Alice in Wonderland: The First Fracture

The monsoon of 2015 had turned Karachi’s streets into black mirrors, reflecting the sodium lamps and the grief that clung to every wall of the old house in Clifton like a second skin. Alice was twenty-two, freshly graduated from Dow Medical College, her white coat still carrying the sharp bite of formalin and the faint, metallic hope of a future she could almost taste. Her father’s sudden coronary had ripped the family apart; the funeral’s white tents sagged in the courtyard for days, sodden with rain and the weight of whispered condolences that thinned like the evening light filtering through jacaranda leaves.

Uncle Rahman lingered longest. He wasn’t blood—just a distant cousin of her father’s, a shipping agent who wore Italian loafers polished to a sheen and carried the faint, intoxicating blend of oud and diesel that clung to his cuffs like a promise. He had always watched Alice too carefully: during Eid dinners when her dupatta slipped as she bent to serve biryani, his gaze lingering on the curve of her neck; at weddings, his eyes tracing the sway of her hips beneath silk. She had never minded. Attention was currency in their world, and Alice had learned early that a smile, a tilt of the head, could buy silence, favor, or the illusion of control.

On the seventh night after the burial, the house was a tomb of quiet, broken only by the erratic hum of the old air-conditioner in the drawing room. Her mother and younger sister had swallowed sleeping pills hours ago, their doors shut tight against the world. The city’s power cut left only a candle stub guttering on the teapoy, its flame dancing shadows across the peeling wallpaper. Alice sat cross-legged on the divan in her cotton shalwar kameez, hair unbraided and still damp from the bath, cascading down her back like spilled ink. She was lost in thought—memories of her father’s laugh, the way he’d ruffle her hair—when Rahman appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against the veranda’s blue mosquito bulb, his shadow stretching long and predatory.

“Beta, you should rest,” he said, but his voice was thick, syrupy with something darker than kindness. He stepped inside, closed the door with a soft, deliberate click. The room shrank, the air thickening with the scent of his cologne and the rain-soaked night beyond the shutters.

She should have stood, should have called for her mother. Instead, the old, treacherous heat coiled low in her belly—the same heat that had let the college bus conductor brush her breast without protest, his fingers lingering as she paid her fare; the same heat that had kept her silent when her ex-boyfriend lied about other girls, his hands roaming while she stared at the ceiling. She could not say no; the word simply did not exist in her mouth when a man’s eyes went dark with want, pupils blown wide like storm clouds.

Rahman sat beside her. The divan sighed under his weight. “Your father was a good man,” he murmured, but his hand was already on her knee, thumb tracing the seam of her shalwar with a possessiveness that made her skin prickle. The candle threw their shadows huge against the wall—one tall and looming, one slender and yielding, merging into a single, obscene shape.

Alice’s breath caught, sharp and audible. She smelled his cologne, the sweat beneath it, the faint metallic tang of the sea on his cuffs from a day at the docks. He leaned in; his lips grazed the shell of her ear, hot and wet. “You’re shaking,” he whispered, breath stirring the fine hairs at her nape. “Don’t be afraid. Uncle will take care of you.”

She wasn’t afraid. She was electrified, every nerve alight. Her nipples tightened against the thin cotton of her kameez, aching points that begged for touch; between her thighs, a pulse began, shameful and sweet, her body betraying her with a slickness that soaked through her shalwar. When he cupped her breast, palm rough through the fabric, she arched into his hand without thinking, a soft whimper escaping her lips.

He pushed her back gently, the way one handles something breakable and already broken. Her kameez rode up, cool air kissing the soft skin of her stomach, gooseflesh rising in its wake. Rahman’s mouth followed, open and wet, tasting of paan and the raw edge of grief. His tongue traced the curve of her ribcage, dipped into her navel, making her hips twitch involuntarily. He tugged the drawstring of her shalwar; the fabric pooled at her ankles with a whisper. She wore no underwear—laundry day, she would think later, absurdly, as if practicality could excuse the exposure.

His fingers found her slick, parting her folds with a reverence that belied the hunger in his eyes. “So ready,” he muttered, voice rough with surprise, as if she had planned this seduction. She hadn’t. She never did. She simply opened, the way a flower opens to the sun it cannot refuse, her body a vessel for desires not her own.

He freed himself with practiced haste, belt buckle clinking softly. She glimpsed him—thick, darker than the rest of him, a vein livid along the underside, the head glistening with pre-cum—before he nudged her knees apart. The divan’s velvet was rough against her shoulder blades, a delicious abrasion. He entered her in one slow, inexorable thrust, the stretch burning exquisite, filling her so completely she felt split open, remade. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, tasting copper; the candle flickered, nearly died, casting the room in stuttering light.

