Chapter 1: The First Command
The buzz was insistent, a venomous little vibration against the mahogany nightstand that sliced through the gentle fog of my waking. My hand, pale against the dark wood, fumbled for it.The screen burned my eyes in the dim room. A single message, timing perfectly like I predicted, maybe twenty minutes.Not from Paul, obviously. He was already gone, his side of the bed cold, the tailored silk of his pajamas a discarded puddle on the floor.The message was from Master Veer.“You are awake. You have slept in the comfort your husband provides.Now remember who provides your purpose.Strip. Kneel on the marble by the bed.Use the handle of your hairbrush.Show me your cunt taking it. Do not come until I say you may.”
A jolt, sharp and electric, went straight to my core.My throat tightened. Outside, Kochi was waking up, the sound of a vendor’s cart clattering down the street, the distant call to prayer a soft echo. In here, the air was still, scented with last night’s sandalwood incense. And the camera in the corner, a small dark eye, blinked its red light once.Watching.
I pushed the duvet back.The air was cool on my skin. My movements were ritualistic, automatic. I stood, letting my nightdress, a simple cotton thing Paul had bought me, fall in a heap at my feet.I was naked. The morning light through the linen curtains painted my skin in stripes of muted gold. I felt exposed, incredibly visible, even though the only witness was the unblinking lens.
I walked to the space beside the bed, the marble floor unforgiving and cold. The shock of it on my knees was a familiar punctuation mark, a clean, harsh start to the day. I reached for the hairbrush on the nightstand, my grandmother’s silver-backed one.The handle was smooth, cool, ornate. I held it, the weight all wrong for this.That was the point.
“I am ready, Master,” I whispered, my voice barely a breath in the quiet room.
I spread my knees wider on the hard stone, the chill seeping into my bones.With my left hand, I reached between my legs. I was already wet, a slick, shameful heat that betrayed my calm exterior. I parted myself, fingers sliding through my own folds, exposing the soft, pink flesh to the camera’s gaze. I angled my hips, making sure the view was clear, unobstructed.
Then, I brought the brush handle to my opening.The metal was cold. I pressed the rounded end against me, a pressure that was foreign and intrusive.A small gasp escaped my lips, hanging in the air.I pushed.
It was a slow, deliberate invasion. The unyielding metal stretched me, a blunt, impersonal fullness. I worked it in and out, a mechanical rhythm, my eyes locked on the camera’s dark circle.I imagined him, Master Veer, somewhere in the world, watching this feed. Watching this educated woman, a professor of literature, debase herself with a hairbrush at seven in the morning.The thought made my stomach clench, sent a deeper, darker thrill through me.
The friction was building, a rough, building heat that coiled low in my belly. My breaths came shorter, sharper. I increased the pace, the schlick of the wet metal filling the silent room, mixed with my own ragged breathing. I was close, teetering on that edge, my body trembling with the effort of holding back, of obeying.
My phone buzzed again on the floor beside my knee.A quick, slicing glance down.
“Now.”
The permission was a trigger. My hips bucked, slamming the handle deeper into me as the orgasm ripped through my body, sudden and violent. A raw, guttural sound was torn from my throat—a wordless, primal cry that felt utterly disconnected from the woman who lectured on metaphysics. My back arched, every muscle taut, as the waves pulsed around the cold, impersonal object inside me. Then, collapse. I slumped forward, catching myself on one hand, the brush handle slipping out of me with a wet, soft sound. I knelt there, spent, sweat cooling on my spine, the marble biting into my kneecaps.The phone buzzed a third time.“Good girl. Clean up.Begin your duties.The grocery list is in your journal. I expect it done by 10. You may speak your gratitude.”
I drew in a shuddering breath, the aftermath buzzing in my veins. I looked up at the camera, my dark eyes probably looking glazed, ruined.“Thank you, Master,” I whispered, the words fervent, sincere. They meant everything.The red light on the camera blinked off.The session was over.
