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Continued from Chapter 6
I sat on the edge of the sofa, spine straight, hands folded in my lap like some obedient little statue. The ceiling fan above buzzed faintly, but no one seemed to hear it over the sound of my father’s grinding teeth.
It wasn’t a normal Sunday.
Not with this conversation happening.
Nisha, sat across from me—shoulders tense, eyes fixed somewhere near her knees. She wasn’t smirking. She wasn’t flipping her hair or flashing her perfect smile. For once, she looked...small.
The silence was thick, awkward. It clung to the walls like heat.
“How serious is it?” my mother asked, breaking it. Her voice was soft, but not gentle.
Nisha didn’t answer right away. Her fingers picked at the edge of her phone case. When she finally spoke, her voice cracked around the edges.
“Serious enough.”
“You’ve disrespected this house,” my father said coldly, “and your mother.”
“I love him,” Nisha replied, chin lifted, voice steady now. “He’s not the one who disrespects us—you are, by thinking his name makes him dirty.”
My mother sat on the edge of her seat, wringing the end of her dupatta in her lap like it could absorb the discomfort in the room. Her eyes flicked between them, unsure where to land. She looked more like a hostage than a mother.
Nisha turned her head toward me.
“Shruti?” she said softly. “You don’t actually agree with this, do you?”
I froze. My throat dried up. My brain scrambled, tripping over thoughts, unsure what to say. My stomach twisted, and my heart pounded against my ribs—but my lips moved anyway.
“He’s Muslim,” I said.
It was barely a whisper. But in this room, that was loud enough.
My father's eyes lit up. The corner of his mouth twitched into something dangerously close to pride. He nodded once, slowly, like I’d finally proven myself.
Good girl.
Good Hindu girl.
I didn’t dare look at Nisha, but I felt her go still beside me. The air changed.
"Right," I added, quietly. “We’re not like that. We’re… we’re not supposed to be with them.”
Them.
The word felt wrong even as I said it. My cheeks burned.
But a darker part of me—something small, petty, hungry—was satisfied.
I didn’t want to see her with him. Not because of his religion. Not really. But because the way she said his name... the way she looked when she spoke about him…
I wanted that for myself.
And I hated her for having it first.
Nisha didn’t argue after that.
She just glared at us—eyes burning, nostrils flared, like she could scream and shake the whole house if she wanted to. But instead, she swallowed it. She closed her eyes, breathed once—deep and slow—and spoke like someone walking calmly into a fire.
“I’m not ending it. Whether you like it or not”
She stood up.
None of us said a word.
She walked to her room and slammed the door so hard the brass diya on the shelf rattled.
The rest of the day passed in silence. My mother didn’t look at me. My father turned the news on, too loud, pretending he wasn’t still seething.
And me? I just sat with it.
Every word I’d spoken. Every glance. The sound of Nisha’s door shutting like a final sentence. I couldn’t tell whether I felt victorious or nauseous.
She would’ve told him.
She must have told him.
And that meant... he knew.
It was around 9 PM when my phone buzzed. I picked it up with trembling fingers, knowing very well who it was.
The message was simple.
“So. You’re a good little Hindu girl, huh?”
My stomach dropped.
My thumb hovered over the screen, numb. My skin felt too tight. My knees pressed together instinctively.
Another message followed. No delay.
“Jealousy looks cute on you.”
I swallowed hard.
Then came the third message—the one that made my thighs press tighter, the one that made my whole body still.
“You’ll apologize properly. Or I’ll make you.”
The final message came with no pleasantries. No emoji. No softness.
“Tomorrow. My place. 2 PM. Don’t make me come get you.”
“Or I tell your sister everything.”
I stared at the screen, my throat tight, my fingers trembling.
It wasn’t a request. It was an order.
I barely spoke at breakfast the next day. Nisha didn’t look at me. She was still angry. Rightly so.
She didn’t know where I’d be in a few hours.
She didn’t know I was going to the same man she refused to give up.
That I was going to kneel for him.
