I was sitting on the bed in the small room, literally twiddling my thumbs and waiting. I was dressed in a black knee length wrap-around skirt and a snug white t-shirt that accentuated my boobs. There was no bra underneath, so my nipples were poking through the fabric.
A rusty ceiling fan was rotating at full speed, making a low whirring noise. The room was still a bit stuffy. I got off the bed, and walked to the only window in the room, which was closed. Struggled with the tight bolt a little, finally slid it open, and opened the window.
With my face against the window bars, I looked out into the night. There was some sparse traffic on the narrow street below me, not too much. As much traffic as you would expect close to midnight in the seedy parts of South Bombay. I kept staring outside, shifting my gaze from the passing vehicles to the run-down buildings on the other side of the road. Occasionally, a mild pleasant breeze would blow, mitigating the heat in the surroundings.
I was standing like that for about five minutes when I heard the door open. A bald middle aged man dressed in a visibly old and slightly tattered shirt and a dirt-stained white pyjama (just like the bottoms of sleeping pyjamas, worn mostly by poorer men in India) stepped inside.
I turned around and looked into his eyes, and he started back, his hands still on the door.
“Oh… I am sorry.” the man said in an uncertain voice in Hindi. “I think they sent me to the wrong room.” and started to back out of the room.
“No, wait, wait!” I replied in Hindi, leaning against the wall. “I think you are in the right room. Come inside.”
He just stood there, uncertain of what to say or do. Finally he managed to string some thoughts together and said,
“No, you see. I only paid 50 rupees to the Begum. I think you would charge way more. Actually..” he looked embarrassed “..I am not even sure you are a….”
“A what?” I asked, with a wry smile on my face.
“Well no offense…..a whore.” he said, his face ashen with shame.
I took a few steps and was across the small room and next to him. With my finger, I beckoned him to step inside. Then I closed the door behind him. He just stood there, trying to comprehend the situation. I smiled at him again, walked towards the bed, sat on it, and pulled my feet up and folded them under my thighs.
“Well, I am not yet a whore. I do work for the Begum. But this is my first time doing this.” I said.
“You work for the Begum? Really?” he said, looking around suspiciously.
“Yes, I do. Is it difficult to believe?” I asked.
“This is not a joke? Not a police trap or something? Not some sort of a prank by the MTV people?” he continued, still looking around.
“No, will you just relax? I am nervous as it is, what with this being my first time. You don’t need to add to the nerves in this room.” I tried to assure him.
He stopped looking around and looked at me. Then, for the first time, he really and truly looked at me. His eyes wandered down to my breasts and lingered on the nipples poking through the shirt. Involuntarily, his tongue jutted out and ran over his lips a few times.
His gaze then shifted down to the sideway curve of my hips highlighted by the wrap-around skirt. He ended his inspection by staring for nearly five seconds at my milky white, waked and smooth shins and calves. Inspection complete, he looked up at my face again, and said,
“Wow. You…well… You don’t really look like a whore, much less a fifty rupee one. Even if you were to be a whore, I would expect you to be working with on of those Madams in Colaba and Worli, charging thousands of rupees a night. Don’t you know that?”
“Yes, I know. In fact, I was offered twenty thousand rupees a night by one of those Madams if I worked for her.” I replied.
“Twenty thousand rupees a night? Oh my God!! So what are you doing here? Did the Begum’s goons kidnap you?” he asked, as he walked closer to the bed and sat down on it, still a respectable two feet away.
“No, I am here of my own will.” I said staring down at my hands.
“But… Why?? If you know what you are worth, why are you selling yourself short working for the Begum for just 50 rupees when you could be making”…. He paused, seemingly to calculate.. But probably could not and said, “when you could be making like many times more?”
“What’s your name?” I asked him.
“Birju.” he replied.
“Listen Birju. Are you more interested in eating the fruit or counting the number of trees the fruit came from?” I said, employing an idiom that loses quite a bit in translation, so the non-Hindi speakers among you might find it amusing. “How is it any of your business why I am working for the Begum? You paid her fifty rupees for a fuck, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And you were sent to this room for the fuck, weren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Right then. Let’s get on with it.” I said. Moved my hands to the seam of my t-shirt and with one swift motion, took it off and threw it on the floor. My 34C breasts, constrained so far in the tight t-shirt, broke free and bounced a couple of times. Birju stared at them wide-eyed and hungry.
