr. Patel, had noticed that resemblance too. His eyes had lingered on her when she had first walked into the office, dressed in a simple yet alluring sari that revealed just enough of her curvaceous figure. His leers had turned into whispers, and the whispers into suggestions. The job had come with strings attached, strings that grew tighter with each passing day. He had made it clear that her employment was contingent on her willingness to satisfy his carnivorous desires. The thought made her stomach churn, but she had a son to raise and a life to rebuild. So, she had succumbed, letting the fear of unemployment and destitution silence her protests.
The office was a maze of cubicles and cold, grey walls that seemed to close in on her with every step she took. The air was thick with the scent of stale coffee and the murmur of keyboards. She sat at her desk, her hands trembling as she adjusted her sari, making sure it was just tight enough to show off her ample cleavage without being too revealing. It was a delicate dance she had learned to perform, balancing her dignity with the need to keep her job. As the day progressed, she felt the eyes of the other employees on her, some filled with lust, others with pity. She knew they all knew about her arrangement with Mr. Patel. The whispers followed her like a shadow, a constant reminder of her new role in the office hierarchy - his personal entertainment.
Lunchtime came as a brief respite, but it was during this reprieve that she felt the most isolated. While the others talked and laughed in the cafeteria, she sat in the corner, picking at her food, her mind racing with thoughts of how she had ended up here. The humiliation was almost too much to bear, but she gritted her teeth and reminded herself of her son's sweet face. He was the reason she endured, the beacon of hope that kept her going.
As the afternoon dragged on, the inevitable call from Mr. Patel's assistant came. "Nadia," the voice cooed over the intercom, "Mr. Patel would like to see you in his office." Her stomach lurched, and she felt the heat rise to her cheeks. She took a deep breath, willing herself to stay calm, and walked to the elevator, the clack of her heels echoing through the otherwise silent corridor. His office was a stark contrast to the rest of the floor - plush carpets, dark wood paneling, and a large desk that seemed to loom over the room like a throne. The door closed with a click that seemed to echo through her very soul.
Mr. Patel looked up from his paperwork, his beady eyes lighting up with anticipation. He was a man in his early 50s, his once-handsome face marred by the excesses of his wealth. "Come in, Nadia," he said, his voice thick with lust. "I have a special client coming in today, and I want you to look your best." He gestured to the chair in front of his desk, where a garment bag lay open, revealing a stunning, yet scandalously sexy bridal lehenga. The gold and red fabric glinted in the artificial light, a stark contrast to her usual office attire.
Her heart pounded in her chest as she stepped closer, her eyes filling with tears of rage and despair. She knew what was expected of her - to be the entertainment, the eye candy, the slut that would help seal a deal. She had done it before, but each time it felt like a piece of her soul was being chipped away. With trembling hands, she began to undress, the fabric of her sari whispering against her skin as she revealed the lacy lingerie beneath.
Mr. Patel's eyes feasted on her as she stepped into the lehenga, the tight-fitting blouse hugging her curves and the flowing skirt leaving little to the imagination. The outfit was a mockery of the sacred tradition, a perversion of the purity it was meant to symbolize. He instructed her to wear minimal makeup, to look as innocent and vulnerable as possible. She knew the kind of men that would be coming in, the ones who liked their conquests easy and unblemished.
As she sat back down in the chair, he circled her like a predator, inspecting his prize. His hands reached out to adjust the neckline, his fingers brushing against her bare skin, sending a shiver down her spine. She gritted her teeth, willing herself not to flinch. His touch was cold and greasy, a stark contrast to the gentle caresses she had once known in happier times. The air in the room grew thick with the scent of his cologne, mixing with the sickly sweet aroma of fear.
The door to the office opened, and in walked a group of men, their eyes immediately drawn to Nadia. They were wealthy, their suits tailored and their smiles predatory. She recognized the hunger in their gaze, the same hunger she had seen in Mr. Patel's eyes countless times before. The introductions were made, and she was presented as if she were a trophy, a prize to be claimed. They talked business, their voices a cacophony of power and greed, while she sat in silence, a silent participant in a game she never wanted to play.
The meeting dragged on, the tension in the room palpable. Every so often, Mr. Patel would place a hand on her thigh, his grip tightening as the negotiations grew more heated. She could feel his excitement, his anticipation of what was to come. Her stomach churned with every lecherous look thrown her way, her mind racing with thoughts of escape. But she had nowhere to go, no one to save her from this twisted reality she was forced to endure.
The deal was made, the papers signed, and the men stood to leave. As they did, one lingered behind, his gaze never leaving her. "Mr. Patel," he said, his voice dripping with insinuation, "you have excellent taste in... decor." The implication was clear, and the bile rose in her throat. She knew what was expected of her now. To be used, to be degraded, all for the sake of keeping a job that had become her very own personal hell.
The door closed, leaving her and her boss alone. He looked at her with a smug smile, his hand reaching out to stroke her cheek. "You've done well today, Nadia," he murmured, his voice a snake's hiss. "Very well indeed." His hand trailed down her neck, and she felt the bile rise even higher. The next few hours would be a blur of pain and humiliation, but she would survive, as she always did. For her son, she would survive.
