Chapter 22: Blood is still red
The metallic tang of blood hung thick in the air, a constant, intimate reminder of the violation that still pulsed in my core. My abdomen cramped, a dull, grinding ache beneath the sharper echoes of pain from my torn asshole and the brutalized flesh between my legs. The silken sheets beneath me were stained – rust-brown smears from my period, darker patches where Vishal’s seed had mixed with my blood last night. The jasmine scent was gone, buried under the cloying smell of sweat, sex, and the raw, coppery scent of my own body. I lay curled on my side, Swati’s side of the bed cold and empty since early morning. She’d left wordlessly, the click of the bedroom door lock echoing my internal prison.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
My heart hammered against my ribs even before I registered the heavy footsteps on the stairs. Him. Only he walked with that heavy, entitled tread. The door handle rattled, then turned. Vishal filled the doorway, still in yesterday’s rumpled shirt, his hair messy, eyes bleary but burning with an unmistakable heat. The look he raked over my huddled form wasn't concern; it was possession. Appraisal.
"Uthi nahi ab tak?" His voice was rough, morning gravel mixed with leftover lust. He didn’t wait for an answer, striding into her sanctuary like he owned it. Which, in this twisted reality, he seemed to. The scent of stale alcohol and male musk washed over me as he neared the bed. "Chadar utaar." Remove the sheet.
Fear, cold and sharp, joined the ache in my belly. I clutched the thin cotton tighter around my shoulders. "Jiju... please..." My voice was a rasp, thick with unshed tears and exhaustion. "Mujhe periods chal rahe hain... bohot dard ho raha hai..."
He paused, his hand halfway to ripping the sheet away. His eyes narrowed, focusing on my face, then drifting pointedly lower. "Periods?" A slow, unpleasant smile spread across his lips. "Toh? Tumhara kaam khatam ho gaya? Kya... main ab teri chut nahi chod sakta?" He leaned closer, his breath hot on my face. "Iska matlab yeh nahi ki tumhara kaam khatam ho gaya, Nupur. Meri jarurat poori karni hai."
He didn't wait for permission. His hand shot out, yanking the sheet down to my waist. The cool air hit my bare breasts, making my nipples pucker instantly, painfully. My thin nightgown offered no barrier. His gaze devoured me, lingering on the pale skin, the dark circles under my eyes, the slight swell of my lower belly. He didn't see pain; he saw opportunity.
"Uth," he commanded, his voice hardening. "Khadi ho jaa."
Trembling, every movement an agony, I pushed myself up. The cramps intensified, a hot knife twisting low in my gut. I stood, swaying slightly, the blood-stained pad a sticky, shameful presence between my legs. I kept my eyes down, fixed on the intricate pattern of the rug Swati loved.
Vishal stepped back, his eyes darkening as they travelled the length of my body. He unbuttoned his trousers with deliberate slowness, the snick of each button loud in the heavy silence. He pushed them down, along with his underwear, letting his already half-hard cock spring free. It was thick, flushed, demanding. A fresh wave of terror washed over me.
"Pados wali aunty ke saath baat kar raha tha," he said conversationally, stepping closer, his erection bobbing near my face. "Uske kapde dekh kar lund khada ho gaya." He grabbed the back of my head, his fingers tangling painfully in my hair. "Teri wajah se ghar aaya. Ab kam kar."
He forced my head down. The musky, salty smell of his pre-cum filled my nostrils. My stomach churned. "Jiju... please... main..." My protest was muffled against his thigh.
"Chup kar," he growled, shoving his cock against my closed lips. "Muh khol. Apne jiju ka lund chus. Abhi."
The blunt head pressed insistently. Tears welled, spilling hot down my cheeks. I opened my mouth, just enough. He thrust forward, the thick shaft filling my mouth, pushing my jaws painfully wide. He groaned, a low, satisfied rumble deep in his chest as my lips stretched around him. "Aahh... haan... aise hi... tight... tera muh bhi gaand ki tarah tight hai... chus, randi... apni behen ka pati satisfy kar."
