Munna Kaalika – The Unconquerable Heart

 

Presenting the Main Protagonist – ‘Munna Kaalika’ from our book,                                                       ‘The Unconquerable Heart’

                                http://www.facebook.com/theunconquerableheart/

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The Perseverance of Seething Vengeance – Protagonist’s Undercurrent State of mind:

The dark skies roared relentlessly engulfing this part of the world in a heavy down pour. No one would suspect it to be a full moon night, but it was in fact a pleasant full moon night with multiple lines of clusters of distant stars shining brightly around the nightly torch of the skies, like the arms of an intricately encrusted diamond necklace, until just an hour ago, when the skies suddenly decided to take a leak. Streaks of lightning flashed across the sky and illuminated the meagre suburban neighbourhood which otherwise was deprived of electricity, owing to a short circuit at the nearby powerhouse.

The drain-pipes were not yet installed into the unfinished building and the rain water completely clogged its rooftop. Relentless spluttering of the skies caused rhythmic splattering noises on the rooftop, as large rain droplets continuously hit the already stagnant pool of water, and joining chorus with the rain droplets splatter was a steady splashing sound caused by the bouncing of a dark-skinned muscled man, on his toes.

The pitch-dark night made it impossible for anyone in the vicinity, to notice that, there bounced a heavily bearded man, with long flowing tresses, on the rooftop of the unfinished building. Rain droplets slid off the obscure man’s forehead continuously, blocking his vision irritatingly, but his eyes were alarmingly focused, as if he were about to thrust a thread into the eye of a needle. His steadfast, piercing eyes could convince anyone to easily surmise that he never once knew how to smile or blink his eyes, but neither of them were true.

‘If I could speak, I mighta sounded just like this… But hell no!’ The obscure man’s tumultuous conscience echoed within him, giving him ample conviction to stay focused as he bounced on his toes, onto the muddled pool of water, clenching his blood smeared bandaged fists closer to his chest.

‘Silence is all I speak, silence is all I hear and silence is all I got!’ His conscience continued, ‘But, I’m no dumb ass. You’ve hurt the one I love the most, you’ve ridiculed her, you tore her apart. Now am gonna tear you apart… flesh… blood… bone and nerve… until you suffer and die a death that’s even horrible for the hell’s own ghouls to imagine…

I’m Munna Kaalika, son of Kaalika Devi and I ain’t taking it lying back… NO MORE!’

As his riotous conscience roared from with him, a wild scary smile crossed his lips and he suddenly shot off his right fist, slicing it through the rain droplets. ‘NO MORE…. NO MORE!!’ His conscience echoed intermittently yet loudly within him as his fist landed with a sharp thud on his target – a reinforced concrete pillar, which was now glaringly visible, courtesy of a streak of lightening that flashed suddenly from across the darkened skies.

The impact of his punch emitted a sharp cracking noise and a sizeable chunk of concrete got chipped off of the reinforced concrete pillar, and it flew into the air along with other smaller chunks of concrete that got dislodged and a few droplets of the man’s own boiling red blood, and it fell into the stagnant pool of water, causing a big splash.

A lengthy streak of lightening once again shone brightly over the rooftop, revealing other pillars that were similarly chipped off on either of their sides, baring the underlying knotted bars of steel, uglily. The turbulent skies emitted a protracted roar, subtly offering a voice to the otherwise alarmingly silent man’s subdued emotions; neither the thunderous downpour nor the man’s emotions were in a mood to die down any sooner.

                                       THE UNCONQUERABLE HEART

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Hazeem Okonjo – The Unconquerable Heart

From our book, ‘The Unconquerable Heart’

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A Marginalized Soul’s state of Mind:

Hazeem Okonjo’s Painful Past:[1]

[1] AUTHORS’ NOTE: This chapter relates to Hazeem’s gender identity issues and his transitioning phase, hence, he will be addressed by female pronouns, she/her/herself, throughout the chapter.

Hazeem was born Hazeemah – genetically female, but she always cherished the male side from a very young age. She was born to a devout single Muslim mother, who migrated to America from Nigeria even before she was born. Throughout her formative years, she was marginalized by society and family. In her junior high, she was branded a tomboy and was looked upon as a pariah by fellow gals, as she hanged with boys. As a teenager, she was rebuked by boys and scorned at by gals for exhibiting her ‘alternate sexual identity.’ She yearned for a gal’s company but there were no takers for her, in her orthodox neighbourhood.  Even her mother, Isoke Okonjo, fought to change her daughter’s ‘peculiar’ attitude throughout.

But, Hazeemah was a natural philosopher who was rigid to the core. She had her own set of beliefs and she never backed down from standing by them. She had a rebellious streak to her, and she often argued at college debates that the words ‘Liberalism and Equality’ that were ordained in the American constitution, were not completely exhaustive and were just phony adjectives formulated by the ‘Founding fathers,’ to trump up a false American spirit, and that those words were never true to their spirit in letter and word, in all of the ‘Great Nation’s’ democratic existence, as they never got ingrained in the American soul. She cherished to break free from the conformist attitudes of the hegemonial society and desired to live in a liberal and free thinking society that was more welcoming of people with alternate opinions and sexualities.

It was one such rebellious days during her college sophomore year, when Hazeemah decided to end her agony and make peace with herself by turning as Hazeem in at least her outward appearance. But little did she know that her own mother would form the first impediment in that transition. She trimmed her hair, bandaged her chest tightly, wore a sweatshirt and jeans and stepped out of her room. Isoko had just completed her midday Namaz, and she went about slicing vegetables in the kitchen. She noticed Hazeemah as she stepped into the Kitchen to fetch herself some corn flakes, and Isoko was completely shocked to see her daughter in a completely new, trimmed close cut hairdo.

‘Back in Nigeria, people would have stoned you to death.’ Isoko said viciously as Hazeemah picked a cereal packet from the shelf.

‘Mom, I ain’t Nigerian.’ Hazeemah said calmly.

‘Allah will not spare your soul.’ Isoko shouted restlessly. ‘You’re committing a heinous crime.’

‘Let Allah, decide that.’ Hazeemah said, tossing cereal into a bowl and mixing it with milk, trying to be as patient as possible.

‘Just marry Bashir, he’ll take good care of you.’

