Take it, you fucking slut. You love this, don’t you?

His voice was a low growl against my ear, his hips hammering into mine with a relentless, punishing rhythm. My back was against his apartment door, my silk sari bunched up at my waist. I could only whimper in response, my nails digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders.

How did I get here?

*

Moving to America was the fulfillment of a lifelong dream, a journey paved with joy and high aspirations. My husband, an executive at a major pharmaceutical company, had entered my life through an online whirlwind romance. Within months, we were married, and I was relocating to New Jersey. It was a new country, a new culture, and the promise of a fresh start.

However, the foundation of our marriage was cracked from the beginning. My ex-boyfriend, who had spiraled into drug addiction, caused a humiliating scene at our wedding that left my husband and his family deeply embarrassed. At first, I assumed my husband’s emotional distance was a lingering reaction to that trauma. But as the weeks passed, a darker reality emerged.

I discovered he struggled with severe sexual dysfunction and a deep-seated addiction to pornography that had manifested in a submissive, voyeuristic fetish. My blood ran cold when I found his online chats with strangers, where he spoke of me in degrading terms and fantasized about "sharing" me with other men. I tried to save us—I sought therapy and tried to engage him proactively—but it soon became clear that his desires were fixed. Having always been a vibrant, sought-after woman who enjoyed intimacy, I felt trapped. I had married to escape the chaos of my past, only to find myself in a different kind of prison.

A glimmer of light appeared when I befriended Ruth, the wife of my husband’s CEO. Ruth was a woman of immense wealth and effortless elegance, yet she treated everyone with a rare, quiet humility. I volunteered to help her plan a lavish gala on a luxury yacht to celebrate the company’s quarterly success.

Every morning, a sleek black limousine arrived at my door to take me to Ruth's estate. The driver was another Asian man named Aarif. From the moment we locked eyes, the attraction was electric. He was flirtatious and possessed an irresistible charm, often telling me of his deep admiration for Indian culture and the beauty of Bollywood stars. During those long drives, the air in the car felt heavy with a sensation I hadn't felt in years.

On the third evening, I decided to test the waters. I dressed in a vibrant, traditional silk Sari, specifically to see his reaction. Aarif was visibly breathless. He told me I was more stunning than any actress he had ever seen. His admiration sent a surge of adrenaline through me. Before we reached the mansion, he leaned in and quietly asked to take me to a fine Indian restaurant that night. I instinctively whispered, "No, thank you," but my heart was racing a different rhythm.

When evening fell, I found myself waiting. Aarif arrived with his beard neatly trimmed, dressed for a night out, clearly hoping I would change my mind. As I stepped into the car, the scent of his cologne filled my senses, clouding my judgment. My pulse throbbed in my ears, and the internal battle between my wedding vows and my starving desires reached a breaking point. Under the glow of the New Jersey streetlights, the world outside blurred, leaving only the intense, dangerous heat between us.

He was different. The uniform was gone. He wore dark jeans and a black shirt that clung to his chest, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His beard was trimmed close, accentuating the full curve of his lips. The scent of his perfume was stronger, primal. It wrapped around me, a hypnotic cloud.

He didn’t speak. He drove. Not to any restaurant.

The neighborhood grew cramped, buildings leaning together under a dim orange sky. He pulled into a small, closed garage attached to a narrow apartment block. The engine cut, leaving a silence so profound I could hear my own blood roaring.

“I need my jacket from upstairs,” he said, his eyes gleaming in the dashboard light. A lie. A transparent, beautiful lie.

I knew. God, I knew. Every cell in my body knew. And yet, I followed him. Up the narrow, dim stairwell, my heels clicking a frantic tattoo on the concrete. This is wrong. This is dangerous. The thoughts were distant, muffled by the deafening need between my legs.

He unlocked a plain door. Pushed it open. I stepped into a small, tidy living room.

The door clicked shut behind us.

The world exploded into sensation.

He spun me, my back hitting the door. In one fluid, powerful motion, his body pinned me. His right hand groped my breast over the silk, his thumb finding my nipple and pinching—hard. A sharp, brilliant pain that made me cry out. His left hand grabbed a fistful of my sari at my lower back, yanking my hips flush against his.

