Sweet Mangala A Picture Of Virtue

Authors Note: The story you are about to read is for the most part true.

My name is Mangala, I'm 23, Indian born and now I am living with my husband in Paris, France.

Why do I write about my life, my inner thoughts, and my nature which is this incredible weakness for sex? What is the good of writing of things which really should be hidden, about what has gone wrong in my life? I think I know the answer all too well, that I just let myself drift on the waves of my own passion, captive to my own desires.

When I'm rational I constantly ask myself the reason for my actions, I mean of course I should have said NO at the beginning of things. I have no clear answer and only hope that writing about my life will help me understand myself better. My life is otherwise respectable and boring!

My husband has no idea about any of the naughty, even nasty things I have done and will do again. When I look at him across the dinner table, I very much doubt his jealousy and pride would let him accept any of it.

But I will write everything down for you, sweet reader; everything that comes to my mind, my ideas, memories, feelings and dreams and of course my weakness. I will write about my life which really began when I ran away from an arranged marriage in India, about how calm and spoiled my life was then at the large estate of my parents. My life was luxurious, respectable, tranquil and pure! You will see how much it changed...

I had romantic dreams of meeting a loving, caring man when I arrived in New York from India on October 12, 2008 as a 19 year old virgin. In India I was what is known as a "white wedding innocent" and it was true I was a pure, beautiful Indian flower.I was about to be corrupted and the meaning and purpose of my life changed.

There are three men who influenced and changed my life; Samuel our black driver, who drove me and picked me up form school when I was fifteen, about who I will talk later; Wolfgang, a German business man who forced and deflowered me; Sir Jerome, my husband's boss who has claimed my body and corrupted my soul and taught me all about servitude.

But it was Wolfgang who started this, stealing my innocence the same day I arrived in New York. He looked deeply into my brown "fuck-me" eyes and recognised my weakness for sex before I even knew it existed.

Wolfgang bought me pretty dresses and then intimidated and deflowered me on my first night in New York. He made me his Randi for the next three weeks, showing me I had all the right qualities to be a high class whore.

Sir Jerome is the owner of the company my husband works for. He is a French banker that immediately impressed me when I was introduced to him, making me think of my Dad. That first occasion he was elegantly dressed as the prominent banker he is in a fine blue pinstripe suit, an expensive silk tie, shoes and a tailor made shirt which fit his strong body like a glove.

His intense blue eyes looked right through me, devouring me and I saw him smiling and felt his dominating animalistic power as he undressed me with his eyes, making me extremely nervous. Meeting Sir Jerome was the sealing of my destiny, sending me along the one-way street called "desire".

On my wedding day he danced with me and as he held me uncomfortably close I could feel him as he asked, "Mangala, are you going to be a good girl to your husband or will you take advantage of his weakness. Your husband is a very weak man, blinded by your virtues and he has no idea what you need. But I do. A woman like you is born for servitude. I know all about you. Your husband is a fool if he thinks he knows you and can satisfy a women like you."

"You need a real man who you can serve! It's all in your eyes for men like me to recognise, the need to serve men. But your husband is pathetic and will not protect you like a real man should. He cannot satisfy you and then you will start looking for the men who want you. My dear your husband works for me and he might be a nice likable person, but he is a follower and not a leader and I know all too well he is weak. He will do anything I want to keep his pathetic job and my dear I want you and I will protect you like you need to be protected."

I was so appalled. How dare he say this! While we danced I could see my kind husband watching us, smiling happily as our hips moved more together. In the darkness of the room he pulled me even closer to him, pushed his knee between my legs and slid his hand between us and then cupped my breast and pinched my nipple which was already hard.

The way he handled me gave me no choice unless I wished to make a scene. I felt his hardness through my thin dress as he rubbed it against me.

I didn't even say, "NO," and just let it happen.

In the darkness of the room he took my hand and made me touch his member, made me feel him. He let my hand go and still I touched him. I closed my eyes as if I had no choice and heard him whisper,

"Like what you feel bitch?"

I rubbed my thighs together, an unbearable feeling of lust between my legs as his hand squeezed my breasts. My nipples were very hard and throbbing from his touch. It seemed forever before the song finally finished and he led me back to our table, handing me back to my husband with a smile.

But he had already come between my husband and I. During the night that followed, whenever I closed my eyes I heard his voice and felt Sir Jerome's hands, instead of those of my husband when he touched me.

Two weeks later Sir came for dinner and I realised everything he had said was true. He was looking through me as the kind of man who knows exactly what I need and understands my protests mean little when he insists.