‘Mom,’ Hazeemah looked seriously into her mother’s eyes. ‘I ain’t marrying your brother or any male for that matter and that’s final.’ she said, chomping on her late breakfast.

‘What is everyone going to say about our family? You have three more sisters. How will they get married?’

‘Am looking for a job, I will leave the house soon. Don’t you worry.’

‘You have no respect for your community, for your faith, for your family and not even for me, your mother.’ Isoko nagged without caring for Hazeemah’s feelings.

Isoko’s nagging got onto Hazeemah’s nerves and she impatiently threw the cereal filled bowl onto kitchen floor and stormed out of the house, closing the main door behind with a loud thud, even as her anguished mother looked on with disdain filled eyes. Hazeemah had been through with her mother’s conservative grooming for a long time then and she just couldn’t take it anymore.

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Later that evening, when Hazeemah returned home, she found Bashir, her mother’s younger brother, seated beside her in the living hall watching television. Their faces were forlorn and they flashed inimical looks at her. Hazeemah owing to the morning quarrel, didn’t feel like wishing her uncle, so she just proceeded towards her room without even bothering to give him a glance.

Bashir was offended at Hazeemah’s insensitivity towards him, ‘Hazeemah, let’s go out for dinner.’ he proposed all of a sudden.

‘Sorry Bashir, am not interested.’ Hazeemah replied without even bothering to look back. She closed the room behind and Bashir looked at his sister. Isoko raised her hands expressing helplessness. Having had resolved something, Bashir nodded his head sympathetically at her and then got up.

He approached Hazeemah’s room slowly. Steel handcuffs hung by the back pocket of his jeans. Isoko looked on as Bashir entered the room and locked it behind him.

A little while later, Hazeemah’s shrieks were heard in the living hall, but Isoko stayed indifferent and raised the volume of the T.V channel, trying to drown her daughter’s helpless screams in the din of the idiot box. Her other three school-going daughters rushed down the stairs, from their upstairs rooms, overhearing their elder sister’s screams.

‘Go back to your rooms!’ Isoko shouted at her daughters and the three bewildered gals meekly traced their steps back to their respective rooms.

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It was around eight in the morning, the next day, and Bashir had just left Hazeemah’s room after a whole night’s unabashed forcible romp with his niece. The ‘Giver of Light’ hadn’t dared to resume his duties as yet. The weather was foggy and the thick curtains shrouded the room in absolute darkness.  A small bed bulb flickered in a corner of the room relentlessly, trying to make its presence felt on its sole occupant – a hapless naked soul that nurtured a rebellious streak to stay different.

Hazeemah, fully naked, lay on the bed face down with her left hand cuffed to the frame of the wrought iron bed. She and the bed sheet were soiled in blood and the room reeked of its rancid smell. She was famished, her head ached, her loins pained and she was devastated psychologically at having been marginalized so brutally at her own home and that too at the hands of the very soul that birthed her. She had tried all night not to hate her mother, she reasoned to herself that her mother was a just a prisoner of her beliefs, but then she couldn’t come to terms with the barbaric idea of a mother stooping so low to get her point across. That whole night, her thoughts bled and bled, until her cannabinoid receptors became anaemic and totally unreceptive to the idea of familial bonds and emotions all together.

Isoko slowly approached her daughter’s room, with a plate full of toasted bread and a cup full of minced lamb gravy. She planned to appease her sulking daughter by baiting her with her favourite dish, but little did she know that her daughter was pretty difficult to be baited upon. The unlocking sound of the doorknob startled a half awake Hazeemah. She rolled sideways, shivering in fear to take a glance at the door. It was her mother, but Hazeemah was not pleased. Isoko, pulled up a chair and sat by Hazeemah’s bedside. She didn’t carry the slightest hint of remorse for having administered her own daughter’s rape.

‘Come on, break a little bread. I made your favourite, minced lamb gravy.’ Isoko goaded placing the plate beside Hazeemah.

‘Mom, nothing is going to change. Please don’t let me suffer.’ Hazeemah begged without bothering to look at her morning morsel.

‘It is Allah’s command, that I put you on the right path.’ Isoko replied calmly.

‘That mother fucker is raping me mom!’ Hazeemah cried in pain. ‘How’s that Allah’s command?’

‘Eat up.’ Isoko said with a stern face. ‘Bashir has given his word to marry you.’

‘To hell with him.’ Hazeemah shouted, kicking the plate off the bed. ‘I’m not marrying that mother fucker in a thousand lives.’

Without responding any further, Isoko stood up and turned around to leave.

‘Mom! Mom, please untie me. Please…’ Hazeemah begged her mother heart-rendingly.

‘Not until you get pregnant.’ Isoko declared mercilessly and closed the door behind her.

Hazeemah, a champion arguer and a beacon of liberalism broke down, her pathetic cries drowned in the dark room, muffled between the cushy pillows.

True to her word, Isoko kept her daughter captive for the next one month, until she got pregnant. Later, one of Hazeemah’s younger sisters who pitied on her, mustered enough courage to saw the iron bar of the bed, with a hacksaw blade from the garage and let her loose. Hazeemah ran from her home, got herself aborted and never returned back.

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Perseverance in the Pursuit of heralding a Liberal Society:

The Dining Hall of Hazeem’s House:

The pangs of desperation and a sense of nothingness that were forcibly injected into Hazeem’s psyche during that horrendous month, continued to shape his outlook. Hazeem was a changed person. From that day on, he no more identified the Gender Identity Disorder (GID) that he faced, as an individual problem but identified it as a societal issue that needed to be addressed.

He felt the need to create awareness among the ‘conformist crowd’ on the issue of ‘Alternate Sexuality’. People needed to talk about it, people needed to think about it, and people needed to be sensitized about the subject, so that they could be more welcoming of such people, thereby creating a favourable environment to kids of future generations who experienced GID. He dreamt of a day where no individual was discriminated against, on the basis of his or her sexuality and every kid who faced GID was encouraged to choose the manner in which he or she preferred to shape their lives, and not in the manner in which the ‘conformist society’ demanded them to be.

