My intro

DISCLAIMER TO READERS : ALL CHARACTERS DEPICTED IN THIS STORY ARE 18+ AND OF FANTACY. NAME AND PLACE ARE PURE COINCIDENCE AND NOT BASED ON REAL LIFE. and no animal is harmed during writing of this story.

Me? Hah. I'm Devika. I don't remember my parents. Orphanage trash, literally. They found me wrapped in newspaper by the church dumpster. The nuns called it God's mercy. I called it Tuesday. That cross necklace they gave me? Felt like a dog collar. Pray for chocolate, get ignored after baptism. Real holy, that.

Oh you want me to slow down? Ok. Fine. I'll start from the beginning. The *real* beginning.

That pandit? The one who left milk by the temple pond? He saved me more than those nuns ever did. Didn't care about the cheap tin cross hanging around my neck. Just saw a hungry kid. Every morning like clockwork, even when the nuns locked me out for "disrespect" during mass, I'd find that clay bottle cooling in the reeds. Thick buffalo milk, still warm. Sometimes a ripe mango or guava wrapped in banana leaf. No sermons. No conditions. Just... food.

School was different. Church-run, naturally. By ninth grade, my body decided to betray me spectacularly. While other girls still looked like sticks, I had these... things. Full C-cups straining against my cheap uniform blouse. Boys stopped seeing Devika. They saw chest. Alex—gangly, pimpled Alex—was the worst. Couldn't string two words together without tripping over his own feet, but his eyes? Locked on like magnets. One humid afternoon, shuffling down the corridor behind me, he walked straight into a support pillar. *Thunk*. The sound echoed. Everyone laughed. I didn't. Just clutched my books tighter over my chest, feeling my cheeks burn hotter than the afternoon sun. Humiliation tasted sour, like old chapel bread.

The nuns noticed too. Sister Agatha, all sharp angles and sharper tongue, pulled me aside after choir practice. Her breath smelled faintly of communion wine. "Devika," she hissed, bony fingers digging into my arm. "Your... *development* is causing... distraction. Sinful distraction." She didn't say Alex's name. Didn't need to. Her eyes flicked down, then back up, cold as marble. "Be prepared. Tonight. After vespers. The Lord requires... sacrifice." My stomach dropped like a stone. Sacrifice? For what? Her grip tightened. "Room at the end of the west wing. Be clean."

The west wing smelled of dust and damp plaster. No milk waiting here. Just Alex, sweating in his ill-fitting Sunday best, shifting from foot to foot near a narrow cot. Sister Agatha stood behind him, a specter in black. "God wills this, child," she intoned, pushing Alex forward. His hands trembled as he fumbled with my blouse buttons. I froze. *Sacrifice*. This wasn't sacrifice. This was theft. His clumsy fingers, his panicked grunts, the rough scrape of the cot against my thighs – it wasn't desire. It was violation. Sister Agatha watched, lips moving in silent prayer. The cheap tin cross around my neck felt like a branding iron. Afterward, Alex fled. Sister Agatha handed me a rag. "Clean yourself." Her voice held no mercy, only duty. "The Lord is pleased." And I saw Alex giving her some silver coins.

That night unlocked a horror. Men came. Different ones. Fathers of classmates, deacons, strangers smelling of incense and liquor. Always after vespers. Always in the west wing room. Sister Agatha became a broker in the shadows, whispering prices, pocketing rupees. "Your body serves a higher purpose," she'd say, smoothing her habit. My breasts, my hips – commodities traded for church repairs. Sacrifice twisted into something slick and transactional. I lost count. Ten? Twenty? The days blurred into a numb ache between my legs, the sour taste of fear always in my throat. They called me vessel, called me sinner, called me nothing at all. The tin cross felt like a shackle.

Salvation arrived unexpected, brutal. A man named Vikram stormed the west wing during a "session" with a fat merchant. Not pious. Not gentle. Knuckles cracked against bone, shouts ripped through the stale air. He threw the merchant out, tossed Sister Agatha aside like dusty sackcloth, and hauled me out, barefoot and trembling, into the monsoon rain. He drove me to a cramped apartment smelling of stale cigarettes and cheap detergent. "Devika?" he rasped, handing me a chipped mug of sweet tea. "Those holy bitches sold you like meat." He saw the vacancy in my eyes. "You like sex?" The question was blunt, jarring. Did I? Sex was pain, humiliation, a means to survive. But somewhere, buried deep beneath the violation, a raw, desperate hunger flickered. A twisted echo of the pleasure stolen during those awful minutes before the pain always won. My voice was a ghost. "It... happens."

Vikram leaned forward, eyes sharp. "Happens? Or you *want* it?" He gestured at my trembling hands clutching the mug. "Forget church coin. Real money. Films. Men pay to watch." He saw my confusion, my ingrained shame warring with the raw, bruised thing Sister Agatha had forged. "You get paid. For fucking. On camera." The crudeness was deliberate, stripping away the nuns' pious lies. Payment. Control. The sheer blasphemy of it sparked something brittle and defiant. Sex *was* my habit now, twisted and involuntary. But here was a choice. Ugly, maybe. But mine. The tin cross felt cold against my skin. I nodded once. "Yes."

That's how I got into fucking sex actress . And I will tell you about my journey.