I stood at his door and knocked.
I knocked twice. Then once more, softer.
The door opened a second later.
There he stood—Faizan.
His black pathaani kurta clung to his chest, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His forearms looked impossibly strong, roped with veins, as though they’d been carved just to grip a girl like me in all the wrong ways. His hair, unruly and damp, framed his face with a carelessness that only made him more dangerous.
He was the kind of man your mother warned you about.
The kind who didn’t ask.
He didn’t smile.
He just stepped aside.
I walked in, clutching the edge of my dupatta like it could somehow shield me from the heat rising in my body.
I turned slowly. My heart was pounding.
“Faizan—” I began, voice trembling. “Let me explain—”
He raised his hand.
Not harshly. Just a small gesture. Barely a flick of his wrist.
But it shut me up instantly.
His eyes moved over me like I was being unwrapped without a single finger touching me. My kurta, the fitted salwaar, the bindi I’d placed carefully between my brows—every part of me had been chosen to look like a good girl. The obedient Hindu daughter.
Faizan stepped forward, his tall frame towering over my petite body.
His voice dipped low, threaded with amusement, with authority.
“So you pretend to be the good daughter,” he said, tilting his head.
“The quiet one. The obedient one.”
He stepped even closer. My back nearly hit the wall.
“But does your father know,” he whispered, “that both of his daughters—so proud, so pious—are such big sluts for my Muslim dick?”
My breath caught. His words burned down my spine like liquid fire.
“Does he know,” Faizan continued, now running over my breasts “how you let me touch you… wherever, however I wanted?”
He gave my nipple a tight little squeeze. I gasped lightly, trying to not make a sound
“How you enjoyed every second of it?”
“How you begged for my cum?”
I tried to speak, but the words stuck to my tongue.
“And now,” Faizan said calmly, “it’s time for your punishment.”.
He held my wrist, and turned sharply. I followed him —half in a daze, half trying to breathe. My heart pounded in my ears. My fingers clutched at the edge of my dupatta like it could anchor me.
The moment he pushed open the door to his bedroom, I stopped dead in my tracks.
My eyes widened. My breath caught sharply in my throat.
“Oh my god—”
I gasped out loud.
Spread neatly across the bed, displayed like sacred tools in some wicked prayer ritual, was an entire set of BDSM gear.
Collar. Cuffs. Leash. Blindfold. Rope. A sleek black paddle. Satin ties. A plug I didn’t dare look at too long.
Everything.
My stomach twisted. My skin flushed hot. A pulse beat low between my thighs. Shame flooded my chest—followed quickly by the very feeling I hated most.
Want.
He turned to me, watching my reaction with that same calm, unreadable face.
“You recognize it?” he asked.
“This is what naughty girls get. The ones who lie. The ones who pretend to be pure.”
He walked over to the bed and picked up the collar first—soft black leather, elegant, terrifying.
“This,” he said, “is how I remind you who you belong to.”
He stepped closer and lifted it toward my throat.
“Take off your dupatta.”
My fingers hesitated.
“Now.”
I obeyed. I didn’t even think. The scarf slid from my shoulders, and I felt bare—like my family name had just fallen to the floor with it.
He fastened the collar slowly around my neck, tightening it until it sat snug, not choking—but inescapable.
Then he tilted my chin up.
“Good girls obey,” he said.
“But you’re not a good girl, are you?”
I swallowed hard.
“No, Faizan…”
“Say it.”
“I’m not a good girl,” I whispered.
“You’re my what?” he asked.
“I’m your… your toy.”
He smiled.
“Then get on the bed.”
I lay down on the bed, heart thudding. The collar still sat snug around my throat, a silent reminder that I didn’t belong to myself anymore.
Faizan didn’t say a word. Just walked around me, slow, deliberate.
Then he turned me over, face-down.
The soft rustle of fabric was the only sound before I felt his fingers at my waist.
With a firm, purposeful tug, he pulled down my salwaar — leaving only the thin cotton of my panties covering me. My breath caught in my throat.
