Misc. Erotica Swati's Downfall (Original Story)

[S Darko]

Prakash’s phone in his shirt pocket begins to ring. He pulls it out, looks at the display and declines the call with a brief eye roll. 


Swati wonders who it might be, and what it might mean for her. She is suddenly conscious that she is barely clothed in the towel. Her shoulders are bare, and the towel has slipped a bit and showing more of her cleavage than she would like. 

She doesn’t want to draw attention to it by adjusting it, so she sits as still as possible. In the wild, she has read, it is movement that attracts the predator’s attention. She wonders if it applies in this situation, but there is no harm in trying. So she sits on the couch, head down, looking at the floor, trying to make herself as small as possible.

“What? No birthday gift for Nawazji?” Prakash says in with fake chagrin.

He looks from Swati to Nawaz, and back again. He spreads his hands, adding to the theater. His eyebrows go up. Then he stands.

Swati is getting increasingly uneasy and starts to fidget. Something is going to happen. Prakash is seldom so dramatic without an adverse consequence, usually, well, actually always, for her. What is he going to do?

“Nawazji,” he says with faux concern, still using a falsetto supposed to sound like her. “Don’t you want your birthday gift? Do you want it now?”
Nawaz is shifting uncomfortably in his seat. 

Swati can hear the tinkling of tea being poured into porcelain cups in the kitchen. Any minute now, and Parvati will come out bearing a tray of tea and probably biscuits. Randomly, she starts to think of what the biscuits will be. Marie or Good Day, or usually when the guests are of a certain class, Bourbon chocolate biscuits. Which is it going to be. She plays a game with herself trying to guess which it will be while she is aware the situation is going from bad to worse in front of her.

Prakash is gesticulating, more theater, speaking as though to a large audience, his manner expansive, almost like a politician. 

“…and Nawazji, don’t you feel that on your thirtieth birthday, you should have a special gift? I think I know what exactly you need Nawazji, and Swati madam here has it right here for you!”

Then he turns to Swati and her heart falls through her stomach to the floor.

“Please show Nawazji the present.”

Although his tone is civil and courteous enough, Swati knows there is a dangerous edge to it. She feels herself rising to her feet as though commanded by some higher force.

“I…I…gift? Present? I don’t know what you’re saying Prakashji, I mean, Malik.”

“Arrre! It’s all wrapped up, that’s why you don’t know. Take off the wrapper! The cover!”

Swati is fairly certain what he means by now. He wants her to take off the towel. It isn’t that the towel is especially sexy or anything. For all that, it is merely a layer of thick cloth on her body. No different from a dressing gown, a dress, a salwar kameez or anything, any piece of clothing, and yet the towel is so much more evocative and suggestive. 

Is it because of the imminent nudity that is so exciting? Or is it the fact that the towel is used to dry the naked body? She knows she is trying to think abstractly to keep her mind away from what she knows Prakash is asking, no, telling her to do. Namely, to take off the towel. 

So much for keeping still and not drawing attention to herself. Prakash is not merely a predator out to hunt. He is a predator who has tasted blood. Her blood.

She wonders what will happen after that. 

Will he expect her to have sex with Nawaz as part of his birthday gift? Vaguely, she wonders if it is even Nawaz’ birthday at all or if that is made up. 

Also, Parvati will be here any second. She will be paraded naked in front of her maid. She will never be able to live down the humiliation. Parvati will surely blab about this to her other maid type friends. And that will be the end of her life. She will have to leave this colony and probably move somewhere else, probably change her job…

And yet…despite all the dire prognostications her mind is making, she feels the shameful cravings of desire, the itch in her loins rekindled, a part of her is actually eager to see what will happen next. 

Prakash has his hand cocked, ready to slap her. 

“Bitch! Take off the towel. Can’t you fucking hear me?”