Humiliation & slavery of a high profile Lawyer other chapters

Chapter 3

The Lawyer's Humiliation - Continued

The rain hammered against the skylight of Shankar's private shower room—a space he'd had renovated specifically for her. Manju knelt on the cold tiles, her wrists bound behind her back with leather cuffs, the chain anchored to a ring bolted into the floor. The water cascaded over her naked body, plastering her black hair to her shoulders, making her 38DD breasts glisten under the harsh fluorescent light.

Shankar stood over her, fully clothed, a coiled whip in his right hand. He didn't speak at first. He just watched the water stream down her curves, pooling between her thighs where the thick silicone butt plug sat snug in her rectum, its base pressing against her perineum.

"Look at you," he said finally, his voice low and calm. "My high-profile lawyer. On her knees. Ready."

He stepped forward and grabbed her chin, tilting her face up. Her septum ring—the gold retainer he'd shoved through her flesh weeks ago—caught the light. But that wasn't enough for him anymore.

"Tonight, we finish what we started," he said, releasing her chin. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small leather pouch. He opened it and laid out the contents on the edge of the shower bench: two sterile piercing needles, a pair of surgical clamps, and two small gold rings—each with a delicate stud on the inside.

Manju's eyes widened. Her breath caught.

"Both nostrils," Shankar said, running his thumb across the bridge of her nose. "I want to see a ring on each side. I want to see your nose decorated like the piggy you are."

The Piercing

He didn't give her time to protest. He knelt in front of her, water streaming over his shoulders, and pressed his thumb firmly into the middle of her nose, pushing upward. The pressure forced her nostrils to flare wide, the piggy-look he loved so much. Her eyes watered.

"Hold still," he murmured.

He swabbed the left nostril with alcohol, the cold bite making her flinch. He clamped the tissue with the surgical forceps, pinching it tight. She whimpered, a desperate sound that only made him harder.

Then the needle pierced through.

The pain was sharp and immediate—a white-hot line of fire through the cartilage. Manju gasped, her body jerking, but the chain on her wrists held her in place. Shankar twisted the needle, opening the hole, then slid the gold ring through. He threaded the stud and tightened it. Blood mixed with the water, swirling down the drain.

He repeated the process on the right side. Same clamp, same needle, same exquisite pain. When he finished, both nostrils had fresh rings, the gold gleaming against her brown skin. He pressed his thumb into the middle of her nose again, this time using his forefinger and middle finger to hook into both rings, pulling upward so that her face tilted almost vertically.

"Beautiful," he breathed. "Now you're truly mine."

The Whipping

He stood and picked up the whip. It was a short bullwhip, braided leather with a firm cracker at the tip. He unbuttoned his shirt and threw it aside, letting the water soak his torso. He wanted her to see him. To know who owned every inch of her flesh.

The first stroke landed across her left breast with a sharp crack. Manju screamed—a raw, throat-tearing sound that echoed off the tiles. A red welt rose immediately across the pale curve of her breast, the skin already beginning to bruise.

He struck again. This time across the right breast, the tip catching her nipple and flicking it so hard that she saw stars. The nipple clamp—still attached from earlier—swung wildly, the chain clinking against the tile.

"Count," he ordered.

"One," she sobbed.

Crack. Her left breast again, a cross-hatch over the first welt.

"Two—ahhhh!"

He didn't stop. He moved behind her, and the next strike landed across the full curve of her big ass. The butt plug shifted inside her as the flesh jiggled from the impact, the silicone base pressing deeper into her rectum. The pain was immense—a spreading fire that radiated through her hips and thighs.

"Three," she gasped.

Crack. Another stripe across her ass, lower this time, near the crease where her thighs met.

"Four!"

He worked methodically, painting her body with welts. Her breasts were a mess of red and purple, the flesh tender and swollen. Her ass was cross-hatched with lines, the skin raised and hot to the touch. He made her count each one until she lost track, until the numbers blended into a haze of pain and arousal that she couldn't separate.

When he finally stopped, she was trembling, tears and rainwater mingling on her cheeks.

The Humiliation in the Shower

He knelt behind her and grabbed her hair, pulling her head back. Then he hooked his forefinger into both fresh nose rings and pulled upward, lifting her face until her throat was exposed and her nostrils flared open like an animal's.

"This," he said, "is what you are."

He brought his other hand to his zipper and freed his cock—hard and thick from the sight of her suffering. He positioned himself above her face, the tip of his cock hovering just above her left nostril.

"Open."