The weekends were the worst. It was then that Mr. Patel would invite his friend, Mr. Sharma, over to the office. The two men would spend the day locked away with her, passing her back and forth like a toy, using her body to satisfy their every whim. The office, once a place of professional refuge, had become her own personal hell, a stage for their depraved theater. The sound of their laughter and the smack of flesh against flesh echoed through the otherwise silent corridors, a constant reminder that she was trapped.
"Take off the lehenga," Mr. Patel ordered, his voice cold and commanding. She complied, the fabric pooling around her feet. She stood there in nothing but her lingerie, feeling more naked than she ever had in her life. Mr. Sharma's eyes raked over her body, his gaze a physical assault that made her want to shrink away. "Such a beautiful piece," he said, his eyes lingering on the swell of her breasts. "But it's what's underneath that we're really interested in, isn't it?"
The two men talked about her as if she weren't there, discussing her as if she were a piece of property. They had no care for her thoughts, her feelings, or her dignity. She was merely a vessel for their pleasure, a tool to be used and discarded. Her heart felt like it was breaking into a million pieces, but she had to keep going, had to find a way to keep her son safe.
As Mr. Sharma approached her, she could see the hunger in his eyes. His hand reached out, and she braced herself for his touch, for the pain that was sure to come. But instead, he grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back. "Look at me," he growled, his breath hot on her face. "You're going to take us both, aren't you?" There was no question in his tone, only a declaration of what was to come. She nodded, her eyes filling with tears, and he smiled, a cruel twist of his lips that made her want to scream.
The rest of the weekend was a blur of pain and degradation. They took turns with her, using her in every way imaginable. She was a rag doll in their hands, a plaything to be used and abused. Her body was bruised and sore, her spirit all but broken. Yet, she held on, her mind retreating to a place far away from the grim reality of the office. It was only when she was back in her apartment, her son asleep in the next room, that she allowed herself to cry, the sobs racking her body as she mourned the life she had once known.
The following Monday, she walked back into the office with her head held high, her makeup expertly applied to cover the dark circles under her eyes and the bruises on her neck. She wore her sari like armor, a silent declaration of war against the men who thought they owned her. But she knew the truth - she was trapped in their web, with no way to escape the cycle of humiliation and pain that had become her weekly ritual.
As the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, the whispers grew louder. The other employees knew what was happening behind the closed doors of the conference room every weekend. Some looked at her with lust, others with pity. But no one dared to speak up, to offer her a lifeline. She was a cautionary tale, a warning of what could happen if you didn't play by the rules in the cutthroat world of corporate Mumbai.
Mr. Patel's grip on her tightened, his demands becoming more depraved with each passing week. He began to bring in other men, colleagues and clients alike, to share in the degradation. The leers grew more brazen, the whispers turned to open discussions about her body and her willingness to please. She felt like a piece of meat on display, and every time she saw the look of hunger in their eyes, she died a little inside.
One fateful Friday evening, she found herself dressed in a bridal outfit that was more scandalous than sacred. The lehenga was a crimson red, the blouse cut so low it barely contained her breasts, and the choli so sheer it left little to the imagination. The skirt was adorned with silver beads that shimmered in the dim office lights, and her hair was styled in an elaborate updo with loose strands framing her face, giving her an innocent yet seductive look.
Two political leaders had arrived, their smiles as fake as the flowers in the vase on the desk. They were notorious for their appetites, and Mr. Patel had promised them an evening they would not soon forget. They eyed her like hungry predators as she was led into the conference room on a leash, her wrists bound together with velvet ropes that matched the crimson of her outfit. A butt plug was in place, the uncomfortable intrusion a constant reminder of her role for the night.
"Ah, Mr. Patel," one of them said, his eyes roving over her body, "you've truly outdone yourself this time."
"Thank you," Mr. Patel replied, his voice smug. "Nadia here is quite the versatile performer."
The first leader, a man with a pot belly and a greasy comb-over, stepped closer to her. "Let's see what she can do," he said, a wicked grin spreading across his face. He grabbed the remote control from the desk and pressed a button, causing music to fill the room. The second leader, younger and more handsome but equally as vile, took her by the elbow and led her to the center of the floor.
The music was a popular Bollywood number, one that spoke of love and passion, but here it was a twisted soundtrack to her humiliation. She danced for them, her movements forced and mechanical, her heart heavy with the weight of her situation. The beads on her outfit clicked together with every step, the sound a mockery of the wedding bells she had once dreamed of hearing. The men watched, leering and laughing, as she twirled and dipped, her body on display for their amusement.
"Very nice," the younger leader said, his hand reaching out to caress her hip. "But I think it's time we see what else she's capable of." He reached behind her and tugged on the leash, pulling her closer. "Dance for us, my little slut," he murmured in her ear, his breath hot and moist.