Sitting next to him I crossed my legs when he put his strong hand on my knee. But I let him slip his hand under my skirt when he pressed. This was all while he was talking to my husband about the strategy of his companies, while my dear husband who was sitting across the table was completely unaware of any how Sir was caressing my leg, making me feel like a little girl the way he looked at me. He made me tell him what colour my lingerie was on my wedding night.

Sir exuded complete sensuality. I felt it claim me while he was saying that women like me are born for servitude to men. I did not know what to say, but felt myself getting wet. After dinner he claimed me, having sent my husband away on an errand. I felt a fire burning inside me and submitted to him. I was totally alone and helpless and I could not resist him, feeling my own heat when he pushed his expert hand between my legs and called me a slut.

As I let him touch me I felt the hunger between my legs. Willingly I opened my dress for him, showing myself to him. I submitted to everything he wanted. Later, I was gracefully asleep when my husband returned. He knew and suspected nothing.

Then Sir came back the next day and I undressed myself for him and let it happen again, feeling absolute pleasure at being possessed and controlled, being on my back and opening my legs again whenever he wanted. Soon my husband was on regular business trips and I was doing whatever Sir wanted.

The remaining man in my life is of course my weak and pathetic husband who really let it all happen!

For any other woman he would be a wonderful and kind husband. I was convinced after my first experiences with Wolfgang that he was the kind of man I desired, that I had looked for; a true gentlemen, intelligent, kind and tender who brought me roses and presents and adored me; who never insisted on having sex before we got married or wanted me to satisfy him orally; protecting me from all the predators that did.

These are the same predators who regularly look at my elegant exterior, attracted by my body, making me feel unconformable as my nipples get hard under the gaze of their hungry eyes. I find myself wanting them to strip away the layers of my façade and my clothes, undressing me, knowing what they want and how easy I have become for such men when they insist.

My pathetic husband recently suggested when he was away that I accept the dinner invitation of Sir Jerome and enjoy myself, trusting his boss with his precious wife.

If my husband only knew how the nights always end with his gorgeous wife on her knees and on her back with her pretty legs spread. I first tried to avoid this, but then my husband called and I had no excuse to not agree that Sir's driver would pick me up. Then Sir sent me a box with a silk black "fuck me" dress from Cavalli with precise, cool and demanding instructions on what else to wear.

I knew it was exactly as Sir said, "It's impossible to run away from what you have learned, what you are, what you need." Sir and his friends give me what I need each time.

I have become entirely dependent on him and the degree of his wishes, since there is no greater honour then to have my will commended to Sir's authority.

Being shared at these parties, even accepting those men I never liked and who are below me without any protest has humbled me and I have learned to treat and accept everybody with the same respect.

As Sir said "The price of an object should not dictate how it is treated." He has trained me to reach a level of total selflessness understanding my obligation towards his guests is their pleasure and satisfaction alone.

On the surface I appear a decent married woman. But when some men look at me they make me hot. I feel desire rise in me and I rub my thighs together seeing myself on my knees in front of them, imagining how I look naked for them, my long legs spread for them, nude on my back on a thick carpet on the floor, helpless and waiting for them.

I am appalled by my thoughts being sensed and used and need really to close the window of my mind to these thoughts. But can I resist them; is it not too late already? I ask myself, is this the meaning and purpose of my life; can I protect my marriage; can I protect my husband who is ignorant, weak and jealous? When I tease or flirt he even frowns on that. Knowing the truth about me would destroy him.

It may be that I have a fatal flaw in my character; underneath the surface of my sweet and sophisticated personality there is a dark side that craves to dress in short skirts and tight tops without a bra, showing my hard nipples and have other men tell me what to do; a dark side that teases and flirts and craves the attention of men and women who make me stand in front of them dressed only in black lace suspenders and black silk stockings on high heels, while they use and abuse me. How can I justify such cravings considering my highborn background?

Perhaps I will never be able to return to being a respectable woman again. I might look very aristocratic and respectable and sophisticated to my friends. I see the admiring glances but they don't know the truth. I often think that Wolfgang who deflowered me is right; my destiny is to be a common slut.

But my real downfall started when, freshly married I moved two years ago to Paris where my submissiveness was exploited at the hands of Sir Jerome.

Sir recognized what I am beneath my sophistication, my arrogance and expensive clothes. He sees through all that to see I am no more than my exotic body and understands that deep inside me is a part which craves the touch of men on my sensitive skin.

Sir looked at me and he saw me for what I should be, a high class slut; but he also knows I am unable to accept what I feel inside and explains that I am deluding myself; at first and despite my protests he made me feel hot and wet, making me feel a now too familiar warm and delicious excitement between my legs and on the tips of my breasts when he looks at me, making me realise what I need, know what I want deep inside.

