Sanjana Sharma
Member
"It's a love jihad case, ma'am," my assistant Afreen informed me.
As a journalist, I often got dull assignments. But this time, I finally got something big.
"What's so interesting about it?" I wondered. The buzz around the topic caught my attention.
Being from a conservative Brahmin family, this case gave me a chance to criticize Muslims, which we've always disliked. The dislike was passed down from my father. I firmly believed Muslims invaded our country, and as Hindus, we had to stand against it. So, I happily took on the Love Jihad case.
After reaching home , I was tired , I went for a hot bath , and as I was bathing , I saw myself in the mirror .
I saw my fair skin adorned by brown nipples , like a rich chocolate yearning to be tasted by a strong man . Though my body was blessed with curves , they yearned for the touch of a strong muscular man . As the water passed gently through my body , I imagined a strong man tracing my body up from my breasts till my vagina , rough yet gentle . Men's eyes always lingered on my breast, and though a part of me felt uneasy, deep down, I craved for their attention. As I was admiring myself , the sight of mangalsutra hanging over my breast brought unease to me . I always wanted this beautiful womanhood to be met by another strong manhood . My parents have wedded me to a weak , slimy , software engineer whose touch lacked the passion I crave . His struggle for intimacy was due to erectile dysfunction , we never made love . That always disappoints me . So, I often found peace in retreating to bed alone, aching for the touch of a lover who understood the depths of my desires.
I woke up feeling excited to get my hands on Love Jihad case . Putting on my journalist clothes, I slipped into a tight bodycon dress. It hugged my curves, showing off every bit of me. Our company liked us to dress this way, saying it boosted ratings. Looking in the mirror, I felt sexy and powerful.
As I headed to Hyderabad's old city, I knew it was filled with Muslim men. I liked the attention they gave me. My dress made heads turn, and I loved it.
(Me in my orange bodycon , never knew orange symbolism would work here)
I wore my dress and set off for the old city. Asking my assistant about our task, she mentioned a mosque where Hindu girls were allegedly being influenced and were used as sex slaves .
Shocked, I exclaimed, "Isn't that a crime?" She replied, "But these Hindu women are joining them willingly."
I was utterly shocked. How could any woman willingly choose such a fate? Especially Hindu girls, constantly falling into the same trap for M Muslim men . As I traveled, I couldn't shake off the disbelief. At least I knew I wasn't one of them
As we arrived at our destination, I stepped out and began walking. Along the way, I passed a butcher's shop, where meat was being cut. Then, my eyes caught sight of an old Muslim man in a tailor's shop, and nearby, a mechanic's workshop where shirtless men were working hard. The sight of their strong, muscular bodies stirred something deep within me, igniting a primal desire. But as quickly as the arousal came, it was overshadowed by a wave of sadness. Thoughts of my husband, slim and inadequate in bed, clouded my mind. Despite the lust of the men around me, there was a common thing —they all eyed me like hungry predators, fueling a sense of regret for wearing such a revealing dress.
As I walked forward, a rugged, muscular man blocked my path, his presence dominating. His closeness sent a shiver down my spine, and I stepped back, taken aback by his boldness and the allure of his physique.
"I... I wanted to go to the mosque led by Syed Muhammad Ali," I stuttered, my voice betraying my surprise.
"What's your name?" he demanded, his tone rough .
"Sanjana. Sanjana is my name, and I'm a journalist. Enough questions. Just tell me where he resides," I replied weakly.
He pointed to the right and instructed me to go in that direction.
As I walked away, I overheard their conversation.
"Khatarnak hindu maal hai Abdul bhai "
"iss maal toh 5 logon ek saath le sakte hai "
Their laughter echoed, their eyes lingering on my body, sending a shiver of unease down my spine.
Feeling exposed and vulnerable, their eyes lingered hungrily over my curves, their comments about my ample breasts and enticing backside made me feel like a slut . Despite Afreen's presence beside me, she was covered by burqa .So their attention was solely fixated on me. Yet, it was our channel's mandate for progressive Hindu girls like us to flaunt our assets in revealing attire.