This was something that was on the back of his mind always from then on, but with his limited financial resources, he couldn’t do much. He was forced to fend for herself and the opinions just stayed within him. But the opinions didn’t die – they shaped his body and soul. He was determined to change the world. But he needed a launch pad and ‘GOD’ sent him ‘Munna.’ Early on, he identified Munna, as the perfect ‘Face of the Marginalized Soul,’ that would make heads turn and take notice if he said something, standing beside Munna.

Munna was his statement to the world. He was his weapon – A weapon with which he planned to quell the prejudiced notions of the conformist crowd. He would do anything, to get him to the pinnacle and he wouldn’t rest until he achieved it. He had already sacrificed his identity as a male and reverted back to his biological female status officially, and had even gotten his marriage to Kaalika Devi, now Carlos Daniel, as per legal proofs of Identity, legalized as per U.S Marriage laws and had brought Munna to the U.S on a dependent Visa, which otherwise was impossible, owing to the prejudice the LGBT community faced at the hands of the Immigration Department.

Now all of Hazeem’s efforts were about to vanish into thin air…

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Kaalika Devi – The Transgendered Mother

From our book, ‘The Unconquerable Heart’

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Kaalika Devi – The Unconquerable Heart:

 

Perseverance of Motherly Love:

Munna heavily battered and bleeding all over, knelt with his hands tied backwards. He was over powered and surrounded by Ganguram’s cronies. It had only been a while since Sylvia was removed from the scene by the local Police Inspector. The Inspector had no reservations as to what Ganguram planned to do with Munna. He only feared a backlash from the media if an American was involved, little did he care for the life of a fellow Indian. After all, India had a billion population and snuffling a few, here and there wouldn’t really matter. They would always breed again. The Inspector only did the country’s bidding, leaving the wretched soul, at Ganguram’s mercy.

Ganguram, a mid-thirties, big burly dark man with over-fattened muscles and an unruly beard sat on the bonnet of his jeep, smoking a cigarette and facing a helpless Munna. He wore a blue-coloured jeans and a brown coloured cut-banian with knitted holes all over, and he had a big diagonal scar that cut through his left eyebrow and left cheek, right from above his forehead. Together with the scar and his intimidating personality, he looked more like a fiend from hell than a human. A pickaxe lay by his side and his face exuded an extremely large whiff of arrogance and authoritativeness, as he smoked, watching the beaten down man, who knelt before him awaiting his exalted decision.

Ganguram was absolutely in ‘POWER.’ He always visualized himself as the uncrowned king of the locality. The presence of hundreds of residents gathered all around the busy street, meekly witnessing the injustice being meted out to Munna, without offering any opposition whatsoever only enhanced his ego. But the captor, Munna, still smiled weirdly even though he was in great pain, and Ganguram was greatly miffed at not being able to elicit his desired frightening response from a subject under his control.

Meanwhile, Kaalika Devi, who had stepped out of the canteen a few hours ago, for procuring weekly purchases, was just around the corner, approaching the street that led to her canteen. Seated in a rickshaw along with tightly stacked bags of flour, sugar, oil, meat and vegetables, she was just returning from the market, when she saw a police jeep approaching her rickshaw from the opposite direction. A police jeep in her street was a rare sight. Curious that she was, she turned back to observe the open trunk of the jeep and she found a girl seated in the trunk, wrapped up in a blanket and escorted by constables on all sides.

The girl was crying and Kaalika immediately recognized her to be the same gal, whom she knew as someone, recently moving closely with her son. She was a little surprised at first, to find her sobbing and sitting in the midst of police men in the back of a police jeep. As she tried to analyse what could have happened, the hooting whistle of the rickshaw man – usually applied by the rickshaw puller, to make way through a crowded street, caused her to turn back and notice the large group of people gathered all around the street, blocking the way to her canteen.

Now, she was even more surprised to see a large group of people gathered all round. She knew from experience that whenever people gathered in hordes on Calcutta streets, there was either a street fight or a street performance. She suspected the former now, as Durga didi was not there to make Munna perform and she herself forbade Munna from breaking rocks long ago. The sight of a sobbing Sylvia seated in the back of a police jeep and the presence of a large crowd gathered in front of her canteen, together, caused her to sense trouble. No sooner had the thought of her son being in trouble flashed across her mind than she instantly jumped out of the rickshaw, leaving behind the hard bargained purchases and jostled her way through the crowd.

To her horror, as she emerged out of the crowd, she found Munna kneeling and bleeding all over. She immediately ran up to him, knelt before him and hugged him to her hearts content. ‘Munna… mere bete…’ (Translation: Munna, my son…) she called out anxiously fondling his battered face. ‘Maa… maa…’ Munna coughed up the only syllables he could utter and smiled weirdly in response. She discovered that his hands were tied up and she frantically tried to untie him without noticing the cronies who stood guard.

‘Abhey woh Hijde…’ (Translation: Hey you fucking eunuch…) a heavy baritone voice calling out for a eunuch shocked her. She was used to being addressed derogatively, but the rough menacing tone of the caller baffled her, she looked around to find Ganguram seated on the hood of a jeep and exhaling a puff off a cigarette.

He gestured her to come along, Kaalika had seen Ganguram before and had even heard of his barbaric reputation, but she never knew him in person. She meekly ran up to him, knelt before him and held his feet. ‘Use chod do, bhai… bacha hai…’ (Translation: Please leave him, bhai.[1] He’s just a kid.) She urged him earnestly.

‘Kid!’ Ganguram expressed his shock at Kaalika’s downplay. ‘He’s grown like a fuckin ox, he beat the shit out of my men… shamed me in front of all these mother fuckers.’ he shouted pointing at the crowd that stood watching.[2]

‘Please excuse him bhai, he’s mentally challenged.’ Kaalika pleaded fervently pressing Ganguram’s feet.

Ganguram mellowed down a little after hearing that his shamer was mentally challenged. How else a sane person would challenge him otherwise, he thought.

‘Who’s he to you?’ He asked Kaalika nonchalantly, all the while continuing to smoke.

‘He’s my son, Bhai.’

‘Ha-ha! Since when have eunuchs started birthing babies?’ Ganguram laughed meanly and his cronies too joined in the banter, insensitively laughing along with him.

‘He’s my brother… Gangu bhai… I have raised him as my own son.’ Kaalika explained.

‘This bastard killed my reputation.’ He said and picked the pickaxe lying by his side. ‘Now, I’ll fuckin cut off his arms.’

