Synopsis: In Lyari, everyone knows Major Iqbal's name. They know the power he commands and the fear he instills. Men obey him while women admire him from afar. He's untouchable and unreachable. For a man who had no use for marriage, desire was still a debt the body demanded be paid. It is bought, used, forgotten, and left behind before dawn. Just another transaction, another closed door, another face he never intends to see twice after sunrise.
Until one transaction quietly becomes another. And another.
Night after night, he returns to the same kotha. To the same room. To the same bed.
The same girl…
Some stories begin with love.
This one begins with a sin.
Inspired by this edit by cutie @wtafananya [He looks like the type of person to like it raw]
Content Warnings: 18+, mature content!!! CNC, dub con, oral, not suitable for minors!
a/n: ahhh ch.2 is finally hereee. Major iqbal is lowkey haunting my dreams now ive had him come 3x now its crazyyy. but now their story is lowkey evolving with more plot ideas but dww ive got loads plannedd for themm for future chapters. hope u enjoy!! dont be afraid to comment and lemme know how u like it!
Chapter 2
The morning light of Lyari arrived softly, piercing through the grime of the windowpanes in jagged, dusty shards of gold. The rays scattering through the heavy velvet curtains, illuminating your resting face and the curls that resided around your temples in a sickly yellow glow. The dim light pooling in your collarbones, catching the sheen of sweat not yet washed away, the dried tears on your face and the torn clothes half-fallen off the bed.
The loud buzz of Lyari rustling up didn't faze you awake, it was the realization of your own wrecked body that finally woke you from your blackout.
For a moment, you lay perfectly still, the haze of sleep still clouding your mind, until you tried to shift. A very sharp, searing hiss escaped your lips as the movement triggered a dynamite of pain.
As your consciousness slowly returned, so did the memory of every single movement Iqbal had forced upon you.
Your body felt as though it had been dismantled piece by piece and put back together incorrectly. Your thighs were trembling to even move another inch, the muscles humming with a dull throbbing ache that radiated from your hips. As you slowly peeled the heavy duvet from your skin, the sunlight finally revealed the brutality of the night.
Deep, violet bruises bloomed like dark orchids across your pale thighs where his grip had been with the faint, red outlines of his fingertips on your hips. Your collarbones and the soft slope of your shoulders were scattered with angry red marks- teeth marks from where he bit down. Your neck was still aching from where he sucked, leaving purple marks across your jawline and throat. Your breasts were tender, the skin flushed and your nipples sensitive to even the slightest brush of the blanket.
And then there was the flesh of you.
A heavy, pulsing soreness resided between your legs, a feeling of being stretched and opened far beyond your limits. Every tiny movement felt like a friction of raw nerves. The pain becoming a searing reminder of the hours he had spent pounding into you. You felt raw and wounded, your flesh broken into, the blood soaked sheets now dark crimson in colour. The evidence of his passion, now dry, salty and lightly crackling on the inside of your thighs.
You felt so utterly spent.
You lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling. You should have felt like a broken thing. You should have felt the coldness of his transaction.Yet, as you looked at the marks, a strange, treacherous warmth flickered in your chest. He had been brutal, yes, even inhumane but he had been the first. The only man to ever see the truth of you. And although he had taken your innocence of 19 years with a cruelty that left you shaking, he had also left a burning memory of him engraved in your mind forever. A bond forged in the heat of a sin.
You rolled onto your side, your limbs feeling heavy, as if your bones had been replaced with metal. Your gaze drifted to the nightstand.
The banknotes were still there, crisp against the dark wood. Beside them, the foil packet glinted against the sunlight. You picked it up, your fingers trembling. The pill becoming a small warning that he intended to keep you unmarked by anything other than his own seed. A sudden unwelcome memory of his dark eyes came crashing down, you remembered the way he commanded you to take it. His deep voice echoing in the depths of your mind.
“Kha Lena”
A shiver ran through you. You weren't ready to be a mother to theMajor's secret lovechild. You weren't ready to be tied to a man who ruled by fear.
With a small, shaky breath, you swallowed the pill, praying that you wouldn't carry a piece of him forever.
As you slowly sat up, the sheets rubbing against your damp and broken skin. You felt a strange, fluttering tension in your stomach, not quite fear, and certainly not love, but a desperate curiosity.
He had told you that no other man would touch you.
Did he mean that? Why'd he say that?
Why me?
Those thoughts were circulating in your mind at a 1000 miles per hour. Until-
The door creaked open.
"Beta? Uth gayi?" Madam Bi’s voice was low, cautious.
You jumped, a small gasp of pain escaping you as you quickly yanked the duvet up to your chin, shielding the bruised landscape of your skin from her experienced, knowing eyes. Your face burned with a sudden, scorching embarrassment, your eyes darting away from her gaze.
"Ji... ji, Madam Bi," you whispered, your voice cracking. She saw the way you winced just by breathing.
Madam Bi stepped closer, her eyes scanning the room, the crumpled sheets, the empty cigar box, the foil packet and the way you were hiding. She didn't need to see the bruises to know what had happened. She had seen the way Iqbal left women, and she had seen the way he looked at you.
"Unhone toh tumhe poori tarah se tod diya," she murmured, a small, sad smile touched her lips. She sat by the bed now.
"Main... main theek hoon," you whispered, your voice raspy and broken.
You were in fact not.
"Ziyada takleef ho rahi hai?" she asked, reaching out to pat your hand.
You nodded, a hot flush of embarrassment creeping up your neck. You didn't want her to know what atrocities transpired last night, how brutally he broke your seal of virginity, how long he stayed inside you nor how much you secretly liked the pain.
Madam Bi sighed, her expression softening into something resembling pity. "Naha lo, apne app ko saaf karo” she gently commanded. “Main tumhare liye chai banati hoon, tumse baat kar ni hai”
“Kis barey main?” you inquired.
“Major sahab ka phone aya tha, unhone kuch.. dusre intizam rakhe hai tumhare liye.”
Oh. He already called.
A low pit started forming in your stomach at the mention of his name.
“T-teek hai, main apse neeche aa kar baat kar thi hoon” you quickly deflected.
You already knew what they talked about.
With a final look of understanding, she stepped out, closing the door with a soft click.
At last, you let out a long, shuddering breath you didn't know you were holding…
Getting out of bed was its own separate trial of endurance. You had to support yourself with the bedside table, your legs buckling as your feet hit the cold floor. The moment you stood straight, you felt a sudden, warm rush between your legs.
You looked down. Thick, white streaks of his seed: the remnants of his passion, was slowly leaking from you, sliding down your inner thigh.
A hot flush of shame and desire washed over you.
After all, he didn't just finish inside you once, he finished countless times in the night until he was satisfied. It was inevitable that most of him stayed inside you as you slept, his finish remaining undisturbed.
You quickly walked to the bathroom with your knees buckled together and thighs instinctively squeezing in a desperate, subconscious attempt to hold him in, to prevent the slickness of him from dripping onto the cold tiles. It felt like carrying a secret that pulsed with each heartbeat. Your muscles screaming in protest.
Slowly, you stepped into the shower.
The moment the water hit your skin, you gasped. The spray was lukewarm, but against your hypersensitive nerves, it felt like hot electric shocks. You leaned your back against the wet wall, finally sliding your legs apart.
As you relaxed, you felt the dam break.
Dense, pearlescent cords of him finally escaped, gushing down your thighs and mixing with the clear water. It swirled around your ankles before disappearing down the drain. You watched it for a second, a strange sense of mourning washing over you. He had filled you so much that the emptiness following the release felt like a sudden drop in temperature.
Your breath paused as you lowered your hand, your fingers trembling as they brushed against your inner thigh. When your fingertips grazed one of the marks he left, a sharp hiss escaped your lips. It was a dull, throbbing ache, but as the water slid over you, the pain morphed into something else: pleasure.
Curiosity drove your fingers higher.
As you reached your flesh, you felt the heat radiating from within. You parted your lips with your fingers, ever so slowly, touching the opening he had stretched.
Bad idea
You immediately jerked back, the skin so sensitive you couldn't even graze it.
You quickly got a small mirror from the cupboard and brought it up to check yourself for the wreckage. The flesh was still raw and pink from the exertion you were put through. Mustering up enough courage, you started to slide a finger inside to clean yourself and you gasped at the sensation. You felt... so open, so penetrated and ruined.
You had always been a haven of untouched purity, a closed door that no one had the key to. But Major Iqbal hadn't used a key, he had broken the door down with the force of a landslide. As you explored yourself, you could feel the vividness of the stretch, the way your walls felt swollen and tender, molded to the shape of him. He had left a void where there used to be a seal, an ache that made you feel exposed even in the privacy of your own shower.
You closed your eyes, your head falling back against the tiles. The water streamed over your face, your luscious curls caving around you, but all you could see was his half-blurred face.
It wasn't love. You weren't naive enough to call this love. Love was soft, love was gentle like the touch of a hand on a cheek. This was something far more sinister. This was a twisted obsession, a dark desire that made your skin itch for the weight of his body pressing against yours.
You traced the line of your jaw, feeling the phantom pressure of his teeth. You felt the ghost of his hand gripping your curly hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat to his mercy. You hated the brutality, the viciousness he used. And you especially hated how the memory of him breaking you made your chest tighten with a desperate need to be broken again.
As the water washed the scent of him from your skin, your mind wondered where he was now. Was he back in his study, smoking a cigar? Was he commanding men to their deaths? Or was he thinking of the way you had wailed beneath hi-
You opened your eyes abruptly.
What am I saying?
The realization crashed over you colder than the water. This man took your virginity with such carelessness, he probably did the same to countless women before you. You were a new flavour for a man who had tasted every delicacy the city had to offer. He probably had hundreds of women lined up for him, to take in future nights. Hell, he might even be with another woman right now, already leaning into the warmth of someone else. A secret mistress waiting in his haveli’s bed, with silk sheets and a sly smile. A woman who knew how to handle his darkness without flinching, a woman… who was far more experienced than you.
The thought felt like a blow to your stomach. You pictured him then: his large, calloused hands tracing another woman's hip, his same lips pressing kisses against a different throat. He would use them just as he used you, leaving them ravaged and hopeful in the low light of dawn while he forgot their face as sson as he stepped into his SUV.
He probably did the same to me. He doesn't care about me.
The words stinging more than the soreness between your legs.
You repeated those lines in your head like a mantra, to find an anchor in the chaos of your mind…
You quickly finished scrubbing and stepped out of the shower. As you wrapped the towel around your naked body, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. The livid purple marks around your neck even angrier from the hot water. For a split second, a surge of pride flared in your chest: you were consumed by the most powerful man in Karachi.
Then, as quickly as it came, the pride turned to ash. A mark was just a brand, and a brand didn't mean he loved you, it just meant he owned the body you occupy…
You searched your wardrobe now and dressed in a simple light pink kurta, your movements stiff with anger, every friction of fabric against your skin reminding you of your doomed fate. You made sure to wear an extra long dupatta that can cover all the bruises and bites blooming around your neck. But you knew whatever you did to hide the evidence of your first night, you would be endlessly teased by all the girls in the kotha.
You looked at the door, knowing Madam Bi was waiting with the news of your "arrangement".
You wondered if the arrangement was just another way for him to keep his toy polished and ready for the next time he felt the itch of desire. You weren't a lover, a mistress or even a personal whore.
You were a secret, kept in a room of velvet and sin. But despite all that, you still felt like you belonged to something powerful.
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆
A Few Hours Earlier
6:23 AM
Major Iqbal’s Haveli
Miles away, in the secure, cold luxury of his private haveli, Major Iqbal stood beneath a rain-head shower that hammered against his broad shoulders like a thousand needles. The water was scalding hot, enough to burn all remaining desire, but he didn't flinch.
He stayed under the stream, the water pouring against his jawline. He ran a hand along his hair to push it back, the movement tightening the rippling muscles of his back, revealing the spoils of the night. Scattered across his forearms and shoulder blades were faint, angry red crescents, marks left by your nails digging into his flesh in desperation.
A slight smirk touched his lips, his gaze sweeping over them. He liked that he had pushed you to a point of agony where the only thing you could fight against was him.
He leaned his forehead against the marble wall, eyes closed, the steam curling around his sculpted tanned frame. His mind, usually an impenetrable wall of logic and strategy, churning a million different plans about his work, was plagued by a singular, vivid image: the look of your body beneath him.
He was back in that dim, velvet-heavy room. He could still hear it, the sound of you. Not just the screaming, though there had been plenty of that, but the way your voice had wailed under him.
Iqbal was no stranger to that sound. He had taken many women’s virginities before: some bought, some coerced, some who had offered themselves up in hopes of winning him, it was nothing new. He knew the feeling of a first time, the resistance of their hymen, the tight friction which he usually had to break through, the rush of blood, the frantic gasps, the initial thrashing that eventually melted into submission.
But this... this had been different.
With you, it hadn't just been about the physical tightness. There was a purity to your reaction, a defiance that had triggered his most primitive side. He remembered the feeling of your skin, too soft, too untouched for a man like him, made of iron.
As the water streamed over his chest, Iqbal’s hand drifted downward.
A low groan escaped his throat. His fingers gripping the thick, pulsing length of his cock, the other hand stretched out straight in front him against the wall. Even now, hours later, the memory of how you had held him made him harden instantly. He stroked himself slowly, imagining the way your nipples hardened, your thighs squeezing.
He had liked the way your eyes had gone wide, searching for some mercy he didn't possess.
He let out a sharp exhale, his grip tightening even further, stroking even harder.
He didn't feel affection. He didn't even know your name. To him, you were still a transaction, a beautiful object he had purchased and used. And yet, as he pictured the image of your tears falling down your face, it triggered a raging surge of heat in his gut.
Most women in Lyari were practiced: they knew how to perform, how to satisfy, how to play the part of the seductive whore. But you... you hadn't been any of those things. You had been innocent.
He shut off the water and stepped out, the water dripping from his toned thighs and calves, leaving wet footprints on the polished floor. He didn't bother with a robe, wrapping a single white towel loosely around his hips, the v of his pelvis visible and defined. He walked toward his master bedroom, his expression returning him to a state of cold authority, though his eyes spoke of hunger.
You were a sin he hadn't finished committing…
He picked up his phone and dialed Madam Bi.
"Ji, Major Sahab?" her voice came through, cautious as always.
Iqbal didn't waste time with pleasantries. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble.
There was silence on the other end. Madam Bi sighed. "Ji, Major Sahab. Woh abhi sirf unnees (19) saal ki hai. Maine usay bacha kar rakha tha-”
"Kyun nahi bataya?" he interrupted, his tone sharp. He wasn't angry, but rather he was irritated that he wasn't told the whole truth about you.
"Maafi chahti hoon, Sahab," she stammered. "Mujhe laga aapko farq nahi parta..."
"Farq parta hai," he countered, his voice dropping an octave. "Ab se, koi aur mard usay ek ungli se bhi nahi chuyega. Na hi koi aur uske kamray mein qadam rakhega”.
He walked across his room, the towel low on his hips, his muscles rippling with every movement. The thought of another man even glancing at you, let alone touching the skin he had just taken, sent some heat through him.
Madam Bi hesitated. "Lekin Major Sahab, agar woh sirf ek hi mard ke liye rahegi, toh mera nuqsaan- "
Iqbal cut her off, his voice absolute. "Nuqsaan ki fikar mat karein. Jitna woh kamai gi, us se do baar (twice) dounga, balke do bar se bhi zyada.”
After considering his more than generous offer, Madam Bi finally agreed to this arrangement.
"Ji, Major Sahab. Jaisa aapka hukum." Madam bi whispered.
Iqbal didn't hang up immediately. A flicker of curiosity crossed his mind.
“Wese…uska naam kya tha”, his voice a low velvety sound. His elbow now leaning against the doorway.
“Y/N, Sahab”
He tasted the name in his mind, putting the face to the title you now possessed. He didn't say anything for a few seconds, letting the name settle in. Then finally-
He took a sharp breath.
“Aaj raat, usay mere liye tayyar rakhein.”
He hung up without waiting for a response. He didn't need her permission, he had already bought the air you breathed.
He tossed the phone onto the bed and walked toward the window, looking out over the grey, rain-soaked horizon of Lyari. Soon he would be back in the depths of your haven again.
He got dressed with methodical precision, sliding into a crisp, ironed navy blue buttoned shirt that contrasted deeply with the tanned skin of his chest. He put on his tailored suit and as he buttoned the cuffs of his sleeves, his eyes drifted back again to the faint red marks on his skin that were already beginning to fade.
Although the Major had finally returned: cold and untouchable, beneath the medals and layers of clothes, his skin still hummed with the memory of your screams.
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆
Present
Madam Bi’s Kotha
You walked down the narrow corridor leading downstairs, your fingertips grazing the peeling wallpaper. Usually, you were always invisible: the girl who brought the chai, the one who cleaned, the one who stayed in the shadows. But today, you were a spectacle.
A dozen eyes fell upon you. The other girls stood across the stairs in cheap satins and heavy jewelry, their kohl-rimmed eyes tracking your every movement.
Does everyone know already? Great…
"Dekho toh zara, hamari choti pari (fairy) ko," a girl sneered, her voice dripping with false sweetness. Her gold bangles clinking as she crossed her legs. "Pehli raat, aur nakhre toh aise hain jaise poore Karachi ki malkin ban gayi ho.”
You kept your gaze downward, making sure not to interact with the other girls, but your heart hammered against your ribs.
“Uffoo” another voice called out. “Ohoo” another girl cried out.
As you walked even further down, you were met with Zoya and Meher. “Major Sahab ne toh isse apni jaidad samajh liya hai. Bechari... ya shayad khush-naseeb?" Zoya called out, loud enough for the whole room to hear.
A ripple of giggles erupted both loud and mocking. “Lagta hai sirf ek khilona ban gaye" Meher added, her eyes narrowing. "Kal jab Major Sahab bore ho jayenge, toh usko phenk deng gei."
The words stung, but you didn't respond.
You entered the dining room, where Madam Bi sat perched on her velvet chair, sipping tea from a porcelain cup. The room smelled of cheap incense and the aroma of fresh chai.
"Baitho, beti," Madam Bi said, her voice calm, gesturing to the stool across from her.
You sat, your fingers trembling as you took the cup of chai she pushed toward you.
“Madam Bi...” you started, your voice barely a whisper. “Sab aise kyun baat kar rahe hain? Yeh meri niyyat nahi thi.”
She took a big sigh.
Madam Bi then spent the next 20 minutes explaining the phone call she had with the Major. What it meant for you to be his and only his. How you will no longer have to serve ten men in a single night to make a living. You will have to serve one, in exchange for your loyalty and… your body.
But even with all those explanations, one question still churned in your head.
“Lekin, mein kyun?” you whispered, looking up at Madam Bi. “Yahan itni auratain hain... zyada khubsurat, zyada tajarba-kar (experienced). Us jaisa aadmi... mujhe hi kyun chahay gei?”
Madam Bi set her tea cup down with a soft clink, her eyes softening with a pity that felt heavier than any jewelry she wore.
"Beti," she began, her voice drifting like smoke, "kuch phool isliye nahi khilte kyunki unka waqt hai, kuch isliye khilte kyunki unka khilna kisi ek nazar ke liye maqsad hota hai.”
“Aur tumhara abhi maqsad ussi phool banne ka hai Major Sahab ki samne” she finished.
You looked out the window, where the sun still fell warm across the garden, but none of that warmth reached you. You weren't a flower to him, you were the grass he walked over to get to one.
"Tayyar rehna," Madam Bi added casually, her tone shifting back to business. "Woh aaj raat phir ayenge.”
You looked away sharply, your gaze fixing on the worn patterns of the rug beneath your feet, unable to meet anyone's eyes.
From the corner of the room, Zoya let out a dry, mocking chuckle, clearly jealous.
But one of the older women in the kitchen, who had seen a thousand men come and go through the kotha, leaned toward you.
"Ek baat yaad rakhna, choti," her eyes scanning the bruises peeking from beneath your dupatta. "Wapsi ko mohabbat samajhne ki ghalti mat karna. Woh apni zaroorat ki liye atte hain. Dil mat lagana, warna tootne ka shor sirf tumhe hi sunayi de ga."
You nodded lightly at her, yet her words carried a coldness foreign to you.
You shifted slightly, and a sharp sting shot through your lower back. You thought of your body, the tenderness between your thighs, the purple bruises, and the mental exhaustion that drove your head like a hammer against nails.
You felt broken, in a way that made you feel like you shattered. The thought of his large hands gripping you again, his mouth on your throat, his cock inside you agai-
It felt like too much. You didn't know if you had the strength to survive another night of being his doll. But in the world of the Major, "no" was a word that didn't exist, and your exhaustion was just an invitation for him to be more ruthless. You had no choice. You were a bird in a cage.
All of a sudden, the walls of the room felt like they were closing in on you. You needed to feel the wind on your face, away from prying eyes and the suffocating expectations of the house. You needed to remember that you were a person again.
With a shaky exhale, you wrapped your dupatta tightly around your shoulders and quietly slipped out of the kotha while everyone was busy to the only place that could cure your racing thoughts….
The market was a sensory overload, a chaotic scene of shouting vendors, the clatter of rickshaws, and the smell of frying pakoras and diesel. For a few moments, the noise drowned out the screaming anxiety in your head and gave you a chance to appreciate the life around you. You walked aimlessly, your gait stiff, weaving through the crowd like a ghost.
You stopped at a street cart and bought a glass of chilled mango juice. The sweetness was sickening, the ice stinging your lips, but as the cold liquid slid down your throat, you felt a small sense of peace. You watched the world go by: mothers arguing over the price of tomatoes, children chasing each other with kites, and for a second, you imagined you could be one of them, a free person.
As you turned a narrow corner, away from the main bustle, you spotted a small, discreet shop with a velvet curtain draped over the entrance. There was no sign, but you could tell it was a boutique. A women’s garment store.
Curiosity, mixed with a boldening urge, led you inside.
The moment you stepped through the door, a chime rang out, and the scent of vanilla and expensive silk swallowing you. And there, displayed on headless mannequins like sculptures of sin, was the lingerie.
You froze.
Up until now, your understanding of "undergarments" was limited to what Madam Bi provided, functional, modest pieces of cotton or the occasional net set for the higher-paying clients. But this? This was daring, translucent, and unbelievably provocative.
The garments were works of art.
Your eyes were wide as your fingertips grazed racks of fabric. You found yourself staring at a display of lace that looked more like spiderwebs than clothing. There were designs that left nothing to the imagination, strappy harnesses, sheer mesh, and cuts that dared your body to slip out.
What would he like?
The thought was as unwelcome as it was wanted.
Despite what he did to you, you still felt an urge to please the man who terrified you. You envisioned Major Iqbal’s dark eyes scanning your body like he did with your red net set. He favoured the dirty unfiltered version of lust. Would he prefer something loose that he could rip away, or something so scandalous that it provoked him further.
You imagined him seeing you in something like this, something he could unravel slowly. Heat slowly crept down your legs to meet the bruises there.
As you drifted deeper into the store, your eyes landed on a piece that stopped your heart.
It was a sheer black baby doll lingerie set. The fabric was a whisper of midnight lace, so thin it was almost translucent. It came with a matching bra, tiny, precarious pieces of lace and a thong that had a slit underneath that was little more than a string designed to hug the curve of a woman's hips.
You reached out and touched the material. It was bold. It was seductive. It was everything you weren't.
“Bohat haseen hai yeh. Bilkul aap jaisi.” a soft voice spoke beside you.
You jumped, turning to see the shopkeeper, a poised woman with an elegant bun. She looked at the piece in your hand and then at your blushing face.
“Shukriya” you answered with a soft smile.
You looked back at the sheer black fabric, the lace so delicate it felt like it might dissolve if you breathed on it too hard. For a girl who had spent her life in the shadows of Madam Bi’s house, you wanted to treat yourself to look like the woman you wanted to become. Your own act of rebellion.
“Main... main yeh lena chahti hoon” you whispered, your voice barely audible.
The shopkeeper smiled, a knowing glint in her eyes. She took the set from your hand and began folding it into a piece of gold-foiled tissue paper with practiced ease. As she worked, she leaned in slightly, her tone turning conversational.
“Aapka shauhar bada khush-naseeb hoga” she remarked softly. “Lagta unhein thodi shararat pasand hain.” Her face had a slight smile now.
Your gaze quickly dropped to your own bare toes peeking out from your sandals.
The word “husband” took you off guard, immediately sending needles through your body. Major Iqbal and marriage didn't seem like they belonged in a sentence together. You thought of him, the coldness of his eyes and how they lacked the warmth of a wife beneath them. He wasn't your husband. He was your owner, your patron, the man who took your chastity and blackened it. The idea of calling him a husband felt like a dangerous yet dazzling lie.
“Woh... woh mera shohar nahi hain” you stammered, the truth feeling heavy on your tongue.
The shopkeeper paused, her expression softening. She didn't push further, she simply smiled and slid the elegantly wrapped package across the counter. “Koi baat nahi. Aap ismein bohat haseen lageingi.”
As you walked back into the humid streets of Lyari, you clutched the package to your chest. The soreness between your thighs no longer felt like the pain of defeat, it felt like a secret. A secret you wanted to play with.
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆
ISI Headquarters, Karachi
Inside the conference room, no one spoke above a murmur.
Maps of Karachi were projected across the wall. Satellite images. Grainy photographs of warehouses with red circles marked around locations in Karachi were posted.
The moment the doors opened, every conversation died instantly.
Major Iqbal entered in, his stature rigid and straight exuding fear from everyone around him.
Senior officers who had been speaking moments before straightened immediately in greetings. A young female intelligence officer nearly dropping files in her hand when he passed.
"Assalam-o-Alaikum, Major Sahab." they all called out.
He acknowledged them with nothing more than the slightest inclination of his head.
"Baith jaiye." Major Iqbal ordered with a single hand gesture.
Only then did they sit. Iqbal sat at the head of the table, his dark eyes sweeping across every face before settling on the digital map projected against the wall.
A young colonel stood up and cleared his throat, ready to begin the briefings for the day.
"Major Sahab... humein maloomat milli hai ke kal raat ek container Karachi Port par utara gaya hai."
Iqbal folded his arms.
"Andar kya that?"
"Kaghzaat ke hisaab, construction machinery."
The colonel paused for a second.
"Lekin humein yaqeen hai ke asal mein usmein hathiyaar hain."
Iqbal's expression didn't change.
"Aur?"
The colonel clicked another photograph onto the screen. There was a grainy surveillance image, a single man, his face partially obscured.
"Is aadmi ka naam Rashid Qasmi hai."
Major Iqbal suddenly paused, his eyes narrowing. He recognized that man. He was one of his closest comrades during training before he turned against the agendas of ISI, becoming one of the main financiers of Lashkar-e-Jhangvi, an extremist terrorist group. Rashid Qasim was his estranged enemy.
The officer continued. "Yeh Lashkar-e-Jhangvi ke sabse bada aadmi hai. Sirf paisa nahin deta... hamlon ki planning bhi karta hai."
Iqbal looked at the photograph for only a second.
"Mujhe ise zinda chahiye."
The colonel nodded. "Ji, Major Sahab."
Another officer hesitated and quickly stood up. "Sir... ek masla hai."
Iqbal looked at him now. The man visibly swallowed.
"Pichhle do operations mein... hamari har movement pehle se leak ho gayi thi."
Iqbal's gaze hardened almost immediately.
"Matlab..."
The officer lowered his eyes. "Hamara shak hai ke... koi andar ka aadmi maloomat pohancha raha hai."
No one spoke. Iqbal slowly removed a cigar from the silver case inside his pocket. He rolled it between his fingers, he was thinking. His mind churning a million possibilities of who could be the mole.
Finally-
“Jo bhi aadmi hai, mujhe uski gardan chahiye hai”
His voice remained frighteningly calm.
"Is martaba agar khabar bahar gayi...toh mujhe dushman se zyada gaddar (traitor) mein dilchaspi hogi."
No one moved, nobody even dared clear their throat. Because if Major Iqbal even sensed a hint of hesitation from anyone, it would be their last day on the job.
Iqbal closed the file.
"Meeting khatam."
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆
The hours slowly lulled into a blur. The afternoon sky bled into a crushed purple, then deepened into a deep, velvety violet that shrouded the skyline of Karachi. High above the smog, a few solitary stars flickered, completely oblivious to the thirst waking up in the city below.
When you returned back, the scent of heavy perfumes and the loud laughter of men filled the halls. You hurried to your room, locking the door behind you with a soft click. The room was dim, lit only by a single flickering lamp and a few candles.
You stood before the slightly cracked full-length mirror, your heart hammering against you.
He’ll be here soon.
Slowly, you unwrapped the tissue paper, revealing the black lace.
You stripped off your simple cotton kameez, your skin still exhibiting all the marks of the previous night’s passion.
As you slid the baby doll set over your head, the fabric felt like a cool, soft caress against your broken skin. It was a cruel joke of a garment, so sheer it felt like you were wearing nothing but a shadow. The thin lace bra pushing your breasts to their peaks, leaving the curves and dip of your waist exposed under the flare of the baby doll. Then came the thong which gave nothing but exposure. You adjusted the string, feeling the slit underneath that left you completely exposed from behind and the front. The strings were starting to slightly burn against your hypersensitive flesh but you tried to suppress it. Pain and pleasure are synonymous right.
It's only for tonight, you murmured.
You looked at yourself in the mirror. You felt like an invitation to the devil. You didn't look like the shy, invisible girl of 19 who swept the floors. You looked like something... wanted. Something desired.
Will he like it?
A sudden knock at the door made you jump, your heart leaping into your throat.
“Beti? Major Sahab aa chuke hain,” Madam Bi’s voice called out from the other side, sounding urgent.
The air in the room seemed to vanish. Your pulse quickened, a mixture of dread and anticipation. You thought of wearing something else. But you didn't have time to change. Panic surged through you, but as you looked in the mirror one last time, a spark of defiance ignited inside you. If he wanted a body, you would give him your whole self. If he wanted a toy, you would be the prettiest doll he had ever owned.
A few seconds later, you heard the floorboards groan outside.
You didn't put on your robe to cover. You simply stepped toward the door, your breathing shallow, the thin black lace barely hiding the trembling of your body.
When you opened the door, he was standing right there.
Major Iqbal didn't enter the room immediately, he stood in front for a few seconds. He was still in his suit, the navy blue fabric stretched tight across his broad shoulders, the shirt slightly unbuttoned at the collar, his aviators covering his half-lidden eyes. He held a cigar in his hand, the scent of expensive cologne and musk washing over him.
But the moment his eyes fell upon you, he instantly noticed your new garment. His eyes quickly raking down your body before he brought it up again. He took a long drag of his cigar, the cherry glowing a fierce, angry red in the shadows. As he exhaled a plume of smoke to your face, he started to step towards you while having his gaze locked right at you. The polished leather of his boots clicking against the floorboard rhythmically. Your feet immediately started to move back without you thinking. He slowly stepped inside, pushing the door in front with one hand.
