The first real indications of my husband's perverted mind came just a few months after I moved to the US with him after our arranged marriage in India.
We were in a car heading for a beach weekend, something I was both excited and nervous about. We had been on the freeway for a little while when I asked a question that was on my mind.
"Why are there so many honks today? Usually you don't hear a horn in America for days."
He laughed and pointed to the broad sunroof while he drove.
"They are giving you compliments."
"What?"
I immediately sat up. As if I weren't conscious about my clothes already.
I was wearing a tube top that barely contained my 34D breasts. And a short pleated skirt. These were clothes picked by my husband. Clothes I was not used to, having grown up in orthodox small town north India. I was wearing them at his insistence.
When I had fully covered daily video calls with my mother, she always asked me, was I happy? Was he a good man? And I honestly answered her, yes.
In things that mattered, he was a good man. No wonder my parents had chosen him for me. Our community, good looking, qualified, in a good job abroad on green card track, bought his own home recently, and a car.
He was well behaved with me, gentle in bed for the most part, took me out for meals and shopping and trips. I could not work so he bought me whatever I wanted to fill my time, which was mostly musical instruments that I liked trying or different electronic gadgets. He never said no to anything I asked for.
Nor did he treat me like a maid, as had happened with my other girlfriends who married NRIs. He did half the chores often while on Bluetooth research calls. He cooked frequently. He seemed very well read.
He was usually a man of few words. A brilliant research scientist, whose full potential could only be unlocked in the US. But he mostly stayed lost in his science thoughts. We rarely had any long soulful chats. When he talked, it was very to the point, almost transactional.
He was pretty much the kind of husband I had seen in my family. Quiet, imposing, not given to displays of affection. Earned well, looked good, would make a good father. Everything I was hoping for. Everything any girl brought up to be a housewife could hope for.
The only strange thing about him, which I could not really share with my mother, was how he had some kinks in sex that were quite unusual. And which involved pushing me out of my comfort zone.
For example, whenever we went out, he insisted on picking out my clothes. I say "my clothes" but really, they were clothes he had bought for me.
I was surprised when I reached his place....our place...in America for the first time and found a closet full of new clothes, all my size, all brand new, all shorter than anything I had worn before. And they all fit well. I was impressed as well as unnerved that he found my sizes so perfectly without ever asking my measurements.
I came from a town so orthodox that the elders there wanted to ban women from trying on jeans and even Chinese food (don't ask). So I had never really worn anything shorter than a sober knee length skirt, that too in safe indoor confines. And given my ample bosom, I generally kept it well concealed too, with no tops with low neck. He though was very keen on me showing cleavage.
I had left the clothes untouched for a few days until once I found a tank top and a short skirt laid out for me with sexy panties. He had told me we would be going out for a date night. Which I was excited about. But wearing this?
"These clothes are a little bold for me. I will get stares." I meekly protested.
"Grow up. This is America." He said in a tone of finality.
My parents had taught me to obey my much smarter husband. So even though I felt uncomfortable, I complied.
"Don't look so terrified." He said, clicking his tongue in annoyance.
"Someone could see a glimpse of my behind as I walk." I said.
"So what? Everyone has an ass. Don't be a frumpy aunty. You are just 24 years old. Live a little." He picked up the car keys.
He took me to a nice fancy bar. Ordered me a tall sweet cocktail to nurse. I didn't come from a drinking family. These were the first real strong alcoholic drinks of my life. That he had introduced me to.
"Are you tipsy?"
"I think so." I said noticing a man sitting by the side booth checking me out. "People are looking at me."
"Well, you look hot. Get used to it."
I was conscious about every look I got, every man clearly hoping that my skirt would fly a little extra. But in general, it was nowhere as bad as in India, where women feel like prey.
"Get on my lap. Don't argue."
Sitting in his lap, I could feel a lot of eyes on me, and especially the lower half of my big round butt. Which the short skirt hung over like an awning. I tried to keep it down but he grabbed my hand and pulled me towards him.
I felt like telling everyone, I'm his wife. Proper wife. Not some whore.
We kissed. But not for long. I think he could sense my discomfort.
"Let's go home."
He shamelessly put his hand under my skirt and fondled my butt, showing my panties to everyone, as we walked out.
I felt an odd mix of sentiments in the car. I was shocked and nervous. But I was also turned on. He had that look on his face he always had before ravishing me. I liked it.
Not that I had anyone to compare him with, but he was very good in bed. He always gave a lot of time to foreplay and got me nice and wet before shoving his cock in me. He always made sure he brought me off with his tongue when he entered me. I never measured his cock but it was good sized and filled me up nicely. And he went on for a long time, bringing me to multiple orgasms, with almost scientific accuracy and frequency.
That night was also the first night he got a bit extra kinky in bed. Nothing scandalous. He fucked me from behind while I was wearing just the skirt. And he spanked my ass and pulled my hair a lot. I enjoyed it. I actually came quite hard.
"You okay with the rough stuff?" he asked after sex as he lit up his usual cigarette, fondling my ass half red from his spanks.
"So far yeah." I honestly said.
"I'm sorry if I got carried away. I have no intention of my kinks drifting into domestic abuse."
I laughed and shook my head at how he talked in such a formal way. With his cum sprayed over my boobs.
"No, I really did enjoy it myself. There is no domestic abuse.'
He nodded and smoked silently for a couple of minutes as I snuggled naked against him. I had gotten used to the tobacco smell by now.
"Any time you think I'm pushing you beyond what you are comfortable with, just say so."
I nodded.
"I have some fantasies, some kinks, some urges that I want to try out. That I think you will enjoy too once you get used to living in an open society. I might push you a little. But I have no intention in kicking you out of your comfort zone. So anytime something goes too far, just raise your voice and say STOP like you mean it."
"Thank you." In that moment I was thankful for his concern for my consent. In theory.
This proved to be tricky for a couple of reasons.
One was that in the moment of arousal itself, he was a lot more assertive. And I, being diffident by nature, got a lot more submissive. He got introspective only in the retrospective. And often, so did I.
The other and probably bigger reason was, despite my ingrained misgivings, it's not like I really hated being sexualized like this. In fact I would end such nights very satisfied. Because the shorter I dressed in public, the more often and longer my husband fucked me on coming home.
Other times he was busy in his work, even when sitting next to me. He called it working in his head. Sex was the only "quality time" I got with my my ever busy husband.
I was starting to enjoy my own objectification, even as someone from a society that tried to neutralize my sexuality. I still remember how in my puberty, I went from the cute charming talkative little girl in the eyes of my dad to some precious cargo to be protected.
