Day 6 Owning My Mute Slave Wife in Hyderabad – I Locked Her in Full Steel Chastity with Thick Internal Dildo and Plug

I woke up to the sound of her muffled, desperate whining against my cock.

Sometime in the night she had managed to worm her way down the bed again, mouth stretched wide around my shaft, sucking gently in her sleep like it was the only thing keeping her sane. The vibrating plug from yesterday was still buried in her ass, battery finally dead after I’d left it on the “random torture” setting until 4 a.m. Her wrists were raw from the cuffs, thighs slick with dried squirt and cum, mangalsutra sticky against her tits.

I didn’t let her finish the blowjob.

I yanked her up by the hair, flipped her onto her stomach, and fucked her throat until I came straight down into her stomach while she gagged and drooled and her eyes rolled back in gratitude. Then I pulled out, wiped my cock across her tear-streaked face, and told her:

“Today you don’t get to come until we’re home tonight. Not once. You’re going to spend twelve hours in your childhood home, surrounded by every relative who ever knew you, with both holes stuffed full of steel and your clit swollen against an unyielding plate. You’ll smile for photos, touch feet, accept gifts, let aunties pinch your cheeks… and the entire time you’ll be silently screaming for my cock.”

Her cunt clenched so hard on nothing that she squirted just from my words. A single spurt that splashed my thigh.

Perfect.

The chastity belt arrived at 7:03 a.m. — custom-made, medical-grade stainless steel, mirror-polished, delivered in discreet packaging. I made her crawl naked to the door again to watch me sign for it.

It was even more beautiful than the photos.

Front shield with a narrow, perforated slit for piss only — no touching the clit whatsoever. Rear strap thick and unforgiving, with a locking anal plug built in: 2.5 inches wide at the base, bulbous, 6 inches insertable, hollow core so she could still shit if needed but would feel utterly violated every second. Vaginal dildo attached inside: 8 inches long, brutally thick, heavily veined silicone over steel core, curved viciously upward to hammer her g-spot with every step. The whole thing lined with soft silicone spikes on the inside of the shield that would dig into her swollen pussy lips and clit hood without breaking skin — just constant, maddening pressure.

Two separate locks — one at the waist, one at the crotch strap. Only one key. On a chain around my neck.

I made her lube both intrusions with her own mouth first — deepthroating the vaginal dildo until drool poured down her chin and coated every vein, then bending over to tongue-fuck the anal plug until it glistened. Only then did I position her on the bedroom floor, legs spread impossibly wide, and held open by my boots on her inner thighs.

I pushed the vaginal dildo in first — slow, relentless, watching her stomach bulge slightly as it seated against her cervix. Her back arched off the floor, mouth open in that perfect silent scream, tears already streaming. Then the anal plug — thicker than anything she’d taken yet — I had to twist and push and spit on it three times before her ruined ring finally swallowed the widest part. She blacked out for five full seconds when it popped in, body going completely rigid, then limp.

I locked the crotch strap tight. Click.
Then the waist belt. Click.

She tried to close her thighs and couldn’t — the steel forced them apart slightly at all times. When she stood, the weight pulled downward, driving both intrusions deeper. The spikes on the shield pressed mercilessly against her clit. Every breath made the dildo shift inside her.

I dressed her like a doll.

Royal blue Kanjeevaram saree, heavy silk with real zari, blouse low-cut enough to show the tops of her bruised tits but high-necked to hide the collar. No bra — her nipples poked obscenely through the thin fabric. The saree draped low on her hips, mangalsutra visible, sindoor fresh and bright. From the outside she looked like the perfect, glowing new bride.

From the inside she was impaled, denied, owned.

I tested her walking. Ten steps across the room and she was already crying, thighs trembling, hands clutching my arm for support. Every movement made the steel dildo grind against her g-spot and the plug press her prostate-equivalent spot. By the twentieth step she was leaking — thick strings of arousal dripping down her inner thighs under the petticoat, soaking into the silk.

I wiped it with my fingers and made her suck them clean.

We arrived at her parental home at 11:17 a.m. Sixty-seven relatives waiting — literally counted them. The entire extended family, neighbours, old school friends’ mothers, everyone who wanted to see the mute girl finally married off to a “good family.”

