Misc. Erotica Swati's Downfall (Original Story)

[AjitKumar]

hot one

[anjali]

Nice update

[sexycharan]

Very niceeee

[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.

[Naveena komaali]

Nice update

[anjali]

Good update

[Jayam Ramana]

Very nice one

[S Darko]

Ramesh sees Prakash and Nawaz weaving erratically but talking animatedly as they leave the chawl and hail an auto. They don't so much hail an auto, as go and sit in the one that is usually parked at the end of their street. The driver is usually snoozing inside, and that solves the problem of going out to the Main Street and finding an auto that will tale them wherever thy need to go. 

People are walking up and down the street, cycles, motorcycles and scooters go up and down, hawkers hawk and naked children play by the gutters. It’s a commonplace scene that Ramesh is used to. 


Ramesh takes one last puff from his beedi and chucks it into the gutter, where it joins countless others. He wonders what is going on. Prakash is not simply poor, but also cheap. He will always take a bus when he can. Nawaz is more erratic, something that comes of an irregular income from the whorehouse he supposes. If Prakash is taking an auto, it must be something significant. And if they’re going off together, that is something even more significant. 

He watches the auto start up, then turn the corner and disappear from view. 

Ramesh climbs up the rickety stairs to the chawl room and looks about for clues. It isn’t a large room by any means, and the main furniture comprises three narrow pallets with thin cotton mattresses on them and empty floor space in the middle. The money plant that he has placed by the lone window has grown to be quite large and the leaves as big as the palm of his hand. That however is the only other living thing in the room. 

He scans the room, the three beds, two unmade, and his with a sheet tightly spread over it, as good as any hospital. There are a few discarded clothes on Nawaz’ and Prakash’s beds—their lungis and vests. The trapdoor in the far corner of the room is the cleanest part of the floor. Above him, hanging from a crossbeam in the ceiling, is a slowly whirling fan. 

He looks under his own bed and pulls out the metal trunk he came to Delhi with. It is small, but it contains all his worldly possessions. The small lock on it seems intact. He pulls out the key that is tied to his sacred thread, his janeyu, and opens the trunk. The contents seem to be all there. Including the automatic gun that he brought from the village. 

This one is a Ruger, not the country pistol he had been caught with ages ago. It is used, old, but in good condition. He hasn’t used it yet, but it has a full magazine that holds eighteen bullets and one in the chamber. He inspects it, then wraps it back up in the dirty looking old banian that he used to wear when he was a kid and puts it back in the bottom of the trunk. 

There are a couple of glasses, one half filled with foul smelling country liquor and the other empty. An empty packet of peanuts and an equally empty dish with a few crumbs of salt sticking to it’s bottom. There are two small stools, one of which is overturned. He doesn’t need to be Byomkesh Bakshi to figure out what has been going on. That too in the daytime. Prakash usually never starts drinking before seven or eight in the evening. It’s just half past five and there are two empties on the floor. 

Ramesh cleans up and wonders if today is the day. Will it be just Nawaz and Prakash, or are there going to be other participants? He had planned to go watch a movie with some of his pehelwan friends, but nor decides to stay around and keep vigil.

Rather than stay in the room, he decides to walk down to the street and watch the entrance to the chawl from the tea shop that is a few doors down and will afford him an unobtrusive view while remaining hidden behind the awning. He orders a cup of tea from the elderly '. proprietor and sits on a bench. 

Fifteen minutes later, a fat man appears at the end of the street, carrying a backpack, one of the carrying straps looped over his shoulder, the other flapping free. He is sweating profusely from the unaccustomed exercise, but looks happy nevertheless. 

Ramesh watches as Inder looks at the piece of paper in his hand, identifies the building, or more specifically, the chawl where they, Ramesh, Nawaz and Prakash live, on the second floor. The first floor houses a few more immigrant workers, people like himself. The second floor has been constructed without the benefit of permits and therefore is not legal. Which explains why there is a staircase with a trapdoor as the only entrance to the room he shares with Nawaz and Prakash. 

Ramesh has never even seen the owner of the property, dealing only with the middle man who collects the rent money every month without fail. For all he knows, the fat man may be the actual owner of the tenement.

Ramesh watches Inder mop his face with a handkerchief that he retrieves from his pocket as he waits. 

He clearly doesn’t know where to go beyond the address. He spends a few minutes looking for something, perhaps the mailbox, but there isn’t one. Finally, he pulls out his cellphone and makes a call. He shakes his head with frustration and looks at his phone as though it will provide clues as to why the other party won’t answer. After a while, he puts his phone away. 

He pulls a bar of chocolate from his backpack and starts to eat.

[pro10]

Thanks for daily reply and its getting interesting day by day

[creamydelight]

There's just something about a wife at home with the husband away... Can't describe it

[Gandhi krishna]

Very interesting

[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?”

[fuckandforget]

Super update

[creamydelight]

... small update

[zulfique]

Super bro

[desiass]

Excellent update, please do update the next part. Keep up the good work bro

[S Darko]

Excellent update, please do update the next part. Keep up the good work bro

This is the internet...could be bro, or not. But thanks anyway.

[pro10]

This is the internet...could be bro, or not. But thanks anyway.

Dont be offended mam.
Its a generalised statement and its true people think only man will write something like this

[S Darko]

Dont be offended mam.
Its a generalised statement and its true people think only man will write something like this

no issues. Sent you a reply on pm

[foogy]