The click of the door closing behind him sounded like a gavel bringing a sentence down upon you. The room, already small, suddenly felt even smaller, consumed entirely by his stature.
You were trapped now.
Major Iqbal didn’t move. He stood there for a heartbeat, the cigar still clamped between his fingers, the smoke drifting up. He started scanning you from behind his aviators, his eyes frighteningly calm. It was a slow descent, starting at the crown of your head and dragging down to your lips then lower. It felt like being touched.
He watched the way the black lace of the baby doll was glued to your skin, the fabric so sheer it left no modesty to strip. His gaze found your breasts, the lace straining against the peaks of your nipples, before descending to the dip of your waist and the thin string of the thong that carved a deep valley into your hips. He didn't miss the bruises, the purple marks reminding him of his own greed from the previous night. His eyes narrowed, tracing the red marks from his fingerprints on your inner thighs all the way down to your toes curling against the cold floor.
Even though you were dressed, his gaze made you feel stripped completely naked, too exposed. You felt an urge to cover your body, but you forced your hands to stay on your sides, your fists clenching hard.
He could tell you were nervous.
He finally brought his cigar up and exhaled a slow, thick cloud of smoke that swirled around you, his voice a low vibration that seemed to rattle in your very bones.
“Bara kamal ka libhas penha hua hai”
He didn't wait for a response. He stepped forward, stopping inches away from you. His height overwhelming your senses, as you stood tiny against him, trying to look up at him. He raised his hand, and the back of fingers, warm and firm, touched your cheek.
You gasped, your eyes fluttering shut.
Slowly, with accurate precision, he dragged the back of his hand down your face, tracing the line of your jawline to the sensitive skin of your neck straight down. When he reached the bruised marks he had left there, he stayed there for a split second, his touch a teasing pressure. You winced slightly.
The trail continued, his hand gliding over the swell of your breast, barely grazing the lace, then sweeping down the flat of your stomach with an agonizing slowness that made you hold your breath still. His hand stopped exactly where the black string started, at the very top of your mound, the pressure of his knuckles grazing the start of your slit through the thin fabric.
Before you could gasp, his hand clamped around your waist with bruising force, and in one swift motion, he spun you around. Your back slammed flush against his chest, the hardness of his muscles and the cold metal of his belt pressing into your spine. Your backside was completely exposed to him, the backless thong offering nothing but exposure to every inch of him.
He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear, his hot breath sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core.
"Humari yaad aayi?"
As you froze, unable to find words, he dug his fingers into your hips even more. His other hand moved to your neck, his eyes on the bruises there. His thumb pressed lightly into the soreness. You winced, a small, broken sound escaping your throat. He didn't let go, using the pain to force you to acknowledge him.
"Jawab do" he commanded, his voice dropping an octave.
“J-...Ji.” You nodded frantically, your head rubbing back against his shoulder.
He let out a dark, satisfied hum. His hand slid down from your neck, bypassing your waist to grip your hip again, suddenly pulling you so flush and tight against him that you could feel evidence of his arousal digging into your back.
He paused, his tone shifting into something more predatory. He remembered your age, the fragile age of nineteen.
"Goli li thi?" he rumbled. His hands wandering around the expanse of your waist, dragging across your stomach.
You nodded frantically, unable to find your voice.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips, his voice deep. "Main janta tha... tum is umar mein maa nahi banna chahogi. Hai na?” His lips slowly pressing wet kisses along your neck, avoiding the bruised areas, his tongue dragging slowly with his lips down your neck. His beard grazing along your throat. You were starting to feel the warmth of him radiating at you.
Without another second, his hand came sneaking down your waist to your backside and started to grope your ass. His fingers digging deep into the soft flesh of your cheek, kneading the muscle with such intensity that it bordered on bruising. Then, with a sudden tug, he hooked his fingers into your very thin g-string of your thong. He didn't pull it off this time, he instead hauled the string slowly upward, dragging the thin string deep into the sensitive curve of your heat. The lace bit into your skin, creating a searing, burning friction that sparked a jagged line of pain through the pleasure. You let out a broken whimper, your body arching against the intrusion.
Iqbal paused, his lips still on your throat, his breath hot and heavy against your ear. A knowing smile touched his lips as he felt you tighten the space on his growing bulge by arching.
"Dard ho raha hai?" he rasped, his voice a low vibration of some sick amusement. He didn't wait for an answer, enjoying the way you shivered in his grasp.
But the pain acted as a catalyst, igniting a sudden urge to take back some control. You didn't want to be used like this again, where you were at his mercy, in the unknown of what he will do to you next. In a blur of motion, you twisted your body around, now facing him to wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. You gazed at the crook of his neck, diving in to press your lips against his warm pulse point in a frantic attempt to take some piece of him back.
The reaction was instantaneous.
Before your lips could truly even graze his skin, his hand shot up, fingers tangling ruthlessly into your curls. With a sharp, sudden jerk, he snapped your head back, exposing the long, vulnerable line of your throat. The force of the movement made you gasp, your eyes wide and blinking as you stared up at him, breathless and trembling.
"Abhi se bahaduri?" he murmured, his dark eyes scanning your flushed face with an evil sort of hunger.
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a very low vibration that bordered on a whisper. "Iska anjam dena pare ga."
He released you abruptly, the sudden loss of his warmth leaving you shivering. He walked toward the heavy, mahogany chair in the corner. He sat down, sprawling his legs apart with ease, the fabric of his trousers straining against his thighs with his his bulge was fully erect.
He looked up then, his eyes dim behind the aviators he still hadn't removed.
"Yahan ao" he commanded.
You obeyed because you remembered what happened last time you didn't listen, your legs trembling, the black lace fluttering with every hesitant step.
"Ghutno par" he murmured.
Trembling, you sank to your knees, your cleavage now utterly exposed to him. The cold floorboards pressed against your skin as you crawled toward him, your movements slow, your eyes fixed on his polished boots. You felt small, stripped of everything but your desire to please the man who held your life in his hands.
From this angle, he looked like a mountain of a man. You looked up at him now, your eyes shimmering with a mixture of submission and a flickering spark of rebellion. You didn't move to touch him, you simply waited, your breath uneven waiting to see what he would do.
Iqbal leaned back, his gaze scanning your face. He noticed the way you were looking at him, not just with fear, but with a quiet defiance. It intrigued him. He liked things that resisted, it made the eventual breaking so much more satisfying.
"Badi zid hai tum mein," he remarked, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. He quickly took one of your hands and forced you palm his hard bulge now straining to fling out. He pressed your hand harder against himself.
Your hand trembled as he moved it up and down, your fingers gripping him through the expensive fabric of his trousers. You tried your best to remember how he liked it from last night, moving your hand with the rhythm that was burned in you because of him.
"Aise hi," he murmured, his eyes closing for a brief second. Realizing how quickly you learned what he liked, he reached out, his large hand gripping the back of your neck, forcing you closer until your face was inches from his lap. He slid two fingers, holding them just in front of your lips.
"Chooso" he ordered.
You froze. The command was blunt, stripping away any sense of gentleness. You felt a surge of pride, a desperate need to hold onto some shred of control. You tightened your lips, shaking your head slightly, refusing to open your mouth.
The silence stretched, tight as a wire. Iqbal’s expression didn't move, but the air around him grew colder. He didn't like being denied.
The response was instantaneous. His hand tightened on your neck, not enough to choke, but enough to steer you. In a ruthless motion, he shoved his fingers into your mouth, forcing your lips open. You let out a muffled gasp, your eyes widening as he used his fingers to touch inside, taking the interior of your mouth the same way he used for everything in his life.
He watched you struggle for a moment, your cheeks flushing a deep crimson,your tongue forced to swirl around his thick digits, before he slowly withdrew them, leaving your lips parted and glistening.
"Ab dikhao nakhre" he mocked, a dark glint in his eyes.
He reached for the fastening of his trousers. The sound of a leather belt being unbuckled echoed like a gunshot in the room. The metallic clink of the buckle was the only warning before he freed himself, his cock now straining and pulsing with a frantic beat, his veins pumping blood down his lenght. Pre-cum was glistening from his brown tip as he felt the open air on himself.
Even though you had seen his cock before, it still shook the core of you at the sight of him. So big and girthy like the man himself. Your eyes had gone wide, locked onto his throbbing cock.
He noticed the way your eyes were stuck on him, a sly smirk forming at the thought of you so mesmerized by his length, the defiance in you now gone.
He gripped the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair forcing your face upward so you had no choice but to look at him.
He gripped his cock and brought it against your lips, the heat of it kissing against your skin.
"Muh kholo" he whispered, his voice dropping to a lethal tone. As you obeyed, he pushed himself into you, forcing you to take the head of him, his hand still firmly gripping your neck, guiding the rhythm.
The sheer girth of him was a brutal invasion, he was so thick and long that he reached the back of your throat almost instantly, leaving you breathless. You started to gag, your eyes watering and red, the primal instinct to recoil fighting against the desperate need to obey. Your throat constricted, the pressure of his tip hitting the back of your throat, forcing a wet, muffled sound from your lungs.
The pressure was absolute. The gagging sounds you made didn't make him slow down, he drove himself even deeper for the rest of his length, the blunt head of his cock reached inside your throat now, triggering another violent, instinctive gag reflex. Due to his extensive length, he realized the remaining length wouldn't fit in no matter how much he pushed unless you passed out from a blocked airway. So he took both your hands and made you wrap around the rest of him near his pelvis. Your eyes squeezed shut now, the tears leaking from the corners. But for Iqbal, that struggle was the point. He liked the feeling of your throat trying to reject him, the tight pulsing of your esophagus rubbing against his tip.
He let out a low groan, his fingers tightening in your hair, anchoring you to his lap.
"Sahi se hilo," he rasped, his voice thick with heat.
You tried. You tried to mimic the motions you’d seen other girls do, but your movements were awkward, jerky, and completely stripped of rhythm. You were fumbling, your jaw aching from the girth of him, your head bobbing in a way that was more clumsy than sensual. You were a complete novice, a girl who had spent her life in the shadows, now tasked with satisfying a man who demanded perfection in every move.
Iqbal noticed. He felt the hesitation, the lack of technique, the way your lips didn't quite know how to mold around him. Amusement flickered in his eyes. He realized then, that while he had taken your virginity from the world, you were still an utter amateur to this. The thought of your inexperience made him want to teach you the art of submission, so that you can satisfy him without help.
In your struggle to find a pace, your jaw tightened, and the sharp edge of your teeth accidentally grazed the skin of his shaft.
Iqbal slightly recoiled, a sharp intake of breath hissing through his teeth. He didn't pull away, but his grip on your hair turned bruising. He pulled your head back slightly, forcing you to look at him, his eyes warning.
"Daant nahi... zaban istemaal karo," he commanded, his voice a lethal, low vibration.
He didn't leave it to chance. He reached down, his large hand cupping your hair, and began to guide you. He moved your head in a slow, circle rhythm, forcing you to feel the exact speed and depth he craved. "Aise... haan". His other hand took your hands on the top of his length and started twisting them to match your mouth’s pace.
As he dictated the pace, you began to catch on. You stopped fighting the invasion and started submitting into it. You learned to swirl your tongue around the tip, to suck with a desperate plea that made his hips jerk slightly. The clumsiness vanished, replaced by a frantic need to please him.
Seeing the shift, Iqbal stopped guiding and started demanding more.
He gripped the back of your hair now, his fingers digging into your scalp. He began to bob your head with a ruthless speed. He wasn't being gentle, he was using you now. Each thrust was deep and violent, his length hitting the very center of your esophagus, forcing a wet, choked sound from your throat.
The sound of it, the wet slap of mouth against skin, the muffled whimpers of your struggle, and the heavy, ragged sound of his breathing filled the small room. You were drowning in him, your world reduced to the scent of his expensive cologne, the taste of salt and musk, and the feeling of his cock in your mouth.
He was close, the muscles in his thighs straining, his breath becoming uneven. He pushed you further, forcing your face deep into his lap, ignoring the way you gasped for air, wanting only the friction, the heat, and the absolute surrender of the girl beneath him.
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆
As the minutes went by bobbing on his cock, a few stray strands of your hair escaped, falling forward to veil your face. For a split second, the brutality paused. His large, calloused hand reached down, and with an unexpected tenderness, he tucked the hair behind your ear. The gesture was so soft, so almost loving, that it created a dizzying contrast to the ruthless pace he started up again. He was cradling your head with one hand while the other gripped your neck, his body working you over with him.
Iqbal was nearing the edge. You could feel his cock get larger, pulsing violently against your throat, the veins standing out like cords of steel.
You were drowning in him, your lungs screaming for air, your head now violently bouncing under his hands. Just as the first surge of his release hit, the intensity became too much. Your instincts took over, you wrenched your face away, gasping for air, your mouth slipping off him at the exact moment he burst.
He let out a low groan as he spent himself. Because you had pulled away, the thick ropes of his climax didn't find your throat. Instead, they splattered across the dark mahogany of the floor and splashed against your chin, a few hot droplets dripping to the curve of your jaw.
Silence fell over the room again, broken only by your ragged, sobbing breaths and steady hum of chatter coming from the other rooms. Iqbal leaned back, his chest heaving, his heavy cock smeared with cum still out. He looked down at you, kneeling, glistening with his mark and an evil grin curled his lips. It wasn't a smile of affection. He reached down, his thumb grazing your chin to slowly wipe away a streak of his cum, his eyes dark and hooded.
"Kitni haseen lag rahi ho.”
You jerked your face away from his hand in anger. The tenderness of the gesture didn't fool you, it only highlighted the power he held. He didn't offer a hand to help you up, instead he looked at the scraps of black lace you were still wearing, the fabric so soft against your body.
His gaze hardened, the hunger returning, to the rest of your body.
"Ab ye faltu kapray utaro" he commanded, his voice snapping back to the tone of a Major ordering a soldier.
You remained on your knees, shivering, the cold floorboards leaving marks on your legs. He reached out, his hand locking around your wrist. With a sudden, powerful yank, he pulled you upward. The force of it sent you stumbling forward, your legs barely supporting you as you landed squarely between his splayed thighs.
You were breathless, your chest heaving. His gaze traveling slowly from your tear-streaked face down to the swell of your breasts, held precariously by the thin straps of your baby-doll. Your cleavage was right at eye level to him.
Without warning, he buried his face in the valley of your cleavage, his nose pressing deep into your skin, inhaling you as if you were a drug he couldn't get enough of. You gasped, your hands hovering uncertainly in the air. His kisses weren't gentle, he sucked viciously at the soft skin above your breasts that will for sure leave dark, blooming marks the next day.
While his mouth remained locked on your skin, his hand wandered. He found the clasp of your bra, his fingers agile and quick.
He’s probably done this a million times.
As he worked the clip, a plea started forming in your mind. This set, this delicate, black lace, was the only thing in this house that felt like it belonged to you and not to this kotha or anyone. In this fabric, you felt a sense of beauty, a glimmer of the woman you wanted to be. You prayed, silently, that he would be careful.
Please, just this once, don't ruin it. Don't tear it.
But Iqbal was not a man of care.
As he yanked the fabric down, the lace snagged against his fingers. For a second, there was a tension, a stretch of fabric that reached its breaking point. Then, a sharp rip echoed through the room.
A small whimper escaped your lips. You looked down to see a tear running through the lace, the delicate material shredded under his strength.
He felt your tremor. He heard the heartbreak in that sound. But he didn't stop. His hand slid lower beyond the ruined babydoll, his palm grazing the curve of your stomach before his fingers hooked into the thin string of your g-string. He slowly pulled it down your hips, seeing the indents it left on your flesh.
The garment pooled at your ankles in seconds, leaving you exposed to him. You stood there, trembling and bare, the vulnerability of your position making your heart hammer.
Iqbal leaned back, his eyes hooded, scanning every inch of your shaking form.
"Ab tumhare paas chupne ke liye kuch nahi raha, na haya… na kapray” he remarked, his voice dropping.
He quickly stood up and carried you in his arms to the bed. His grip on your thighs was bruising, his fingers digging into your soft flesh as he traversed. The moment your back hit the mattress, the air left your lungs in a sharp puff.
Before you could even breathe, he was over you, his heavy frame pinning you down. His trousers were still unzipped, his cock, still slick and pulsing from the previous act, hanging heavy and menacing against his thighs.
He quickly took off his suit’s jacket, still leaving on his shirt and with a sudden movement, he seized both your ankles in one hand. The strength in his grip was a reminder of his years of warfare. He yanked your legs back, forcing your knees toward your chest, exposing every intimate fold of your being to the amber light of the room. You were wide open, your raw cunt now exposed. At his sudden movement, your cunt released invisible, clear slick sliding down your slit. And it didn't go unnoticed.
“Itni pyaas?” he questioned mockingly, his eyes dark with hunger as he stared at the glistening heat between your thighs.
He didn't go for the kill immediately. He wanted to torture you with anticipation. With his other hand, his calloused fingers traced the sensitive skin of your bruised inner thighs, moving downward with agonizing slowness. When he finally reached the center, he pressed a heavy finger deep into your folds, testing your patience even though he could clearly tell your flesh was still irritated and wounded from last night by the colour.
You let out a strangled cry, your hips jerking instinctively. You were wet, terrified, yes, but the body has its own traitorous reactions to a man like Iqbal. The slickness of your arousal only fueled his arrogance.
“Abhi se itni geeli?” he mocked, his voice a low, dangerous vibration.
He began to explore you with a ruthless curiosity. He used his fingers to stretch you, probing the tight walls of your entrance, pushing and pulling until you were sobbing into the air, it all burned so badly against you. He played with your clit with a bruising pressure, ignoring your whimpers for him to just finish it.
He takes his heavy cock suddenly and starts tapping ypur clit with the head of his cock a few times.
You couldn't take it anymore.
“Aap andar bhi dal dijiye!” you scream out impatiently, squirming under his touch. He quickly raises his hand and CRACK spanks your ass with full force. Your whole body jerked and shifted under his hand. You let out a loud cry, your eyes now teary. The spot where he slapped, now burning with tension.
“Sambhalo khud ko” he commanded. His eyes too fixated on the movement of his cock between your lips. Your slick trickled down to your other puckered hole, the sheets beneath you already getting wet.
He moves the length of his cock up and down, the head catching on your clit multiple times. Each time it goes down, he slips the tip in, then pulls it back out to repeat the cycle again. It was so agonizing and frustrating.
“Aap bohot-” you began to say.
CRACK. He slaps your ass again now. The imprint now red and pulsing on your skin.
You let out another cry.
“Meh kya? Hm?” He teases. It’s a game to him. Seeing how far he’d push you before you start yelling or crying.
Today, it was crying. He heard the sniffles first, and when he looked at you, a few tears of frustration were already falling down your cheeks. His cock twitches at the sight, a bead of precum falling right on your puffy clit.
“Kya hua jaan? Bohot zyada ho raha hai?” his voice dripping in darkness.
You nod with another sniffle as he lets go of your ankles, letting each one rest on one of his shoulders. You can finally look at his face now, your eyes glossed over with tears and need. He leans over, pushing you into a mating press, and starts kissing in the crook of your neck, pushing your head further against the pillows.
Then, he positioned himself. The head of his cock brushed against your tiny opening. Although he stretched you far beyond your limits the first time, your hole still managed to close up enough to where it was almost invisible. But Iqbal, having years of experience, knew exactly where it was hidden, caught by the deep red colour your opening developed from him railing you to madnesslast time.
He didn't ease in, with one brutal, singular thrust, he drove himself inside.
The scream that tore from your throat was muffled by his large hand. You were still too tight, too inexperienced for a man of his girth. The sensation was an overwhelming invasion, a feeling of being split apart from the inside out. Your internal muscles clamped around him in a desperate, instinctive reflex, which only made him groan with the sheer pleasure of your tightness.
“Abhi bhi tum kitni choti ho” he hissed, his muscles locking as he buried himself to the hilt.
He shifted his grip, his large palms sliding to the backs of your thighs. With a sudden surge of strength, he shoved your legs back even further, forcing your pelvis to tilt upward in a more brutal mating press. The angle was devastating. He drove his length further in using his hips, he was buried so deep that the head of his cock seemed to press against the very walls of your womb and hit all the way to your cervix.
A sharp hiss of pain escaped your lips, a sound of pure physical shock. You felt as if you were being unfolded, your body forced into a shape it wasn't meant to take. You tried to push your legs into a more easier position but his grip was unyielding, preventing you from shifting.
"Sabar karo." he murmured, having no comfort in the sound.
He began to move.
He used an assaulting rhythm, jamming himself into you. His hips slammed against yours with a loud thud, with his trousers rubbing against your inner thighs causing you to feel the burn of it. Every thrust was a blunt force trauma, a ruthless pistoning that ignored your whimpers and the way your body shuddered under the impact. He was driving into you with a singular, focused need, his jaw locked, his eyes dark with terrifying intensity.
You tried to arch your back, to find some shred of leverage and ease from the hard momentum he had going, but he caught the movement. As he pulled back, nearly exiting you completely, he reached down and delivered a stinging, open-palmed crack across your swollen ass.
The slap was so loud it seemed to echo. Your hips jolted, a sob catching in your throat, but the pain only served to heighten the electric tension between you.
"Aisi harkatein acchi nahin lagtein," he growled, his voice a guttural rasp.
He didn't give you a second to recover. He lunged back in, the friction of his girth stretching your walls to the point of agony. You were drowning in him, the way his heavy chest crushed your breasts and the way his cologne filled your lungs, stealing your breath.
As the pace accelerated, the brutality shifted into something very sensual. He started to grind, his pelvis rotating against yours, catching your clit with every heavy, sliding stroke. You began to moan, a broken, desperate sound that you couldn't control. You hated how your body was betraying you, how the very man who was breaking you was the only thing you wanted in the moment.
Iqbal felt the shift, he's always very observant of your body and what makes you tremble under him.
He increased the speed, his movements becoming a blur to you. He gripped your waist, his fingers leaving deep, purple crescents in your soft flesh, anchoring you so he could drive himself into you with everything he had.
Suddenly, he shifted.
With a grunt of effort, he gripped your waist and flipped your body over in one fluid motion. Your face was shoved hard into the pillows, the scent of old roses and dust filling your nostrils as you were pinned face-down. Your hips were hoisted high, your curly hair covering your upper back, your spine arching in a forced, vulnerable curve that left you completely exposed from behind.
He didn't pull out, he still remained buried deep within you, the thick length of him stretching you in a different way in this new position.
He looked down at the sight before him: your pale skin against the crumpled sheets, and your backside, flushed a deep, angry crimson from his palms, now tilted upward like an invitation. The sight of those red marks, his marks triggered something sick inside him. He got one hand and held your ass, palming to capture the flesh hard.
The first thrust from behind was overwhelming. Because of the angle, he hit your cervix with a blunt, bruising force that made your toes curl and a cry escape your throat. He began to pound into you with a ruthless precision hitting the exact spot he found last night, his large hands gripping your hips so hard he was practically lifting you off the mattress with every strike.
Slup. Slup. Slup
The sound of his pelvis hitting yours was the only thing ringing in his ears. all your sobbing and whimpering was muffled by the giant pillows stuffed in your face. Every time you tried to crawl forward, or escape the depth of him inside, he would yank you back by the hips, forcing you to take every inch of him.
"Kahan ja rahi ho?" he growled, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your shoulder blade. "Abhi saza baaqi hai."
The friction was becoming unbearable. As he continued the assault, his grip shifted from your hips to your hair, wrapping the strands around his fist and pulling your head back just enough to expose the nape of your neck.
He watched the way your muscles quivered, the way your breath came in short, broken hitches. He didn't want this to end quickly. He wanted to savour the way you felt under him, the way you made his inner most darkest wants come out.
He leaned his full weight onto you, crushing you into the mattress, his movements becoming pulverizing. At that moment, for you the world narrowed down to the point of impact. The sound of skin hitting skin, the smell of sweat and his tobacco, and the haunting presence of Major Iqbal, looming over you, demanding your absolute surrender.
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The hours that followed were not measured by the clock, but by the degrees of your exhaustion. Major Iqbal did not operate on mercy, he operated on his presing drive. And his drive was a landslide, a surge of testosterone that no single release could quiet. Every time he finished, filling you with ropes of cum that made your insides pulse, he didn’t leave. He stayed on top, his heavy chest crushing your lungs, his heartbeat thumping against your spine, until the friction of your own slickness brought him back to a rigid, pulsing hardness.
He moved you like a doll, rearranging your limbs into positions that felt unnatural, almost impossible. He dragged you to the edge of the bed, then to the middle, to the headboard then the edge again. He forced your eyes open as exhaustion came over you, his thumb pressing into your cheek to keep your gaze locked on his, watching the light fade into a glazed, mindless haze of pleasure and pain.
There was something profoundly primal about the way he worked. He didn't just fuck, he used. A body to him was a body to rupture according to his whims. He was a man who had spent a lifetime suppressing his tension in the field, only to let it all leak out in the bedroom.
By the third hour, your body felt as though it no longer belonged to you, it belonged to the Major. Your voice had grown hoarse from screaming which only seemed to fuel his appetite. You were utterly spent, a ruined thing vibrating with a level of overstimulation that made even the touch of the air feel like a knife cutting into you.
Eventually, the storm subsided.
Major Iqbal sat back against the headboard now, a sheen of sweat coating his sculpted chest and forehead. He didn't bother looking at you, instead, he reached for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. The glow of the ember illuminated the sharp lines of his face and the shadows reflected on his aviators.
You were curled on your side, facing away from him, your body a map of fresh red marks and old purple blooms. The heavy duvet was pulled up to your chest, shielding your nakedness from his piercing gaze. You felt small, shattered, and extremely tired, your breath coming in shallow hitches.
As you shifted slightly, a strand of your curly hair slid aside, exposing the pale, delicate curve of the back of your neck.
As his gaze swept over you, his eyes locked onto something.
There, cutting through the softness of your skin, was a jagged, silvered line, a scar that didn't belong on a girl of nineteen.
Iqbal’s eyes, trained by years of war to spot the smallest disturbance, caught it instantly. He had spent decades analyzing wounds, bullet holes, shrapnel tears, torture. He knew the difference between an accident and assault. And he saw that there was violence etched in your scar.
Without a word, he reached out. His large, rough hand: the same hand that had bruised your hips, touched your most intimate flesh, slowly traced the line of the scar with a surprising tenderness.
The moment his finger touched the mark, you jerked away with a sudden flinch. You scrambled to pull your hair over your shoulder, desperate to hide the imperfection, to shield the evidence of your shame from his judging eyes. You felt wretchedly insecure.
"Kyun chhupa rahi ho?" he murmured. His eyebrows furrowed together.
You kept your back to him, your voice a fragile whisper. "Kuch nahi...aap fikhar na karein.”
He didn't use force this time, but he was firm in the way he reached out and gripped your shoulder, slowly rotating you around until you were forced to face him.
He didn't let go. He hooked his fingers into the curls of your hair and pulled them away from your neck, exposing the scar once more. He raised one of his eyebrows, his dark eyes scanning the mark with intense focus.
"Ye kaise hua?" he demanded.
You tried to look away, but his grip was holding. "Main theek hoon, Major Sahab. Please..."
"Batao," he commanded. The word wasn't a request, it was an order.
You didn't want his pity, and more than that, you didn't want him to know the ugliness of the world you had come from before Madam Bi. But the vulnerability of the scar, combined with your exhaustion stripped away your defenses, and you finally broke. You pulled your knees up to your chest, curling into a ball of trembling flesh, and the words spilled out like a wound opening up.
"Mere... mere waalid" you whispered, your voice cracking. "Wo... jab nashe mein hote thhe... unhone ek tooti hui sharab botal se… mara tha.”
You closed your eyes, the memory of the cold glass and the heat of the blood gushing out flashing vividly in your mind.
Major Iqbal was listening closely, his full attention to you, his eyes suddenly holding a warmth you saw for the first time. His silence urging you to go on.
You then told him about the house that felt like a prison, the screams that were ignored by the neighbors, and the ugly day you were finally sold to Madam Bi. You spoke of the void where a childhood should have been, the way you had learned to be invisible just to survive.
The warm dim light highlighted his dark eyes under the aviators, staring deep in your glassy ones.
Iqbal didn't speak. He was a man of violence, but he recognized a soft spirit in the brokenness of your soul. He saw the flicker in your eyes, the same flickering light of a survivor who had seen the abyss and decided to keep breathing.
A surprising wave of sympathy washed over him. He reached out, his large hand cupping the back of your head, pulling you against his chest.
"Tum bohat mazboot ho," he muttered against your hair, his voice devoid of its usual amusement.
He had broken you tonight for pleasure, but the thought of someone else breaking you out of cruelty stirred something strange within him.
For a moment, you weren't a transaction. You weren't a body for him after midnight. You were a woman who carried burdens and he was a man who understood the weight.
For the first time, you heard the steady beat of his heart. It was a powerful sound, a drumbeat of life and strength that seemed to pull you to the earth. You closed your eyes, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, the hardness of his muscles against your cheek.
He wrapped his heavy arm around you, pulling you flush against his side, shielding you from the world outside the room. He pressed a soft, almost subconscious kiss to the top of your head.
"Ab tum yahan ho" he murmured, his voice a deep, comforting rumble that vibrated through your entire being. “Koi tumhein dobara nuqsaan nahi karega bina meri ijazat ke.”
In the dim light of the room, the Major was no longer your captor, and you were no longer the prey. For one fragile second, the sin was forgotten, and all that remained was two broken souls finding a strange, silent comfort in the wreckage of each other.
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1:00 PM
Madam Bi’s Kotha
The sunlight in Lyari never truly felt bright, it was always filtered through dust and the city’s noise. But as you stirred awake, the light felt different. It was soft, dancing across the ceiling in golden slivers. You woke up slowly, your body humming with a dull, heavy ache. You didn't know when you fell asleep in his arms and when he left, you barely felt anything once you blacked out on his chest.
You suddenly remembered the weight of his arm around you, his voice against your hair, the kiss on your head and the terrifyingly beautiful promise he made. For a few hours, he had become a protector, and that change had left a warmth in your chest that no amount of physical pain could extinguish, like a flickering candle in the dark, blooming in your chest.
You shifted under the sheets, feeling the sticky residue of his finish inside you, and a shiver ran through you. It was a confusing feeling, to crave the touch of the man who had treated your body with such savagery.
As you sat up, the duvet sliding down to reveal the blossoms of purple and red on your skin, your eyes caught something on the vanity.
Three oversized, obsidian black boxes, tied with pink silk ribbons in perfect bows that looked like they belonged in a high-end boutique. Your breath paused. You slid out of bed, your legs trembling slightly as you walked toward them.