She had no choice. She parted her lips slightly, but he wasn't aiming for her mouth. He pressed the head of his cock against her left nostril, the fresh piercing already sore and raw. The metal ring pressed into his shaft. He thrust shallowly, rubbing the tip against the inside of her nostril, the cartilage flexing.

"Breathe through your mouth," he ordered.

Then he came.

Hot seed shot into her left nostril, thick and sticky, filling the cavity and dripping back out onto her upper lip. She gagged as the taste hit her tongue—salty, bitter, overwhelming. He didn't move. He held her nose rings and waited for his cock to soften slightly, then he repositioned and did the same to her right nostril.

More cum filled the other side, spilling down her philtrum and chin. Her nose was overflowing, the air passages completely blocked. She had to breathe through her mouth, panting like a dog, while his seed dripped from her face like a grotesque decoration.

He released her hair and stood, admiring his work. "Now you look like the whore you are."

The Highway Exposure

The clock read 2:00 AM when he dragged her out of the shower, still wet, still trembling, the welts on her breasts and ass blazing. He didn't let her dry off. He didn't let her cover herself. He threw a thin towel over her shoulders—barely enough to hide her—and led her to his car.

They drove for twenty minutes, through the sleeping city, onto the highway that connected the industrial suburbs. Near a truck stop lined with eighteen-wheelers, he pulled over onto a gravel shoulder.

"Out," he said.

Manju looked at him, her eyes pleading. "Please, Shankar... please don't..."

He grabbed her by the nose rings—both fresh piercings—and pulled her out of the car. She stumbled, naked, her 38DD breasts swinging freely, the welts stark in the headlights of passing vehicles. The butt plug inside her shifted with every step, a constant pressure against her asshole.

He walked her to the edge of the road, where trucks slowed down for the weigh station. He made her stand under a streetlamp, the light illuminating every mark, every curve, every drop of cum still crusting her nose.

"This is what you look like," he said, his voice carrying over the roar of a diesel engine. "Look."

A truck slowed. The driver leaned out, his eyes widening at the sight of a naked woman with two fresh nose rings, her breasts painted with welts, cum still dripping from her nostrils. He honked. Another truck joined. Soon a small cluster of vehicles had pulled over, their headlights creating a makeshift spotlight.

"Show them," Shankar ordered. "Spread your legs."

She hesitated. He yanked her nose rings upward, making her squeal, and she obeyed. Her thighs parted, revealing the slick lips of her pussy, the base of the butt plug visible between her cheeks. The truckers wolf-whistled. One of them shouted something obscene in Hindi.

Shankar made her stand there for ten full minutes, turning her slowly so every truck, every driver, could see the full extent of his property. He didn't let her cover her breasts. He didn't let her wipe her face. He just held her nose rings and kept her on display.

Then he dragged her back to the car and drove her home.

The Office Humiliation

The next morning, Manju woke to the familiar weight of the butt plug inside her rectum, and the unfamiliar discomfort of three nose rings—one septum, two fresh nostril piercings—all throbbing. Shankar had left her bound to her bed, but he'd returned at dawn to prepare her for the day.

He'd inserted the benwa balls into her pussy—a set of three weighted balls connected by a silicone string, with a small remote control. He'd tucked the remote into his pocket.

"Get dressed," he said, tossing her a silk blouse and a pencil skirt. "No bra. No panties."

She dressed with trembling hands. The fabric of the blouse rubbed against her raw, whipped breasts, the welts visible through the thin silk. The skirt hugged her hips, the outline of the butt plug pressing against the fabric. Every step she took shifted the plug deeper, and every movement of her thighs rolled the benwa balls inside her cunt.

He drove her to her own office building, walking her through the lobby with his hand resting casually on the small of her back. The security guard nodded. The receptionist smiled. No one noticed the slight bulge of the plug under her skirt. No one saw the fresh piercings gleaming on her nose.

In the elevator, Shankar pressed a button on the remote. The benwa balls hummed to life—a low vibration that made Manju gasp, grabbing the rail for support.

"Smile," he whispered. "You're at work."

The day was torture.

She had to attend meetings. The vibration came in random waves—sometimes a gentle buzz, sometimes a violent pulse that made her clench her thighs together and stifle a moan. The butt plug pressed against her prostate-anal nerve, sending jolts of unwanted pleasure through her body. The fresh nose rings caught the attention of her colleagues.

"Manju, new jewelry?" her assistant asked, gesturing to the three rings. "That's... quite the statement."

Manju forced a smile. "Thank you. I felt like a change."

