Mother Fucked

There was a tense pause. The way Bronson was looking at her, Disha thought, was like a junkyard dog straining at its leash to get at an intruder. She suspected that it was Clarke who was holding that leash, and devoutly hoped that he would not see fit to release it.

She suspected that his grip on said leash was tenuous at best.

Perhaps this was what Clarke had meant by "dog style"? To have sex with a man who was like a mean dog? Oh, no...

Clarke was still smiling, but that smile seemed ever more like a facade, a mask thinner than porcelain.

"Disha, Bronson, I'd like the two of you to get to know each other, to see what sort of chemistry you have together on camera. Bronson, perhaps you'd like to give Disha a kiss?"

Disha leaned away from the muscle-bound Aryan monster, and was shocked to see the look of disgust on Bronson's face. Shocked, and then a moment later, offended. He was repulsed at the idea of kissing her?

"I don't want my tongue anywhere near one of these foul curry-munching cunts' mouth-holes," the brute growled. "That's not what they're made for."

Disha's mouth hung open in shock. That seemed to please Bronson.

"I- I- I don't..." Disha stammered, starting to stand up.

Clarke's eyes snapped to Disha. "Disha, sit down."

"I... Thank you, I don't... I don't think this is-"

"You agreed that you were willing to do what it takes, Disha. Are you a liar, Disha?"

Even the way this "Clarke" said her name was making Disha uncomfortable. It was like an accusation in itself, the way he said it; like a reminder that she was a foreigner in a land, and a world, that was built for men like him.

"No. No, Mr. Clarke, I am not a l-"

"Then why are you standing up, Disha? Did I ask you to stand up? Did Bronson ask you to stand up?"

It was a small, subtle shift, the implication that Bronson had authority over the Sri Lankan woman. Disha wasn't even consciously aware of it, though her stomach turned queasily, her pulse quickening.

She sat back down.

"A lot of women like a man like Bronson, Disha. "Real" women. They might come home from their shopping to their microwaves and their soap operas and their distant husbands, but they fantasize about a man like Bronson. A 'bad boy'. A man who will make them do what they secretly want to do, anyway."

Disha didn't know if that was true, but she was certain she had never been such a woman. She was, and had always been, the kind of woman who just wanted a man who was stable and sensible and kind. One who she could count on and trust. One who wouldn't cheat on her.

The sudden thought of her ex-husband's infidelities came into her mind's eye, as vivid as the day she had discovered them- as vivid as the day her whole world, seemingly, had discovered them, the mistresses and the subterfuge, the corruption and the scandal that had turned everything upside down and humiliated her.

Tears formed in the corners of her eyes. It was so unfair. She hadn't deserved that, and she didn't deserve this. Whatever "this" was, spiraling out of control as she sat there on the couch and watched like she wasn't even part of it.

The camera went on recording dispassionately as Bronson sat down on the couch next to Disha. It wasn't a large couch, and he was uncomfortably close. She wanted to squirm away from him, but there was barely anywhere to squirm to, and she still held on to the thin thread of hope that as long as she didn't offend him, Clarke wouldn't let this "Bronson" off that leash.

"Do you like Disha's clothes, Bronson?" Clarke asked, playing to the camera.

Bronson looked Disha up and down, his lip curling as he took in the white-and-gold sari. He blew out sharply between his teeth, and flecks of saliva peppered Disha's face and neck as she struggled not to wince.

"No..." Bronson announced, his fingers tracing the swastika on his shoulder as if for emphasis. His eyes lingered on Disha's breasts. "I like how they show off those big titties, though."

"Yes... Ms. Chetti does have quite the bust, doesn't she?"

Apparently that was all the "permission" Bronson needed. His big hand reached out to paw at Disha's neckline, jiggling Disha's partly exposed breast, an exposure Disha was no longer in any way proud of, no matter what Grace had said. She was ashamed, and terrified. What had she done to make them believe that this was acceptable?