The boxes were from a label so exclusive that only the elite of the elite women ever bought from them. You carefully untied the ribbon, the silk sliding through your fingers like water, and opened the lid. Inside, nestled in layers of champagne coloured tissue paper, was a midnight black baby doll set of the finest silk and French lace. It was so delicate and beautiful, it looked like an elevated version of the one you wore.
You opened the second, then the third. A deep, blood red set that matched your crimson lips you had on the first time he saw you, and a pale ballerina pink silk set that looked like a rose in spring. Each set came with a matching, floor-length silk robe that was as soft as the feathers on a swan.
A small, choked sob escaped your throat. You remembered the sound of the black lace ripping under his grip last night, the tear of fabric as he stripped you. He had noticed. He had remembered how you looked when it tore.
Then, you saw it.
Lying flat on the bedside stand, held down by his heavy ashtray, was a thick stack of crisp 1,000 rupee notes. Twenty thousand. A sum that could feed a dozen families in Lyari for a month, left there as if it were mere pocket change. It was a staggering amount, far more than the standard rate Madam Bi would have collected for your time.
You stared at the money, then back at the lace.
A hot, prickling sensation rose in your cheeks. You knew who Major Iqbal was to the world, a man of blood and iron, a commander who broke souls and crushed enemies. To the girls of the kotha, he was a monster that left them bruised and breathless.
But to you, the brutality of the night before began to mix in with a confusing, overwhelming tenderness. He had used you yet he had also shielded your soul with a gentleness you didn't know he possessed.
You knew you were playing a dangerous game. You were a girl sold into a house of sin, and he was a man who bought his pleasure by the hour. But as you pressed your face into the silk, a small, traitorous smile touched your lips.
Your story is so fucking good, will he eventually warm up to her and fall in love? I'm only asking cause I can't take it if he's gonna be this harsh with her the whole time😭😭
LITERALLYY LOVE U SMMM <333 i def wasnt expecting this much love and support for my fic, Ishq-e-haram but im so glad my fic was liked by yall. The dhurandhar fan girlies are so supportinggg muahh.
In terms of the plot, I don't want to give toooo much away but yes it is a super dark romance, so there will be lots of chemistry and Major Iqbal slowly falling in love n warming up to her. BUT BEFORE THAT, theres still gonna be a lot of angst, harshness, tension and conflict between them bc obvi major v.s. prostitute. BUTTT def not harsh all the way through but fss hes gonna be one extremely toxic bitchh tho for a while.
Synopsis: In Lyari, everyone knows Major Iqbal's name. They know the power he commands and the fear he instills. Men obey him while women admire him from afar. He's untouchable and unreachable. For a man who had no use for marriage, desire was still a debt the body demanded be paid. It is bought, used, forgotten, and left behind before dawn. Just another transaction, another closed door, another face he never intends to see twice after sunrise.
Until one transaction quietly becomes another. And another.
Night after night, he returns to the same kotha. To the same room. To the same bed.
The same girl…
Some stories begin with love.
This one begins with a sin.
Inspired by this edit by cutie @wtafananya [He looks like the type of person to like it raw]
Content Warnings: 18+, mature content!!! CNC, dub con, virgin reader, power dynamic, rape, age gap. Not suitable for minors!
a/n: Sorry for the repost had to fix formatting :( Hi loviess this is my first ever fan fic, although i LOVE reading major iqbal fluffy and domestic fics I rlly wanted to read abt movie canon iqbal where hes just dark, dominant and not to mention so mysterious. I'm planning on making this a few chapters long, it depends on how u guys are liking it and whether u want to see more. I just hope you guys enjoy and pleaseee let me know how u like itt, dont be afraid to comment it only makes my work better for yall. Consider this a gift to all my Iqbal fan girls, ur not alone and i deff see youuu <33
There is a kind of hunger that does not announce itself, it arrives with heat. A kind of heat that’s low and persistent like the way embers stay alive and glow under ash for days before anyone notices. If further fuel is added, the embers can spark a fire so wild and blazing that it becomes hard to even ignore the slightest. And until water is used to extinguish it, who knows what it may burn in its path.
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Major Iqbal was a man who was highly decorated with medals and stars from his years of warfare. Men everywhere spoke his name with both fear and reverence, for it is he who commands and rules over both the underground mafia of Karachi and the Government of Pakistan. Being the head of ISI , there was no one more terrifying and brutal than Iqbal. He was merciless, unforgiving, and ruthless if anything or anyone got in his way. His men cowered in terror, keeping their heads low and paying their respects every time he walked in. Because if someone even gave him the wrong look, you can never know when it would be the last day they were seen alive.
Through his extensive time of being a part of ISI in the chain of command, Major Iqbal had learned to manage many things: pain, threats, betrayal. The deathly silence of a room after a decision was made that would unmake other men's lives, watching the spies he tortured finally succumbing to their wounds all bloody with decay. He had spent years mastering the discipline of deprivation. Sleep became optional. Mercy became unavailable. Guilt became a language he no longer remembered. Every instinct and need that made a man ordinary had been suppressed into silence until only his control remained.
Or so he believed.
Desire was an inconvenient thing.
It was as inevitable as hunger, as instinctive as breathing. No battlefield could prepare him for the wars that unwrapped in the quiet hours after midnight. When Lyari was nothing but an oasis of glimmering stars in the night sky and a barren desert on land. When the call to evening prayer had long since subsided. When nothing remained except the buzzing sound of crickets.
After all, he was still a man.
There were nights in Lyari when the heat was physical. When air itself pressed against his skin that made the wanting underneath more violent.
Because underneath- God, underneath….
He had needs.
Sinful ones.
One that reminded him what pressed beneath his uniform whenever he stayed working at his desk during the sinister late hours of the night, smoking a Cuban cigar while pouring hard whisky down his throat. Even in the most inconvenient of hours, his drive reminded him that he was not stone.
He was flesh.
And flesh, in the end, always finds its way to heat.
He wasn't married. It was quite surprising to the public that Major Iqbal had never taken a wife. And it wasn't because he lacked any opportunity - only God knows how many women across Pakistan admired him, a few even loved him- but because marriage required permanence, and with the life he leads, he long ago abandoned the idea of a wife waiting behind the doors of his haveli. That version of him who would be happy laughing over evening chai with someone was long since buried. His work never allowed enough presence to handle his affairs at home, let alone a whole woman who would forever be in his possession. He simply refused and saw no need to get married and be tied down to one woman.
Major Iqbal had however taken lovers over the years, women who were willing to accept his corrupt, twisted self and to satisfy his voracious appetite, no matter how short the duration of their relationship was. Even for a few nights, some women were grateful that they even got the chance to be around him. He had that charisma to him, one that came naturally that other men could not replicate. But it wasn't as if they were treated horribly, he was still quite the gentleman. He would buy them expensive gifts, sometimes gold jewelry, foreign imported shoes or even an apartment to live in. After all, he had some heavy pockets. But in the end, he didn't care enough to keep them in his possession for long. He would take whatever they would give him and move onto the next.
Despite that, women everywhere spoke of him differently.
Some had only caught glimpses. A black luxury SUV disappearing into the night, polished boots pounding against broken pavement, the sharp line of his jaw flexing as he took a cigar between his lips beneath the amber glow of streetlamps. Others had watched him from grilled balconies or market stalls, stealing looks they prayed he never noticed through his aviator covered eyes.
He was quite handsome, but not in a conventional way. He was beautiful in the way that storms were beautiful - powerful, majestic and devastatingly dazzling.
Major Iqbal was a man who inspired temptation as effortlessly as he inspired fear. The kind of man people looked at twice without realizing they had done so, and each time he would always notice.
There was something unnerving about him. As if he had been sculpted with equal parts elegance and ruthlessness. It was evident with how he would be immaculately dressed with tailored suits and kurtas that would hug his well-defined body in all the right places, always composed with his dark, mystic eyes that could hypnotize someone if they stared too long. Not to mention the mystery that clung to him like expensive cologne. There was something profoundly unfair about how attractive Major Iqbal was. His face belonged in a devout prayer yet the man behind it belonged to a warning. He embodied the kind of presence that silenced and crushed the confidence of every man in the room.
But in the end, he belonged to no one, not to gossip, not to his lovers, not even to the city that whispered his name.
He was devoted to his obligations: to classified files, intelligence, politics, assassinations reports, the underground mafia, the list continues.
It was inevitable that something within him demanded something back.
Long days steeped in violence, deception, and endless restraint left behind a hollowness no amount of silence could quiet. He had long accepted that certain hungers were simply part of being a man.
And with no wife waiting behind the doors of his haveli, no marriage to soften his edges, no constant mistress, those hungers had long since found their own arrangement.
There were places in Lyari where morality was left at the door. Places where respectable men pretended never to go, yet their faces were as familiar as the worn floorboards beneath them. Places where secrets were purchased by the hour and buried beneath stacks of broken banknotes.
Where rich drunk men would linger around to have their chance at heaven for a few minutes.
Madam Bi’s kotha was that place for Iqbal.
It was the only place where he had solace, hidden behind weathered doors and neon signs.
Madam Bi’s kotha was a safe haven for the elite men of Karachi’s society, so that they could become strangers beneath the dim light, trusting that the darkness would keep their dirtiest truths hidden behind velvet curtains.
Madam Bi never asked questions when he arrived. She didn’t need to.
Men like him did not come for conversation…
When he comes, he walks through the kotha like someone carved from stone itself. Always unreadable. His broad shoulders hoisting his impeccable uniform casting long shadows on the walls. Even there, where sin was disguised as comfort, the room made space for him. The conversations lowered around him, the girls giggled softly behind their hands, even time seemed to pause. Each woman anticipated being the one to spend the night with him, until they realized what would follow. Major Iqbal was ruthless. The only remnants of his entanglement being ripped kameez’s and soaked sheets.
In the end, each night he spent with a different girl was always according to his desires, his dirty wants. You couldn't refuse him even if you wanted to…
Yet he remembered them only until he walked out the door. By sunrise, they had become indistinguishable from every woman who came before them.
It was an understanding he had made with himself years ago. That there wouldn’t be any names worth mentioning, no attachments capable of becoming weaknesses. He was there for his sole purpose of satisfying his inner need. His wants were no less human than any other man's, they were simply kept behind closed doors, where reputation could not follow.
By dawn, Major Iqbal was back to being the man everyone in Lyari feared and and the last man anyone dared question.
It was a simple arrangement.
Until, it wasn't.
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The meeting had been running for 2 hours and 45 minutes.
He knew this, even without the watch on his wrist. He always had that in him, an internal clock that always kept running inside him no matter what he was doing.
Around the table, men in suits, men in uniforms with maps and numbers took the space of Iqbal's private study. Cigarette smoke slowly hazing around each man while they all discussed different details about an upcoming strategy. But to Iqbal, it only sounded like low chatter, their voices now distant in his mind.
Rain was pattering against the window, the water droplets trickling down the seams. Outside, the sky was a blur of all shades of grey. The day had been gloomy since it started, clouds pouring down soft droplets of liquid. Each one splashing onto Lyari’s unpaven roads, washing the whole city in a layer of melancholy.
He sat at the edge of the conversation the way he always did. Present and still, saying the precise amount required and nothing beyond it. His jaw was set. His eyes moved slowly across the room, reading each and every man’s intentions.
His cigar had burned to the filter.
He pressed it into the ashtray beside him without looking down. He reached for another in a wooden box and with a tap, draw, light, he was right back smoking a Davidoff Blanco.
He thought about tonight.
He had made a call earlier in the week to Madam Bi. Arrangements had been set in motion. There was a particular order to these things, a particular etiquette that Madam Bi has always respected and that he always appreciated about her. She was a business woman in the oldest sense: discreet, efficient and fully without judgment.
He respected that...
The meeting had finally ended at 7:45 pm.
The others filed out, ensuring they gave Major Iqbal a proper goodbye, with handshakes, final conversations and the social performance of bidding farewell. He stayed seated for an extra moment, smoking his cigar while watching the rain streak down the glass.
He finally stood, adjusting his collar and took out his phone. He stepped into the hallway corridor, a place empty and quiet with a tall glass window overlooking the city. He briefly watched the city across, it was quite gray and wet all the while starting to come alive with the particular energy of the evening, when Karachi transforms from one version into another much darker one.
He finally dialed her number. At the first ring, Madam Bi finally spoke.
“Ji Major Sahab?”.
“Intizam?” he asked. One word, he didn't need more with her.
There was a slight pause.
“Sab tayyar hai”.
Satisfied with her answer, he hung up.
He took a long drag of his cigar, watching a raindrop trace its way down the glass.
He had 3 hours.
He pocketed his phone and walked back down the corridor, his footsteps even against the floor just like a soldiers.
He was a man who knew where he was going.
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A Few Hours Earlier.
Madam’s Bi Kotha.
You were sitting across the window ledge in your room, your knees tucked beneath your chin. Rain had drifted lazily down the window glass, each droplet carving its own winding path before disappearing into another. Your fingers tracing them without thought, as though following their journey might somehow quiet the unease growing inside your chest.
You knew what was coming…
The monsoon always made Lyari look softer. It hid the dust, blurred the broken buildings and washed away the dirt of the streets for a little while. From your window, the world almost looked beautiful.
Almost.
You had just turned 19, five weeks ago. It wasn't much of a celebration, there was no sweets, no laughter, not even gifts.
Birthdays meant little inside Madam Bi’s kotha. After all, it only meant you were coming closer to the day where you would need to lose your innocence to the cruel world.
Madam Bi had sheltered you from a prostitute's world for as long as she could.
Ever since you were sold here at 8 years old, she'd found ways to keep you away from the room’s downstairs, from the pre-marital beds. You swept the corridors, folded washed sheets, served tea to the other women and spent your afternoons learning to read Urdu poetry from books someone discarded years ago. You lived discreetly among the kotha’s walls without ever truly becoming part of them.
Your mother never wanted to let you go. She came from a poor village where every harvest depended on mercy from the sky, and mercy became very scarce. Some nights there wasn’t enough flour to make bread for everyone which would result in your younger siblings crying themselves to sleep while your bastard father staggered home reeking of cheap liquor.
He spent what little money your family had to chase another bottle. And when there was nothing left to sell, he found you.
The memory of that day had faded over the years. Yet you still remembered your mothers trembling hands and grieving face as she held your tiny face one last time, whispering prayers through her tears you were too young to understand. You had spent years wondering if she ever forgave herself.
Or whether she hoped you would ever forgive her…
A quiet knock broke you out of your thoughts.
The door creaked open. Madam Bi did not fully step into the room, she stayed by the door, her expression heavy with a mixture of pity and rationality. She looked at you, so very still and fragile like a piece of unglazed porcelain and sighed.
It was only a matter of time before you too had to be exposed to the real world. Living in a kotha meant a certain debt being placed on your head which could only be paid through the expense of your body. Sooner or later, every girl learned the price of the roof over her heads and the years they've been allowed to remain untouched.
“Beta, chalo utho” she said, her voice softening. “Waqt ho gaya hai”
You felt a cold shiver run down your spine, you knew about this day. Today was the day when you would start paying off your debt.
“Beti tum itni khoobsurat ho gayi ho, bilkul ek gulaab ki tarah jo bahaar aate hi khil uthta hai."
Her smile faltered slightly.
"Lekin har khilta hua phool ek din hawaon ka saamna karta hai, tum ek aurat ho aur ye din tumhara pehla shuruat hai iss dunya mein”
You lowered your eyes, she finally walked toward you and cupped your cheek with tenderness.
"Madam Bi…, lekin mujhe nah-”
"Mujhe maloom hai tum darr rahi ho, aur kaash main tumse keh sakti ke tumhein kabhi yeh din dekhna na padta”
“Lekin waqt kisi ke liye rukta nahi”.
Hearing that, it gave you no room to protest. Even though you knew this was coming, a little part of you hoped that perhaps you didn't need to do this to survive, you didn't need to sacrifice yourself for this. But alas, you accepted your fate.
“Aaj raat ek khaas insaan aa raha hai”
Your stomach tightened. “K- kaun hai woh?” you asked nervously, hoping it wouldn't be that man you've seen with the other girls. You had seen them walk into those rooms with trembling shoulders and walk out with limp legs and gold bangles that felt like shackles.
Please don't let it be him.
She hesitated only briefly.
“Major Iqbal”
The name left the room colder than it was before. Your eyes widened.
“Kya! Major Iqbal?!, Bi jaan m- meh ye nahi kar sakte” Your panic started to creep in. How can your first time be with a man like that!?
Madam Bi’s expression hardened, the business woman replacing the guardian. She gripped your chin, forcing you to look at her.
"Madam... main..." your voice trailed off, barely a whisper. "Main tayyar nahi hoon."
Madam Bi locked her eyes on you. “tayyar toh koi nahi hota, bachay. Magar yeh Major Iqbal hain. Inka intezar poora Lyari karta hai, aur aaj tumhari baari hai”.
In the kotha, the air changed when he was expected. The other girls spent hours preening themselves just so that he could be pleased with them. They painted their lips a deeper crimson and tightened their lace, their eyes glittering with a hunger for the attention of the man who ruled Karachi.
The mention of his name made your heart hammer against your ribs. You had heard the stories. You remembered the first time you saw him, from a distance, stepping out of that suv. He hadn't looked at anyone, yet everyone had looked at him.
"Lekin... woh bohot sakht hain" you stammered, your fingers twisting the fabric of your simple cotton kameez. "Woh to reham (mercy) bhi nahi karte, mera kya hashar karein gai?”
As if on cue, a giggle erupted from the hallway. Two of the older girls, Zoya and Meher, were leaning against the doorframe, watching your distress with mischievous grins.
"Reham?" Zoya laughed, her voice dripping with irony. "Beta, Iqbal Sahab reham nahi, sukoon dete hain... magar apne tareeqay se."
Meher leaned in, her eyes dancing. "Suna hai woh ghore (horse) ki tarah charhte hain. Ek baar pakar liya, toh chhorte nahi jab tak tumhari cheekhon se poora kotha na baar jaye."
Your face flushed a deep, burning red. The imagery, the sheer, almost violent intensity they described, sent a wave of panic through you. You were nineteen, but in the ways that mattered, you were still a child. You had never experienced something like that, not to mention you were quite clueless on how to even pleasure a man despite living in a kotha. Madam Bi protected you from all this. But the thought of that man, that mountain of a man, taking something you could never get back felt less like a transaction and more like an execution.
"Chup raho tum dono!" Madam Bi snapped.
She turned back to you, her expression becoming firm. "Suno. Darna fitrat hai, magar darna mana hai. Woh bohot sakht mard hain haan, be-reham bhi. Tumhein sirf ek baat yaad rakhni hai... unki marzi ke khilaaf kabhi mat jaana. Jo woh kahen, bas wahi karna. Phir dekhna, is sheher mein tumse zyada mehfooz koi larki nahi hogi."
She stepped toward the wardrobe, pulling out a sheer, blood-red kameez that shimmered like a deep rose. She laid it across the bed: the place where you would lose it all, you realized.
"Ab rona band karo. Nahane jao. Chambeli (jasmine) ka tail aur gulaab ka saboon istemaal karna. Aur apne jism ko teek sai dhona. Main chahti hoon ke jab woh kamray mein dakhil hon, toh unhe sirf tumhari khushbu mehoos ho aur ek narm jism mile."
But you still had one more question.
"Madam, kya... kya bohot dard hoga?" you whispered, your eyes welling up.
Madam Bi’s gaze softened for a fleeting second. She knew the answer. She knew that for a man like Iqbal, pleasure was often synonymous with pain and dominance.
"Thoda sa, bas unki baat manna," she tried her best at lying. Great, no pointers from her either.
You knew you were screwed.
"Lekin tum jawan ho, tum seh lo gi. Yahi toh maza hai. Ab jao beti”
As you walked toward the bathing area, your legs felt like lead. You could already imagine the heavy thud of polished boots in the corridor. You could imagine the scent of expensive cigars and his musk overpowering your delicate one.
Because tonight, the innocence you’ve clung to becomes a currency. Today is the day you stop being a girl of this house... and become a woman of the trade.
You were a lamb being prepared for the slaughter, and the butcher was a man who didn't know how to be gentle…
As you stepped into the steaming shower, you stood there trying to bask in the only warmth that will keep you warm tonight. The steam in the small bathing chamber becoming a thick, humid veil that stuck to the walls and blurred the view around you. You stood beneath the spray of the shower, the water scalding, nearly too hot, but you welcomed the sting. It was a distraction from the drumming of your heart against your ribs.
What if he didn't like what he saw? What if he wasn't pleased with me?
Those thoughts kept circulating in your head, gnawing at the little bit of confidence you had mustered up. It wasn't as if you didn't have a woman’s body, you were blessed with the swell of your breasts and your slim yet full curves around your waist. Your hips were wide in contrast to your tiny back. Your curly long hair wrapping around your slick body.
After all, you could only hope he would be satisfied with you.
You reached for the rose scented soap Madam Bi had insisted upon, the bar slippery and fragrant in your palm. With trembling fingers, you began to lather, the white foam contrasting against the tan hue of your skin. You scrubbed with a meticulousness born from terror, wanting to be pristine, to be void of any flaw that a msn like Major Iqbal might find distasteful.
You moved the soap over the swell of your breasts, the tips of your nipples hardening not from the cold, but from the anticipation of a touch you had only imagined in the quietest, most shameful hours of the night. As you slid the soap down the curve of your waist and over the flare of your hips, you felt the fragility of your own body. You were a vast canvas of softness, and you were about to be handed over to a man made of iron and stone.
Then, you reached for the grooming tools and the fine oil.
Your breath flickered as you stepped lower, your legs shaking. You had heard the other girls whisper about the Major’s preferences. He was a man of discipline, he liked things precise and controlled. As you carefully began to remove the course, soft hairs from your intimate areas, a wave of vulnerability crashed over you.
You worked slowly, the blade grazing your skin as precisely as you could. You wondered, with a sudden, sharp spike of anxiety, if he preferred a woman completely bald, smooth as a marble or if he liked the naturalness of a girl. Does a man like him even care? you wondered. Or will he find any stray hair an insult to his perfection?
You didnt want to risk it, so you spent an agonizing amount of time ensuring every inch of your mound was flawlessly smooth, your skin flushed pink from the friction. You wanted to be a blank canvas for him. You wanted there to be nothing between his skin and yours, no barrier, no resistance. The thought made your stomach flip, a mixture of dread and a sudden, traitorous heat pooling between your legs.
Finally, you reached for the jasmine oil. You massaged it into your limbs with slow strokes, the oil shimmering under the dim light, making your skin glow with an iridescent sheen. You smelled of crushed roses and jasmine, a scent that signaled submission to men like him.
Stepping out of the shower, you didn't dry yourself completely. You liked the way the few remaining droplets clung to your collarbones and the valley of your chest, acting like tiny dismonds against your skin.
You put on a deep red lingerie set that was simple yet all net as Madam Bi preferred, allowing him to see everything from behind a cloth.
Then, you turned to the bed.
The blood red kameez lay there, waiting for you: a garment of surrender.
You slid the kameez over your head, the sheer material clinging to your damp curves. It was so thin it felt like a second skin, leaving nothing to the imagination. As you fastened the small hooks, you looked at yourself in the mirror. The red of the dress made your skin look creamier, your lips look plumper, and your eyes wide with a desperate, haunting innocence.
With makeup, you didn't want to hide the simplicity of your natural beauty, so you went with kohl in your eyes and a simple dark crimson lipstick that resembled the shade of pomegranate seeds. Your curly hair naturally flowed, you tried to contain the chaos by brushing it and maintaining it but it wasn't managing. Defeat was accepted and you left it as it was, hoping the Major didn't mind it.
You didn't wear jewelry, Madam Bi had said the Major preferred the natural beauty of a woman's body over the artificial look of ornaments. Preferring to have nothing disturb his actions.
Finally, you were ready, a gift wrapped in crimson silk.
You sat on the edge of the bed, your small hands gripping the sheets, listening.
It was 10:00 pm now. The place had gone quiet, the usual chaos of the place turning into a heavy, dark silence. Madam Bi had arranged the whole kotha for Major Iqbal, ensuring no clients came today. The girls stayed in their rooms, knowing what will happen to you soon.
Tonight, the kotha left only you and him.
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆
10 minutes had passed, then 30, then 45. The restless in your heart kept thrumming, the anxious waves making you almost nauseous. When will he get here? When will this be over-
Then, you heard it.
The distant, heavy thud of leather boots hitting the wooden floorboards of the corridor. Thump. Thump. Thump.
He was here.
The sound didn't stop. It grew louder, rhythmic, echoing through the hallway until it stopped for a moment. You heard a deep, musky voice speaking indistinctly with a woman's voice, Madam Bi’s voice. They talked for a bit about who knows what. All you could focus on was the ferocious beating of your heart, your hands sweating in anticipation.
Then the sound of the footsteps started again and this time stopped directly outside your door. The silence that followed was suffocating, the kind of silence that kills you from within.
You closed your eyes, your chest heaving, the red fabric rising and falling with your shallow breaths. You were a sacrifice, and the man who took everything was finally standing at the threshold.
The door finally clicked open, the heavy wooden frame creaking under the weight of his presence. You stood up immediately from the bed, watching the myth of a man finally entering. The first thing that hit you wasn't the sight of him, it was the scent of him, an intoxicating blend of cuban tobacco, sandalwood, expensive oud cologne and his natural blend of musk.
You stood frozen at the edge of the bed, it was as if your throat was tightening so harshly you could barely breathe, your fingers digging into the sides of your kameez.
Up close, he looked even more striking. He was a beast of a man, his silhouette cutting a jagged line against the dim light of the hallway. The type of man who made the world around him feel smaller. He was dressed in an olive green military uniform with a khaki coloured pathani kurta underneath that clung to the breadth of his shoulders and the hard planes of his chest, the sleeves of his jacket rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair. His face was a severe masterpiece, a jawline that looked like it had been carved from basalt, a straight, arrogant nose, and eyes… eyes that weren't dark, but void-like, absorbing every flicker of your fear and curiosity behind his glasses.
He closed the door behind him, locking it without looking back. He didn't speak, he didn't even acknowledge you at first. He stopped in the center of the room, his polished boots clicking against the floor. With a painfully slow movement, he brought a glowing cigar to his lips, inhaling deeply. The tip flared a bright, angry orange in the shadows. He exhaled a plume of silver smoke that curled around his head like a crown of ghosts.
And his gaze brought up, finally locking onto yours. You were star struck.
The intensity was physical. It felt like a hand pressing against your chest, stealing the air from your lungs. He looked at you not as a man looks at a woman, but as a python when it has already decided who to suffocate.
You didn't know what to do, all you did in that moment was stand and look at him. But you quickly averted your gaze to the ground after realizing you had been staring too long.
He found that amusing, a prostitute averting her gaze rather than holding it.
Interesting, he thought.
Slowly, he began to move toward you. Each step was precisely measured, the grace of a panther. He stopped inches away, his scent becoming overpowering, your nostrils started to burn. You felt the heat radiating off his body clashing with the chill of your nervous skin. He smelled of power, and as he looked down at you, you felt smaller than you ever had in your life.
He reached out. His hand was massive compared to your face, his skin tanned and rough, the fingers long and strong wearing two silver rings, one on his index and the other on his ring finger. He didn't touch your skin at first, instead, he hooked a few stray curls of your hair, winding them slowly around his index finger. He tilted his head, his half-lidden eyes scanning your face: the kohl-rimmed eyes, the trembling crimson lips, the sheer red fabric that left nothing to the imagination.
You tried to keep your eyes down.
He leaned in, his voice a deep vibration that seemed to echo in your very bones. "Ye hayaa hai ya sirf dikhava," he murmured, his breath warm against your cheek.
Your heart rate went up. Can he tell I’m nervous? Did Madam Bi tell him that I’m unexperienced?
The proximity was getting too much for you. The magnetism of him, the dark energy he radiated, sent a jolt of panic through you. You flinched, stepping back instinctively, your heels catching on the bedsheets.
Iqbal’s eyes narrowed. He didn't like the retreat. In his world, people didn't move away from him, they moved for him.
His hand shot out to grab the side of your head, prompting you to look at him. A soft whimper left your lips at his grip and your eyes had finally met his gaze directly. His fingers started slowly intertwining within your hair, his gaze analyzing every twitch of your face.
“Koi masla?”, he asked very softly, his eyebrows furrowed together.
“N-nahi”, you tried to answer but all you could do was stutter it out.
I don't think he knows, you thought to yourself.
Without another second, he plunged right into your neck, his nose and beard grazing at the most sensitive part of your side neck. All he could smell was the jasmine oil you spread on your body. Realizing that, he took a small bite, his lips a foreign sensation on you. You yelped at his sudden intrusion. The pain triggering instant panic inside you and you quickly jerked away from his face, causing you to slam backwards against the nightstand beside the bed. Your hands catching yourself by gripping the edge of the table.
Your breathing started going up.
Before you could blink, his hand shifted and grabbed the side of your head. The patience he had shown in the first few seconds vanished, replaced by an abrupt, sharp hunger.
His fingers tightened around your head, gripping the thick curls at the nape of your neck and yanking your head back with a sharp, sudden force.
A small gasp escaped your lips, your neck arching, your chest thrusting forward against the red of your kameez. You were forced to look up into those dark, merciless eyes.
"Kyaa hua? Sharma rahi ho?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave, dripping with a dark, mocking amusement that didn't need volume to be intimidating. You could tell he was becoming restless.
Your heart was hammering so hard you thought it might burst through your ribs. Each millisecond you kept quiet, his fingers pulled harder at your hair causing a sharp pain to shoot in your skull. He was waiting for an answer to what you did.
You trembled under his grip, your voice coming out in a fragile, broken whisper. "Wo... bas... main... main kabhi kisi admi ke saath nahi leti." You let out abruptly.
The silence that followed was revealing. You saw the moment the words registered. His pupils dilated, his gaze dropping to the swell of your breasts and then back to your terrified, innocent eyes. The revelation of your virginity didn't make him soften, it actually did the opposite. It sparked something primal in him. The idea of being the first, the only, to break that seal of innocence turned his desire into something violent.
A dark, evil smirk touched his lips causing his gold tooth to shine under the dim light, one of his eyebrows raising. "sach?" he whispered, his grip on your hair tightening just enough to keep you pinned. "Tumhare liye... yeh pehli baar hai?"
You nod slightly, hoping that perhaps he would let you go since he probably preferred more experienced women.
Right. Right? Well, it couldn't be further from the truth.
The air in the room became thick, saturated with the scent of his cigar and the buzz of a man who had just found a prize he didn’t expect. Iqbal didn’t let go of your hair, instead, he stepped closer, his massive frame eclipsing the light, swallowing you whole in his shadow.