Ganguram’s menacing voice and his intimidating look caused Kaalika to shudder in fear. She caught his knees tightly ‘Bhai, he’s not only mentally challenged but deaf and dumb too. I beg you for forgiveness on his behalf. I will compensate you with protection money every month. I will do whatever you ask of me. Please just forgive my Munna just this one time.’

‘Then tell him to come and lick my feet.’ Ganguram said lighting up another cigarette. ‘Then I’ll forgive him.’

A nervous Kaalika quickly removed Ganguram’s shoes and socks, ‘I will lick bhai… I will lick…’ she said and began to lick Ganguram’s foot.

Munna was visibly hurt watching his mother lick a goon’s foot, he shrieked expressing his sadness and tried to stand up, but he was beaten down quickly to his knees by Ganguram’s cronies. Shaky and skittish, Kaalika continued to lick Ganguram’s other foot too. Munna unable to watch the horror, closed his eyes tightly and cried in pain. Ganguram insensitively puffed smoke in circles and smiled wickedly, witnessing his shamer in pain for the first time, since he got him on his knees. His barbaric ego was a little satisfied, but then Munna’s ardent reaction triggered something even more heinous in his evil mind all of a sudden.

He caught Kaalika by her hair and pulled her up, ‘Aaaggghh.’ Kaalika squealed, reeling in pain as Ganguram tightly pulled on her hair. ‘Does he love you just as much as you love him?’ he asked sadistically looking into Kaalika’s eyes.

‘Yes Bhai… he loves me a lot…’ she replied servilely

Hearing that, Ganguram smiled wickedly. He squished the burning cigarette on Kaalika’s ‘left side of the collar bone.’ ‘Aaarrrgghhh!’ she shrugged at her shoulder with her hands and cried in pain tapping her legs frenziedly, as the flame burnt through her flesh. Witnessing his mom in pain, Munna tried to stand up once again, but he was again beaten down mercilessly with hockey sticks.

Ganguram picked the pickaxe and Kaalika felt that he was about to approach Munna. She caught Ganguram’s cheeks and pleaded earnestly, ‘Bhai… bhai… Please bhai… Please…’ Exhibiting nil sensitivity, Ganguram caught her by her hair again and pinned her face down to the bonnet of the jeep. He then unbuttoned his pant with one arm, loosened it to his knees, pulled down his underwear, pulled up Kaalika’s sari to her waist, exposed her naked derriere, and then he pushed his manhood inside her and humped her mercilessly holding her neck tightly to the bonnet.

‘Aaaaarrrrrggggghhhhhhh!’ Kaalika cried in pain as Ganguram barbarously tore apart her loins.

A loving son that he was, Munna, though in great pain himself, shrieked relentlessly objecting to the barbaric act and made another valiant attempt to stand up once again, but he was again promptly beaten into submission with sticks and chains. Ganguram while continuing to hump Kaalika, looked at Munna, waved the pickaxe at him menacingly and stuck his tongue out implying that he would cut him to pieces if he were to resist anymore. Munna tightly puckered his eye sockets, closing his eyes shut and helplessly cried his heart out, cursing himself for having gotten his mother into such a deplorable situation.

Ganguram was highly satisfied, as he ultimately triumphed in extracting the much-desired pain from his shamer – the deaf and dumb idiot. Having had his fill, he buttoned up and ordered his cronies to ransack Kaalika. Insensitive barbarians that they were, a dozen of Ganguram’s cronies then took turns to unleash pure devilry on a poor eunuch, in complete broad day light, in the presence of hundreds of souls who were long eunuchized off of their guts. After almost two hours of unhindered barbarism, Ganguram left the hapless eunuch-mother and her beaten down deaf-son on the street to fend for themselves.

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[1] NOTE: Bhai means ‘big brother’ in Hindi. It is a word denoting veneration. In India, people address a person as Bhai when he commands a lot of respect, by virtue of his respectable position in the society, or sometimes by virtue of his notoriety. In this case, the latter is true.

[2] AUTHORS’ NOTE: The characters speak in Hindi throughout, but to keep you, our reader, engaged, without any distractions, we have decided to present the conversation in English itself. Happy reading folks!

Ethan Chapman – The Unconquerable Heart

Ethan Chapman’s Agony – From our book,

‘The Unconquerable Heart’

http://www.facebook.com/theunconquerableheart/

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A Tormented Son’s state of Mind:

It was the summer of 1973; July 4 to be precise. The entire country was submerged in Independence festivities, bursting crackers and lighting up the evening sky. Young Ethan, then a fifteen-year-old, came running into the horse ranch, his home, in search of his mother, to show her the offer letter that he got from a prestigious university. The ranch was quite big and he excitedly shouted out for his mother, searching through the stables, thinking that she might be somewhere in there feeding the studs, their nightly dinner. But he couldn’t find her in any of the stable compartments. He had already checked their meagre dwelling, and she was not there either. Now the only other place, she could be at this time, was the barn where the hay was stacked. Expecting to find his mother there, he ran towards the barn, tightly clutching the offer letter as it fluttered to the wind.

The barn was a huge rectangular wooden structure with a gabled roof, a single big wooden door, on one of its smaller sides and four large grilled windows, on the lengthier backside. Ethan came running to the barn and pushed the door in, but it was locked from the inside, and all of a sudden he heard muffled cries and those cries resembled to be that his mother’s. Young Ethan was alarmed, and he feared for the safety of his mother. In his anxiety, the offer letter, from the University, involuntarily got slipped off his hands, and he banged on the door relentlessly with both his hands and shouted for his mother, but there was no response at the door. All he could hear were more squeals, coupled with the abusive jeering of multiple male voices.

The loud jeering only raised his anxiousness, and he ran towards the grilled windows on the backside to take a look into the barn, but alas the windows were almost eight feet high, making it difficult for him to reach out, so he emptied some of the wooden crates that were stacked with hay, dragged them down to the backside of the barn, upturned them, stacked them one above the other, and climbed them to reach out to one of the windows.

