[F4M] – Spit-Roasted Revenge Served Slow

Everyone who matters in Mumbai was in that private salon downstairs tonight.The forced auction of my family’s flagship Colaba restaurant (seventy years old, sea-facing, my grandfather’s name still carved above the door) was invitation-only.

Fifty chairs. One lot. No press allowed inside, but every phone was live-streaming to private groups. I had liquidated everything, the duplex, the farmhouse, my mother's last emerald set, even the vintage Rolls. I opened at 280 crore. He sat in the last row, legs crossed, one finger resting on his paddle, calm as death. Every time I raised, the room held its breath.

290 crore. 295. 305.

I was shaking by 320, voice cracking, eyes burning. At 340 I had to lean on the table because my legs wouldn’t hold. At 350 I was all in. Everything gone. The auctioneer looked at me, waited for the nod that never came. He lifted his paddle once.

"Three hundred and fifty crore… and one lakh." A ripple of laughter. Someone whispered, "That’s the price of her pride." Gavel fell and the room erupted. I couldn't move.Now the salon is empty. The staff dismissed. The chandeliers above us are dead. Air-conditioning murdered the second the hammer dropped.

Forty-four degrees of thick, humid Bombay night. I stand on the exact marble square where I once toasted his grave two years ago. So far only the thinnest sheen has bloomed across my forehead and temples, catching the lights.

One perfect bead forms at my hairline, swells, breaks free, and begins its slow, humiliating crawl, down my temple, over the cheekbone that sold a thousand magazine covers, until it hangs fat and shining from the apple of my cheek like the first public proof that the queen is already starting to cook.He stands three silent steps away, sleeves rolled, holding the signed sale deed and the kitchen keys.His voice is soft, intimate, final.

"Ten minutes, pig.

Then you walk. Belly-down on the stainless rotisserie built for whole hogs, tonight the hog is pedigreed human meat that just sold for one symbolic lakh extra.

Wrists and ankles locked to the spit. Heat lamps start gentle and climb. Clear oil stroked across that once-smug fuck-doll face so every camera sees the shine while the rest of this overpriced sow bastes itself in its own shame.

When the meat is glossy, trembling, and ready to sign the empire back with the same hand that mocked me, I’ll decide if the pig is roasted enough."

That bead still dangles from my cheek, swollen, impossible to hide.He watches it like he paid one lakh just for the privilege.

"First drop of the night," he says. "By morning the tray will be full of everything you just lost."

---

Age: 32

Role: Submissive

Languages: English, Tamil

Kinks I need slow, filthy, merciless: Realistic escalating sweat, ruined makeup, oil smeared on the face, humiliation, degradation, spitting, face-writing, hair pulling, collar, leashes, spanking, rimming, foot sucking, slavery, blood soaked face for the look (not too brutal), incest, interracial, cheating, blackmail.

Limits: No piss, gore, necro, vore. (No licking/sniffing sweat, visual shame only.)

Faceclaims: Mrunal Thakur, Samantha, Trisha, Amritha Aiyer, Megha Akash, Kayadu Lohar, Meenakshi Chaudhary, Rukmini Vasanth, Kriti Sanon, Krithi Shetty, Priyanka Chopra, Disha Patani, Tripti Dimri.

If you can write clean, multi-paragraph depravity in Discord, and can keep the grammar sharp, then DM me with the keyword ROASTEDSWEATY and tell me why did you like this post, who do you fantasize for this plot.