I got to my feet, my legs wobbly.I walked to the bathroom, ran the shower hot. I washed myself thoroughly, the water sluicing away the evidence, but not the feeling. It lingered, a hum under my skin. I dressed in a simple salwar kameez, earthy cotton, modest.I coiled my long black hair into a neat bun.I looked like me again. Professor Anjali Mathew.Wife of Paul.Respectable.
In the living room, I opened the leather-bound journal on the writing desk. His initials, V.S., were embossed in the corner in stark black ink. The grocery list was there, in my own handwriting but written at his command yesterday evening.Turmeric powder, coconut oil, lamb cutlets.Mundane, domestic. My next set of instructions.
Paul’s key turned in the lock just as I was slipping on my sandals.He came in, smelling of fresh air and coffee, his briefcase in hand. He must have gone out for an early meeting.
“You’re off to the market?” he asked, smiling, leaning in to kiss my cheek.His lips were warm.“Yes. The list is long today,” I said, returning the smile, hoping my voice sounded normal.
“Will you be back before my seminar?I wanted to talk about the vacation ideas.”
“Of course. I’ll make lunch.”
He nodded, already distracted, heading towards the study. “You’re an angel, Anjali.”
I walked out into the bustling humidity of Kochi, the list clutched in my hand. The ordinary world swarmed around me—scooters beeping, the smell of fish and spices, the colorful chaos of my city. And underneath it all, deep inside the core of me, was the secret knowledge. The memory of the cold marble, the stretch of the brush handle, the commanding buzz of my phone.The peace of obedience. I moved through the crowd, a ghost with a purpose, carrying my Master’s will next to my heartbeat.
I moved through the crowd, a ghost with a purpose, carrying my Master’s will next to my heartbeat.
The market was a symphony of overwhelming life. The cacophony of vendors shouting, the putrid-sweet smell of overripe fruit and fresh fish, the blinding kaleidoscope of saris and piled spices. I wove through it all, a single note of muted beige. My sandals slapped against the wet pavement. My list was a physical anchor.
Turmeric powder. Coconut oil. Lamb cutlets.
Each item was a sacrament. Obedience in the mundane. I stopped at George’s stall, the old Christian man with kind eyes who always saved Paul the best cuts. “Morning, Professor! For the husband, yes? Something tender?” He held up a glistening piece of meat.
“Yes, George. That one, please.” My voice was calm, pleasant. The model wife.
My phone buzzed in the pouch of my kameez.
A different, softer vibration. The one I’d assigned to him. My breath hitched. George wrapped the lamb in newspaper, humming. I turned slightly, pulling the phone out just enough to see the screen.
Master Veer: You are in public. Good. Find the vegetable section. The long, thick English cucumbers. Pick one up. Feel its weight. Imagine it. Tell me.
My face flushed hot. The market noise seemed to recede, replaced by the thunder of my own blood. I paid George, taking the parcel with numb fingers. “Thank you.”
I drifted toward the vegetable stalls, my body moving on autopilot. There they were, piled in a gleaming green row. I reached out, my hand hovering. I selected one. It was cool, firm, and heavy in my palm. Ridged. A perfect, obscene shape. I ran my thumb along its length. A pulse of pure, slick heat shot through me, deep into my cunt. I was suddenly aware of every seam of my clothing.
I typed with one thumb, my other hand still cradling the cucumber. It is heavy, Master. Solid. The ridges are pronounced. It would stretch. I sent it, my thumbprint leaving a faint smear on the screen.
The reply was instant.
Master Veer: Buy it. You will use it tonight after your husband sleeps. You will film it. You will come twice. You will thank the vegetable before you discard it. Now, smile for the old vendor. He is watching the pretty professor.
I looked up. Old Mr. Kuriakose at the vegetable stall was indeed smiling at me. I forced my lips into a curve, a stiff, practiced expression. I bought the cucumber, along with okra and bitter gourd, placing it carefully in my cloth bag. It lay against the lamb, a secret, shocking contraband.