To his horror, he found his mother completely naked and facing the other side of the wall. She seemed to be gagged with some small ball in her mouth, her limbs were parted tightly and tied up against a Saint Andrews cross. A naked Tretan Bliecher, the haughty son of the same man who sired him, stood on an up sided wooden crate behind his mother, pulled her hair tightly and humped her mercilessly, even as she wailed in pain and bled from her crotch. There were five more of his fiendish friends in the barn along with him, and they all were also completely naked, and they sat on upturned wooden crates all around his mother and smoked pot, passing filthy comments, hooting, and goading Tretan over and again to tear the ‘filthy animal’ apart.

Young Ethan was devastated. How could Tretan do this to his mother? After all, even he knew that she was his late father’s mistress. She was more like a mother to him and cared for him as a child and Ethan too knew all that pretty well. Tretan was just a year younger to him and even called his mother ‘Mama’. How could he become so hideous all of a sudden? Pained by thoughts, he shouted, ‘Tretan! Bastard, what the fuck are you doing, man?’

Tretan’s friends looked up at him, ‘The hinny’s back, dude.’ one of them commented. Makayla Chapman helplessly squealed and nodded her head in shame having been spotted by her son in such an embarrassing situation.

‘Let him watch. He needs some fun, too.’ Tretan commented slyly, continuing to hump Ethan’s mother.

‘Tretan, you mother fuckin bastard, leave her now, or I’m gonna rip your balls off.’ Ethan growled tugging on the iron bars of the window.

‘Ungrateful bastard.’ Tretan muttered and turned to his friends, ‘Dick heads, go pin him down.’ he ordered them, even as he continued with his romp. Makayla was pained to hear that her young master was about to hurt her son. She squealed and resisted wildly tugging at her restrained limbs. But alas, the straps were too tightly secured. ‘Shut the fuck up, bitch.’ Tretan snarled at her holding her tightly by her ears and continuing to hump her with no regard for her feelings.

Eager cronies they were, Tretan’s fiends stormed out of the barn, as soon as they received the orders. Ethan was ready for them outside the barn door, he tried to push his way inside through them to save his mother, but five of them were too much for him to handle. They punched him and kicked him hard, until he could take no more, and he fell to the ground rolling himself into a cocoon, trying to protect himself helplessly and crying his heart out for his mother. The naked fiends then took turns to piss on him and young Ethan could do nothing, but just coil up and cover his head with his arms in shame. A while later, which seemed like ages for the heavily bleeding tormented son, the evil scion of the family, his mother served all her life, came out of the barn and stood before him.

‘Pretty big rumps, mama’s got. I’ve been pining for em for a long time.’ Tretan said standing over Ethan, wearing his pants. Pained with the hideous comment, Ethan tried to stand up to fight back, but Tretan’s friends promptly beat him down and put him back in his place.

‘Why? Why did you do all this?’ A subdued Ethan asked painfully covering his head with his arms, in a bid to protect himself from the fiends’ harsh kicks.

‘What do you mean why? Bro?’ Tretan said sarcastically. ‘She’s my slave, ain’t she? I can do as I please.’

Ethan, beaten and torn apart, growled, ‘That’s your mama, too.’

‘Shut the fuck up you bloody hinny.’ An enraged Tretan kicked Ethan in the gut with all his might, ‘I call her mama, it fuckin ain’t mean that big black ass is my mama.’ He roared meanly.

Tretan’s insensitive comment caused his fiendish friends to erupt into wild peals of laughter, and they all finally kicked him once again and left the place.

Ethan rolled in pain on the very offer letter he was so ecstatic about, it got crumpled beneath him. The evening skies slowly darkened but turned more and more translucent and colourful with each passing moment. Independence festivities had already quadrupled. Fireworks pillaged the sanity of the skies, as did despicable thoughts of anguish that run amok inside the consciousness of a teenaged Ethan Chapman, as he rolled in the mud, soiled with the ‘urine of hatred’ that reminded him he was not to be treated an equal even by a brother, who was born of the same sire as him. It was ironical that Ethan Chapman was revealed of this bitter truth by ‘GOD,’ on a day that actually and symbolically stood for ‘Equality and Liberation’ of the human spirit in modern history.

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Sylvia Amdur – The Unconquerable Heart

The Perseverance of Compulsive Love:

Sylvia’s sacrifice – Part -3 – From our book,

‘The Unconquerable Heart’

http://www.facebook.com/theunconquerableheart/

‘Well, that was expected anyway.’ Tretan sighed loosened himself from Sylvia’s vagina and he walked towards his sofa on the dais, ‘Yahweh, seems to be working here a little bit, but Fuhrer is not gonna relent.’ he declared, swinging his right index finger at her. Though Sylvia could not see his theatrics, she understood the tone in his voice.

Tretan sat back on the sofa, picked up the glass plate again and snuffed the remaining six big lines of cocaine in one go. Six big lines of cocaine in one go was a little too much for a regular like Tretan. His heartbeat raced up drastically and his brain resonated with a thousand drumbeats. He silently collapsed back on the sofa as his body tried to adjust to the abrupt shock. The sudden lull in the room caused Sylvia to wonder what was happening, but then Tretan suddenly choked and vomited on the floor. The sound of the choking vomit, made Sylvia ascertain to herself that Tretan was overdosing.

‘So, where were we?’ Tretan asked wiping his mouth with the hand towel that was already on the table. Sylvia stayed silent. ‘Speak up, bitch!’ Tretan shouted.

‘You said, your Grandpa was an officer at Auschwitz, Fuhrer.’ Sylvia replied.

‘Aah, good gal.’ Tretan poured himself another peg of absinthe and took a sip.

‘So, one fine day,’ Tretan, gulped down a sip and continued the story, ‘this particular middle-aged Jewish lady in the camp offered to make my Granddad filthy rich, in return for a safe exit for herself and her son from the camp.’

Sylvia listened carefully. She already knew Tretan was a sworn hater of the Jewish faith, but then she wanted to know how deep it ran in him.

‘This lady, she was the wife of the wealthiest Jew in all of Poland that time. She was like royalty. My Grandpa, he retrieved all of her jewels from hidden locations. Booty was really big. Fetched him a mighty bomb, when he sold em in the US later on.’