And finally lunged forward, knocking me on my back on the bed. His rough callused hands assaulted my tits, pressing them so hard, it hurt a little. He then lowered his head and put his face between my boobs, and then started biting them all over, slobbering them with his saliva.
I looked downwards and found myself staring at his dark bald head, with a few remaining gray hairs. I put my right hand on it and started running it through the few hair gently. I placed the left hand on his shoulder as he continued his interaction with my tits. He was lying on top of me, supported by his knees.
His crotch was pressed against my thigh, and I could feel the erection growing by the second. Finally, he was fully hard and straining against his pyjama. I moved my thighs sideways to rub his dick. He felt and looked up in my eyes, with a hungry smile on his face, his hands still grabbing my breasts like two huge mangoes.
He squeezed my tits really hard one more time, smiled as I winced with pain, and got up.
“I don’t know how I got this lucky, but I am glad I did. I am going to love banging you and making you scream, my dear.” he said as he undid the knot of his pyjama and pulled it off. He also removed the tattered loose striped underpants he was wearing, and his dick sprang up. It was not too big.
Maybe 5 inches, if a little less. Not much in terms of girth either. But seeing this old dirty man’s hard cock fed my fetish and made me wet instantly.
He jumped on to the bed again and on top of me and his hands went to the waistband of my skirt. That’s when I said to him,
“Shirt.”
“What?” he asked, surprised.
“Take your shirt off. I want you completely naked. I need to feel my big tits rub against your bare hairy chest, Birju.” I said in a throaty breathless voice.
“Ooooooohhh!” my straightforwardness was clearly a turn on for Birju. He unbuttoned his shirt in a jiffy and threw it by the side. Now, completely naked, he proceeded to try and get me in a similar state. I doubted if he had any experience with wrap around skirts, and not wanting it torn off in the rush,
I unhooked it while he was taking his shirt off. His fingers dug into the waistband, and as he pulled, the skirt unraveled. He pulled it out from under my ass and threw it on the floor.
I was now on the bed under him, tits wet with his saliva, completely naked apart from the thong panties I had on. I often wear thongs with pant suits or tight skirts to avoid panty-lines. He stared at the thong as if he had seen it for the first time. Ran his fingers on the thong over my pussy and under to the bottom of my ass crack.
He then pushed me sideways to roll me over. I did, and my thong-clad butt came into his view, and his reaction was similar to when he had seen my tits. He leaned forward, started grabbing and pinching both of my ass cheeks. He pulled the thong down in one swift motion leaving it bunched around my ankles.
I kicked it off and it fell to the ground. Birju then dug his fingers into my ass crack, parted both cheeks and ran his tongue up and down it, slobbering over my asshole, and making his spit drip down to my cunt.
Finally satisfied, he rolled me over again, and got on top, facing me, with my tits rubbing against his hairy chest. I parted my legs and he pushed forward from the hips, his dick first hitting my mound and then the inside of my thigh, searching for the opening. At the third attempt, he found the target and pushed hard. His 5-incher was buried inside me in just one stroke, as I gasped instinctively.
“Like it, do you?” he said hoarsely.
“Yes, I do, Birju. I love it. Fuck me. Fuck me hard!” I said as I wrapped my hands around his neck. The significance of his dick entering me finally sunk in. After weeks of dilly-dallying, self-doubt and prevarication, I had done it. Here I was being fucked by a smelly old man from the lower classes, like the 50-rupee whore that I was. I was exhilarated, not just by the sex, but also by the depravity of it all. Birju kept ramming me harder as I squealed in pleasure and he said between strokes,
“What….is…..your…..name?”
As I rode the waves of pleasure surging through my body, I completely forgot the fake name I had decided to give my “clients” in the brothel, and bulrted out my real name –
“Muktaaaa!”
“Mukta… You are a hot item Mukta…. You are my dream come true!” Birju said as he kept banging me.I wondered to myself if this guy, from a similar economic background as Zahid, would last as long inside me as Zahid had.
The build up to this night started two months back. Well, technically, it started almost a year back. It started on that rainy night (refer to the story When it Rains, It Pours) that I lost control and fucked Zahid and Mansoor, the two auto mechanics in the countryside. I had promised them I would go back again, but I never did. I was scared of the consequences. What if they decided to blackmail me for money? What if they wanted me to be a permanent part of their lives? What if people came to know about this? I had too much at stake in terms of a reasonably happy marriage and a great career. There’s no way I could go back to them, no matter how much my well meaning and sweet husband was unable to satisfy me.
