He was ruthless.

Stone-hearted.

Dominant to the point of being feared—not just in this village but across ten others.

Thakur Veer Singh.

A man who didn’t just command obedience—he owned it. The land bowed under his boots, and men twice his age lowered their eyes when he walked by. He was worshipped like a deity by some and feared like a curse by most. His haveli, perched atop the hill like a predator watching its prey, was the kind of place mothers warned their daughters to never glance toward—especially when the windows were dark and the curtains still.

Veer Singh wasn’t born cruel—he was shaped into it. Orphaned young, raised in a world where power was survival, and kindness was a weakness that got slit open in the dark.

He was the kind of man who could smile while snapping a neck.

The kind who drank his whisky while his enemies bled out in the field behind his haveli.

He didn’t ask twice. Didn’t fuck twice—unless he wanted to break them open again.

Until her.

Meher.

The girl who looked like a forgotten poem wrapped in torn sarees and bruised dignity.

A broken thing. A delicate, cursed angel.

And Veer?

Veer wanted to ruin her—softly, obsessively, until her innocence screamed his name.

He had seen her first when she was just sixteen, dragging a bucket across the dusty path in front of the temple, hair tied up in a crooked bun, saree barely hanging off her frail shoulders. A child. A shadow. Just another poor, pitiful village girl.

But something in her eyes—those soulful, liquid-dark eyes—made him pause.

He hadn’t stopped watching her since.

Years passed.

She grew. Into a woman.

Into something sinful, unknowingly seductive. Her body blossomed like forbidden fruit—ripe hips under cheap cotton, curves hiding behind her shame.

And his hunger turned animalistic.

Not the kind that could be fed by whores in silk sheets or temple dancers begging for his money. No.

Veer wanted her. Not her body alone.

He wanted her fear, her submission, her rage, her moans, her innocence—all to himself.

He wanted to unravel her and stitch her back up with his name carved between her legs.

“Thakur-sa… maafi mangte hain. Mujhe chhod do,” the man sobbed, falling to his knees, his forehead nearly scraping the dusty ground. His voice trembled, hands folded like a beggar, tears streaking down his cheeks.

(Thakur-sa… I am asking for forgiveness. Leave me,)

Veer Singh stood above him, his silhouette towering in the dying sunlight like a god of vengeance. His boots pressed into the gravel, unmoving. A slow, cruel smirk touched the corner of his lips.

“Chhod doon?” His voice was calm—deceptively calm—the kind of calm that came before a storm gutted a village.
“Kis liye, haan? Phir se uss ladki ke pichhe kutte ki tarah bhagne ke liye? Ya usse bhejne ke liye kisi raat, chhupke se kisi thekedar ke bed tak?”

(Leave you? For what, yes? To run after that girl again like a dog? Or to send her some night, secretly, to some contractor's bed?)

The man whimpered. “Nahi Thakur-sa… kasam se—main—main sirf—”

(No, Thakur-sa… I swear—I—I just)

Veer didn’t let him finish.

With a slow, measured step forward, he grabbed the man by his hair, yanking his head up. Their eyes met—one full of desperation, the other full of ice.

“Tu jaanta hai na woh kiski cheez hai?” Veer hissed, his grip tightening. “Meher.”

(Do you know whose thing is that?)

Even whispering her name was enough to make his jaw tense, like it tasted too sweet for his tongue.

“Woh ladki ab kisi ki beti, bahan ya naukrani nahi hai. Woh meri hai. M-E-R-I.”

(That girl is no longer anyone's daughter, sister or maid. She is mine. M-i-n-e)

He let go, and the man collapsed again like a sack of filth. But Veer wasn’t done.

He crouched, his voice a venomous whisper against the man's ear. “Tujhe uski narmi mein mazaa aaya tha? Saree uthate waqt tere haath kaanpe nahi?”

(Did you enjoy its softness? Did your hands not shake while lifting the sari?)

“Ma-maafi, Thakur-sa... main shaitan ban gaya tha,” the man choked.

(Pl-pardon me, Thakur-sa... I had become a devil)

Veer chuckled—low, amused, disgusted. “Shaitan? Nahin. Shaitan toh main hoon.”

(Devil? No. I’m the Devil)

Then, without a second of hesitation, he grabbed his revolver from his waistband and shoved it against the man’s crotch.

“Woh hissa jo tujhe mere maal pe haath dalne ki himmat deta hai na... main usse uda ke kutto ko khila doonga.”

(That part which gives you the courage to lay your hands on my property... I will tear it apart and feed it to the dogs.

The man screamed—high-pitched, pathetic—urine staining his dhoti as Veer cocked the hammer.

“Chho—chod dijiye, Thakur-sa! Main kasam khata hoon, zindagi bhar uss ladki ki taraf aankh bhi nahi uthaoonga!” he sobbed, rubbing his head against Veer’s boots now.