She wanted to stand up again, and leave. Leave, before this Clarke could say anything else that might confuse the issue of whether it was right for her to back out of this "photo shoot". Instead, she went rigid in place. Bronson didn't seem deterred by that in the slightest, or by the look of shock and horror on his screen-partner's dusky face. It was rather as if he expected it.

"...Mr. Clarke?" Disha pleaded, horrifyingly aware of the high, screechy, unpleasant tone of her voice, the kind of voice her mother had always told her men didn't want to hear.

Clarke twirled his fingers in a "go on" gesture as Bronson's attentions grew more and more aggressive. His hand went inside her neckline, squeezing her breast, his thumb strumming against her nipple harshly, less like he wanted to entice the nub than that he wanted to scrub it off.

"Stop it..." Disha whimpered.

"Did you know that Disha, here, has never even heard of 'doggy style', Bronson?"

"Fucking cocktease...!" Bronson grunted, twisting her nipple underneath the thin, silky material of the sari.

Disha's whimpering rose to a shriek at the sudden pain. She turned sharply and began to bat at Bronson's shoulders and chest. Even as she reflexively struck at him, she was aware of how girlish and ineffective her struggles were, how she was afraid to try to strike his face or his balls or anywhere that might actually make him stop, even for a moment. Afraid that an effective show of resistance might strip away any remaining veneer of social norms that said a properly behaved woman like Disha was above this kind of treatment. Afraid of offending Clarke, of angering Bronson.

Clarke noted that, too, and found it rather delicious. For men like Bronson, and his usual audience, this kind of struggle was foreplay, and was only revving his engine. Rising on the couch, he slapped Disha sharply across the face.

Disha cried out, cowering back on the couch, trying to get away from the monster on this too-small couch in this too-small room, this stifling, oppressive, claustrophobic room, this trap, this spider's web.

"Stop this..." Her voice quavered, rising at the end, like it was a question rather than a request, let alone a command. "Stop this, please...!"

Clarke was licking his lips, smiling, adjusting the viewfinder on the camera as Bronson loomed over the small, voluptuous, dark-skinned woman. Bronson's hands were back on the front of Disha's sari, clutching her big boobs in a way that was unmistakably savage, even through the shimmering fabric. He half-looked back at the camera- are you getting this?- and then turned back, wrenching the sari's neckline down, exposing Disha's magnificent bust to the electronic witness' cold eye.

Disha lifted her arms, desperately trying to cover herself. She kicked- again, futile, girlish, the play-acting of a woman that was sure that this was where rescue was supposed to arrive. This didn't happen to fifty-year-old matrons. The proper people who ran the world were supposed to sort this out.

Bronson grabbed her arms and shoved them down to her sides, and slapped her face again, forehand and backhand. Her big breasts jiggled, her aureole wrinkled in the cold air, her nipples jutting, and she was ashamed. Ashamed of her rounded body, ashamed that she had let herself be walked into this trap, ashamed of what her family would think if they could see her, if her son and daughter could see what was happening to her.

Bronson's hands were on her chest again, gripping and squeezing Disha's over-sized globes, rising and falling as though he was trying to flatten the sensitive flesh like dough. Disha whimpered, starting to raise her arms, and Bronson only had to raise his hand with his knuckles facing toward her face to make the older woman shriek and lower them again, terrified of receiving another slapping. Her face turned to look at Clarke as Bronson continued to savagely maul her breasts, tears steaming down her cheeks, and Clarke merely adjusted the video camera to catch the tears falling, his expression one of detached amusement.

"Fucking Bengal monkey," Bronson sneered, crumpling her plump breasts in his fierce grip. "Coming into this country, sitting your fat ass on a couch and watching telly while you drain us for everything we're worth. Well you're going to pay something back, today, you fucking slattern."

"I- I- I'm not Bengali...!" Disha moaned, an irrational plea for an incomprehensible moment.

Bronson's open hand slammed into her jutting nipple, and Disha screamed.