However, the episode did bring back the slut in me. Before I fell in love with my husband and married him, I had had a very active sex life. I dated much more than the average Indian young woman does, and even had some one-night stands. By the time I was in my mid-20s, and met my eventual husband, I had slept with close to two dozen men. I had one-night stands, became an expert at oral sex, did it anally, and even had a couple of threesomes and foursomes. But I had also had a couple of heartbreaks and bad break-ups along the way, and encountered my share of complete jerks.
So when I met Abhay, I fell for his gentle loving and caring nature. How he respected me as a person and did not think of me as a sperm dumpster or a maid. He respected who I was, respected my ambitions and the demands for my career. In bed, he was decent initially. He tried hard, but did not have the natural talent or the size to be anything more than just an average lover. But his other pluses more than made up for it. I decided that I had already had my share of wild sex, enough to last me a lifetime. So it was time to grow up and move to a more mature and what I then thought, a more satisfying phase of life. I fell in love, got married, and we had been happily married for over two years when the rainy night incident happened.
That incident brought to light one undeniable fact – as great as my married life with Abhay was, it was sorely lacking in the sexual realm. I had been in denial, pretending that everything was fine, but that one wild night exposed me to myself in more ways than one. I convinced myself, quite perversely I know, that the only way to be be happy with Abhay for my whole life, and keep him happy, was to satisfy my sexual needs with other men. Many times, I considered telling Abhay this, but from whatever I knew of him, he just did not seem like a guy who would be happy with an open marriage. He would be nice about my cheating on him, not lose his temper, but would firmly suggest a divorce.
So I would have to cheat on him. But it could not be with men like Zahid and Mansoor. It was all too risky, with the possibilities of blackmail and scandal. It would have to be done discreetly, and in the typical Indian middle class way. With colleagues or others from economic class and background similar to mine.
The first lover I took after making the decision was a man named Sandeep who worked with me. For months now, he had made it fairly obvious that he was interested a fling even though I was married. He looked fairly cute and was charming enough. So one day when he asked me if I wanted to go to his place for a drink, I agreed. Told my husband I would work late, and had sex with Sandeep in his apartment.
The sex was OK…. Better than with my husband. Sandeep was fairly well-endowed and knew some good tricks and moves. He was also enthusiastic and adept with his tongue. But somehow, it didn’t quite do it for me. He just didn’t seem worth cheating on my husband with. I had sex with him a few more times, but then ended it, making the excuse that I didn’t want to keep cheating my husband. Sandeep took it very well. I am sure he had no long term plans for me either and having added me to his tally of conquests, moved on to wooing other pretty women in the office.
I then slept with a young intern from the office named Vipin. Now this guy was big….he was huge… Close to ten inches. The first couple of times I had sex with him, I was on cloud nine. But after a few days, the novelty of his size wore off too, and once more, I was feeling very dissatisfied. I broke up with him too, and he did not take it well. Said he was in love with me, wanted to spend his life with me, and even cried. It took a couple of days, but that break-up was done.
I could not figure out why these men were not able to satisfy me. What was I looking for? When I met Murtaza, a hotshot advertising executive, at a work-related conference in Jaipur, and he started flirting with me, I asked myself – was it the Muslim thing I was so desperate for? Mansoor had made some very offensive remarks about how I was a Hindu slut craving Muslim cocks which is why I had given myself up so easily to him and Zahid. Maybe Mansoor was right. So when Murtaza asked me to his room, I went along.
The sex was good. I enjoyed sucking on a circumcised cock again. He was very energetic in bed and got hard again very soon. I spent the 3 nights of the conference with him. But by the third night, that feeling dissatisfaction and emptiness had returned. His big, thick and bulbous Muslim wasn’t able to fill the void either. I had no idea what I was exactly looking for.
And then the prostitution research project was assigned to me. A British sociologist was writing a book for which he needed some research and information related to prostitution in India. He needed someone to interview pimps, madams, and prostitutes using some questionnaires and formats he had sent. Our firm, which among other things media and literature related, is also into research consultancy, was hired for it. Since I was among people known for taking up off-the-beaten-path projects like rural projects, slum projects and tribal projects, I was in consideration.