"Both nostrils? That must have hurt."

She nodded, unable to speak as the benwa balls suddenly spiked to maximum vibration. She gripped the edge of her desk, her knuckles white.

"Are you okay?" the assistant asked.

"I'm fine," Manju managed. "Just... just a cramp."

Her true hunger—the need to suck cock while having her nipples pulled—warred with this new reality. She had always been simple: weekly sessions with Rani, where a random man would use her throat while a chain pulled her nipple clamps taut. That was it. That was all she wanted.

But Shankar had broken that mold. He had made her a slave in every sense. And now, in the middle of a deposition, she felt the benwa balls vibrate so hard that she came, silently, on the witness stand, while Shankar watched from across the room, his thumb pressing the remote over and over.

After the hearing, he pulled her into a supply closet.

"Three rings," he said, touching each one. "And soon I'll add more. Every hole in your face will be mine."

He made her kneel on the dusty floor, unzipped his trousers, and forced his cock into her mouth while he hooked his fingers into all three nose rings and pulled her face onto his shaft. She gagged, choked, tears streaming, but she swallowed every drop when he finished.

"You belong to me," he said, tucking himself away. "Now go argue your case. And remember: every time you speak, every time you breathe, those rings are there. Reminding you."

He left her in the closet, trembling, dripping, and utterly owned.

Back in the courtroom, Manju stood before the judge, her voice steady, her arguments sharp. No one saw the slight tremor in her hands. No one knew about the plug stretching her rectum, the balls buzzing in her cunt, the three rings glinting on her nose as she spoke.

She was the high-profile lawyer.

She was Shankar's perfect, pierced, chained, cocksucking slave.

And she was never going back.

Chapter 4

Rani's Price

The call came on a Tuesday afternoon, while Manju was in the middle of a deposition. Her phone buzzed against the leather of her bag—a number she hadn't seen in months, but one she knew by heart.

Rani.

Manju excused herself, stepped into the empty hallway, and pressed the phone to her ear. Her voice was barely a whisper. "What do you want?"

"Your little secret isn't so little anymore, is it?" Rani's voice was smooth, almost sweet, but carried the edge of a blade. "Three nose rings. Butt plugs. Benwa balls. And that peon you've been letting fuck you in the supply closet. I know everything, Manju."

Manju's blood went cold. "How?"

"I have my sources. The same ones who bring me my clients." A pause. "You owe me. For the years I gave you your weekly sessions, for keeping your cocksucking habit hidden from your fancy colleagues. Now you're going to pay."

"How much?"

"Five lakh rupees. Cash. By Friday. Or I send a little video to the Bar Association, your father, and every newspaper in the city."

Manju's hand trembled. She had the money. She'd saved a small fortune from her cases, but it was meant for her daughter's education, for her future. But what choice did she have? "Fine. I'll have it ready."

"Good. And there's something else. Shankar has been using you for free. That ends now. I'm renting you out to a special client this weekend. A Japanese businessman. He has... particular tastes. You'll do exactly as he says, or I'll add the video to his collection."

Manju wanted to argue, but the words died in her throat. She was trapped. The high-powered lawyer, the respected advocate, reduced to a rented cunt for a stranger with a fetish.

"I'll be there," she said.

"Of course you will. And Manju? Don't wear panties to the meeting tonight. Shankar will be collecting you at eight."

The Payment

That evening, Manju withdrew the cash from her locker—five lakh rupees in crisp notes, bundled in a black plastic bag. She met Rani in the back room of the same dingy lodge where her nipple-chain sessions had begun. Rani sat on the edge of the bed, a cigarette burning between her fingers, her eyes gleaming with triumph.

"Count it," Manju said, tossing the bag onto the mattress.

Rani didn't bother. She knew Manju wouldn't cheat. "Good girl. Now strip."

Manju hesitated. "I already paid—"

"You paid for your secret. Now you're going to pay for my entertainment." Rani stood and walked around Manju, her acrylic nails tracing the outline of Manju's blouse. "I want to see what I've been missing. Those 38DD breasts that every client begged for. That mouth that's sucked more cocks than I can count."

Manju's hands shook as she unbuttoned her silk blouse, letting it fall to the floor. She unfastened her skirt, stepped out of her heels, and stood naked except for the three gold rings in her nose and the fresh welts still visible on her breasts and ass from Shankar's whipping.

Rani circled her, clucking her tongue. "Beautiful. You've become even more of a slut since I last saw you. Those piercings... exquisite." She grabbed Manju's chin and forced her head up, examining the rings. "Shankar did good work. But my client will do better."