"Did I ask, you fucking Hindi cow?" Bronson snarled. "Did I ask for your goddamned CV? You think I don't know all I need to know, just looking at you, you swarthy cunt?"

He jerked down the sari further, along with the underlying petticoat, exposing the rounded pooch of Disha's abdomen.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. All fat and sassy from pigging out on samosas while you watch Bollywood starlets parade on a big-screen the state's paid for. Ay-yi-yi-yi!" His voice rose to a ridiculous parody of an Indian movie actress' high-pitched crooning, and Disha became half-convinced that this had to be a nightmare; this bizarre depravity could not be part of any human being's waking world, never mind her own.

"Mr. Clarke," she whimpered, "I don't want to do this any more. Make the bad man stop hitting me. I can do without the dresses. I can find another way to make the money..."

"Yeah? And what kind of scam would that be, Ganesha?" Bronson sneered, prodding her ample stomach. Disha only later figured out that referring to her by the name of the elephant-headed god was supposed to be another insult to her weight.

Clarke only continued to watch the camera, as blase as any man watching a pornographic video, as though the things being recorded were not actually happening a short distance beyond the lens. It was further evidence in favor of the whole sordid imbroglio being a nightmare, working within the irrational logic of dreams, but the stinging of Disha's face and breasts sadly told her otherwise.

"C'mon, you Punjab whore. You're gonna learn all about 'downward dog'..."

Bronson's arms were around her, trying to twist her around, face-down, on the sofa. Disha tried to pull away from him, but every time his arms weren't holding her and torquing on her hips, his hands were entangled in the skirt of the sari and wrenching open or ripping the garment. She was horribly aware that flashes of her flabby thighs and bottom were visible to the men, and to the camera. She had liked how she looked in the dresses; how she looked now, disheveled and half-naked, was the exact opposite of how she would have chosen to be seen. It was the opposite of what Grace had told her about the company's mission of making women like her feel beautiful.

Did Grace know what was going on, in the back room? Had this happened to other women?

She continued to struggle as she heard the zipper, feeling a distant note of confusion amidst her frenzied efforts. The sari didn't have any zippers...?

Then she felt Bronson's over-sized cock brush against her thigh as he moved on top of her, ever-more in control, dominating her feeble attempts to escape, and cried out.

"No... No, please, I do not want this--! I do not want this!"

Bronson's hands were on her hips, his ragged thumbnails digging into her thighs as he pulled her body open, showing off her fleshy nether lips and the wisps of white hair amidst the black on her pubis. Clarke's camera could clearly see the tattoos on his knuckles and the backs of his hands as he overpowered Disha, the blue runes that claimed some weird half-imagined kinship to vikings or some other kind of Norse warriors.

Disha gasped as the head of the monster's cock pushed inside of her dry pussy. That hardly served what Bronson wanted, or needed; he pulled back his hips and immediately thrust deeper, eliciting the much-desired scream of pain that he so wanted to evoke from the plump coffee-skinned woman beneath him.

"Get off of me, sir...! Get off of me...!"

Clarke barely restrained a chuckle. Bronson was nobody's idea of a 'sir', in any sense, but apparently Disha's years as a housemaid had ingrained the incongruously polite address into her even in the face of such piteous abuse.

Disha's hands scrabbled on the sofa, trying to find purchase, trying to get away from the much larger man now forcing himself into her womanhood with a deliberate cruelty the like of which she had never before experienced. She had never had occasion to experience even the more aggressive aspects of what most couples would consider "vanilla" sex, before; perhaps a woman with greater experience might have wondered if her ex-husband had indulged such desires with one of his mistresses. Bronson's exertions went far, far beyond such boudoir games; he was shoving his cock into Disha like she was an enemy, and the ten inches of cock was the closest weapon at hand with which to destroy her.

Out slow, in hard and deep, a man trying to ram down a door, never mind how the barrier twisted and wept and pleaded.

"That's it, you piece of untouchable trash. You take it good and hard, busting open your fat, wet cunt!"