I heard a sound — a faint swish — and then saw it from the corner of my eye.
A flogger. Black leather. It wasn’t heavy, but it looked serious. He let it dangle from his hand for a moment before speaking.
His voice was calm. Dangerous. Patient.
“Now,” he said, “you’ll learn what happens to girls who betray their own cravings.”
The first strike was light.
Just a sting. A snap of sensation across the curve of my backside. I gasped — not in pain, but in shock.
The second came a little harder.
“Count.”
“O-one…” I whispered.
Another.
“Two…”
He didn’t rush.
He took his time.
“What would your father say,” he murmured between strikes, “if he knew how wet you get when I spank you?”
My face burned.
“Or your sister… if she saw you like this. Bent over. Obedient.”
I whimpered. My eyes fluttered shut. My hands clenched the sheets.
“Speak, Shruti.”
“She’d hate me,” I said, barely breathing. “They all would.”
“But I don’t,” he said, letting the flogger rest on my skin like a feather. “Because I know what you are.”
Another hit. Sharper this time.
“Say it.”
“I’m your… your slut,” I whispered, the word tasting both poisonous and perfect.
"Keep counting," Faizan said again, voice low, steady — like he was reciting something ancient.
I swallowed hard, trembling.
“Seven…”
The next strike landed sharper. Not brutal — but precise. My breath hitched, eyes fluttering closed as heat bloomed across my skin.
He crouched beside me, dragging his fingers slowly along my spine.
“You want to know a secret?” he whispered. “Each spank - is for every Hindu slut I have fucked.”
His words coiled around my shame like silk — cruel and soft. Tempting.
“Eight…”
I whimpered.
“They said they'd never want someone like me. But in the end, they all did. Their mouths lied. Their bodies told the truth.”
I didn’t want to know this.
I didn’t want to like knowing this.
And yet, my thighs clenched involuntarily. My breath turned shallow.
“Nine…”
“You should’ve heard how they begged,” he murmured, brushing his knuckles along my cheek. “The so called good girls. The Sharmas. The Mishras. The Patels.”
I bit my lip hard. My skin was on fire. My thoughts scattered like ash. It was unbearable — and yet, I didn’t want it to end.
“Ten…”
He paused.
And in that moment of stillness, I realized — I wasn’t crying from the sting. I was crying from everything else.
From the thrill. The guilt. The hunger.
Faizan's voice was low, unhurried. "They looked so sweet. So well-behaved. You’d never guess. But once they gave in... once they let go..." He trailed off.
I couldn’t see his face. I didn’t need to. I could hear the satisfaction in his voice.
He leaned closer, fingers dragging slowly up my spine, not touching the sore parts. Just reminding me he still owned every inch.
"Some of them wore sindoor, you know?" he said with a dark chuckle. "Mangled bangles still on their wrists when they whispered my name. They didn’t come to me for love. They came to surrender."
"Twenty-five," I cried out, barely audible into the pillow.
I whimpered again. A fresh wave of heat rippled through my body, shame mixing with something dangerous. Something I didn’t want to admit aloud.
“You think you're better than them?” he asked.
I didn’t answer.
He waited.
My voice came out cracked, muffled in the pillow. “No.”
The silence after that was heavy
I bit my lip, my throat dry. The truth curled in my stomach like fire.
I turned my face slightly, just enough for him to see the flicker of defiance still burning in my tear-soaked eyes.
“Thirty ….. Six…. ” I whispered, smiling at him. He looked back at me, with a sense of pride in his eyes.
Then he opened the drawer beside the bed and pulled something out.
I turned my head slightly, breath still shaky, skin still stinging. And then I saw it—soft, black fabric in his hands. A hijab.
My breath hitched.
Then, without a word, he reached for the red bindi on my forehead. Gently. Carefully. He peeled it off with his thumb, his other hand cradling my cheek.
I didn’t stop him.
