Misc. Erotica A Mother’s Bargain - By Novelist Casanova

[novelistcasanova]

A Mother’s Bargain

“I opened my legs so my son could open his future.”

Early morning light, thin and grey like watered milk, crawled through the half-open window of my small Chennai bedroom. The air hung thick, heavy with the raw stink of hours of brutal fucking: sweat, cum, my own pussy juices, and the sharp musk of his balls.

I lay completely naked, half-asleep, body dead-weight on the drenched bed. My thighs were forced so wide apart that the inner muscles shook with tiny tremors. Thick, warm globs of the thief’s cum kept leaking from my swollen pussy lips, sliding in slow, sticky rivers down the crack of my ass cheeks, pooling under my asshole on the soaked sheet. Every few seconds my ruined pussy clenched weakly and pushed out another fat drop that stretched into a long, silvery thread before it snapped and joined the puddle beneath me.
Only my mangalsutra remained on my body. The thick gold chain with the long, heavy traditional one with coral beads, thali kodi, and the big gold thaali pendant had flipped upside down and now rested in the sweaty valley between my heavy boobs. The gold thaali was smeared white with dried cum; the coral beads were stuck to my skin with sweat and his loads. The chain had cut a thin red line across my left nipple because he had grabbed the mangalsutra and used it like reins while he fucked me from behind.
My boobs were marked everywhere. Dark purple fingerprints circled both nipples. The left nipple was swollen huge, still wet and shining from his tongue and teeth. The right areola carried tiny half-moon bite marks from the moment I tried to push him off at 3 a.m. Every time my chest rose, my boobs peeled off the sheet with a soft, sticky sound, then slapped back down.
Between my legs everything throbbed and burned. My pussy lips were turned inside out, puffy and dark pink, glistening with layers of his loads. The thief’s thick cock had stretched me so brutally that even now my pussy stayed slightly open, a small, dark tunnel that kept drooling cum. My clit stood out angry-red, pulsing with every heartbeat. Lower, my asshole winked and twitched; he had forced his cock inside twice, and the ring of muscle still hadn’t closed. A slow, creamy river ran from my asshole down to the mattress.
The thief moved.
He had slept half on top of me, one hairy leg thrown across my stomach, his softening cock still buried balls-deep inside my pussy. Now he grunted, lifted his hips, and began dragging that heavy, veiny cock out. Inch by filthy inch it slid free, coated white with our mixed juices. The wet dragging sound filled the room. When the fat cock head finally popped out of my pussy lips, a loud, obscene squelch echoed and a thick flood of trapped cum gushed out, splashing straight onto my clit and running down to my asshole.
He knelt up between my spread thighs, knees sinking into the soaked mattress. His cock hung half-hard, shiny and dripping, swinging like a club between his legs. He looked down at the mess he had made of me: boobs bruised, mangalsutra sticky with cum, pussy wrecked and leaking, asshole gaping, and a filthy, satisfied smirk crawled across his face.
He reached for his filthy gray underwear crumpled on the floor, stiff with dried cum and my juices. He lifted one foot, then the other, sliding the underwear up his muscular legs. When he pulled the waistband up, he had to grab his heavy cock and balls with one rough hand and stuff them inside the pouch. The dirty gray cloth stretched tight; the clear outline of his thick cock head and the ridge underneath showed through the thin material. He snapped the elastic hard against his stomach, making his balls bounce once.
Next he snatched his filthy black pants from the floor, the same pants he wore when he broke in, now crusted with white streaks and smelling of raw sex. He shoved one leg in, then the other, and yanked the pants up. The zipper rasped as he closed it over the bulge of his cock and balls, the black cloth hugging everything so tight the shape of his cock ran visibly down his left thigh.
Finally he grabbed his dirty white shirt, once white, now yellowed and reeking, buttons long gone. He dragged it over his head in one motion. The open shirt hung loose on his broad chest, showing dark nipples, sweat-matted hair, and the trail that disappeared into his waistband.
He stood there a second, nakedfoot, cock bulge swinging under the black pants, open shirt flapping, staring down at my naked, broken body. My boobs rose and fell slowly, mangalsutra and thaali glinting between them, pussy still leaking his cum in a steady stream, asshole twitching. He licked his lips once, remembering how I had no choice but to spread for him to save my son’s 2 lakhs, remembering how he had used every hole anyway.
Then, without a word, without even looking at the cupboard where the thief in the filthy gray underwear, tight black pants, and open dirty white shirt turned, walked across the wet floor, and slipped out the door into the morning light.
My name is Malini.
Ten years ago a filthy scoundrel sweet-talked his way between my thighs, fucked me raw every night with lies dripping from his tongue, pumped his thick cum deep into my pussy until my belly swelled, and vanished the morning I showed him the pregnancy test. God alone knows which cheap whore’s pussy he is destroying now. He left me with a stretched pussy, leaking boobs, and a screaming newborn clutched to my chest.
That newborn is Varun, my entire world, the only heartbeat I live for.
Varun is in college now, tall, handsome, brilliant, and every single rupee I earn is for him alone.
Every morning at 7:30 I stand in front of the cracked mirror and dbang my hotel uniform: the bright yellow saree made of thin polyester that clings to every curve of my ass cheeks like a second skin, the matching yellow blouse stitched so tight that my heavy boobs push against the hooks until the third hook from the top always threatens to burst open. The yellow blouse is cut short, ending just two inches below my bra, so when I bend over the reception counter my midriff stays naked, the yellow saree riding low on my hips, exposing the soft roll of my belly and the deep navel that still carries silver stretch marks from carrying Varun.
I wear a simple, regular bra inside, nothing fancy, just thick cotton cups that hold my boobs firm. The yellow blouse is so thin that the plain outline of my bra shows clearly through the material, the straight straps and the band under my boobs visible every time I move. My regular panties are simple cotton too, high-waisted, and when I tuck the yellow saree pleats tight between my thighs the pantyline cuts hard across each ass cheek, marking two deep lines over the yellow saree that every guest in the lobby can see when I turn.
I pull the pallu across my boobs and pin it to my shoulder. The yellow saree sticks to my sweaty lower back by noon, drawing a dark wet patch that runs from my spine straight down to where the saree disappears between my ass cheeks. My mangalsutra, thick gold chain with coral beads and heavy thaali pendant, swings between my boobs with every step, the thaali slipping inside the yellow blouse and rubbing my nipples until they harden and poke through the yellow blouse and regular bra.
The yellow blouse has only five hooks. By evening the top two are always open because my boobs keep pushing forward, so the edge of my regular bra and the top of my areolas peek out. Guests stare at the mangalsutra resting in the valley of my boobs, at the pantyline over my ass cheeks over the yellow saree, at the way sweat makes the yellow saree cling to my thighs. I smile, I bend, I let their eyes feast, because every extra tip goes into the steel box under my bed.
I never finished college, but this fair skin, these full lips, these 36-inch boobs that still stand proud after breastfeeding, and the way the yellow saree hugs my wide hips got me the job. I stand twelve hours straight, feet swollen inside cheap heels, back aching, boobs sore inside the tight yellow blouse and regular bra, pussy untouched for years, just to save those 2 lakhs for Varun’s college fees.
Every night I drag myself home, unpin the sweaty yellow saree, unhook the torture of the yellow blouse so my boobs spill free, pull off the clinging regular panties, and open the steel cupboard. There sit the two fat bundles of thousand-rupee notes, my blood, my pain, my swallowed pride.
I touch the key that hangs between my boobs along with my mangalsutra, the thaali brushing my nipples, and I whisper:
“Everything is for Varun. My pussy can stay dry, my boobs can ache inside this yellow blouse, my ass cheeks can carry pantyline marks forever, but my son will never beg.”
Those 2 lakhs are my life.
I will kill, I will die, I will spread my legs and give my pussy to anyone before I let that money disappear.


I stepped off that crowded bus in Chennai with one torn rexine bag in my hand and Varun sleeping against my boobs, still smelling of milk.
Inside the bag: exactly two regular bras, both white, already grey at the straps from too many washes; two regular panties, one blue, one faded pink, both with tiny holes near the elastic; three old sarees, one green, one maroon, one brown, all bought second-hand from the village market; and a heart burning with one single promise:
I will raise my son so high that the bastard who secretly tied this mangalsutra around my neck one drunken night, fucked me for months, filled my pussy with his cum, and ran away the moment my belly started showing, will one day choke on regret.
I still cannot believe how much I let that dog enjoy my body.
I remember every filthy detail.
I was nineteen, stupid, and starving for love. He would drag me behind the coconut grove, grab my boobs through my blouse, squeeze my nipples until I cried, then bend me over a stack of dry coconut leaves and ram his thick cock into my pussy from behind while I bit my own palm to stay quiet. He would fuck me standing against temple walls, in empty classrooms after tuition, on the riverbank under moonlight, always finishing deep inside me, always whispering “I will marry you, Malini, I swear on the goddess.” I would feel his hot cum flooding my pussy, dripping down my thighs while he tied my mangalsutra in a secret ceremony under a tree, only the two of us and a cheap priest he paid fifty rupees. I thought the thaali around my neck meant forever.
Three months later I was vomiting every morning, my boobs swollen and sore, my pussy still remembering the shape of his cock, and he was gone. Vanished. No note, no address, nothing. Just me, a swollen belly, and a mangalsutra that suddenly felt like a noose.
I cried for weeks, but tears don’t feed a baby.
So I packed those two bras, those two panties, those three sarees, took the night bus with Varun kicking inside me, and came to this city that smelled of sea and strangers. I slept on railway platforms, washed my panties in public toilets, fed Varun with one boob while I begged for work with the other boob leaking milk through my **blouse.
Every night I touched the thaali pendant resting between my boobs and made the same vow:
My son will study in the best college.
My son will wear crisp shirts and speak English.
My son will never know hunger.
And one day, when that bastard hears Varun’s name, he will burn with shame for abandoning the woman whose pussy he used like a free whore, whose boobs he sucked dry, whose womb he filled and then threw away.
That vow is why I stand twelve hours in this tight yellow saree and yellow blouse every day.
That vow is why I smile when drunk men stare at my boobs bouncing under the yellow blouse.
That vow is why I let their fingers brush my waist, why I bend lower than needed, why I swallow every insult, why I save every single rupee.
Because every coin that drops into my palm is another slap I send across that coward’s face.
Because every thousand-rupee note folded into that steel cupboard is another step Varun takes away from the dirt that man left us in.
Because the day Varun walks across the college stage in his mother will stand in the crowd wearing the same mangalsutra that liar tied, but now it will shine with pride, not shame.
And somewhere, wherever that dog is hiding, he will hear my son’s name and know:
I raised a king with the same pussy he once used and threw away.
That is my revenge.
That is my victory.
That is why those 2 lakhs locked in my cupboard are more sacred to me than my own heartbeat.

