PresentationHorror48

I’m a bad Indian girl who is tired of weak beta Indian boys. I need a real white alpha male to break me and show me my place (at the feet of a white man).

The story, Bhaijan, is that soon after the tragedy, some self-seeking toady told a white officer about the beauty of the two sisters…Amongst the five or six of the British killed, there was also a woman…What was the name of that bitch…Yes, Miss Sherwood…So, the white officers decided to send for the two sisters and…and enjoy themselves to their heart’s content…You understand, don’t you, Bhaijan…?”

     I replied: “Yes!”

     My fellow-traveller sighed: “When it comes to death and grief, even dancing girls and prostitutes are mothers and sisters…Bhaijan, I think this country has no sense of shame or dignity…When the Thanedar of the district got orders from above, he obeyed them at once…He went himself to inform Shamshad and Almas that the Sahiblog had sent for them, and wanted to hear them sing and dance…Their brother’s grave was still fresh, that poor boy had been in Allah’s house only two days when…when the sisters were ordered to perform for the officers…Can there be a greater example of injustice?…I think it’ll be difficult to find anything more callousness than that…It never occurred to those who sent for them that even tawaifs have a sense of honour…Do you think they do…?…Of course they do…” He said answering the question addressed to me himself.

     I replied: “Yes, of course they do!”

     “Yes…After all Thaila was their brother; he hadn’t been killed in a fight in some gambling house; he hadn’t died in a drunken brawl…He had sacrificed his life bravely for his country’s freedom…He was the son of a tawaif, but that tawaif was also a mother…Shamshad and Almas were her daughters…They were dancing-girls, but they were also Thaila’s sisters…They had fainted when they saw Thaila’s body; when his coffin was lifted they wailed so bitterly that everyone wept tears of blood…”

     I asked: “Did they go?”

     After a pause, my fellow-traveller replied sadly: “Yes…yes, they went gorgeously dressed…” Suddenly his voiced acquired a sharpness: “They went all perfumed and bejewelled…to meet those who had sent for them…Both the sisters looked stunningly beautiful…Dressed resplendently, they looked like fairies from paradise…Liquor flowed, they sang and danced…It is said…that at two at night when a senior officer gave a signal, people left…” My fellow-traveller was silent for a while, then he stood up, leaned out of the window to watch the trees and the electric poles rush past…

     The wheels of the train set-up a metallic beat as they repeated his last words: “People left…people left…”

     I forced my mind away from the metallic rhythm of the train and asked him: “What happened after that?”

     Turning away from the trees and the electric poles rushing past, he said firmly: “They ripped off their glittering dresses, and stark naked, they said, ‘Look at us…We are Thaila’s sisters…Sisters of the martyr whose handsome body you riddled with your bullets only because he loved his country with all his soul…We are his beautiful sisters…Come, pierce our perfumed bodies with the hot irons of your lust…But before you do that let us spit on your faces once…” Then he fell silent and it seemed as if he had come to the end of his story and had nothing more to add.

     But I persisted: “What happened after that?”

     His eyes filled with tears: “They shot them…”

     I was silent.

     By then the train had pulled into the station — When it stopped, he called a coolie and asked him to carry his luggage. As he was about to leave, I said: “I suspect you invented the end of the story.”

     Startled, he looked at me: “How did you guess?”

     I said: “Your voice was firm, but full of anguish…”

     My fellow-traveller swallowed hard and said: “Yes…Those damn…” He stopped himself from cursing them: “They blackened the name of their martyred brother…” Then he stepped down onto the platform

I mean raceplay is my usual but I think there is something sexy about taking a woman from a honor based culture and making her your whore.

Like the knowledge that contact with a white man has sort of "defiled" her and she won't be accepted by her community anymore. It's so fucking hot.

I'm a muslim woman and I often think what my stuckup hijabi friends would think about me shacking up with a white man.

Will they curse me? Whisper behind my back? Will they secretly crave what I have?

I particularly wish I was a slave wife to a strong conservative white man. I often see movies depicting the British colonization of India and wonder how nice it would be to just be carried off by a white officer and required to be his bedwarmer and servant.

