Misc. Erotica Swati's Downfall (Original Story)

[S Darko]

Swati soaks in her large tub, her eyes closed, savoring the warmth. The jacuzzi jets soothe her aching muscles. She is half in and half out of sleep, and she jerks awake as the thought strikes her that she might slip under the water in her exhaustion and drown. 

She is simply wrung out by the night’s events. 


Swati traces the rope marks on her body, some areas of bruising, scbangs, burst capillaries, a small cut or two. She has no idea what her back looks like. The men were not very lenient on her back and ass with the whip, although she is able to sit on it quite well, and without too much pain. 

Her pussy is red and puffy, but there is a satisfaction in the soreness. In fact, her whole lower abdomen, and groin is a dusky red, as are her tits and the skin over her chest. 

She has also looked at her ass in a handheld mirror, and the anal ring was likewise swollen and the color of ripe cherries, with small radiating redder lines she thinks might be small cuts or fissures. It is also sore, but pleasantly so. There is no pain per se when she runs the tip of her finger over the areas. 

She thinks if she tries, she can get a dildo in there, or even a cock. Swati marvels at the thought that even after a night full of the worst kind of debauchery, she is still able to entertain the idea of more sex. A small giggle escapes her as she thinks of more cock.

Most of the night is a blur, but several things stand out. There is an overwhelmingly satisfying exhaustion, and she thinks, it was a sex session to end all sex sessions, an orgy with her at the center, a debauch that would have put the Romans to shame. 

When Mahender showed up, things kicked up a notch, or maybe several notches. She is fuck drunk and also drunk somewhat on alcohol that they forced into her during the long night. By her reckoning, it was about twelve or more hours of non-stop orgy. 

She remembers Prakash yawning prodigiously as he dropped her off in front of her house in the morning in the same auto he took her away in. On the journey back, she barely registers the Christmas decorations in the shop windows as they sped through the deserted streets. She recalls the old rickshaw driver staring hungrily at her, no doubt cursing his luck for having to forego the magnificent fuck she so clearly was.

Mahender, it turned out, was a professional pornographer. At least that’s what she gathered. He made further adjustments to the camera positions, brought in additional lights, and also some new toys. 

The night proceeded similar to the way it started, but more of the same, but also more intense, but also more organized. 

The room, as it turned out, was ideal for the activities that Mahender dreamed up. The exposed beams overhead proved to be ideal anchor points for hooks and rope. Mahender seemed to be an expert on rope. Perhaps as good as she had seen in the internet BDSM sites. 

He was able to bind her in a variety of positions without causing too much discomfort. His rope was neat and orderly, his knots tight, and yet not too difficult to remove when he wanted to. Of course, the main thing was she was immobilized in several poses and still able to enjoy the fucking she received. Swati loved the immobilization, the feeling of being helpless and open to be fucked in any and every position, sometimes not even able to beg for it because she was gagged or blindfolded or both. 

She was tied up in different positions and fucked, beaten with a fringed flogger until her skin turned a deep shade of red all over with little purple marks through them, micro cuts that would take a few days to heal. 

In each position that she was tied, she was fucked, then gagged, blindfolded and fucked, and the list went on until she couldn’t even remember all the events of the night. The most exciting were the suspensions, especially the one where she was horizontal and taken from the back and the front. 

That was the much anticipated double penetration, and the greatest challenge was she couldn’t move a muscle. She was restrained in a near horizontal split, both legs separately suspended, and her arms tied behind her. 

Her boobs too were bound, at one time, like a tight bra, but the ropes went above and below, allowing the bulk of her tits to bulge out obscenely.  Another time, Mahender had bound her breasts differently, winding lengths around the base of her tits until they stood proud of her chest, red and congested angry, and exquisitely sensitive. 

The appearance of her breasts, to her, was even more obscene, but so smutty and lewd, the men couldn't get enough of. All the men had taken turns in sucking, biting, slapping her tits and flicking her nipples over and over, and she had orgasmed just from that. No one had been anywhere near her genitals. 

When the orgasm had arrived, traveling in waves from the pit of her stomach, twitching her labia and convulsing her pelvis, the men had laughed and called her a shameless whore. She had reddened with shame, and closed her eyes, but the strange, warm, internal glow she felt also told her she loved the experience.

She came, she remembers, multiple times with Prakash or Nawaz or Mahender buried in one or more of her holes. She remembers the moans and the screams she must’ve uttered, to the point she worried someone might call the cops or, worse, more men, hordes of them, might come in. 

To be honest, a part of her wanted more people to come in—the chawl people, unwashed and filthy and all wanting a piece of her, the gori memsaab. That was her ultimate fantasy, nasty and raw, to be fucked over and over by filthy men who cared not a whit for her education or her high position in society. 

To them, she would be nothing more than a piece of meat, to be used to the utmost and then discarded. 

She found the inversion suspension the most challenging because her nose got blocked, and she tended to black out when she was blowing someone, but other than that, the sensations were intense, enhanced much more than when she was upright. While she was upside down, her arms bound tightly behind her, forearm to forearm, hands on her elbows, Mahender almost monopolized her mouth. 

He had a decent sized cock, somewhat smaller than Prakash, but otherwise normal. He'd grabbed her head and stuffed his cock in, heedless of whether she could breathe or not. Since her head was almost touching the ground, he had to be either straddling her head, while sitting in the ground, or bending over really low. 

Her legs had been tied to the overhead beam, spread apart like a reverse Jesus, the legs spread akimbo, but the arms tied together behind her. Both Prakash and Nawaz were able to easily access both of her lower holes and they did so one by one, and once, to her amazement, together, giving her the much anticipated DP. Mahender, of course, had been in her mouth, perched on a stool, and she was airtight. She had passed out then, she remembers. 

When she came to, she was still being fucked by the two men, but Mahender had pulled out to allow her to recover. The men hooted and laughed when she finally opened her eyes, and Mahender had promptly reinserted his cock into her mouth.

The interesting thing, Swati discovered, was those moments of blacking out or when she was on the point of passing out while she was being fucked, were also times when her orgasms were the most intense. 

Or perhaps she was merely sensitized to the sex and on a hair trigger to orgasm. 

She does not understand the difference. 

She thinks she will ask them to choke her next time, a more controlled approach, and see if what she thinks is true. 

After that session, she remembers vaguely being reduced to a convulsing, wriggling, drooling, sopping mass of female flesh, wet beyond belief. 

The men's cocks kept popping out despite their large size, she remembers, she was so profusely lubricated in all her holes. 

Was it possible for one person to have so many orgasms? She has lost count after the first dozen or so, and counted properly, the night might have yielded over a hundred times she’d come.