Approaching the mosque, two men blocked our path, their expressions warning us away. Despite our protests, we were denied entry until the head of the mosque, Syed Muhammad Ali, intervened.
He was an old man, probably in his 60's . I sensed a cunning intelligence as he inquired about us, his gaze lingering around my curves .
I told I was a journalist and requested entry into the mosque. He responded with a mixture of desire and authority, his eyes busy looking at curves form.
"Mam, you're aware of the dress code for religious places," he spoke, his voice in dominance. "Women are not permitted inside mosques in such attire. However, I can make an exception if you agree to wear a burqa, not this dress."
Feeling as a proud Hindu woman I said . "But I am a devout Sanatani woman," I retorted, my voice trembling . "Don't try to deceive me with your words. I don't want to wear your regressive burqa , those stupid dresses for showing your dominance over women ."
He tried controlling his anger "Mam, don't belittle our traditions. You'll regret it later. You don't even show your love to your own Hindu customs, you dressed like a rand-(he stops) ."
Fueled by insult and determined to prove my love for Hinduism, I displayed my mangalsutra resting on my breasts . its presence a symbol of my pride. "This is my identity," I declared, my voice shaking. "Unlike your regressive burqa, this is freedom."
His looked at my breast like a hungry beast , mocking my assertion. "I can see how much freedom it grants," he jeered, his laughter a cruel reminder of my vulnerability in the face of his dominance.
He told I can't be allowed , but Afreen will be allowed inside
I asked Afreen to go inside and tell me what was happening
As Afreen disappeared into the mosque, leaving me waiting outside, the tension grew between me and Muhammad
He tried having a conversation with me , but I didn't try to speak , but he persisted, his gaze lingering hungrily on my breast. Suddenly, his hand reached out, brushing against the delicate chain of my mangalsutra, his touch igniting a fire within me.
"What's so special about your Hindu woman's mangalsutra?" he inquired, his voice dripping with lust. I felt his fingers trace the outline of the the soft curve of my breast. My instinct was to resist, to push him away, but his power and the intoxicating allure of his touch held me captive. My sex fanatasies were pouring out , making me wanna feel it .
This was the forbidden dance of dominance and submission . Though I fought against it, a part of me couldn't deny the thrill of his touch .
As his fingers trailed along the delicate chain of my mangalsutra, a surge of electricity shot through me. The sensation of his touch against my breast ignited a primal desire within me, causing my nipples to harden in response to his touch.
His touch grew bolder, his fingers trying to feel the chocolate of my breasts , fueling the fire of arousal that raged within me. As he went closer , I felt the impulse to surrender to the forbidden pleasure .
But as his fingers threatened to make contact with my nipples , I abruptly stopped him, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Before I could protest against his advances, Afreen emerged from the mosque .
With a sense of relief, I turned my attention to Afreen, eager to distract myself from the intense encounter that had just unfolded.
She replied saying "Mam let's leave as soon as possible , it isn't safe for us here right now" .
I drove away along with Afreen , leaving behind the haunting memory of Ali's lustful gaze
I turned to Afreen, eager to hear her account of what had happened inside the so-called mosque. But she remained tense
After few minutes , she replied
"Mam it isn't a masjid , but a trap . There were many women naked , adorned with jewels , treated like dogs . There are willingly submissive to their muslim master . Despite their love for Hindu cultures , they enjoyed themselves as sex slaves for Muslim masters "
We need to do something into this mam . We can't let them stay there .
_meri-hindu-randi-biwi-ko-bhi-aise-hi-chudna-pasand-hai-preview.jpg)
(Hindu woman enjoying serving three muslim men)
(most of the women in this way to please their muslim masters)
I was stunned by the horrors Afreen described. The only way to stop this was to gain the trust of the Muslims in that area.
"What are you going to do, Mam?" Afreen asked, curiously
"I'm going to move to the old city, Afreen," I replied. "I'll immerse myself in their community, gain their trust, and then expose them for who they truly are."
