Bollywood Rape Scene

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He tried doing all those things that are supposed to make women melt. He sent her flowers, but she berated him for being silly or thanked him because they made "the house" look nice. He asked her to go out on romantic evenings for dinner, but she thought it was a waste of money. (Even then his company was starting to take off and there was always enough money for entertaining members of her family.) Angela didn't like to drink, so sharing a bottle of wine over a quiet dinner at home was out, too.Homer had the idea of their taking dancing lessons together, but that was another disaster. Angela hated it and constantly criticized the other women there for wearing short skirts and heels (the things Homer has always wanted Angela to wear) to "show off their legs." He began to leave those women's magazines with articles on how to keep the "spark" in your marriage lying around. Angela wasn't buying. She was determined to make sure that no sparks led to no fires.More and more Angela dressed. Smack. “Owww!” I rubbed. “Mmm,” she purred. “You gonna behave from now on?” “Yes sir,” she said in a breathless almost girlish lilt. I arched myself forward and craned my neck to see her face and found myself hardening at the submissive, docile expression on her face, the willingness to please, the eagerness to serve. At this very moment in time I felt like a god. I could do anything I wanted, and she would gladly let me. “Claire?” Her voice was barely audible, so thick with blissful, euphoric detachment it was barely intelligible. “You okay hun?” I could scarcely decipher the “yes” that emanated from the squirming, wriggling mess over my knee; and could feel the warmth of her sex dripping its honeyed dew onto my knee and felt it trickling down the span of my leg sticking to my leg hairs as it migrated south. I gingerly parted her legs, and was rewarded with a shudder at my touch. I began to softly stroke between her legs, letting my fingers wander around the perimeter of her vulva,.
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‘A little thank you, dear,’ she said, passing me some folded up bills. I kissed her and left. I palmed the money and went back to my table, where I found my clothes waiting for me. I dressed and wrote the style numbers on her cards, handing them to the woman that was collecting them. ‘You had a good day, honey,’ she said. ‘I know,’ I said, turning to walk away I ran to my car, shaking inside. With the smell of too much sex filling the car and the taste of stale cum still in my throat, I felt like I was going to hurl but I fought back the impulse, but then all of the emotions I’d been holding in hit me at the same time and I lost it. I started crying as I pawed through my purse looking for some gum or cough drops. I needed something to get rid of that taste. It was like a shadow hanging over me to remind me of what I’d done. There was no nice way to say it. I was paid to prostitute myself for a wealthy woman. I was officially the one person I despised. I was a hooker. A.

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