The boss decided that a man would not be able to get prostitutes to open up and be very frank, so he decided it must be a woman. That left me, an older lady, and a young fresh-out-of-college girl. But the older lady opted out saying she would not feel comfortable, and although the young girl was all for it, her parents whined her out of it. So it fell on me. I asked my husband if he was OK with it, and as usual, he was very sweet, supportive and understanding about the whole thing. Said he trusted my judgment.
I finally took the assignment from my boss. My brief was to talk to people in two different types of prostitution businesses that existed in India. One, the high class prostitution rings, whose clients were rich industrialists, government officials, politicians, actors, CEO types, and other moneyed sorts. These were usually run by madams and pimps who were well-connected at the top. The women who worked for them came from the middle or upper middle class, were college educated, spoke english, and very often were spoilt housewives trying to make an extra buck because their husbands had cut their allowances. The amount charged by those women for a night ran into thousands of rupees, enough to pay an entire poor family’s grocery bills for the year.
The other was the regular low-end prostitution. Many women were either forced or sold into the business and kept into it using threats and muscle. They were usually from poor families, and/or small villages, and could barely read or write. Their clients were people like cab drivers, waiters, construction workers in other words, economically lower classes. These prostitution rings ran out of well-known red-light areas in ramshackle buildings in low-end parts of cities, which were very sleazy and where no one from the middle or upper middle class would be caught dead. Very ghetto.
And my job was to interview a lot of people from both these segments of the prostitution industry in Delhi and in Bombay. I won’t bore you with all the details of all the interviews. Suffice it to say that the interviews opened my eyes, destroyed many of my own myths and misconceptions, and made me empathize with the prostitutes as well as their handlers in ways I had never thought possible. But more relevant to the story are two episodes which played the biggest role in leading up to what you read about in the beginning.
The first episode happened when I was interviewing Susan, one of the top Madams in Delhi. We met in her suite in a five star hotel in South Delhi. I was surprised at how professional and executive-like she was. And how business-like her manner was. I almost fell of my chair when she very nonchalantly said, “According to our latest estimates, we have a 42 percent market share of the high-end-escort industry in Delhi, and our projections indicate it to touch 48 percent by the end of the year.” It was as if she was on CNBC!
The interview went quite well. I got a lot of useful stuff. Finally when I got the answers to all my questions, I switched the dictaphone off, and started gathering my things.
“So Mukta… How is your financial condition? Any money problems?” I heard Susan say to me. I turned around and looked at her and said,
“Excuse me?”
“I mean, are things OK moneywise? This recession is hitting everyone hard.”
“Yes, things are great moneywise.” I replied, unsure of where this conversation was going.
“Well, I just asked because….. And don’t get offended. You are a very attractive woman. If you joined my little business, I am sure you could easily get 20,000 rupees a night after my commission.” Susan said.
“What???” I asked in a raised voice.
“Don’t get upset. It’s just an offer. It’s up to you to reject it if you don’t need the money. But a lot of women like you are on my payroll. Educated pretty upper middle class women who are having problems making car payments or mortgage payments. They work a few nights every month and everything is taken care of.” Susan smiled.
“Umm…no…that’s fine. I don’t really need the money. Thanks for the interview, I should get going now.”
Susan started laughing and kept laughing as I hurried out of her door. I was very outraged by her suggestion. Firstly, we really did not need the money. And secondly, I thought to myself, I may be a slut and sleep around, but I would never stoop so low as to actually have sex for money. How disgusting! And that’s how it ended.
The second episode happened in the red light area in Delhi. I had interviewed the madams, the bosses and some of the pimps, and they were all perfectly polite and respectful towards me. Had answered all my questions, shared some more information, and had gotten some of the prostitutes to talk to me. Most of the prostitutes I interviewed said pretty much the same thing. They got into this business because they had no choice or they were too poor, so on and so forth.
The one interview that stuck in my head and got me thinking was with a woman named Padma. She actually seemed to enjoy what she was doing. She was not really from an extremely poor family or small village. She had grown up in a middle class family and gotten married to a guy her parents found for her. But her husband could not satisfy her, so she started cheating on him. Got caught, and her husband left her. She then stayed with one of her lovers without marrying him, but grew tired of him too. Finally, one of the guys she was sleeping with turned out to be a pimp. He got her into this business and she loved it.