Tretan continued, pausing in between to sip on Absinthe and occasionally stare at Sylvia’s naked rump. He desired a hard on desperately, but it was not coming for him naturally. That day, somehow he was very anxious and doctors had strictly advised him against using Sildenafil when he did cocaine. But then he was not someone who really needed an erection to satisfy himself. He always had other means. His psychotic brain always conjured up wicked and innovative means to deliver him the perfect bliss that equalled a hundred oxytocin shots in one go.

‘Mother fucker, he was not satisfied.’ Tretan broke into wild peals of laughter. He went on laughing wildly for well over a minute and then the laugh slowly spilled over into a chronic cough that resulted in him falling back in the sofa and gasping for breath. He filled himself up with another glass of absinthe. Water was a strict no-no for him and his attendees never placed it near his table unless they were asked to.

Hearing Tretan cough up and fall back into another bout of silence, Sylvia felt pity for Tretan. She concluded that he was too consumed with hatred, that he had lost control over his body altogether. She also concluded, that his mind fed off his body like a parasite and it would eventually lead him to a total breakdown very soon.

Having had enough, Tretan left the half-emptied glass and walked over to Sylvia, ‘This cunt, she had a pious tag attached to her.’ he continued the story even as he walked over to her. ‘His diary said, even at the camp, she prayed almost every day. My Grandpa, he was intrigued and fascinated with her outlook and demeanour.’

Tretan stood over her and looked at her for a wee second and then bent down to look into her eyes. ‘Like I’m with you now.’ he said making a firm eye contact with her. Sylvia looked at him with bland eyes. She tried to understand where he was getting at with the story, but his psychotic mind was beyond her comprehension.

‘You have a soul.’ he said in a diabolic tone maintaining the eye contact. ‘Just like that woman from the camp.’ he mentioned, then suddenly straightened himself up and walked away from her towards the closet. Sylvia still couldn’t understand what he really meant by wanting her soul and how he planned to tarnish it.

‘My Grandpa was hell-bent on unravelling her mysticism.’ He continued even as he walked. ‘So, he proposed. He wrote, and the pious lady readily agreed. Probably in a bid to save her son.’

Tretan picked up a hollow strap on from the closet, ‘Interesting as it may sound, she requested that he never remove her Tichel. Just, no matter what.’ he continued with the story even as he slid his penis into it and then fastened it around his waist.

With the mention of the lady, from his grandfather’s diary, requesting not to remove her Tichel, Sylvia now precisely understood why Tretan had extracted an answer from her beforehand about her devotion to Munna and why he’d commanded her to tie a Tichel.

Tretan had a fetish for pious women and the presence of Tichel, along with the acknowledgement of her devotion to Munna, established that she was, in fact, a pious Jewish woman fiercely sworn to just one true love for eternity.  She now understood what he really meant by saying that she had a soul. It was her soul that he wanted to sully and not her body. But this was something that she’d thought of even before she signed the agreement. Her soul was not with her for Tretan to dip his malicious fangs into. It was already with Munna and there was no way Tretan could even touch it.

‘See, you bitches would do anything to survive, yet you wanna score with the world and your YAHWEH’ he said aloud as he walked back towards her with the dildo dangling by his crotch.

He stood over her and Sylvia got a glimpse of the ten-inch dildo that was about to pillage through her body mercilessly. She was scared, but she assured herself that physical pain was nothing in front of what she was about to achieve. She visualized Munna’s innocent smile and it gave her tremendous tranquillity.

‘My Granpa agreed.’ Tretan said looking amorously at Sylvia’s Tichel. After a brief glance, he stepped backwards and positioned himself between her thighs, ‘In his book he wrote, the Tichel’s presence gave him a monstrous high.’ He positioned the dildo right against Sylvia’s vagina, ‘Whenever he jabbed the pious Jew sow’s holes,’ with those words, he thrust the dildo into her vagina with a big push, and the large, stiff rubber dildo, tore open into Sylvia’s vagina. Blood spilled over and she let out a heart-wrenching shriek. But, for Tretan, the sound of Sylvia’s helpless cries sounded like soothing music and they overwhelmed him with a sense of extreme tranquillity and he mindlessly continued to molest and tear apart her vagina mercilessly.

Meanwhile, outside the suite room, an eerie calm prevailed. The room was properly sound proof and there was no chance of anyone hearing Sylvia’s helpless shrieks. The anti-depressant pills that Miranda took were finally showing up on her. She felt sleepy, her senses dulled, but she forced herself to stay awake. Sylvia’s phone vibrated incessantly. It was Hazeem, but Miranda was in no mood to take the call, she switched it off finally and sat back in the sofa, tapping her feet and biting her nails. There was nothing, she could do except wait until dawn when the time mentioned in the agreement lapsed.

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Meanwhile, in the suite, Tretan had had his fill on the spanking bench and gotten Sylvia gagged up and strapped to the upright stocks. Sylvia’s entire body had turned red. The constant slaps and beatings she had at Tretan’s hands had taken their toll and ruffling and pulling at her hair had caused it to turn unruly and shabby. Her face had completely lost its charm and her eyes had gone sore. She just hung in there, bearing excruciating physical and mental pain.

But Tretan was never known to be compassionate. He was in no mood to relent any sooner; he’d just gotten her on the upright stocks and was keen as mustard to get the most out of her from that position. He just humped her, humped her and humped her even more. It didn’t matter which hole the monstrous dildo slipped in, he just humped her. Sylvia was just a meat bag now that needed to be punished. He had gotten his point across. It didn’t matter whether she’d agreed with it or not. He didn’t need anybody’s acceptance. He just wanted their subjugation.

Sylvia, on the other hand, tried hard to focus on the power of her love to give her the courage and the will to tide over those heinous barbaric episodic sessions.

 

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END OF CHAPTER

Sylvia Amdur – The Unconquerable Heart:

The Perseverance of Compulsive Love:

Sylvia’s sacrifice – Part -2 – From our book,

‘The Unconquerable Heart’

http://www.facebook.com/theunconquerableheart/

Meanwhile, back in the Presidential suite room, Tretan had released Sylvia from the cross. He now sat back again on his elevated sofa and looked amorously at his slave who stood before him, helplessly.

‘I admire your foolishness…’ Tretan remarked, observing that Sylvia kept her arms crossed over her naked chest and stood expressionless before him, without bothering to look him in the eye. She wasn’t sobbing anymore or even experiencing the slightest hint of fears. She had turned into a bland emotionless lady, devoid of any sensitivity.