Disha was not wet. She wasn't even moist, and every drive of Bronson's monstrous cock through her middle-aged, under-used feminine passage was agony. When her fingertips caught in the crevice between sofa cushions and she managed to drag herself forward a couple of inches, an inch away from Bronson's bludgeoning thrusts, she thought it was a small victory. But when Bronson re-asserted his hold on her hips and pulled himself to her, she instead wound up crushed against the arm of the sofa as Bronson crashed down upon her, cramming his manhood even further into her beleaguered pussy as her hips were pushed down into the couch's surface.

"This how you like it, you Dehli doxy? You wanna go prone-bone? We can do that. I'll jam my cervix-tickler so deep inside you, you'll feel it coming out in that fat stomach!"

Tears streaming down her cheeks, Disha could barely get out an undignified "hWUFFF-!" each time Bronson's body slammed down into hers. Her fingertips were white on the sofa's arm as she continued to claw futilely. She had long since stopped trying to get Clarke's attention, his sympathy. He was caught up in making sure the camera captured every moment of Disha's ravishment for posterity, and in some way, that almost made him worse than the man on her back, pounding his hard, sinewy pelvis against her well-padded posterior.

Again, the pained expulsions of air that came out of the dusky woman he was plundering were not sufficient for Bronson's sadistic ego. His cock jerked out of Disha's spasming vagina, and his hands went up to her head, tearing free the crystal-headed pin to bounce away across the room as he tangled one hand in her hair. The other hand set to re-adjusting the angle of his cock to nestle against Disha's higher entrance, the one she had never even imagined giving to anyone.

"No...!" Disha whispered hoarsely, coughing. "No...!"

"Smile and think of England, bitch. Think back on good old colonial days, when the queen took your tea and her soldiers gave women like you a good, firm buggering...!"

"EYAAAAAHHHH!!"

Bronson slammed her head against the arm of the couch, and it barely softened the scream, such was Disha's pain at Bronson's intrusion into her anus. He grinned savagely as he began to pump, determined to plow every inch of his ruinous phallus into Disha's suffering back door.

"Christ, you stink, you cumin-scented ogress! Don't you ever clean yourself?"

Disha let her hands fall away from the couch's arm to bundle her arms under her face, sobbing bitterly in defeat as Bronson continued to sodomize her, howling with every new invasion. The smack-smack-smack of his wiry torso slamming into her jiggling buttocks was so loud, so obscene, that Disha could not imagine that Grace could not hear it. She had to know that something unseemly was going on this room, and while a shred of Disha still hoped she was somehow ignorant of what her boss had going on in this stifling, tawdry room, the idea that she could tell but thought Disha a willing participant was an even deeper humiliation.

"You've certainly got the hips for sodomy, you sacred cow," Bronson sneered, emphasizing the insult with a mean slap to her wobbling bottom before again clasping his hands around her pelvis and wrenching her hips back to force his cock further into her throbbing rectum.

"Child-bearing hips, you might say," Clarke noted, piping up for the first time in minutes that seemed like hours to Disha. The calm disinterest in his tone would have brought the word "sociopath" to the Sri Lankan woman's mind, if she had known the term.

To the extent that the grunt from Bronson marked anything beyond another laborious penetration of Disha's straining backside, it was a query.

"Oh, yes. You might say that Ms. Chetti here is a MILF. She's brought a couple of children into the world, actually."

For a moment, Disha had cause to wonder, in her stupefied mixture of humiliation and pain, how Clarke knew this. In less stressful circumstances, she might even have followed that thread through and wondered why a man who knew such things about her had needed to ask so many probing questions, and perhaps even come to the conclusion that the questions themselves had been less about eliciting information and more about embarrassing and manipulating her.

But her capacity for such insights was rapidly curtailed as Bronson's hands dug into her flesh and he began to fuck her ass harder, breath puffing through his mouth like an incensed bull about to lunge for a toreador's cape.