[novelistcasanova]

I knew nobody in Chennai.

The only roof that opened was a third-floor flat: father, mother, and grown son. They needed a live-in maid. I needed milk in Varun’s mouth. So I bowed and said yes.
From day one their hands were on my boobs and ass cheeks.
The father, a fat officer with grey chest hair spilling out of his banian, waited until his wife left for the market. Then he walked behind me while I swept the floor, grabbed both my ass cheeks over my saree, squeezed so hard my ass cheeks spilled between his fingers, and growled, “Malini, anything you need for the boy, just ask daddy.”
His son, twenty-two and already rotten, cornered me in the store room, rubbed his hard cock against my hip through his lungi while pretending to reach for rice, and hissed, “Your boobs look heavier every day, Malini.”
I swallowed the shame because the father used his influence and got Varun a 1st-standard seat in the city’s most reputed college. He walked into the principal’s office, introduced himself as Varun’s father, signed every form, paid the donation in cash, and made sure my son sat in the front bench while village kids were turned away. For that seat alone I let their filthy hands roam over my boobs and ass cheeks.
Every morning the father hugged me in the kitchen. He wrapped his thick arms around my waist, grabbed my ass cheeks over my saree, pulled me hard into his belly so his cock poked stiff against my navel through his dhoti, and said, “Don’t worry, Malini, I will raise Varun like my own son.”
I forced a smile, wrapped my arms around his neck, let my boobs crush against his chest, and whispered, “Thank you, sir… thank you for being his father,” while his cock throbbed and leaked against my saree.
On every Parents-Teacher Meeting day he made me wear his wife’s rich silk sarees. He stood behind me while I dbangd the saree, hooked the blouse for me, fingers brushing my nipples deliberately. Then he drove me to college in his car. During the entire meeting he sat beside me, held my hand under the table, rubbed slow circles on my palm until his dhoti rose with a shameless cock boner. Teachers thought we were husband and wife. I smiled and let him squeeze my fingers while his cock leaked pre-cum into his dhoti.
Back home, when his wife slept, he called me to the living room to “talk about Varun’s studies”. The second I entered he pulled me into a hug, grabbed both my ass cheeks over the silk saree, dug his fingers deep between my ass cheeks until the saree bunched into my crack, and growled, “Be my secret second wife, Malini. I will keep you in gold.”
Every single time I answered, “Sir, I only want my son’s future,” but I still let him hug me, still let him grab my ass cheeks, still let his cock rub hard against my belly because every promise he made meant another year of fees, another uniform, another college trip paid.
I hated his sweaty smell, hated the wet patch his cock left on my saree, hated the way his son stared at my boobs while I served food. But I swallowed it all because Varun came home with new books, new shoes, and a college badge that made him walk like a prince.
I told myself:
Let him grab my ass cheeks.
Let his cock harden against my belly.
Let him dream of fucking my pussy.
As long as my son’s tomorrow stays safe, I will carry his dirty fingerprints on my boobs and ass cheeks like medals.
One day I will walk out of that flat with my head high and my son’s hand in mine, and that man will only have the memory of the ass cheeks he squeezed and the boobs he never tasted.
Until then I smiled, I hugged back, I let his cock throb against my saree, and I counted every rupee he spent on Varun as blood money he would never truly repay.
Every night I scrubbed his touch off my boobs and ass cheeks, touched my mangalsutra, and whispered to Varun sleeping beside me:
“One day, baby… one day we will be free.”
The son’s name was Manoj.
Every year he flew in from the US for exactly two months, suitcase full of dollars and a mouth full of dreams. The moment he landed he started painting pictures in my head: Varun in an American college, Varun wearing Nike shoes, Varun speaking English like a native, Varun never knowing hunger or shame. He whispered these promises while his hand rested on my thigh under the dinner table, fingers slowly crawling higher until they rubbed the edge of my panties over my saree.
He bought me gifts no maid had ever touched: tight jeans that hugged my ass cheeks like paint, short t-shirts that stopped right below my bra, leaving my navel naked. He made me wear the jeans and t-shirts every evening when his parents slept. He stood behind me in front of the mirror, grabbed both my boobs over the t-shirt, squeezed my nipples until they poked hard against the t-shirt, and growled into my ear, “In America you will wear only these clothes, Malini. You will be my girlfriend there. Say yes.”
I looked at Varun sleeping in the corner and I said yes.
For the next sixty days I became Manoj’s secret girlfriend.
He paraded me in front of his friends: took me to Marina Beach, to Bessy, to his college gang reunions, one arm locked around my waist, hand openly grabbing my ass cheek over the tight jeans while his friends whistled. He introduced me as “my girl Malini from Chennai” and let them stare at my boobs bouncing inside the t-shirt, at the mangalsutra swinging between my boobs like a dirty trophy. They laughed and asked if I gave good head. Manoj just squeezed my ass cheeks harder and answered, “Better than your wives.”
At night he dragged me to the terrace, pushed me against the water tank, grabbed my boobs with both hands, sucked my nipples through the t-shirt until the t-shirt turned wet, then turned me around, rubbed his hard cock between my ass cheeks over the jeans, and promised, “I will take you and Varun to America. You just keep being my girlfriend.”
I let him do everything.
He fucked me on the terrace floor, on the backseat of his friend’s car, in five-star hotel rooms he booked for “meetings”. He ripped my jeans down to my knees, shoved my panties aside, and slammed his thick cock into my pussy while I bit my own arm to stay quiet. He grabbed my mangalsutra, wrapped the chain around his fist, pulled my head back and pounded me until my boobs slapped together and my pussy lips turned raw. He always finished deep inside me, flooding my pussy with hot cum, then kissed my forehead and repeated, “Soon we will live in America together, baby.”
I never came for pleasure. I came for the visa forms.
Every thrust he gave my pussy, every load he shot inside me, every time he grabbed my ass cheeks in public, I counted as down-payment on Varun’s American passport.
When the two months ended he flew back, promising next year he would file papers. I pulled my old sarees over my bruised boobs and leaking pussy, went back to scrubbing floors, and waited.
Year after year he returned, repeated the same game: new jeans, new t-shirts, new friends to show off my ass cheeks, new promises, new cum deep in my pussy.
I kept spreading my legs, kept letting him grab my boobs in public, kept swallowing his lies, because every time he left he sent money for Varun’s college fees and whispered, “Next year, Malini, next year.”
I hated the taste of his cum, hated the smell of his cologne on my boobs, hated the way my pussy still clenched when he called me “baby”. But I smiled, I opened my legs, I let him use me like a girlfriend, because Varun’s future was worth more than my body.
One day he will keep the promise, or one day he will learn that a mother’s pussy is the most expensive thing a man can ever rent.
Until then I wear the jeans he bought, let him grab my ass cheeks in front of the world, and keep my mangalsutra swinging between my boobs while he fucks me senseless, because every drop of his cum inside me is another step toward America for my son.

[novelistcasanova]

The father’s name was Sathiyamoorthy.

