Hello, I’m Rhea, and I want to share the true story of my life—my journey through pain, pleasure, and struggle. Read to understand the reality behind who I am today and the transformation I’ve gone through.
I am a 37-year-old divorced woman, a mother to a 10-year-old boy, and a schoolteacher. Life hasn’t been an easy road for me. But it has shaped me into the woman I am today. A woman of strength, grace, and quiet determination.
I carry the kind of beauty that life itself carves into a woman.
My eyes, warm and expressive, tell stories of both struggle and triumph. My hair, soft and cascading, and my smile, though rare, is genuine—radiating a quiet confidence that draws people in. My body, though no longer untouched by time, carries a natural elegance.
It is a reflection of someone who lives with authenticity and self-awareness. I divorced at the age of 32. At the end of the day, my son is my greatest strength and companion. Over the years, I’ve received proposals. But I’ve chosen to walk this path alone. Whenever I feel lonely, I read stories on different sites.
I’ve noticed that many stories lack depth and connection. They often jump to shallow intimacy, ignoring the emotional journey that builds true relationships. Real life isn’t so simple. Sex doesn’t just happen out of nowhere—it’s a culmination of trust, love, and mutual understanding.
My story isn’t one of quick fixes or sudden romances. It’s a story of resilience and self-discovery. I hope that as I continue to share, I can inspire others to embrace their journeys. Find strength in their struggles, and cherish the beauty that lies in their imperfections.
So, as I share my truth here, I ask for one thing—respect. Please, no messages or advances about physical relationships. This space is for reflection, not for crossing boundaries. If you want to share your life events or suggestions, you will be welcome to do so.
Let’s dive back 13 years. Life isn’t a fairytale, and by 24, I had learned this truth the hard way. Born into a middle-class family in India, I grew into my natural beauty over time. My almond-shaped eyes, curvy lips, and puffy cheeks lend me a radiant, warm appearance.
My figure,36-inch bust, 22-inch waist, and 32-inch hips, catches attention. I wear traditional attire like sarees and salwar kameez, which reflect my values and upbringing. Despite my modesty, men often stare and propose. But I’ve always upheld my family’s wishes regarding marriage.
My dreams were ordinary yet significant—to complete my education, find a decent job, and stand on my own feet. Recently, my family arranged my marriage to Arjun, a 35-year-old man from Canada. I had barely spoken to him before the wedding.
He’s of medium height, around 5’5”, with a fat build, a round face, and a neatly trimmed beard. His wheatish complexion and kind eyes give him a mature charm. He isn’t strikingly handsome. He dresses well, reflecting his financial stability and practicality. It made him an ideal match in my family’s eyes.
At 24, my life took a turn I had long anticipated but wasn’t entirely prepared for. Marrying someone 11 years older, different from me in personality and appearance, isn’t easy. Yet, I understand the weight of family expectations. I am learning to reconcile my dreams with the path chosen for me.
The wedding was a grand affair that hid the cracks in the system behind glitter and gold. My husband was charming in the traditional sense—successful, polite, and well-spoken. But as our wedding night unravelled, so did my illusions. Arjun was a man of old-school mentality.
That night, the beginning of a chapter I had once dreamed of with innocent hope became entirely new. I sat on the edge of the bed, draped in the red sari I had chosen with such care. Its intricate golden embroidery shimmered faintly in the dim light. Each thread reminds me of the dreams I had stitched into this day.
The soft fabric wrapped around me like an embrace, symbolizing love, warmth, and partnership. The things I had long imagined this moment would bring. The mangalsutra, a sacred unity emblem, hung lightly around my neck. My makeup was done perfectly.
The maroon henna, darkened with hours of careful application, adorned my hands and feet with intricate patterns. A symbol of the love I believed would grow between us. My reflection in the mirror had revealed an Indian bride in her full splendour.
Kohl-rimmed eyes that shone with anticipation, lips painted a soft crimson, and cheeks flushed with both shyness and expectation. I looked beautiful. I tried to honour this moment with the traditions and symbols that carried the weight of centuries.
He entered the room without a word, his footsteps heavy. He switched off the light, plunging us into darkness. The sound of his movements filled the silence as he lay beside me. I turned slightly toward him, expecting tenderness, a conversation, or at least a moment of connection.
But nothing came. The warmth and tenderness I had imagined were absent. He ignored it all. His eyes never met mine. He didn’t glance at the sari, nor did he notice the delicate artistry of my henna. The shimmer of my jewellery, the perfumed fragrance I had worn to please him.