"Fuckin' bitch... Fucking Paki-slum-breeder-BITCH...!"

Slam! Slam! Slam! Disha made purple teeth-marks in her own skin as Bronson powered through her asshole, screeching through the mouthful of arm. Before, Bronson had merely wanted to hurt and humiliate her. Now, he wanted to punish her, damage her, and between his vantage point atop her and the obscene size of his phallus, he was well poised to do so.

Her high-pitched squealing and the ever-straining narrowness of the woman's back door was enough sign of her suffering for a time, and Bronson took vicious pleasure in using Disha's ass in a way that made his wrath and contempt clear. But his twisted mind soon returned to the particular fury that the brown-skinned woman had brought more of her kind into the world, probably within his very homeland, and with that fury came the desire to further excoriate the feminine passage that had performed the deed.

The ease with which Bronson lifted Disha from the couch, hands wrapped around her ribs, might have been impressive to her under other circumstances; the last time a man had lifted her was when her ex-husband had carried her into their honeymoon suite on their wedding night, and she had been quietly thrilled by the display of virile power. Now it only brought the terror of free-fall as he spun her onto her back and threw her back down, her breath leaving her in a squeak as her body landed on the couch once more. Before she even regained her sense of orientation, he was forcing her thick thighs apart, jamming his thick, angry cock between the lips of her pussy.

"I'm going to give you an infection, you Paki cunt. Let's see how the bugs out of your curry-gobbling asshole burn up that puss!"

His hands were on her shoulders, and he was thrusting deep. Disha was transfixed by the sight of him, a deer caught in headlights, a primal monster set to ravage and tear until there was nothing left of her but bones.

"Huh-! Uhhh-huh! Uhhh! Uhhh! Uhhh...!"

His penetrations were cruel, wracking her, hammering against her cervix, sending cramps through her and making her body try to jack-knife with every stab of his cock. The little breath she was able to glean between thrusts was pounded out of her in sobbing animal grunts shorn of dignity or choice.

Raising his fist, Bronson struck Disha's rippling, pudgy stomach a few inches above her pubic mound, caving in the soft flesh and sending a new wave of hurt through her body.

"...Or maybe I should just bust your womb, huh? Maybe I should do the world a favor and smash your fucking baby-factory into pieces?"

Disha again felt an irrational wish to correct the ravening monster, to tell him that she was fifty and well out of the baby-making business, aware as she was even in the moment that nothing she could say would assuage his fury. Even if she could draw enough breath to make such a statement, as he drew back his arm to further pummel her plump, shimmying belly.

From his own angle of view, Clarke was aware that Bronson's blows were still several inches above Disha's actual uterus, which was well-protected beneath her pubic bone. But he felt no need to correct the performer, who was clearly getting off on how completely off the chain he was in the domination of the buxom matron. They had a kind of sick sexual chemistry, if only in how perfectly cast they were in their roles, and he was enthralled to watch it play out.

Disha's eyes started to roll up from lack of oxygen as Bronson pounded into her with his fist and his cock, her black hair clinging to the edges of her crimson-painted mouth as it hung agape, her fleshy body jiggling and flouncing with the forces brought to bear upon it. Faster and faster he assaulted her, spit flying from his mouth to pepper her face, neck, and breasts, his hips contracting, his shoulder bunching as he struck her.

At long last he seized her hips with both hands and pulled her to him, snarling as he pumped his semen into her pussy. Like a shock, he jerked her body away from his and slammed home into her again, and again, pausing each time at the moment of impact as if to make his filthy seed go as deep into her ragdoll-limp body as he could.

There was an angry pink blotch across Disha's abdomen when he pulled out of her, the flesh stuttering as she strained to draw breath, to comprehend that the awful sexual conquest had come to its conclusion. Bronson gave her breast a demeaning squeeze as he leaned in to look into her flat, almost catatonic eyes.

"Enjoy your stay in the UK, Paki swine," He sneered, before hawking and spitting a yellow gob of phlegm into her face to roll down her cheek.