The walk home was a blur of heightened sensation. The bag bumped against my thigh with every step. The cucumber. The lamb. My submission. My husband’s dinner. It was all tangled together, a knot of who I was supposed to be and what I secretly craved. The shame was a flavor on my tongue, metallic and sharp. It made the arousal worse, more intoxicating.
Paul was in his study when I returned, the door closed. I put the groceries away. The cucumber I left in the bag, hidden behind a sack of rice in the pantry. A totem. A promise.
The day unfolded in a series of normal acts. I prepared lunch—meen molee with the fresh fish, the turmeric powder yellow as sunlight. We ate. Paul talked about his seminar, about the vacation brochures for Switzerland. I nodded, commented, wiped my hands on a napkin. My mind was in the pantry. My skin still hummed from the morning.
“You seem distracted, Anji,” Paul said, sipping his water.
“Just thinking about the lecture notes for tomorrow,” I lied smoothly. “The paradox of free will in a deterministic universe. It’s heavy.”
He smiled, squeezing my hand. “My little philosopher. Always thinking.”
Night fell. Paul watched television, then read in bed. He kissed my forehead, turned over, and his breathing soon slipped into the soft, even rhythm of sleep. The digital clock glowed 11:47 PM.
The red light on the camera was already on. A tiny, burning eye in the dark.
I slipped from the bed, naked. The marble floor was icy. I didn’t kneel. The command was different. I went to the pantry, my heart a frantic drum. I retrieved the bag. The cucumber was cold. I brought it to my nose. It smelled of earth, of mundane greenness. The absurdity of it made me shudder.
I positioned myself in the center of the room, in the camera’s full view. I held the vegetable up, showing it to the lens. My hands were trembling.
Then I lay back on the floor, the cold marble searing my shoulder blades. I spread my legs wide, bending my knees, offering myself completely. I was already wet, my folds swollen and aching. The memory of the brush handle was a ghost. This was real. This was absurd. This was everything.
I touched myself first, my fingers sliding through my own slickness, pinching my clit until I gasped. I pressed the blunt, rounded end of the cucumber against my opening. It was so much broader than the brush. I pushed.
The stretch was immediate, shocking. A low, guttural moan leaked from my lips. I bit down on it, glancing at Paul’s still form in the bed. The silence was oppressive, broken only by his soft snores and the wet, squelching sound as I worked the vegetable into my body.
It was fucking me. Cold, hard, and unyielding. The ridges dragged against my inner walls, a rough, incredible friction. I fucked myself with it, my hips rising off the floor to meet each thrust. My other hand clawed at my own breast, pinching the nipple viciously. Pain and pleasure twisted together. I was an animal on the floor, impaled on a piece of produce.
“Fuck,” I breathed, the word a dirty prayer. “Oh fuck, fuck…”
The orgasm built, a terrifying wave. I was supposed to wait for permission. I couldn’t. The first one crashed over me, brutal and silencing. My back arched violently, my mouth open in a soundless scream as my cunt clenched and spasmed around the cold, invading flesh. I rode it, shuddering, seeing white spots behind my eyes.
I was panting, spent. But the command was twice.
I started moving again, the sensitivity almost painful. Each thrust now was a raw overstimulation. Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes. I was a used, filthy thing. I loved it. I needed it. I imagined Master Veer watching this broken performance. The thought tipped me over again. The second climax was slower, deeper, a drowning sensation. I whimpered, my body going limp, the cucumber slipping out of me with a final, wet plop onto the marble.
I lay there, ruined. The chill of the floor seeped into my bones. I rolled onto my side, curled around the emptiness in my belly. I picked up the slick, glistening cucumber. I brought it to my lips.
“Thank you,” I whispered to it, my voice cracked and hoarse. Then I stood on shaky legs, carried it to the bathroom, and dropped it into the trash bin. I cleaned myself, watching the evidence of my obedience swirl down the drain.
I crawled back into bed beside my sleeping husband. The smell of cucumber and my own sex was a faint, secret perfume on my skin. The camera’s red light blinked off.
My phone, under my pillow, buzzed softly.