(Leave me, Thakur-sa! I swear, I will never even look at that girl for the rest of my life!

“Tu karega bhi nahi, kyunki tu ab zinda nahi bachega,” Veer said coldly.

(You won't do it either, because you won't be alive anymore)

And in one smooth motion, the gun went off.

A muffled thud. Blood splattered across the dust, dark and wet. The birds flew from the trees.

The body fell. Limp. Forgotten.

Veer stood up slowly, wiping a dot of blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. His eyes, dark and unmoved, shifted toward the narrow trail leading from the temple to the fields—the path she would walk soon. Alone.

→→→→→→→→ ←←←←←←←←←

T H A K U R V E E R S I N G H

It had become my fucking routine.

Every morning, like a ritual, I stood behind the half-broken jaali of the east corridor in my haveli—smoking in silence, eyes pinned on her. Meher. That little wretched thing who used to be all bones and bruises… now walked like a sin wrapped in worn-out cotton.

One pot on her head.
Another resting against the curve of her waist.
Her spine straight despite the weight.
Her hips swaying beneath that thin saree like they knew they were being watched.

God, how they swayed. Slowly. Rhythmically. Mocking me.

She never looked up. Never glanced my way. Didn't need to. Her silence was louder than a scream—and fuck, it made me want to ruin her.

Her saree, always old, always clinging in all the wrong—or maybe the right—places. Faded, but thin enough to make my throat dry every damn time the sun hit her body just right. That dusky skin, glistening with sweat as droplets slid down her back… pooling right at the dip above her ass.

And that ass—round, full, unmarked.

Mine.
Even if she didn’t know it yet.

She had no idea how many times I’d gripped my cock watching her bend over to draw water. How I’d imagined lifting that saree—tearing it if I had to—just to see how tight she was. How warm. How sweet.

She walked like a woman and carried herself like a ghost.
Untouched. Unbothered.
But my cock didn’t care how haunted she was. It only knew it wanted her—wrapped around me, crying, clawing, breaking.

There was nothing innocent about the way her blouse clung to her chest—always two buttons open, probably because she didn’t own another that fit her grown curves. I’d memorized every dip of her cleavage. Every swing of her breasts when she walked.

And that mouth—those lips. Always chapped, always pursed, like she was swallowing back words… or moans.

I’d never spoken to her. Not once.
But I watched.
Every fucking day.
Every morning.
My cigarette between my fingers, my other hand... fucking my fist while imagining her on her knees, gagging on me, crying for mercy I wouldn’t give.

She had no idea.
No idea that her silence was turning into my obsession.
No idea how many times I’d thought about dragging her into my jeep and claiming what should’ve been mine the moment she turned eighteen.

But I was waiting.
Watching.
Letting her ripen fully—like fruit hanging just low enough for me to grab, bite, and taste until she bled.

And when I did…
I wouldn’t be gentle.

Not even a little.

▫️▫️▫️▫️▫️▫️▫️▫️

I N M E H E R' S H O U S E

The evening air was thick—humid and still—sticking to my skin like shame.

I didn’t even get a chance to breathe after stepping into the house.

“Kya kar ke aayi hai, haramzaadi?!”
Bua’s shrill voice sliced through the air like a whip.

(What have you done, you whore?!)

I had just finished milking the cow—my palms still stung from the udder’s pressure—but the moment I handed her the half-filled vessel, her eyes widened in rage.

“Itna kam doodh?! Raat ke sabzi mein kya paani milaoongi main?*”

(So little milk?! Should I mix water in the vegetables at night?)

Before I could even stammer an answer, the vessel flew from her hand and crashed against the wall, milk splattering everywhere.

Then came the first slap.

Hard. Cruel. Ringing.
My head snapped sideways, stars exploding behind my eyes.

“Tere jaise manhoos ke liye hi mera pati roz daaru mein doobta hai!” she screamed, grabbing a fistful of my hair and yanking it back.

(My husband drowns himself in alcohol every day for a wretched person like you)

I cried out, but she was already hitting again—backhanded slap on my other cheek, then a tight punch to my ribs that made my knees wobble.

“Saali chudail! Na kaam ki, na kaaj ki. Roti khaati hai aur izzat dubaati hai.”

(Damn witch! Good for nothing. She eats bread and ruins the respect)

I fell to the floor, clutching my side. My breath was ragged. My vision blurred. But it wasn’t over.

My uncle staggered out from the backroom, shirtless, scratching his belly and burping alcohol.

“Kya ho raha hai itna chillane ka?” he grunted, looking at me on the floor. Then his eyes stilled—not on my face. But on my chest.

(“What is going on with all that yelling?)

My blouse had torn near the shoulder, and part of my bra strap had slid down. I scrambled to cover myself.