Or the careful way I had adorned myself to be his bride. Instead, I felt his hand push me back onto the bed with a force that startled me. My breath caught as he reached for the edges of my sari. It was pulled up forcefully along with my petticoat with swift and careless movements, leaving me exposed.
Vulnerability coursed through me like a chill. His hands found my waist, gripping my skin with an unexpected and painful intensity. Instinctively, I reached out, my hands trembling, to pull his away. But instead of easing his grip, he leaned forward and bit into my neck.
The pain shot through me, raw and unexpected, pulling a scream that filled the silent room. My voice, my protest, seemed to anger him. His hand came down sharply across my face. The slap stung not just my skin but my spirit. “Keep quiet,” he commanded harshly.
His words were devoid of the affection I had imagined would accompany this moment. “You’re my wife now.” His words stung as much as his actions. The respect and care I had hoped for seemed like a distant dream. Tears welled in my eyes, blurring my vision as his actions grew more forceful.
He tore away my panty, the last barrier of clothing, shredding it with little care. Leaving me exposed not just physically but emotionally. My body stiffened as he spread my legs with a roughness that felt foreign and frightening. He all of a sudden tried to penetrate his dick straight into my dry virgin pussy.
I wasn’t ready—not physically, not emotionally—but that didn’t seem to matter. His movements were unrelenting, his intent clear. But due to my pussy tightness and being a virgin, his cock stuck, and he became frustrated. There was no effort to ease my discomfort.
Instead, he further spread my legs with his hand and tried to insert it inside my virgin pussy. With some hardness, he pushed deep inside, making me cry.
The pain that followed was unlike anything I had ever experienced. I felt the sharp invasion of my body as he forced himself inside me.
My unprepared, dry flesh burned and stretched, every nerve crying out in protest. He started pumping into my pussy with full intensity. With each thrust, he pushed deeper and deeper into me, making me cry. He was pounding into a pussy that was tighter and rough due to dryness.
I was shouting, “Slowly, oh my god!” But he kept banging into me like a mad dog. “Stop!” I pleaded, my voice breaking. “Please, it hurts!” But my cries only seemed to spur him on. He thrust deeper, harder into my pussy, his movements devoid of consideration or care.
Each push of his cock sent waves of pain through my pussy, reaching my whole body. My legs were trembling under the strain. My mind struggled to comprehend what was happening. The intimacy I had imagined as an act of love felt more like an assault on my soul.
“Shut up!” he shouted, his voice harsh, laced with anger. “You wanted this. You’re my wife. This is what you’re here for.” I had always imagined intimacy to be an expression of love, connection, and mutual care. Yet, that night was filled with pain, fear, and a sense of helplessness.
His cock was parting and tearing my pussy hole. My pussy tightened around his cock each time he penetrated me. He was hammering his cock into my pussy. I never knew sex was so painful. The movies and stories I once read painted an entirely different picture—of passion, consent and shared joy.
This was far from that. I was screaming. Slowly my pussy was becoming somewhat wet. I felt my pussy and body began to tense up. I felt myself stiffen due to the pain. I requested him to leave, but he was ramming hard into my pussy.
He was pounding into my sloppy pussy and saying, “Oh, yes, baby, you are tight. But I kept on screaming, “Stop! Please! Stop, it is hurting!” He slapped me hard again and began to choke me.
He was shouting, “Shut up! You filthy little lady! You want this. You fucking need it! Why did you marry if you do not want this?”
Saying so, he gave me one very hard thrust that went as deep as it could have gone. At moments, I felt as though I could no longer endure it. My eyes rolled in the back of my head. My abdomen slightly bulged out due to pain as it accommodated his full length.
Seeing me like that encouraged his lust. He put both hands around my neck and began to choke me even harder. He was pumping into me with all my force and increasing his grip on me. My eyes were continuing to roll, and my body tensed with every thrust he made.
I gasped for air, and he responded by slapping me across the face. I would wake up with a tight slap. His dick rammed into my sloppy pussy, stuffing it with each stroke, making me incoherent. After around 5 minutes, he pulled out of me. It felt like he was removing a knife from my pussy.
After 2 minutes of rest, he stood and pulled me to the edge of the bed, spread my legs even wider and upwards, put his hands on my thigh, and pushed his still-erect dick right into my love hole. And god, it was intense and painful. He began working up to full speed.
As his dick banged my pussy and stretched my pussy, he kept pushing my legs further and further up. I was like limp now, out of sensation. But his dick continued its assault on my swollen pussy. My beautiful pink virgin pussy lips appeared puffy and painful.
