Misc. Erotica Swati's Downfall (Original Story)

[S Darko]

“What have you got there in the bag?”


“Stuff you asked for,” Inder said, opening the bag and pulling out a bottle of whisky. 

“Oh great!”

They are standing in the little room, having climbed the rickety stairs and through the trap door which lies open, two squares, one dark and the other brighter. Swati wonders at the arrangement, and how they lock it at night. For security. Or perhaps they had no need of security given their meager possessions. There was no bolt or hasp on it after all. Perhaps there was one outside that she had missed?

The men ignore Swati as they take out an assortment of glasses from a built-in shelf in one corner and pour themselves hefty measures of the amber liquid. It is Bagpiper, one of the most popular brands of indigenous whiskey. 

Prakash swirls the drink in his glass, a steel tumbler, and finally looks at her as she stands, not cowering, not standing at attention, but just standing near the open hatch door and looking around, taking in the surroundings. 

“Good stuff,” he says as he takes a careful sip. Clearly, he is not used to this class of liquor which can be sipped and appreciated. His drinks are probably those you have to choke down. He doesn't feel the need to offer any liquor to the women. 

“Nothing but the best for you,” Inder says, no hint of sarcasm in his voice. He is still a little short of breath after the climb upstairs.
 
Nawaz is speaking softly to Parvati in one corner—she is sitting on the bed, and he towers over her. His haircut looks even more incongruous in this setting, Swati thinks. 

“Chal, take off your clothes,” Nawaz says in a loud voice. 

Parvati cringes, but stands and unwraps the saree she is wearing and folds it roughly, and places it on one end of the bed. She stands, half naked in her blouse and petticoat, and for the first time Swati can see the outline of her breasts. They are well shaped, not as large as hers, but still a handful and then some. 

Nawaz turns her around and cups her tits from behind, squeezing, pressing, and grunting appreciatively. Parvati makes no reaction. She just stands there, allowing Nawaz to paw her body.

Swati is aware of Prakash’s eyes as he takes in the unusual sight of a practically nude woman in the tenement room. 

She ignores him for now—he isn’t making any demands yet—and focuses on the dirty window and the incongruously luxuriant money plant growing on its sill. Other than the humans, it is the only sign of life in the room. The view from the window is a depressing gray, the color of the other tenements that crowd together as though seeking shelter from the elements. Which they very well might be doing. 

“Nawaz, don’t waste time with that whore. We have a job to do. Leave her for now.” Prakash sounds impatient. 

He pulls Nawaz aside and in a low voice says, “This is not really a party, you know? We have to make that video.”

Nawaz’ eyes go wide in understanding, and together they move toward Inder who is already measuring out his second drink with the concentration of a concert pianist.

The three men join together and converse in low tones she cannot overhear. 

Then they start placing their phones in various strategic locations around the room. This is going to be a multicamera shoot, it seems. Inder, the IT guy, is orchestrating the placement of the cameras and probably managing the shoot—Prakash has no expertise in these matters. 

Prakash steps up to her and pulls the towel off. She has been clutching the knot at her chest, but her hand falls away, as does the towel. Inder whistles as she stands completely nude in the center of the room, her nipples hardening again in the cold air. 

She is aware that the pizza boy’s semen is still trickling out of her cunt and down one thigh, but there is little of it after the “deposit” she made on the auto rickshaw seat.

Swati feels uncomfortable, but also the need to exhibit herself. The lighting is stark—just one bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. She knows the shadows will not be flattering, but she has to work with what she’s got. 

She does a slow pirouette, allowing the men to take a good look at her. 

She spreads her legs, bends over, and gives them a view of her holes, both from the front and the back and wishes they will hurry up and start with the sex. She can’t wait. The anticipation is driving her crazy. She is lubricating profusely.

“Kya maal hai!” Nawaz says. “Prakash bhai, you were right. She is something indeed. So gori chitti makkhan malai!” He cannot stop his somewhat embarrassing description. “And her cunt is shaved so artfully, too! Like a painting yaar!”

“Like I said,” Prakash says, “hang out with me, and you’ll see all kinds of things.” He is grinning hugely, like a showman with an exceptionally good exhibit.

Prakash strokes his chin and looks at her speculatively, his brow furrowing with concentration.

“No, he says, this will not work.”

Swati cannot help but blurt out, “What? Why?”

“Sit,” he says, and motions to the middle cot, probably his. He squats in front of her, a decidedly not master-like position, and peers up at her face. “You have no make-up on.”

“I didn’t have time. I was just out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, when you came.” She indicates the towel that now lies like a dead animal in the middle of the floor. 

“No, no, we have to make a video. For…somebody. You have to look good. Also, you have to do some acting.”

“Acting?”

Prakash considers. “No, not really acting. Just act like normal. You can talk more, moan and so on, a little more.”

Swati feels the heat rise to her face. She is quite vocal during sex, she knows, and Prakash has commented on it numerous times, usually with delight. But they’re usually non-verbal moans and groans and sexy noises in general. 

“What do I say?”

“Stuff like we usually do…you know, which hole would you like, Sir. I am a whore, I like my holes stuffed with cock, the more the larger the better. Stuff like that.”

“But,” Swati says, “That’s all true, not acting really.”

Prakash bursts out laughing, and after a minute so does Nawaz. 

"She actually says that?" Nawaz is unbelieving.

Inder, who has been doing something on his phone, looks up and says, “What? What?” But the other two are too busy laughing. 

Swati too joins in the general merriment, aware of the more relaxed atmosphere than usual. One thing does bother her—Prakash is making a video for someone. It looks like he is doing something out of the ordinary, something special. What does it mean for her?

“I told you she is a born whore!” Prakash roars above the laughter, and Nawaz is slapping himself on his thighs, clearly unable to believe they’ve landed such a high class woman who’s ready to do whatever they want. 

Swati thinks back on her journey to this point. 

Has she always been such a slut? A whore? The pat answer she gave—that isn’t acting-- it’s real, and speaks volumes of what she has become, or possibly uncovered about her own character. How exactly did she get here? 

The answer of course is the exact same as for how to eat an elephant. One bite at a time, one step at a time.