It was on her eighteenth birthday that her father dropped his bombshell.
She protested vigorously, but her father paid her no mind.
"You have always known what was planned for you, bitiya," he pointed out, calmly.
It was true that Kiran Kumari had always known she would have an arranged marriage, but she had been born and brought up in the UK and spoke only English. It had never occurred to her that she would be shipped back to the land of her ancestors, nor had she imagined that her groom would be of a different generation to herself. Suddenly she realised why her father had put up no opposition to her choice of non-academic A level subjects. He had known all along that, as wife to a traditional man who would expect her to stay at home and keep house, she would get little enough opportunity to use her qualifications.
"We will Skype with Mohit tonight," her father said. "You know how it works: the horoscopes look promising but he will reject you if he does not like what he sees, so wear something traditional, plenty of jewellery, go easy on the make up and put oil in your hair . . ." He carried on talking but Kiran was no longer listening. She trudged upstairs to begin her ablutions, wondering whether her mother would have permitted this had she still been alive.
At 8 pm, as prearranged, Kiran sat with her father before the large-screened TV, on a high-backed chair to ensure her good posture. She was undoubtedly, her father thought, satisfied, looking her best in a peacock-blue sari with gold accents, her wavy black hair flowing luxuriantly over her shoulders, her soulful brown eyes enhanced with winged liner, her lips full and glistening. When a jaunty tone sounded, Kiran's father accepted the call and the man Kiran was expected to marry appeared on the screen.
Mohit Chaudhary greeted his old school friend in fluent but heavily-accented English, then they chatted in Hindi - of which Kiran had only a smattering - for some minutes. Kiran's mind wandered, unaware she was being subjected to intense scrutiny, until she heard more English.
"Hmmmmm," he mused. "Her face is acceptable. She is not so beautiful as her mother, but she has a freshness to her."
Kiran flushed, bristling, offended by his lukewarm response. He was scarcely even "acceptable" himself, she thought mutinously, with his pock-marked skin, flabby midsection and the silver threads running through his hair and moustache.
"So?" asked her father.
He laughed. "Come, come, Anil. This is the twenty-first century, my friend. You surely wouldn't expect me to make a decision based on her face alone."
Kiran, confused, did nothing. An uncomfortable silence grew, punctuated only by Mohit sniffing: a disgusting, uncouth sound. She turned her head to look quizzically at her father, who hissed: "Take off your sari, daughter."
Kiran's eyes widened in horror.
"Will he be undressing?" she demanded, hotly.
Her father smiled apologetically at his friend. "Excuse us one moment," he said, courteously.
He took Kiran roughly by the hand and pulled her from the room.
"You will NOT shame me," he snapped, furiously. "You know how this works. This is our culture: the man accepts or refuses the girl, not the other way around. It is my wish that you should marry my old friend, and if he will not have you then neither will I. Now get back in that room, apologise to him and do as you are told."
Kiran was profoundly shaken. Since her mother's death, her father had been indulgent with her and rarely had a sharp word passed between them. Now he was threatening to disown her! She swallowed and returned meekly to the room.
"I am very sorry, sir," she said humbly. "It was a misunderstanding only. What would you have me do?"
Her prospective bridegroom smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes and she sensed she had given serious offence. His voice held no warmth as he said, "Remove your blouse first. I wish to inspect your breasts."
Kiran hesitated again and the humourless smile slid from his lips. His eyes, she thought as she gazed into their depths, searching for understanding, were like black ice. Trembling, the girl hastily unpinned the sari and reached behind her to unclip her tight gold blouse, shrugging it from her shoulders to bare her braless breasts to his critical gaze.
Her tits were full and firm, sitting high on her skinny chest. Her skin was smooth and unblemished: quite fair for an Indian girl, but the areolae and nipples were a dark, contrasting brown.
His eyes swept over her critically and goosebumps of shame and humiliation erupted on her flesh.
"Come closer," he commanded.
Kiran stood and moved nearer to the screen, the fabric of her sari slithering from its pleats and tucks and slipping down over her hips until she was clad only in her petticoat, knickers and gold sandals.
"They are a good size," he said dispassionately, addressing himself to her father. "But the nipples are rather flat. Will she be able to breastfeed?"
Responding smartly to the chill in his tone, Kiran's father leapt to his feet. "It is a little warm in here," he gabbled. "Allow me to -" and a shocked little cry burst from Kiran's lips as her father's cold fingers cupped her breasts from behind and began to tug on her inverted nipples. They instantly tightened and stiffened and when he let go to untie Kiran's petticoat, exposing her even further, the nipples jutted out indignantly.
The man on the screen thawed and began to laugh. Kiran squeezed her eyes tight shut and tears of humiliation seeped from the outer corners.
"Better," he grinned, then turned his head to the side and spoke in Hindi to someone off-screen. Kiran realised in horror that he was not alone in his sitting room in Faridabad.
"My father says he has a solution. Fetch ice and rubber bands, Anil."
With one last tweak to her left nipple, reminding her to remain compliant, Kiran's father hastened from the room, leaving her virtually naked before two strangers. Her future father-in-law, a heavy-set, dark-skinned man in his sixties, now moved into the range of the camera, his narrow black eyes caressing her exposed skin as he spoke rapidly with his son.
Kiran had never felt so ashamed, yet her breasts felt as swollen and hard as they did when she masturbated. Instinctively, she covered them with her palms, sharply drawing breath at the touch of her cold metal bracelets on her bare skin. Her putative father-in-law watched, smirking.
When he returned, Anil scowled. "Must I tie your arms to the chair?" he snapped. "Sit." Kiran's eyes brimmed again at the sharpness of his tone but she obediently sat and dropped her hands to her sides.
This time, however, Mohit's good humour was not punctured. "Pitaji finds her innocence and modesty quite charming," he grinned and then switched back into rapid Hindi.
Kiran closed her eyes in shame as she felt her father's hands on her breasts again. He rubbed the ice over and around her left nipple, then pinched it firmly in his fingertips and wrapped an elastic band around it over and over. The pain was excruciating. Kiran shrieked and her hand lifted automatically to pull it off, but Anil was ready for her, grasping both her wrists, making her heavy bracelets jangle, and binding them to the wooden chair back. Still, she screamed and sobbed, the tears now gushing down her cheeks, streaking them with kohl, as she glanced, appalled, at her chest. The nipple was engorged, the protruding tip turning purple, flesh spilling out between the coils of rubber. The men looked on, Mohit and his father smiling, Anil a little pale but resolute. He grasped her right nipple to repeat the process.
The teenager sweated and panted and wept, twisting helplessly against the rope that bound her to the chair. But her breasts had swollen further, hugely distended, and her pussy, she realised in horror, was beginning to moisten. She quietened, emitting only an occasional whimper, confused and horrified at her body's response to the abuse. She looked down again at her nipples, which throbbed powerfully, and then up at the faces of the three men responsible for this torture. Mohit and his father were still smiling broadly. Anil's expression was unreadable but she noticed his pupils were hugely dilated. He ran his fingertips lightly over her huge mounds, shivering, and then surreptitiously adjusted the crotch of his trousers.
She realised in fury that this was no longer something he was reluctantly doing to secure her future: he was enjoying the sexual torment of his young daughter. She gritted her teeth.
"Ten minutes or so a day should do it," Mohit was saying. "They will soon be trained to sit proud of her tits at all times. And I will send you some jewellery - no, don't pierce them: she will need to feed -". Again the conversation switched to Hindi.
