Chapter 5: Sauni surrenders her virginity
The cold marble floor bit into the soles of my bare feet as I stood frozen just inside Vishal’s apartment door. It was vast. Impossibly vast. Soaring ceilings, walls the colour of bleached bone, sleek furniture that looked sculpted rather than sat upon. A massive abstract painting, swirls of angry red and black, dominated one wall. It felt like standing inside a very expensive, very empty tomb. The air smelled faintly of lemon polish and something else – expensive leather, maybe. Sterile. Nothing like the cramped, humid bathroom back at the office. Nothing like home.
My reflection shimmered in a colossal, floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city lights. The cheap red satin slip Divya had bullied me into buying clung awkwardly to my hips, straining across my ‘wide backs’. It felt flimsy, ridiculous. Like dressing a sow in silk. Divya, beside me in a daring black lace number that hugged her perfect curves, looked like she belonged here. She nudged me forward with her hip.
"Chill, Sauni," she murmured, her eyes scanning the opulence with undisguised greed. "Just breathe. Remember the plan. The raise. The security."
Vishal emerged from a shadowed hallway, holding two glasses of deep red wine. He wore dark trousers and an open-collared shirt, the picture of casual wealth. His gaze swept over us, lingering appreciatively on Divya before settling on me. A slow, appraising smirk touched his lips. "Red. Good." He handed Divya a glass. "You look… appropriate, Sauni." The word landed like a slap. Appropriate. Not beautiful. Not desirable. Suitable for purpose.
He didn’t offer me wine. Just gestured towards the low, glass coffee table dominating the living area. "Sit."
Divya sank gracefully onto the pristine white sofa, crossing her legs. I perched on the very edge, terrified of leaving a mark on the blinding fabric. The cold marble beneath my feet seeped into my bones. Vishal sat opposite in a deep armchair, swirling his wine, watching us like specimens under glass. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. The abstract painting seemed to pulse.
"So," Vishal finally said, his voice low and smooth. "Earn it."
Divya set her wine down untouched. She stood, her movements fluid and predatory. She walked towards me, her heels clicking sharply on the marble. "Up," she commanded, her voice losing its earlier lightness, taking on a practical edge. "Stand up, Sauni."
My legs trembled as I obeyed. Divya positioned me facing Vishal, my back to her. Her hands landed on my hips, firm, guiding. "Relax your knees," she instructed softly, right by my ear. Then, switching to Hindi, her tone dropping to a low, insistent murmur, "Thoda jhuk jao, Sauni. Usko dikhao ki tum taiyaar ho." Bend a little, Sauni. Show him you're ready.
I flinched. The crude Hindi, the command – it stripped away any pretense. This wasn't seduction. It was transaction. Vishal leaned back, sipping his wine, his eyes dark and unreadable. Enjoying the show.
Divya’s hands slid around my waist, pulling me back slightly against her. Her fingers found the thin strap of the slip on my shoulder. "Peeth dikhao usko," she hissed. Show him your back. She tugged the strap down. The cool air hit my skin, making me gasp. The satin pooled around my waist. I squeezed my eyes shut, humiliation burning my cheeks. My wide back felt monstrously exposed.
"Look at him, Sauni," Divya whispered, her breath hot on my neck. "Usko dekho. Tumhara malik hai." Look at him. He's your master. Her fingers dug into my hips, forcing me to open my eyes. Vishal’s gaze was fixed on my bare torso, on the heavy curve of my breasts straining against the fabric still clinging to my front. There was no warmth there. Only assessment. Possession.
He set his glass down. Stood. Walked towards us. The predatory intent radiating from him was palpable. My breath hitched, panic clawing up my throat. Divya’s grip tightened, anchoring me, or trapping me. "Chup raho," she murmured. "Bas soch ki paise milenge." Be quiet. Just think of the money.
Vishal stopped inches away. The scent of his cologne, woody and sharp, overwhelmed the sterile lemon. He reached out, not to touch me, but to trace a finger along the strap Divya had pulled down. His knuckle brushed my skin. I recoiled internally, but Divya held me fast.
"Turn her," Vishal said, his voice devoid of inflection.