Rahman moved with the confidence of a man who had paid for silence before, hips rolling in a rhythm that was both punishing and precise. Each stroke pushed the air from her lungs, pushed her grief aside to make room for this older, hungrier thing. She clutched his shoulders, nails digging through linen, leaving crescents that would bruise by morning. Her hips rose to meet him, greedy, traitorous, the wet sounds of their joining obscene in the quiet room—slick, rhythmic, undeniable.

He came with a groan muffled against her neck, hips jerking erratically, heat flooding her in thick, pulsing waves, foreign and intimate. She felt it seep out as he withdrew, staining the divan’s brocade in dark, spreading patches. For a moment they stayed locked, his weight pinning her, her legs trembling around his waist, thighs slick with their mingled fluids. Then he kissed her forehead—absurdly tender, a mockery of affection—and straightened his clothes, tucking himself away as if nothing had transpired.

“Tell no one,” he said, not a threat but a fact, etched in the lines of his face. “This is how we survive.”

He left as quietly as he had come, the door clicking shut behind him. The candle guttered out, plunging the room into darkness. Alice lay there, thighs sticky, heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She touched herself wonderingly, fingers slipping through his spend and her own slickness, the texture viscous and warm. The pleasure was sharp, almost painful, building quickly as she circled her clit, hips bucking off the divan. She came in silence, teeth sunk into her wrist, tasting blood and salt, her body shuddering with aftershocks that left her gasping.

Later, she burned the divan cushion in the backyard incinerator, the flames licking greedily at the brocade, smoke curling into the night sky thick with the scent of velvet and secrets. Her mother never asked why the drawing room smelled of ashes the next morning, though her eyes lingered on Alice’s flushed cheeks. Alice showered until her skin was raw, scrubbing with loofah and rose soap, but the scent of oud and diesel lingered in her hair for days, a ghost that followed her to lectures, to the hospital wards where she practiced intubation on mannequins.

She did not feel ruined. She felt chosen, marked, alive in a way grief had not allowed. The thought of being used—of a man taking what he wanted while she gave without asking—settled in her bones like a second skeleton, rigid and unyielding. She would carry it into her marriage, into sterile hospital corridors, into the arms of a fiancé who would never guess why she sometimes flinched at kindness, why her eyes glazed over during his chaste embraces.

That night, the monsoon broke fully, rain lashing the windows in sheets, washing the city clean of its sins. Alice stood on the veranda in her father’s old kurta, hair plastered to her back, and let the water soak her to the skin, cold rivulets tracing paths down her breasts, her belly, between her legs where Rahman’s seed still lingered. She was twenty-two, and she had learned the shape of her hunger. It had no name yet, but it had teeth, sharp and insatiable.

Four years later, the hunger had grown fangs. Bahrain, 2019. The corridor outside the cardiac ICU was a tunnel of fluorescent glare and antiseptic chill, the air thick with iodine and the burnt-coffee staleness of endless night shifts. It was 2:47 a.m., the hour when even the monitors seemed to doze, their beeps slowing to a languid pulse. Alice had just emerged from a six-hour valve replacement, her scrubs damp at the small of her back, hair twisted into a knot that had begun to unravel, strands escaping like dark secrets. She was twenty-six now, three years into her anaesthesia residency at Bahrain Defence Force Hospital, her long black hair usually hidden beneath a surgical cap, her generous hips and breasts disguised by shapeless blues that did little to hide the sway of her walk.

Dr. Faisal Al-Mansour—Arab, forty-one, cardiothoracic surgeon, beard trimmed to a razor line that accentuated the sharp angles of his face—leaned against the vending machine, scrolling through his phone with the casual authority of a man who owned the night. His white coat was unbuttoned, revealing a tailored shirt the colour of desert sand, sleeves rolled to expose forearms corded with veins. Dr. Tariq Khan—Pakistani, thirty-eight, interventional radiologist, perpetually amused, his smile a flash of white in the dim light—stood beside him, sipping something that steamed from a paper cup. They had both scrubbed in on the case; they had both watched Alice’s steady hands as she threaded the central line, her voice calm over the hiss of the ventilator, her fingers precise as she titrated propofol.

“Dr. Mirza,” Faisal called, soft enough not to wake the ward but laced with command. “Walk with us.”

It was not a question. Alice’s pulse fluttered—part exhaustion, part the familiar coil of heat that had never left her since that monsoon night. She followed them past the pharmacy shutter, past the linen carts stacked with folded gowns, to the old conference room on the sub-basement level. The door had a frosted pane clouded with years of fingerprints and a lock that had been broken since the renovation, hanging loose like a joke. Inside, the air was warmer, stale with the ghost of PowerPoint presentations, stale biscuits, and the faint mildew of disuse. A single fluorescent tube buzzed overhead, throwing hard shadows across the long teak table and the dozen swivel chairs that squeaked when pushed.

