Tamannaah Forced By Fan Part 1

Tamannaah Forced By Fan is of course a fantasy. No one in real life would want to do something like this to Tamannaah who is a wonderful person. But fantasies aren’t necessarily logical.

Tamannaah Forced By Fan English Part 2
Tamannaah Forced By Fan English Part 3

“Tamannaah?” the man said suddenly. Tamannaah jumped, startled, then focused on him and said, “What is it?”“Um, hi,” the man said. “My name is Ravi and, um, I worked as a production assistant on your Entertainment movie, five years ago. Do you, um, do you remember me?”Tamannaah’s first impulse was to tell the guy that she would have no reason to remember some nobody production assistant, but she checked it; one of the first things she’d ever learned in Bollywood was that the place was loaded with weirdos, perverts and losers, and she had to be careful. This guy could have been telling her the truth, but he could just as easily be trying to catch her off guard.

So instead of just putting him in his place, she paused and pulled her sunglasses down, pretending that she was trying to recognize him. What she was really doing was committing his face to memory; that way, if he did anything creepy, she’d be able to pick him out of a line up.

Ravi (if that was his real name) was in his mid thirties, about six feet tall, 200 approximate pounds, brown hair and eyes, a little bit pudgy, acne scars on his cheeks, blue work shirt and jeans, and thoroughly awash in a dork aura. Tamannaah suspected that even if she had met him five years ago she would have forgotten him about five seconds later.

“Oh, sure,” she said, forcing herself to smile, “I remember you.” It was best to humor these types. “What can I do for you, Ramu? Do you want an autograph?”

“It’s Ravi,” Ravi said. He was fidgeting slightly and obviously trying not to wring his hands together.
“And, um, no, I don’t want an autograph. Or, actually, that would be cool. But that’s not why I, um, why I stopped you. I was wondering, Tamannaah, if you would maybe, um, like to um, go out with me.”

It was all Tamannaah could do to keep from laughing in his face. Go out with him? Was he out of his mind? Did he know who she was?

“Gee, Ramu, I dunno,” she said as she let her gaze drift to her left. She was looking for her car. “I
don’t usually go out with guys… well, like you.” Oh, shit that was the wrong thing to say. “I mean, you seem nice and everything.” Yeah, right. “But, you know, we’re not really friends or anything. But I’d be glad to sign something for you. You know, your autograph book or whatever.”

There was her car. Her darling land rover. It was already three years old and still worth more than this
creep made in a decade. Unfortunately, it seemed a really long way away. Didn’t this parking lot have a
security guard?

“It’s Ravi,” Ravi said again, and the tone of his voice made Tamannaah return her gaze to him. He sounded pissed for some reason. Kinda looked it too. “And I don’t want your autograph. It was nice meeting you, Tamannaah.”

Ravi turned and walked away, hands crammed into his pockets. Tamannaah watched him for a moment, wondering what that was all about, then she too turned and resumed walking to her car. She tried to get her mind back on the meeting, the possible deal, but for some reason she couldn’t. The incident with Ramu had left her feeling unsettled.

There was definitely something not right about him. Fans usually didn’t just leap out at you like that, or ask for a date right out of the blue. And they always wanted an autograph. Even stalkers wanted autographs. So, what was the deal with this guy? Had to be a very wrong number. Maybe she should plunk down the money for a bodyguard. Yeah, a bodyguard. That was a good idea. Nice big handsome body guard.

With that problem solved, Tamannaah was able to return to the dilemma of what to do about this new project. She recalled that, during the meeting, that one guy, the producer guy, she couldn’t remember his stupid name, he’d spent most of his time working her tits over with his eyes. Maybe that was the key, she thought. Play up to him, flirt with him, let him think he’s going to get some. Hell, maybe even give him some. He was a fairly good looking guy, despite that he was old enough to be her daddy.

Yes, it was slutty, sleeping with the producer, but it wouldn’t the first time. Not even the fiftieth. Sex had almost always been a bargaining tool for her. If you wanted to be a success in Bollywood, you had to face that reality. Sometimes you had to put out just to survive.

That was how she’d gotten that role on Konchem Ishtam Konchem Kashtam, and also how she’d landed the starring role in Chand Sa Roshan Chehra (and lost her cherry, too). It got easier after that, especially after Entertainment, but there were still times when she had to at least tolerate some creep trying to get into her pants.

Not that she didn’t like men. She was straight (for the most part, anyway), she loved to fuck, and, if she was with the right guy, she could have totally mad fun. But “the right guy” was almost a myth in Bollywood. It was a world in which the assholes ruled, they lived in the woodwork, and they came out at the mere presence of a hot young chick. Sometimes they jumped out at you in parking lots.

Tamannaah finally reached her car and paused to get her keys out of her purse. She was still somewhat deep in thought (as deep as she could get, anyway), and so didn’t notice the man in the ski mask coming around from the back of the van parked in front of her car. He came up behind her, walking almost casually, and without a word reached out and grabbed a handful of her hair. He instantly yanked on it, hard enough to pull her off balance and sending her sunglasses flying.

Tamannaah dropped to her knees and gave up a surprised yelp, but she had no time to make any other kind of noise before the man’s fist smashed into her temple, causing her to fall sideways onto the asphalt. She managed to call out, “Ramu, help me!” before the man kicked her in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her. Tamannaah doubled over, in part from the pain and in part from an instinctive attempt to roll into a ball. It didn’t do her any good.