“Let me be honest with you.” she said towards the end, “Sometimes I do feel guilty and cheap that I am selling myself for sex. But it also turns me on. I especially love having sex with the poorest clients – the fifty rupees men as we call them. They are so rough, dominating, wild… Almost like animals. In comparison, the educated and richer guys seem tame. I don’t know why, but as a man is more and more educated, he seems to satisfy me less and less in bed. You probably won’t understand…. But there’s a perverse and intense pleasure in being a fifty rupee whore for those wild, uneducated penniless men.”
Somehow that struck a cord with me. And I realized why I had been so unsatisfied even after having sex with those other men in recent times. They were good in bed, but they were too gentle, too nice, too….. Normal. Apparently, I did not want that. I wanted men like the ones Padma mentioned. Men like Zahid and Mansoor whom someone like me normally would not even look at, much less talk to. Maybe it was the taboo of the situation. Maybe it was the masochistic instinct of giving myself up to ugly, uncouth and uneducated men. Whatever it was, that was what I wanted.
A week later, as I got off the plane in Bombay for the interviews there, I had given this a lot of thought. Weighed the pros and cons of my desires. The cons were fairly obvious, and the same ones that had kept me away from Zahid and Mansoor after that one night. The fear of getting blackmailed, and of my reputation getting besmirched and my marriage and career being destroyed. But as I thought about my Bombay visit, Susan’s proposal combined with what Padma had said, and a solution presented itself in a flash of brilliance.
There was no better place to have sex with the kind of guys I wanted, than in the sort of brothel Padma worked in. Obviously, I could not go there, because everyone knew me now. Word would get out. But no one knew me too well in Bombay. If I went to one of the many brothels in Bombay, and instead of interviewing people went…well…undercover, so to say… I could kill two birds with one stone.
I first finished all my interviews with the high class prostitution ring people. That took two days. I had 4 more days before my return flight to Delhi. It was with an intense desire to go through with my plan, and spine-chilling fear and doubts over what I was doing, that I went to a red-light area in South Bombay at that night.
My presence there drew many stares. The scene was similar to the red light area in Delhi. Narrow street, with a lot of men milling around. Old ramshackle buildings with windows. Prostitutes sitting or standing by the windows trying to either attract the attention of the men, or then negotiating. And some pimps standing around, with some men around them trying to strike deals. I walked around a bit and got a lot of stares. In my formal pantsuit, I did not look like I belonged there. I seemed like some hotshot female investment banker who had walked out of her Nariman Point office, taken a few wrong turns on the street, and was lost.
Most of the pimps were surrounded by many men. One pimp was talking to only one man. I saw the man give him back a stack of pictures, and two hundred rupee notes. The man walked into the building, and the pimp stood there, whistling. I walked towards him. As he saw me approach, he stopped whistling and got a serious look on his face,
“Yes Miss, how can I help you Miss? Reporter, Miss?”
He had assumed I was a reporter. The only women who looked and dressed like me and came here must have been reporters covering some story or seeking “human condition” stories.
“I need to speak with the chief person here.” I said.
“Oh, you want to talk to the Begum?” he said. “Newspaper story? Interview?”
“Begum is it? Can I meet her please?”
Five minutes later, I was sitting on a cheap imitation velvet couch in a clean, but garishly decorated room, waiting for the Begum, i.e. The Madam of the brothel. Finally she walked in, and I stood up to greet her. The Begum was an overweight lady dressed in a heavily embroidered red sari, the type that new brides wear. She was also wearing some really heavy make-up, and was smoking a cigarette. As I stood up, she motioned me to sit down, and took the seat on an armchair next to the couch.
“Yes, which newspaper are you from?” she asked.
“I am not from a newspaper.” I said. I started to say something more but the words didn’t quite come out.
“Not from a newspaper? Then what are you doing here?” she said, her chest heaving as she took another puff.
“I am actually…well…. This is a little embarrassing… I want to try this business for a couple of nights.” I said. Begum looked at me with piercing eyes, and said,
“I am sorry, we don’t deal in gigolos. But I can make some calls to a friend and…”
“No, no. You misunderstood me.” I looked around, then moved on the couch until I was very close to her and said in a low voice, “I want to be a prostitute here.”
Begum gave a start, just as she was taking another puff, and that made her cough violently. As her coughing fit subsided after a minute or so, she said to me in a loud voice,
“WHAT??? YOU??? A PROSTITUTE HERE????”