Tariq flicked the lock anyway, the click echoing like a gunshot in the confined space. Faisal set his phone face-down on the table, screen dark. “You were brilliant tonight,” he said, his English carrying the lilt of Riyadh, vowels round and deliberate, each word measured like a scalpel incision. “But you looked… tense.” His eyes raked over her, lingering on the damp patches of her scrubs, the way the fabric clung to her curves.

Alice’s mouth went dry, tongue sticking to the roof. She should have laughed it off, cited post-call fatigue, the adrenaline crash. Instead she stood between them, hands clasped behind her back like a schoolgirl awaiting punishment, feeling the heat of their attention settle on her skin like a brand, raising gooseflesh along her arms.

Tariq moved first. He was taller, leaner, his fingers cool and clinical when they brushed the nape of her neck, loosening the elastic that held her hair. The knot unravelled with a soft snap; black strands spilled over her shoulders, catching the light like oil on water, the scent of hospital shampoo—citrus and antiseptic—filling the air. “We’ve both noticed,” he murmured, Karachi accent thick with night-shift gravel, his breath hot against her ear. “How you never say no.” His hand slid down her spine, resting possessively at the small of her back.

She didn’t. Couldn’t. The truth of it hummed under her ribs, familiar as her own heartbeat, a rhythm she had danced to since Rahman’s divan.

Faisal stepped in front of her, close enough that she smelled his cologne—oud and something citrus, sharp and expensive—over the hospital’s chemical tang. He cupped her chin, thumb tracing the bow of her lower lip, pressing just enough to part them. “We’re not animals,” he said, almost gentle, but his eyes were dark pools of want. “But we’re men. And you—” His gaze dropped to the V of her scrub top, where the fabric clung to the swell of her breasts, nipples visible through the thin material, hardened peaks begging for attention. “—are a gift.” His voice dropped to a growl, the word gift laced with possession.

Tariq’s hands were already at her waist, tugging the drawstring of her pants with a surgeon’s efficiency. The cotton slid down her hips, pooling at her ankles in a soft heap. She wore simple black panties, practical cotton now soaked at the gusset, the dark patch betraying her arousal. Faisal’s fingers hooked the waistband and peeled them away slowly, the fabric dragging over her skin, exposing her to the stale air. Coolness kissed her bare mound, her thighs trembling as slickness coated her inner legs.

They moved her to the table with the efficiency of men who had dissected cadavers and rebuilt hearts. Faisal lifted her onto the polished teak; the wood was cold against her buttocks, a shock that made her gasp. Tariq pushed the chairs aside with his foot, the scrape of metal on tile loud in the quiet. Her scrub top came off in one motion, sports bra following, yanked over her head and tossed aside. Her breasts—full, olive-toned, nipples dark and peaked like ripe berries—spilled free, bouncing slightly with the movement. Faisal exhaled, a low sound of appreciation that rumbled in his chest. He bent to take one nipple into his mouth, teeth grazing just enough to spark pain into pleasure, his tongue swirling wet and hot, suction pulling a moan from her throat.

Tariq’s hand slid between her legs, parting slick folds with clinical precision, fingers gliding through her wetness. “Look at her,” he said, voice rough with lust, holding up glistening digits for Faisal to see. “Already dripping, like she’s been waiting for this all shift.” He plunged two fingers inside her, then three, stretching her open, curling to stroke the spot that made her hips jerk involuntarily, her back arching off the table.

Alice’s head fell back, the ceiling tiles blurring into a grid of white. Faisal’s tongue circled relentlessly, alternating between breasts, leaving them shiny with saliva; Tariq’s fingers pumped in and out, the squelch of her arousal filling the room, her juices coating his hand to the wrist. She bit down on a moan, tasting blood where her teeth met her lip, the metallic tang mixing with the salt of her sweat.

Faisal straightened, unbuckling his belt with a metallic whisper that sent shivers down her spine. His cock sprang free—thick, cut, the head flushed dark and leaking pre-cum in a pearly bead. Tariq followed suit, his length longer, veins prominent. They worked in tandem, wordless, the way they did in the cath lab, synchronised like a well-oiled machine.

Faisal entered her first. He lifted her thighs, hooking them over his forearms, the position folding her nearly in half, and slid in to the hilt in one slow, possessive glide. Alice’s breath hitched; the stretch was exquisite, bordering on too much, his girth splitting her open, bottoming out against her cervix. He held still, letting her adjust, feeling her walls flutter around him, then began to move—deep, measured thrusts that rocked the table, the wood creaking beneath them in protest. Her breasts bounced with each impact, heavy and hypnotic; Tariq caught one, pinching the nipple hard until she whimpered, the pain shooting straight to her core.