He brought the fabric around me, wrapping the hijab over my hair with slow, practiced hands. His fingers brushed my temples, my jaw. A shiver passed through me—not from fear. From something else entirely. A surrender so complete it made my knees ache.
The fabric felt heavy.
Not physically. Spiritually.
And yet—I didn’t stop him.
He looked down at me, pleased. Like a priest admiring a convert.
“You know what this means, don’t you?” he asked softly.
“What would your father say,” he whispered, “if he saw his good little Hindu daughter… covered in this?”
His fingers traced the edge of the scarf again, like it was sacred.
“Not sindoor. Not bangles. Not a red sari. No. This is what you wear now, when you kneel.”
I whimpered.
Because I knew he was right. I had let him do this. I had knocked on his door.
He took a step back and let me see myself in the full-length mirror across the room.
I gasped.
A Hindu girl. In a Muslim veil.
My cheeks were red, eyes wet. My lips slightly parted. My chest rising and falling like I was on fire.
My throat went dry. I wanted to look away from the mirror—but I couldn’t.
“Say it.”
“…I’m yours,” I whispered.
“Your good… Hindu girl… who chose to kneel.”
His breath hitched slightly—like he hadn't expected me to give in that fast.
But I wasn’t done.
“And I want more.”
He didn’t ask.
He lifted me like I weighed nothing—hands gripping my thighs,— and threw me gently onto the center of the bed. Faizan undressed slowly this time, revealing his sculpted chest, the strength in his arms, the sharp V of his waist.
I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
Then—he reached into the drawer again. Tore something open with his teeth.
A packet of Condom. Magnums.
“No more teasing. No more halfway. You want to betray everything, don’t you?”
“Tell me you want to be broken. Fully. Completely. Like all the other good little girls who gave themselves to me.”
I whimpered—my voice barely a whisper.
“I want it...”
“I want you...”
“Please, Faizan... ruin me.”
Faizan stripped me bare, every layer of clothing peeled off with deliberate purpose—until all that remained was the hijab he’d placed on me. He didn’t remove it.
Faizan’s eyes burned into mine as he reached into the drawer again.
This time, it wasn’t cloth.
It was metal.
Handcuffs—cold, polished, deliberate.
“Hands,” he said quietly.
My breath caught.
I obeyed.
He snapped them around my wrists, the click sharp and final. My hands were bound, trembling slightly against the pressure.
Spreading my trembling legs aside, he took a moment to look at my pussy. He licked his fingers, and slowly pushed it inside me. Then pulled it out, and licked it again, admiring the taste.
He didn't rush. He started slowly, deliberately, warming me up with deep, circling licks, his rough tongue tracing every sensitive curve and fold. He was feasting on me, a king savoring his meal before the main course, and the knowledge that he was just priming me for the inevitable pounding.
“You're so incredibly tight. So fresh.” he chuckled, as he kissed my pussy deeply.
He hovered over me, bare and glorious, his dark eyes scanning my face for hesitation. He moved between my legs, positioning himself with aching slowness. The weight of what was coming — of what he was about to take — settled over me like sacred sin.
And then — slowly, deliberately — he pressed into me.
I gasped, my breath catching, back arching as my body struggled to accept him. The stretch, the burn, the overwhelming fullness — it was too much. It was everything. It was a line I could never uncross.
It was barely halfway in, and already my knuckles had gone white from gripping the sheets
“Faizan…” I whimpered, my voice cracking with the mix of ache and need.
He leaned in, biting my earlobe just hard enough to make me jolt. His hands slid beneath me, one anchoring my hip, the other fisting the sheet beside my head.
Then came the rhythm.
Slow. Deep. Relentless.
Each thrust sank deeper, his body commanding mine to open, to receive, to remember.
I cried out—not from pain, not from fear—but from the terrifying pleasure that laced through every stroke. He moved like he knew my body better than I did, finding spots inside me that made my toes curl, my thighs tremble, my back arch involuntarily off the mattress.