“Yes, Begum.” I replied as she stared at me with her mouth open. Finally she closed her mouth and then said,
“OK, I get it. You are some rich woman with money trouble and you think you can earn thousands of rupees a night in this business. Well, looking at you” she paused and checked me out for a few seconds, “Yes, looking at you, I would say you can. By my guess, you could make at least ten thousand a night if not more. You are very pretty. Very pretty. And a great body too.”
“Thank you, Begum.” I said politely.
“But my dear, you have come to the wrong place. We don’t deal in that high class market. Those are rich Madams in Colaba. If you want, I can make some calls and get you in touch with them.”
“I know what my worth is in the high class market, Begum.” I said, not believing how easily I had started talking business like a prostitute. “I am not in this for money. I don’t need money. I don’t want to do anything in the high class market. I just want to be here for a couple of nights. Then I will leave Bombay.”
The Begum clammed up again, trying to compute this bizarre and unprecedented situation.
“Let me get this straight. You are clearly an educated woman, and probably a career woman. You say you don’t need any money. But you want to work for me here for a couple of nights….as a prostitute? Why? Just for the sex?”
I did not say anything. When the Begum spoke next, it was in a very gentle and caring voice,
“Are you sure you know what you are saying? What you are willingly getting into?”
“Yes, Begum, I do.” I replied meekly.
“Okay well… I don’t know what you motivations are, but you have come here of your own free will. I won’t look a gift horse in the face. You are very beautiful. I don’t get the super rich clients like those high class Madams do, but I am sure I can get some of my well-off Johns to pay as much as a thousand for one time with you…”
“No, that is not what I want.” I interrupted her.
“Excuse me?” she said puzzled.
“I am not here for your well-off clients. I want to be one of the women people pay the lowest amount…which is what fifty rupees?” I asked, and she nodded. “I want to service the fifty rupee clients.”
“Are you insane?” the Begum said, “You clearly have no idea how this business works. We have our ugliest, oldest and fattest whores working for fifty rupees. The kind of men who go for them are poor and uncouth barbarians, often old goats. They can be very rough and abusive.”
“I don’t care. That is what I want. Consider me as one of the fifty rupee whores. And don’t try to trick me by sending in men from whom you have taken more money just by telling them about me. I will be able to spot those men. I want the fifty rupee guys only.”
The Begum looked at me with a shocked expression on her face, as if trying to figure out what was making me say and do all this. Finally she put out her cigarette in an ash tray and said,
“I think you are the most insane woman I have ever met. But fine, we’ll have it your way. Tonight, you are a fifty rupee slut. I won’t try to upsell you to any of my richer clients. I’ll send the fifty rupee riffraff to you. But trust me, one swift buggering from a burly Pathan, and you’ll either beg me to send you the richer clients, or then run off with your hands on your asshole.”
I know she said what she said to scare me or warn me, but somehow the matter-of-fact way in which she described the scenario actually turned me on a bit. She asked me to accompany her and I followed her up a rickety flight of wooden stairs. She asked me if I wanted to wear the clothes I was wearing or change into something. I thought about how expensive the pantsuit was and opted for changing. She took me to a room with a cupboard full of clothes. I picked out a black knee-length wrap-around skirt and a white t-shirt that was actually one size too small for me.
“Remember to take your bra off too. None of the women here wear a bra while working. Your customers will never have seen one or unbuttoned one. One of them might just tear it off.”
I changed right there in front of her. The Begum looked at my almost-naked body as I changed and said.
“Oh Allah… Those buttocks… Those breasts…. Those legs… That milky complexion… You could earn enough to live like a queen if you wanted. I still don’t understand why you want to exclusively service the fifty rupee guys.”
I didn’t say anything. What could I say? It had taken me ages to come to terms with my own fetish with these “fifty rupee guys” as she called them. There was no way I could explain it to her. Freud himself would probably have a tough time explaining what I was doing. I folded my clothes, put them on a chair, and stood up, my breasts jutting out of my tight t-shirt. The Begum led me up another flight of stairs and took me to a small room. All it had was a folding chair, a small table and a bed. There was a small sink in the corner that the Begum told me I could use to wash up. Hanging next to the sink on a nail was a small handtowel.
“Let me ask you this one last time. Are you sure you want to go through with this” Begum asked me. I paused, and genuinely did think it over. After about thirty seconds, I said,
“Yes, I want to do it.”
“Okay, then. What name should I tell your clients for you?”
“Constance….Connie for short…” I said.