“Toh yeh baat thi.” The words sounding like a sentence rather than a question. "Madam Bi ne ye baat mujse chupaye”, he says ever so slowly.
He released your hair but Iqbal didn’t move. He didn’t offer a comforting word or a gentle touch to soothe the trembling of your shoulders. Instead, he stepped back slowly and moved toward the heavy mahogany chair positioned in the edge of the room. He sat, leaning back with ease. He sprawled his legs wide, his polished boots clicking against the floor, occupying the space with an arrogance that demanded submission. He took one last drag of his cigar, the ember glowing a fierce, hungry red, before crushing the butt into a crystal tray on the side table.
His eyes never left you. They traced the line of your thin throat, the frantic pulse jumping in your neck, and the way the red fabric of your kameez clung to your shivering form. To a man like Iqbal, innocence wasn’t something to be cherished, it was something to manipulate.
"Pas aao," he commanded, raising his fingers to flicker you to come.
You took a small step forward, your bare feet feeling the coldness of the floor. You stopped a few feet away, your hands twisting the fabric of your dress.
"Kapare utaro," he ordered.
What..
The command was flat, devoid of any request. You froze. The thought of standing there, completely exposed under that clinical, dark gaze, sent a surge of unease through you. You had spent hours preparing, scrubbing every inch of your skin to prepare for him, but now that the moment had arrived, the vulnerability felt like a physical weight crushing your lungs.
"M-major sahab... main... ple-..." you whispered, your voice cracking. You didn't even know what you were asking for, mercy, patience, or for him to simply stop. All you knew was that you didn't want to be here, didn't want to be standing in front of a man presented like an object.
Iqbal’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, the hesitation seemed to irritate him. He didn't like the word please when it was used as a plea for hesitation. He liked the word yes.
He stood up.
The movement was so sudden you gasped, stepping back, but he was faster. He closed the distance in two strides, his massive 6’2 frame looming over you like a storm cloud. His index finger came up and hooked the neckline of your kameez. He pulled the fabric toward him, allowing him to effortlessly take a look at your cleavage, right between your breasts. As if he was inspecting something.
It was a brutal invasion of privacy, but alas you couldn't do anything about it.
Before you could utter another word, his whole hand moved, gripping the front of your sheer red kameez with a hard force and pulled. You let out a sharp cry as you felt the fabric strain and then, rip, the sound of silk tearing echoed through the silent room. The garment was shredded down the center, exposing the delicate net of your lingerie and the trembling, cream-colored skin of your chest.
The fabric was now discarded in the ground, all torn.
"N-nahi... please, thoda aaram se," you whimpered, one of your hands coming up to instinctively cover yourself, and your other hand brushing against his hard chest. The cool air hit your damp skin, making your nipples harden instantly, a traitorous reaction to the terror.
Shame was the only thing you could feel in that moment.
"Main ne kaha tha, utaro," he murmured, his voice dangerous. "Lekin tumne meri baat nahi suni."
You tried to pull away, your arm crossing even tighter over your breasts, trying to shield yourself from the intensity of his stare. You felt small, exposed, and utterly powerless.
"M- mujhe daar lag raha tha” was the only thing you could spit out. Your eyes welling up with tears now.
“Darr bohot kuch sikhata hai,” he countered, his voice devoid of warmth. "Aur jab tum dene mein itni hichkichati ho... toh phir tumhein lena seekhna padega."
Before you could recoil, his hand clamped around your wrist with a grip of iron. He didn't move your hand, he forced it with all his might. He yanked your arm down, pressing your palm firmly against the heavy, warm bulge beneath the fabric of his khaki shalwar.
You gasped, your eyes widening. Even through the fabric, you could feel the incredible size of him, the pulsing heat of his arousal, the length of him. He was hard, stony and demanding.
"Dekho," he commanded, his other hand gripping the back of your neck to keep you pinned against him. "Mehsoos karo. Ek mard ko aish dena itna mushkil kaam nahi."
He began to move your hand in a slow, rhythmic stroke. He wasn't letting you touch him out of desire, he was forcing you to acknowledge the power dynamic he held. Your fingers were small, shaking, and forced to wrap around the length of him. He liked that, not to mention how good it felt.
"Is kamre mein tumhari haya ki qeemat main pehle hi ada kar chuka hoon. Aaj raat se subah hone tak... tumhara har hissa, katra dar katra, meri malkiyat hai." He had a devious look to him now.
As he forced your hand to stroke him again, harder this time, you felt the first spark of something terrifying. You were being broken, piece by piece, and the most frightening part was that as he held you there, shredded and shaking, you could feel yourself sinking into his dark gravity.
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆
The sound of the rain outside had shifted from a melodic patter to a continuous drumming, as if the sky itself were trying to break through the roof to witness the dismantling of your innocence.
Iqbal didn’t care for your tears. To him, tears were merely a lubricant, a sign that the spirit was breaking and the body was finally becoming malleable. He watched the way your chest heaved, the deep line of your cleavage pulsing, the way your small, trembling hand was forced to grip the rigid heat of him. He liked the contrast, your porcelain fragility against his weathered strength.
"Kaampna band karo," he commanded, though he made no move to soothe you. "Yeh mujhe bezaar karta hai."
But you couldn't help it. You were so immersed in stroking him so that he wouldn’t punish you further, making sure you kept an even pace.
But he had different plans.
With a sudden, brutal movement, he yanked your wrist away from his length, and his hand hooked under your arm not to hold you but to fling you backward. You got pushed back, your heels catching on the heavy velvet rug, and you landed hard on the plush velvet rug with a muffled thud. Your whole body rebounding against the impact. Before you could even gasp for air, he was standing above you.
You tried scrambling back with your elbows but his arms grabbed your ankles and pushed you towards him, his ankle locking with yours, giving you slight carpet burns on your back. He wanted to examine your fleshed out body against the candle light.
With you immobilized, he took his time penetrating you with his stare from the tip of your head all the way to the bottom. You had slight tears falling down your cheeks, your face writhed in anger at him. But he enjoyed watching you squirm on the carpet, your defiance useless. He noticed the net lingerie closely now, fixating on the dark nipples protruding through the bra. Then slowly, his gaze swept over your stomach then-
Surprisingly, you managed to break free from his possession by shifting your ankle and quickly stood up, having your back facing him now. You were so desperate now, running to reach the door.
But Major Iqbal having years of training, walked barely two steps before he abruptly pulled you flush against him. One arm locking your across neck, the other running through your lower abdomen, his hold slowly squeezing your body to the point of pain. A small wince came out of you.
You amused him so much, despite all he did to you.
“Arey kaha bhag rahi ho”, he groaned against your ear. He pushed your ass entirely flat against his member, the line between your cheeks fitting perfectly against his bulge. Iqbal’s chest was a wall of granite against your back, his heat seeping through your exposed skin. “Itni sharat kyun?” he asked deviously. His hand on your abdomen slowly reached lower.
Everything in you wanted to rebel, to bite his arm on your neck but the way his hand snaked even lower down made you forget any train of thought. His touch so warm and hot against your skin, you craved for this touch in the depths of your fantasies.
His finger finally reached the seam of your panties, his mouth now buried in the border between your neck and shoulder, pressing and sucking hard kisses across so very slowly. You leaned your head back on his chest, a whimper leaving you as he pushed his index finger beneath the net, feeling nothing but warm skin at the top of your flesh. The sudden contact of his rough fingertips against your most intimate skin made your toes curl into the velvet rug.
He paused and opened his eyes surprised, his fingers splaying across the smooth, hairless expanse of your mound. A low hum vibrated in his throat, not of disappointment, but of a wicked curiosity. He was used to the natural coarse growth of the women of Lyari, but this, this pristine, bald smoothness, was a rarity to him. It felt like an invitation.
"Itni safai..." he murmured, his voice a rough caress against your ear.
He leaned his head over with you still caged around him and checked inside your panty to reaffirm, his fingers pulling at the edge and seeing nothing but bare brown skin, coupled with a few minor cuts from a blade he assumed.
He nuzzled back against the side of your neck, ”Inti intizam kiye hai humare liye” he said, teasing at your preparedness.
You flushed with embarrassment and shame all at once, you couldn't believe he was checking you for hair. So shameless you thought, a man had never spoken to you this way. You tried to turn your face away so he couldn't see the shock you held, but he was already watching your face express all those emotions from a few seconds ago.
Slowly, deliberately, he slid one finger past the edge of your lace, pushing through the narrow opening of your folds. His finger running down your slit, ensuring not to spread your lips yet.
Your head started swimming, the shame you felt moments ago beginning to melt into a terrifying haze. As he ran his finger up and down your slit, his mouth found the sensitive junction of your back, sucking a deep, bruising mark into your skin.
You let out a sharp, broken gasp, your back arching instinctively against his hard bulge. You had never been touched here, not by anyone. The intrusion was sudden and heavy, but as he slid down even further against your slit, he felt a surprising surge of moisture meeting him. Despite your fear, your body was betraying you, opening for him with a desperation you never felt before.
Iqbal felt it. He felt the slick, hot fluid of your arousal staining his finger.
“Bahar itni sharam... aur andar itni garmi. Tumhe pasand aa raha hai, hai na?”
His deep voice broke you out of your trance, your eyes splitting open wide, alarm beginning to set again.
“Choriye mujhe…”, you plead as you begin thrashing against him, using your nails to dig in and push his arms off you. “Mujhe nahi pasand yeh” you cry out as you use all your might to break free, pushing your body against him repeatedly.
But he wasn't letting go, his arms still locked in even harder than before, your rebelliousness rushing blood southward even more, the bulge becoming even more prominent. You felt it, pausing suddenly. His length felt as if it was straining to plunge inside you.
But Iqbal instantly turned you around, spinning you in his arms until you were facing him. His hands gripping tightly around your wrists. You could tell his patience was wearing thin.
“Mera sabr aur mat aazmao”, he warned in a dark tone.
Without wasting another second, he grabbed behind your knees, lifting you up in his arms princess style. But it wasn't gentle like you imagined in movies, he moved towards the bed and threw you right down on the mattress, causing you to go flying. Your breasts bouncing against the impact.
You looked up at him now, his pupils fully blown dark behind his glasses. All you could sense was the immense lust and hunger that was looming over him.
Oh no, it's starting.
Instantly, he lunged right at you. His massive frame pinned you into the mattress, the sheer weight of his body crushing the breath from your lung as he hovered over you. The scent of sandalwood and tobacco became a suffocating cloud. You tried to scramble backward, your hands searching for purchase on the sheets, but his hand came around your throat with a grip that threatened to snap the bone, causing you to choke.
"Major Sahab... please... maine kahbi yeh nahi-" your voice straining, your hands clawing at his to stop this brutality.
"Main jaanta hoon tumne aaj tak kya nahi kiya," he interrupted, his voice a low, dangerous rumble against your ear. "Isi liye tum yahan ho.”
His other hand, calloused and heavy, didn't waste time. He began to grope you with a controlling desire, his palms crushing your breasts through the thin net of your bra, squeezing with a force that bordered on bruising. He wanted to mold your soft flesh to his liking, to mend it to his wants.
He descended on your neck, his mouth kissing and sucking a deep, dark mark into the area right under your ear, his teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you let out choked sobs. You tried to push him away, but he locked your wrists above your head with one hand, pinning them to the pillow.
With his hand gone from your throat, you immediately took a deep breath, finally taking in oxygen. He smirked against your neck at your desperation.
So evil.
He didn't use his hands to undress you further, he used his teeth. He leaned down, his mouth finding the sensitive curve where your shoulder met your neck, and bit down- hard. You let out a sharp, piercing shriek that echoed through the silent kotha, a sound of pure shock and pain. The mark he left was deep, a dark purple brand that stung your body long before the act even began.
You fought. You kicked your legs, your heels drumming against his muscular thighs, your head thrashing against the pillow. But fighting Major Iqbal was like fighting the tide, it only made the waves crash harder.
"Mujhe…. choriye.. abhi!" you sobbed, your voice cracking.
With a violent jerk, he hooked his thumb into the center of your bra and pulled it in half, the metal hooks in the back leaving marks. The sound of net snapping echoed in the room, leaving your breasts exposed to the cool air and his searing gaze. He looked at the way your nipples hardened and strained against your chest. He didn't pause, his mouth descending to capture a nipple, sucking it hard into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the peak until you let out a broken sob of pain.
"Sshhh... rona nahi. Abhi shuruat hai," he whispered, his eyes dark with a sadistic kind of lust.
With a plop, removing his mouth from your breast, he reached down, his hand gripping the waistband of your panties and sliding them down your legs with one effortless motion, tossing them aside. You felt completely naked, stripped of everything but your fear. He looked at you- really looked at you, his gaze sweeping all the way down now and a smug grin played on his lips.
You felt the cold air hit your skin for a fraction of a second before both his rough, calloused palms slammed against your thigh, prying you open, your knees on either side of you. The stretch stung your pelvis, you have never been in this position, so wide and exposed. You felt the sudden, intrusive pressure of his fingers slowly sliding down your slit, his index and middle finger parting your folds. This time without your permission, more warm, clear slick liquid flowed out of you.
Iqbal was pleased, even though you desperately wanted to bury your face into the pillows.
His middle finger started running circles around your clit, watching you squirm. Without looking down, he tried sliding further downward to your hole, but his eyebrows furrowed, taken aback he couldn't find it with ease like he usually does. He looked down at your flesh and realized how small you were. Your hole was barely visible, barely having an opening.
Yet he still reached down, his large, rough finger sliding against your wetness until he dipped just the tip of his finger in, circling it around to loosen it. And then, without warning, he forced one finger inside despite the size.
A sharp scream left your lips as he pushed it inside. You weren't ready, the opening was too tight, the seal of your virginity acting as a barrier he had no intention of respecting.
"Aah! Major sahab! Boht dard ho raha hai! Rukiye...!" you cried out, your hips jerking upward, trying to escape the intrusion. But he leaned his full weight into you, crushing you into the mattress.
Iqbal didn’t stop. He leaned down, his lips brushing your ear, his voice a cold, hot contrast. "Dard toh hoga, jaan. Tumhari jagah itni choti hai", he said in a mocking, teasing tone, dripping with amusement.
He didn't give you time to process the terror any further. He added a second finger, stretching you brutally, the pressure feeling like you were being split in half. He moved them in a slow, rhythmic stretch, forcing your body to accommodate him, ignoring your whimpers and the way you sobbed into the open air, unable to do anything.
"Ab hilna mat," he growled, his eyes flashing with a dark, obsessive hunger.
He didn't wait for you to be ready. He didn't care if you were shaking or if your eyes were clouded with terror. He reached down, pulling his shalwar down with a clinical speed, just enough for his length to spring out from his boxers. But he didn't bother to take off his kurta or jacket, he wanted the contrast with you nude and bare and him fully clothed.
You gasped in horror. Your eyes finally met his cock. A mere full 8.5 inches, pulsing with a frantic rhythm, beads of his pre-cum swelling from his wide brown tip. His veins protruding in all directions down his member, with dark, curly hair dusted at the top. He was hairy but well trimmed, like his beard.
But it was big, too big for your liking.
How can something like that even fit inside me, he could barely fit a finger inside.
His eyes met your gaze, seeing the sheer terror written in your face watching his dick. While staring right at you, he took his cock in his hands and started stroking it up and down so vigorously that he let out a subtle groan himself. He was preparing.
He shifted his weight now, his massive, rigid length pressing against your thigh, the heat of him scorching as he loomed over, forcing you to look right at him. He gripped your waist, his fingers digging into your hips, anchoring you to the bed.
And then you felt it- the blunt, searing heat of him pressing against your clit.
You squeezed your eyes shut, a sob racking your frame. "please… thora aram se..."
Iqbal’s jaw tightened. The plea for slowness was an insult to the urgency roaring in his blood. He wanted the friction, he wanted the resistance. He wanted to feel the exact moment your body gave up and accepted him.
He held his cock and started to tap repeatedly against your bundle of nerves, causing even more slick to drip out down your cunt. He wanted you to be well-prepared for him because of your size, trying to ensure you were lubricated enough to take all of him. After all, the difference between his cock and your virgin hole was staggering, even he knew that.
Once he was thought it sufficed, he gripped your hips and he lowered his mouth and took one long stripe of your flesh with his hot tongue, a jolt of electricity shot through your spine, forcing a broken moan from your lips. For a fleeting second, the terror was eclipsed by a searing, forbidden pleasure. The taste of you was so ravenous, he dove again and this time pushed his tongue in your entrance as far as he could go, making sure your thighs were spread even more.
You trembled beneath him, your thighs quivering against his calloused palms. Looking up at the monolithic man above you, the sheer scale of him felt impossible. Your gaze flickered down to where his rigid length rested, then back to his dark, predatory eyes at your flesh.
"Yeh... yeh andar kaise ayega? Main phat jaoongi (ill tear)..", you whimpered, your voice trembling with uncertainty.
Iqbal paused, his gaze dropping to the tight, glistening seam of your virginity. A slow, cruel smirk curved his lips. He didn't offer no comfort, he offered a command.
"Tum le lo gi," he rumbled, his voice a low vibration that seemed to rattle your very bones. "Bas chup chap maze lo”, effectively shutting you up.
He didn't give you a chance to breathe. He shifted his grip, his fingers digging into your hip bones with enough force to leave marks, anchoring you firmly into the mattress, his knees pushing your thighs out again, making sure your knees were as far apart as possible. He positioned the broad, searing head of his cock against your entrance, the blunt heat of him stretching the opening even before he moved.
With a sudden, guttural grunt, he plunged forward.
A scream tore from your throat, a vulnerable sound of pain and rupture. The sensation was an explosion of pressure, a feeling of being stabbed inside. Your toes curled inwards, your fingers clawing uselessly at the sheets, your breath hitching in a series of broken, jagged gasp.
Outside, zoya and meher heard your shrieks and knew exactly what was going on. They quietly looked at each other and let out tiny giggles.
The impact was violent. He drove inward with a powerful, unchecked thrust, but he didn't slide in.
He hit a wall.
The tight, stubborn seal of your hymen acted as a barrier, stopping his massive girth halfway. He was stuck, the friction of his thick head pressing against your narrow walls creating a pressure that felt like you were being split open from the inside.
Iqbal let out a sharp, frustrated groan, his muscles locking as he felt the resistance. He didn't pull back to ease the pain, he leaned into it, his jaw flexing with a sudden, raw intensity.
"Kaisi zidd hai..." he hissed, his eyes darkening.
Without warning, he braced his weight on his elbows and slammed his hips forward with a brutal, singular force.
A piercing shriek ripped from your throat, your back arching violently off the bed. You felt a sudden, searing pop, a sensation of something tearing, a sharp flash of white-hot pain that blinded you. The barrier broke.
He didn't stop. He used the momentum of the break to drive the rest of his length home, burying himself deep into your untapped depths with a heavy, wet thud, his shalwar adding additional friction against your inner thighs. The force of the impact knocked the air from your lungs, leaving you gasping and sobbing under the crushing weight of him.
As he settled, a slow, warm trickle of blood began to seep from the junction of your bodies, staining the white sheets of the bed in a crimson bloom. You felt stretched to your absolute limit, your insides screaming at the intrusion of something so immense.
Iqbal stayed still for a moment, his chest heaving, a look of satisfaction crossing his face as he felt the tight, hot grip of your virgin walls clamping around him. He looked down at the blood mixing with the slickness of your arousal, a dark glint of possessiveness in his eyes.
"Ab chillao," he whispered, his voice dripping with a dangerous, dominant heat.
He began to move, hard, rhythmic, and merciless. Each thrust was a hammer blow, driving the air from your lungs and replacing it with the scent of his dominance. It wasn't making love, it was hardcore fucking. His length came out all the way til the edge of his tip touched the outside of your entrance before drilling it back all the way back in to your cervix, his balls slapping against the end of your cunt, his pubic hair grazing the top of your cunt.
The room had become a blur of amber light and suffocating heat, mixed with the scent of copper from your blood and slick arousal.
His heavy hips slamming against you with a wet, rhythmic thud that echoed through the room, making the bed frame groan and the headboard bang against the wall. The filthy sounds of skin slapping against skin was the only thing ringing in your ears. He didn't glide smoothly like you expected, he hammered into you. Each thrust was a jagged intrusion that pushed you further into the mattress, your breath leaving you in broken, unintelligible whimpers.
You shook your head, your eyes squeezed shut, refusing to see the man who was breaking you.
He wasn't looking at your face anymore, he was focused on the friction, the way your tight, virgin walls clung to him in a desperate, involuntary grip. He was rutting like an animal, his movements savage and needy. He didn't care that you were sobbing, that your hands were clawing at the sheets in a blind attempt to find leverage. To him, pain and pleasure were the same thing.
Minutes bled into a haze. The physical intensity became so overwhelming that the world began to slip away from you. You felt your consciousness fraying at the edges, a sudden sense of dissociation washing over you. You felt as though she were floating somewhere near the ceiling, watching a girl beneath be broken by a man made of stone. The screams felt like they belonged to someone else, the searing heat in your core becoming a distant, pulsing throb.
You wondered what you would be doing if you were back at home, with your mother. Your started eyes glazing over, staring blankly at the canopy of the bed.
But then, Iqbal shifted.
He felt the friction, but he wanted more, he wanted to break you completely. He felt that you were too tight, your body fighting him even in your stupor. So he needed to find the exact point where your resistance broke into ecstasy. He paused, his breathing heavy and ragged, and leaned back slightly to look between his cock and to where you were connected. He saw the way his thick girth was buried deep, the way your flesh was stretched white and taut around him. With a sudden grunt, he reached down and gripped your ass, his large fingers digging into your plush soft cheeks. With a powerful heave, he hoisted your hips higher, tilting your pelvis at a steep, punishing angle. The change in position caused his length to angle sharply, driving his head directly into the sensitive ceiling of your vagina.
The shift changed everything.
The head of his cock slammed directly into your g-spot with the force of a piston.
An even louder shriek tore from your throat because of a sudden, violent electricity that shocked you back into your body. The dissociation snapped. You were back, and the pleasure was so intense it felt like a violation.
"Yahan... hai na?" he hissed, his eyes flashing with a wicked triumph. He didn't let up. He locked his rhythm right there, hitting that spot with every single plunge. Your ass resting on his muscled thighs now. He started rutting in you faster, his movements becoming harder more frantic.
The friction became an inferno. Your internal walls were pulsing, clamping around him in waves of unwanted, overwhelming need. You felt the pressure build, a sensation that you couldn't escape. You were sobbing, your head thrashing from side to side, your voice gone, reduced to stripped wails that filled the kotha.
He felt your peak approaching, the moment your consciousness would shatter. But Iqbal wasn't a man who gave gifts without taking a toll first.
Just as you felt the first wave of the orgasm crash over you, he didn't pull back or slow down. Instead, he locked his arms on either side of your head, pinning you with the full, suffocating weight of his muscular frame.
“Abhi nahi..." he growled, his voice a dark command. You just wanted to release, all the build-up now gone with him pausing.
Then, he shifted his weight, grinding his hips in a slow, agonizing circle, rotating his thick head against your overstimulated g-spot. He used his thumb, pressing it firmly against your clitoris, pinning the swollen nerve against the base of his shaft. He began to apply a rhythmic, pulsing pressure, fast, then slow, then a hard, crushing squeeze.
The contradiction was too much. The blunt fullness inside and the sharp, pinpoint friction outside collided. You felt a surge of heat shoot from your core to your fingertips, your vision blurring as the orgasm hit you not as a landslide.
You moaned, your body snapping taut like a bowstring, your internal muscles clamping around him in a series of violent, rhythmic contractions that squeezed him with a strength that almost made him twitch. Your hips jerked upward instinctively, trying to chase the peak, your voice dissolving into a sob of pure, unfiltered ecstasy.
But as the peak began to plateau, you realized he hadn't moved. He was still there, buried deep, his expression one of feline observation.
He hasn't climaxed yet.
Then, without warning, he began to move again.
He didn't give you a second to breathe or recover. He slammed back into you with a force that felt like a collision, his rhythm turning frantic and relentless. You were already raw, your nerves frayed and screaming from the climax, and now he was drilling into you again while you were still pulsing.
"B- bas... bohut zyada ho raha hai!" you wailed, your voice sounding distant even to yourself.
The pleasure had crossed back over into a searing, overstimulating heat. Every thrust felt like a bolt of lightning hitting a wet wire. You began to thrash beneath him, your legs kicking out, your hands pushing uselessly against his granite-hard chest. You were overstimulated, your body shaking in a state of sensory overload where every touch felt like a burn.
Iqbal didn't stop. He loved the chaos of it, the way you were fighting for air beneath him. He gripped your wrists tightly, acting as shackles. With the other hand, he gripped your jaw, forcing you to look at him, to see the dark, focus in his eyes.
"Sabar karo, abhi bohot kuch aage hai" he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.
He accelerated, his movements becoming a blur of power. His teeth gritted, the muscles in his neck and shoulders cording. He was a man pushing himself to the absolute limit, his breath coming in harsh, ragged snarls.
Then, the tension in his body reached a breaking point.
A low, animalistic sound ripped from his throat. He lunged forward one last time, burying himself so deep he felt your cervix yield, and he locked his hips against yours, pinning you to the bed with the full, crushing weight of his body.
A tremor racked his entire frame as he unloaded into you. He filled you with his hot, pulsing seed, painting your womb white, his release as powerful and uncompromising as the man himself. His thrusts now lazy and slow to pump out all remaining semen, his chest heaving against yours pressing very slow kisses against your neck, his hands groping your breasts. The silence of the room finally returned, save for the sound of your broken whimpers and the distant, steady rhythm of the rain against the glass
As his length softened and your walls tightening almost painfully around him, he slowly pulled out, droplets of cum rushing out. You suddenly felt so empty as if something was yanked out of you. He laid beside you now, his palm resting on the side of his head supported by his elbow, his dark eyes staring down at the ruin he had made of your innocence. He slowly reached over with his other hand and his fingers had pushed back a stray sweaty curl out of your face...
The heat in the room was thick, tasting of iron and the heavy musk of sex.
Iqbal sat up against the headboard now. He liked the aftermath, the way the quiet was broken only by the ragged, hitching sobs of the girl who was beneath him a few moments ago. He watched you, his dark eyes tracing the way your eyes remained glazed, staring at a ceiling you no longer recognized.
Slowly, he reached for the bedside table. With a practiced flick of his lighter, the tip of a cigar glowed a menacing orange. He took a long, slow drag, the smoke curling around his sharp jawline like a shroud. As he exhaled, his gaze dropped.
A thick, pearlescent stream of his seed was beginning to leak from you, sliding down the curve of your thigh and staining the ruined white sheets. A flicker of possessiveness hit him. He didn't want it leaving you. Not yet. Without a word, he reached down. His thick finger pressed firmly against your opening, sliding the finger deep inside you, pushing the pooling cream back into your depths with a slow shove.
You let out a breathy whimper, your hips twitching instinctively.
He withdrew his finger. He watched the way your naked body was still uncovered, the way your breasts still moved in panicked bursts. Most men would have been satisfied. Most men would have dressed and left the kotha before the sun dared to rise.
But Major Iqbal was not most men. He was a man of appetite that didn't end with a single peak. He looked at you and saw the way your flesh had molded to his, the way you were pink, raw and open, the lips still parted from where you were connected.
The hunger returned, more violent than before.
He didn't ask if you were tired, he didn't ask if the pain was too much. He simply gripped your waist and flipped you over with a jarring force, pressing your face into the mattress.
"Abhi toh raat javan hai, meri jaan," he teased, giving you the warning of what will follow…
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The next few hours became a blur of agony and forbidden heat.
He was relentless, moving you like a piece of clay, sculpting your body to fit his exactly. He pushed you to the edge of the bed, your legs draped over his shoulders as he hammered into you from above, his weight crushing the air from your lungs. He turned you onto your side, locking your legs together to make you tighter, his movements becoming slow, deep, and agonizingly precise, filling every corner of you until you forgot where your body ended and his began.
Every time you thought you had reached the limit of what you could endure, every time you begged for a moment of air or a second of peace, he would find a new way to break you. He would grip your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat to his teeth, or pin your wrists above your head, reminding you that in this room, your only purpose was to take him.
He took his time, exploring the geography of your surrender. He would spend an hour just tasting the skin of your thighs, only to spend the next two jamming his manhood into you with a ferocity that made the bedframe scream against the wall. He cummed into you again and again, filling you until you felt heavy with him, your insides pulsing in a state of permanent, overstimulated shock.
The room became a sanctuary of sin, the only light provided by the dying embers of his cigars, melted candles and the occasional flash of lightning from the storm outside.
By the time the clock on the wall ticked toward 4:00 AM, the rain had slowed to a rhythmic drip.
Iqbal finally collapsed beside you, his skin glistening with sweat, his muscles finally slack. Not one whisper of sweet words was uttered to you after hours of your breaking. He just stayed there, the predator sated for the moment, watching as you lay beside him, shaking, ruined, and irrevocably marked.
He reached out, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek with a touch that was almost tender, though his eyes remained as cold and commanding as the day he arrived.
He had taken what he wanted. And you knew that the simple arrangement of the kotha had instead became something that you could never erase from your memory.
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The room, once filled with the unforgiving symphony of skin hitting skin and broken gasps, now felt suffocably still.
Iqbal finally took off from the bed, the muscles of his back rippling like corded steel in the amber light. He didn’t look back at the ruin of the sheets, he instead began to adjust his clothing, his uniform, managing his cuffs, fixing his watch, making sure he looked befitting as a Major again, his movements efficient and cold, the soldier returning to his skin.
As he stood over you, you felt tinier than you ever had in your life. You quickly brought the blanket to cover your nude body and take back some dignity that was practically erased by him.
Iqbal reached into his pocket and pulled out several crisp banknotes. He leaned over, placing 5,000 rupees on the nightstand, way more than what Madam Bi agreed to. His fingers brushed your arm, a touch that sent a jolt of terrified longing through you.
"Tumhara inam," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration.
As he moved to leave, you noticed him place something else beside the money: a small, foil-wrapped blister pack.
Plan B.
The sight of the pill triggered a sudden, sharp spike of panic in your chest. You were nineteen, you had kept away from the gritty realities of the other girls. The concept of "preventing" a pregnancy was a theory you barely were taught, but the image of a child, a miniature version of this man, suddenly flashed before your eyes. You imagined a life where you weren't a prostitute anymore, but a secret mistress, bound to him by a child you couldn't afford to raise in a world that viewed you as disposable.
A small sob escaped your throat.
Iqbal paused, he didn't turn around fully, but his voice sliced through the dark, commanding and certain. "Kha lena," he ordered.
He finally leaned down to press a firm kiss to your forehead. It wasn't tender, not in the way a lover's kiss was, but it was possessive. It was the kind of kiss a king gave a subject he found amusing.