He started feeding me the dream of a permanent government job: fixed hours, pension, medical benefits, and most of all, lifetime security for Varun after I’m gone. I began tasting that dream every night when I touched my mangalsutra and pictured myself walking into a government office in a starched saree, people standing up when I entered.
He bought me expensive silk sarees and matching blouses, made me wear them, and paraded me at his friends’ houses as “my young second wife Malini”, his fat hand openly grabbing my ass cheek over the new saree while his friends stared at my boobs straining the blouse.
Every few weeks he sent his wife to Tirupathi or Tiruvannamalai with her friend, handed her cash, and the second the door shut he dragged me to their master bedroom. He ripped the pallu off my shoulder, grabbed both my boobs over the blouse, squeezed my nipples until I gasped, then pushed me onto his wife’s bed. He lifted my saree and petticoat to my waist, shoved my panties down to my knees, spread my pussy lips with rough fingers and slammed his thick cock into me while growling, “You will be my second wife, Malini.”
I wrapped my legs around his back, let him pound my pussy raw, let him flood my womb with his hot cum again and again, and answered every time, “Yes, Sir… only get me the government job.”
He laughed, grabbed my mangalsutra, pulled my boobs to his mouth, sucked my nipples until they turned purple, and promised, “Next month your file will reach the minister, I swear.”
I never came for pleasure.
I came only for the government job.
Every thrust into my pussy, every load shot deep inside me, every time he grabbed my ass cheeks or boobs was payment toward that permanent post. I spread my legs on his wife’s bed, on the dining table, against the fridge, in the bathroom under the shower, wherever he wanted, because every drop of his cum inside my pussy was another signature on the application he swore he was pushing.
He acted like Varun’s real father in public: dropped him at college in his government car, attended every meeting holding my hand, paid fees in cash, bought books and uniforms, made everyone believe my son belonged to a rich officer. Because of him neighbours called Varun “officer sir’s son” and gave him respect no maid’s child ever gets.
For that respect and for the government job I let him fuck me whenever his wife left town.
I wore the silk sarees he gifted, let him introduce me as his young second wife, let his friends slap my ass cheeks over the saree, let him grab my boobs while they drank, because every dirty touch moved my file forward.
I hated the smell of his sweat on my boobs, hated the sticky cum drying between my pussy lips, hated how my body still shivered when he called me “second wife”. But I opened my legs wider, moaned “Sir, harder” when he asked, begged him to cum inside “for luck”, because a mother will rent her pussy a million times if it buys her son a government future.
I never came for pleasure.
I came only for the government job.
One day the appointment order will arrive, or one day he will learn that a mother’s pussy is the highest price any man ever paid for empty promises.
Until then I wear his silk sarees, let him fuck me in every room of his house, let him call me his young second wife, and keep my mangalsutra swinging between my boobs while his cock fills my pussy again and again, because every thrust is another stamp on the file that will one day set Varun free forever.
While I was selling my pussy to dreams (to Manoj’s American Dream and to Sathiyamoorthy Sir’s government-job promises), I was quietly saving every extra rupee that fell into my hands.
Tip money, festival bonus, the cash Sathiyamoorthy Sir slipped into my bra after fucking me, the dollars Manoj stuffed into my panties after shooting his load inside my pussy (every single note went into a secret biscuit tin hidden under my clothes in the servant room).
With that blood-and-cum money I bought a tiny plot of land on the outskirts (just 3 cents, but it was mine and Varun’s).
I needed to put up at least a small house before Varun grew too old to believe his mother could give him a real roof. So I collected 2 lakhs in cash again, wrapped the bundles in plastic, and handed them to a construction-material supplier named Venkatesh Jayanna.
I still remember the day: I stood in his shop in my saree, mangalsutra resting between my sweaty boobs, handed him the two bundles across the counter, and begged, “Anna, please send cement, bricks, sand, steel… I want to build my son’s house.”
He smiled, counted the notes in front of me, nodded, and promised delivery in fifteen days.
Fifteen days came. Nothing.
One month. Nothing.
Three months. Nothing.
I went to his shop again and again, stood with folded hands while customers stared at my boobs straining the yellow blouse, and begged for my 2 lakhs back or the materials. He laughed, called me “maid whore”, and told me to get lost.
That night I knelt in front of the small lamp in my room, touched my mangalsutra, looked at Varun sleeping, and cursed Venkatesh Jayanna from the deepest part of my heart:
“Let every rupee he stole from a mother’s womb burn him.
Let his children taste hunger.
Let his wife cry blood.
Let his body rot while he still breathes.
Until he returns every paisa that belongs to my son’s future.”
Within weeks the curse started working.
His lorry business collapsed.
His elder son lost everything in gambling.
His daughter’s husband threw her out after catching her in bed with another man; divorce papers came.
His younger son turned to drugs and disappeared.
His wife fell into debt, creditors attached every property, court seals went up on his house and godown.
Then came the stroke.
One morning Venkatesh Jayanna collapsed in his shop, half his body paralyzed, drooling, unable to speak. Doctors said he would never walk again. His wife sold her mangalsutra and gold bangles to pay hospital bills, but nothing helped.
Six months later his men arrived at my doorstep with three lorries: cement bags, bricks, sand, steel rods, everything worth exactly 2 lakhs and more, unloaded in front of my empty plot while neighbours watched.
He sent a message through his driver:
“Amma, forgive me… take the material… the rest of my life is already hell.”
I stood in my old saree, mangalsutra shining between my boobs, looked at the mountain of bricks that would become Varun’s room, and felt no pity.
I felt justice.
I touched the thaali pendant, whispered thanks to the goddess who listens to mothers, and told the driver,
“Tell him the debt is settled.
But the curse stays until he takes his last breath.”
Today his daughter begs on the streets, his sons are paupers, his wife sells flowers at the temple, and Venkatesh Jayanna lies on a cot, shitting in diapers, waiting for death.
And on my land the walls are rising, brick by brick, paid for with the same 2 lakhs he tried to swallow.
Never steal from a mother’s pussy money.
The goddess keeps better accounts than any bank.

[novelistcasanova]

My tiny 20 × 25 plot now had a ground-floor room, but I wanted more.

I wanted five full floors shooting into the sky, rented rooms, steady cash flow, a concrete tower that screamed “Varun will never beg again.”
I needed crores, not lakhs.
I went to Sathiyamoorthy Sir on a Sunday when his wife was at the temple.
I wore my best silk saree, pallu low so my boobs swelled over the tight blouse, mangalsutra resting deep between them. I knelt in front of him, folded my hands, and begged, “Sir, I want to build five floors. Please help me get loans, permits… and the government job you promised.”
He stared at my boobs heaving with every breath, licked his lips, and answered, “Both will happen, Malini. The job file is moving. The bank loan I will sanction myself. But you must obey me completely.”
From that day the game changed.
Every weekend when his wife left town he locked the master-bedroom door, opened his laptop, and played the same porn: wrinkled grandpas in their sixties and seventies owning young girls my age. Grey hair, sagging balls, veiny cocks, but total control.
He stripped me naked, sat me on the bed with my legs wide, pussy lips spread, mangalsutra swinging between my boobs, and forced me to watch.
He copied every move.
When the old man on screen grabbed the girl’s boobs from behind and crushed her nipples, Sir grabbed my boobs from behind and crushed my nipples exactly the same.
When the old man bent the girl over the table, lifted her saree, shoved her panties aside and hammered his wrinkled cock into her pussy, Sir bent me over the same table, lifted my saree, shoved my panties aside and hammered his fat cock into my pussy with the same brutal rhythm.
When the old man made the girl ride reverse, boobs bouncing, mangalsutra slapping her chest, Sir lay back on his wife’s bed and made me climb on top reverse, my pussy swallowing his cock while my boobs bounced and my mangalsutra slapped my chest exactly like the video.
And when the old man roared and pumped thick ropes of cum deep inside the young pussy, flooding her womb, I closed my eyes and pretended it was that stranger grandpa breeding me, not Sir’s hot cum splashing my cervix, not his wrinkled balls slapping my clit, not his old hands squeezing my boobs while he emptied himself.
I never came for Sathiyamoorthy Sir’s pleasure.
I came only for the bank loan and the government job.
But those videos woke something filthy inside me.
Every time the old man on screen groaned and unloaded his balls inside the girl, my pussy clenched hard around Sir’s cock and I secretly wished it was that stranger’s cum flooding me, breeding me, owning me.
Sir noticed.
He started calling me “my little porn-girl”, made me beg in the same slutty voice the actresses used, made me spread my pussy lips with my own fingers and show the laptop camera how soaked I was while he recorded “for memory”.
He promised, “Keep obeying like this and your five floors will rise faster than my cock.”
So I obeyed.
I let him fuck me exactly like every dirty old man in every video.
I spread my ass cheeks when he wanted my asshole.
I opened my mouth when he wanted to paint my mangalsutra with cum.
I rode him, I knelt, I begged, I screamed “Sir, fill your young second wife” while secretly fantasizing about the wrinkled grandpas on screen breeding me raw.
Every load he shot inside my pussy was another stamp on my loan file.
Every drop drying on my boobs was another signature on my government-job order.
I hated the taste of his sweat, hated the smell of his old cock, hated how my pussy still squirted when those videos played.
But I spread my legs wider, took his cock deeper, milked his balls dry, because five floors and a government job were worth more than my shame.
One day the loan will clear, the appointment order will come, and the building will rise.
Until then I watch those old-man videos with my legs open, let Sathiyamoorthy Sir copy every filthy thrust, and secretly cum harder than ever while dreaming of a stranger grandpa’s cum flooding my pussy instead of his.
A mother’s pussy can survive anything her son’s future demands, even the dirtiest fantasies.
Manoj landed again, this time with a giant African-American man in tow.
The man’s name was Tyrone.
Ugly the way only raw power can be ugly: thick gorilla lips, wide flat nose, shaved head shining under the colour of engine oil, arms thicker than my thighs, chest like a wall. When he smiled his teeth flashed white against midnight skin and his eyes crawled over my boobs and ass cheeks like he already owned them.
From the first hour Tyrone stared at me openly, licking those huge lips every time I bent to serve coffee, eyes locked on my mangalsutra swinging between my boobs in the low-cut blouse.
That same night Manoj pulled me into the guest room, locked the door, and laid out the new plan.
“Malini, listen carefully. Tyrone is a US citizen. If the embassy believes you two are a real couple, he can file for you and Varun. Green card, citizenship, everything. But they need proof: photos, videos, intimate ones. You have to pose with him, let him touch you, let him fuck you on camera. Only then will the file move.”
I looked at Varun sleeping in the next room and felt my heart split in half.
Manoj continued, “**Just two weeks. Act like his woman. Let him grab your boobs, let him kiss you, let him record his black cock inside your pussy. The embassy loves interracial couples. They will eat it up.”
I swallowed the vomit in my throat and whispered, “For Varun’s passport?”
“For Varun’s American passport,” he confirmed.
So I agreed.
The next fourteen days became a filmed nightmare I sold my soul for.
Tyrone wasted no time.
Morning: he sat on the sofa, pulled me onto his lap in front of Manoj’s phone camera, wrapped one massive black hand around my waist, the other grabbed my left boob over the saree, squeezed until my nipple poked hard against the pallu, and kissed me deep, those gorilla lips swallowing my mouth while Manoj recorded every second.
Afternoon: he made me wear tight jeans and crop t-shirt, took me to the terrace, stood behind me, both black hands openly grabbing my ass cheeks over the jeans, grinding his already-hard cock between my ass cheeks while Manoj clicked photos for “couple album”.
Night: the real filming began.
He stripped me naked in the guest room, phone on tripod, red light blinking.
He pushed me to my knees, pulled out his monstrous black cock, thick as my wrist, veins like ropes, huge balls hanging low, and ordered, “Kiss it for the camera, baby.”
I closed my eyes, thought of Varun in an American college, and opened my mouth.
Tyrone grabbed my hair, fed inch after inch down my throat until tears ran, then pulled out and slapped that wet cock across my boobs, leaving shiny trails on my mangalsutra.
He threw me on the bed face-down, spread my ass cheeks, spat on my asshole, and shoved two thick fingers inside while the camera rolled. Then he mounted me, rubbed that giant cock head between my pussy lips, and pushed.
I screamed into the pillow as my pussy stretched wider than ever before.
He fucked me slow and brutal for the camera, black hands crushing my boobs, pulling my mangalsutra like reins, growling in my ear, “Tell the embassy you my woman now.”
Every night he finished the same way: roared like an animal and pumped thick ropes of African cum deep into my pussy, flooding my womb while Manoj zoomed in on my pussy lips gripping that black cock, cum already leaking out.
Some nights he flipped me over, made me ride him reverse cowgirl so the camera caught my boobs bouncing and my mangalsutra slapping my chest while his black cock disappeared inside me again and again.
Some nights he took my asshole, slow at first, then savage, until my ass cheeks turned red from his slaps and his cum dripped from both holes.
Every video ended with him kissing my forehead, saying loud for the microphone, “I love my Indian wife Malini,” while I lay trembling, pussy and asshole ruined, cum pooling under me, thinking only of the green card.
I never came for pleasure.
I came only for Varun’s American future.
But my body betrayed me every single time, pussy gushing the moment that monster cock stretched me, clit throbbing when those gorilla lips sucked my nipples, asshole clenching when he filled it with cum.
I hated myself for every squirt, every moan, every time my hips pushed back to take him deeper.
When the two weeks ended Tyrone flew back with a hard drive full of me being his black-owned slut.
Manoj kissed my cheek and promised, “**File goes to embassy next month.”