“O ho… ab toh jawan bhi ho gayi hai chhoti…” he muttered, voice thick with something that made my stomach turn.

(“Oh ho… now she has grown up too, Choti)

“Chup kar, Hariram!” Bua hissed, but he kept staring.

(Shut up, Hariram!)

His eyes ran down my body like filth—hungry, lingering on my breasts, then hips, licking his lips as he walked past me and muttered, “Aise chhupne se kya hota hai? Aakhir raat bhar kapda hi to utaarna hota hai.”

(What is the point of hiding like this? After all, you have to take off your clothes all night long)

Bile rose to my throat.

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from throwing up.

Bua grabbed my arm again and dragged me upright, slapping me once more across the same cheek now swollen. My lip cracked. Blood pooled on my tongue.

“Randi jaisi chalti hai, naak kata degi kisi din. Chal, ab dhaan bhandaar saaf kar, warna khaana bhi nahi milega.”

(She behaves like a prostitute, she will bring shame upon us someday. Now clean the granary, otherwise you will not even get food.)

I nodded. Didn’t speak. Didn’t cry.

I’d learned long ago—pain is survival. But showing it? That was a weakness.

The storage shed smelled of mold, mice droppings, and rotting grains.

The paddy shed was suffocating.

I clutched the broken lantern in one hand, blinked away the haze in my eyes. Every step hurt. The bruises on my ribs burned. My face pulsed with pain.

My saree was torn. My lip swollen. My soul? Barely hanging on.

I dropped to my knees near the sacks and began to clean up the scattered grain. Every sweep of my hand was a battle against the sting in my bones.

I just wanted to clean up and disappear.

But fate had other plans.

I had just turned to close the door when a voice rasped through the still air.

“O Meher… saari raat yahin reh jaa… mere liye.”

My blood froze.

Shivraj Kaka.
Old. Grey-haired. A widower.
Twice my age.
But hunger like that didn’t need youth. It just needed filth.

Before I could even speak, his hands shot forward and slammed the door shut behind me. The wooden latch dropped. My breath caught.

“Bahut samay se dekh raha hoon tujhe… chalti hai toh haalat kharab ho jaati hai meri…” he mumbled, stumbling forward, his kurta half open, exposing his hairy chest and rotten teeth.

(I have been watching you for a long time...when you walk, my condition becomes bad…)

“Hat jaaiye... please, Kaka…” I backed away, voice breaking.

(Please move aside, uncle…)

But his hands caught my shoulders, slammed me against the bamboo pole behind the storage crates. My skull thudded, and the wind knocked out of me.

Then his mouth crashed against mine—wet, sloppy, greedy.

I whimpered. Struggled. But he grunted, biting my lower lip before trailing kisses down my neck, sucking the skin as if trying to brand me.

“Makke di roti toh roz milti hai… par tu… tu toh asli lajawab maal hai,” he moaned, as his trembling hands pulled at my blouse, yanking it down, exposing my breasts to the humid air.

(We get corn bread everyday... but you... you are a real hot item)

I screamed. He didn't care.

“Aai haaye… kya phule hain… bilkul jaise…” he buried his face in my mounds, licking, biting—hard—until I sobbed, my nails digging into his face.

(Aai hi… how blooming they are… just like…)

He grunted, pressing me harder against the pole as his hands went lower, shoving up my saree.

“Bas thoda sa…” he muttered, fumbling with his pyjamas.

(Just a little…)

I froze.

He was about to enter me.

I couldn’t let it happen.

With everything I had, I grabbed the lantern’s iron handle from the floor and shoved it into his ribs with all my strength.

He stumbled back—dazed, drunk, bleeding—and crashed against the storage pole with a loud CRACK before collapsing like a rag doll.

Unmoving. Silent.

Blood oozed from his temple.
His chest didn’t rise.

I stood there, frozen, half-naked, breathing like a caged animal. My hands trembled. My blouse hung open. His spit was on my breast. His stink on my skin.

“No… no no no no…” I whispered, stepping back. “I didn’t mean to… I just… I—”

I couldn’t breathe.

I ran.

Out of the shed. Across the dark courtyard. Past the tethered cows and broken cot. Into the endless night, until my legs gave up—

And I crashed into a solid chest.

My breath stopped. I looked up.

Thakur-sa.

His hand gripped my arms to steady me. His eyes widened when he saw my torn blouse, the bruises, the blood, my exposed skin.

And then—the fear in my eyes.

I collapsed into his chest, shaking, sobbing.

“Vo… vo… usne mujhe… chhoo…” I couldn’t finish.

(He… he… he… he touched me…)

His arms wrapped around me—tight. Possessive. Protective.
One hand cupped the back of my head, the other clenched into a fist behind my back.

His voice was a low growl in my ear.

“Kisne kiya yeh, Meher?”

—————————————————

TO BE CONTINUED...

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