He slowed, just enough to make my hips rise in protest, desperate to chase the rhythm he’d built. My whimper earned a low chuckle as he leaned down, brushing his lips over mine. A soft kiss—tender, almost loving—before he pulled back, eyes dark with command.
“Open your mouth,” he said quietly.
My lips parted without thought, trembling. Then, with a deliberate aim, he spat directly into my open mouth.
“Good girl,” he whispered.
Without another word, he began to thrust again, faster now, picking up the brutal rhythm he'd established earlier. He slammed into me, over and over, driving himself deep, stretching me to my limit.
My eyes rolled back into my head. My moans became silent, choked off by the force of his penetration. Only periodic cries, ragged, desperate sounds born of pure, agonizing pleasure, tore from my throat.
“I—don’t stop,” I begged, my voice hoarse, tears pooling in the corners of my eyes.
And then, a white-hot wave crashed over me. My entire body spasmed violently, arching off the bed.
I was exploding, squirting everywhere, a powerful, unstoppable release that soaked the sheets beneath me. It was messy, wild, and utterly liberating. My body shook with aftershocks, tremors running through me long after the initial burst subsided, leaving me breathless, spent, and utterly undone.
He gave my backside a playful smack—sharp enough to make me gasp, soft enough to make me want more.
"Ready for round two?" he murmured, that wicked gleam in his eyes.
I barely nodded before he guided me to the edge of the bed, turning me around. His hands found my waist, gripping me firmly, possessively. In front of us, a full-length mirror reflected everything—my flushed cheeks, my trembling body, and the unmistakable look of surrender in my eyes.
"Look at yourself," he growled low in my ear. "Look at how beautifully you're mine."
I did. I couldn't look away. My hair was a mess, my lips parted, my expression a blur of desire and disbelief.
He grabbed my little waist firmly, his strong hands digging into my flesh, steadying me as he aligned himself behind me.
He slammed into me from behind, a deep, powerful penetration that made me gasp. He pulled back almost entirely, then plunged forward again, going in as deep as he possibly could with each stroke.
His thrusts grew more frantic, each powerful pump driving me further into the bed, further into myself.
This time, just as he was nearing the edge, his voice turned sharp with command.
"Turn around. Now.”
My muscles screamed in protest from the position, but I twisted, pulling my bound hands with me, until I was on my back again, staring up at him.
I watched, mesmerized, as he peeled off the condom, a thick, glistening sheath. Then, with a powerful groan, he came. It was a hot, thick cascade, hitting my face, my forehead, running down my cheeks and onto my neck. I squeezed my eyes shut against the immediate impact, feeling the warm, sticky spray.
We stayed there for a while. Just staring.
The air between us was thick — not with guilt, not with shame, but with something far more dangerous.
Truth.
I was trembling, still catching my breath, my body marked with everything he'd just done to me. And yet, I was smiling. A wild, helpless, trembling smile. Tears clung to my lashes.
Faizan leaned down, thumb brushing my chin. His voice was low, warm.
"Who would've thought?" he murmured. "The Shruti Patel - the girl with folded hands and lowered eyes... turns out to be the filthiest little freak when no one's watching.”
I bit my lip. He was right. And he knew it.
I looked up at him, something daring rising in my throat. “You make me forget everything I was taught to fear.”
“You know what’s going to happen tomorrow, right?” he asked.
I blinked, dazed. “What?”
“You’ll wake up in your bed. Eat breakfast with your parents. Your sister.” He looked at me with a glint. “Maybe even touch your mother’s feet for blessings.”
I swallowed hard.
“And they’ll have no idea,” he said. “That underneath those traditional clothes, you’ll still be wearing this…” — he reached out and tugged the hijab gently — “…in your mind. You’ll feel me all day. Inside you. Marked by me.”
I shivered.
“They’ll look at you and see their obedient, sweet little girl,” he continued. “Only I’ll know the truth.”
I bit my lip, heart racing. “What truth?”
Faizan leaned in close again, his breath on my cheek.
“That you’re not theirs anymore,” he whispered. “You’re mine.”
To be continued …