Sir unravelled my decent world, making me feel the pleasure of being controlled at private parties, being told what clothes to wear, feeling the decadent pleasure of being abused and humiliated, of letting men and women touch my aristocratic body, opening my pretty legs for them when so ordered, being displayed at parties to perform and satisfy these shameless sexual desires.

But how different my life was when I grew up in India; there was great luxury and abundance of anything I wanted; we lived on a large estate with large trees surrounding the mansion. There were elephants, horses and peacocks in different parts of the estate and of course we had many servants.

Everything was luxurious and made of the best materials. The marble was imported, and the furniture almost all in embroidered silk. We were surrounded by beautiful paintings, some of members of our family. My own room was twice as large as the apartment I live in now with my husband and I had my own maid who picked up after me when I dropped my clothes, or did whatever I wanted.

My dad was a well-known industrialist, ours a very wealthy aristocratic family and dad pampered me; almost every day I would receive small presents from him and he adored spoiling me. My mother was as jealous as could be; disliking every present he gave me, but my parents were also very conservative and very protective.

How long ago this all seems, but some things although insignificant have made a strong impression on me, like our black driver Samuel who was hired one day by my mother when my Dad was away and fired six months later when my Dad saw the way he looked at me. He left just like he came, with only the shirt on his back and he must have known he was fortunate to leave like that.

But from his arrival, Samuel had always fascinated me with his black skin and the gossip I heard when the servants talked to each other. Giggling and laughing about Samuel when they thought I could not hear them, they were gossiping about his big black thing as they called it. But my memories of Samuel are about his black eyes, his gentle dark voice, the timbre in his voice which could punish and seduce me at the same time and made me do things I should not have done.

But perhaps I can be forgiven!? Perhaps Samuel should also be forgiven! I was still very young and extremely cute for my age. But even in all my innocence I was already a tease, something Samuel reprimanded and punished me for.

When I grew up I went to a girls-only Catholic school. High families in India send their children to such schools. Every morning our black driver Samuel would drive me to school and pick me up at the end of the day. I wore a school uniform, a blue plaid skirt with a white school blouse and tie, white knee-high school socks and shoes. At school I was one of the most popular girls, very pretty and at the top of my class, which was of course expected of me.

My parents gave me a very strict upbringing, but not as strict as the nun's did, but what affected me most of all was the jealousy my Mother felt and the way my dad adored me. I was brought up with the proper values and demands of age old traditions which meant that when I was 16 my marriage was arranged with an older business associate of my dad.

It was an evil choice of my mother, jealousy making her punish me for the 16 years of my happiness. She arranged my marriage with the most chauvinistic man she could find, but thanks to my Dad this was to be consummated after I had finished my studies at the university, very much to the chagrin of my mother.

Running away at 19 was the only alternative I had to avoid him. This decision broke my family's honour, transforming and forever reshaping my life.

Now at 23, I have the body and face of a model; high cheekbones with pouting lips and like most girls from India my hair is shoulder length and straight black, my eyes are alluring, my eyebrows are black and I have full luscious lips and a slender body.

I have a gorgeous figure standing five-eight, bust 34C, 25" waist, 35" hips at 105 lbs. My Indian heritage means that for Western men I am very exotic.

I still feel uncomfortable as well as desired when I see how men watch me, their greedy eyes on my breasts, on my legs, on my lips and sometimes I hear their remarks. But I know my breasts are what men like most about me, they are firm and my nipples are dark and harden when these insolent men watch me. But above all I am still reserved and elegant.

Until I came to New York I was innocent and naïve and spent hours reading, dreaming myself away in romantic poetry. I was thinking about pure love; about an elegant young man, graceful with a beautiful soul. I wanted a young man who could speak about literature, music, paintings and write poetry; wooing me with such a voice wishing me to die of love, so that I was swept away on the waves of my emotions.

How different life is in India from the west, and of course I had never slept with a guy or even been touched when I arrived in New York. Then I settled into my new life and started to understand better what kind of effect I had on most men.

I started wearing short skirts and high heels, understanding that for these men I was exotic and I enjoyed teasing them in an innocent way, letting them take care of me, accepting the roses and other presents and watching how they always where falling over themselves for the pleasure of my company. That might have something to do with what they expected of me, but never got; with my long dark hair, my beautiful face and how I loved to be in the centre of attention. Coming alone or with a girlfriend and leaving alone always gave me control over them.

I don't understand why some men who took my innocence and used my body are the way they are.

The evil men, the nasty men who started me on this one way street towards my destiny, they looked at me and saw a naïve, virtuous and perfect innocent prey for their pleasures and how they then corrupted me.

What a loser my husband turned out to be, unable to give me the luxury I was used to; what a wimp, who wouldn't protect me against his boss and I look back with amazement to what has happened to me since the first day I came to New York.