My determination burned brightly as I made my decision. There was no turning back now.
(Will be continued ....................)
As a journalist, I often got dull assignments. But this time, I finally got something big.
"What's so interesting about it?" I wondered. The buzz around the topic caught my attention.
Being from a conservative Brahmin family, this case gave me a chance to criticize Muslims, which we've always disliked. The dislike was passed down from my father. I firmly believed Muslims invaded our country, and as Hindus, we had to stand against it. So, I happily took on the Love Jihad case.
After reaching home , I was tired , I went for a hot bath , and as I was bathing , I saw myself in the mirror .
I saw my fair skin adorned by brown nipples , like a rich chocolate yearning to be tasted by a strong man . Though my body was blessed with curves , they yearned for the touch of a strong muscular man . As the water passed gently through my body , I imagined a strong man tracing my body up from my breasts till my vagina , rough yet gentle . Men's eyes always lingered on my breast, and though a part of me felt uneasy, deep down, I craved for their attention. As I was admiring myself , the sight of mangalsutra hanging over my breast brought unease to me . I always wanted this beautiful womanhood to be met by another strong manhood . My parents have wedded me to a weak , slimy , software engineer whose touch lacked the passion I crave . His struggle for intimacy was due to erectile dysfunction , we never made love . That always disappoints me . So, I often found peace in retreating to bed alone, aching for the touch of a lover who understood the depths of my desires.
I woke up feeling excited to get my hands on Love Jihad case . Putting on my journalist clothes, I slipped into a tight bodycon dress. It hugged my curves, showing off every bit of me. Our company liked us to dress this way, saying it boosted ratings. Looking in the mirror, I felt sexy and powerful.
As I headed to Hyderabad's old city, I knew it was filled with Muslim men. I liked the attention they gave me. My dress made heads turn, and I loved it.
(Me in my orange bodycon , never knew orange symbolism would work here)
I wore my dress and set off for the old city. Asking my assistant about our task, she mentioned a mosque where Hindu girls were allegedly being influenced and were used as sex slaves .
Shocked, I exclaimed, "Isn't that a crime?" She replied, "But these Hindu women are joining them willingly."
I was utterly shocked. How could any woman willingly choose such a fate? Especially Hindu girls, constantly falling into the same trap for M Muslim men . As I traveled, I couldn't shake off the disbelief. At least I knew I wasn't one of them
As we arrived at our destination, I stepped out and began walking. Along the way, I passed a butcher's shop, where meat was being cut. Then, my eyes caught sight of an old Muslim man in a tailor's shop, and nearby, a mechanic's workshop where shirtless men were working hard. The sight of their strong, muscular bodies stirred something deep within me, igniting a primal desire. But as quickly as the arousal came, it was overshadowed by a wave of sadness. Thoughts of my husband, slim and inadequate in bed, clouded my mind. Despite the lust of the men around me, there was a common thing —they all eyed me like hungry predators, fueling a sense of regret for wearing such a revealing dress.
As I walked forward, a rugged, muscular man blocked my path, his presence dominating. His closeness sent a shiver down my spine, and I stepped back, taken aback by his boldness and the allure of his physique.
"I... I wanted to go to the mosque led by Syed Muhammad Ali," I stuttered, my voice betraying my surprise.
"What's your name?" he demanded, his tone rough .
"Sanjana. Sanjana is my name, and I'm a journalist. Enough questions. Just tell me where he resides," I replied weakly.
He pointed to the right and instructed me to go in that direction.
As I walked away, I overheard their conversation.
"Khatarnak hindu maal hai Abdul bhai "
"iss maal toh 5 logon ek saath le sakte hai "
Their laughter echoed, their eyes lingering on my body, sending a shiver of unease down my spine.
Feeling exposed and vulnerable, their eyes lingered hungrily over my curves, their comments about my ample breasts and enticing backside made me feel like a slut . Despite Afreen's presence beside me, she was covered by burqa .So their attention was solely fixated on me. Yet, it was our channel's mandate for progressive Hindu girls like us to flaunt our assets in revealing attire.