They swarmed her the second we entered.

Aunties pinching her cheeks: “Arre wah, kitni sundar lag rahi hai!” while the steel dildo shifted inside her with every hug and she had to bite her lip bloody to stay silent.

Uncles blessing her, putting envelopes in her hands while the plug pressed deeper when she bent to touch feet.

Little cousins pulling her to dance to the dandiya music someone started — she had to sway her hips to the beat, each movement fucking herself deeper on the intrusions while smiling sweetly, tears gathering in her eyes.

Her mother kept hugging her and saying “Beta, you look so happy, your eyes are shining” — the shine was tears of desperation, Amma. Your daughter’s cunt was stretched around 8 inches of unyielding steel and her clit was being tortured by spikes while you held her hand.

I sat with the men, drinking chai, discussing business, the key to her chastity glinting at my throat every time I moved.

Every thirty minutes I’d catch her eye across the room and mouth a single word: “Edge.”

She’d excuse herself to the bathroom (I allowed it three times only), lock herself in a stall, try frantically to rub her clit through the steel shield — impossible. The spikes just made it worse. She came back each time more destroyed, thighs slicker, face flushed darker.

The worst was the gift ceremony.

They made her sit on a decorated chair in the center while every single woman came forward one by one to put jewellery on her, saree pins, bangles, apply perfume, feed her sweets.

Sixty-seven women.

Sixty-seven times she had to stand up, sit down, bend slightly, smile, nod.

By the thirtieth, she was shaking so hard her mother asked if she had fever.

By the fiftieth, she was openly crying — disguised as happy tears, but I knew better. I stood behind her chair, hand possessively on her shoulder, feeling her tremble under my palm.

When the last aunty finally pinned a brooch to her pallu, my slave turned her face into my hip for a split second — hidden from everyone else — and silently mouthed against my kurta: “Please Master.”

I leaned down like I was kissing her forehead and whispered: “Not yet. You come when I say. Not before.”

She sobbed without sound.

We finally left at 9:48 p.m. — eleven and a half hours of pure denial.

The second the car door closed (driver dismissed for the night, I drove), she lunged for my lap, trying to rub her steel-covered cunt against my thigh like an animal in heat. I had to pull over twice on the way home because she was crying so hard she couldn’t breathe.

We made it to the building parking garage.

I didn’t even wait for the elevator.

I dragged her into the back seat, hiked up her saree, unlocked only the crotch strap — the dildo slid out with a wet, obscene sound, coated in thick layers of her dried and fresh arousal — and fucked her cunt right there in the car like a savage.

She came the second I entered her — screaming silently against my shoulder, nails digging into my back hard enough to draw blood, squirting so violently it splashed the windows.

Second orgasm when I flipped her over the seat and took her ass with the plug still locked in (had to remove it first — her hole was so soft it took three seconds).

Third when I made her ride me face-to-face, steel belt still locked around her waist, dildo removed but the shield spikes still torturing her clit while she bounced desperately.

I came twice — once in each hole — then locked her back up for the ride upstairs.

In the bedroom I finally removed the entire belt.

Her cunt and asshole stayed gaping for minutes. I just stared, stroking myself at the sight of my destruction.

Then I fucked her slowly, lovingly, brutally — alternating holes, making her come until she blacked out again, waking her with slaps to the face and my cock down her throat.

I lost count after her ninth orgasm.

When she finally passed out for good, body twitching with aftershocks, I locked her wrists to the headboard, spread her legs, and left the belt off for the night — but inserted the largest inflatable plug instead, pumped it to bursting.

Tomorrow is Day 7.

Tomorrow is Sunday.

Tomorrow there are no visitors, no outings, or pretenses.

Tomorrow she spends twenty-four hours chained to the fucking machine again — but this time with the new double-penetration attachment and the vacuum clit pump on maximum.

I’m going to break her completely.

She is already asleep and still trying to hump the air in her dreams.

Day 6 complete.

My mute slave wife didn’t come for eleven and a half hours in her childhood home surrounded by everyone who thinks they know her.

Then she came so many times in our car and bed that she forgot her own name.

There is no going back.

There never was.

She is mine in ways her family will never comprehend.

And tomorrow I’m going to make sure she forgets she was ever anything else.