But he kept screwing me harder and harder as time passed. He continued to pound harder into my virgin pussy, tearing it apart. I kept shouting, “Stop, please, it is hurting!” But hearing me beg like this pushed him to go even faster and harder. He gave a hard thrush and plunged his cock without moving.
He started slapping his pelvic bone right into mine. His cock was stuffing every inch of my already bruised pussy. He kept hammering away into me non-stop.
“Take it! Take it full! Get fucked like this!” I was getting excited by his words, but the pain was unbearable. He kept continuously ramming into my pussy.
My pussy, my thigh, my body all stiffen, and I released, I think. After that, my body became limp, and my legs fell to the side. It didn’t matter to him. He came on top of me and continued fucking my pussy turning me to one side.
I would have loved his intense sex. If he had done some foreplay and relaxed me or would have talked to me. But he only gave me pain, so I started hitting him due to the pain. That pain made him fuck even harder. He kept pushing into my pussy, again and again, with no mercy.
I began to feel my swollen pussy paining more and more. I felt as if I was going to die. I started praying to god to save my life. My pleas turned into sobs, and my sobs into silent prayers. I begged for it to stop, for the pain to end, for this nightmare to be over.
My body felt like it was being broken, each thrust tearing through my defences—physically and emotionally. The room was filled with the sound of his breathing, his grunts, and the muffled sound of my cries. My tears streamed down, soaking the pillow beneath me.
I felt powerless, trapped in a moment that seemed to stretch on endlessly.
Then within one minute, “I’m going to cum, I’m gonna cum!” he shouted. It released from the tip of his dick and filled every inch of my virgin pussy.
He kept releasing his juice into my pussy.
When he was done cumming, he finally stopped, pulling out of me. It felt like a blade was being withdrawn, and I got relief from the suffering. My body ached in ways I had never known possible. My soul felt crushed under the weight of what had just transpired.
All of his juices leaked out of my pussy, making my wedding dress wet. My body was bruised, sore, and trembling. My spirit shattered. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, tears slipping silently down my face. But still, my body felt untouched.
My tear drained my kajal, but my makeup and lipstick were untouched. My blouse and bra were still unhooked. But my panty was torn, and my dress was dirty. Should I celebrate losing my virginity or cry for not being loved? This was not what I had imagined.
This was not love, not connection, not partnership. It was pain, betrayal, and a deep sense of loss. For every woman, her first night as a bride is meant to be unforgettable—a tender memory of union and love, a cherished beginning. But for me, it became something darker.
My pride, effort, and dreams—everything felt unseen, as if I were a mere shadow in the room. That night, the vibrant red of my sari felt muted. The glow of the room dimmed by his disregard. The chapter I had imagined with innocent hope was not written like I had dreamed.
Instead, it became a memory I wished to erase. A reminder that beauty, effort, and tradition could not force the connection I so deeply yearned for. I curled into myself, trying to find some comfort.
I made a silent promise to my heart, “I would survive this. I would heal. Somehow, someday, I would rebuild myself—not for him or anyone else, but for me.” To him, a wife was a homemaker, a caretaker, a child-bearer, and nothing more.
He didn’t kiss me, didn’t speak softly to me—just took what he wanted. He was good in the daytime loved and cared for me. I was happy emotionally, but I was not physically satisfied by him and slept with tears in my eyes every night.
On every successive night, it only hurt me.
He became harsh to me once a week or 10 days. But other times, he only lasted less than 2 minutes. I thanked god for the night when he started fucking me and giving me pain. But in around 2 minutes, he released hot water inside me and slept beside me without even talking to me.
I felt happy for myself as he did not fuck long and did not give me more pain like the first night. I didn’t have the luxury of asking anyone for help. My family had taught me to endure, and endure I did. I lived in his house in India for a month, learning his likes and dislikes.
Arjun was a functional alcoholic, drinking just enough to maintain control. Sometimes, I think he takes power pills like he took on honeymoon night. He was vegetarian and demanded I adopt the same lifestyle. My clothing choices were restricted to what he deemed appropriate.
He micromanaged my life. I felt like a caged bird, unable to spread her wings. The intimacy was mechanical, often leaving me in tears as he fell asleep. I cursed myself for not having fallen in love earlier in life, for not having chosen my partner.
After a month of tedious paperwork, Arjun completed all the necessary formalities. We moved to Canada. The city welcomed us with its breathtaking skyline, clean streets, and vibrant parks. It was a stark contrast to the bustling, chaotic energy of India.