Divya spun me smoothly, so I faced her, my back now fully exposed to Vishal. Her eyes met mine. They were hard, focused, but for a fleeting second, I saw something else – a flicker of shared dread? Or just calculation? "Mazboot raho," she breathed. Be strong. Then, louder, for Vishal, "She’s ready, Sir."
His hands landed on my hips from behind. Large, heavy. Possessive. They slid upwards, tracing the curve of my spine, over the expanse of my back. I shuddered violently. His touch wasn't gentle. It was mapping territory. Claiming. "Kitni moti hai," he murmured, almost to himself. So fat. The words were a hot poker in my gut.
Then his hands moved down, gripping my hips hard, pulling me back against him. I felt the hard ridge of his erection press against me through his trousers. A whimper escaped my lips. Divya’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Ruk jao," she said sharply to Vishal, stepping closer to me. "Dheere se. Pehli baar hai na?" Wait. Slowly. It's her first time, right? She looked at me, her gaze intense. "Sauni, tumko khichna hai. Andar jao. Bas… jhuk jao aur push karo." Sauni, you need to relax. Let him in. Just… bend forward a little and push back.
Her Hindi instructions, explicit and clinical, cut through the panic. A script. A set of movements. Bend. Push. Relax. Impossible commands. Vishal’s grip tightened impatiently. Divya placed her hands firmly on my shoulders, applying gentle pressure downwards. "Jhuk jao, Sauni. Abhi." Bend, Sauni. Now.
I bent forward at the waist, a sob catching in my throat. The marble floor swam beneath me. Divya kept her hands on my shoulders, steadying me, or pinning me. Behind me, Vishal fumbled with his trousers. The sound of the zipper was obscenely loud. Then, the blunt, insistent pressure against my most vulnerable place. I braced, every muscle rigid.
"Dheere se, Vishal Sir," Divya cautioned again, her voice tight. "Pehle andar ka hissa…" Slowly, Vishal Sir. The inside part first…
He ignored her. There was a brutal shove. A tearing, white-hot agony ripped through me. I cried out, a raw, guttural sound that echoed in the vast, cold room. Stars exploded behind my eyelids. My knees buckled, but Divya held me up, her fingers digging into my shoulders. "Ruk!" she snapped at Vishal. "Zyaada tez mat!" Stop! Not so fast!
Vishal paused, buried deep inside me. The pain was immense, a burning, stretching violation that consumed everything. I gasped for air, tears streaming down my face, dripping onto the cold marble. Divya leaned closer, her lips near my ear. Her voice was low, urgent, almost soothing despite the words. "Saans le. Lambi saans. Thoda relax kar. Ho jayega. Bas… thoda aur khul jao." Breathe. Deep breath. Relax a little. It will happen. Just… open up a bit more.
I tried. God, I tried. Focusing on her voice, on the script. Deep breath. Relax. Open. The pain didn't vanish, but it shifted, became a deep, throbbing ache layered over the initial sharpness. Vishal began to move again, slower this time, but with relentless, grinding pressure. Each withdrawal was a relief, each thrust reignited the fire. Divya kept murmuring instructions, her Hindi a low, rhythmic counterpoint to Vishal’s harsh breathing behind me. "Haan… waise hi… thoda peeche karo…" Yes… like that… push back a little…
Something shifted. Not the pain, but beneath it. A strange, unwelcome friction. A deep, internal pressure that wasn't just agony. My body, traitorously, responded to the insistent rhythm, the relentless filling. A low moan escaped me, mingling with a sob. Shame flooded me hotter than the pain. How could I? Divya’s eyes widened slightly. A ghost of a smirk touched her lips. "Dekha?" she murmured, almost triumphantly. "Tum enjoy kar rahi ho?" See? You're enjoying it?
I shook my head violently, tears still falling. No. No, I wasn't. But my body… my treacherous body… arched slightly back into the next thrust, seeking that awful, confusing pressure. Vishal grunted, his hands tightening on my hips, pulling me harder against him. His pace quickened, becoming rougher, more demanding. The initial agony was now a dull, pervasive ache, overlaid with this shocking, involuntary sensation coiling deep within me. It felt like betrayal. Like my own flesh was colluding with the violation.
