The house had become my personal dungeon, and with every day I spent living under the same roof as her, the boundaries blurred further. No more commuting back to some shitty PG room at night—I woke up with her naked body pressed against mine, her breath warm on my neck, her heavy tits spilling over my arm like they belonged there. I could reach down between her thighs at 3 a.m. and find her cunt already slick, already waiting, already betraying her even in sleep. "Filthy fucking whore," I'd mutter, sliding two fingers inside her without warning, pumping lazily while she stirred and whimpered. "Even unconscious your sloppy hole knows who owns it."
But I wasn't satisfied with just owning her body anymore. I wanted to own her shame. I wanted her to feel it crawling under her skin every time she looked in the mirror, every time she tried to pretend she was still a respectable widow running a company. So the nightly degradations became ritual.
Every evening after dinner I stripped her completely, collared her with the thick black leather one I'd ordered online, attached a short chain leash, and made her crawl behind me through the house on all fours. "Heels up, ass high, you disgusting pig-slut," I'd snap, yanking the chain when she slowed. Her magnificent tits dragged along the floor, nipples scraping the cold tiles, leaving faint red trails. I'd stop in every room—living room, kitchen, hallway—making her pose with her face pressed to the ground, ass presented, legs spread wide so her "dripping, puffy cunt-lips" gaped open for inspection.
"Look at this wrecked fuck-hole," I'd sneer, slapping her swollen clit hard enough to make her yelp. "Used-up, sloppy, leaking like a broken sewer. No wonder your dead husband never fucked you properly—you're nothing but a cum-rag waiting to be filled." She'd tremble, cheeks burning crimson, but her cunt would clench visibly, betraying how much the words scorched her. I'd make her repeat it back: "Yes, Master… I'm a worthless cum-rag… a filthy, leaking sewer-slut…" Her voice cracked every time, tears dripping onto the floor beneath her face.
The real humiliation came after dark.
I started taking her outside—short, controlled walks through the backyard at first, then bolder. One moonless night I clipped the leash to her collar, blindfolded her, and led her naked through the side gate into the narrow service alley behind the house. The air was thick with the smell of jasmine and distant cooking fires. Streetlights barely reached the shadows.
"Crawl, you sagging-tit street-bitch," I ordered, voice low and cruel. "Show the night what a pathetic public whore you really are."
She hesitated only a second—then dropped to hands and knees, tits swinging heavily, ass cheeks parting with each humiliating shuffle forward. Gravel bit into her palms and knees; I didn't care. I walked beside her, tugging the leash sharply whenever she slowed, forcing her to keep pace.
"Faster, pig. Let that sloppy cunt drag on the ground like the filthy animal you are."
Every few steps I'd stop her, make her spread her legs wider, then piss on command. "Lift your leg like a dog, whore. Mark your territory—show the alley who owns this piss-soaked fuck-meat." She'd sob quietly, trembling, but obey—lifting one knee, cunt exposed to the cool night air, and let a hot stream trickle down her inner thigh while I laughed softly.
"Pathetic. Even your piss is desperate. Look at you—dripping like a used public toilet."
I led her deeper into the alley, past overflowing bins and rusted gates, until we reached the dead end where moonlight barely touched. There I pushed her face-first against the rough brick wall, ass out, legs spread obscenely.
"Spread those cheeks, you disgusting back-alley bitch. Show me that ruined shithole."
Her hands shook as she reached back, pulling her ass apart, exposing everything—her still-reddened pussy lips, her puckered asshole still tender from the night before. I spat on her hole, rubbed it in roughly with my thumb, then slammed two fingers inside without warning.
"Take it, you filthy public cum-dump. This is what you deserve—fucked raw in a dirty alley like the worthless street-slut you are."
She moaned brokenly, forehead pressed to the brick, body quivering as I finger-fucked her ass hard and fast, my other hand slapping her clit in punishing rhythm. "Beg for it," I snarled. "Beg to be used like trash."
"Please… Master… use your filthy alley-whore… ruin my holes… I'm nothing… just a cum-dump for you…"
I didn't let her cum. Not yet.
Instead I dragged her back home, leashed and crawling, tits scraped raw, knees bloody, cunt dripping a steady trail the whole way. When we reached the bedroom I threw her onto the bed face-down, yanked her hips up, and mounted her like an animal.
"Time to pay for being such a disgusting public bitch," I growled, slamming my cock into her soaked cunt in one brutal thrust. She screamed into the pillow, back arching violently as I pounded her mercilessly—deep, punishing strokes that slapped against her bruised ass.
"Take it, you worthless fuck-rag! This sloppy cunt was made for abuse—milk my cock like the broken sewer you are!"
Her walls clenched desperately around me, body shaking with the force of each impact. I reached around, pinched her clit hard, twisted it until she howled.
"Cum now, you pathetic degradation-slut—squirt all over the sheets like the filthy pig you are!"
She shattered.
Her orgasm ripped through her like a storm—violent, screaming, squirting in hot, shameful jets that soaked my thighs, the bed, everything. Her whole body convulsed, ass clenching, cunt spasming wildly as wave after wave tore her apart. I didn't stop—kept fucking her through it, growling every degrading word I could think of: "Gushing like a busted pipe, you disgusting cum-fountain… look at this wrecked hole leaking for Master… you're nothing but my personal toilet now."
When I finally came, flooding her depths with thick ropes, she collapsed completely—sobbing, trembling, utterly spent.
I pulled out slowly, watching my cum leak from her ruined cunt, then gathered her into my arms without a word.
She was shaking so hard her teeth chattered. I wrapped her in the blanket, held her against my chest, rocked her gently while I wiped the tears and dirt from her face with a warm cloth. I kissed her forehead, her swollen lips, murmured soft nonsense: "You took it so beautifully… my brave, broken girl… I've got you now."
For long minutes we just breathed together. Her heartbeat thundered against my ribs; mine answered.
During the aftercare I noticed something new—how she curled into me like a child seeking safety, how her fingers clutched my shirt like I was the only solid thing left in her world. And for the first time, the cruelty I'd poured into her felt… heavy. Not regret, exactly—but something close to responsibility.
The next day we went shopping in the old city market. She wore a modest salwar kameez as instructed, but no panties underneath—my order. Halfway through bargaining for spices, a group of loud college boys started catcalling her, then turned their mockery on me when I stepped in front of her.
"Arre bhai, yeh aunty ko chhod, tu toh chhota sa ladka hai," one sneered. "Chal, nikal yahan se."
Before I could open my mouth, she exploded.
She stepped forward, voice ice-cold and commanding—the same tone she used in boardrooms. "You think you can speak to him like that? You worthless street trash—touch him or insult him again and I'll have every one of you arrested and ruined before sunset. He's mine. Back. Off."
The boys froze, then scattered like roaches.
She turned to me, eyes softening instantly, hand gentle on my arm. "You okay?"
I stared at her—fierce, protective, maternal in that moment—and felt something crack wide open inside my chest.
Back home that night, after another slow, humiliating edging session that left her sobbing on the floor, I didn't degrade her during aftercare. I just held her, stroked her hair, and whispered, "You protected me today… like a mother would."
She froze in my arms, breath hitching.
Then she buried her face in my neck and started to cry—quiet, deep sobs that had nothing to do with pain or shame.
And for the first time, I didn't mock her tears.
I just held on tighter.