Tretan stirred up another peg of Absinthe, took a swig and placed the glass on the side table and gestured her to come closer to him.

Sylvia obeyed. Tretan made her turn around and unfastened the Velcro straps loosening the skirt to the floor. Now Sylvia was completely naked. Tretan forcedly turned her around and leaned back on his sofa, ‘Now try covering both.’ he said laughing even more wickedly.

Sylvia’s tears had long dried up. She was ashamed but her pain was beyond physical. She only visualized Munna’s innocent smile all the time and it gave her a tremendous amount of solace.

‘Now wiggle ya fleshy cheeks. Strap your filthy body with a fishnet dress and come back to daddy.’ Tretan ordered.

Sylvia promptly obeyed and walked towards the closet. Tretan looked amorously at her fleshy rear as it wobbled up and down with the upward vibration generated by the clanging of her heeled shoes against the wooden floor. She could easily find the fishnet dress in the closet as she’d observed it on her previous visit. It was a short, one piece, knitted see-through dress, woven intricately by elastic threads. When Sylvia put it on, it easily fit her shape. Despite the dress being see-through, her naked body was on complete display. It looked as if she only wore body paint.

She understood Tretan was now ready to unleash upon her the actual act of humiliation. She resolved not to let pangs of shyness or fear, hinder her spirit to persevere through the hellish night. She strode back to the dais confidently and stood before him holding her hands to the front.

‘Hmm, lovely titties.’ Tretan commented pointing his index finger at her, holding the absinthe filled glass. ‘So, that’s what you decided is more precious.’ Tretan said slyly observing her hands held to the crotch. Sylvia stayed silent. Her psychological state had already crossed the boundaries of shyness now.

‘Well, for the big question.’ Tretan leaned forward in the sofa and peered straight into Sylvia’s eyes. ‘I know your answer for sure, but I still want to hear it from you.’ he said.

‘Please ask, Fuhrer.’ Sylvia said looking into Tretan’s eyes.

‘Do you really consider that mute retard your soul mate?’ Tretan asked seriously stirring the half-filled glass.

‘I do, Fuhrer.’ Sylvia replied without exhibiting the slightest hint of offense at Tretan, for having referred to the love of her life as a ‘retard.’ She knew, by reason, being extremely calculative and obedient were the only two things that would see her through that night.

‘How dear is he to you?’ Tretan egged on relaxing back in his sofa.

‘I would carve my heart out for him, Fuhrer.’ Sylvia said. Her eyes turned moist answering something she’d posed to herself a good many times.

‘Good, I like the intensity. Now, wiggle ya ass back there and tie yourself a Tichel[1]. I think you very well know how to do it, don’t you bitch?’

‘I do, Fuhrer.’ Sylvia answered and walked up to the closet, picked up a red coloured scarf and tied it around her hair in the traditional Jewish fashion. She then came back and stood before Tretan.

‘Lovely chubby pig.’ Tretan said. ‘Now, go and straddle that one.’ Tretan pointed at a spanking bench at the far end of the room opposite to his seated position.

Sylvia turned around to find the instrument of her earthly damnation but she didn’t feel the slightest of inhibitions or fears, Tretan had taken off those already. Now she was just a big piece of lifeless meat with no emotions. But Tretan wanted to achieve something more than just pound at that lifeless meat and it was yet to be seen if Sylvia could pass that hell. She meekly straddled the spanking bench. The fishnet dress drew up to her buttocks, as she knelt on the spanking bench and it offered a clear view of her vagina and rectum to Tretan.

Tretan folded up his full hands shirt, picked up a small glass plate and poured himself ten big lines of cocaine powder from tiny glass vials that were already kept on the table. He then picked a long thin tube that was kept in a horizontal holder at the end of the glass plate and snuffled up four of those lines. The cocaine rushed through his nostrils into his bloodstream and instantly gave him a monstrous high. He placed the plate aside on the table and jerked his head sideways letting the cocaine ease his senses. He then removed his shoes, stood up, removed his pants and underwear and walked up to Sylvia.

‘I’m gonna tell you a real story; a story I’ve been intrigued about a long time now.’ Tretan said as he fastened the Velcro strap of the spanking bench on her neck first. The neck strap completely immobilized her head, fixing her right cheek to the headrest. Having tightened the neck strap satisfactorily, Tretan then bent down to face Sylvia, ‘It’s about a pious Jewish woman’s instinct for survival.’ he said sarcastically mimicking a double quote in the air with his fingers.

Sylvia stayed silent and Tretan continued to strap one of her hands, ‘And you will answer me back, bitch.’ he shouted on her face impatiently.

‘I’m listening, Fuhrer.’ Sylvia replied in a modest tone. She wildly speculated that his story was going to be Nazi rhetoric, questioning her integrity of devotion to God, family, spouse or even herself.

‘Very well then.’ He said continuing to clamp down her other arm. ‘My Grandpa was a senior officer in the SS Gestapo and was in charge of a concentration camp at Auschwitz.’ Tretan then strapped up her feet, stood between her parted legs, pulled up the fishnet dress a little upwards towards her waist and inserted his erected penis in her vagina. He gave her one strong pelvic thrust and then it was all over for him. He collapsed on her back grunting and leaking inside her. Sylvia stayed put like a rock; she didn’t expect it to finish so soon, but then Tretan had all the time till seven the next morning and she was sure, he’s not someone who would leave her so quickly.

[1] NOTE: Tichel is a head scarf worn by orthodox married Jewish women in compliance with the codes of modesty as required of them in the Torah – the Holy book of Judaism. Orthodox Judaism states that a woman’s hair is a sensual and private part of her appearance, and hence may only show it to her husband in privacy. This is considered a sign of the bond between husband and wife. And hence married Jewish women are required to cover their hair in public

Continue reading “Sylvia Amdur – The Unconquerable Heart:”

Sylvia Amdur – The Unconquerable Heart:

Sylvia’s sacrifice – Part -1 – From our book,

‘The Unconquerable Heart’

6 a copy
Content is graphic – Not for the faint hearted..