“Connie… OK…weird name.” said the Madam, clearly a woman unfamiliar with D.H.Lawrence.
She left, closing the door behind her. I walked around the room a bit, and then sat down on the bed waiting for my first client. Mostly excited and titillated, but somewhere inside, also disappointed at myself for willingly becoming a prostitute at a brothel, even if for a couple of nights.
————————————————–
Back to Birju, I was wondering if he would last as long inside me as Zahid was able to. I got the answer in the negative very soon as he started groaning, thrusting harder, and filled me with his jizz. Maybe it was the excitement and pleasant shock of fucking someone as young and beautiful and I daresay, unattainable as me.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhh” he said, as he collapsed on top of me, without supporting himself on his elbows or anything, and I felt like my ribs would crack under the pressure. I pushed him off me and lay there….feeling the cum drip out of my pussy. Birju stared at me with bloodshot eyes as I put my fingers into my pussy and took out a gob of cum. I looked at it for a few seconds and then swallowed.
“Wow, you really are unbelievable.”
I smiled at him and sat up. The depraved pleasure I got from fucking a sleazy man like this had been awesome, but he had cum too soon for my liking. I needed to do something about it. So I got on my hands and knees next to him and took his limp dick in my mouth. He started at me with a wide grin as I started sucking on it.
“Amazing…. You really are great at this.”
I took his dick out, and put his balls in my mouth one at a time and sucked on them as he moaned in pleasure. Within a few minutes, I had gotten him hard again. Once he was fully erect, I turned around, still on my hands and feet, and thrust my ass towards him. With one hand I pulled a butt cheek and said to him
“Birju… Fuck me in the gaand… Fuck me in my ass.”
Birju did not need a second invitation. In a flash, he was on his knees and pushing his dick into my sphincter. He was not very big, so it did not hurt at all when he entered. As he started fucking my ass, I reached a hand back and started playing with my clit. This time, Birju lasted a fair bit longer. He kept ramming my ass for about five minutes after which he said he wanted to fuck my pussy again.
I stayed on my hands and knees as he took his dick out of my asshole and plunged it into my soppy pussy. He then pulled my hair and held me like that, my head facing up as he increased his tempo and kept fucking me as if he were riding a horse. Five more minutes and he started cumming inside me again.
After the fuck, I sucked his cock clean. He then spent about 15 minutes attacking my body with his pinches, bites and licks. Finally, after biting my nipples really hard one last time, he got up, and started getting dressed.
“I guess my half an hour is up. Don’t want to Begum charging me double. By the way, I want to say something.” he said.
“What do you want to say, Birju?” I replied.
“I don’t know how or why a memsaab like you is a fifty rupee whore in this brothel. And I don’t care. But one thing is for sure. I have fucked many whores before…. But all of them were just women having sex for money. You my dear,” he said as he came close to me, caught hold of my hair, and pulled my head up until it was close to his face. “You are the first real whore I have fucked. A true fifty rupee whore.”
And then he slapped me hard on my face. On one cheek and then another. I sat there stunned as tears welled up in my eyes.
“No need to cry, fifty rupee whore.” he said and then spat in my face. His spit hit me on my stinging right cheek. He then started laughing as he pushed my head away and dragged my hips closer to him. And then he started spanking me. Hard. Really hard, even as he kept laughing. These were not playful spanks. These were administered with force and were meant to hurt. Finally, after about 20 blows to each of my ass cheeks, he stopped. Spat on my butt, and started walking out.
I had never been manhandled like this ever in my life. I lay there, weeping, my face hidden in my arms. Birju opened the door and as he walked out, I heard him say,
“Nice one Begum. Really good bitch, this one. Next time I come, I want only her. And next time, I am coming with a friend.”
“As you say, Birju.” the Begum replied.
She then walked into the room. I looked up and saw her alternately staring at my face and my butt, both of which were clearly red.
“So, had enough? Is your idle middle class fantasy fulfilled? I am sure you want to get out of here now.”
I stopped crying, got up, went to the sink and started washing my face.
“This was Birju. The girls say he likes slapping them around and spitting at them in the end. And you know something? He is still one of the preferred customers. One of the less barbaric ones. If you think Birju was bad, wait till you see some of the others.”
I took the hand towel and wiped my face clean. I also wiped off the sweat on my ass and the cum dribbling down my thigh. I finally went and sat on the bed. Even I was shocked at the words that came out of my mouth next,
“I am ready for the next guy.”