Divya watched, her gaze flicking between my face, contorted with conflicting sensations, and Vishal’s focused intensity behind me. She didn’t intervene anymore. Just watched. Her hand drifted down and brushed against my lower belly, pressing lightly. "Yahan feel hota hai na?" You feel it here, right? Her touch seemed to ignite the coil inside. A choked gasp tore from my throat, my hips jerking involuntarily against Vishal’s thrusts. Pleasure, sharp and shocking, lanced through the pain and shame. It was horrifying. Unthinkable.
Vishal’s rhythm became frantic, brutal. His breathing ragged. With a final, jarring thrust and a guttural groan, he shuddered against me, his weight heavy and suffocating. Then he pulled away abruptly, leaving me feeling strangely hollowed out, exposed, and trembling violently. I stayed bent over, supported only by Divya’s hands, staring blindly at the distorted reflection of my tear-streaked face in the polished marble floor. The throbbing ache remained. So did the ghost of that unwelcome, traitorous pulse deep inside me.
Divya gently pulled me upright. The red slip hung askew. She adjusted it with brisk efficiency, her eyes avoiding mine. Vishal was already buttoning his trousers, walking back towards his wine glass without a backward glance. He picked it up, took a long sip.
"Better," he stated flatly, swirling the dark liquid. "Much more… receptive." He glanced at Divya. "Your coaching shows promise."
Divya managed a tight smile. "She learns fast, Sir." Her hand found mine, squeezed briefly. It felt cold. Detached. Like she was handling merchandise.
I stood there, swaying slightly, the cold marble leaching the last warmth from my feet. The vast, sterile apartment pressed in. The abstract painting’s red swirls seemed to bleed. The pain was a physical anchor. The memory of that shocking, involuntary pleasure was a poison seeping into my veins. I looked down at my hands, clenched into fists. They were shaking. I couldn’t stop them. The silence stretched, broken only by Vishal sipping his wine and the faint hum of the city outside the enormous, indifferent window. The raise felt like ashes in my mouth. And the echo of Divya’s words – "Tum enjoy kar rahi ho?" – rang in my ears, a question with no answer I could bear to face.
I was beginning to enjoy it. Also the humiliation.
The cold marble pressed up through my soles, a grounding counterpoint to the raw, throbbing ache deep inside me. Vishal’s dismissal hung in the air, thick as his cologne. Receptive. The word scraped against my nerves. Divya’s hand on mine was brief, impersonal, like adjusting merchandise. She dropped it quickly, turning towards Vishal with that tight, practiced smile plastered back on her face. "So, Sir," she chirped, the lightness forced, "about that raise? We delivered, didn't we?" Her eyes flickered towards me, then away. A silent reminder. The cost. The reason.
Vishal took another slow sip of his wine, swirling the dark liquid. He studied Divya over the rim of the glass, his gaze lingering on the black lace hugging her curves. A flicker of something predatory still lingered beneath the bored facade. "Delivered?" He chuckled, a low, unpleasant sound. "One hole down." His eyes slid to me, assessing, dismissive. "Two to go. Let's see if she stays... receptive." The threat hung unspoken. No raise until he’s finished.
My stomach clenched. The throbbing between my legs intensified, a sickening blend of residual pain and the phantom echo of that traitorous pulse. Divya’s smile didn’t waver, but her knuckles whitened where she gripped her clutch. "Sauni’s a quick study, Sir," she insisted smoothly, stepping slightly closer to him. "She just needed… guidance. Proper motivation." Her hand rested lightly on his forearm. "The raise would be excellent motivation. For both of us." Her implication was clear, crude. More. Later.
He watched her hand on his arm, then raised his eyes to hers. A silent negotiation passed between them. He drained his glass. "Fine," he conceded, the word clipped. "Ten percent. Effective next month. Contingent," he added sharply, his gaze pinning me again, "on completion." He didn’t specify. He didn’t need to. The remaining holes. The remaining violations. The marble felt like ice beneath my feet. Ten percent. It wasn't enough. Not for this. Not for the hollow feeling expanding inside my chest, wider than my damned 'wide backs'.