She pulled a small leather case from her purse and opened it. Inside were two stainless steel nose hooks—curved metal instruments with sharp points, designed to pierce through the septum or nostrils and then hook upward, forcing the nose into an exaggerated piggy snout.

"These are for you," Rani said, holding one up. "The Japanese man's specialty. He'll insert them through your existing rings or maybe through new holes. He loves the way a woman's nose looks when it's pulled up, her nostrils flaring, her face contorted into a pig. He finds it... arousing."

Manju's stomach flipped. She had endured piercings, whippings, public humiliation. But the thought of hooks through her nose, transforming her face into something grotesque, made her feel sick.

"Please," she whispered. "Not my face."

Rani laughed. "It's the only part of you that's still yours. And I'm taking that too." She pocketed the hooks. "Now get dressed. Shankar is waiting outside. He's going to prep you for the weekend."

The Cock Sucking Sessions

Shankar drove her to a private apartment—a clean, modern space with blackout curtains and a soundproofed bedroom. Inside, three men waited. their eyes hungry.

"Rani's orders," Shankar said, pushing her to her knees in the center of the room. "You're to service all of them. Every mouthful, every swallow. And you're not to come until I allow it."

The men surrounded her. She reached for the first cock—thick and uncut, already hard. She took it into her mouth, tasting the salt of pre-cum, as a hand grabbed her hair and forced her deeper. Another cock pressed against her cheek. She opened her lips to take it too, her jaw stretching wide.

For the next four hours, she was a kneeling hole. She sucked, licked, gagged, swallowed. They used her throat, her mouth, her tongue. They came on her face, on her tits, down her throat. Shankar stood behind her the entire time, occasionally hooking a finger into her nose rings and pulling her head back so the men could see her submission.

By midnight, she was covered in cum. Her lips were swollen, her throat raw. The men had left, one by one, but Shankar stayed.

"More," he said, pulling her to her feet and bending her over the couch. "I haven't had my fill."

He fucked her ass while pulling her nose rings, making her scream into the cushions. He came inside her, then turned her over and made her lick his cock clean. Then he started again.

The weekend stretched into a blur of cock sucking. Friday, Saturday, Sunday—she lost count of how many men came through that apartment. Rani had arranged a small party, a gathering of businessmen and politicians who paid premium for the chance to use the high-profile lawyer's throat. Manju was there for all of them, her knees bruised, her jaw aching, her nose rings constantly pulled, twisted, hooked.

By Sunday evening, she had swallowed over thirty loads. Her stomach was bloated, her throat raw, her voice gone to a whisper. Shankar finally released her, but not before giving her one last command.

"The Japanese man is waiting for you at a private estate in the hills. You'll go there tonight. And you will obey him in everything."

The Japanese Man's Playground

The estate was a traditional Japanese villa tucked into a forest clearing, surrounded by bamboo groves and stone lanterns. Manju was driven there in a black car, blindfolded, her hands bound behind her back. When the blindfold was removed, she found herself kneeling on a tatami mat in a room lit by paper lanterns.

A man sat across from her, cross-legged, wearing a dark kimono. He was in his fifties, with graying hair and sharp, intelligent eyes. On the mat beside him lay an array of implements: bamboo canes of varying thicknesses, leather straps, stainless steel hooks, and a collection of rings and clamps.

"Manju," he said, his accent precise. "I have heard much about you. Your nose. Your breasts. Your willingness to be used."

He stood and walked toward her, his footsteps silent on the mat. He knelt in front of her, took her chin in his hand, and studied her face. His fingers traced the three rings—the septum, the left nostril, the right nostril.

"Beautiful," he murmured. "But incomplete."

He reached into his kimono and produced a small velvet pouch. From it, he removed a single, thick stainless steel hook, curved like a fishhook, with a small ring at the base. The tip was sharp enough to pierce flesh.

"I am going to insert this through your septum ring and then hook it upward, through the cartilage of your nose, until it emerges just below your brow ridge. It will pull your entire nose up, flaring your nostrils, giving you the perfect piggy face. Then I will attach a chain from this hook to your nipple clamps, so that every time you move, your nose pulls your tits, and your tits pull your nose."

Manju's eyes widened. The pain would be excruciating. The humiliation absolute.

"And then," the Japanese man continued, "I will cane you. A hundred strokes. Across your ass, your thighs, your breasts. You will count. You will thank me for every stroke. And if you cry out, I will start over."