Master Veer: Adequate. Sleep. Tomorrow, you will wear no underwear to your lecture. You will carry a clothespin in your purse. You will attach it to your nipple during your office hours. Send a picture. Now, rest.
I closed my eyes. The ghost of a stretch lingered between my legs. A smile touched my lips in the dark. I was owned. I was empty. I was perfect.
SHE BUYS GROCERIES.
SHE BUYS GROCERIES. The mundane task is a surreal counterpoint to the ache between my legs, a dull, pleasant throb that feels like a secret brand. The cucumber sits heavy in my cloth bag, a ridiculous, terrifying secret among the lentils and tomatoes. I walk home, the afternoon sun a physical weight, and each step is a reminder.
I prepare dinner, my hands moving on autopilot. Chop onions, sauté spices, simmer the lamb. Paul walks in, draping his blazer over a chair. He kisses my temple. “Something smells amazing.”
“It’s the lamb,” I say, stirring the pot. My voice sounds far away.
During dinner, I am hyper-aware of my body. The phantom stretch. The lingering sting on my nipple from my own pinching fingers. Paul talks about faculty politics. I nod, I smile. I am a vault.
Later, in bed, he reaches for me. His hands are familiar, warm. He kisses my shoulder, nuzzles my neck. I freeze for a fraction of a second, a statue in his arms. My body is a crime scene. He senses it.
“Tired?” he murmurs, his hand slipping under my nightshirt, resting on my stomach.
“A little,” I whisper. “Long day.”
He accepts this, kisses me once more, and turns over. Guilt is a cold knife in my ribs. I lie there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for his breathing to even out. The camera’s red eye is a distant star in the dark. I am marooned between them.
The next morning, I dress with meticulous care. A crisp, cream-colored linen shirt. Tailored taupe trousers. Professional, sharp. Beneath it, nothing. The brush of the fabric against my bare skin is a constant whisper. A violation. A promise. I slip the simple wooden clothespin into my purse. It looks innocent, domestic. It feels like a weapon.
My lecture is on post-colonial theory. My voice is clear, my arguments precise. My students scribble notes. All the while, I am brutally conscious of my nakedness under my clothes, the draft from the classroom fan a ghostly caress. A bold, pretty girl in the front row asks a question about subaltern agency. I answer, discussing voices stripped of power, of covert resistance. The irony coats my tongue like ash.
Office hours are next. My small room is quiet, lined with books. Sunlight slices through the blinds. I have one student appointment, a nervous sophomore who leaves after ten minutes discussing his essay on Tagore.
The door clicks shut. I am alone.
My phone vibrates in my desk drawer.
Master Veer: Now.
My heart jackhammers against my ribs. I get up, lock the office door. The click of the bolt is deafening. I walk to the window, turning my back to it, facing the room. I can see the reflection of the door in the glass. Safe.
My fingers are clumsy as I unbutton my shirt. The linen parts. The air is cool on my breasts. I take the clothespin from my purse. The wood is smooth. I hold it open, the spring taut.
I pinch the dark, sensitive peak of my left nipple. A sharp intake of breath. I release the clamp.
The pain is instant, brilliant, and focused. A bite of pure sensation that radiates outwards, down my stomach, straight to my core. I gasp, my knees buckling slightly. I brace myself against the desk. In the window's reflection, I see a professor, shirt open, a crude wooden clamp hanging from her breast. A surreal, degrading portrait. I fumble with my phone, raise it, snap a picture. The flash goes off. I send it.
I don’t wait for a reply. I can’t. The pain is morphing, melting into a deep, relentless throbbing. My cunt is weeping. I slide a hand into my trousers, my fingers finding a slick, hot mess. I stroke myself, frantically, roughly, hips pushing against my own hand, my other hand coming up to pinch the clothespin, sending fresh, shocking waves of pain-pleasure through my nervous system. It’s fast, desperate, and dirty. I come in less than a minute, stifling a cry against my own arm, my body convulsing silently against the sturdy oak desk.