The Begum didn’t say anything. Just stared at me incredulously for a few moments. Then shook her head, turned around and walked out of the door.
Ten minutes later, I was wearing the t-shirt and skirt again. I threw the thong in a corner and sat down on the bed. The door creaked open, and in walked a man about six and a half feet tall, with a thick beard and light eyes. From the loose pyjama and kameez he was wearing, and his looks, he seemed like a Pathan. I remember the Begum mentioning Pathans while warning me, and wondered if she had sent for him just to break me. Because unlike Birju, he was not at all surprised to see me there. Plus what he said to me next seemed a bit rehearsed and forced.
“OK, you look new here.” he said as he started removing his kameez. “So I am going to tell you how I do it. I only do it in the ass. I don’t care about your cunt, get it, you cunt? I only do buggery.”
And bugger me he did, for a good half hour. His dick was big and wide, and I felt at several points that he would tear my anus apart and make me bleed. Fortunately it did not happen. He also kept slapping and spanking me hard throughout the fucking. After about half an hour of ramming my ass in various positions and slapping me around, he deposited his load in me. I was lying on the bed, my ass pointing up in the air, delirious in pain as well as pleasure. Without a word, the Pathan put his clothes on and left.
The Begum did not visit me again that night. But eight more men did. Young and old, thin and fat, tall and short, with dicks of all sizes. Two of them banged me together, like Zahid and Mansoor had. I was fucked in the pussy, in the mouth and in the ass. I was slapped and spanked, bit and mauled. One man made me keep my “Inglisss” clothes on while he fucked me, and made me scream english expletives as he did it. Another said I should call myself Zarina. Finally when the sun rose, and my tenth dick for the night came inside me, my whole body was sore and aching. But beyond everything, the most dominant feeling was one of contentment and satisfaction.
I got up and went downstairs. Went to the changing room, where the Begum was talking to two women. I changed out of my “whore clothes” and into my pantsuit in front of them un-self-consciously, even as the three women kept staring at my naked body covered with bruises, hickeys and bite marks.
“Here are your earnings for the night.” The Begum came to me with a small wad of currency notes, “450 rupees for ten men. We keep ten percent as commission.”
“She fucked ten men on her first night? I wasn’t able to do ten in my first week!” one of the women whispered to the other.
I took the money. I didn’t need it, and I could have asked the Begum to keep it. But somehow I decided to keep it for now.
“I will be back tonight.” I said “And the night after that. I will leave Bombay after that.”
“Alright. See you tonight. I get the feeling your first customer tonight is going to be the same as your first customer last night, but this time he will bring his friends.” the Begum said as I walked out of the room and down the stairs.
As I walked outside and on the street, I must have been quite a sight. I did not have a black eye or any major bruises on my face, but the smaller marks made it amply obvious that I had been slapped around. Sure enough, I drew a fair share of stares.
I walked for about a kilometer and finally hailed a taxi. Got in, asked him to take me to my hotel. On the way, the taxi stopped at the Haji Ali signal where a little girl came to the taxi window selling some trinkets. I took one trinket and gave her 450 rupees I was still clutching in my hand. She looked at with with shock.
“Keep it.” I said.
“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!!! You are a very nice woman!!” she shouted as the light turned green and the taxi pulled away.
As I heard the words, tears filled my eyes and I started crying uncontrollably. Bawling, is more like it.
“I am sorry Abhay, I am sorry” I kept repeating.
The taxi driver was looking at me in his rear view mirror, but not saying anything. After about five minutes I stopped crying, rubbed my face clean. The taxi pulled into my hotel and stopped in front of the entrance.
“That will be 70 rupees.” the driver said.
I put my hand in my purse to pay him…paused for a second, smiled to myself and said,
“Umm… I gave away all the money to that little girl. I have money in my room upstairs. Come up with me and i’ll give it to you.”
“That’s OK Madam. I’ll wait here. You can bring it down, or then send it with some bellboy.”
“No, I insist. Park your taxi here and come up. And i’ll really give it to you.” and I winked at him.
The driver parked his taxi in an alley next to the hotel, and we went into the hotel together. The receptionist looked at us with a curious expression on her face as we stepped into the elevator together.
I put my hand on his shoulder, felt his taught body, and said,
“I know I owe you 70 rupees, but I am going to pay you only 20 in cash.”
The elevator door closed and it started moving. Please give me feedback at [email protected]
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