The Perseverance of Compulsive Love:

Tretan had removed his overcoat and tie and he sat idly on a Sofa that was on an elevated dais. He sipped a peg of absinthe –his favourite drink and stared at Sylvia who stood coyly before him, below the dais, holding her hands to her front. She was anxious and her heart palpitated. She wore a sleeveless round neck white top with large black-chequered stripes, black coloured pants and three-inch heeled shoes. It’s been ten minutes since he’d ordered her to stand in front of him and Sylvia’s idle mind conjured up various possibilities of what he could do with her. Tretan was in absolute ‘POWER’

‘Lose those pants.’ Tretan ordered pointing at her holding the glass in hand.

Sylvia coyly removed her pants and stood holding her hands to her front, avoiding eye contact all the while. She no longer harboured the unbeknownst guts that had superseded her psyche when she signed the agreement. It was now all Sylvia Amdur, her normal coy self.

‘Panties, too.’ Tretan hissed maintaining a firm eye contact.

Sylvia hesitatingly proceeded with obliging the orders. She had been prepping herself up for the dark day since a fortnight. ‘After all, it’s not my soul, just my body.’ she concluded the whole time.

‘There must be a hobble skirt. Go get it.’ Tretan ordered.

Sylvia meekly proceeded to the closet and looked for a skirt. While there was no whole skirt, there was just one backless leather skirt, which was just big enough to cover, only the fringes of her backside and it had Velcro straps running all across its backside from top to bottom. Sylvia picked the skirt, proceeded towards Tretan and stood before him calmly.

‘Why don’t you speak up, Sylvia Amdur?’ Tretan asked in a low gruff tone.

‘Mr. Bliecher, I prefer to stay silent.’ Sylvia said.

‘Filthy bitch! Did you forget your code?’ Tretan thundered. ‘You signed to address me as Fuhrer this night, and you will…’

‘Sorry, Fuhrer. I will do so.’ Sylvia said meekly

‘That’s like a good gal. Come hither.’

Sylvia walked up to the dais. Tretan took the skirt from her hand and ordered her to turn around. Sylvia obliged and Tretan proceeded with covering her lower half with the flimsy leather hobble skirt. He held the skirt in place around her waist and fastened the horizontal Velcro straps on the backside one by one. Sylvia’s ass cheeks were clearly visible through the straps.

‘Now go, get me a bull whip.’ Tretan ordered again.

Sylvia understood that she was going to be flogged soon, the thought of a leather lash bruising her delicate body made her shudder in fear. But then she’d signed up for a maximum of six whip lashes and she had to endure the pain no matter what. The hobble skirt really hampered her leg movement and she limped her way to the closet to fetch the bullwhip. Tretan voyeuristically looked at her half naked rear as she limped across the room. The sight of her fleshy rear wobbling out of the tight Velcro straps gave him a high. Sylvia picked a bullwhip from the closet and brought it to Tretan.

‘You know, bitch,’ Tretan said receiving the bullwhip. ‘You’re the cheapest to submit to me.’

Sylvia stayed silent. It didn’t matter what he called her. She’d resolved to stay firm and calm, no matter how much ever he eventually would antagonize her psychologically and physically.

‘Go, stand near the cross, facing the wall.’ Tretan ordered.

Sylvia meekly obeyed, walked to the other end of the room and stood near the St. Andrews’s cross facing the wall. Tretan finished the last sip of his fourth peg of Absinthe and approached Sylvia near the cross. He then fastened her legs and hands to the straps of the cross.

‘You know why I called you cheap, bitch?’ he asked.

Sylvia stayed silent.

‘You will answer me, bitch, or else the agreement doesn’t stand good. You signed it.’ Tretan threatened.

‘Sorry, Fuhrer. Please let me know why you called me cheap.’ Sylvia tried to be obedient as possible as she didn’t want Tretan to go back on his word.

‘You are cheap, coz I paid you only a penny as per our agreement.’ Tretan laughed wickedly. ‘The bout is gonna fetch me millions of dollars, and you ain’t getting nothing, except a little satisfaction, maybe. Your man crawled right up there, but he’s gonna fail for sure.’ he laughed again.

‘He’s not gonna fail,’ Sylvia murmured to herself. ‘-and the satisfaction is more than enough for me, anyways. It’s immeasurable, and it’s me who’s buying here, not you, you sleazy piece of shit.’ She had the perfect answer at the back of her mind, but she wouldn’t dare to utter it as she meant business too. No disparaging comment, however slanderous it may be, was gonna make her answer back tonight whatsoever and it was her firm resolve.

Her silence spiked Tretan’s anger and he unleashed a strong lash upon her frail body.

‘Aaarrrggghhhh!’ Sylvia cried in pain. The whip circled her waist and buttocks tearing apart the lower half of her top and bruising her belly and buttocks. Her delicate skin got ripped wide open and red blood gushed out of the bruised line making it a pitiful sight to watch.

‘How do you feel that, huh?’ Tretan cracked the whip creating a miniature sonic boom. Sylvia’s body involuntarily shuddered at the sound of the cracking whip, but her mind stayed stiff.

‘That’s for making me a demon in front of the whole wide world.’ Tretan then quickly unleashed two more lashes on Sylvia. Both the lashes landed on her upper torso circling and bruising her breasts and back. Her top and bra completely tore apart and fell to the floor exposing her upper half completely.

‘These are for making me lose to that bastard, Ethan Chapman.’ Tretan shouted wickedly even as Sylvia writhed and cried in pain.

Tretan then flung the whip to the floor, neared Sylvia, caught her head by her hair, pulled it back firmly and looked straight into her eyes, ‘Now am gonna be generous with you and forgo the other three lashes, cause you’ve come cheap.’

Meanwhile, outside in the lobby, Miranda sat anxiously on the sofa, she was herself going through a visible living hell. Despite the air conditioner, she sweated profusely – her hands shivered, she’d even gulped down a couple of anti-depressants but they just successful in numbing her senses a little, she was still very much conscious of Sylvia’s ongoing suffering. She repeatedly went through the images of the BDSM equipment, from the room that she clicked on her mobile, and visualized horrific instances of pain Tretan could inflict on Sylvia with the help of those tools. Suddenly her mobile rang, it was Hazeem and she was in no mood to talk to him, anxious and uneasy, she switched off her mobile and completely shut herself off from the outside world.

Continue reading “Sylvia Amdur – The Unconquerable Heart:”