Divya beamed, genuine relief flashing in her eyes. "Thank you, Sir! You won't regret it." She practically bounced on her heels. The victory felt obscene next to my trembling stillness. Vishal waved a dismissive hand towards the door. "Get her cleaned up. You both stink of desperation." The casual cruelty landed like a physical blow. Divya flinched, just for a microsecond, the mask slipping. Then it was back, harder than before.
"Come on, Sauni," she said briskly, grabbing my elbow with more force than necessary. Her fingers dug in. "Bathroom. Now." She steered me away from the abstract painting’s bleeding swirls, away from Vishal’s indifferent scrutiny, towards a hallway as stark and cold as the living room. The pristine white tiles of the ensuite bathroom glared under harsh LED lights. Divya shoved me inside and locked the door behind us. The air smelled sharply of antiseptic and expensive soap.
She leaned back against the door, her breath escaping in a shaky sigh she hadn’t let Vishal see. For a moment, the relentless ambition flickered out, replaced by a raw exhaustion. She ran a hand over her face. "Fucking bastard," she muttered under her breath, the Hindi crude and vicious. Then her eyes snapped to me, taking in my tear-streaked cheeks, the way the cheap satin hung crookedly, the tremor I couldn’t control. Her expression hardened back into practicality. "Get that thing off," she ordered, nodding at the slip. "Quickly. We need to go."
I fumbled with the strap, my fingers numb and clumsy. The satin slithered down my body, pooling on the cold tile. Standing naked under the brutal light, facing the enormous mirror, was worse than facing Vishal. Every perceived flaw screamed back at me – the wide hips, the heavy breasts, the stretch marks. The raw redness between my legs. Divya rummaged in her clutch, pulling out wet wipes. She thrust a handful at me. "Clean yourself. Thoroughly. Don't want any… souvenirs." Her tone was clinical. Detached.
The cold wipe against my tender flesh made me gasp. I scrubbed mechanically, trying to erase the feel of him, the smell, the violation. Trying to scrub away the memory of my own body’s horrifying response. The shame burned hotter than the antiseptic sting. Divya watched me in the mirror, her own reflection flawless in the black lace. She dabbed at her smudged eyeliner. "You did okay," she said abruptly, not meeting my eyes in the glass. "For a first timer. Especially… considering." She gestured vaguely at my body. The unspoken what you are.
I stopped scrubbing, staring at her reflection. "Okay?" The word came out cracked, barely audible. "He… it hurt. So much." The memory of that tearing agony tightened my throat. Divya shrugged, pulling her dress straight. "Yeah, well, first time usually does. Especially with a selfish prick like him." She met my gaze in the mirror now, her eyes flat. "But you got wet, Sauni. At the end. I felt you push back." A statement. An accusation.
I flinched as if struck. The phantom pulse flared again, deep and unwelcome. My cheeks flamed. "I didn't… I couldn't…" The denial choked me. Divya turned fully, leaning her hip against the vanity. She studied me, head tilted. "Doesn't matter why," she said, her voice low and intense. "It matters that you did. That you can. That’s leverage. That’s how we get the rest of what we want." Her gaze dropped pointedly to my nakedness. "Use it. Use this." She tapped her temple. "And that." She gestured dismissively at my body. "The raise is locked in. Now we just have to… finish the job."
She tossed me my crumpled work clothes – the sensible blouse, the forgiving skirt. "Get dressed. We're leaving." She turned her back, busying herself with reapplying lipstick, a slash of defiant red. I pulled on my clothes with trembling hands, the familiar fabric offering no comfort. The ache persisted, a constant, humiliating reminder. Divya’s words echoed: You got wet. Use it. The horror wasn't just the violation anymore. It was the terrifying realization that a part of me, buried deep beneath the fear and the shame and the self-loathing, had responded. Had wanted more of that awful friction, even as my mind screamed no.
