Chapter 15

Ahmed’s cruelty escalated without mercy, his hands always seeking new ways to bind and break Divya’s body. One evening in her villa, he knelt her on the cold marble floor, her knees spread wide, and threaded a thin silver chain from the heavy quarter-inch gold septum ring through the gaping 13mm grommet hole. He tugged her tongue out flat with forceps, piercing the tip anew if needed, then linked it to twin rings he’d forced through her tongue’s center. The chain pulled her tongue forward, stretching it painfully toward her nose, forcing her mouth into a perpetual drool. ‘Lick your own lips like the pig you are,’ he snarled, yanking the connection until saliva dripped down her chin onto her heaving 38DD breasts. Not satisfied, he extended the torment: chains from the septum snaked down to her nipple rings, cruel clamps biting deep into the swollen buds, linking them in a web of silver that jerked her tits upward with every head movement. Her long nose, with its side hoops and the massive dangling ring, became the epicenter of agony—any swallow or breath tugged the entire setup, nipples stretching, tongue lolling helplessly. Divya gagged and whimpered, her pussy flooding despite the burn, the benwa balls inside clinking as she shifted.

He pushed her limits relentlessly, his dark eyes gleaming with sadistic joy. Whippings became bloodier rituals. In the dimly lit bedroom, he’d bend her over the four-poster bed, ass cheeks spread by a bar, and lash her with a braided leather whip until skin split, crimson rivulets trickling down her thighs. ‘Scream for me, second wife,’ he’d growl, switching to her breasts—hanging her by wrist chains from the ceiling, tits swaying as the whip cracked across the undersides, drawing beads of blood from the pierced flesh. He savored her sobs, the way her body convulsed, pussy lips parting wetly even as welts rose. Torturing her fed his soul; he’d clamp her labia with weighted clips, then cane the tender folds until she pissed herself in pain, only to fuck the raw hole afterward, his cock slamming deep while she begged for release.

Whoring her out amplified his control. He connected with pimps from Delhi’s underbelly, men catering to elite tastes—wealthy businessmen and foreign diplomats craving extreme bondage. For 50,000 rupees a night, Divya was delivered to luxury penthouses, bound in steel cuffs and spreader bars, her septum chain leashed to the headboard. Clients twisted her nose rings viciously, fucking her throat while pulling the tongue link until she choked on vomit and cum. One pimp’s circle specialized in suspension: they’d hoist her by nipple and septum chains, body dangling mid-air as they took turns raping her ass, the drops of blood from fresh whip marks splattering the floor. Divya’s body bruised and bled, but each degradation sent shockwaves of ecstasy through her core—she lived for the ownership, the reduction to a rented fucktoy.

Amid this brutality, Ahmed pressed for marriage, his voice low and commanding during a rare tender moment—her head in his lap, tongue chain slack as she licked his balls. ‘Islam allows four wives, slut. Hajira will accept; tell her the kids get a wealthy life from your cases.’ He convinced his first wife over a tense family dinner, Hajira’s plain face twisting in jealousy—unattractive and worn from years of hardship, she loathed the idea of sharing Ahmed with a stunning 42-year-old lawyer, 14 years his junior, whose beauty and bank account mocked her own faded existence. But the promise of luxury swayed her: Divya’s earnings, enough for generations, no kids to claim it, flowed into their home. The marriage stayed secret—Divya’s fame as a Supreme Court star demanded discretion, her cash cow status Ahmed’s prize.