"Tum ne kitne acchi se liya hai aaj," he whispered, his eyes half-lidden now, the words dripping with a dark, hot approval that made your toes curl despite the pain.
He straightened up, his silhouette blotting out the light from the candles. He paused, his dark eyes scanning your trembling form one last time.
The predator had found a prey he actually liked the taste of.
"Is raat ki baad, koi aur mard ab tumhe choo ga nahi" he stated while checking his watch, his tone shifting into something absolute, "sirf main aounga, Madam Bi se baath kar loonga."
It wasn't no request, it was an absolute order. He had claimed the turf, and Major Iqbal did not share his land.
As he finally reached the door, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. A slow, mocking smirk played on his lips, a flash of the man who enjoyed the hunt as much as the kill.
"Aur haan," he teased, his voice dripping with a cruel, playful heat, "agli baar... apni safai mat karna."
With a final look that promised more violence and more pleasure, he stepped out into the corridor. The heavy thud of the door closing echoed like a gavel.
You lay there in the dark, the silence of the room rushing back in. You looked at the money, then at the pill, and finally at the space where he had been. You should have felt violated. You should have felt terrified. But as you felt the cooling slickness of him inside you, a traitorous warmth began to bloom in your chest.
You may have started as just a girl in a kotha, but now you were the only thing in Lyari that had managed to make the Major Iqbal come back.
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To be continued....
xx Nurya
btw i dont support relationships like these nor do i romanticize the real iqbal and his dynamics, pls stay away from men like that!
Synopsis: In Lyari, everyone knows Major Iqbal's name. They know the power he commands and the fear he instills. Men obey him while women admire him from afar. He's untouchable and unreachable. For a man who had no use for marriage, desire was still a debt the body demanded be paid. It is bought, used, forgotten, and left behind before dawn. Just another transaction, another closed door, another face he never intends to see twice after sunrise.
Until one transaction quietly becomes another. And another.
Night after night, he returns to the same kotha. To the same room. To the same bed.
The same girl…
Some stories begin with love.
This one begins with a sin.
Inspired by this edit by cutie @wtafananya [He looks like the type of person to like it raw]
Content Warnings: 18+, mature content!!! CNC, dub con, virgin reader, power dynamic, rape, age gap. Not suitable for minors!
a/n: Hi loviess this is my first ever fan fic, although i LOVE reading major iqbal fluffy and domestic fics I rlly wanted to read abt movie canon iqbal where hes just dark, dominant and not to mention so mysterious. I'm planning on making this a few chapters long, it depends on how u guys are liking it and whether u want to see more. I just hope you guys enjoy and pleaseee let me know how u like itt, dont be afraid to comment it only makes my work better for yall. Consider this a gift to all my Iqbal fan girls, ur not alone and i deff see youuu <33
There is a kind of hunger that does not announce itself, it arrives with heat. A kind of heat that’s low and persistent like the way embers stay alive and glow under ash for days before anyone notices. If further fuel is added, the embers can spark a fire so wild and blazing that it becomes hard to even ignore the slightest. And until water is used to extinguish it, who knows what it may burn in its path.
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Major Iqbal was a man who was highly decorated with medals and stars from his years of warfare. Men everywhere spoke his name with both fear and reverence, for it is he who commands and rules over both the underground mafia of Karachi and the Government of Pakistan. Being the head of ISI , there was no one more terrifying and brutal than Iqbal. He was merciless, unforgiving, and ruthless if anything or anyone got in his way. His men cowered in terror, keeping their heads low and paying their respects every time he walked in. Because if someone even gave him the wrong look, you can never know when it would be the last day they were seen alive.
Through his extensive time of being a part of ISI in the chain of command, Major Iqbal had learned to manage many things: pain, threats, betrayal. The deathly silence of a room after a decision was made that would unmake other men's lives, watching the spies he tortured finally succumbing to their wounds all bloody with decay. He had spent years mastering the discipline of deprivation. Sleep became optional. Mercy became unavailable. Guilt became a language he no longer remembered. Every instinct and need that made a man ordinary had been suppressed into silence until only his control remained.
Or so he believed.
Desire was an inconvenient thing.
It was as inevitable as hunger, as instinctive as breathing. No battlefield could prepare him for the wars that unwrapped in the quiet hours after midnight. When Lyari was nothing but an oasis of glimmering stars in the night sky and a barren desert on land. When the call to evening prayer had long since subsided. When nothing remained except the buzzing sound of crickets.
After all, he was still a man.
There were nights in Lyari when the heat was physical. When air itself pressed against his skin that made the wanting underneath more violent.
Because underneath- God, underneath….
He had needs.
Sinful ones.
One that reminded him what pressed beneath his uniform whenever he stayed working at his desk during the sinister late hours of the night, smoking a Cuban cigar while pouring hard whisky down his throat. Even in the most inconvenient of hours, his drive reminded him that he was not stone.
He was flesh.
And flesh, in the end, always finds its way to heat.
He wasn't married. It was quite surprising to the public that Major Iqbal had never taken a wife. And it wasn't because he lacked any opportunity - only God knows how many women across Pakistan admired him, a few even loved him- but because marriage required permanence, and with the life he leads, he long ago abandoned the idea of a wife waiting behind the doors of his haveli. That version of him who would be happy laughing over evening chai with someone was long since buried. His work never allowed enough presence to handle his affairs at home, let alone a whole woman who would forever be in his possession. He simply refused and saw no need to get married and be tied down to one woman.
Major Iqbal had however taken lovers over the years, women who were willing to accept his corrupt, twisted self and to satisfy his voracious appetite, no matter how short the duration of their relationship was. Even for a few nights, some women were grateful that they even got the chance to be around him. He had that charisma to him, one that came naturally that other men could not replicate. But it wasn't as if they were treated horribly, he was still quite the gentleman. He would buy them expensive gifts, sometimes gold jewelry, foreign imported shoes or even an apartment to live in. After all, he had some heavy pockets. But in the end, he didn't care enough to keep them in his possession for long. He would take whatever they would give him and move onto the next.
Despite that, women everywhere spoke of him differently.
Some had only caught glimpses. A black luxury SUV disappearing into the night, polished boots pounding against broken pavement, the sharp line of his jaw flexing as he took a cigar between his lips beneath the amber glow of streetlamps. Others had watched him from grilled balconies or market stalls, stealing looks they prayed he never noticed through his aviator covered eyes.
He was quite handsome, but not in a conventional way. He was beautiful in the way that storms were beautiful - powerful, majestic and devastatingly dazzling.
Major Iqbal was a man who inspired temptation as effortlessly as he inspired fear. The kind of man people looked at twice without realizing they had done so, and each time he would always notice.
There was something unnerving about him. As if he had been sculpted with equal parts elegance and ruthlessness. It was evident with how he would be immaculately dressed with tailored suits and kurtas that would hug his well-defined body in all the right places, always composed with his dark, mystic eyes that could hypnotize someone if they stared too long. Not to mention the mystery that clung to him like expensive cologne. There was something profoundly unfair about how attractive Major Iqbal was. His face belonged in a devout prayer yet the man behind it belonged to a warning. He embodied the kind of presence that silenced and crushed the confidence of every man in the room.
But in the end, he belonged to no one, not to gossip, not to his lovers, not even to the city that whispered his name.
He was devoted to his obligations: to classified files, intelligence, politics, assassinations reports, the underground mafia, the list continues.
It was inevitable that something within him demanded something back.
Long days steeped in violence, deception, and endless restraint left behind a hollowness no amount of silence could quiet. He had long accepted that certain hungers were simply part of being a man.
And with no wife waiting behind the doors of his haveli, no marriage to soften his edges, no constant mistress, those hungers had long since found their own arrangement.
There were places in Lyari where morality was left at the door. Places where respectable men pretended never to go, yet their faces were as familiar as the worn floorboards beneath them. Places where secrets were purchased by the hour and buried beneath stacks of broken banknotes.
Where rich drunk men would linger around to have their chance at heaven for a few minutes.
Madam Bi’s kotha was that place for Iqbal.
It was the only place where he had solace, hidden behind weathered doors and neon signs.
Madam Bi’s kotha was a safe haven for the elite men of Karachi’s society, so that they could become strangers beneath the dim light, trusting that the darkness would keep their dirtiest truths hidden behind velvet curtains.
Madam Bi never asked questions when he arrived. She didn’t need to.
Men like him did not come for conversation…
When he comes, he walks through the kotha like someone carved from stone itself. Always unreadable. His broad shoulders hoisting his impeccable uniform casting long shadows on the walls. Even there, where sin was disguised as comfort, the room made space for him. The conversations lowered around him, the girls giggled softly behind their hands, even time seemed to pause. Each woman anticipated being the one to spend the night with him, until they realized what would follow. Major Iqbal was ruthless. The only remnants of his entanglement being ripped kameez’s and soaked sheets.
In the end, each night he spent with a different girl was always according to his desires, his dirty wants. You couldn't refuse him even if you wanted to…
Yet he remembered them only until he walked out the door. By sunrise, they had become indistinguishable from every woman who came before them.
It was an understanding he had made with himself years ago. That there wouldn’t be any names worth mentioning, no attachments capable of becoming weaknesses. He was there for his sole purpose of satisfying his inner need. His wants were no less human than any other man's, they were simply kept behind closed doors, where reputation could not follow.
By dawn, Major Iqbal was back to being the man everyone in Lyari feared and and the last man anyone dared question.
It was a simple arrangement.
Until, it wasn't.
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The meeting had been running for 2 hours and 45 minutes.
He knew this, even without the watch on his wrist. He always had that in him, an internal clock that always kept running inside him no matter what he was doing.
Around the table, men in suits, men in uniforms with maps and numbers took the space of Iqbal's private study. Cigarette smoke slowly hazing around each man while they all discussed different details about an upcoming strategy. But to Iqbal, it only sounded like low chatter, their voices now distant in his mind.
Rain was pattering against the window, the water droplets trickling down the seams. Outside, the sky was a blur of all shades of grey. The day had been gloomy since it started, clouds pouring down soft droplets of liquid. Each one splashing onto Lyari’s unpaven roads, washing the whole city in a layer of melancholy.
He sat at the edge of the conversation the way he always did. Present and still, saying the precise amount required and nothing beyond it. His jaw was set. His eyes moved slowly across the room, reading each and every man’s intentions from his aviators.
His cigar had burned to the filter.
He pressed it into the ashtray beside him without looking down. He reached for another in a wooden box and with a tap, draw, light, he was right back smoking a Davidoff Blanco.
He thought about tonight.
He had made a call earlier in the week to Madam Bi. Arrangements had been set in motion. There was a particular order to these things, a particular etiquette that Madam Bi has always respected and that he always appreciated about her. She was a business woman in the oldest sense: discreet, efficient and fully without judgment.
He respected that...
The meeting had finally ended at 7:45 pm.
The others filed out, ensuring they gave Major Iqbal a proper goodbye, with handshakes, final conversations and the social performance of bidding farewell. He stayed seated for an extra moment, smoking his cigar while watching the rain streak down the glass.
He finally stood, adjusting his collar and took out his phone. He stepped into the hallway corridor, a place empty and quiet with a tall glass window overlooking the city. He briefly watched the city across, it was quite gray and wet all the while starting to come alive with the particular energy of the evening, when Karachi transforms from one version into another much darker one.
He finally dialed her number. At the first ring, Madam Bi finally spoke.
“Ji Major Sahab?”.
“Intizam?” he asked. One word, he didn't need more with her.
There was a slight pause.
“Sab tayyar hai”.
Satisfied with her answer, he hung up.
He took a long drag of his cigar, watching a raindrop trace its way down the glass.
He had 3 hours.
He pocketed his phone and walked back down the corridor, his footsteps even against the floor just like a soldiers.
He was a man who knew where he was going.
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A Few Hours Earlier.
Madam’s Bi Kotha
You were sitting across the window ledge in your room, your knees tucked beneath your chin. Rain had drifted lazily down the window glass, each droplet carving its own winding path before disappearing into another. Your fingers tracing them without thought, as though following their journey might somehow quiet the unease growing inside your chest.
You knew what was coming…
The monsoon always made Lyari look softer. It hid the dust, blurred the broken buildings and washed away the dirt of the streets for a little while. From your window, the world almost looked beautiful.
Almost.
You had just turned 19, five weeks ago. It wasn't much of a celebration, there was no sweets, no laughter, not even gifts.
Birthdays meant little inside Madam Bi’s kotha. After all, it only meant you were coming closer to the day where you would need to lose your innocence to the cruel world.
Madam Bi had sheltered you from a prostitute's world for as long as she could.
Ever since you were sold here at 8 years old, she'd found ways to keep you away from the room’s downstairs, from the pre-marital beds. You swept the corridors, folded washed sheets, served tea to the other women and spent your afternoons learning to read Urdu poetry from books someone discarded years ago. You lived discreetly among the kotha’s walls without ever truly becoming part of them.
Your mother never wanted to let you go. She came from a poor village where every harvest depended on mercy from the sky, and mercy became very scarce. Some nights there wasn’t enough flour to make bread for everyone which would result in your younger siblings crying themselves to sleep while your bastard father staggered home reeking of cheap liquor.
He spent what little money your family had to chase another bottle. And when there was nothing left to sell, he found you.
The memory of that day had faded over the years. Yet you still remembered your mothers trembling hands and grieving face as she held your tiny face one last time, whispering prayers through her tears you were too young to understand. You had spent years wondering if she ever forgave herself.
Or whether she hoped you would ever forgive her…
A quiet knock broke you out of your thoughts.
The door creaked open. Madam Bi did not fully step into the room, she stayed by the door, her expression heavy with a mixture of pity and rationality. She looked at you, so very still and fragile like a piece of unglazed porcelain and sighed.
It was only a matter of time before you too had to be exposed to the real world. Living in a kotha meant a certain debt being placed on your head which could only be paid through the expense of your body. Sooner or later, every girl learned the price of the roof over her heads and the years they've been allowed to remain untouched.
“Beta, chalo utho” she said, her voice softening. “Waqt ho gaya hai”
You felt a cold shiver run down your spine, you knew about this day. Today was the day when you would start paying off your debt.
“Beti tum itni khoobsurat ho gayi ho, bilkul ek gulaab ki tarah jo bahaar aate hi khil uthta hai."
Her smile faltered slightly.
"Lekin har khilta hua phool ek din hawaon ka saamna karta hai, tum ek aurat ho aur ye din tumhara pehla shuruat hai iss dunya mein”
You lowered your eyes, she finally walked toward you and cupped your cheek with tenderness.
"Madam Bi…, lekin mujhe nah-”
"Mujhe maloom hai tum darr rahi ho, aur kaash main tumse keh sakti ke tumhein kabhi yeh din dekhna na padta”
“Lekin waqt kisi ke liye rukta nahi”.
Hearing that, it gave you no room to protest. Even though you knew this was coming, a little part of you hoped that perhaps you didn't need to do this to survive, you didn't need to sacrifice yourself for this. But alas, you accepted your fate.
“Aaj raat ek khaas insaan aa raha hai”
Your stomach tightened. “K- kaun hai woh?” you asked nervously, hoping it wouldn't be that man you've seen with the other girls. You had seen them walk into those rooms with trembling shoulders and walk out with limp legs and gold bangles that felt like shackles.
Please don't let it be him.
She hesitated only briefly.
“Major Iqbal”
The name left the room colder than it was before. Your eyes widened.
“Kya! Major Iqbal?!, Bi jaan m- meh ye nahi kar sakte” Your panic started to creep in. How can your first time be with a man like that!?
Madam Bi’s expression hardened, the business woman replacing the guardian. She gripped your chin, forcing you to look at her.
"Madam... main..." your voice trailed off, barely a whisper. "Main tayyar nahi hoon."
Madam Bi locked her eyes on you. “tayyari toh koi nahi hota, bachay. Magar yeh Major Iqbal hain. Inka intezar poora Lyari karta hai, aur aaj tumhari baari hai”.
In the kotha, the air changed when he was expected. The other girls spent hours preening themselves just so that he could be pleased with them. They painted their lips a deeper crimson and tightened their lace, their eyes glittering with a hunger for the attention of the man who ruled Karachi.
The mention of his name made your heart hammer against your ribs. You had heard the stories. You remembered the first time you saw him, from a distance, stepping out of that black SUV. He hadn't looked at anyone, yet everyone had looked at him.
"Lekin... woh bohot sakht hain" you stammered, your fingers twisting the fabric of your simple cotton kameez. "Woh to reham (mercy) bhi nahi karte, mera kya hashar karein gai?”
As if on cue, a giggle erupted from the hallway. Two of the older girls, Zoya and Meher, were leaning against the doorframe, watching your distress with mischievous grins.
"Reham?" Zoya laughed, her voice dripping with irony. "Beta, Iqbal Sahab reham nahi, sukoon dete hain... magar apne tareeqay se."
Meher leaned in, her eyes dancing. "Suna hai woh ghore (horse) ki tarah charhte hain. Ek baar pakar liya, toh chhorte nahi jab tak tumhari cheekhon se poora kotha na baar jaye."
Your face flushed a deep, burning red. The imagery, the sheer, almost violent intensity they described, sent a wave of panic through you. You were nineteen, but in the ways that mattered, you were still a child. You had never experienced something like that, not to mention you were quite clueless on how to even pleasure a man despite living in a kotha. Madam Bi protected you from all this. But the thought of that man, that mountain of a man, taking something you could never get back felt less like a transaction and more like an execution.
"Chup raho tum dono!" Madam Bi snapped.
She turned back to you, her expression becoming firm. "Suno. Darna fitrat hai, magar darna mana hai. Woh bohot sakht mard hain haan, be-reham bhi. Tumhein sirf ek baat yaad rakhni hai... unki marzi ke khilaaf kabhi mat jaana. Jo woh kahen, bas wahi karna. Phir dekhna, is sheher mein tumse zyada mehfooz koi larki nahi hogi."
She stepped toward the wardrobe, pulling out a sheer, blood-red kameez that shimmered like a deep rose. She laid it across the bed: the place where you would lose it all, you realized.
"Ab rona band karo. Nahane jao. Chambeli (jasmine) ka tail aur gulaab ka saboon istemaal karna. Aur apne jism ko teek sai dhona. Main chahti hoon ke jab woh kamray mein dakhil hon, toh unhe sirf tumhari khushbu mehoos ho aur ek narm jism mile."
But you still had one more question.
"Madam, kya... kya bohot dard hoga?" you whispered, your eyes welling up.
Madam Bi’s gaze softened for a fleeting second. She knew the answer. She knew that for a man like Iqbal, pleasure was often synonymous with pain and dominance.
"Thoda sa, bas unki baat manna," she tried her best at lying. Great, no pointers from her either.
You knew you were screwed.
"Lekin tum naram aur jawan ho, tum seh lo gi. Yahi toh maza hai. Ab jao beti”
As you walked toward the bathing area, your legs felt like lead. You could already imagine the heavy thud of polished boots in the corridor. You could imagine the scent of expensive cigars and his musk overpowering your delicate one.
Because tonight, the innocence you’ve clung to becomes a currency. Today is the day you stop being a girl of this house... and become a woman of the trade.
You were a lamb being prepared for the slaughter, and the butcher was a man who didn't know how to be gentle…
As you stepped into the steaming shower, you stood there trying to bask in the only warmth that will keep you warm tonight. The steam in the small bathing chamber becoming a thick, humid veil that stuck to the walls and blurred the view around you. You stood beneath the spray of the shower, the water scalding, nearly too hot, but you welcomed the sting. It was a distraction from the drumming of your heart against your ribs.
What if he didn't like what he saw? What if he wasn't pleased with me?
Those thoughts kept circulating in your head, gnawing at the little bit of confidence you had mustered up. It wasn't as if you didn't have a woman’s body, you were blessed with the swell of your breasts and your slim yet full curves around your waist. Your hips were wide in contrast to your tiny back. Your curly long hair wrapping around your slick body.
After all, you could only hope he would be satisfied with you.
You reached for the rose scented soap Madam Bi had insisted upon, the bar slippery and fragrant in your palm. With trembling fingers, you began to lather, the white foam contrasting against the tan hue of your skin. You scrubbed with a meticulousness born from terror, wanting to be pristine, to be void of any flaw that a msn like Major Iqbal might find distasteful.
You moved the soap over the swell of your breasts, the tips of your nipples hardening not from the cold, but from the anticipation of a touch you had only imagined in the quietest, most shameful hours of the night. As you slid the soap down the curve of your waist and over the flare of your hips, you felt the fragility of your own body. You were a vast canvas of softness, and you were about to be handed over to a man made of iron and stone.
Then, you reached for the grooming tools and the fine oil.
Your breath flickered as you stepped lower, your legs shaking. You had heard the other girls whisper about the Major’s preferences. He was a man of discipline, he liked things precise and controlled. As you carefully began to remove the course, soft hairs from your intimate areas, a wave of vulnerability crashed over you.
You worked slowly, the blade grazing your skin as precisely as you could. You wondered, with a sudden, sharp spike of anxiety, if he preferred a woman completely bald, smooth as a marble or if he liked the naturalness of a girl. Does a man like him even care? you wondered. Or will he find any stray hair an insult to his perfection?
You didnt want to risk it, so you spent an agonizing amount of time ensuring every inch of your mound was flawlessly smooth, your skin flushed pink from the friction. You wanted to be a blank canvas for him. You wanted there to be nothing between his skin and yours, no barrier, no resistance. The thought made your stomach flip, a mixture of dread and a sudden, traitorous heat pooling between your legs.
Finally, you reached for the jasmine oil. You massaged it into your limbs with slow strokes, the oil shimmering under the dim light, making your skin glow with an iridescent sheen. You smelled of crushed roses and jasmine, a scent that signaled submission to men like him.
Stepping out of the shower, you didn't dry yourself completely. You liked the way the few remaining droplets clung to your collarbones and the valley of your chest, acting like tiny dismonds against your skin.
You put on a deep red lingerie set that was simple yet all net as Madam Bi preferred, allowing him to see everything from behind a cloth.
Then, you turned to the bed.
The blood red kameez lay there, waiting for you: a garment of surrender.
You slid the kameez over your head, the sheer material clinging to your damp curves. It was so thin it felt like a second skin, leaving nothing to the imagination. As you fastened the small hooks, you looked at yourself in the mirror. The red of the dress made your skin look creamier, your lips look plumper, and your eyes wide with a desperate, haunting innocence.
With makeup, you didn't want to hide the simplicity of your natural beauty, so you went with kohl in your eyes and a simple dark crimson lipstick that resembled the shade of pomegranate seeds. Your curly hair naturally flowed, you tried to contain the chaos by brushing it and maintaining it but it wasn't managing. Defeat was accepted and you left it as it was, hoping the Major didn't mind it.
You didn't wear jewelry, Madam Bi had said the Major preferred the natural beauty of a woman's body over the artificial look of ornaments. Preferring to have nothing disturb his actions.
Finally, you were finally ready, a gift wrapped in crimson silk.
You sat on the edge of the bed, your small hands gripping the sheets, listening.
It was 10:00 pm now. The place had gone quiet, the usual chaos of the place turning into a heavy, dark silence. Madam Bi had arranged the whole kotha for Major Iqbal, ensuring no clients came today. The girls stayed in their rooms, knowing what will happen to you soon.
Tonight, the kotha left only you and him.
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆
10 minutes had passed, then 30, then 45. The restless in your heart kept thrumming, the anxious waves making you almost nauseous. When will he get here? When will this be over-
Then, you heard it.
The distant, heavy thud of leather boots hitting the wooden floorboards of the corridor. Thump. Thump. Thump.
He was here.
The sound didn't stop. It grew louder, rhythmic, echoing through the hallway until it stopped for a moment. You heard a deep, musky voice speaking indistinctly with a woman's voice, Madam Bi’s voice. They talked for a bit about who knows what. All you could focus on was the ferocious beating of your heart, your hands sweating in anticipation.
Then the sound of the footsteps started again and this time stopped directly outside your door. The silence that followed was suffocating, the kind of silence that kills you from within.
You closed your eyes, your chest heaving, the red fabric rising and falling with your shallow breaths. You were a sacrifice, and the man who took everything was finally standing at the threshold.
The door finally clicked open, the heavy wooden frame creaking under the weight of his presence. You stood up immediately from the bed, watching the myth of a man finally entering. The first thing that hit you wasn't the sight of him, it was the scent of him, an intoxicating blend of cuban tobacco, sandalwood, expensive oud cologne and his natural blend of musk.
You stood frozen at the edge of the bed, it was as if your throat was tightening so harshly you could barely breathe, your fingers digging into the sides of your kameez.
Up close, he looked even more striking. He was a beast of a man, his silhouette cutting a jagged line against the dim light of the hallway. The type of man who made the world around him feel smaller. He was dressed in an olive green military uniform with a khaki coloured pathani kurta underneath that clung to the breadth of his shoulders and the hard planes of his chest, the sleeves of his jacket rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair. His face was a severe masterpiece, a jawline that looked like it had been carved from basalt, a straight, arrogant nose, and eyes… eyes that weren't dark, but void-like, absorbing every flicker of your fear and curiosity behind his glasses.
He closed the door behind him, locking it without looking back. He didn't speak, he didn't even acknowledge you at first. He stopped in the center of the room, his polished boots clicking against the floor. With a painfully slow movement, he brought a glowing cigar to his lips, inhaling deeply. The tip flared a bright, angry orange in the shadows. He exhaled a plume of silver smoke that curled around his head like a crown of ghosts.
And his gaze brought up, finally locking onto yours. You were star struck.
The intensity was physical. It felt like a hand pressing against your chest, stealing the air from your lungs. He looked at you not as a man looks at a woman, but as a python when it has already decided who to suffocate.
You didn't know what to do, all you did in that moment was stand and look at him. But you quickly averted your gaze to the ground after realizing you had been staring too long.
He found that amusing, a prostitute averting her gaze rather than holding it.
Interesting, he thought.
Slowly, he began to move toward you. Each step was precisely measured, the grace of a panther. He stopped inches away, his scent becoming overpowering, your nostrils started to burn. You felt the heat radiating off his body clashing with the chill of your nervous skin. He smelled of power, and as he looked down at you, you felt smaller than you ever had in your life.
He reached out. His hand was massive compared to your face, his skin tanned and rough, the fingers long and strong wearing two silver rings, one on his index and the other on his ring finger. He didn't touch your skin at first, instead, he hooked a few stray curls of your hair, winding them slowly around his index finger. He tilted his head, his half-lidden eyes scanning your face: the kohl-rimmed eyes, the trembling crimson lips, the sheer red fabric that left nothing to the imagination.
You tried to keep your eyes down.
He leaned in, his voice a deep vibration that seemed to echo in your very bones. "Ye hayaa hai ya sirf dikhava," he murmured, his breath warm against your cheek.
Your heart rate went up. Can he tell I’m nervous? Did Madam Bi tell him that I’m unexperienced?
The proximity was getting too much for you. The magnetism of him, the dark energy he radiated, sent a jolt of panic through you. You flinched, stepping back instinctively, your heels catching on the bedsheets.
Iqbal’s eyes narrowed. He didn't like the retreat. In his world, people didn't move away from him, they moved for him.
His hand shot out to grab the side of your head, prompting you to look at him. A soft whimper left your lips at his grip and your eyes had finally met his gaze directly. His fingers started slowly intertwining within your hair, his gaze analyzing every twitch of your face.
“Koi masla?”, he asked very softly, his eyebrows furrowed together.
“N-nahi”, you tried to answer but all you could do was stutter it out.
I don't think he knows, you thought to yourself.
Without another second, he plunged right into your neck, his nose and beard grazing at the most sensitive part of your side neck. All he could smell was the jasmine oil you spread on your body. Realizing that, he took a small bite, his lips a foreign sensation on you. You yelped at his sudden intrusion. The pain triggering instant panic inside you and you quickly jerked away from his face, causing you to slam backwards against the nightstand beside the bed. Your hands catching yourself by gripping the edge of the table.
Your breathing started going up.
Before you could blink, his hand shifted and grabbed the side of your head. The patience he had shown in the first few seconds vanished, replaced by an abrupt, sharp hunger.
His fingers tightened around your head, gripping the thick curls at the nape of your neck and yanking your head back with a sharp, sudden force.
A small gasp escaped your lips, your neck arching, your chest thrusting forward against the red of your kameez. You were forced to look up into those dark, merciless eyes.
"Kyaa hua? Sharma rahi ho?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave, dripping with a dark, mocking amusement that didn't need volume to be intimidating. You could tell he was becoming restless.
Your heart was hammering so hard you thought it might burst through your ribs. Each millisecond you kept quiet, his fingers pulled harder at your hair causing a sharp pain to shoot in your skull. He was waiting for an answer to what you did.
You trembled under his grip, your voice coming out in a fragile, broken whisper. "Wo... bas... main... main kabhi kisi admi ke saath nahi leti." You let out abruptly.
The silence that followed was revealing. You saw the moment the words registered. His pupils dilated, his gaze dropping to the swell of your breasts and then back to your terrified, innocent eyes. The revelation of your virginity didn't make him soften, it actually did the opposite. It sparked something primal in him. The idea of being the first, the only, to break that seal of innocence turned his desire into something violent.
A dark, evil smirk touched his lips causing his gold tooth to shine under the dim light, one of his eyebrows raising. "Sach?" he whispered, his grip on your hair tightening just enough to keep you pinned. "Tumhare liye... yeh pehli baar hai?"
You nod slightly, hoping that perhaps he would let you go since he probably preferred more experienced women.
Right. Right? Well, it couldn't be further from the truth.
The air in the room became thick, saturated with the scent of his cigar and the buzz of a man who had just found a prize he didn’t expect. Iqbal didn’t let go of your hair, instead, he stepped closer, his massive frame eclipsing the light, swallowing you whole in his shadow.
“Toh yeh baat thi.” The words sounding like a sentence rather than a question. "Madam Bi ne ye baat mujse chupaye”, he says ever so slowly.
He released your hair but Iqbal didn’t move. He didn’t offer a comforting word or a gentle touch to soothe the trembling of your shoulders. Instead, he stepped back slowly and moved toward the heavy mahogany chair positioned in the edge of the room. He sat, leaning back with ease. He sprawled his legs wide, his polished boots clicking against the floor, occupying the space with an arrogance that demanded submission. He took one last drag of his cigar, the ember glowing a fierce, hungry red, before crushing the butt into a crystal tray on the side table.
His eyes never left you. They traced the line of your thin throat, the frantic pulse jumping in your neck, and the way the red fabric of your kameez clung to your shivering form. To a man like Iqbal, innocence wasn’t something to be cherished, it was something to manipulate.
"Pas aao," he commanded, raising his fingers to flicker you to come.
You took a small step forward, your bare feet feeling the coldness of the floor. You stopped a few feet away, your hands twisting the fabric of your dress.