He started fucking my mouth in short, brutal thrusts, holding my head still. His cock hit the back of my throat, making me gag violently. Saliva pooled, dripping down my chin. Tears blurred my vision. He didn't care about the sounds of my choking, the desperate gurgles. His hips pistoned, forcing himself deeper each time, grinding against my lips, my teeth scraping his sensitive skin, making him curse and thrust harder.
"Saali... daant se chubh rahi hai? Thoda dhyan rakh!" He pulled almost all the way out, leaving me gasping, strings of spittle connecting my lips to his glistening cock. Then he slapped his shaft hard against my cheek. "Chusna seekh! Puri tarah andar le! Gaand mein itna lund liya tha, yeh muh chota hai kya?"
He forced my head down again. This time, I tried, desperate to avoid the choking. I opened wider, letting him shove deep into my throat. I fought the reflex to vomit, tears streaming freely. He held himself there for a moment, buried to the root, my nose pressed into his coarse pubic hair, the scent overwhelming. "Ghut ja... randi," he grunted, enjoying the convulsive tightening of my throat. Then he pulled back, only to slam in again, setting a ruthless rhythm. My jaw ached. My throat burned. The metallic taste of blood joined the salt of my tears and the bitterness of his skin – was it mine? Had I bitten him? I didn't know.
He fucked my face relentlessly for minutes, groaning filth. "Ahh... tera garam muh... Swati se bhi acha chusti hai... randi behan... ahh... le... le mera lund..." His thrusts became erratic, his balls tightening against my chin. "Nikal raha hoon... andar hi nikalunga... tera muh bhar denge..."
The hot, salty flood erupted deep in my throat. I choked, convulsing, as he pumped thick spurts of cum, holding me impaled. It filled my mouth, overflowing, dripping thickly down my chin and neck. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't swallow. Gasping, drowning in his release. Finally, with a shuddering groan, he pulled out, his cock glistening with my saliva and his seed.
I collapsed to my knees, coughing violently, spitting strings of thick, white cum mixed with saliva onto the rug. My throat felt raw, scraped. He looked down at me, breathing heavily, a cruel smirk on his face. "Acha kiya. Lekin..." He nudged my shoulder with his foot. "Abhi poori tarah satisfy nahi hua."
He was still semi-hard. My heart sank. He grabbed my hair again, pulling me painfully to my feet. "Chhati dikha." He gestured roughly at my breasts.
Numbly, I pulled the thin straps of my nightgown down, baring my breasts completely. They felt heavy, sore. He reached out, grabbing them roughly, squeezing the soft flesh, pinching my nipples hard, making me gasp.
"Chut toh use nahi kar sakta abhi," he mused, his eyes raking over my body. His gaze dropped lower, to my hips, my ass. "Gaand... gaand toh hamesha khuli hai." He grinned, a predator's grin. "Teri gaand ko yaad hai mujhe? Kitna maza aaya tha... kitna tight tha... kitna chillayi thi... phir bhi maza aaya tha na tujhe bhi? Tune bola tha... 'maza aa raha hai'..." He mimicked my broken cry from that night.
Shame burned hotter than the cramps. I looked away.
He chuckled. "Haan... achha laga tha. Chal, wohi karte hain." He pushed me towards the edge of the bed. "Jhuk. Gaand dikha."
My body screamed in protest. The memory of the tearing agony, the feeling of being ripped open from behind, flooded back. My asshole still felt sore, tight, unhealed. "Jiju... please... woh... abhi bhi dard hota hai... aur periods bhi..." My voice was a broken whisper.
"Thodi der mein dard bhool jaayegi," he said dismissively. "Aur period ki chinta mat kar... gaand mein daalne waala muh nahi hai." He gave me a hard shove. "Jhuk, saali! Nahi toh belt se pitegi."
Trembling violently, I bent over the edge of Swati’s bed, gripping the silken sheets, my face buried in the fabric that still smelled faintly of her perfume. I presented my ass to him, the most vulnerable, violated part of me. I felt the cool air on my exposed skin, the sticky pad a humiliating barrier lower down.
I heard him spit. Once. Twice. Then the slick, wet sound of him rubbing his spit, and probably remnants of my saliva and his cum, onto his hardening cock. The blunt, wet tip pressed against my clenched hole. The familiar terror surged, icy cold.