The music grew louder, the lights flashing in time with the beat. She danced, her heart racing with fear and anger, as the two men whispered lewd suggestions to her, their hands exploring her body without permission. Her cheeks burned with humiliation, but she knew better than to protest. The leash grew taut as she was led from one to the other, her body used and discarded like a piece of trash.
As the night grew longer, so did their appetites. They ordered her to perform increasingly degrading acts, the butt plug replaced with larger, more intrusive objects. They talked about her as if she weren't there, discussing the best ways to use her, the most pleasurable positions, the tightest parts of her to claim. She bit her lip until it bled, the pain a welcome distraction from the horror of her reality.
The men grew bolder, their hands rougher, their demands more explicit. She was ordered to service both of them simultaneously, her mouth and her body a battleground for their depraved desires. They took her, one after the other, her cries of pain muffled by their grunts of pleasure.
The following morning, as the first light of dawn seeped into the office, she was allowed to leave, her body bruised and her spirit shattered. She stumbled home, the lehenga a tattered mess, the remnants of her dignity clinging to her like a second skin. She knew she couldn't go on like this forever, but for now, she had to endure, for the sake of her son.
The week passed in a blur of pain and degradation, each day worse than the last. But then, on Thursday, she overheard a conversation that filled her with a new kind of dread. Mr. Patel had rented a farmhouse for the weekend, and he had something special planned for his son's 18th birthday. A gift that would be shared among the boy and his friends - her.
The day of the party arrived, and she found herself dressed in a freshly washed sari, the fabric sticking to her still-sweaty skin from the anxiety that plagued her. The soft rustle of the sari was a stark contrast to the roar of fear in her ears as she rode the elevator up to the top floor of the office building. Mr. Patel's son, Rohit, was a notorious playboy, his reputation preceding him like a dark shadow. The thought of what the night would hold for her made her knees wobble as she stepped out onto the plush carpet of the executive suite.
The farmhouse was a sprawling estate on the outskirts of the city, surrounded by lush greenery that seemed to whisper of better times. As she was escorted to the back of the house, the laughter and music grew louder, the anticipation in the air thick enough to cut with a knife. She was led into a room where Rohit and his friends were already waiting, their eyes lighting up like predators spotting prey as she entered.
They were dressed in designer clothes, their smiles as fake as their intentions. Rohit's friends looked her over hungrily, their eyes raking over her in a way that made her skin crawl. She was a prize, a trophy to be shared among them all. The sari clung to her, the transparency of the fabric leaving nothing to the imagination, and she felt more exposed than ever before.
The party was in full swing, and she was the main attraction. The boys took turns with her, their hands and mouths exploring every inch of her body as if they owned it. The sari was torn away, leaving her in nothing but her underwear, the flimsy material providing no protection against their eager, grasping hands. She closed her eyes and thought of her son, her only source of strength in this sea of darkness.
The night was a whirlwind of pain and humiliation. They used her in every way they could think of, their laughter ringing in her ears as she was passed around like a dirty secret. They didn't care about her cries or her pleas for mercy. She was a thing to them, a toy to be played with until they were satisfied. When they were done, she was left on the floor, a crumpled mess of fabric and bruised flesh.
The next morning, she stumbled back to the city, the memories of the night seared into her soul. The office was closed for the weekend, but she knew that on Monday, it would all start again. The cycle of fear and degradation was relentless, a never-ending hamster wheel of despair. But as she held her son in her arms that evening, she made a silent vow to find a way out, to break free from the chains that bound her to this life. For him, she would find the strength to fight back, to reclaim her dignity and show the world that she was more than just a pretty face and a willing body.
The flashbacks of the birthday party haunted her every waking moment. The way they had looked at her, their eyes full of lust and entitlement, as if she were a prize to be won at a game. The way they had torn the sari from her body, the fabric that had once been a symbol of her culture now a tool of their debasement. The cold, hard floor of the farmhouse room was a stark reminder of her new reality - she was nothing more than a plaything for their sick amusement.
Each act they had performed on her played out in her mind like a twisted movie reel, the images seared into her brain. The way Rohit had looked at her, his young eyes so much like his father's, as he claimed her for his first time. The cruel twist of his lips as he whispered sweet nothings into her ear, his voice a parody of the love she had once hoped to find. The way his friends had watched, their faces a mix of envy and excitement, as they waited for their turn with the "experienced" woman.
The pain and humiliation of that night were etched into her very being, a scar that would never fully heal. Yet, amidst the horror, she found a spark of rebellion, a fiery determination that grew with each passing day. She began to look for ways to escape, to find the key to the cage she was trapped in. Her mind raced with ideas, each one more desperate and daring than the last. But she knew that she had to be careful, that one wrong move could cost her everything she had left.
As the weekend passed, she felt a newfound rage burning within her. The whispers in the office grew more vile, the glances more daring. But she didn't flinch, didn't look away. Instead, she met each gaze with a glare that could cut glass, a promise of retribution. The time had come for her to take back control, to show Mr. Patel and his ilk that she was not a toy to be played with, not a commodity to be bought and sold.
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