"Kapare utaro," he ordered.
What..
The command was flat, devoid of any request. You froze. The thought of standing there, completely exposed under that clinical, dark gaze, sent a surge of unease through you. You had spent hours preparing, scrubbing every inch of your skin to prepare for him, but now that the moment had arrived, the vulnerability felt like a physical weight crushing your lungs.
"M-major sahab... main... ple-..." you whispered, your voice cracking. You didn't even know what you were asking for, mercy, patience, or for him to simply stop. All you knew was that you didn't want to be here, didn't want to be standing in front of a man presented like an object.
Iqbal’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, the hesitation seemed to irritate him. He didn't like the word please when it was used as a plea for hesitation. He liked the word yes.
He stood up.
The movement was so sudden you gasped, stepping back, but he was faster. He closed the distance in two strides, his massive 6’2 frame looming over you like a storm cloud. His index finger came up and hooked the neckline of your kameez. He pulled the fabric toward him, allowing him to effortlessly take a look at your cleavage, right between your breasts. As if he was inspecting something.
It was a brutal invasion of privacy, but alas you couldn't do anything about it.
Before you could utter another word, his whole hand moved, gripping the front of your sheer red kameez with a hard force and pulled. You let out a sharp cry as you felt the fabric strain and then, rip, the sound of silk tearing echoed through the silent room. The garment was shredded down the center, exposing the delicate net of your lingerie and the trembling, cream-colored skin of your chest.
The fabric was now discarded in the ground, all torn.
"N-nahi... please, thoda aaram se," you whimpered, one of your hands coming up to instinctively cover yourself, and your other hand brushing against his hard chest. The cool air hit your damp skin, making your nipples harden instantly, a traitorous reaction to the terror.
Shame was the only thing you could feel in that moment.
"Main ne kaha tha, utaro," he murmured, his voice dangerous. "Lekin tumne meri baat nahi suni."
You tried to pull away, your arm crossing even tighter over your breasts, trying to shield yourself from the intensity of his stare. You felt small, exposed, and utterly powerless.
"M- mujhe daar lag raha tha” was the only thing you could spit out. Your eyes welling up with tears now.
“Darr bohot kuch sikhata hai,” he countered, his voice devoid of warmth. "Aur jab tum dene mein itni hichkichati ho... toh phir tumhein lena seekhna padega."
Before you could recoil, his hand clamped around your wrist with a grip of iron. He didn't move your hand, he forced it with all his might. He yanked your arm down, pressing your palm firmly against the heavy, warm bulge beneath the fabric of his khaki shalwar.
You gasped, your eyes widening. Even through the fabric, you could feel the incredible size of him, the pulsing heat of his arousal, the length of him. He was hard, stony and demanding.
"Dekho," he commanded, his other hand gripping the back of your neck to keep you pinned against him. "Mehsoos karo. Ek mard ko aish dena itna mushkil kaam nahi."
He began to move your hand in a slow, rhythmic stroke. He wasn't letting you touch him out of desire, he was forcing you to acknowledge the power dynamic he held. Your fingers were small, shaking, and forced to wrap around the length of him. He liked that, not to mention how good it felt.
"Is kamre mein tumhari haya ki qeemat main pehle hi ada kar chuka hoon. Aaj raat se subah hone tak... tumhara har hissa, katra dar katra, meri milkiyat hai." He had a devious look to him now.
As he forced your hand to stroke him again, harder this time, you felt the first spark of something terrifying. You were being broken, piece by piece, and the most frightening part was that as he held you there, shredded and shaking, you could feel yourself sinking into his dark gravity.
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆
The sound of the rain outside had shifted from a melodic patter to a continuous drumming, as if the sky itself were trying to break through the roof to witness the dismantling of your innocence.
Iqbal didn’t care for your tears. To him, tears were merely a lubricant, a sign that the spirit was breaking and the body was finally becoming malleable. He watched the way your chest heaved, the deep line of your cleavage pulsing, the way your small, trembling hand was forced to grip the rigid heat of him. He liked the contrast, your porcelain fragility against his weathered strength.
"Kaampna band karo," he commanded, though he made no move to soothe you. "Yeh mujhe bezaar karta hai."
But you couldn't help it. You were so immersed in stroking him so that he wouldn’t punish you further, making sure you kept an even pace.
But he had different plans.
With a sudden, brutal movement, he yanked your wrist away from his length, and his hand hooked under your arm not to hold you but to fling you backward. You got pushed back, your heels catching on the heavy velvet rug, and you landed hard on the plush velvet rug with a muffled thud. Your whole body rebounding against the impact. Before you could even gasp for air, he was standing above you.
You tried scrambling back with your elbows but his arms grabbed your ankles and pushed you towards him, his ankle locking with yours, giving you slight carpet burns on your back. He wanted to examine your fleshed out body against the candle light.
With you immobilized, he took his time penetrating you with his stare from the tip of your head all the way to the bottom. You had slight tears falling down your cheeks, your face writhed in anger at him. But he enjoyed watching you squirm on the carpet, your defiance useless. He noticed the net lingerie closely now, fixating on the dark nipples protruding through the bra. Then slowly, his gaze swept over your stomach then-
Surprisingly, you managed to break free from his possession by shifting your ankle and quickly stood up, having your back facing him now. You were so desperate now, running to reach the door.
But Major Iqbal having years of training, walked barely two steps before he abruptly pulled you flush against him. One arm locking your across neck, the other running through your lower abdomen, his hold slowly squeezing your body to the point of pain. A small wince came out of you.
You amused him so much, despite all he did to you.
“Arey kaha bhag rahi ho”, he groaned against your ear. He pushed your ass entirely flat against his member, the line between your cheeks fitting perfectly against his bulge. Iqbal’s chest was a wall of granite against your back, his heat seeping through your exposed skin. “Itni sharat kyun?” he asked deviously. His hand on your abdomen slowly reached lower.
Everything in you wanted to rebel, to bite his arm on your neck but the way his hand snaked even lower down made you forget any train of thought. His touch so warm and hot against your skin, you craved for this touch in the depths of your fantasies.
His finger finally reached the seam of your panties, his mouth now buried in the border between your neck and shoulder, pressing and sucking hard kisses across so very slowly. You leaned your head back on his chest, a whimper leaving you as he pushed his index finger beneath the net, feeling nothing but warm skin at the top of your flesh. The sudden contact of his rough fingertips against your most intimate skin made your toes curl into the velvet rug.
He paused and opened his eyes surprised, his fingers splaying across the smooth, hairless expanse of your mound. A low, guttural hum vibrated in his throat, not of disappointment, but of a wicked curiosity. He was used to the natural coarse growth of the women of Lyari, but this, this pristine, bald smoothness, was a rarity to him. It felt like an invitation.
"Itni safai..." he murmured, his voice a rough caress against your ear.
He leaned his head over with you still caged around him and checked inside your panty to reaffirm, his fingers pulling at the edge and seeing nothing but bare brown skin, coupled with a few minor cuts from a blade he assumed.
He nuzzled back against the side of your neck, ”Inti intizam kiye hai humare liye” he said, teasing at your preparedness.
You flushed with embarrassment and shame all at once, you couldn't believe he was checking you for hair. So shameless you thought, a man had never spoken to you this way. You tried to turn your face away so he couldn't see the shock you held, but he was already watching your face express all those emotions from a few seconds ago.
Slowly, deliberately, he slid one finger past the edge of your lace, pushing through the narrow opening of your folds. His finger running down your slit, ensuring not to spread your lips yet.
Your head started swimming, the shame you felt moments ago beginning to melt into a terrifying haze. As he ran his finger up and down your slit, his mouth found the sensitive junction of your back, sucking a deep, bruising mark into your skin.
You let out a sharp, broken gasp, your back arching instinctively against his hard bulge. You had never been touched here, not by anyone. The intrusion was sudden and heavy, but as he slid down even further against your slit, he felt a surprising surge of moisture meeting him. Despite your fear, your body was betraying you, opening for him with a desperation you never felt before.
Iqbal felt it. He felt the slick, hot fluid of your arousal staining his finger.
“Bahar itni sharam... aur andar itni garmi. Tumhe pasand aa raha hai, hai na?”
His deep voice broke you out of your trance, your eyes splitting open wide, alarm beginning to set again.
“Choriye mujhe…”, you plead as you begin thrashing against him, using your nails to dig in and push his arms off you. “Mujhe nahi pasand yeh” you cry out as you use all your might to break free, pushing your body against him repeatedly.
But he wasn't letting go, his arms still locked in even harder than before, your rebelliousness rushing blood southward even more, the bulge becoming even more prominent. You felt it, pausing suddenly. His length felt as if it was straining to plunge inside you.
But Iqbal instantly turned you around, spinning you in his arms until you were facing him. His hands gripping tightly around your wrists. You could tell his patience was wearing thin.
“Mera sabr aur mat aazmao”, he warned in a dark tone.
Without wasting another second, he grabbed behind your knees, lifting you up in his arms princess style. But it wasn't gentle like you imagined in movies, he moved towards the bed and threw you right down on the mattress, causing you to go flying. Your breasts bouncing against the impact.
You looked up at him now, his pupils fully blown dark behind his glasses. All you could sense was the immense lust and hunger that was looming over him.
Oh no, it's starting.
Instantly, he lunged right at you. His massive frame pinned you into the mattress, the sheer weight of his body crushing the breath from your lung as he hovered over you. The scent of sandalwood and tobacco became a suffocating cloud. You tried to scramble backward, your hands searching for purchase on the sheets, but his hand came around your throat with a grip that threatened to snap the bone, causing you to choke.
"Major Sahab... please... maine kahbi yeh nahi-" your voice straining, your hands clawing at his to stop this brutality.
"Main jaanta hoon tumne aaj tak kya nahi kiya," he interrupted, his voice a low, dangerous rumble against your ear. "Isi liye tum yahan ho.”
His other hand, calloused and heavy, didn't waste time. He began to grope you with a controlling desire, his palms crushing your breasts through the thin net of your bra, squeezing with a force that bordered on bruising. He wanted to mold your soft flesh to his liking, to mend it to his wants.
He descended on your neck, his mouth kissing and sucking a deep, dark mark into the area right under your ear, his teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you let out choked sobs. You tried to push him away, but he locked your wrists above your head with one hand, pinning them to the pillow.
With his hand gone from your throat, you immediately took a deep breath, finally taking in oxygen. He smirked against your neck at your desperation.
So evil.
He didn't use his hands to undress you further, he used his teeth. He leaned down, his mouth finding the sensitive curve where your shoulder met your neck, and bit down- hard. You let out a sharp, piercing shriek that echoed through the silent kotha, a sound of pure shock and pain. The mark he left was deep, a dark purple brand that stung your body long before the act even began.
You fought. You kicked your legs, your heels drumming against his muscular thighs, your head thrashing against the pillow. But fighting Major Iqbal was like fighting the tide, it only made the waves crash harder.
"Mujhe…. choriye.. abhi!" you sobbed, your voice cracking.
With a violent jerk, he hooked his thumb into the center of your bra and pulled it in half, the metal hooks in the back leaving marks. The sound of net snapping echoed in the room, leaving your breasts exposed to the cool air and his searing gaze. He looked at the way your nipples hardened and strained against your chest. He didn't pause, his mouth descending to capture a nipple, sucking it hard into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the peak until you let out a broken sob of pain.
"Sshhh... rona nahi. Abhi toh shuruat hai," he whispered, his eyes dark with a sadistic kind of lust.
With a plop, removing his mouth from your breast, he reached down, his hand gripping the waistband of your panties and sliding them down your legs with one effortless motion, tossing them aside. You felt completely naked, stripped of everything but your fear. He looked at you- really looked at you, his gaze sweeping all the way down now and a smug grin played on his lips.
You felt the cold air hit your skin for a fraction of a second before both his rough, calloused palms slammed against your thigh, prying you open, your knees on either side of you. The stretch stung your pelvis, you have never been in this position, so wide and exposed. You felt the sudden, intrusive pressure of his fingers slowly sliding down your slit, his index and middle finger parting your folds. This time without your permission, more warm, clear slick liquid flowed out of you.
Iqbal was pleased, even though you desperately wanted to bury your face into the pillows.
His middle finger started running circles around your clit, watching you squirm. Without looking down, he tried sliding further downward to your hole, but his eyebrows furrowed, taken aback he couldn't find it with ease like he usually does. He looked down at your flesh and realized how small you were. Your hole was barely visible, barely having an opening.
Yet he still reached down, his large, rough finger sliding against your wetness until he dipped just the tip of his finger in, circling it around to loosen it. And then, without warning, he forced one finger inside despite the size.
A sharp scream left your lips as he pushed it inside. You weren't ready, the opening was too tight, the seal of your virginity acting as a barrier he had no intention of respecting.
"Aah! Major sahab! Boht dard ho raha hai! Rukiye...!" you cried out, your hips jerking upward, trying to escape the intrusion. But he leaned his full weight into you, crushing you into the mattress.
Iqbal didn’t stop. He leaned down, his lips brushing your ear, his voice a cold, hot contrast. "Dard toh hoga, jaan. Tumhari jagah itni choti hai", he said in a mocking, teasing tone, dripping with amusement.
He didn't give you time to process the terror any further. He added a second finger, stretching you brutally, the pressure feeling like you were being split in half. He moved them in a slow, rhythmic stretch, forcing your body to accommodate him, ignoring your whimpers and the way you sobbed into the open air, unable to do anything.
"Ab hilna mat," he growled, his eyes flashing with a dark, obsessive hunger.
He didn't wait for you to be ready. He didn't care if you were shaking or if your eyes were clouded with terror. He reached down, pulling his shalwar down with a clinical speed, just enough for his length to spring out from his boxers. But he didn't bother to take off his kurta or jacket, he wanted the contrast with you nude and bare and him fully clothed.
You gasped in horror. Your eyes finally met his cock. A mere full 8.5 inches, pulsing with a frantic rhythm, beads of his pre-cum swelling from his wide brown tip. His veins protruding in all directions down his member, with dark, curly hair dusted at the top. He was hairy but well trimmed, like his beard.
But it was big, too big for your liking.
How can something like that even fit inside me, he could barely fit a finger inside.
His eyes met your gaze, seeing the sheer terror written in your face watching his dick. While staring right at you, he took his cock in his hands and started stroking it up and down so vigorously that he let out a subtle groan himself. He was preparing.
He shifted his weight now, his massive, rigid length pressing against your thigh, the heat of him scorching as he loomed over, forcing you to look right at him. He gripped your waist, his fingers digging into your hips, anchoring you to the bed.
And then you felt it- the blunt, searing heat of him pressing against your clit.
You squeezed your eyes shut, a sob racking your frame. "please… thora aram se..."
Iqbal’s jaw tightened. The plea for slowness was an insult to the urgency roaring in his blood. He wanted the friction, he wanted the resistance. He wanted to feel the exact moment your body gave up and accepted him.
He held his cock and started to tap repeatedly against your bundle of nerves, causing even more slick to drip out down your cunt. He wanted you to be well-prepared for him because of your size, trying to ensure you were lubricated enough to take all of him. After all, the difference between his cock and your virgin hole was staggering, even he knew that.
Once he was thought it sufficed, he gripped your hips and he lowered his mouth and took one long stripe of your flesh with his hot tongue, a jolt of electricity shot through your spine, forcing a broken moan from your lips. For a fleeting second, the terror was eclipsed by a searing, forbidden pleasure. The taste of you was so ravenous, he dove again and this time pushed his tongue in your entrance as far as he could go, making sure your thighs were spread even more.
You trembled beneath him, your thighs quivering against his calloused palms. Looking up at the monolithic man above you, the sheer scale of him felt impossible. Your gaze flickered down to where his rigid length rested, then back to his dark, predatory eyes at your flesh.
"Yeh... yeh andar kaise ayega? Main phat jaoongi (ill tear)..", you whimpered, your voice trembling with uncertainty.
Iqbal paused, his gaze dropping to the tight, glistening seam of your virginity. A slow, cruel smirk curved his lips. He didn't offer no comfort, he offered a command.
"Tum le lo gi," he rumbled, his voice a low vibration that seemed to rattle your very bones. "Bas chup chap maze lo”, effectively shutting you up.
He didn't give you a chance to breathe. He shifted his grip, his fingers digging into your hip bones with enough force to leave marks, anchoring you firmly into the mattress, his knees pushing your thighs out again, making sure your knees were as far apart as possible. He positioned the broad, searing head of his cock against your entrance, the blunt heat of him stretching the opening even before he moved.
With a sudden, guttural grunt, he plunged forward.
A scream tore from your throat, a vulnerable sound of pain and rupture. The sensation was an explosion of pressure, a feeling of being stabbed inside. Your toes curled inwards, your fingers clawing uselessly at the sheets, your breath hitching in a series of broken, jagged gasp.
Outside, zoya and meher heard your shrieks and knew exactly what was going on. They quietly looked at each other and let out tiny giggles.
The impact was violent. He drove inward with a powerful, unchecked thrust, but he didn't slide in. He hit a wall. The tight, stubborn seal of your hymen acted as a barrier, stopping his massive girth halfway. He was stuck, the friction of his thick head pressing against your narrow walls creating a pressure that felt like you were being split open from the inside.
Iqbal let out a sharp, frustrated groan, his muscles locking as he felt the resistance. He didn't pull back to ease the pain, he leaned into it, his jaw flexing with a sudden, raw intensity.
"Kaisi zidd hai..." he hissed, his eyes darkening.
Without warning, he braced his weight on his elbows and slammed his hips forward with a brutal, singular force.
A piercing shriek ripped from your throat, your back arching violently off the bed. You felt a sudden, searing pop, a sensation of something tearing, a sharp flash of white-hot pain that blinded you. The barrier broke.
He didn't stop. He used the momentum of the break to drive the rest of his length home, burying himself deep into your untapped depths with a heavy, wet thud, his shalwar adding additional friction against your inner thighs. The force of the impact knocked the air from your lungs, leaving you gasping and sobbing under the crushing weight of him.
As he settled, a slow, warm trickle of blood began to seep from the junction of your bodies, staining the white sheets of the bed in a crimson bloom. You felt stretched to your absolute limit, your insides screaming at the intrusion of something so immense.
Iqbal stayed still for a moment, his chest heaving, a look of satisfaction crossing his face as he felt the tight, hot grip of your virgin walls clamping around him. He looked down at the blood mixing with the slickness of your arousal, a dark glint of possessiveness in his eyes.
"Ab chillao," he whispered, his voice dripping with a dangerous, dominant heat.
He began to move, hard, rhythmic, and merciless. Each thrust was a hammer blow, driving the air from your lungs and replacing it with the scent of his dominance. It wasnt making love, it was hardcore fucking. His length came out all the way til the edge of his tip touched the outside of your entrance before drilling it back all the way back in to your cervix, his balls slapping against the end of your cunt, his pubic hair grazing the top of your cunt.
The room had become a blur of amber light and suffocating heat, mixed with the scent of copper from your blood and slick arousal.
His heavy hips slamming against you with a wet, rhythmic thud that echoed through the room, making the bed frame groan and the headboard bang against the wall. The filthy sounds of skin slapping against skin was the only thing ringing in your ears. He didn't glide smoothly like you expected, he hammered into you. Each thrust was a jagged intrusion that pushed you further into the mattress, your breath leaving you in broken, unintelligible whimpers.
You shook your head, your eyes squeezed shut, refusing to see the man who was breaking you.
He wasn't looking at your face anymore, he was focused on the friction, the way your tight, virgin walls clung to him in a desperate, involuntary grip. He was rutting like an animal, his movements savage and needy. He didn't care that you were sobbing, that your hands were clawing at the sheets in a blind attempt to find leverage. To him, pain and pleasure were the same thing.
Minutes bled into a haze. The physical intensity became so overwhelming that the world began to slip away from you. You felt your consciousness fraying at the edges, a sudden sense of dissociation washing over you. You felt as though she were floating somewhere near the ceiling, watching a girl beneath be broken by a man made of stone. The screams felt like they belonged to someone else, the searing heat in your core becoming a distant, pulsing throb.
You wondered what you would be doing if you were back at home, with your mother. Your started eyes glazing over, staring blankly at the canopy of the bed.
But then, Iqbal shifted.
He felt the friction, but he wanted more, he wanted to break you completely. He felt that you were too tight, your body fighting him even in your stupor. So he needed to find the exact point where your resistance broke into ecstasy. He paused, his breathing heavy and ragged, and leaned back slightly to look between his cock and to where you were connected. He saw the way his thick girth was buried deep, the way your flesh was stretched white and taut around him. With a sudden grunt, he reached down and gripped your ass, his large fingers digging into your plush soft cheeks. With a powerful heave, he hoisted your hips higher, tilting your pelvis at a steep, punishing angle. The change in position caused his length to angle sharply, driving his head directly into the sensitive ceiling of your vagina.
The shift changed everything.
The head of his cock slammed directly into your g-spot with the force of a piston.
An even louder shriek tore from your throat because of a sudden, violent electricity that shocked you back into your body. The dissociation snapped. You were back, and the pleasure was so intense it felt like a violation.
"Yahan... hai na?" he hissed, his eyes flashing with a wicked triumph. He didn't let up. He locked his rhythm right there, hitting that spot with every single plunge. Your ass resting on his muscled thighs now. He started rutting in you faster, his movements becoming harder more frantic.
The friction became an inferno. Your internal walls were pulsing, clamping around him in waves of unwanted, overwhelming need. You felt the pressure build, a sensation that you couldn't escape. You were sobbing, your head thrashing from side to side, your voice gone, reduced to stripped wails that filled the kotha.
He felt your peak approaching, the moment your consciousness would shatter. But Iqbal wasn't a man who gave gifts without taking a toll first.
Just as you felt the first wave of the orgasm crash over you, he didn't pull back or slow down. Instead, he locked his arms on either side of your head, pinning you with the full, suffocating weight of his muscular frame.
“Abhi nahi..." he growled, his voice a dark command. You just wanted to release, all the build-up now gone with him pausing.
Then, he shifted his weight, grinding his hips in a slow, agonizing circle, rotating his thick head against your overstimulated g-spot. He used his thumb, pressing it firmly against your clitoris, pinning the swollen nerve against the base of his shaft. He began to apply a rhythmic, pulsing pressure, fast, then slow, then a hard, crushing squeeze.
The contradiction was too much. The blunt fullness inside and the sharp, pinpoint friction outside collided. You felt a surge of heat shoot from your core to your fingertips, your vision blurring as the orgasm hit you not as a landslide.
You moaned, your body snapping taut like a bowstring, your internal muscles clamping around him in a series of violent, rhythmic contractions that squeezed him with a strength that almost made him twitch. Your hips jerked upward instinctively, trying to chase the peak, your voice dissolving into a sob of pure, unfiltered ecstasy.
But as the peak began to plateau, you realized he hadn't moved. He was still there, buried deep, his expression one of feline observation.
He hasn't climaxed yet.
Then, without warning, he began to move again.
He didn't give you a second to breathe or recover. He slammed back into you with a force that felt like a collision, his rhythm turning frantic and relentless. You were already raw, your nerves frayed and screaming from the climax, and now he was drilling into you again while you were still pulsing.
"B- bas... bohut zyada ho raha hai!" you wailed, your voice sounding distant even to yourself.
The pleasure had crossed back over into a searing, overstimulating heat. Every thrust felt like a bolt of lightning hitting a wet wire. You began to thrash beneath him, your legs kicking out, your hands pushing uselessly against his granite-hard chest. You were overstimulated, your body shaking in a state of sensory overload where every touch felt like a burn.
Iqbal didn't stop. He loved the chaos of it, the way you were fighting for air beneath him. He gripped your wrists tightly, acting as shackles. With the other hand, he gripped your jaw, forcing you to look at him, to see the dark, focus in his eyes.
"Sabar karo, abhi bohot kuch aage hai" he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.
He accelerated, his movements becoming a blur of power. His teeth gritted, the muscles in his neck and shoulders cording. He was a man pushing himself to the absolute limit, his breath coming in harsh, ragged snarls.
Then, the tension in his body reached a breaking point.
A low, animalistic sound ripped from his throat. He lunged forward one last time, burying himself so deep he felt your cervix yield, and he locked his hips against yours, pinning you to the bed with the full, crushing weight of his body.
A tremor racked his entire frame as he unloaded into you. He filled you with his hot, pulsing seed, painting your womb white, his release as powerful and uncompromising as the man himself. His thrusts now lazy and slow to pump out all remaining semen, his chest heaving against yours pressing very slow kisses against your neck, his hands groping your breasts. The silence of the room finally returned, save for the sound of your broken whimpers and the distant, steady rhythm of the rain against the glass
As his lenght softened and your walls tightening around him, he slowly pulled out, some cum rushing out. You suddenly felt so empty as if something was yanked out of you. He laid beside you now, his palm resting on the side of his head supported by his elbow, his dark eyes staring down at the ruin he had made of your innocence. He slowly reached over with his other hand and his fingers had pushed back a stray sweaty curl out of your face...
The heat in the room was thick, tasting of iron and the heavy musk of sex.
Iqbal sat up against the headboard now. He liked the aftermath, the way the quiet was broken only by the ragged, hitching sobs of the girl who was beneath him a few moments ago. He watched you, his dark eyes tracing the way your eyes remained glazed, staring at a ceiling you no longer recognized.
Slowly, he reached for the bedside table. With a practiced flick of his lighter, the tip of a cigar glowed a menacing orange. He took a long, slow drag, the smoke curling around his sharp jawline like a shroud. As he exhaled, his gaze dropped.
A thick, pearlescent stream of his seed was beginning to leak from you, sliding down the curve of your thigh and staining the ruined white sheets. A flicker of possessiveness hit him. He didn't want it leaving you. Not yet. Without a word, he reached down. His thick finger pressed firmly against your opening, sliding the finger deep inside you, pushing the pooling cream back into your depths with a slow shove.
You let out a breathy whimper, your hips twitching instinctively.
He withdrew his finger. He watched the way your naked body was still uncovered, the way your breasts still moved in panicked bursts. Most men would have been satisfied. Most men would have dressed and left the kotha before the sun dared to rise.
But Major Iqbal was not most men. He was a man of appetite that didn't end with a single peak. He looked at you and saw the way your flesh had molded to his, the way you were pink, raw and open, the lips still parted from where you were connected.
The hunger returned, more violent than before.
He didn't ask if you were tired, he didn't ask if the pain was too much. He simply gripped your waist and flipped you over with a jarring force, pressing your face into the mattress.
"Abhi toh raat javan hai, meri jaan," he teased, giving you the warning of what will follow…
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The next few hours became a blur of agony and forbidden heat.
He was relentless, moving you like a piece of clay, sculpting your body to fit his exactly. He pushed you to the edge of the bed, your legs draped over his shoulders as he hammered into you from above, his weight crushing the air from your lungs. He turned you onto your side, locking your legs together to make you tighter, his movements becoming slow, deep, and agonizingly precise, filling every corner of you until you forgot where your body ended and his began.
Every time you thought you had reached the limit of what you could endure, every time you begged for a moment of air or a second of peace, he would find a new way to break you. He would grip your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat to his teeth, or pin your wrists above your head, reminding you that in this room, your only purpose was to take him.
He took his time, exploring the geography of your surrender. He would spend an hour just tasting the skin of your thighs, only to spend the next two jamming his manhood into you with a ferocity that made the bedframe scream against the wall. He cummed into you again and again, filling you until you felt heavy with him, your insides pulsing in a state of permanent, overstimulated shock.
The room became a sanctuary of sin, the only light provided by the dying embers of his cigars, melted candles and the occasional flash of lightning from the storm outside.
By the time the clock on the wall ticked toward 4:00 AM, the rain had slowed to a rhythmic drip.
Iqbal finally collapsed beside you, his skin glistening with sweat, his muscles finally slack. Not one whisper of sweet words was uttered to you after hours of your breaking. He just stayed there, the predator sated for the moment, watching as you lay beside him, shaking, ruined, and irrevocably marked.
He reached out, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek with a touch that was almost tender, though his eyes remained as cold and commanding as the day he arrived.
He had taken what he wanted. And you knew that the simple arrangement of the kotha had instead became something that you could never erase from your memory.
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The room, once filled with the unforgiving symphony of skin hitting skin and broken gasps, now felt suffocably still.
Iqbal finally took off from the bed, the muscles of his back rippling like corded steel in the amber light. He didn’t look back at the ruin of the sheets, he instead began to adjust his clothing, his uniform, managing his cuffs, fixing his watch, making sure he looked befitting as a Major again, his movements efficient and cold, the soldier returning to his skin.
As he stood over you, you felt tinier than you ever had in your life. You quickly brought the blanket to cover your nude body and take back some dignity that was practically erased by him.
Iqbal reached into his pocket and pulled out several crisp banknotes. He leaned over, placing 5,000 rupees on the nightstand, way more than what Madam Bi agreed to. His fingers brushed your arm, a touch that sent a jolt of terrified longing through you.
"Tumhara inam," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration.
As he moved to leave, you noticed him place something else beside the money: a small, foil-wrapped blister pack.
Plan B.
The sight of the pill triggered a sudden, sharp spike of panic in your chest. You were nineteen, you had kept away from the gritty realities of the other girls. The concept of "preventing" a pregnancy was a theory you barely were taught, but the image of a child, a miniature version of this man, suddenly flashed before your eyes. You imagined a life where you weren't a prostitute anymore, but a secret mistress, bound to him by a child you couldn't afford to raise in a world that viewed you as disposable.
A small sob escaped your throat.
Iqbal paused, he didn't turn around fully, but his voice sliced through the dark, commanding and certain. "Kha lena," he ordered.
He finally leaned down to press a firm kiss to your forehead. It wasn't tender, not in the way a lover's kiss was, but it was possessive. It was the kind of kiss a king gave a subject he found amusing.
"Tum ne kitne acchi se liya hai aaj," he whispered, his eyes half-lidden now, the words dripping with a dark, hot approval that made your toes curl despite the pain.
He straightened up, his silhouette blotting out the light from the candles. He paused, his dark eyes scanning your trembling form one last time.
The predator had found a prey he actually liked the taste of.
"Is raat ki baad, koi aur mard ab tumhe choo ga nahi" he stated while checking his watch, his tone shifting into something absolute, "sirf main aounga, Madam Bi se baath kar loonga."
It wasn't no request, it was an absolute order. He had claimed the turf, and Major Iqbal did not share his land.
As he finally reached the door, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. A slow, mocking smirk played on his lips, a flash of the man who enjoyed the hunt as much as the kill.
"Aur haan," he teased, his voice dripping with a cruel, playful heat, "agli baar... apni safai nahi karna."
With a final look that promised more violence and more pleasure, he stepped out into the corridor. The heavy thud of the door closing echoed like a gavel.
