Willingly Broken

Chapter 8: The Driver’s Bride

Six months ago

The decision came suddenly.

After creating my full female identity, Vinu and Lata decided the ultimate humiliation was needed to marry me off to my own former driver.

“Mahalaxmi will become Murugan’s wife,” Lata announced one evening while I was massaging her feet. “This way she’ll stay under our control forever. And Murugan deserves a reward for his loyalty.”

Murugan, who was sitting there drinking whiskey, grinned widely.

I acted shocked and terrified. I cried, begged, and fell at their feet. But inside, I had already accepted it. Murugan was 40, dark, muscular, and divorced. His wife had left him years ago because he was impotent, he could get hard but could never finish. That made me feel relatively safe. I thought it would be mostly symbolic.

I was wrong.

The Wedding

It was a small, cheap wedding held in a tiny marriage hall in Thiruvanmiyur. Only 40–50 people, mostly drivers, servants, and distant friends of Murugan.

I was dressed as a traditional bride in a heavy red and gold Kanjeevaram silk saree. My breasts were pushed up obscenely by a tight padded blouse. The mangalsutra they placed around my neck was thick and heavy. My face was fully made up thick foundation, dramatic kajal, bright red bridal lipstick, and a large kumkum bindi. Jasmine and malligai flowers decorated my long hair. My wrists were covered in red glass bangles, and my anklets chimed with every nervous step.

When Murugan tied the thali around my neck in front of everyone, he whispered, “From today, you are my wife, Mahalaxmi. My personal maid and whore.”

I bowed my head and whispered back, “Yes, husband,” while cameras flashed.

The seven steps around the fire felt surreal. With every step, the heavy saree rubbed against my flat steel cage. My breasts bounced. The mangalsutra swayed between them. People clapped and laughed, calling it “the owner becoming the driver’s wife.”

That night, in the small outhouse, Murugan made me do my first striptease as his legal wife. He sat on the bed while I removed every layer until I stood only in my mangalsutra and anklets. He then pulled me onto his lap and claimed me in the only way he could.

Present Day – 11:40 p.m.

The small outhouse room was dimly lit by a single yellow bulb. The fan spun lazily above us.

I was still fully dressed in today’s light green saree, sitting sideways on Murugan’s lap on the old iron cot. My heavy breasts pressed against his chest. The mangalsutra pendant was trapped between our bodies. My glass bangles clinked softly as I balanced myself.

Murugan’s rough hands roamed over my body possessively.

He buried his face in my neck first, inhaling deeply. “Mmm… my wife smells so good after a full day of work.” He moved lower, sniffing loudly between my breasts where sweat had collected all day. Then he went even lower, pushing my saree pleats aside and pressing his nose directly against my panty covered steel mound.

He took long, deep breaths, smelling my intimate feminine musk mixed with the metallic scent of the welded cage. “This smell… it drives me crazy,” he growled.

He pulled me into a deep, hungry French kiss. His tongue pushed into my mouth aggressively. I tasted the coolless from the cool liphe always kept in his mouth. He transferred the cool, wet gum into my mouth during the long, sloppy kiss, making me suck on it like a good wife. His hands squeezed my breasts roughly over the blouse as he kissed me.

For a brief moment, a memory flashed in my mind.

Years ago, when he was still my driver… Murugan used to stand humbly with his head lowered, calling me “Sir” respectfully, opening car doors, never looking me in the eye. Now that same man had his tongue in my mouth and his hands on my breasts while I sat on his lap like a paid whore.

The contrast made my stomach twist with humiliation.

He finally broke the kiss, a string of saliva connecting our lips. He looked satisfied.

Without another word, he pulled me down onto the bed with him. He wrapped his strong arms around me tightly, hugging my soft, curvy body like a child hugs his favorite toy. My face was pressed against his hairy chest. One of his hands rested possessively on my ass, the other on my breast.

Within minutes, he was snoring loudly.

I lay there in his tight embrace, still in my saree, mangalsutra digging into my skin, steel cage pressed between my thighs, jasmine flowers crushed in my hair, and the taste of his cool mint gum still in my mouth.

I closed my eyes.

How much lower can I go?

And yet… I still hadn’t ended it.