He kicked her again, then bent over and hit her several times with his fist, on the head, the shoulders, and on her arms when she brought them up to try to protect herself. She cried out again, but it was a low, frightened sound that didn’t attract any attention. When he was done hitting her, the man grabbed her by the arms and seemingly without effort hauled her up to her feet. He wrapped one arm around her midsection and clapped a hand over her mouth.

Tamannaah struggled feebly as the man carried her like a rag doll to the van. The side door was open and he easily tossed her through it. Tamannaah landed roughly on the carpeted floor, and a moment later the man in the ski mask was in the van with her and sliding the door closed.

Tamannaah, though stunned and disoriented, managed to get to her knees and crawl to the back door of the van. She grabbed the handle and pulled but found it locked.

“Help me!” she called out desperately. “Ramu, help me, please!”

That was all she had time to do before the man closed in on her, grabbing her by the hair again and slapping her several times across the face. Tamannaah cried out from the pain, and tears began to spill from her eyes. The man shoved her down onto the floor, jamming her lovely face down into the carpet, and for the first time spoke to her.

“Don’t fight me, bitch,” he told her in a rough voice, “or I’ll beat you to death. You understand?”

“Please….” Tamannaah begged, “please don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me….”

“Too late for that, you stupid cunt. But if you don’t wanna die, you’ll keep your shitty mouth shut and you won’t yell anymore or try to get away.” The man hit her hard on the shoulder. “‘Got it?”

“Yes….yes….” Tamannaah said, weeping now. “Just please don’t hurt me anymore….”

“And no more goddamn talking.” The man smacked her on the back of the head. “Now, lie down on the floor and don’t move.”

Tamannaah did as she was told, laying flat on her stomach with her arms out at her sides. The man in the ski mask went to a tool box against a side wall and opened it up, took out four items. He set them next to Tamannaah’s prone body, then picked one of the items up. It was a roll of duct tape. He tore off a strip, then grabbed a handful of Tamannaah’s hair and pulled, making her yelp. He slapped the tape over her mouth, then let go of her hair.

Tamannaah let her face fall back to the carpet. The next item the man picked up was a pair of handcuffs. He grabbed one of Tamannaah’s arms, yanked it behind her back, and secured one of the cuffs around her wrist. He did the same with her other arm, and now Tamannaah was handcuffed and laying flat on the floor, her breasts getting painfully mashed beneath her. She was crying now, loudly and desperately, but because of the duct tape the sounds were greatly muffled.

The next item was another pair of handcuffs. The man picked these up and hooked them onto one of the belt loops on his jeans, then bent over and grabbed Tamannaah by her arms. He roughly pulled her up to her knees, then dragged her over to a spot next to his tool box. There was a horseshoe shaped bar there, each end of which was welded to the wall. He forced her to sit with her back to it, then secured one cuff around the bar and the other around the chain between the two cuffs around Tamannaah’s wrists. She was now manacled to the wall and completely unable to escape.

The man slapped Tamannaah’s face once, then reached for the last item he’d taken from his tool box: a long sharp butcher knife. He held it up in front of Tamannaah’s face, only an inch from her eyes, and told her, “You give me any trouble at all, you filthy whore, and I’ll shove this up your cunt and fuck you with it till you’re dead.” Tamannaah moaned pitifully.

The man pulled the knife back a bit, and with his other hand he grabbed the front of her blouse. He yanked on it, snapping all the buttons and exposing her chest. Tamannaah was wearing a black lace bra, obviously designed to push her breasts together and make them look larger. The man grabbed at the bra, pulled it out, and sliced it between the cups with the knife. The bra fell open and Tamannaah’s breasts spilled out into full view.

They were magnificent breasts, full and round, slightly pointed, and topped with small pink nipples. The man in the ski mask ogled them for a few moments, then dropped his knife and with both hands began fondling them. He was rough, squeezing and pulling and pinching them, causing Tamannaah to whimper with more pain. He ignored her. He continued to play with her breasts for another minute, slapped each of them a few times, then picked up his knife again.

Next he pulled Tamannaah’s skirt up to her waist, which was a bit of a difficult task, since she was sitting on a portion of it. Once he had it up, however, he used his knife to cut away her panties, standard white cotton things with tiny pink flowers on them, like a little girl’s underwear. He tossed the panties to the side, then jerked her knees open. Now he could see her cunt.

And it was a beautiful cunt. Full and womanly, slightly swollen lips (probably from getting fucked by every guy with money she came in contact with), and covered with a healthy bush of dark blonde hair.

“Wow,” the man said to her, “you’re a natural blonde. Imagine that.” He jammed one finger into her, all the way up to his third knuckle, then pulled it out and put the tip of his knife up to her opening. Tamannaah squirmed and whimpered some more. “Just remember what I told you. You give me any bullshit, any kind of bullshit at all, and you get this up your snatch. Now, leave your legs just like they are. Don’t close em.”

He moved away from her, back to his toolbox, and took out a camera. He moved back in front of her, but as far to the other side of the van as he could get, then took several pictures of her as she sat there, handcuffed and weeping, tape over her mouth, tits hanging out, and her cunt exposed like a golden treasure.

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