[novelistcasanova]

I pulled my old saree over my bruised boobs and leaking pussy, touched my mangalsutra, looked at Varun playing outside, and whispered to the goddess:

“Let this be the last time I sell my pussy for a passport.”
But if it brings my son to America, I will spread my legs for the devil himself.
Because a mother’s pussy belongs to her child’s tomorrow, no matter how black, how ugly, or how deep it has to take the cock that buys that tomorrow.
Manoj landed again, this time dragging an even uglier African-American behind him.
His name was Darius.
If Tyrone was ugly, Darius was a nightmare carved from muscle and midnight.
Lips twice as thick as Tyrone’s, two swollen black cushions that looked like they could swallow my entire mouth. Nose flat and wide, eyes blood-shot, teeth big and yellow, neck thicker than my waist, arms like tree trunks covered in prison tattoos. When he grinned the room smelled of cheap whiskey and cigarettes.
The first thing Manoj told me in private:
“Tyrone got locked up for shoplifting in Atlanta. Forget him. Darius is fresh out of Chicago, real US citizen, clean record this time. Same deal: you become his Indian fiancée on camera, he files for you and Varun. Embassy eats up black-brown love stories. Just give him two weeks of photos and videos.”
I stared at Varun colouring in his college book and felt my stomach drop.
“For Varun’s passport?” I whispered.
“For Varun’s passport, citizenship, everything,” Manoj promised.
So I nodded.
I looked at Varun sleeping and heard my own voice answer, “Yes.”
The next fourteen days became a slow, filthy, passionate surrender I never expected.
Darius didn’t grab like Tyrone.
He worshipped.
First thing every morning he sat me on the kitchen counter, lifted my saree and petticoat to my waist, hooked his thick black fingers into the waistband of my panties, dragged them down my thighs, over my knees, let them drop to the floor, spread my thighs wide, and kissed me like a starving man.
Those gorilla lips swallowed my entire mouth, thick and rubbery, wet and hot, tasting of cheap whiskey and raw lust. His wide tongue pushed past my teeth, licked the roof of my mouth, curled around my tongue, sucked it deep until drool ran down my chin and soaked my mangalsutra. He kissed me for twenty minutes straight without coming up for air, lips smacking loud, gold teeth clicking against mine, until my lips were swollen and shiny with his spit.
Then he dropped to his knees and licked me from head to toe like I was dessert.
Started at my forehead, dragged that thick wet tongue down my nose, across my swollen lips, down my neck, between my boobs, circled each nipple a hundred times until they stood hard and aching, then down my belly, into my navel, across every stretch mark, down to my pussy lips. He spread my pussy lips with gentle black fingers, licked my clit slow and worshipping, pushed his tongue inside my pussy like a mini cock, then lower, licked the skin between pussy and asshole, finally buried his whole face between my ass cheeks and tongue-fucked my asshole until I shook.
He smelled strong, musky, animal, sweat and cologne and something wild, but the way he licked me so perfectly that for long minutes I forgot the gorilla face and only felt the tongue owning every hole.
At night the camera rolled and Darius made love to me like I was the only woman in the world.
He laid me on the bed, kissed those thick lips down my entire body again, whispering over and over, “I love you, baby… love every inch of you… you my queen,” then slid his long, curved black cock into my pussy inch by inch, eyes locked on mine, murmuring, “You so beautiful… this pussy mine forever… I love you, Malini.”
He moved slow, deep, passionate, hips rolling like waves, cock stroking every wall inside my pussy, cock head kissing my cervix with every thrust. His huge black hands cradled my boobs, fingers rubbing my nipples gently, mangalsutra swinging between us with every stroke.
Manoj sat in the corner, phone in one hand recording, the other stroking his own cock furiously, moaning every time Darius bottomed out inside me.
My body betrayed me from the first night.
His slow, loving strokes built a fire I couldn’t fight. My pussy gripped his cock tighter, my hips rose to meet his cock, my clit throbbed against his body. When the wave finally crested I lost control.
“Mmmmmmmm mmmmmmm mmmmm” I moaned as I was about to cum.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaah…!” I moaned and began cumming all over his cock, my pussy spasming, gushing hot juices around his cock, legs shaking, tears running down my face.
Only then did he speed up, grabbed my ass cheeks, lifted me off the bed, pounded deep five, six, seven times and roared as he flooded my pussy with thick African cum, pulse after pulse, until it leaked out around his cock and soaked the sheets.
When the last spurt left his balls and he collapsed whispering “I love you” against my swollen lips, the haze lifted.
I opened my eyes and saw the gorilla face hovering over me, thick lips glistening with my juices, gold teeth shining, ugly as ever.
Shock hit me like cold water.
I had just cum harder than ever for this ugly African gorilla, my body had melted under his touch, my pussy had milked his cock like it belonged there, all while he poured sweet love words into my ears.
Every night the same ritual: slow worship, passionate lovemaking, his endless “I love you”, my orgasms first, his cum deep inside me while Manoj jerked off and recorded every drop.
By the end of two weeks my pussy knew the shape of Darius’s cock better than my own fingers. My lips stayed swollen from his gorilla kisses. My boobs and ass cheeks carried gentle fingerprints instead of bruises.
When he left he kissed me soft at the airport, slipped the memory card into Manoj’s hand and said loud, “Tell the embassy this my woman. I coming for her soon.”
I touched my still-throbbing pussy through my saree, felt his cum dried inside me, and whispered to myself:
“I never came for pleasure.
I came only for Varun’s green card.”
But every night since then, when I close my eyes, I still taste those thick African lips and feel that perfect cock stroking my soul, and I hate myself for how much my body loved every second of that ugly gorilla making love to me.
A mother’s pussy will forgive any face, any smell, any ugliness,
if it buys her son an American tomorrow.
Months passed.
Manoj vanished like smoke.
No call, no message, no update on Darius, no embassy file, no green card. The memory card full of my pussy stretched around black cock, my boobs bouncing for the camera, my moans for an ugly gorilla’s cum, all wasted. I touched my mangalsutra every night and cursed him silently, but the silence from America was complete.
Meanwhile Sathiyamoorthy Sir kept his side of the bargain moving.
One afternoon he called me to his house, handed me a new silk saree, deep red, thin enough to show every curve, and ordered me to wear it with the matching blouse and petticoat.
“We are going to the bank today, Malini. The manager is my old classmate. He will sanction the loan for your five floors. Just smile and obey me.”
I dbangd the red saree tight, pleats tucked deep between my thighs, pallu low so my boobs swelled against the blouse, mangalsutra resting in the valley between them. My panties were simple white panties, hugging my pussy and ass cheeks tight, the pantyline visible over my ass cheeks over the saree.
He drove me to the bank in his government car, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on my thigh, fingers slowly crawling under the saree folds.
The bank manager’s cabin was air-conditioned, private, blinds half-drawn. The manager, a thin man with greedy eyes, greeted Sir warmly, then looked at me like fresh meat.
Sir wasted no time.
He locked the door, turned to the manager, and said, “My young second wife needs a big loan. Show him what you are offering as security.”
Before I could speak he stood behind me, grabbed the hem of my saree and petticoat together with both hands, and lifted them all the way up to my waist in one swift motion.
My panties came into full view, white panties hugging my pussy and ass cheeks, the outline of my pussy lips clearly visible under the panties. My ass cheeks round and naked below the lifted saree, pantyline hugging deep across each ass cheek.
The attending clerk, a young boy standing in the corner, stared wide-eyed at my exposed panties, mouth open, eyes glued to my pussy over the panties, the panties hugging my pussy mound.
I burned with shame, face hot, tears pricking my eyes, but I stood still because five floors and Varun’s future depended on this loan.

[novelistcasanova]

Sir laughed, slapped my ass cheek over the panties, making it jiggle for the manager, and said, “See how ripe she is? This body is my guarantee. Sanction the loan today and maybe next time I let you touch.”

