Misc. Erotica Swati's Downfall (Original Story)

[S Darko]

Swati peers through the peephole, clad in only her towel. It is a large, colorful, beach towel, and she can comfortably knot it over her breasts, and besides, it reaches down to almost her knees. Swati not infrequently walks about the house in her towel, with another one wrapped around her head, waiting for her hair to dry, and this is not new to her. Under her towel, Swati is fresh, moisturized, anointed with fragrant cream and completely and delectably wholesome.


Parvati stands outside, looking a little tense. There is a man with her, a swarthy sort, slight, but a little crazy looking. He has a weird mushroom haircut, white walls all around with a sprouting top, like a crazy plant, and a scar down one side of his face. A little dangerous, maybe. She can see all this because the man keeps looking from side to side, giving her a great look at his face and both profiles. He holds Parvati’s arm firmly around the bicep, and she has a grimace on her face that she’s trying hard to mask.

 It seems to Swati that she knows the man; he is no stranger. Perhaps her husband? Was Parvati married? She racks her brain, but she doesn’t remember. She thinks that she has always thought of her maid as a young girl, but then these low class types do get married early, don’t they?

For a moment, she wonders if she should go and slip on something, a pair of pants or a skirt, and a top, but then decides against it. It’s only Parvati. She can let her in and have the guy wait outside while she gets dressed. 

She slides back the safety chain and opens the door. 

A surprise greets her. Off to one side stands another man, his hands in his pockets, dressed in a pair of jeans and a thin jacket. He looks strangely out of place without his uniform. It takes her a minute to place him before recognition dawns. He is grinning savagely at her.

“Bitch!” Prakash says in Hindi. His voice cannot contain his satisfaction. His face is all smiles.

Swati feels the bottom of her stomach fall to her feet.

She has always compartmentalized her life—office and home. The two never intersected. She knows, of course, that people at her office might know her address, HR for sure, but she has never imagined that Prakash the security guard she has so happily been fucking for months might materialize at her doorstep. 

She stands paralyzed. The tableau of the two men and one woman outside the door and the one woman inside the door is frozen for a minute. Swati thinks furiously. She should bang the door in their faces and call the cops. A second later reason dawns. Parvati has the key. They can simply open the door and enter. And if the cops came, what would she do anyway? What could she tell them?

Parvati says, “Madam!” Her voice is stricken, as though she feels she is to blame for the whole situation. She has no idea how wrong she is. 

Nawaz, who was taciturn until a moment ago, is starting to smile after Prakash’s greeting. His eyes are roving up and down her body, appraising, evaluating and clearly finding much to his liking.

In the meantime, the mushroom haired man pushes Parvati into the open door and follows. Prakash pushes off the wall, and still smiling, follows them inside. Swati stands aside to avoid being run over, her expression as demure as she can make it. 

She wonders what the neighbors might think if they saw this. Not that she can see anyone, but she knows many of the women on the street have nothing better to do than peer out from behind curtains. Mrs. Singh across the street is notorious for that, and she is also a terrible gossip. Already she is manufacturing explanations for this visit. Someone from the office with something urgent, the two men work in her office, one a peon, the other a security guard. It might work. As long as they went away soon. But deep inside, she knows that is unlikely.

The very fact that Prakash has taken the trouble to trace her address and come there means that he has some other plan. She wonders what it might be. She doesn’t have to wonder long.

“How come you didn’t greet me?” He says. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Yes,” she agrees, “it has been a while.” She tries a small smile. Her gaze flits to the others in the room. Mushroom is still standing just inside the foyer, still holding Parvati, a half smile on his face. It makes him look stupid. The scowl suits him better.

Mushroom suddenly pushes Parvati forward, “Go make some tea for us, Paro.” 

He staggers slightly, and Swati realizes he is drunk. Prakash is probably drunk as well. This is not going to be good. She knows that Prakash drinks, but he always meets her after his shift in the office, and has never had time to imbibe. He always did stink of pan masala and cigarettes, and she can smell it even now.

The slap comes out of nowhere. The first indication is a white-hot pain in her face. She can feel the blood collecting there. She is sure there his fingers will be imprinted there if she cared to look. Her hands are free, the towel is still secure on her body. 

But there are other, more pressing matters that need to be addressed. When she regains her composure, she sees Prakash, still grinning at her.

“Who’s going to say Malik, huh?” His tone is belligerent now. He is enjoying humiliating her in front of her maid and this new man. 

Swati drops her gaze and says, “Sorry Malik.” 

“Huh? I didn’t hear that. Say it again.”

“Sorry, Malik,” she repeats in a louder tone. 

There is a gasp behind her and Parvati starts to wail. Mushroom steps forward and backhands her. “Paro, go and make tea for us.”

“Parvati!” Swati says. She sees that Mushroom has some sort of hold over her. He must be either her husband or…maybe a boyfriend. Prakash narrows his eyes at the mention of “Parvati,” and something seems to click in his mind. 

“Madam!” Parvati wails. “Madam! It’s all my fault! I was coming here like you said, and they caught me and…” Tears are running down the girl’s cheeks and her breath is hitching. 

Swati turns to her and says, “It’s okay, Parvati, I’ll take care of this. You go and make tea.” 

She has no idea what she is going to take care of, and if she even can. There are two men, one of who is her master—in a manner of speaking, of course—and he seems to want to play the game now in front of others. She will have to deal with it firmly. There is only so much nonsense she can deal with at one time.
Parvati disappears into the kitchen, still sobbing, and soon Swati can hears cookware banging as she puts the pan on the gas for the water to boil.

“Prakashji…” Swati says, trying hard to control her ragged breathing and rising panic, and catches the sharp look in his eye and adds, “Malik, this is too much. Why don’t we all sit down, you have your tea, and leave. We can discuss this later in the office.”

Prakash, who had been looking around the interior with wide eyes, taking in the furnishings and obvious wealth, whirls around and slaps her again. This time on the other cheek. She can feel the heat in her face. 

“I will tell you when you can talk.” His tone is calm. “Why don’t we all sit down and drink tea,” he mimics her in a falsetto and laughs. Mushroom laughs too.

“Oh, this is Nawaz, my friend,” Prakash says. “It’s his birthday today.” It comes out “budday,” but the meaning is clear. Nawaz looks puzzled, then surprised and then delighted. 

“Oh,” Swati says, and like a nice hostess, leads the way to the cream-colored leather sectional in the drawing room. “Happy birthday Nawazji.”

“Hmm,” says Nawaz, who hasn’t spoken a word until now. 

“Nawazji!” Prakash chuckles. “Has anyone called you Nawazji in your entire life, you motherfucker?” He laughs some more. Nawaz also chuckles, going along with the joke at his expense. He clearly feels uncomfortable, out of his depth in these luxurious surroundings. Swati can sense that Prakash too is uncomfortable, but hiding it well under cover of his “Malik” persona, and his general bravado. 

She wonders if they will simply drink their tea and leave, or if there is more in store for her. 

Her answer comes soon.