Here, everything seemed orderly, structured, and polished. The people were different, too—walking hand in hand, openly kissing in public. There was a sense of individuality and freedom. An invisible thread of self-expression that everyone seemed to carry with pride.
For the first time in a long while, I felt a flicker of happiness, a strange sense of hope that maybe, just maybe, things would be different. Maybe Arjun and I would rediscover the love that had once existed between us. The tenderness that had faded into indifference over time.
We settled into our routine rather quickly. Arjun worked long hours while I stayed home, trying to adjust to this new life. The first few weeks, he tried to be intimate with me. But something felt off. I started noticing that before every meal, he would take some medicine.
I never asked, assuming it was just for general health. But then I began to realize a pattern. On the days he took those pills, he became rough, almost unrecognizably aggressive in bed. He fucked me harshly, making my pussy painful. Leaving my body aching, my pussy craving, and my heart fractured.
Those nights left me sore and empty, a deep ache settling within me. He would take what he wanted, leave me in pain, and rollover. I was nothing more than an obligation to be fulfilled.
On other nights, without the medicine, he barely lasted two minutes. He collapsed beside me, indifferent to my needs. It was as if intimacy had become a mechanical act for him—a duty, a routine, something he did to keep up appearances. The contrast between these two versions of him was unsettling.
When he was rough, he was almost cruel. When he was gentle, he was absent, detached. Either way, I was left unfulfilled, craving something deeper. Every night, I lay there, craving something more, something I couldn’t even fully articulate. More often than not, I cried myself to sleep silently.
We often attended gatherings with other Indian couples who had moved to Canada. It was during these social events that I started noticing a disturbing pattern. Many of these women lived lives like mine—trapped in unfulfilling marriages, pretending to be happy for the sake of family and society.
Behind their curated smiles lay suppressed desires, unfulfilled dreams, and hearts longing for something beyond the mundane. Some had made peace with their circumstances, while others, like me, still hoped for more.
As weeks passed, Arjun’s interest in me waned. What had started as twice or thrice a week dwindled to once every two weeks, and soon, even that became rare. The only nights he showed any passion were when he returned home drunk.
On month ends, Arjun often came home late, the smell of alcohol lingering on him. He mumbled excuses about work. I would wait for him, hoping for a connection. Those nights were different. There was no medicine, no calculated aggression, just a slurred passion that was strangely comforting.
In those rare moments, he held me like he wanted me, like I was something he desired. But suddenly, he became a demon in those moments. I constantly feared his shadow. My body reacted with a mix of fear and longing, betraying me. I dreaded the weekends that loomed like storm clouds.
But even then, there was no real connection. He took what he needed, and I was left staring at the ceiling, my body used but my soul untouched. I clung to those nights because they were better than the silence and the emptiness that otherwise filled our bedroom.
But then, something shifted. His sexual encounters became less frequent. Even when he fucked, he did not last long. I began to breathe a little easier. Relief trickled in, soft and tentative until it grew into a fragile happiness. I often wondered if this was all marriage was supposed to be.
Was this the reality of wedded life—an endless cycle of unmet needs and suppressed emotions? Was I expecting too much by wanting to feel loved, to be cherished? I had everything on paper—a husband, a house, a new life in a beautiful city.
But I lay in bed at night beside a man who barely acknowledged me. The emptiness swallowed me whole. I kept telling myself things would change, maybe just the stress of moving to a new country and adjusting to a different lifestyle. But deep down, I knew the truth.
Arjun and I had lost something vital. Something that could no longer be rekindled with forced intimacy or societal obligations. The more distant he became, my mind wandered to dangerous thoughts. But for now, I remained trapped in this cycle.
Yearning for something I couldn’t define, waiting for a change that may never come. Loneliness settled into the corners of my life, a shadow that grew heavier with each passing day. The walls of our home, once a sanctuary, now felt like they were closing in, suffocating me with their silence.
Yet, even with all the comforts—our home’s material wealth and beauty—I felt an ache for something deeper. I longed for adventure, the thrill of the unknown, for a companion who would truly see me. Despite everything, my heart dreamed of freedom, exploration, and a life unbound by fear.
Thoughts of what life could be like if I dared to step outside the confines of this marriage. Thoughts of what it would feel like to be desired, seen, and truly touched. Thoughts of whether love—true, passionate love—was something I would ever experience.
Should I move and step in to enjoy my life?
If anyone wants to share their story or seek advice, please contact me at [email protected].