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Bride forced fucked in the train part 1

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1864 Words | 0


This is the story of Nikita, a newlywed Indian wife, who is taken against her wish on an overnight train.

This is the story of Nikita, a newlywed Indian wife, who is taken against her wish on an overnight train.
HER: My name is Nikita. I was a newly married 24 year old woman. Married just three days ago, I was on my way to our honeymoon to a nearby hill station. Sitting on the lower berth in an AC 2 tier compartment of an overnight express train, with my husband sitting beside me, I was staring at my reflection in the train’s huge glass window. The reflection in the glass window made me reflect on my life till then.

Born in a typical middle-class Indian family and being an only child, I had been raised like a princess. My mother said that I was the apple of her eyes. Although slightly pampered throughout my childhood, I had grown into a fine mature girl by the time I was eligible for marriage.

Praised for my beauty from the time of my birth, I had developed into an attractive woman after puberty. And adolescence had put the icing on the cake. By the time of my last teen birthday, I had, to put it bluntly, ‘ripened’ perfectly. I was medium built with average Indian height, very fair skin, dark eyes, and jet black shoulder length hair. My breasts were of the perfect size for my build; neither too big nor small, firm and round. My hips had grown in size at a rapid pace size my puberty; now their curves accentuated my near perfect hour-glass figure. But the icing was not the final thing; there was one more thing to top it, the cherry over the icing. My fair elegant face had been blessed with a small mole (black spot) just above my upper lip on the left side.

From an early age itself, I had been aware of my sensuality and the effect it had on men around me. Heads turned as I walked, and they stayed turned for a while. I had even won the ‘Miss Fresher’ title at my Fresher’s Party at college; and had gone on to win ‘Miss Beauty Queen’ title in all subsequent annual day functions.

Having said that, I must remind you, that I had been born and raised in a typical middle-class Indian family. That meant almost nil interaction with the opposite sex, wearing traditional attire or non-exposing tops. Figure hugging clothing, tights jeans or tops, were strictly forbidden.

Throughout my school and college life, I never had a boyfriend. Although no one said anything directly to me, but I knew I was the subject of ridicule amongst my friends, regarding the iron clasp control my parents had over me.

After college, my parents started to search for the perfect groom for me. Matrimonial columns were printed, relatives and friends put to task to find a suitable match for me who fulfilled the criteria of religion, caste, occupation, income, family background, his father’s occupation/income, and many more such things Indian parents look for in a man they deem fit to have sex with their daughter; but not his looks or actual personality. There are so many criteria and sub-criteria that it was almost 2 years before my parents could narrow the choices down to a handful of ‘eligible’ bachelors; another six months in finalizing my ‘perfect match’; then a full year before both could agree to each other’s terms and conditions.

So, finally, after a lot of drama, I got married at the age of 24 years. My ‘perfect match’ was a relatively short man, three years older to me, dark; and with a slight belly already pouting out his lower abdomen. He had a ‘stable’ job and had studied in one of India’s most prestigious institutions. According to my parents, relatives, and friends of relatives, I could not have found a better husband for myself.

My first night as a married woman was uneventful. Of course, both of us lost our virginities to each other; and awkwardly brought each other to orgasms. Well, that’s the case with two virgins of the opposite sex, in their twenties, allowed to sleep together for the first time. We both agreed that there was a long way to go in our sexual lives and that this was just the beginning of an erotic journey.

And so, to make sure our erotic journey was off to a flying start, we were headed for our pre-planned honeymoon to a hill-station nested in the Himalayas. And here I was, staring at myself in the train window!

It was time to sleep, the curtains were pulled and the lights switched off. My husband climbed to the upper berth and I lay down on the lower one, blissfully aware that this vertical separation between us would not be there the next night.

THEM: Nikita woke up, realizing that she needed to go to the washroom, and looked at her watch in the dim light coming from the other side of the curtain. It was 3 AM by her watch. Not wanting to disturb her husband, she quietly got up and groped for her sandals in the dark. He was sleeping soundly.

Stepping into the aisle without any noise, she headed straight to the lavatories to her right, as they were nearer. Everyone was fast asleep; it seemed there was no movement in the whole carriage, except for a lovely married lady heading to answer nature’s call.