I could feel him. The rigid, thick length of his erection straining against his jeans, pressing into my belly. Heat flooded me, an instantaneous, soaking wetness.

Before I could gasp, his mouth was on mine. Not a kiss. An invasion. His lips parted mine, his tongue thrusting in, claiming, tasting. The flavor of him—mint and male heat—was dizzying. I moaned into his mouth, my hands flying up, not to push him away, but to clutch at his shirt. Yes. Finally. This.

He broke the kiss, breathing harshly. His eyes burned with a feral hunger. “Mine,” he whispered, and the word was a command.

He was a man possessed. His hands tore at the folds of my sari, not with clumsiness, but with a terrifying, focused efficiency. The silk pooled at my feet. My blouse buttons pinged against the wall. My bra followed. The cool air hit my skin, then the scorching heat of his mouth was on my breast, sucking my nipple deep, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak. I arched, a broken sound escaping my throat. It was rough, almost violent, and it lit a fire in me I never knew existed.

He bit my neck, a sharp sting that would leave a mark. His hand slid down my stomach, past the waistband of my panties. His fingers plunged into me, and I was so wet he growled with approval.

“So ready. Such a hungry little wife.”

His words were humiliating. They were fuel. He hooked his fingers, curling them inside me, and my knees buckled. He held me up, working me with his hand, his eyes locked on mine as I began to tremble.

Then he was undoing his jeans, pushing them down just enough. He lifted me, my back against the door, and I wrapped my legs around his waist. There was no gentle probe. No asking. The broad, slick head of his cock pressed against my entrance, and he surged forward, burying himself to the hilt in one powerful, claiming stroke.

I screamed. The sheer size of him, the brutal fullness, the shocking rightness of it. He was thick, and he stretched me exquisitely. He didn’t wait for me to adjust. He set a punishing pace, driving into me, each thrust jolting my body against the door.

“You love this, don’t you?” he snarled again, his breath hot on my cheek. His right hand came up and—smack—he slapped my bare breast. The sound was sharp, shocking. A bolt of pure, electric pleasure-pain shot straight to my core. I cried out, tears springing to my eyes.

“Yes!” I sobbed, the admission torn from me. “Yes, I love it!”

He slapped the other breast. Then, holding my face still, he delivered a stinging, open-palmed slap to my cheek. It wasn’t meant to hurt, not truly. It was meant to own. The heat bloomed on my skin, and my inner muscles clenched around him violently, pulling a roar from his chest.

“Cum for me, slut. Now!”

His order was the final key. The coil of pleasure, wound so tight by weeks of neglect and minutes of his brutal dominance, shattered. My orgasm ripped through me, convulsive and blinding. I screamed, my body shaking uncontrollably, my vision whiting out. He growled, a deep, animal sound, and with three final, savage thrusts, he followed me over the edge. I felt the hot, pulsing jets of his release deep inside me, filling me, marking me.

He stayed there, pressed against me, both of us panting, sweat-slicked. Slowly, he lowered me until my feet touched the ground. My legs were jelly. He led me, stumbling, to a small couch and let me collapse.

I lay there, boneless, my pussy throbbing, full of his cum. The scent of sex and sweat and him was everywhere. I turned my head. He was sprawled next to me, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his cock, now softening, glistening with our mixed fluids.

A strange peace settled over me. Then, a new hunger. I pushed myself up, my mouth finding his chest. I kissed the damp, hairy skin, licking the salt from him. I moved lower, over the hard planes of his stomach.

The musky, potent fragrance of his cum hit me as I neared his pelvis. My pussy, his seed. A fresh, desperate heat coiled low. I nuzzled his limp cock, then took him into my mouth. I licked him clean, tasting myself, tasting him—bitter, salty, essential. I sucked him, worshiping him with my tongue, drinking every drop.

Above me, Aarif laughed, a low, dark sound of triumph. “Look at you. A proper cocksucking whore. You were born for this.”

I was. In that moment, I knew it with absolute certainty. I looked up at him, his cum on my lips. “Yes,” I whispered, my voice hoarse. “I am yours.”

He grinned, his hand tangled in my hair. “Again.”