The manager licked his lips, leaned forward in his chair, eyes fixed on my pussy over the panties, the panties hugging my pussy mound under his stare. He adjusted his lungi, clearly hard, and stammered, “Of course, sir… full amount… no problem… papers ready by evening.”
Sir kept my saree and petticoat lifted for another full minute, letting both men feast on my panties hugging my pussy and ass cheeks, letting the clerk see every curve of my pussy lips and ass cheeks under the panties, then slowly lowered the saree back down.
He teased the manager all the way out: “Next time I bring her without panties, eh?” while the manager nodded eagerly and the clerk stood frozen, probably hard in his pants.
In the car on the way home Sir grabbed my boobs over the blouse, squeezed my nipples hard, and laughed, “You saw how easy it was? One flash of your panty-hugging pussy and the loan is yours. Men are dogs, Malini. Use it.”
I sat silent, thighs clenched, pussy still tingling from the humiliation, panties hugging my pussy lips damp with shame, shame and anger burning inside me.
But when the sanction letter came the next day, full amount, low interest, twenty-year repayment, I folded it carefully, slipped it between my boobs next to my mangalsutra, and whispered to Varun that night:
“Forgive amma, baby.
Your building is coming.
Floor by floor, no matter how many men stare at amma’s panties hugging amma’s pussy, no matter how many times amma has to lift her saree.”
Because a mother’s shame is nothing compared to her son’s sky-high future.
I will lift my saree a thousand times if it builds Varun a palace.
The construction started.
Cement mixer roaring, workers shouting, steel rods rising floor by floor on my little plot. Every stage needed money released from the bank, every release needed the manager’s signature, and every signature needed my pussy.
The bank manager and his attender started visiting the site after every moulding was complete.
They came in the afternoon when the sun was hottest, workers sweating, me in a simple daily-wear saree, usually cheap polyester that stuck to my boobs and ass cheeks with sweat, mangalsutra swinging between my boobs as I supervised.
The moment their car stopped, the manager stepped out, looked around at the workers, and ordered in a loud voice, “Take a two-hour break, everyone. Tea and snacks on me.”
Workers happily left, leaving me alone with the two men among half-built walls and piles of bricks.
The manager locked the temporary gate, turned to me with a filthy grin, and said, “Time to pay interest on your loan, Malini.”
He grabbed my saree pallu, pulled it off my shoulder, let it fall to the dusty ground.
Then he unhooked my blouse one by one, exposed my bra, grabbed both boobs over the bra, squeezed hard until my nipples poked against the cups.
His attender watched, already rubbing his cock through his pants.
The manager lifted my petticoat along with the saree, tied them in a knot at my waist, hooked his fingers into my panties, dragged them down my thighs, let them drop around my ankles.
I stepped out naked except for bra and the knotted saree bunch at my waist, pussy exposed, ass cheeks naked in the open air, mangalsutra shining between my boobs.
The manager went first.
He pushed me against a freshly moulded concrete pillar still rough and dusty, grabbed my ass cheeks, spread them wide, rubbed his hard cock between my pussy lips a few times, then slammed inside raw.
He fucked me standing, hands crushing my boobs over the bra, mangalsutra slapping my chest with every thrust, grunting, “This pussy pays better interest than any document.”
I bit my lip, stared at the rising walls, and thought only of Varun living in the finished house.
He pounded until his balls tightened, then roared and shot thick ropes of cum deep into my pussy, filling me until it dripped down my thighs.
He pulled out, wiped his cock on my ass cheek, and stepped aside.
The attender took his turn immediately.
Younger, rougher, he spun me around, bent me over a stack of cement bags, grabbed my boobs hanging under the bra, squeezed my nipples hard, and rammed his cock into my cum-slick pussy from behind.
He fucked faster, slapping my ass cheeks red, pulling my mangalsutra like reins, groaning, “Manager sir said I can use you too… thank you, amma.”
I closed my eyes, felt the second load building, and when he finally exploded inside my pussy, adding his cum to the manager’s, I stayed bent over, dripping from both men onto the construction dust.
They made me stay naked while they smoked, pussy leaking their mixed cum down my legs, boobs still in the bra, mangalsutra sticky with sweat.
Only when they finished their cigarettes did they allow me to pull up my panties (soaked now with cum), lower my saree and petticoat, hook my blouse, and dbang the pallu again.
The manager patted my ass cheek over the saree one last time and said, “Next moulding, same time. Keep the pussy ready.”
They left, and the workers returned none the wiser.
This became routine.
After every floor moulding, the two-hour break, my saree lifted or removed, blouse unhooked, bra pushed up or down, panties dragged off, my pussy and sometimes asshole used one after the other, filled with their cum, then dressed again.
I never came for pleasure.
I came only for the loan installments that kept the construction going.
But my pussy still got wet every time their car pulled up, knowing what was coming, knowing the building rose higher with every load they shot inside me.
Floor by floor, cum by cum, the house grew.
I touched my mangalsutra at night, felt the dried cum in my panties, and whispered to Varun:
“One day you will live in this palace, baby.
And you will never know how many cocks amma took to build every brick.”
Because a mother’s pussy is the strongest foundation any house can have.
I will spread my ass cheeks and open my pussy lips as many times as it takes to give my son the sky.
One evening after the workers left, I stood on the third-floor slab, dust on my saree, sweat making the blouse stick to my boobs, mangalsutra heavy between them.
My pussy still ached from the manager and attender’s latest visit, cum dried inside my panties, ass cheeks sore from slaps.
I broke.
I went to Sathiyamoorthy Sir that same night, fell at his feet in his living room, saree pallu slipping off my shoulder, boobs almost spilling from the blouse, and cried, “Sir, please… the bank manager and his attender are using me too much. After every moulding they send workers away, remove my saree, blouse, petticoat, bra, panties, and fuck my pussy one after the other. My pussy cannot take it anymore. Please stop them.”
He looked down at me, eyes soft for the first time in years, lifted me by my shoulders, sat me on the sofa, and wiped my tears.
“Enough, Malini. You told me now, it stops today. The loan is already sanctioned. They have no reason to touch you again. From tomorrow no one comes to the site except workers.”
He made one phone call right in front of me.
“Listen, the girl complained. The fun is over. Release the next installments without visiting the site. If I hear you went there again, I will transfer you to a village branch where even dogs won’t piss on you.”
He hung up, pulled me into a hug, grabbed my boobs gently over the blouse for comfort, not lust, and said softly, “No one will touch you for the loan again. Build your house in peace.”
From the next day the construction continued smoothly.
Workers came, poured concrete, tied steel, laid bricks, floor after floor rising without interruption.
No more surprise cars.
No more two-hour “breaks”.
No more lifted saree, removed panties, double cum loads dripping down my thighs in the dust.
The manager released money on time, scared of Sir’s threat.
The attender never showed his face again.
I supervised in peace, saree pallu in place, mangalsutra swinging freely between my boobs, pussy healing, ass cheeks no longer red from slaps.
Every evening I climbed the unfinished stairs, looked at the growing building, touched the fresh concrete still warm from the sun, and whispered to Varun in my heart:
“See, baby?
Amma stopped the dogs.
These walls are rising clean now.
No more cum payment for bricks.
Only amma’s sweat and love.”
The house kept growing taller, stronger, paid for, protected, and finally mine alone to give my son.
Because even a whore mother has a limit,
and when she speaks, real men listen.
My pussy rested,
my building rose, and Varun’s future stood safe at last.
The call came at dawn.
His wife’s voice shook on the phone, “Malini, come quickly. Sathiyamoorthy is on his death bed. He is asking for you. Manoj has not reached from America yet.”
I dropped everything, dbangd my everyday blue saree in a hurry, pallu nakedly pinned, blouse hooked crooked, mangalsutra swinging loose between my boobs, and rushed to their house.
The living room was full of relatives whispering, his wife surrounded by cousins and sisters, crying into her saree pallu.
I walked straight to the bedroom as directed.
He was alone.

[novelistcasanova]

The room smelled of medicines and death. Sathiyamoorthy Sir lay propped on pillows, face grey, eyes sunken, breathing shallow through an oxygen tube. The moment he saw me his eyes lit up with the last fire left in him.