Reaching the well-lit vestibule, she opened the door to the Indian style toilet (she preferred them in public places as there was no contact with the seat) and relieved herself. Damn, she thought, as she let out a gush of urine! She should have taken a pee before going to sleep.

Annoyed at the break in her sleep, but now well relieved, she headed back to the vestibule to go back to her berth. But to her surprise, the well-lit vestibule moments ago, was now dark.

Stumbling, and aided by a flicker of light coming from inside the carriage, she took a couple of tentative steps, before she was almost knocked off her feet!

At first it seemed to be a crash, she thought that the train had met with an accident and that she had been jolted backwards by its force. But then, she became aware of a tight grip around her waist and also a rough palm over her mouth. Now inside the Western style lavatory on the other side of the vestibule which was well-lit, she became fully aware of her situation.

It wasn’t a train crash! A man had appeared out of the Western style lavatory as she was heading back. She had been grabbed from behind; a strong palm put over her mouth, and pulled into the Western style lavatory. It was a small space, as most of it was occupied by the toilet seat. She was being held in such a manner that her back was towards the mirror, and she couldn’t see his face.

In reflex, she was began to scream into the palm of her captor, making a muffled noise; at the same wriggling her body, trying to free herself from his grip.

He loved it when women struggled, even more so when they had no chance of escaping what was in store for them. He turned her left by ninety degrees almost effortlessly and pinned her to the wall. Then he let go of the grip around her waist, knowing perfectly well that his weight was more than enough to prevent her from moving. He fumbled in his pocket and took out a small pocket knife, which he held against his captive’s neck. Make one noise and I’ll cut your neck and throw you out of this moving train, he snarled. He was happy that it had the desired effect on her. He had scared her to death.

Just do as I say and you wouldn’t get hurt, he said, still pushing her against the wall.

He took out a piece of cloth from his pocket and tied it around her mouth, threatening her as he let go of his palm grip. Without even a try of scream from her, he had managed to replace her gag from his palm to the piece of cloth. Now, he released the hold on her body and made her turn around, forcing her to sit on the open Western style toilet seat. In seconds, he grabbed hold of her dupatta and used it to tie her hands to the water pipe behind the toilet seat. Tying the dupatta tightly around one wrist, he flung it around the water pipe, to bring it back in front and tied it around her other wrist. He had managed to complete the most precarious part of his task, the capture of his victim, within a couple of minutes.

He then stepped back as far as the small lavatory would allow him, to admire his handiwork.

The moment he had seen her step onto the carriage, he had known that he wanted her, very very badly. He saw her as a typical newlywed woman on her way to the hill station, to get fucked by her husband. He noticed the mehendi, still fresh on her hands (right upto her elbows); her traditional pink salwar suit along with a dupatta (not many women wore them these days!); a streak of red vermillion on her forehead just where her hair parted; her new mangalsutra which dangled proudly in front of her breasts; her hands almost full with designer bangles; and most importantly, the most natural ornament on her face — the mole near her upper lip.

He had her now, at his disposal, ready for his moment with this newlywed beautiful sophisticated lady, some other man’s wife.

The past couple of minutes had been a blur for Nikita. Pulled into the toilet, gagged, held against the wall, gagged, and then tied, everything happened so fast that she didn’t have time to register it. She became acutely aware of her situation when her captor stepped back, and looked her up and down, an evil smile forming on his face. Her hands were painfully tied to the water pipe behind her, in a very uncomfortable position.

It was then that she had her first look at that man, her captor. She saw him as an old man (50-55 years, she guessed), medium built, and a bit short. His belly was very large, out of proportion to the rest of his body (in a better state of mind, Nikita would have attributed that to chronic alcoholism!); it was almost spilling out of his shirt, which was unbuttoned all the way down to where his tummy bulge started. She saw his rough chest skin, covered with dense grey hair. She looked up to his face, which was wrinkled in a crude manner. His teeth, which she saw through that evil grin, were dirty, misaligned and eroded by constant chewing of tobacco. He was definitely not a man who belonged to an AC 2 tier compartment.


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