Approaching the mosque, two men blocked our path, their expressions warning us away. Despite our protests, we were denied entry until the head of the mosque, Syed Muhammad Ali, intervened.
He was an old man, probably in his 60's . I sensed a cunning intelligence as he inquired about us, his gaze lingering around my curves .
I told I was a journalist and requested entry into the mosque. He responded with a mixture of desire and authority, his eyes busy looking at curves form.
"Mam, you're aware of the dress code for religious places," he spoke, his voice in dominance. "Women are not permitted inside mosques in such attire. However, I can make an exception if you agree to wear a burqa, not this dress."
Feeling as a proud Hindu woman I said . "But I am a devout Sanatani woman," I retorted, my voice trembling . "Don't try to deceive me with your words. I don't want to wear your regressive burqa , those stupid dresses for showing your dominance over women ."
He tried controlling his anger "Mam, don't belittle our traditions. You'll regret it later. You don't even show your love to your own Hindu customs, you dressed like a rand-(he stops) ."
Fueled by insult and determined to prove my love for Hinduism, I displayed my mangalsutra resting on my breasts . its presence a symbol of my pride. "This is my identity," I declared, my voice shaking. "Unlike your regressive burqa, this is freedom."
His looked at my breast like a hungry beast , mocking my assertion. "I can see how much freedom it grants," he jeered, his laughter a cruel reminder of my vulnerability in the face of his dominance.
He told I can't be allowed , but Afreen will be allowed inside
I asked Afreen to go inside and tell me what was happening
As Afreen disappeared into the mosque, leaving me waiting outside, the tension grew between me and Muhammad
He tried having a conversation with me , but I didn't try to speak , but he persisted, his gaze lingering hungrily on my breast. Suddenly, his hand reached out, brushing against the delicate chain of my mangalsutra, his touch igniting a fire within me.
"What's so special about your Hindu woman's mangalsutra?" he inquired, his voice dripping with lust. I felt his fingers trace the outline of the the soft curve of my breast. My instinct was to resist, to push him away, but his power and the intoxicating allure of his touch held me captive. My sex fanatasies were pouring out , making me wanna feel it .
This was the forbidden dance of dominance and submission . Though I fought against it, a part of me couldn't deny the thrill of his touch .
As his fingers trailed along the delicate chain of my mangalsutra, a surge of electricity shot through me. The sensation of his touch against my breast ignited a primal desire within me, causing my nipples to harden in response to his touch.
His touch grew bolder, his fingers trying to feel the chocolate of my breasts , fueling the fire of arousal that raged within me. As he went closer , I felt the impulse to surrender to the forbidden pleasure .
But as his fingers threatened to make contact with my nipples , I abruptly stopped him, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Before I could protest against his advances, Afreen emerged from the mosque .
With a sense of relief, I turned my attention to Afreen, eager to distract myself from the intense encounter that had just unfolded.
She replied saying "Mam let's leave as soon as possible , it isn't safe for us here right now" .
I drove away along with Afreen , leaving behind the haunting memory of Ali's lustful gaze
I turned to Afreen, eager to hear her account of what had happened inside the so-called mosque. But she remained tense
After few minutes , she replied
"Mam it isn't a masjid , but a trap . There were many women naked , adorned with jewels , treated like dogs . There are willingly submissive to their muslim master . Despite their love for Hindu cultures , they enjoyed themselves as sex slaves for Muslim masters "
We need to do something into this mam . We can't let them stay there .
(Hindu woman enjoying serving three muslim men)
(most of the women in this way to please their muslim masters)
I was stunned by the horrors Afreen described. The only way to stop this was to gain the trust of the Muslims in that area.
"What are you going to do, Mam?" Afreen asked, curiously
"I'm going to move to the old city, Afreen," I replied. "I'll immerse myself in their community, gain their trust, and then expose them for who they truly are."
My determination burned brightly as I made my decision. There was no turning back now.
(Will be continued ....................)
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