He picked up a bamboo cane, thick as a finger, and swished it through the air. The sound was sharp, lethal.

"Are you ready, pig?"

Manju looked at the hook, the cane, the chains. Her body was bruised, her throat raw, her mind broken. She had no fight left. She had been reduced to this: a rented hole, a pig-nosed whore, a canvas for his cruelty.

"Yes sirrrr ," she whispered. "I'm ready."

The Japanese man smiled. He took the hook, pressed it against her septum ring, and pushed.

The pain was blinding. Manju screamed, but no one heard. The estate was isolated, the walls thick. The hook tore through the cartilage, scraping against bone, emerging just below the skin of her brow. Blood streamed down her face, dripping onto her bare breasts.

He didn't stop. He attached the chain to her nipple clamps, pulling her breasts taut. Then he picked up the cane and raised it high.

"Count," he said.

Crack. The first stroke landed across her ass, splitting the skin.

"One," Manju sobbed. "Thank you, Master."

Crack.

"Two... thank you, Master."

Crack.

"Three... thank you..."

The night was long, and the canes were many. By dawn, Manju's body was a lattice of welts and cuts, her nose permanently hooked upward, her face a mask of blood and tears. She knelt in the pool of her own humiliation, unable to move, unable to speak.

The Japanese man cleaned his implements carefully, then knelt beside her and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"Good pig," he whispered. "You will return next month."

He left her there, chained to a ring in the floor, her nose still hooked, her ass still bleeding, her mind finally, utterly, broken.

And in the silence of the villa, Manju smiled. She had finally found the submission she never knew she craved.

Chapter 5

The Stretching

The Japanese man had returned Manju to Shankar with a final payment wired to Rani's account, but the hooks and canes had left their mark. For a week, Manju lay recovering in Shankar's apartment, her nose bandaged, her ass still crosshatched with purple welts. She could only breathe through her mouth, her septum raw and swollen.

Shankar tended to her with a twisted kind of care—changing her bandages, feeding her broth, and every night, pressing his thumb into the middle of her nose, forcing the piggy look that made his cock throb. "You'll be beautiful again," he whispered. "More beautiful than before."

When the swelling subsided, he took her to a piercing studio in the outskirts of the city, a place that asked no questions and accepted cash. The piercer was a heavy-set man with tribal tattoos crawling up his arms and a bored expression. He looked at Manju's nose, at the three existing rings, and grunted.

"Septum's healed enough. You want a stretch? How big?"

"Thirteen millimeters," Shankar said.

The piercer raised an eyebrow. "That's a serious gauge. Gonna stretch the cartilage to the limit. Might tear. You sure?"

Manju knelt on the floor of the studio, her wrists bound behind her back with leather cuffs Shankar had brought. She was naked under her coat, her nipples already clamped, a chain hanging between them. She looked up at Shankar, her eyes pleading, but Shankar only smiled.

"Do it."

The piercer laid out a set of tapered stretching rods, each one slightly thicker than the last, ending in a 13mm barbell. He started with the existing 4mm ring, removing it with a twist. The hole was small, barely visible.

"First stretch. 6mm."

He inserted the tapered rod, coated in lubricant, and pushed. Manju gasped as the metal forced its way through her septum, stretching the tender hole. The pain was a sharp, burning pressure, spreading through her nose and into her sinuses. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

"Breathe through your mouth," Shankar said, gripping her hair. "You can take it."

The piercer twisted the rod, working it deeper, then pulled it through, leaving a 6mm ring in its place. The hole was visibly larger now, a dark circle in the center of her nose.

"8mm."

The next rod was thicker. Manju whimpered as it entered, the cartilage screaming in protest. The piercer worked slowly, methodically, each millimeter of stretch feeling like an eternity. When the 8mm ring clicked into place, Manju's nose looked deformed, the septum pulled wide, her nostrils flaring like a pig's.

"10mm."

This one made her scream. The rod seemed impossibly thick, scraping against the edges of the stretch, tearing micro-fibers of cartilage. Blood mixed with the lubricant, dripping onto her bare thighs. The piercer didn't stop. He pushed, twisted, forced the metal through until the ring seated itself with a wet pop.

Manju's vision blurred. She was breathing in ragged gasps, her entire face throbbing.

"12mm."

"No," she begged. "Please, no more—"

Shankar crouched in front of her, took her face in his hands, and pressed his thumb into the middle of her nose, flattening it against the ring. The pressure was excruciating. "You'll take it, pig. You'll take all of it."