"Phir se virgin lag rahi hai," he mocked, applying pressure. "Relax kar, randi. Apni behen ki gaand mein bhi itna dard nahi hua tha teri gaand mein karne mein." He pushed.
The resistance was immediate, agonizing. My body remembered the trauma, clenching shut in pure panic. He grunted, shoving harder. The initial breach was a white-hot lance of pain, tearing through the tender, unhealed tissue. I screamed into the sheets, my knuckles white.
"Ahhh! Saali! Kitni tight kar rahi hai!" he complained, but there was excitement in his voice. He bore down, using his weight, forcing his thick cockhead past the tight ring. The stretch was unbearable, a burning agony that radiated through my pelvis, rivaling the cramps. He pushed relentlessly, inch by excruciating inch, until he was fully sheathed inside my ass, his balls pressed against my ass cheeks. He groaned, long and low. "Ahh... haan... yehi... teri gaand... bilkul waisi hi... garam... tight... perfect."
He didn’t wait. He started fucking me, hard and deep from the first stroke. Each withdrawal dragged his cock over raw nerves, each slam back in felt like being impaled all over again. The pain was blinding, a constant, grinding fire in my core. I bit down on the sheet to muffle my screams, tears soaking the fabric. My body rocked violently with his thrusts, my breasts swaying painfully. The blood-soaked pad chafed between my thighs.
He fucked my ass with brutal efficiency, gripping my hips hard enough to bruise, his balls slapping against me. "Chillati reh... Swati ko bhi pasand aati thi teri cheekh..." he panted. "Ahh... teri gaand ka bhosda... mera lund ke liye hi bana hai... randi... le... le aur..." His thrusts became faster, harder, jackhammering into my tortured hole. The pain was so intense it bordered on disassociation. I floated somewhere outside myself, watching the broken woman being brutally used over her sister’s bed.
He was close. His breathing was ragged, his grunts becoming guttural roars. "Le... le mera maal... andar hi... teri gaand mein... nikaldega... bhar dega... randi ki gaand bhosda... ahh... FUCK!"
He slammed deep, burying himself to the hilt, and held. His cock pulsed violently inside my ass, jetting hot cum deep into my bowels. The feeling of being filled there again, violated in the same place with such violent finality, was a soul-crushing weight. I whimpered, my body limp, held up only by his grip and the edge of the bed. He stayed buried for long moments, grinding slightly, milking the last drops.
Finally, with a satisfied sigh, he pulled out. The sudden emptiness was almost as painful as the entry. I felt the hot gush of his cum mixed with lube and spit leaking out of my ruined hole, trickling down my thighs. He stepped back, tucking his softening cock away with a grunt.
He looked down at me, still bent over, trembling, leaking his seed from my ass, the pad between my legs soaked with menstrual blood. He patted my ass cheek, a patronizing gesture. "Achha kiya. Ab saaf kar le. Aur chhati daba kar so ja." You did well. Now clean up. And get some sleep pressing your breasts. He turned and walked out, closing the bedroom door behind him with a soft click.
I collapsed onto the floor, a broken heap beside the bed. The metallic tang of blood, the musky smell of sex, the acrid scent of his cum – it all swirled around me. The cramps still gnawed. The deeper ache in my ass throbbed in time with my heartbeat. My jaw felt dislocated. My throat was raw. I was a vessel, used and emptied.
I crawled to the ensuite bathroom, leaving smears on the rug. In the harsh light, I avoided the mirror. I cleaned myself mechanically, the warm water stinging my torn flesh. The blood from my period seemed insignificant now, just another fluid my body expelled under duress.
Back in the bedroom, the silence was deafening. The jasmine-scented sanctuary Swati cherished was gone, replaced by a charnel house of my humiliation. I crawled onto the cold, stained sheets, curling into a ball. I pressed my bruised breasts together, as instructed. A mockery of comfort. The emptiness inside me wasn't just physical. It was a void where my self-respect, my innocence, my relationship with my sister, used to be. The only certainty was the phantom ache between my legs and the knowledge that when he wanted me again, I would open whatever hole he demanded. My service was unending.