We walked back through the vast, silent apartment. Vishal was gone, vanished into another sterile room. The city lights still glittered mockingly through the enormous window. Divya marched ahead, heels clicking decisively on the marble, already texting someone – probably her useless husband, spinning some lie. I trailed behind, my steps slow, unsteady. The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. We stepped in. The mirrored walls reflected infinity: Divya, composed, victorious; me, pale, haunted, my reflection showing every tremor, every shadow beneath my eyes. The doors closed, sealing us in the humming silence. Divya didn't look at me. She stared straight ahead at her own reflection, adjusting a stray strand of hair. The elevator began its descent. My reflection stared back, a stranger wearing my face, marked by Vishal’s hands and Divya’s ambition and my own treacherous flesh. The raise was secured. The cost was still being tallied, echoing in the hollow ache and the terrifying, burgeoning hunger beneath the shame. The descent felt like falling forever.
The acrid scent of the tea leaves mixed with the lingering ghost of Vishal's cologne still trapped in my clothes. Divya’s silhouette vanished into the bathroom, leaving those two Hindi words echoing in the cramped stillness: Ab tum, Divya. Now you, Divya. Not an instruction. A transfer of agency. A gauntlet thrown. Amit’s snores rumbled on, oblivious. The ceramic mug seared my palms, but I clutched it tighter, anchoring myself against the turmoil inside.
Make him beg. Thirty percent. The numbers glinted in my mind like shards of broken glass – sharp, dangerous, attainable. Power. The word tasted foreign, metallic. But the phantom pulse between my thighs, awakened by Vishal’s brutality and now stoked by Divya’s crude ambition, drummed a traitorous rhythm against the shame. Usko chhodwao. Make him come. Make him weak. The sheer perverse audacity of it scraped my nerves raw, yet… a dark, unfamiliar heat pooled low in my belly. Not just fear. Anticipation?
The bathroom door clicked open. Steam billowed out, carrying the synthetic floral scent of Divya’s shower gel. She emerged wrapped in a thin, faded towel, her dark hair dripping onto her shoulders. Water droplets traced paths down her collarbone. She moved past me towards the tiny balcony, pushing open the grimy sliding door. The humid night air rushed in, thick with the distant rumble of traffic and the faint wail of a police siren. She lit a cigarette, the match flare stark in the gloom, and leaned against the railing, staring out at the haze-shrouded city lights. "Figured it out yet?" she asked, her voice raspy from smoke, not turning around. The orange tip of her cigarette glowed like a malevolent eye.
I set the cold mug down. My hands, finally steady. "He thinks he cracked me open," I said, repeating her earlier words, testing their weight. My voice sounded different. Lower. Rougher.
"Found a button." Divya blew out a stream of smoke, watching it dissipate into the heavy air. "So?"
"So," I stood, the ache a grounding throb, a reminder of the cost. "We don't just show him the button." I walked towards the balcony, stopping beside her. The city sprawled beneath us, indifferent, teeming. "We make him desperate to push it again. And again." I turned to face her. The streetlight caught the hard glint in her eyes. "Until he breaks."
A slow, genuine smile spread across Divya’s face, wider and more dangerous than any she’d given Vishal. She took a long drag. "Shabaash, Sauni," she murmured, the Hindi word a dark approval. Well done. She stubbed the cigarette out on the rusty railing. "Now you're talking." She tossed the dead butt into the darkness below. "Tomorrow. His office. Before lunch." Her gaze swept over me, assessing, calculating angles anew. "Wear the grey pencil skirt. The tight one. And that blouse… the one with the buttons that almost close." A ruthless glint. "Let him see the cracks he thinks he made. Let him salivate." She stepped back inside, heading towards the bedroom door. "Get some sleep," she threw over her shoulder. "Kal ka khel alag hai." Tomorrow’s game is different. The door clicked shut behind her. I stayed on the balcony, the city’s humid breath on my skin. The shame hadn’t vanished. The fear was a cold knot beneath my ribs. But coiled around it, pulsing in time with that treacherous heat low in my belly, was something fiercer. Sharper. My reflection in the grimy balcony door glass showed eyes that weren’t just haunted anymore. They were focused. Calculating. Ready. The descent had stopped. The climb, treacherous and steep, had just begun.