I slump, breathing raggedly. The clothespin is a cruel, persistent weight. I reach up, release the jaw. The flood of relief is almost as intense as the pain. My nipple is angry red, deeply indented. I button my shirt with trembling hands. The fabric is agony against the tender flesh.
A knock at the door. I jump.
“Anjali? You in there?” Paul’s voice.
Panic, ice-cold and absolute, floods my veins. What is he doing here? He should be across campus.
“Just… just a minute!” My voice is too high. I shove the clothespin into the desk drawer, smooth my hair, my shirt. I unlock the door, opening it just a crack.
He’s there, holding a paper bag. “You forgot your lunch. I had a meeting nearby.” His smile is warm, then falters as he takes me in. “Are you okay? You look… flushed.”
“Fine. Just… a hot flash.” The lie is pathetic.
His eyes narrow slightly. He looks past me, into the office. His gaze travels over the desk, the locked drawer, me, blocking his way. A husband’s intuition is a terrifying thing. It’s not suspicion yet, but it’s a shift from trust to curiosity.
“Can I come in?” he asks, his tone light but firm.
“I was just about to head to the library,” I say, stepping out, pulling the door shut behind me, taking the lunch bag from him. My hand brushes his. Mine is clammy. “Thank you for this. Really. You’re sweet.”
He doesn’t move. He’s studying my face, my eyes which won’t quite meet his. He looks at my shirt. A button is misaligned. I followed it wrong in my haste.
“Your shirt is buttoned wrong,” he says quietly.
My blood turns to slush. “Oh. God. I was changing after the lecture. Must have rushed.” I fumble with the buttons, my fingers useless.
He reaches out. “Here, let me.”
I recoil instinctively, a flinch that speaks volumes. His hand freezes in mid-air. The warmth in his eyes solidifies into something else. Something hard and clear.
The silence between us is a living thing. The normal sounds of the hallway—distant laughter, footsteps—feel like they’re coming from another planet.
“Anjali,” he says. His voice is flat. “What is going on?”
“Nothing. I told you, I’m just rushed.” I finally get the button through its proper hole.
He looks at the door to my office. Then back at me. The curiosity is gone, replaced by a dawning, horrified comprehension. He knows me. He knows when I’m lying. He knows the cadence of my guilt.
“Open the door,” he says.
“Paul, don’t be ridiculous.”
“Open the fucking door.”
He never swears. The word is a slap. I am rigid, trapped. He gently moves me aside, his strength undeniable. He tries the handle. Locked. He looks at me, his expression unreadable. “Key.”
I hand it over, my whole world narrowing to the click of the tumbler as he turns it. He pushes the door open and walks in. He stands in the middle of the room, slowly turning. He sees the tidy desk. The books. The window. He walks to the desk. My heart stops.
He pulls open the top drawer. There are pens, paperclips, a stack of unanswered student evaluations. He closes it. Pulls open the deeper side drawer.
And he stops.
He sees it. Lying there on top of a manila folder. The simple, wooden clothespin.
He picks it up. He holds it between his thumb and forefinger, studying it as if it’s an artifact from a lost civilization. Then, his eyes drift down. On the floor, partly under the desk, is my phone. It must have fallen from my lap during my frantic, silent orgasm. The screen is still lit.
He bends and picks it up.
On the screen is the notification preview of the last message sent.
To Master Veer: Image Sent.
And below it, the most recent received message, visible in the preview pane.
Master Veer: Good. The marks are pretty. Tonight, you will not sleep. You will wait on your knees by the bed until I tell you to crawl in.
Paul’s face drains of all color. He looks from the phone in one hand to the clothespin in the other. His head turns, slowly, toward me. I am still framed in the doorway, my back against the jamb, holding onto it to keep upright.
His eyes travel over my buttoned shirt, my tailored trousers, my professional facade. They bore into the place beneath the fabric where the angry, indented flesh is still throbbing. They see everything.
The phone drops from his hand. It clatters on the tiled floor. The clothespin follows, bouncing once with a small, final sound.
PAUL DISCOVERS.