You lay there in the dark, the silence of the room rushing back in. You looked at the money, then at the pill, and finally at the space where he had been. You should have felt violated. You should have felt terrified. But as you felt the cooling slickness of him inside you, a traitorous warmth began to bloom in your chest.
You may have started as just a girl in a kotha, but now you were the only thing in Lyari that had managed to make the Major Iqbal come back.
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To be continued....
xx Nurya
btw i dont support relationships like these nor do i romanticize the real iqbal and his dynamics, pls stay away from men like that!
Synopsis: In Lyari, everyone knows Major Iqbal's name. They know the power he commands and the fear he instills. Men obey him while women admire him from afar. He's untouchable and unreachable. For a man who had no use for marriage, desire was still a debt the body demanded be paid. It is bought, used, forgotten, and left behind before dawn. Just another transaction, another closed door, another face he never intends to see twice after sunrise.
Until one transaction quietly becomes another. And another.
Night after night, he returns to the same kotha. To the same room. To the same bed.
The same girl…
Some stories begin with love.
This one begins with a sin.
Inspired by this edit by cutie @wtafananya [He looks like the type of person to like it raw]
Content Warnings: 18+, mature content!!! CNC, dub con, virgin reader, power dynamic, rape, age gap. Not suitable for minors!
a/n: Hi loviess this is my first ever fan fic, although i LOVE reading major iqbal fluffy and domestic fics I rlly wanted to read abt movie canon iqbal where hes just dark, dominant and not to mention so mysterious. I'm planning on making this a few chapters long, it depends on how u guys are liking it and whether u want to see more. I just hope you guys enjoy and pleaseee let me know how u like itt, dont be afraid to comment it only makes my work better for yall. Consider this a gift to all my Iqbal fan girls, ur not alone and i deff see youuu <33
There is a kind of hunger that does not announce itself, it arrives with heat. A kind of heat that’s low and persistent like the way embers stay alive and glow under ash for days before anyone notices. If further fuel is added, the embers can spark a fire so wild and blazing that it becomes hard to even ignore the slightest. And until water is used to extinguish it, who knows what it may burn in its path.
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Major Iqbal was a man who was highly decorated with medals and stars from his years of warfare. Men everywhere spoke his name with both fear and reverence, for it is he who commands and rules over both the underground mafia of Karachi and the Government of Pakistan. Being the head of ISI , there was no one more terrifying and brutal than Iqbal. He was merciless, unforgiving, and ruthless if anything or anyone got in his way. His men cowered in terror, keeping their heads low and paying their respects every time he walked in. Because if someone even gave him the wrong look, you can never know when it would be the last day they were seen alive.
Through his extensive time of being a part of ISI in the chain of command, Major Iqbal had learned to manage many things: pain, threats, betrayal. The deathly silence of a room after a decision was made that would unmake other men's lives, watching the spies he tortured finally succumbing to their wounds all bloody with decay. He had spent years mastering the discipline of deprivation. Sleep became optional. Mercy became unavailable. Guilt became a language he no longer remembered. Every instinct and need that made a man ordinary had been suppressed into silence until only his control remained.
Or so he believed.
Desire was an inconvenient thing.
It was as inevitable as hunger, as instinctive as breathing. No battlefield could prepare him for the wars that unwrapped in the quiet hours after midnight. When Lyari was nothing but an oasis of glimmering stars in the night sky and a barren desert on land. When the call to evening prayer had long since subsided. When nothing remained except the buzzing sound of crickets.
After all, he was still a man.
There were nights in Lyari when the heat was physical. When air itself pressed against his skin that made the wanting underneath more violent.
Because underneath- God, underneath….
He had needs.
Sinful ones.
One that reminded him what pressed beneath his uniform whenever he stayed working at his desk during the sinister late hours of the night, smoking a Cuban cigar while pouring hard whisky down his throat. Even in the most inconvenient of hours, his drive reminded him that he was not stone.
He was flesh.
And flesh, in the end, always finds its way to heat.
He wasn't married. It was quite surprising to the public that Major Iqbal had never taken a wife. And it wasn't because he lacked any opportunity - only God knows how many women across Pakistan admired him, a few even loved him- but because marriage required permanence, and with the life he leads, he long ago abandoned the idea of a wife waiting behind the doors of his haveli. That version of him who would be happy laughing over evening chai with someone was long since buried. His work never allowed enough presence to handle his affairs at home, let alone a whole woman who would forever be in his possession. He simply refused and saw no need to get married and be tied down to one woman.
Major Iqbal had however taken lovers over the years, women who were willing to accept his corrupt, twisted self and to satisfy his voracious appetite, no matter how short the duration of their relationship was. Even for a few nights, some women were grateful that they even got the chance to be around him. He had that charisma to him, one that came naturally that other men could not replicate. But it wasn't as if they were treated horribly, he was still quite the gentleman. He would buy them expensive gifts, sometimes gold jewelry, foreign imported shoes or even an apartment to live in. After all, he had some heavy pockets. But in the end, he didn't care enough to keep them in his possession for long. He would take whatever they would give him and move onto the next.
Despite that, women everywhere spoke of him differently.
Some had only caught glimpses. A black luxury SUV disappearing into the night, polished boots pounding against broken pavement, the sharp line of his jaw flexing as he took a cigar between his lips beneath the amber glow of streetlamps. Others had watched him from grilled balconies or market stalls, stealing looks they prayed he never noticed through his aviator covered eyes.
He was quite handsome, but not in a conventional way. He was beautiful in the way that storms were beautiful - powerful, majestic and devastatingly dazzling.
Major Iqbal was a man who inspired temptation as effortlessly as he inspired fear. The kind of man people looked at twice without realizing they had done so, and each time he would always notice.
There was something unnerving about him. As if he had been sculpted with equal parts elegance and ruthlessness. It was evident with how he would be immaculately dressed with tailored suits and kurtas that would hug his well-defined body in all the right places, always composed with his dark, mystic eyes that could hypnotize someone if they stared too long. Not to mention the mystery that clung to him like expensive cologne. There was something profoundly unfair about how attractive Major Iqbal was. His face belonged in a devout prayer yet the man behind it belonged to a warning. He embodied the kind of presence that silenced and crushed the confidence of every man in the room.
But in the end, he belonged to no one, not to gossip, not to his lovers, not even to the city that whispered his name.
He was devoted to his obligations: to classified files, intelligence, politics, assassinations reports, the underground mafia, the list continues.
It was inevitable that something within him demanded something back.
Long days steeped in violence, deception, and endless restraint left behind a hollowness no amount of silence could quiet. He had long accepted that certain hungers were simply part of being a man.
And with no wife waiting behind the doors of his haveli, no marriage to soften his edges, no constant mistress, those hungers had long since found their own arrangement.
There were places in Lyari where morality was left at the door. Places where respectable men pretended never to go, yet their faces were as familiar as the worn floorboards beneath them. Places where secrets were purchased by the hour and buried beneath stacks of broken banknotes.
Where rich drunk men would linger around to have their chance at heaven for a few minutes.
Madam Bi’s kotha was that place for Iqbal.
It was the only place where he had solace, hidden behind weathered doors and neon signs.
Madam Bi’s kotha was a safe haven for the elite men of Karachi’s society, so that they could become strangers beneath the dim light, trusting that the darkness would keep their dirtiest truths hidden behind velvet curtains.
Madam Bi never asked questions when he arrived. She didn’t need to.
Men like him did not come for conversation…
When he comes, he walks through the kotha like someone carved from stone itself. Always unreadable. His broad shoulders hoisting his impeccable uniform casting long shadows on the walls. Even there, where sin was disguised as comfort, the room made space for him. The conversations lowered around him, the girls giggled softly behind their hands, even time seemed to pause. Each woman anticipated being the one to spend the night with him, until they realized what would follow. Major Iqbal was ruthless. The only remnants of his entanglement being ripped kameez’s and soaked sheets.
In the end, each night he spent with a different girl was always according to his desires, his dirty wants. You couldn't refuse him even if you wanted to…
Yet he remembered them only until he walked out the door. By sunrise, they had become indistinguishable from every woman who came before them.
It was an understanding he had made with himself years ago. That there wouldn’t be any names worth mentioning, no attachments capable of becoming weaknesses. He was there for his sole purpose of satisfying his inner need. His wants were no less human than any other man's, they were simply kept behind closed doors, where reputation could not follow.
By dawn, Major Iqbal was back to being the man everyone in Lyari feared and and the last man anyone dared question.
It was a simple arrangement.
Until, it wasn't.
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆
The meeting had been running for 2 hours and 45 minutes.
He knew this, even without the watch on his wrist. He always had that in him, an internal clock that always kept running inside him no matter what he was doing.
Around the table, men in suits, men in uniforms with maps and numbers took the space of Iqbal's private study. Cigarette smoke slowly hazing around each man while they all discussed different details about an upcoming strategy. But to Iqbal, it only sounded like low chatter, their voices now distant in his mind.
Rain was pattering against the window, the water droplets trickling down the seams. Outside, the sky was a blur of all shades of grey. The day had been gloomy since it started, clouds pouring down soft droplets of liquid. Each one splashing onto Lyari’s unpaven roads, washing the whole city in a layer of melancholy.
He sat at the edge of the conversation the way he always did. Present and still, saying the precise amount required and nothing beyond it. His jaw was set. His eyes moved slowly across the room, reading each and every man’s intentions from his aviators.
His cigar had burned to the filter.
He pressed it into the ashtray beside him without looking down. He reached for another in a wooden box and with a tap, draw, light, he was right back smoking a Davidoff Blanco.
He thought about tonight.
He had made a call earlier in the week to Madam Bi. Arrangements had been set in motion. There was a particular order to these things, a particular etiquette that Madam Bi has always respected and that he always appreciated about her. She was a business woman in the oldest sense: discreet, efficient and fully without judgment.
He respected that...
The meeting had finally ended at 7:45 pm.
The others filed out, ensuring they gave Major Iqbal a proper goodbye, with handshakes, final conversations and the social performance of bidding farewell. He stayed seated for an extra moment, smoking his cigar while watching the rain streak down the glass.
He finally stood, adjusting his collar and took out his phone. He stepped into the hallway corridor, a place empty and quiet with a tall glass window overlooking the city. He briefly watched the city across, it was quite gray and wet all the while starting to come alive with the particular energy of the evening, when Karachi transforms from one version into another much darker one.
He finally dialed her number. At the first ring, Madam Bi finally spoke.
“Ji Major Sahab?”.
“Intizam?” he asked. One word, he didn't need more with her.
There was a slight pause.
“Sab tayyar hai”.
Satisfied with her answer, he hung up.
He took a long drag of his cigar, watching a raindrop trace its way down the glass.
He had 3 hours.
He pocketed his phone and walked back down the corridor, his footsteps even against the floor just like a soldiers.
He was a man who knew where he was going.
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆
A Few Hours Earlier.
Madam’s Bi Kotha
You were sitting across the window ledge in your room, your knees tucked beneath your chin. Rain had drifted lazily down the window glass, each droplet carving its own winding path before disappearing into another. Your fingers tracing them without thought, as though following their journey might somehow quiet the unease growing inside your chest.
You knew what was coming…
The monsoon always made Lyari look softer. It hid the dust, blurred the broken buildings and washed away the dirt of the streets for a little while. From your window, the world almost looked beautiful.
Almost.
You had just turned 19, five weeks ago. It wasn't much of a celebration, there was no sweets, no laughter, not even gifts.
Birthdays meant little inside Madam Bi’s kotha. After all, it only meant you were coming closer to the day where you would need to lose your innocence to the cruel world.
Madam Bi had sheltered you from a prostitute's world for as long as she could.
Ever since you were sold here at 8 years old, she'd found ways to keep you away from the room’s downstairs, from the pre-marital beds. You swept the corridors, folded washed sheets, served tea to the other women and spent your afternoons learning to read Urdu poetry from books someone discarded years ago. You lived discreetly among the kotha’s walls without ever truly becoming part of them.
Your mother never wanted to let you go. She came from a poor village where every harvest depended on mercy from the sky, and mercy became very scarce. Some nights there wasn’t enough flour to make bread for everyone which would result in your younger siblings crying themselves to sleep while your bastard father staggered home reeking of cheap liquor.
He spent what little money your family had to chase another bottle. And when there was nothing left to sell, he found you.
The memory of that day had faded over the years. Yet you still remembered your mothers trembling hands and grieving face as she held your tiny face one last time, whispering prayers through her tears you were too young to understand. You had spent years wondering if she ever forgave herself.
Or whether she hoped you would ever forgive her…
A quiet knock broke you out of your thoughts.
The door creaked open. Madam Bi did not fully step into the room, she stayed by the door, her expression heavy with a mixture of pity and rationality. She looked at you, so very still and fragile like a piece of unglazed porcelain and sighed.
It was only a matter of time before you too had to be exposed to the real world. Living in a kotha meant a certain debt being placed on your head which could only be paid through the expense of your body. Sooner or later, every girl learned the price of the roof over her heads and the years they've been allowed to remain untouched.
“Beta, chalo utho” she said, her voice softening. “Waqt ho gaya hai”
You felt a cold shiver run down your spine, you knew about this day. Today was the day when you would start paying off your debt.
“Beti tum itni khoobsurat ho gayi ho, bilkul ek gulaab ki tarah jo bahaar aate hi khil uthta hai."
Her smile faltered slightly.
"Lekin har khilta hua phool ek din hawaon ka saamna karta hai, tum ek aurat ho aur ye din tumhara pehla shuruat hai iss dunya mein”
You lowered your eyes, she finally walked toward you and cupped your cheek with tenderness.
"Madam Bi…, lekin mujhe nah-”
"Mujhe maloom hai tum darr rahi ho, aur kaash main tumse keh sakti ke tumhein kabhi yeh din dekhna na padta”
“Lekin waqt kisi ke liye rukta nahi”.
Hearing that, it gave you no room to protest. Even though you knew this was coming, a little part of you hoped that perhaps you didn't need to do this to survive, you didn't need to sacrifice yourself for this. But alas, you accepted your fate.
“Aaj raat ek khaas insaan aa raha hai”
Your stomach tightened. “K- kaun hai woh?” you asked nervously, hoping it wouldn't be that man you've seen with the other girls. You had seen them walk into those rooms with trembling shoulders and walk out with limp legs and gold bangles that felt like shackles.
Please don't let it be him.
She hesitated only briefly.
“Major Iqbal”
The name left the room colder than it was before. Your eyes widened.
“Kya! Major Iqbal?!, Bi jaan m- meh ye nahi kar sakte” Your panic started to creep in. How can your first time be with a man like that!?
Madam Bi’s expression hardened, the business woman replacing the guardian. She gripped your chin, forcing you to look at her.
"Madam... main..." your voice trailed off, barely a whisper. "Main tayyar nahi hoon."
Madam Bi locked her eyes on you. “tayyari toh koi nahi hota, bachay. Magar yeh Major Iqbal hain. Inka intezar poora Lyari karta hai, aur aaj tumhari baari hai”.
In the kotha, the air changed when he was expected. The other girls spent hours preening themselves just so that he could be pleased with them. They painted their lips a deeper crimson and tightened their lace, their eyes glittering with a hunger for the attention of the man who ruled Karachi.
The mention of his name made your heart hammer against your ribs. You had heard the stories. You remembered the first time you saw him, from a distance, stepping out of that black SUV. He hadn't looked at anyone, yet everyone had looked at him.
"Lekin... woh bohot sakht hain" you stammered, your fingers twisting the fabric of your simple cotton kameez. "Woh to reham (mercy) bhi nahi karte, mera kya hashar karein gai?”
As if on cue, a giggle erupted from the hallway. Two of the older girls, Zoya and Meher, were leaning against the doorframe, watching your distress with mischievous grins.
"Reham?" Zoya laughed, her voice dripping with irony. "Beta, Iqbal Sahab reham nahi, sukoon dete hain... magar apne tareeqay se."
Meher leaned in, her eyes dancing. "Suna hai woh ghore (horse) ki tarah charhte hain. Ek baar pakar liya, toh chhorte nahi jab tak tumhari cheekhon se poora kotha na baar jaye."
Your face flushed a deep, burning red. The imagery, the sheer, almost violent intensity they described, sent a wave of panic through you. You were nineteen, but in the ways that mattered, you were still a child. You had never experienced something like that, not to mention you were quite clueless on how to even pleasure a man despite living in a kotha. Madam Bi protected you from all this. But the thought of that man, that mountain of a man, taking something you could never get back felt less like a transaction and more like an execution.
"Chup raho tum dono!" Madam Bi snapped.
She turned back to you, her expression becoming firm. "Suno. Darna fitrat hai, magar darna mana hai. Woh bohot sakht mard hain haan, be-reham bhi. Tumhein sirf ek baat yaad rakhni hai... unki marzi ke khilaaf kabhi mat jaana. Jo woh kahen, bas wahi karna. Phir dekhna, is sheher mein tumse zyada mehfooz koi larki nahi hogi."
She stepped toward the wardrobe, pulling out a sheer, blood-red kameez that shimmered like a deep rose. She laid it across the bed: the place where you would lose it all, you realized.
"Ab rona band karo. Nahane jao. Chambeli (jasmine) ka tail aur gulaab ka saboon istemaal karna. Aur apne jism ko teek sai dhona. Main chahti hoon ke jab woh kamray mein dakhil hon, toh unhe sirf tumhari khushbu mehoos ho aur ek narm jism mile."
But you still had one more question.
"Madam, kya... kya bohot dard hoga?" you whispered, your eyes welling up.
Madam Bi’s gaze softened for a fleeting second. She knew the answer. She knew that for a man like Iqbal, pleasure was often synonymous with pain and dominance.
"Thoda sa, bas unki baat manna," she tried her best at lying. Great, no pointers from her either.
You knew you were screwed.
"Lekin tum naram aur jawan ho, tum seh lo gi. Yahi toh maza hai. Ab jao beti”
As you walked toward the bathing area, your legs felt like lead. You could already imagine the heavy thud of polished boots in the corridor. You could imagine the scent of expensive cigars and his musk overpowering your delicate one.
Because tonight, the innocence you’ve clung to becomes a currency. Today is the day you stop being a girl of this house... and become a woman of the trade.
You were a lamb being prepared for the slaughter, and the butcher was a man who didn't know how to be gentle…
As you stepped into the steaming shower, you stood there trying to bask in the only warmth that will keep you warm tonight. The steam in the small bathing chamber becoming a thick, humid veil that stuck to the walls and blurred the view around you. You stood beneath the spray of the shower, the water scalding, nearly too hot, but you welcomed the sting. It was a distraction from the drumming of your heart against your ribs.
What if he didn't like what he saw? What if he wasn't pleased with me?
Those thoughts kept circulating in your head, gnawing at the little bit of confidence you had mustered up. It wasn't as if you didn't have a woman’s body, you were blessed with the swell of your breasts and your slim yet full curves around your waist. Your hips were wide in contrast to your tiny back. Your curly long hair wrapping around your slick body.
After all, you could only hope he would be satisfied with you.
You reached for the rose scented soap Madam Bi had insisted upon, the bar slippery and fragrant in your palm. With trembling fingers, you began to lather, the white foam contrasting against the tan hue of your skin. You scrubbed with a meticulousness born from terror, wanting to be pristine, to be void of any flaw that a msn like Major Iqbal might find distasteful.
You moved the soap over the swell of your breasts, the tips of your nipples hardening not from the cold, but from the anticipation of a touch you had only imagined in the quietest, most shameful hours of the night. As you slid the soap down the curve of your waist and over the flare of your hips, you felt the fragility of your own body. You were a vast canvas of softness, and you were about to be handed over to a man made of iron and stone.
Then, you reached for the grooming tools and the fine oil.
Your breath flickered as you stepped lower, your legs shaking. You had heard the other girls whisper about the Major’s preferences. He was a man of discipline, he liked things precise and controlled. As you carefully began to remove the course, soft hairs from your intimate areas, a wave of vulnerability crashed over you.
You worked slowly, the blade grazing your skin as precisely as you could. You wondered, with a sudden, sharp spike of anxiety, if he preferred a woman completely bald, smooth as a marble or if he liked the naturalness of a girl. Does a man like him even care? you wondered. Or will he find any stray hair an insult to his perfection?
You didnt want to risk it, so you spent an agonizing amount of time ensuring every inch of your mound was flawlessly smooth, your skin flushed pink from the friction. You wanted to be a blank canvas for him. You wanted there to be nothing between his skin and yours, no barrier, no resistance. The thought made your stomach flip, a mixture of dread and a sudden, traitorous heat pooling between your legs.
Finally, you reached for the jasmine oil. You massaged it into your limbs with slow strokes, the oil shimmering under the dim light, making your skin glow with an iridescent sheen. You smelled of crushed roses and jasmine, a scent that signaled submission to men like him.
Stepping out of the shower, you didn't dry yourself completely. You liked the way the few remaining droplets clung to your collarbones and the valley of your chest, acting like tiny dismonds against your skin.
You put on a deep red lingerie set that was simple yet all net as Madam Bi preferred, allowing him to see everything from behind a cloth.
Then, you turned to the bed.
The blood red kameez lay there, waiting for you: a garment of surrender.
You slid the kameez over your head, the sheer material clinging to your damp curves. It was so thin it felt like a second skin, leaving nothing to the imagination. As you fastened the small hooks, you looked at yourself in the mirror. The red of the dress made your skin look creamier, your lips look plumper, and your eyes wide with a desperate, haunting innocence.
With makeup, you didn't want to hide the simplicity of your natural beauty, so you went with kohl in your eyes and a simple dark crimson lipstick that resembled the shade of pomegranate seeds. Your curly hair naturally flowed, you tried to contain the chaos by brushing it and maintaining it but it wasn't managing. Defeat was accepted and you left it as it was, hoping the Major didn't mind it.
You didn't wear jewelry, Madam Bi had said the Major preferred the natural beauty of a woman's body over the artificial look of ornaments. Preferring to have nothing disturb his actions.
Finally, you were finally ready, a gift wrapped in crimson silk.
You sat on the edge of the bed, your small hands gripping the sheets, listening.
It was 10:00 pm now. The place had gone quiet, the usual chaos of the place turning into a heavy, dark silence. Madam Bi had arranged the whole kotha for Major Iqbal, ensuring no clients came today. The girls stayed in their rooms, knowing what will happen to you soon.
Tonight, the kotha left only you and him.
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆
10 minutes had passed, then 30, then 45. The restless in your heart kept thrumming, the anxious waves making you almost nauseous. When will he get here? When will this be over-
Then, you heard it.
The distant, heavy thud of leather boots hitting the wooden floorboards of the corridor. Thump. Thump. Thump.
He was here.
The sound didn't stop. It grew louder, rhythmic, echoing through the hallway until it stopped for a moment. You heard a deep, musky voice speaking indistinctly with a woman's voice, Madam Bi’s voice. They talked for a bit about who knows what. All you could focus on was the ferocious beating of your heart, your hands sweating in anticipation.
Then the sound of the footsteps started again and this time stopped directly outside your door. The silence that followed was suffocating, the kind of silence that kills you from within.
You closed your eyes, your chest heaving, the red fabric rising and falling with your shallow breaths. You were a sacrifice, and the man who took everything was finally standing at the threshold.
The door finally clicked open, the heavy wooden frame creaking under the weight of his presence. You stood up immediately from the bed, watching the myth of a man finally entering. The first thing that hit you wasn't the sight of him, it was the scent of him, an intoxicating blend of cuban tobacco, sandalwood, expensive oud cologne and his natural blend of musk.
You stood frozen at the edge of the bed, it was as if your throat was tightening so harshly you could barely breathe, your fingers digging into the sides of your kameez.
Up close, he looked even more striking. He was a beast of a man, his silhouette cutting a jagged line against the dim light of the hallway. The type of man who made the world around him feel smaller. He was dressed in an olive green military uniform with a khaki coloured pathani kurta underneath that clung to the breadth of his shoulders and the hard planes of his chest, the sleeves of his jacket rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair. His face was a severe masterpiece, a jawline that looked like it had been carved from basalt, a straight, arrogant nose, and eyes… eyes that weren't dark, but void-like, absorbing every flicker of your fear and curiosity behind his glasses.
He closed the door behind him, locking it without looking back. He didn't speak, he didn't even acknowledge you at first. He stopped in the center of the room, his polished boots clicking against the floor. With a painfully slow movement, he brought a glowing cigar to his lips, inhaling deeply. The tip flared a bright, angry orange in the shadows. He exhaled a plume of silver smoke that curled around his head like a crown of ghosts.
And his gaze brought up, finally locking onto yours. You were star struck.
The intensity was physical. It felt like a hand pressing against your chest, stealing the air from your lungs. He looked at you not as a man looks at a woman, but as a python when it has already decided who to suffocate.
You didn't know what to do, all you did in that moment was stand and look at him. But you quickly averted your gaze to the ground after realizing you had been staring too long.
He found that amusing, a prostitute averting her gaze rather than holding it.
Interesting, he thought.
Slowly, he began to move toward you. Each step was precisely measured, the grace of a panther. He stopped inches away, his scent becoming overpowering, your nostrils started to burn. You felt the heat radiating off his body clashing with the chill of your nervous skin. He smelled of power, and as he looked down at you, you felt smaller than you ever had in your life.
He reached out. His hand was massive compared to your face, his skin tanned and rough, the fingers long and strong wearing two silver rings, one on his index and the other on his ring finger. He didn't touch your skin at first, instead, he hooked a few stray curls of your hair, winding them slowly around his index finger. He tilted his head, his half-lidden eyes scanning your face: the kohl-rimmed eyes, the trembling crimson lips, the sheer red fabric that left nothing to the imagination.
You tried to keep your eyes down.
He leaned in, his voice a deep vibration that seemed to echo in your very bones. "Ye hayaa hai ya sirf dikhava," he murmured, his breath warm against your cheek.
Your heart rate went up. Can he tell I’m nervous? Did Madam Bi tell him that I’m unexperienced?
The proximity was getting too much for you. The magnetism of him, the dark energy he radiated, sent a jolt of panic through you. You flinched, stepping back instinctively, your heels catching on the bedsheets.
Iqbal’s eyes narrowed. He didn't like the retreat. In his world, people didn't move away from him, they moved for him.
His hand shot out to grab the side of your head, prompting you to look at him. A soft whimper left your lips at his grip and your eyes had finally met his gaze directly. His fingers started slowly intertwining within your hair, his gaze analyzing every twitch of your face.
“Koi masla?”, he asked very softly, his eyebrows furrowed together.
“N-nahi”, you tried to answer but all you could do was stutter it out.
I don't think he knows, you thought to yourself.
Without another second, he plunged right into your neck, his nose and beard grazing at the most sensitive part of your side neck. All he could smell was the jasmine oil you spread on your body. Realizing that, he took a small bite, his lips a foreign sensation on you. You yelped at his sudden intrusion. The pain triggering instant panic inside you and you quickly jerked away from his face, causing you to slam backwards against the nightstand beside the bed. Your hands catching yourself by gripping the edge of the table.
Your breathing started going up.
Before you could blink, his hand shifted and grabbed the side of your head. The patience he had shown in the first few seconds vanished, replaced by an abrupt, sharp hunger.
His fingers tightened around your head, gripping the thick curls at the nape of your neck and yanking your head back with a sharp, sudden force.
A small gasp escaped your lips, your neck arching, your chest thrusting forward against the red of your kameez. You were forced to look up into those dark, merciless eyes.
"Kyaa hua? Sharma rahi ho?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave, dripping with a dark, mocking amusement that didn't need volume to be intimidating. You could tell he was becoming restless.
Your heart was hammering so hard you thought it might burst through your ribs. Each millisecond you kept quiet, his fingers pulled harder at your hair causing a sharp pain to shoot in your skull. He was waiting for an answer to what you did.
You trembled under his grip, your voice coming out in a fragile, broken whisper. "Wo... bas... main... main kabhi kisi admi ke saath nahi leti." You let out abruptly.
The silence that followed was revealing. You saw the moment the words registered. His pupils dilated, his gaze dropping to the swell of your breasts and then back to your terrified, innocent eyes. The revelation of your virginity didn't make him soften, it actually did the opposite. It sparked something primal in him. The idea of being the first, the only, to break that seal of innocence turned his desire into something violent.
A dark, evil smirk touched his lips causing his gold tooth to shine under the dim light, one of his eyebrows raising. "Sach?" he whispered, his grip on your hair tightening just enough to keep you pinned. "Tumhare liye... yeh pehli baar hai?"
You nod slightly, hoping that perhaps he would let you go since he probably preferred more experienced women.
Right. Right? Well, it couldn't be further from the truth.
The air in the room became thick, saturated with the scent of his cigar and the buzz of a man who had just found a prize he didn’t expect. Iqbal didn’t let go of your hair, instead, he stepped closer, his massive frame eclipsing the light, swallowing you whole in his shadow.
“Toh yeh baat thi.” The words sounding like a sentence rather than a question. "Madam Bi ne ye baat mujse chupaye”, he says ever so slowly.
He released your hair but Iqbal didn’t move. He didn’t offer a comforting word or a gentle touch to soothe the trembling of your shoulders. Instead, he stepped back slowly and moved toward the heavy mahogany chair positioned in the edge of the room. He sat, leaning back with ease. He sprawled his legs wide, his polished boots clicking against the floor, occupying the space with an arrogance that demanded submission. He took one last drag of his cigar, the ember glowing a fierce, hungry red, before crushing the butt into a crystal tray on the side table.
His eyes never left you. They traced the line of your thin throat, the frantic pulse jumping in your neck, and the way the red fabric of your kameez clung to your shivering form. To a man like Iqbal, innocence wasn’t something to be cherished, it was something to manipulate.
"Pas aao," he commanded, raising his fingers to flicker you to come.
You took a small step forward, your bare feet feeling the coldness of the floor. You stopped a few feet away, your hands twisting the fabric of your dress.
"Kapare utaro," he ordered.
What..
The command was flat, devoid of any request. You froze. The thought of standing there, completely exposed under that clinical, dark gaze, sent a surge of unease through you. You had spent hours preparing, scrubbing every inch of your skin to prepare for him, but now that the moment had arrived, the vulnerability felt like a physical weight crushing your lungs.
"M-major sahab... main... ple-..." you whispered, your voice cracking. You didn't even know what you were asking for, mercy, patience, or for him to simply stop. All you knew was that you didn't want to be here, didn't want to be standing in front of a man presented like an object.
Iqbal’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, the hesitation seemed to irritate him. He didn't like the word please when it was used as a plea for hesitation. He liked the word yes.
He stood up.
The movement was so sudden you gasped, stepping back, but he was faster. He closed the distance in two strides, his massive 6’2 frame looming over you like a storm cloud. His index finger came up and hooked the neckline of your kameez. He pulled the fabric toward him, allowing him to effortlessly take a look at your cleavage, right between your breasts. As if he was inspecting something.