The piercer inserted the 12mm rod. Manju's scream was muffled by Shankar's hand clamping over her mouth. Her body convulsed, her bound wrists straining against the cuffs. The rod scraped through, leaving a raw, gaping tunnel in her septum.

"One more. 13mm."

The final rod was as thick as a pencil. The piercer lined it up with the bloody hole and pushed. Manju's world went white. She felt the cartilage tear, felt the metal grind against bone, felt something give deep inside her nose. Then the rod was through, and the 13mm barbell was screwed into place.

When she could see again, Shankar was holding a mirror in front of her face.

She barely recognized herself. Her nose was permanently flattened, the massive ring distorting her features. Her nostrils were stretched wide, flaring outward, giving her the face of a pig. The ring was so large it hung below her nostrils, a thick steel circle that dominated her face.

"Beautiful," Shankar breathed. "Perfect piggy nose."

The Leash

A week later, when the swelling had gone down and the hole had begun to heal around the 13mm barbell, Shankar came home with a leather leash. One end had a heavy steel clip. He knelt in front of Manju, who was kneeling on the floor in the living room, naked except for the massive ring in her nose and the nipple chains.

"Open," he said, holding up the clip.

Manju tilted her head back, exposing the ring. He snapped the clip onto the steel, the weight of the leash pulling her head forward. He gave it a gentle tug, and she followed, crawling on her knees across the wooden floor.

"Good pig," he said. "Now let's go for a drive."

He didn't let her dress. He kept her naked, the leash taut in his hand, as he led her on all fours through the apartment, down the hallway, and into the elevator. It was late evening, and the building was quiet, but there was always a chance of being seen. Manju's face burned with shame as she crawled onto the cold metal floor of the elevator, her massive ring clinking against the leash, her nipples dragging across the tiles.

Shankar pressed the ground floor button.

"Someone might see," she whispered.

"That's the point."

The elevator opened onto the parking garage. Shankar walked ahead, the leash pulling Manju's nose upward, forcing her to crawl faster to keep up. Her knees scraped against the concrete, her palms dirty. A car pulled in, headlights sweeping over them. The driver—a young woman—stared for a moment, then looked away and hurried past.

Shankar laughed. "She saw our piggy."

He led Manju to his old Maruti, parked in the corner. He opened the back door, but instead of letting her sit on the seat, he pointed to the floor. "On all fours. In the footwell."

Manju climbed in, her body folding into the cramped space, her face pressed toward the dusty floor mats. Shankar closed the door, then got into the driver's seat. He threaded the leash through the gap between the seats and tied it to the steering wheel, keeping her head low and her nose pulled forward.

"Now we drive."

He started the engine and pulled out of the garage. Manju's world became a blur of vibration and darkness, her nose ring digging into the floor mat, her back aching, her knees pressed against the seat. Every bump in the road sent a jolt through her stretched septum, the 13mm ring grinding against raw cartilage.

Shankar drove slowly through the city, taking side streets, stopping at traffic lights where other cars pulled up beside them. He wound down the window at one light, letting the night air in, and spoke loud enough for the neighboring car to hear.

"Good piggy. Stay down. Stay quiet."

Manju heard muffled laughter from the other car. She pressed her face into the mat, tears mixing with dust.

They drove for an hour. Through crowded markets, past nightclubs, along the highway where she had once been exposed to truckers. Shankar took the same route, his hand occasionally reaching down to tug the leash, making her yelp as the ring pulled at her tender septum.

At a toll booth, he stopped and rolled down the window. The attendant leaned out. "Sir, twenty rupees."

Shankar handed him a hundred. "Keep the change. My piggy is being extra good tonight."

The attendant glanced into the back seat, saw nothing, and shrugged. "Have a good night, sir."

"Same to you."

When they finally returned to the apartment, Shankar parked in the garage and opened the back door. Manju was trembling, her face covered in grime, her septum throbbing. He unhooked the leash from the steering wheel and clipped it to his belt.

"Crawl back to the elevator, piggy. And don't stop until I say so."

She crawled. The concrete scraped her knees raw. A security guard watched from across the garage, his radio crackling, his eyes fixed on the naked woman with the massive nose ring being led like an animal.

Manju didn't care anymore. She was his. Completely. The lawyer, the advocate, the mother—all of it had been stripped away. All that remained was the pig-nosed whore on her hands and knees, following the pull of the leash.

And deep inside, in the part of her that had always craved this, she felt a twisted peace. She had been broken. She had been rebuilt. And now she was exactly what she was supposed to be.

Shankar's pig.