He lifted one trembling hand, pointed at the door, and rasped, “Lock.”
I locked the bedroom door, heart pounding.
He looked at my saree-clad body, eyes hungry even in death, and with great difficulty began pulling at my pallu with weak fingers.
Tears filled my eyes.
I understood.
This man had used my pussy for years, promised me dreams, given me loans, protected me from worse men, and now, on his death bed, he wanted one last look, one last touch of the body he had owned so many times.
I stepped closer, emotional, voice breaking, “Sir… let me help.”
I pulled the pallu off my shoulder myself, let the saree fall to the floor in a heap.
He watched, breathing harder.
I unhooked my blouse, let it drop, exposed my bra cupping my boobs.
His eyes begged.
I unhooked the bra, let my boobs spill free, nipples hardening in the cool air, mangalsutra resting between them.
He nodded weakly.
I untied my petticoat string, let it fall, stepped out.
Only panties remained.
I hooked my fingers into the waistband, dragged my panties down my thighs, over my knees, stepped out naked.
Completely naked except for the mangalsutra shining between my boobs.
He looked at my pussy, my ass cheeks, my nipples, my mangalsutra, eyes filling with tears of lust and farewell.
With the last strength in his body he patted the bed beside him.
I climbed on, emotional, tears rolling down my cheeks.
He grabbed my waist with surprising force, pulled me on top of him, spread my thighs wide with shaking hands so I straddled his wasted hips.
His cock, surprisingly hard one final time, poked up from his lungi.
I reached down, lifted his lungi, guided his cock to my pussy lips, and sank down slowly.
He groaned deep, hands grabbing my ass cheeks, pulling me down until his cock filled my pussy completely.
I rode him gently, boobs bouncing softly, mangalsutra swinging between us, tears dropping onto his chest.
He looked into my eyes, whispered with his last breath, “Thank you… my second wife…”
His hips gave one weak thrust upward, cock throbbing inside my pussy, balls tightening against my ass cheeks.
Then he came.
Hot, thick spurts of dying cum shot deep into my pussy, flooding my womb one final time.
His hands loosened on my ass cheeks.
His eyes lost focus.
His chest stopped rising.
Sathiyamoorthy Sir died with his cock buried inside my pussy, his final load warm in my womb.
I stayed on top of him, naked, pussy gripping his softening cock, cum starting to leak out around him, boobs heaving with silent sobs, mangalsutra resting on his still chest.
Minutes passed.
I finally climbed off, his dead cock slipping out of my pussy with a wet sound, his last cum dripping down my thighs.
I dressed slowly: pulled up my panties soaked with his final load, tied my petticoat, hooked my bra, buttoned my blouse, dbangd my saree, pinned the pallu.
I touched my mangalsutra, now carrying the weight of his death, felt his cum warm inside my panties, and whispered to his body:
“Thank you, Sir.
For everything.
Rest now.”
I opened the door, told his wife calmly, “He is gone.”
They rushed in crying.
I stood aside, naked under my saree, pussy full of a dead man’s cum, and felt strangely at peace.
He had taken from me for years.
I had given him the most intimate goodbye any man could ask.
His death inside my pussy was the final payment on every promise he ever kept.
The house construction continued.
The loan kept flowing.
And deep inside my pussy, his last warmth slowly cooled,
a secret only my body and I would ever know.
A mother’s pussy gives life.
Sometimes, it also gives death a gentle end.
Sathiyamoorthy Sir was gone.
His ashes had scattered into the river, his wife had moved away, Manoj remained silent in America, and suddenly there was nobody left in the world to help me.
The multi-storey house now had the ground floor fully completed and fully furnished: proper walls, tiled floor, doors, windows, a small kitchen with gas stove, one bedroom with a double bed, steel cupboard, dressing table, and a bathroom with running water. Varun and I lived there comfortably, the upper floors still rising above us.
All the money I had, every salary rupee, every loan installment, every saved paisa had poured into bricks and cement.
I had nothing left.
Nothing except the 2 lakhs hidden inside the steel cupboard in our bedroom.
Two tight bundles of thousand-rupee notes wrapped in plastic, locked behind a small padlock, the key hanging on a black thread between my boobs, resting against my mangalsutra.
That 2 lakhs was untouchable.
It was Varun’s final-year college fees, the last date tomorrow.
Varun was studying in the college hostel three hours away by bus from the small place where I worked as a Receptionist, and was waiting for me to bring the cash so he could pay before the office closed and they barred him from exams.
Tomorrow morning I had to take the early bus, reach the hostel, hand him the bundles, watch him pay at the college office, hug him goodbye, and return home relieved.
Tonight I sat on the double bed in our fully furnished ground-floor bedroom, wearing my old green saree, pallu tucked at my waist after cooking, blouse loose from the day’s heat, mangalsutra glinting between my boobs under the tube light.
I opened the steel cupboard, took out the plastic-wrapped bundles, hugged them to my boobs, felt the crisp notes against my blouse, and whispered to the quiet room:
“Tomorrow, baby.
Tomorrow amma reaches the hostel, gives you this money, and your degree is safe.”
I kissed the bundles, placed them back carefully, locked the cupboard, hung the key again between my boobs where it always stayed, warm against my nipples through the blouse.
I lay down on our soft double bed with clean sheets in the fully furnished bedroom, saree riding slightly up my thighs, panties hugging my pussy and ass cheeks, mangalsutra resting in the valley between my boobs, and fell into deep, exhausted sleep.
The ground floor was fully completed and fully furnished, doors locked, windows shut, the upper floors silent skeletons above.
The night was still.
The house was safe.
The 2 lakhs waited in the cupboard for tomorrow’s bus journey to the hostel.
Little did I know a thief was already outside, watching through a small gap in the window curtain, eyes fixed on the steel cupboard, waiting for the deepest hour of night to slip in and steal my son’s entire future.
Tomorrow was the last date for fees.
Varun waited in the hostel.
Tonight was the night my world would break open.
My pussy would become the only wall between that thief and my son’s 2 lakhs.
But I did not know it yet.
I slept peacefully on the double bed in our fully furnished ground floor, mangalsutra rising and falling with my boobs, key warm between them, dreaming of handing the bundles to Varun at the hostel gate tomorrow, seeing his smile, knowing his degree was secure.
The thief waited in the dark.
The night grew heavier.
And fate sharpened its cruelest knife for a mother who had nothing left to give except her body.
The deepest hour of night arrived.
I lay asleep on the double bed in our fully furnished ground-floor bedroom, wearing my yellow saree and matching yellow blouse, pallu displaced slightly from tossing in sleep, exposing the deep navel in my midriff, mangalsutra resting between my heavy boobs, key to the steel cupboard still hanging on the black thread between my boobs.
The bedroom door creaked open silently.
Two thieves slipped inside like shadows.
One tall and rough, the other shorter but stronger, both masked with cloths over their mouths, eyes shining with greed.
They moved straight to the old steel cupboard in the corner, the one I called my bero, the one holding Varun’s 2 lakhs.
The tall thief took out a crowbar from his bag and began working on the lock, metal scbanging softly against metal.
The noise woke me.
I sat up bolt upright on the bed, heart slamming against my boobs, mangalsutra swinging wildly.
“Who are you? Get out!” I screamed, lunging toward them.
The shorter thief moved faster.
He dropped behind me, grabbed me from behind, one arm locking around my waist, the other bringing a long knife to my throat, cold blade hugging my neck just below my mangalsutra.
“Scream again and I cut your throat,” he hissed in my ear, breath hot, knife steady.
I froze, tears flooding my eyes, body trembling in my yellow saree.
“Please… please don’t hurt me… I have a son…” I begged, voice breaking.
The tall thief ignored me, kept working on the cupboard lock.
I saw the key on the black thread between my boobs, but I dared not move.
“That’s my son’s college fees… only 2 lakhs… please leave it… take anything else… please… tomorrow is the last date… he is in hostel… I have to give it tomorrow…” I pleaded, tears rolling down my cheeks, dripping onto my yellow blouse.
They did not listen.
The tall thief reached up to the top of the cupboard for the spare key I sometimes kept there.
His fingers brushed it.
The key slipped.
It fell through the tiny gap at the top of the old cupboard and disappeared inside with a soft clink.
He cursed under his breath.
Now the only way was to break the door open.
He wedged the crowbar harder, metal groaning.
I panicked.
“No! Please don’t open the cupboard! That’s my son’s fees! Tomorrow last date! He will lose his seat! Please, I beg you!” I cried, trying to move toward him, but the shorter thief tightened his arm around my waist, knife still at my throat.
He was not listening to my begging.
But he was looking.
Looking at me from head to toe in my yellow saree and yellow blouse, eyes lingering on my boobs heaving with every sob, on my deep navel exposed where the saree had shifted low on my hips, on my ass cheeks outlined under the saree, on my naked midriff, on my mangalsutra dancing between my boobs.
His breathing changed.
His grip on my waist shifted lower, fingers brushing the curve of my ass cheek over the saree.
His cock began hardening against my lower back.
I felt it.

[novelistcasanova]

He wanted my pussy more than the money.

Inside the shorter thief's mind, a storm raged.
He had come for quick cash, not this—a desperate single mom in a yellow saree, her boobs full and begging for touch, her ass cheeks soft under his grip, her pussy so close he could smell the warmth through the saree. The plan was simple: break in, grab the money, get out. But now her whispers clawed at him. Her voice, so soft, so broken, promising her pussy if he stopped his partner. Part of him screamed to shut her up, slit her throat, take the cash. He was a thief, not a rapist—usually. But her body pressed against him, boobs rising with fear, mangalsutra glinting like an invitation, her ass cheeks grinding back in desperation—it stirred something filthy. He pictured ripping her yellow saree off, shoving her on the bed, burying his cock in her pussy while she cried. The money was good, but her pussy felt better. Loyalty to his tall partner pulled one way; lust for her boobs and pussy pulled harder. If he betrayed the tall one, what then? Knife the tall thief and take her alone? Or make a deal, fuck her first, then steal? His cock throbbed painfully against her ass cheek, mind splitting between greed for 2 lakhs and raw need to fill her pussy with his cum. He squeezed her waist harder, conflicted, knife wavering.
Desperation gave me a filthy idea.
If begging for mercy failed, maybe bargaining with my body would work.
I turned my head slightly toward the thief holding me, knife still at my throat, and whispered soft and trembling, “Do you like me?”
He said nothing, but his cock twitched harder against my ass cheek over the saree, and his free hand tightened on my waist, fingers digging into the soft curve above my hip.
I swallowed hard, tears still streaming, voice dropping to a husky, inviting murmur, “You have been staring at my boobs and ass cheeks since you grabbed me. I can feel your cock hard against my ass cheek. Do you like what you see?”
Silence, but his knife hand relaxed just a fraction, blade still close but no longer crushing my throat, and his hips shifted forward slightly, rubbing his growing cock between my ass cheeks over the yellow saree.
I pushed on, whispering even softer, breath catching with fear and forced seduction, “Do you have a girlfriend? Someone who lets you grab her boobs like this?” I arched my back a little, pressing my ass cheeks back against his cock, feeling it throb through his pants.
He grunted low, no words, but his free hand slid up my side, brushed the underside of my left boob over the yellow blouse, fingers trembling with want.
I kept going, voice emotional, raw, sensual, “I can be nice to you… if you stop him. My pussy is warm… my boobs are full… I can let you touch… please… just tell him to leave the cupboard alone…”
His breath quickened in my ear, knife hand lowering slightly, cock now fully hard, grinding slow against my ass cheeks over the saree.
But the tall thief kept scbanging the crowbar, oblivious, the lock groaning louder.
I whispered again, desperate, filthy, turning my head enough to let my lips brush his ear, “Imagine my panties off… my pussy lips spread for you… you can fuck me right here… but only if you stop him now… do you want that? Do you want my pussy?”
His free hand finally moved, cupped my left boob over the yellow blouse, squeezed gently, thumb finding my nipple and rubbing it through the material until it hardened.
He was hooked.
But the crowbar kept working.
Time was slipping.
My seduction had to turn into a deal fast, or the 2 lakhs would be gone.
I moaned soft in my ear, “Please… your cock feels so big… I want it inside my pussy… but only if you save my son’s money… tell him to stop…”
He squeezed my boob harder, knife dropping lower, breath ragged.
The tall thief wedged the crowbar deeper.
The lock bent.
My heart raced.
The negotiation hung on a knife's edge—my body the bait, my son’s future the prize.