I love how cultured, smart and confident white men seem compared to the shoddy rubbish that brown men are. It's such a difference and such a turn on.

I feel bad sometimes for having such thoughts but what I can do about it. I think I was just born a dirty brown whore. The stereotype of the sensual oriental women in the flesh.

My body aches to be handled, touched, groped, and just... used by a white man whose stronger and superior to me in every way.

This was when I was a naive, 18 year old Indian girl living next door to this young university graduate. My home life wasn't as good (asshole negligent father, emotionally abusive mother) and I was often left to my own devices. So I quite often spent time at my neighbour's house. He was sweet, understanding and gave me a beer or two. This was in London so it's legal.

His name was .... let's call him Kit here for sake of privacy. Now Kit was lean yet muscular, boyishly handsome and I did sort of have a crush on him.

He often had (different) women over who I would see walking or rather limping away in the classic "walk of shame" style when I left for sixth form every morning.

One Saturday I was out late as I had fought with my parent's who left for the weekend for some even or the other (can't remember what it was now) so I was basically home alone.

I looked out of my window to see Kit stumbling back into our apartment building and decided to go tease him. We had a very easygoing friendship and I couldn't sleep.

Kit was heavily drunk and could barely walk straight. He was drunkenly slurring my name as I helped him to his apartment and led him to his bedroom.

I helped him on the bed with some difficulty and started removing his shoes as I liked Kit and wanted to make him comfortable. I climbed on the bed and started removing his jacket too as I thought he'd be hot.

This was when it happened. He held me tightly in his arms and sort of rolled over me drunkenly and as he was too muscular and heavy I couldn't really push him off.

I was now panicking and started saying "Kit get off" in a small worried voice.

I don't know if Kit knew it was me or he thought I was one of his regular fuck buddies but he kept groping me.

I was in a short mid-thigh length cotton nightgown that he kept pushing upwards to run his hands over my smooth thighs. His hands groped and kneaded my breasts and pinched and tugged at my nipples.

Now tears came running down my eyes as I begged him to stop but he just kept going. He climbed on top of me and pushed the thin straps of my gown below my chest (I was a skinny 18 year old) and now my breasts were exposed.

I could smell the whiskey on him as his bearded face nuzzled my neck, biting and marking. He then started sucking hard on my tits and biting roughly if I tried to push him away.

His hands were at this time working to remove my panties and unbuttoning his jeans. His cock was hard and free from his trousers and I started crying harder.

He took my virgnity that night. His massive (for my tight, virgin pussy) cock rammed through my hymen and took my innocence.

Kit fucked me for hours before cumming in me. Meanwhile there was a trail of bruises on my neck all the way down to my breasts.

Even after he came and passed out his fingers would absent-mindedly play with my cunt which leaked his cum. His other hand was placed possessively over my tits groping and using them as a stress ball in his sleep.

I woke and ran back to my house in the early hours of the morning before he woke. Took a morning after pill the next day.

We never really talked about what happened. But a wave of jealousy hits me every time I see him bringing a woman home from the pub again. And most nights I rub my pussy to the memory of his rough touches and whiskey scented breath.

I hate how brown men treat brown girls. Their dicks are tiny and they come in like 5 seconds and then brown girls are used as servants for brown men's parents. It's so frustrating.

At least with white men we can get off too. There is pleasure in serving them. They are so masculine and bold unlike brown "men" who can't even take a stand for their women. White men on the other hand have killed and pillaged to take us brown girls. They know our value.

I'd rather be a slavewife and fuckpet to a handsome strong white man than be a live in bangmaid for some pussy Indian man who doesn't know left from right.

I can't tolerate brown men as cucks either. I wish a strong white man can take me away from these brown men and keep me with him.

Reddit was supposed to be a safe space. But it seems some Indian men have taken offence to my posts on a KINK SUBREDDIT which they wouldn't have found unless they were looking for it themselves.

Any other Indian women posting pictures of themselves (consensually) or writing erotica. I'd urge you to be careful.

I'd rather walk on a bed of hot coals before I date an Indian guy because of men like these. I hope Reddit will take the appropriate action and ban them.

Keep KINK SPACES JUDGEMENT FREE~