It was a brutal invasion of privacy, but alas you couldn't do anything about it.
Before you could utter another word, his whole hand moved, gripping the front of your sheer red kameez with a hard force and pulled. You let out a sharp cry as you felt the fabric strain and then, rip, the sound of silk tearing echoed through the silent room. The garment was shredded down the center, exposing the delicate net of your lingerie and the trembling, cream-colored skin of your chest.
The fabric was now discarded in the ground, all torn.
"N-nahi... please, thoda aaram se," you whimpered, one of your hands coming up to instinctively cover yourself, and your other hand brushing against his hard chest. The cool air hit your damp skin, making your nipples harden instantly, a traitorous reaction to the terror.
Shame was the only thing you could feel in that moment.
"Main ne kaha tha, utaro," he murmured, his voice dangerous. "Lekin tumne meri baat nahi suni."
You tried to pull away, your arm crossing even tighter over your breasts, trying to shield yourself from the intensity of his stare. You felt small, exposed, and utterly powerless.
"M- mujhe daar lag raha tha” was the only thing you could spit out. Your eyes welling up with tears now.
“Darr bohot kuch sikhata hai,” he countered, his voice devoid of warmth. "Aur jab tum dene mein itni hichkichati ho... toh phir tumhein lena seekhna padega."
Before you could recoil, his hand clamped around your wrist with a grip of iron. He didn't move your hand, he forced it with all his might. He yanked your arm down, pressing your palm firmly against the heavy, warm bulge beneath the fabric of his khaki shalwar.
You gasped, your eyes widening. Even through the fabric, you could feel the incredible size of him, the pulsing heat of his arousal, the length of him. He was hard, stony and demanding.
"Dekho," he commanded, his other hand gripping the back of your neck to keep you pinned against him. "Mehsoos karo. Ek mard ko aish dena itna mushkil kaam nahi."
He began to move your hand in a slow, rhythmic stroke. He wasn't letting you touch him out of desire, he was forcing you to acknowledge the power dynamic he held. Your fingers were small, shaking, and forced to wrap around the length of him. He liked that, not to mention how good it felt.
"Is kamre mein tumhari haya ki qeemat main pehle hi ada kar chuka hoon. Aaj raat se subah hone tak... tumhara har hissa, katra dar katra, meri milkiyat hai." He had a devious look to him now.
As he forced your hand to stroke him again, harder this time, you felt the first spark of something terrifying. You were being broken, piece by piece, and the most frightening part was that as he held you there, shredded and shaking, you could feel yourself sinking into his dark gravity.
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆
The sound of the rain outside had shifted from a melodic patter to a continuous drumming, as if the sky itself were trying to break through the roof to witness the dismantling of your innocence.
Iqbal didn’t care for your tears. To him, tears were merely a lubricant, a sign that the spirit was breaking and the body was finally becoming malleable. He watched the way your chest heaved, the deep line of your cleavage pulsing, the way your small, trembling hand was forced to grip the rigid heat of him. He liked the contrast, your porcelain fragility against his weathered strength.
"Kaampna band karo," he commanded, though he made no move to soothe you. "Yeh mujhe bezaar karta hai."
But you couldn't help it. You were so immersed in stroking him so that he wouldn’t punish you further, making sure you kept an even pace.
But he had different plans.
With a sudden, brutal movement, he yanked your wrist away from his length, and his hand hooked under your arm not to hold you but to fling you backward. You got pushed back, your heels catching on the heavy velvet rug, and you landed hard on the plush velvet rug with a muffled thud. Your whole body rebounding against the impact. Before you could even gasp for air, he was standing above you.
You tried scrambling back with your elbows but his arms grabbed your ankles and pushed you towards him, his ankle locking with yours, giving you slight carpet burns on your back. He wanted to examine your fleshed out body against the candle light.
With you immobilized, he took his time penetrating you with his stare from the tip of your head all the way to the bottom. You had slight tears falling down your cheeks, your face writhed in anger at him. But he enjoyed watching you squirm on the carpet, your defiance useless. He noticed the net lingerie closely now, fixating on the dark nipples protruding through the bra. Then slowly, his gaze swept over your stomach then-
Surprisingly, you managed to break free from his possession by shifting your ankle and quickly stood up, having your back facing him now. You were so desperate now, running to reach the door.
But Major Iqbal having years of training, walked barely two steps before he abruptly pulled you flush against him. One arm locking your across neck, the other running through your lower abdomen, his hold slowly squeezing your body to the point of pain. A small wince came out of you.
You amused him so much, despite all he did to you.
“Arey kaha bhag rahi ho”, he groaned against your ear. He pushed your ass entirely flat against his member, the line between your cheeks fitting perfectly against his bulge. Iqbal’s chest was a wall of granite against your back, his heat seeping through your exposed skin. “Itni sharat kyun?” he asked deviously. His hand on your abdomen slowly reached lower.
Everything in you wanted to rebel, to bite his arm on your neck but the way his hand snaked even lower down made you forget any train of thought. His touch so warm and hot against your skin, you craved for this touch in the depths of your fantasies.
His finger finally reached the seam of your panties, his mouth now buried in the border between your neck and shoulder, pressing and sucking hard kisses across so very slowly. You leaned your head back on his chest, a whimper leaving you as he pushed his index finger beneath the net, feeling nothing but warm skin at the top of your flesh. The sudden contact of his rough fingertips against your most intimate skin made your toes curl into the velvet rug.
He paused and opened his eyes surprised, his fingers splaying across the smooth, hairless expanse of your mound. A low, guttural hum vibrated in his throat, not of disappointment, but of a wicked curiosity. He was used to the natural coarse growth of the women of Lyari, but this, this pristine, bald smoothness, was a rarity to him. It felt like an invitation.
"Itni safai..." he murmured, his voice a rough caress against your ear.
He leaned his head over with you still caged around him and checked inside your panty to reaffirm, his fingers pulling at the edge and seeing nothing but bare brown skin, coupled with a few minor cuts from a blade he assumed.
He nuzzled back against the side of your neck, ”Inti intizam kiye hai humare liye” he said, teasing at your preparedness.
You flushed with embarrassment and shame all at once, you couldn't believe he was checking you for hair. So shameless you thought, a man had never spoken to you this way. You tried to turn your face away so he couldn't see the shock you held, but he was already watching your face express all those emotions from a few seconds ago.
Slowly, deliberately, he slid one finger past the edge of your lace, pushing through the narrow opening of your folds. His finger running down your slit, ensuring not to spread your lips yet.
Your head started swimming, the shame you felt moments ago beginning to melt into a terrifying haze. As he ran his finger up and down your slit, his mouth found the sensitive junction of your back, sucking a deep, bruising mark into your skin.
You let out a sharp, broken gasp, your back arching instinctively against his hard bulge. You had never been touched here, not by anyone. The intrusion was sudden and heavy, but as he slid down even further against your slit, he felt a surprising surge of moisture meeting him. Despite your fear, your body was betraying you, opening for him with a desperation you never felt before.
Iqbal felt it. He felt the slick, hot fluid of your arousal staining his finger.
“Bahar itni sharam... aur andar itni garmi. Tumhe pasand aa raha hai, hai na?”
His deep voice broke you out of your trance, your eyes splitting open wide, alarm beginning to set again.
“Choriye mujhe…”, you plead as you begin thrashing against him, using your nails to dig in and push his arms off you. “Mujhe nahi pasand yeh” you cry out as you use all your might to break free, pushing your body against him repeatedly.
But he wasn't letting go, his arms still locked in even harder than before, your rebelliousness rushing blood southward even more, the bulge becoming even more prominent. You felt it, pausing suddenly. His length felt as if it was straining to plunge inside you.
But Iqbal instantly turned you around, spinning you in his arms until you were facing him. His hands gripping tightly around your wrists. You could tell his patience was wearing thin.
“Mera sabr aur mat aazmao”, he warned in a dark tone.
Without wasting another second, he grabbed behind your knees, lifting you up in his arms princess style. But it wasn't gentle like you imagined in movies, he moved towards the bed and threw you right down on the mattress, causing you to go flying. Your breasts bouncing against the impact.
You looked up at him now, his pupils fully blown dark behind his glasses. All you could sense was the immense lust and hunger that was looming over him.
Oh no, it's starting.
Instantly, he lunged right at you. His massive frame pinned you into the mattress, the sheer weight of his body crushing the breath from your lung as he hovered over you. The scent of sandalwood and tobacco became a suffocating cloud. You tried to scramble backward, your hands searching for purchase on the sheets, but his hand came around your throat with a grip that threatened to snap the bone, causing you to choke.
"Major Sahab... please... maine kahbi yeh nahi-" your voice straining, your hands clawing at his to stop this brutality.
"Main jaanta hoon tumne aaj tak kya nahi kiya," he interrupted, his voice a low, dangerous rumble against your ear. "Isi liye tum yahan ho.”
His other hand, calloused and heavy, didn't waste time. He began to grope you with a controlling desire, his palms crushing your breasts through the thin net of your bra, squeezing with a force that bordered on bruising. He wanted to mold your soft flesh to his liking, to mend it to his wants.
He descended on your neck, his mouth kissing and sucking a deep, dark mark into the area right under your ear, his teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you let out choked sobs. You tried to push him away, but he locked your wrists above your head with one hand, pinning them to the pillow.
With his hand gone from your throat, you immediately took a deep breath, finally taking in oxygen. He smirked against your neck at your desperation.
So evil.
He didn't use his hands to undress you further, he used his teeth. He leaned down, his mouth finding the sensitive curve where your shoulder met your neck, and bit down- hard. You let out a sharp, piercing shriek that echoed through the silent kotha, a sound of pure shock and pain. The mark he left was deep, a dark purple brand that stung your body long before the act even began.
You fought. You kicked your legs, your heels drumming against his muscular thighs, your head thrashing against the pillow. But fighting Major Iqbal was like fighting the tide, it only made the waves crash harder.
"Mujhe…. choriye.. abhi!" you sobbed, your voice cracking.
With a violent jerk, he hooked his thumb into the center of your bra and pulled it in half, the metal hooks in the back leaving marks. The sound of net snapping echoed in the room, leaving your breasts exposed to the cool air and his searing gaze. He looked at the way your nipples hardened and strained against your chest. He didn't pause, his mouth descending to capture a nipple, sucking it hard into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the peak until you let out a broken sob of pain.
"Sshhh... rona nahi. Abhi toh shuruat hai," he whispered, his eyes dark with a sadistic kind of lust.
With a plop, removing his mouth from your breast, he reached down, his hand gripping the waistband of your panties and sliding them down your legs with one effortless motion, tossing them aside. You felt completely naked, stripped of everything but your fear. He looked at you- really looked at you, his gaze sweeping all the way down now and a smug grin played on his lips.
You felt the cold air hit your skin for a fraction of a second before both his rough, calloused palms slammed against your thigh, prying you open, your knees on either side of you. The stretch stung your pelvis, you have never been in this position, so wide and exposed. You felt the sudden, intrusive pressure of his fingers slowly sliding down your slit, his index and middle finger parting your folds. This time without your permission, more warm, clear slick liquid flowed out of you.
Iqbal was pleased, even though you desperately wanted to bury your face into the pillows.
His middle finger started running circles around your clit, watching you squirm. Without looking down, he tried sliding further downward to your hole, but his eyebrows furrowed, taken aback he couldn't find it with ease like he usually does. He looked down at your flesh and realized how small you were. Your hole was barely visible, barely having an opening.
Yet he still reached down, his large, rough finger sliding against your wetness until he dipped just the tip of his finger in, circling it around to loosen it. And then, without warning, he forced one finger inside despite the size.
A sharp scream left your lips as he pushed it inside. You weren't ready, the opening was too tight, the seal of your virginity acting as a barrier he had no intention of respecting.
"Aah! Major sahab! Boht dard ho raha hai! Rukiye...!" you cried out, your hips jerking upward, trying to escape the intrusion. But he leaned his full weight into you, crushing you into the mattress.
Iqbal didn’t stop. He leaned down, his lips brushing your ear, his voice a cold, hot contrast. "Dard toh hoga, jaan. Tumhari jagah itni choti hai", he said in a mocking, teasing tone, dripping with amusement.
He didn't give you time to process the terror any further. He added a second finger, stretching you brutally, the pressure feeling like you were being split in half. He moved them in a slow, rhythmic stretch, forcing your body to accommodate him, ignoring your whimpers and the way you sobbed into the open air, unable to do anything.
"Ab hilna mat," he growled, his eyes flashing with a dark, obsessive hunger.
He didn't wait for you to be ready. He didn't care if you were shaking or if your eyes were clouded with terror. He reached down, pulling his shalwar down with a clinical speed, just enough for his length to spring out from his boxers. But he didn't bother to take off his kurta or jacket, he wanted the contrast with you nude and bare and him fully clothed.
You gasped in horror. Your eyes finally met his cock. A mere full 8.5 inches, pulsing with a frantic rhythm, beads of his pre-cum swelling from his wide brown tip. His veins protruding in all directions down his member, with dark, curly hair dusted at the top. He was hairy but well trimmed, like his beard.
But it was big, too big for your liking.
How can something like that even fit inside me, he could barely fit a finger inside.
His eyes met your gaze, seeing the sheer terror written in your face watching his dick. While staring right at you, he took his cock in his hands and started stroking it up and down so vigorously that he let out a subtle groan himself. He was preparing.
He shifted his weight now, his massive, rigid length pressing against your thigh, the heat of him scorching as he loomed over, forcing you to look right at him. He gripped your waist, his fingers digging into your hips, anchoring you to the bed.
And then you felt it- the blunt, searing heat of him pressing against your clit.
You squeezed your eyes shut, a sob racking your frame. "please… thora aram se..."
Iqbal’s jaw tightened. The plea for slowness was an insult to the urgency roaring in his blood. He wanted the friction, he wanted the resistance. He wanted to feel the exact moment your body gave up and accepted him.
He held his cock and started to tap repeatedly against your bundle of nerves, causing even more slick to drip out down your cunt. He wanted you to be well-prepared for him because of your size, trying to ensure you were lubricated enough to take all of him. After all, the difference between his cock and your virgin hole was staggering, even he knew that.
Once he was thought it sufficed, he gripped your hips and he lowered his mouth and took one long stripe of your flesh with his hot tongue, a jolt of electricity shot through your spine, forcing a broken moan from your lips. For a fleeting second, the terror was eclipsed by a searing, forbidden pleasure. The taste of you was so ravenous, he dove again and this time pushed his tongue in your entrance as far as he could go, making sure your thighs were spread even more.
You trembled beneath him, your thighs quivering against his calloused palms. Looking up at the monolithic man above you, the sheer scale of him felt impossible. Your gaze flickered down to where his rigid length rested, then back to his dark, predatory eyes at your flesh.
"Yeh... yeh andar kaise ayega? Main phat jaoongi (ill tear)..", you whimpered, your voice trembling with uncertainty.
Iqbal paused, his gaze dropping to the tight, glistening seam of your virginity. A slow, cruel smirk curved his lips. He didn't offer no comfort, he offered a command.
"Tum le lo gi," he rumbled, his voice a low vibration that seemed to rattle your very bones. "Bas chup chap maze lo”, effectively shutting you up.
He didn't give you a chance to breathe. He shifted his grip, his fingers digging into your hip bones with enough force to leave marks, anchoring you firmly into the mattress, his knees pushing your thighs out again, making sure your knees were as far apart as possible. He positioned the broad, searing head of his cock against your entrance, the blunt heat of him stretching the opening even before he moved.
With a sudden, guttural grunt, he plunged forward.
A scream tore from your throat, a vulnerable sound of pain and rupture. The sensation was an explosion of pressure, a feeling of being stabbed inside. Your toes curled inwards, your fingers clawing uselessly at the sheets, your breath hitching in a series of broken, jagged gasp.
Outside, zoya and meher heard your shrieks and knew exactly what was going on. They quietly looked at each other and let out tiny giggles.
The impact was violent. He drove inward with a powerful, unchecked thrust, but he didn't slide in. He hit a wall. The tight, stubborn seal of your hymen acted as a barrier, stopping his massive girth halfway. He was stuck, the friction of his thick head pressing against your narrow walls creating a pressure that felt like you were being split open from the inside.
Iqbal let out a sharp, frustrated groan, his muscles locking as he felt the resistance. He didn't pull back to ease the pain, he leaned into it, his jaw flexing with a sudden, raw intensity.
"Kaisi zidd hai..." he hissed, his eyes darkening.
Without warning, he braced his weight on his elbows and slammed his hips forward with a brutal, singular force.
A piercing shriek ripped from your throat, your back arching violently off the bed. You felt a sudden, searing pop, a sensation of something tearing, a sharp flash of white-hot pain that blinded you. The barrier broke.
He didn't stop. He used the momentum of the break to drive the rest of his length home, burying himself deep into your untapped depths with a heavy, wet thud, his shalwar adding additional friction against your inner thighs. The force of the impact knocked the air from your lungs, leaving you gasping and sobbing under the crushing weight of him.
As he settled, a slow, warm trickle of blood began to seep from the junction of your bodies, staining the white sheets of the bed in a crimson bloom. You felt stretched to your absolute limit, your insides screaming at the intrusion of something so immense.
Iqbal stayed still for a moment, his chest heaving, a look of satisfaction crossing his face as he felt the tight, hot grip of your virgin walls clamping around him. He looked down at the blood mixing with the slickness of your arousal, a dark glint of possessiveness in his eyes.
"Ab chillao," he whispered, his voice dripping with a dangerous, dominant heat.
He began to move, hard, rhythmic, and merciless. Each thrust was a hammer blow, driving the air from your lungs and replacing it with the scent of his dominance. It wasnt making love, it was hardcore fucking. His length came out all the way til the edge of his tip touched the outside of your entrance before drilling it back all the way back in to your cervix, his balls slapping against the end of your cunt, his pubic hair grazing the top of your cunt.
The room had become a blur of amber light and suffocating heat, mixed with the scent of copper from your blood and slick arousal.
His heavy hips slamming against you with a wet, rhythmic thud that echoed through the room, making the bed frame groan and the headboard bang against the wall. The filthy sounds of skin slapping against skin was the only thing ringing in your ears. He didn't glide smoothly like you expected, he hammered into you. Each thrust was a jagged intrusion that pushed you further into the mattress, your breath leaving you in broken, unintelligible whimpers.
You shook your head, your eyes squeezed shut, refusing to see the man who was breaking you.
He wasn't looking at your face anymore, he was focused on the friction, the way your tight, virgin walls clung to him in a desperate, involuntary grip. He was rutting like an animal, his movements savage and needy. He didn't care that you were sobbing, that your hands were clawing at the sheets in a blind attempt to find leverage. To him, pain and pleasure were the same thing.
Minutes bled into a haze. The physical intensity became so overwhelming that the world began to slip away from you. You felt your consciousness fraying at the edges, a sudden sense of dissociation washing over you. You felt as though she were floating somewhere near the ceiling, watching a girl beneath be broken by a man made of stone. The screams felt like they belonged to someone else, the searing heat in your core becoming a distant, pulsing throb.
You wondered what you would be doing if you were back at home, with your mother. Your started eyes glazing over, staring blankly at the canopy of the bed.
But then, Iqbal shifted.
He felt the friction, but he wanted more, he wanted to break you completely. He felt that you were too tight, your body fighting him even in your stupor. So he needed to find the exact point where your resistance broke into ecstasy. He paused, his breathing heavy and ragged, and leaned back slightly to look between his cock and to where you were connected. He saw the way his thick girth was buried deep, the way your flesh was stretched white and taut around him. With a sudden grunt, he reached down and gripped your ass, his large fingers digging into your plush soft cheeks. With a powerful heave, he hoisted your hips higher, tilting your pelvis at a steep, punishing angle. The change in position caused his length to angle sharply, driving his head directly into the sensitive ceiling of your vagina.
The shift changed everything.
The head of his cock slammed directly into your g-spot with the force of a piston.
An even louder shriek tore from your throat because of a sudden, violent electricity that shocked you back into your body. The dissociation snapped. You were back, and the pleasure was so intense it felt like a violation.
"Yahan... hai na?" he hissed, his eyes flashing with a wicked triumph. He didn't let up. He locked his rhythm right there, hitting that spot with every single plunge. Your ass resting on his muscled thighs now. He started rutting in you faster, his movements becoming harder more frantic.
The friction became an inferno. Your internal walls were pulsing, clamping around him in waves of unwanted, overwhelming need. You felt the pressure build, a sensation that you couldn't escape. You were sobbing, your head thrashing from side to side, your voice gone, reduced to stripped wails that filled the kotha.
He felt your peak approaching, the moment your consciousness would shatter. But Iqbal wasn't a man who gave gifts without taking a toll first.
Just as you felt the first wave of the orgasm crash over you, he didn't pull back or slow down. Instead, he locked his arms on either side of your head, pinning you with the full, suffocating weight of his muscular frame.
“Abhi nahi..." he growled, his voice a dark command. You just wanted to release, all the build-up now gone with him pausing.
Then, he shifted his weight, grinding his hips in a slow, agonizing circle, rotating his thick head against your overstimulated g-spot. He used his thumb, pressing it firmly against your clitoris, pinning the swollen nerve against the base of his shaft. He began to apply a rhythmic, pulsing pressure, fast, then slow, then a hard, crushing squeeze.
The contradiction was too much. The blunt fullness inside and the sharp, pinpoint friction outside collided. You felt a surge of heat shoot from your core to your fingertips, your vision blurring as the orgasm hit you not as a landslide.
You moaned, your body snapping taut like a bowstring, your internal muscles clamping around him in a series of violent, rhythmic contractions that squeezed him with a strength that almost made him twitch. Your hips jerked upward instinctively, trying to chase the peak, your voice dissolving into a sob of pure, unfiltered ecstasy.
But as the peak began to plateau, you realized he hadn't moved. He was still there, buried deep, his expression one of feline observation.
He hasn't climaxed yet.
Then, without warning, he began to move again.
He didn't give you a second to breathe or recover. He slammed back into you with a force that felt like a collision, his rhythm turning frantic and relentless. You were already raw, your nerves frayed and screaming from the climax, and now he was drilling into you again while you were still pulsing.
"B- bas... bohut zyada ho raha hai!" you wailed, your voice sounding distant even to yourself.
The pleasure had crossed back over into a searing, overstimulating heat. Every thrust felt like a bolt of lightning hitting a wet wire. You began to thrash beneath him, your legs kicking out, your hands pushing uselessly against his granite-hard chest. You were overstimulated, your body shaking in a state of sensory overload where every touch felt like a burn.
Iqbal didn't stop. He loved the chaos of it, the way you were fighting for air beneath him. He gripped your wrists tightly, acting as shackles. With the other hand, he gripped your jaw, forcing you to look at him, to see the dark, focus in his eyes.
"Sabar karo, abhi bohot kuch aage hai" he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.
He accelerated, his movements becoming a blur of power. His teeth gritted, the muscles in his neck and shoulders cording. He was a man pushing himself to the absolute limit, his breath coming in harsh, ragged snarls.
Then, the tension in his body reached a breaking point.
A low, animalistic sound ripped from his throat. He lunged forward one last time, burying himself so deep he felt your cervix yield, and he locked his hips against yours, pinning you to the bed with the full, crushing weight of his body.
A tremor racked his entire frame as he unloaded into you. He filled you with his hot, pulsing seed, painting your womb white, his release as powerful and uncompromising as the man himself. His thrusts now lazy and slow to pump out all remaining semen, his chest heaving against yours pressing very slow kisses against your neck, his hands groping your breasts. The silence of the room finally returned, save for the sound of your broken whimpers and the distant, steady rhythm of the rain against the glass
As his lenght softened and your walls tightening around him, he slowly pulled out, some cum rushing out. You suddenly felt so empty as if something was yanked out of you. He laid beside you now, his palm resting on the side of his head supported by his elbow, his dark eyes staring down at the ruin he had made of your innocence. He slowly reached over with his other hand and his fingers had pushed back a stray sweaty curl out of your face...
The heat in the room was thick, tasting of iron and the heavy musk of sex.
Iqbal sat up against the headboard now. He liked the aftermath, the way the quiet was broken only by the ragged, hitching sobs of the girl who was beneath him a few moments ago. He watched you, his dark eyes tracing the way your eyes remained glazed, staring at a ceiling you no longer recognized.
Slowly, he reached for the bedside table. With a practiced flick of his lighter, the tip of a cigar glowed a menacing orange. He took a long, slow drag, the smoke curling around his sharp jawline like a shroud. As he exhaled, his gaze dropped.
A thick, pearlescent stream of his seed was beginning to leak from you, sliding down the curve of your thigh and staining the ruined white sheets. A flicker of possessiveness hit him. He didn't want it leaving you. Not yet. Without a word, he reached down. His thick finger pressed firmly against your opening, sliding the finger deep inside you, pushing the pooling cream back into your depths with a slow shove.
You let out a breathy whimper, your hips twitching instinctively.
He withdrew his finger. He watched the way your naked body was still uncovered, the way your breasts still moved in panicked bursts. Most men would have been satisfied. Most men would have dressed and left the kotha before the sun dared to rise.
But Major Iqbal was not most men. He was a man of appetite that didn't end with a single peak. He looked at you and saw the way your flesh had molded to his, the way you were pink, raw and open, the lips still parted from where you were connected.
The hunger returned, more violent than before.
He didn't ask if you were tired, he didn't ask if the pain was too much. He simply gripped your waist and flipped you over with a jarring force, pressing your face into the mattress.
"Abhi toh raat javan hai, meri jaan," he teased, giving you the warning of what will follow…
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The next few hours became a blur of agony and forbidden heat.
He was relentless, moving you like a piece of clay, sculpting your body to fit his exactly. He pushed you to the edge of the bed, your legs draped over his shoulders as he hammered into you from above, his weight crushing the air from your lungs. He turned you onto your side, locking your legs together to make you tighter, his movements becoming slow, deep, and agonizingly precise, filling every corner of you until you forgot where your body ended and his began.
Every time you thought you had reached the limit of what you could endure, every time you begged for a moment of air or a second of peace, he would find a new way to break you. He would grip your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat to his teeth, or pin your wrists above your head, reminding you that in this room, your only purpose was to take him.
He took his time, exploring the geography of your surrender. He would spend an hour just tasting the skin of your thighs, only to spend the next two jamming his manhood into you with a ferocity that made the bedframe scream against the wall. He cummed into you again and again, filling you until you felt heavy with him, your insides pulsing in a state of permanent, overstimulated shock.
The room became a sanctuary of sin, the only light provided by the dying embers of his cigars, melted candles and the occasional flash of lightning from the storm outside.
By the time the clock on the wall ticked toward 4:00 AM, the rain had slowed to a rhythmic drip.
Iqbal finally collapsed beside you, his skin glistening with sweat, his muscles finally slack. Not one whisper of sweet words was uttered to you after hours of your breaking. He just stayed there, the predator sated for the moment, watching as you lay beside him, shaking, ruined, and irrevocably marked.
He reached out, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek with a touch that was almost tender, though his eyes remained as cold and commanding as the day he arrived.
He had taken what he wanted. And you knew that the simple arrangement of the kotha had instead became something that you could never erase from your memory.
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The room, once filled with the unforgiving symphony of skin hitting skin and broken gasps, now felt suffocably still.
Iqbal finally took off from the bed, the muscles of his back rippling like corded steel in the amber light. He didn’t look back at the ruin of the sheets, he instead began to adjust his clothing, his uniform, managing his cuffs, fixing his watch, making sure he looked befitting as a Major again, his movements efficient and cold, the soldier returning to his skin.
As he stood over you, you felt tinier than you ever had in your life. You quickly brought the blanket to cover your nude body and take back some dignity that was practically erased by him.
Iqbal reached into his pocket and pulled out several crisp banknotes. He leaned over, placing 5,000 rupees on the nightstand, way more than what Madam Bi agreed to. His fingers brushed your arm, a touch that sent a jolt of terrified longing through you.
"Tumhara inam," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration.
As he moved to leave, you noticed him place something else beside the money: a small, foil-wrapped blister pack.
Plan B.
The sight of the pill triggered a sudden, sharp spike of panic in your chest. You were nineteen, you had kept away from the gritty realities of the other girls. The concept of "preventing" a pregnancy was a theory you barely were taught, but the image of a child, a miniature version of this man, suddenly flashed before your eyes. You imagined a life where you weren't a prostitute anymore, but a secret mistress, bound to him by a child you couldn't afford to raise in a world that viewed you as disposable.
A small sob escaped your throat.
Iqbal paused, he didn't turn around fully, but his voice sliced through the dark, commanding and certain. "Kha lena," he ordered.
He finally leaned down to press a firm kiss to your forehead. It wasn't tender, not in the way a lover's kiss was, but it was possessive. It was the kind of kiss a king gave a subject he found amusing.
"Tum ne kitne acchi se liya hai aaj," he whispered, his eyes half-lidden now, the words dripping with a dark, hot approval that made your toes curl despite the pain.
He straightened up, his silhouette blotting out the light from the candles. He paused, his dark eyes scanning your trembling form one last time.
The predator had found a prey he actually liked the taste of.
"Is raat ki baad, koi aur mard ab tumhe choo ga nahi" he stated while checking his watch, his tone shifting into something absolute, "sirf main aounga, Madam Bi se baath kar loonga."
It wasn't no request, it was an absolute order. He had claimed the turf, and Major Iqbal did not share his land.
As he finally reached the door, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. A slow, mocking smirk played on his lips, a flash of the man who enjoyed the hunt as much as the kill.
"Aur haan," he teased, his voice dripping with a cruel, playful heat, "agli baar... apni safai nahi karna."
With a final look that promised more violence and more pleasure, he stepped out into the corridor. The heavy thud of the door closing echoed like a gavel.
You lay there in the dark, the silence of the room rushing back in. You looked at the money, then at the pill, and finally at the space where he had been. You should have felt violated. You should have felt terrified. But as you felt the cooling slickness of him inside you, a traitorous warmth began to bloom in your chest.
You may have started as just a girl in a kotha, but now you were the only thing in Lyari that had managed to make the Major Iqbal come back.
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To be continued....
xx Nurya
btw i dont support relationships like these nor do i romanticize the real iqbal and his dynamics, pls stay away from men like that!
hey guysss I LOWKEY wanted to write a fic for my cutie major iqballl but i want it to be very accurate to the movie iqbal where hes so dark and mysterious and OH SO SEXY. i was wondering if anybody wants to be tagged in a very dark romance w/ major iqballl x reader. just fyi it might include cnc, dub con, free use etc. i have an idea for major iqbal slowly falling in love w a prostitute he visits BUT IDKK YET FULLY. LET ME KNOW IF U WANNA BE TAGGEDD! ill hopefully release it soonnn