The tall thief cursed again, sweat dripping down his face as he jammed the crowbar deeper into the cupboard door, metal screeching, lock bending but still holding.
Every second he worked, the 2 lakhs came closer to disappearing.
The shorter thief behind me struggled.
His knife trembled at my throat, his arm around my waist shook, his cock throbbed hard and hot against my ass cheeks over the yellow saree, growing thicker with every breath I took.
Inside the shorter thief's mind, the storm exploded.
The 2 lakhs called to him like a siren's song, easy cash for booze, gambling, cheap whores in dark alleys. His partner was inches away from cracking the cupboard, and splitting the money would set them up for weeks. No more scbanging for scraps. But the woman in his grip, my boobs heaving against his forearm, my ass cheeks soft and warm, my mangalsutra brushing his hand, my whispers slithering into his ear like venom-laced honey, was tearing him apart. Loyalty to his partner screamed to hold the knife steady, let the crowbar do its work, take the cash, and run. They had done this a dozen times, quick in, quick out, no complications. But my body was a complication he never expected. My boobs soft against his arm, my ass cheeks warm and yielding under his hand, my pussy so close he imagined the heat radiating through the saree. He pictured dropping the knife, shoving me face-down on the bed, ripping the yellow saree off, spreading my ass cheeks, and ramming his cock into my pussy until I screamed his name. Or my asshole, tight and untouched, begging for his load. Money was replaceable; a desperate milf offering my pussy and boobs freely? A once-in-a-lifetime fuck. Betray the tall one? Knife him in the back while he worked the crowbar, then take me slow, make me beg for his cock, cum inside my pussy over and over? Or share me, let the tall one have my asshole while he took my pussy? His balls tightened painfully, cock leaking pre-cum into his pants, mind fracturing, greed for the 2 lakhs clashing with the primal urge to own my body, my promise of warmth and wetness pulling him under like quicksand. He could almost taste my nipples, feel my pussy lips clenching around his cock. Stop the theft? Or finish it and regret forever? The knife wavered in his hand, loyalty crumbling under lust's relentless assault.
The shorter thief's thoughts spun wilder, his heart pounding as hard as his cock. He had stolen from shops, houses, even temples, but never had a mark like me, curves in a yellow saree, boobs full and begging to be squeezed, mangalsutra swaying like a tease. His partner, the tall one, had always led the jobs, always taken the bigger cut, always left him with scraps. Now, with my pussy offered like a gift, why share? He could end the tall one quick, a knife to the back, then have me all to himself, spread on the bed, yellow saree torn away, panties ripped, his cock slamming into my pussy while I moaned for more. Or my asshole, tight and hot, clenching around his cock as he filled it with cum. The cash would be nice, but my body was nicer, warm, wet, willing. He imagined the taste of my pussy lips, the feel of my ass cheeks slapping against his hips, my mangalsutra swinging as I rode his cock. Loyalty? Fuck loyalty. The tall one could die for all he cared. But doubt crept in, what if I screamed after? What if the tall one turned fast? His cock demanded action, balls heavy with need, but his brain flashed warnings. Take the money and run, or take me and risk everything? Lust clawed at him, whispering to choose my pussy, my boobs, my offer to fuck. Greed whispered back for the cash. He squeezed my boob again, mind tearing, body burning.
To me, he was my only hope.
The tall thief would never listen to begging.
This one, this shorter thief with the knife and the raging cock, wanted my pussy more than the money.
I had to break him completely.
I slowly turned in his arm, knife still at my throat, facing him fully now.
His face inches from mine, eyes wild, filthy lips visible, cracked and hungry.
I looked straight into his eyes, then down at those filthy lips, then back to his eyes.
I leaned forward until my lips almost touched his, breath mingling, boobs brushing his chest, mangalsutra dangling between us.
I whispered, voice low, trembling, dripping with filthy promise, “I know you want me.”
His cock jerked hard against my lower belly over the yellow saree.
I continued, lips brushing his mouth, “Your cock is so hard for my pussy… I can feel it throbbing… don’t fight it… don’t go against your body’s urges…”
His free hand grabbed my ass cheek over the saree, squeezed hard, pulling me closer so his cock rubbed between my thighs.
I moaned soft, emotional, desperate, “You will never get to enjoy a beauty like me again in your entire life… look at my boobs… my deep navel… the shape of my ass cheeks… all yours if you stop him…”
His eyes dropped to my boobs heaving in the yellow blouse, nipples poking hard through the material, then to my deep navel, then back to my lips.
I whispered again, voice raw with seduction, “Money goes today and comes tomorrow… but this chance… my pussy wet and ready for your cock… you will regret it forever if you let him take the cash and leave me untouched…”
He groaned low, knife hand shaking, cock grinding slow and desperate between my thighs over the saree.
He glanced at the tall thief still struggling with the crowbar, then back at me, eyes torn, greed for cash warring with the need to rip my yellow saree off and bury himself inside my pussy.
His free hand slid up, cupped my right boob over the yellow blouse, squeezed hard, thumb rubbing my nipple until I gasped.
He was losing control.
Totally horny, totally tempted, trying hard to hold on to the plan, but my words and my body were breaking him.
The tall thief jammed the crowbar again, metal screamed.
Time was almost gone.
Now or never.

[novelistcasanova]

I closed the final distance and kissed his lips passionately, giving him my taste, my soft mouth opening against his filthy, cracked lips, my tongue sliding slow and deliberate past them, licking the inside of his mouth, curling around his tongue, sucking it gently, sharing my breath, my saliva, my desperation in a deep, wet, hungry kiss that lasted seconds but felt like eternity, my boobs crushed against his chest, mangalsutra chain tickling his skin, my pussy mound grinding against his cock over the saree as the kiss deepened, tongues dancing filthy and urgent, my moan vibrating into his mouth.

