The women were smuggled out of the country, their lives reduced to a nightly performance for the highest bidder. They were put against each other to dance for the wealthiest man in the area. The women shaked their boobs and twerked their asses and fondled their pussies to impress a new rich brat every night. The air in the opulent, dimly lit rooms was thick with the scent of expensive cigars, cloying perfume, and desperation. Hindu and Muslim women, once rivals, now shared the same stage, their forced nudity a great equalizer. The beads on the bedlahs of the Muslim women clicked softly as they gyrated, a stark contrast to the silent tears that often streaked their makeup. The Hindu women, with their nipples and vaginas obscenely displayed through the holes in their sarees, moved with a practiced, hollow grace.
The rich brats grew bored of simple dancing. Their wealth demanded new, more depraved entertainment. The competition between the women was no longer just for tips; it was for survival. The nightly auctions began. The woman who drew the highest bid was granted a small, private room and a meager meal. The one who drew the lowest was subjected to the “Floor Show,” a public punishment designed to humiliate and break her.
One night, a new patron arrived, a man known only as “The Collector.” He was older, with cold, reptilian eyes that didn’t seem to register the women as human. He didn’t watch the dancing. He watched the fear. He purchased the two most defiant women—one Hindu, one Muslim—and dragged them to the center of the room. He didn’t fuck them. Instead, he produced a set of ornate, golden needles. With the precision of a surgeon, he began to pierce their flesh, threading their nipples together, then their labia. He forced them to kneel on the floor, connected by these new, golden ornaments, and made them crawl like a single, two-headed beast while the other clients laughed and threw coins at them.
The standard of degradation escalated. The women were no longer just whores; they were living art projects for the sadistic whims of the elite. They were forced into bestiality, their bodies used in elaborate tableaus that re-enacted historical battles and mythological rapes, but with the women as the sole, suffering participants. Their holes were no longer just for cocks; they were receptacles for wine, for lit candles, for live, wriggling eels that the men found hilarious.
The mothers of Saniya and Tanisha were kept as special trophies. They were not put on the main stage. They were kept in The Collector’s private quarters, their bodies marked with his brand—a swirling symbol that merged the Om and the Crescent Moon into a single, blasphemous sigil. Every night, he would force them to recount the details of their daughters’ violation while he fucked them, their sobs the only soundtrack he desired. He made them beg for his cock, promising to spare their daughters’ memory if they performed with enough enthusiasm. It was a lie, of course. Their daughters were already ghosts, and their suffering was the only currency they had left.