When Faisal’s rhythm faltered—his control fraying, breath coming in harsh pants—he pulled out, cock glistening with her essence, breath ragged. “Your turn,” he told Tariq, voice strained.

They flipped her effortlessly, manhandling her like a doll. Alice found herself on her knees atop the table, cheek pressed to the cool surface, ass in the air, exposed and vulnerable. Tariq’s hands spread her cheeks wide, the blunt head of his cock nudging her entrance, teasing her slick folds. He was longer, thinner, the angle different, probing deeper. He pushed in with a groan that echoed off the walls, bottoming out against her cervix in one thrust that made her cry out. Faisal stood in front of her now, feeding his cock between her lips, the taste of her own arousal salty on her tongue.

They found a rhythm—Faisal in her mouth, Tariq in her cunt, the table rocking beneath them like a ship in a storm. The room filled with wet sounds: the slap of flesh on flesh, the slick slide of cock in pussy, the muffled choke of her throat as Faisal fucked her face. Her hair stuck to her cheek in sweaty strands; sweat beaded between her shoulder blades, trickling down her spine. Tariq’s hand cracked against her ass—once, twice, then a third time—leaving blooming heat, red handprints that made her clench around him. Faisal tangled fingers in her hair, guiding her deeper until her nose brushed the coarse hair at his base, her gag reflex triggering tears that streamed down her cheeks.

She came first, sudden and violent, walls clenching around Tariq like a vice, her body convulsing, a muffled scream vibrating around Faisal’s cock. He swore in Urdu, hips stuttering, then drove deep and held, pulsing inside her, heat flooding her core in thick, intimate spurts that overflowed, dripping down her thighs. Faisal followed seconds later, spilling against her tongue in bitter ropes that she swallowed reflexively, some escaping to dribble down her chin.

For a moment, the only sound was their breathing—three sets, ragged and uneven, the air thick with the musk of sex. Faisal fetched paper towels from the dispenser by the door, cleaning her with the same care he used to close a sternum, wiping her face, her breasts, between her legs where their combined fluids leaked in a steady stream. Tariq righted her scrubs, smoothing the fabric over her hips as if nothing had happened, though the stains would tell another story.

Alice slid off the table on shaky legs, thighs aching, lips swollen and bruised. She felt the slow seep of Tariq between her legs, warm and undeniable, pooling in her panties as she dressed. She met their eyes—Faisal’s dark and unreadable, Tariq’s amused, almost tender, a smirk playing at his lips.

“This stays here,” Faisal said quietly, zipping his fly. Not a threat. A contract, sealed in sweat and semen.

She nodded, voice steady despite the tremor in her limbs. “I know.”

They left separately. Faisal first, coat buttoned, nodding to the night nurse as if he’d only stepped out for coffee, his stride unbroken. Tariq lingered, brushing a strand of hair from her face with surprising gentleness. “You’re remarkable, Dr. Mirza,” he said, and then he too was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

Alice stood alone in the conference room, the fluorescent light humming overhead like a swarm of insects. She touched her mouth, still tasting Faisal’s salt, felt the sticky warmth cooling on her thighs, seeping through the fabric. The table gleamed, innocent again, though faint smears betrayed the truth. She straightened the chairs, wiped the surface with an alcohol swab from her pocket, the sharp scent cutting through the musk. By the time she walked back to the residents’ lounge, her ponytail was neat, her face composed, the flush on her cheeks the only remnant.

In the mirror of the bathroom, she looked the same—tired eyes, faint shadows under them from too many call nights. Only the flush high on her cheekbones and the slight swell of her lips betrayed her. She washed her hands, the soap sharp and medicinal, scrubbing until her skin tingled, and felt the familiar coil of hunger settle deeper, a serpent in her gut. It had a name now, though she would never speak it aloud—submission, use, the exquisite agony of being taken. It had teeth, and it was hers.

Outside, the desert night pressed against the windows, vast and indifferent, stars pricking the velvet sky. Alice clocked out at 6:00 a.m., the sky already bruising into dawn with hues of pink and gold. She would sleep, shower, return for rounds, her white coat crisp once more. And when the next late-night case ran long, when the corridor lights dimmed and the monitors slowed to a hypnotic beep, she would feel their eyes on her again—Faisal’s measured and appraising, Tariq’s amused and hungry—and she would follow without a word, her body opening like a flower to the sun.

Because some doors, once opened, could not be closed. They became gateways, pulling her deeper into the abyss she craved.