Day 3: Owning My Mute Slave Wife in Hyderabad – Her Mother Arrived for Pag Phera Rasam While My Fresh Cum Was Still Leaking From Her Ruined Ass and the Inflatable Plug Kept Her Desperate and Dripping All Day

I woke up hard and angry inside her cunt.

The inflatable plug I’d locked in her ass last night was pumped to its absolute maximum — I had added three more pumps right before sleep just to hear her silent sob into the pillow. All night she had whimpered in her sleep, body twitching every time she clenched around it. Her wrists were still cuffed to her collar, chain short to the headboard, so when I rolled her onto her stomach and simply thrust into her soaked pussy from behind, she could do nothing but take it.

No warning. No lube needed — she was drenched. I fucked her slow and deep while the sun came up, feeling the massive plug bulge against my cock through the thin wall inside her. Every thrust pushed it deeper, made her body jerk forward, made the ghungroos on her anklets tinkle softly like she was already performing for me.

She came within thirty seconds — violent, full-body spasms, cunt gushing around me so hard it soaked the sheets again. I kept going. Second orgasm at the five-minute mark. Third when I reached under and slapped her swollen clit in time with my thrusts.

Only when I felt my own release building did I pull out, yank the plug out in one brutal motion — her hole gaped obscenely, red and puffy — and slammed straight into her ass while it was still gaping and soft.

I came instantly, flooding her bowels with thick morning load after load until it was leaking out around my cock. I stayed buried deep, plugged her with my dick while I caught my breath, then slowly pulled out and watched my cum burble out of her ruined hole in thick white rivers down her thighs.

I didn’t let it go to waste.

I pushed the inflatable plug straight back in — still slick with her ass juices — and pumped it four more times than last night. Her entire body seized, eyes rolling back, a single tear sliding down her cheek as the thing became monstrous inside her.

“That stays in until your mother leaves tonight,” I whispered against her ear. “You’re going to sit, stand, walk, serve chai, smile sweetly… with my cum sealed in your ass and this plug destroying you from the inside. One wrong move and everyone will know what a filthy, owned slut their precious daughter really is.”

She came again just from the words — untouched, body shaking so hard the headboard rattled.

Perfect.

I uncuffed her wrists only to lock them in front with a longer chain so she could use her hands for chores but never raise them above her waist without permission. Then bathroom routine: I pissed down her throat while she knelt in the shower, swallowed every drop like nectar. Washed her myself — rough, possessive — shaving her cunt baby-smooth again, pinching her nipples until they were raw and protruding, then dressing her wounds with my teeth.

For the visit I chose her outfit myself: a modest cream-coloured silk saree with heavy zari border, matching blouse that hid the collar completely, long sleeves to cover tomorrow’s future bruises. No bra — her heavy tits would swing free under the thin fabric. No panties. The saree was draped low enough that the waist chain and the mangalsutra were visible — symbols of the perfect bahu — but every time she bent even slightly, the plug shifted and my cum squelched inside her.

I made her practice walking in front of the mirror for an hour. Heels on, even though traditional — I wanted her ass clenched tight around the plug with every step. Every time the plug pressed her prostate-equivalent spot she stumbled, thighs trembling, eyes watering. I stood behind her, hands on her hips, grinding my hard cock against her ass through the saree.

“Smile, slave. Your mother is going to hug you and tell you how beautiful you look as my wife. And you’ll be thinking about how your husband’s cum is swimming inside your guts while this plug rapes you with every breath.”

She almost collapsed. I caught her, finger-fucked her quickly to the edge, then stopped.

Mother-in-law arrived at 11 a.m. sharp, along with her younger sister who tagged along “to see the new house.”

I greeted them at the door like the perfect damad — folded hands, touching feet, warm smiles. My slave stood beside me, hands demurely folded, eyes down, the perfect shy new bride. No one could see the thick leather collar hidden under the blouse. No one could see her nipples poking like bullets through the silk. No one could see the way her thighs kept pressing together every few seconds as the plug tortured her.

Lunch was exquisite hell.

I made her cook everything herself — biryani, dal, aloo gobi, raita, gulab jamun — crawling when they weren’t looking, standing and serving when they were. Every time she bent to place a dish on the table, the plug shifted and a fresh trickle of my cum leaked out, soaking into the petticoat. By the time we sat down to eat she was shaking.

Her mother kept saying, “Beta, you look flushed — are you feeling well?” and “Arjun is taking good care of you na?” while my slave nodded sweetly, eyes watering, pressing her thighs together under the table.

I sat beside her. Halfway through the meal I slipped my hand under the tablecloth, pushed her saree aside, and slid three fingers straight into her dripping cunt while her mother was talking about neighbourhood temples.

She froze. Bit her lip so hard it bled. Her cunt clenched around my fingers like it was trying to suck them in deeper. I finger-fucked her slowly, deliberately, the whole time smiling and discussing stock markets with her mother. When I felt her start to come I stopped, withdrew my hand, and licked her juices off my fingers right in front of everyone — “The raita is delicious, Amma, so creamy.”

Her sister laughed. My slave nearly blacked out.

The real torment came during chai.

I made her serve it in the living room, bending low to pour into each cup. I watched her face every time the plug pressed deeper — eyes glazing, breath hitching, a single bead of sweat running down her spine under the saree.

When her mother pulled her into a hug and said, “I’m so happy you married such a good man,” my slave’s entire body shook with a suppressed orgasm. I saw it hit her — silent, brutal — her eyes rolling back for a split second while she clung to her mother, cunt spasming under the saree, fresh flood of juices running down her thighs.

I almost came in my kurta.

They finally left at 7 p.m. The second the door closed I had her saree off before it even shut fully.

I threw her face-down on the marble floor right there in the hallway, yanked the plug out — her hole was wrecked, gaping wide enough to see my cum still pooled deep inside — and fucked her ass so hard her knees bled from the friction on the floor.

She came instantly. Again when I wrapped her mangalsutra around my fist and used it to choke her while I pounded. Again when I made her taste her own ass on my cock between thrusts.

I flooded her bowels a second time tonight, then left her there — saree tangled around her waist, cum pouring out both holes, wedding jewelry clinking against the marble as she shook through aftershocks.

Eventually I carried her to the bedroom, cleaned her with my tongue (every drop), then locked her wrists behind her back and chained her spread-eagle to the bed.

New toy for tomorrow: the fucking machine I ordered — it arrives in the morning.

Tomorrow her family thinks we’re going shopping in Charminar.

In reality she’ll spend six hours impaled on the machine while I work from home, watching her cunt and ass get mechanically destroyed, remote in my hand, denying every orgasm until she’s speaking in tongues with her eyes.

Day 3 complete.

My mute slave wife just came again while I typed this, just from the plug I put back in and the promise of tomorrow.

She is broken.

She is perfect.

She is mine.