I pulled back just enough to whisper frantic, lips still on his, “Stop him… or lose my pussy forever…”
He dropped the knife.
Lust won.
He lunged at the tall thief, grabbing his arm, “Wait! Stop!”
The tall thief spun, confused, crowbar in hand.
The deal was on.
My pussy had saved the 2 lakhs.
For now.
The negotiation would decide the terms, my body for my son’s future.
I stood trembling, yellow saree disheveled, boobs aching from his squeezes, pussy wet with fear and relief, ready to pay the price.
The shorter thief looked at me, eyes burning, cock still hard.
The tall thief demanded, “What the fuck?”
The shorter one pointed at me, “She offers her pussy instead… fuck her… leave the money…”
The tall thief's eyes shifted to my boobs, my ass cheeks, my deep navel.
He lowered the crowbar.
The seduction had spread.
My pussy would have to satisfy both to save the cash.
My son’s tomorrow depended on how well I fucked these thieves.
I swallowed hard, tears drying, voice steady, “Yes… fuck my pussy… take my boobs… but leave the cupboard alone…”
The deal was sealed.
My body the currency.
The 2 lakhs safe.
My pussy the savior.
The night was just beginning.
The tall thief spun around, crowbar still in hand, face twisted in rage and confusion.
“What the fuck are you doing? The cupboard is open! Grab the money and let’s go!” he barked, stepping toward the bundles inside.
The shorter thief stood frozen, cock straining hard in his pants, eyes locked on me, breathing heavy, the taste of my passionate kiss still on his filthy lips.
I saw my chance.
I moved fast, stepped between them, and hugged his short thief, crushing my boobs against his chest over the yellow blouse, mangalsutra chain brushing his neck, my hand sliding down to rub his cock through his pants.
The tall thief yelled, “Don’t listen to this whore! With 2 lakhs we can buy ten pussies better than hers! Grab the cash and run!”
I ignored him, turned fully to the shorter thief, looked deep into his eyes, voice low and dripping with raw promise, “He is wrong. With money you buy whores. Cheap whores who fake moans. Me? I am a hot beautiful wife. My pussy is real. My boobs are full for you. I know exactly how to make your cock happy. I will ride you slow, milk your balls dry, let you cum inside my pussy again and again. No whore will ever give you what I can.”
The shorter thief groaned, cock twitching under my rubbing hand, eyes dropping to my boobs, then to my deep navel, then to the shape of my ass cheeks under the yellow saree.
The tall thief stepped closer, grabbed his partner’s shoulder, “Snap out of it! She is playing you! We need that money! Get the fuck out of here with me!”
I did not stop.
I grabbed the shorter thief’s hand, placed it on my left boob over the yellow blouse, made him squeeze my nipple, and whispered, “Feel how hard my nipple is for you? Only for you. I know what your body wants. I will suck your cock, swallow your cum, spread my pussy lips and beg you to fuck me deep. He cannot give you this. Only I can.”
The shorter thief’s eyes glazed with lust, hand squeezing my boob harder, cock leaking through his pants.
The tall thief yelled louder, “Don’t fall for her! She is just a desperate bitch! Money now, pussies later!”
I smiled filthy at the shorter thief, voice husky, “He is scared because he knows no paid pussy will ever feel like mine. Come to the bed… let me show you…”
I stepped back slowly toward the double bed, eyes locked on the shorter thief, and began removing my yellow saree in a teasing way.
I pulled the pallu off my shoulder slow, let it slide down my boobs, revealing the yellow blouse hugging my boobs tight, mangalsutra swinging free.
I unwrapped the saree from my waist, layer by layer, turning so he saw the shape of my ass cheeks under the petticoat, until the yellow saree pooled at my feet.
I stood in yellow blouse and petticoat, boobs heaving, deep navel naked, mangalsutra resting between my boobs.
“Come to the bed…” I whispered again, voice dripping sex.
The shorter thief took one step toward me, drooling, cock throbbing visibly in his pants.
The tall thief grabbed his arm hard, “We need that money! Don’t be stupid!”
I ignored him, began unhooking my yellow blouse, one hook at a time, slow and deliberate.
First hook—top of my boobs exposed, white bra peeking.
Second hook—more cleavage, mangalsutra chain falling deeper between my boobs.
Third hook—white bra fully visible, cups hugging my boobs, nipples dark and hard against the white bra.
The shorter thief stared, mouth open, drool literally dripping from his filthy lips, cock jumping, totally tempted, body shaking with need.
The tall thief tried hard, grabbed his partner’s shoulders, shook him, “Don’t look! She is tricking you! Grab the cash!”
I was desperate.
The 2 lakhs were seconds from vanishing.
I removed the yellow blouse completely, let it drop, stood in white bra and petticoat, boobs rising and falling, mangalsutra shining between them.
Then I reached for the white nada of my yellow petticoat, pulled the knot loose slow, teasing, “I am about to remove my petticoat… you will see my maroon panties hugging my pussy and ass cheeks… all for you… come… fuck me… save the money…”
The shorter thief groaned loud, eyes locked on my hands, cock jumping, totally tempted, body shaking with need.
The tall thief tried hard, grabbed his partner’s shoulders, shook him, “Don’t look! She is tricking you! Grab the cash!”
But the shorter thief’s eyes never left me.
My petticoat string dangled loose.
One pull and it would fall.
My pussy in maroon panties would be his reward.
The tall thief’s voice cracked with panic.
The shorter thief’s cock ruled him now.
My seduction held the 2 lakhs by a thread.
My body the only weapon left.
I smiled filthy, voice pure sin, “Choose me… choose my pussy…”
The shorter thief took another step toward the bed.
The tall thief cursed.
The cupboard door hung open.
The bundles waited.
My pussy waited.
The final battle for my son’s future raged between money and lust.
And I was winning.
The tall thief’s face turned red with fury, crowbar gripped tight in his fist, eyes darting between the open cupboard bundles and his partner staring at me like a starving dog.
“You idiot! The money is right here! Grab it and run!” he roared, stepping closer to the cupboard.
The shorter thief stood frozen, cock throbbing visibly in his pants, eyes locked on my half-naked body, drool shining on his filthy lips.
I knew this was the climax.
One wrong move and the 2 lakhs were gone forever.
My son’s degree, his future, everything rested on breaking the shorter thief completely, right now.
I let the loose white nada of my yellow petticoat dangle, teasing, then pulled it slow.
The petticoat loosened, slid down my hips, revealed my maroon panties hugging my pussy and ass cheeks tight, the maroon panties soaked at the front where my pussy had leaked during the struggle.
I stepped out of the petticoat, kicked it aside, stood in only white bra and maroon panties, boobs heaving in the white bra, mangalsutra swinging between them, pussy mound outlined clearly under the maroon panties, ass cheeks round and naked except for the thin maroon strip disappearing between them.
The shorter thief groaned loud, hand dropping to rub his cock through his pants, eyes wide, totally lost.
The tall thief lunged forward, grabbed his partner’s arm hard, shook him, “Look at me! The money! We take the 2 lakhs and leave this bitch!”
I moved faster.
I reached behind my back, unhooked my white bra slow, let the straps slide down my shoulders, held the cups in place with one arm across my boobs, teasing, “You want these boobs? Full, real, nipples hard only for you…”
The shorter thief nodded dumbly, cock jumping in his pants.
I let the white bra fall.
My boobs spilled free, heavy, nipples dark and erect, mangalsutra chain resting in the valley between them.
I cupped my boobs with both hands, squeezed them together, lifted them toward him, “Come… suck my nipples… bite them… they are yours…”
The shorter thief took two steps toward me, drooling harder, hand rubbing his cock frantically.
The tall thief slapped his partner’s face, grabbed his cheeks, forced eye contact, “Wake up! She is nothing! Money now!”
I was beyond desperate.
The 2 lakhs were inches from the tall thief’s hands.
I hooked my fingers into the waistband of my maroon panties, pulled them down slow, inch by inch, revealing my pussy lips shaved smooth, wet and glistening, clit swollen.
I let the maroon panties drop to my ankles, stepped out naked except for the mangalsutra shining between my boobs.
I turned, bent slightly, spread my ass cheeks with both hands, showed him my asshole and pussy from behind, then turned back, spread my pussy lips with two fingers, showing the pink inside, whispering raw and filthy, “This pussy… this asshole… all for you… fuck me any way you want… cum inside me… but save my son’s money…”
The shorter thief broke.
He shoved the tall thief hard, roared, “Fuck the money! I want her pussy!”
The tall thief stumbled back, crowbar clattering to the floor.
The shorter thief lunged at me, grabbed my naked boobs, squeezed hard, mouth crashing onto mine, filthy lips devouring me.
I had won.
The 2 lakhs were safe.
My naked body the price.
The tall thief stood stunned, watching his partner grab my ass cheeks, rub his cock against my naked pussy, lost to lust.
I pulled the shorter thief toward the bed, lay back naked, spread my legs wide, pussy lips open, mangalsutra resting between my boobs, and whispered, “Fuck me… take me… the money stays…”
The seduction climax sealed the deal.
My pussy victorious.
My son’s 2 lakhs untouched.
The tall thief cursed, but the shorter one was already between my thighs, cock out, ready to claim his prize.
The night of payment began.
My body for my son’s future.
I spread wider, ready to give everything.

[novelistcasanova]

The shorter thief shoved the tall one away with finality, eyes never leaving my naked body.

The tall thief stumbled back, crowbar clattering uselessly to the floor, face twisted in disbelief and rage.
“You fucking idiot! The money is right there!” he screamed one last time, but his voice cracked, knowing he had lost.
The shorter thief turned fully to me, cock straining against his pants, eyes burning with raw hunger.
I lay back on the double bed, legs spread wide, pussy lips open and glistening, boobs rising with every desperate breath, mangalsutra resting between them like a filthy offering.
“Come… fuck me… the money stays…” I whispered, voice thick with seduction and relief.
He ripped off his shirt, pants dropping, cock springing free—thick, veiny, cock head already leaking.
He climbed onto the bed, grabbed my boobs hard, squeezed my nipples until I gasped, mouth kissing my lips in a sloppy, hungry kiss, filthy lips devouring me, tongue shoving deep.
The tall thief watched, frozen, defeated, as his partner claimed his prize.
The shorter thief broke the kiss, grabbed my mangalsutra, pulled my boobs to his mouth, sucked my left nipple hard, teeth grazing, then the right, leaving them shiny and aching.
I moaned loud, arching my back, “Yes… suck my boobs… they are yours…”
He growled, moved lower, buried his face between my thighs, tongue lapping my pussy lips, sucking my clit hard, shoving inside my pussy like a cock, tasting me raw.
I grabbed his head, ground my pussy against his mouth, “Eat my pussy… make me wet for your cock…”
The tall thief watched, stroking his own cock through his pants now, unable to look away.
The shorter thief rose up, grabbed my ass cheeks, lifted my hips, lined his cock with my pussy lips, and slammed inside in one brutal thrust.
I screamed, pussy stretching wide around his cock, “Yes! Fuck my pussy! Hard!”


The shorter thief pounded me savage, balls slapping my ass cheeks with wet smacks, hands crushing my boobs, fingers twisting my nipples until electric fire shot straight to my clit, pulling my mangalsutra like reins, cock slamming deep into my pussy again and again, stretching my walls, cock head battering my cervix with every brutal thrust.
The bed shook violently, headboard banging the wall in rhythm with his hips.
His rhythm built fast, cock swelling thicker inside me, veins pulsing against my pussy walls, my pussy clenching tighter with every stroke, juices squirting out around his shaft, soaking his balls.
The pleasure coiled like a spring in my belly, my clit throbbing swollen, pussy burning with need.
“Mnmmmmmm mmmmmmm mmmmm” I moaned as I was about to cum, the wave rising unstoppable, my whole body tensing, pussy gripping his cock like a vice.
The moment “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah... aaaaaaaaaaaaah... aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah...!” he moaned and came deep inside my pussy, thick hot jets blasting against my cervix, flooding my womb, I could not hold it anymore “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.... aaaaaaaaaaaah... aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah...!” I moaned and began cumming all over his cock, my pussy convulsing in violent spasms, squirting hard around his shaft, juices spraying out with every thrust, soaking his balls and the sheets, my legs locking around him, ass cheeks clenching, entire body shaking in blinding waves of pleasure that tore screams from my throat, tears streaming, vision blurring as the orgasm ripped through me like lightning, my pussy milking him dry, pulling every drop of cum from his balls.
He collapsed on me, cock still twitching inside my pussy, breathing ragged, kissing my boobs, whispering, “Mine… your pussy is mine…”
The tall thief stood at the foot of the bed, cock hard in his hand, eyes burning as he watched his partner’s cum drip thick from my pussy lips.
He turned to the shorter thief, voice rough with need, “How was her pussy?”
The shorter thief lifted his head from my boobs, still inside me, cock softening but not pulling out, and answered, voice full of awe, “Best pussy I ever had… so tight… so wet… grips your cock like it never wants to let go… hot inside… milks every drop… you have to feel it…”
The shorter thief kept going, “Her pussy lips hug you perfect… her walls squeeze like a fist… and when she cums… fuck… she floods you… never felt anything like it…”
That was all the tall thief needed.
He climbed onto the bed, pushed the shorter thief off me gently, cock sliding out of my pussy with a wet sound, cum leaking thick down my ass cheeks.
The tall thief grabbed my thighs, spread them wider, looked down at my cum-filled pussy, and said, voice low and commanding, “Promise me the same pleasure you gave him… every moan… every squeeze… every drop of your pussy juice… and we leave without touching your money.”
I looked into his eyes, pussy still throbbing from the first fucking, cum dripping, boobs heaving, mangalsutra sticky with sweat, and answered, desperate but honest, “I promise… I will give you everything… fuck me… feel my pussy… I will make you cum harder than you ever have… just leave the 2 lakhs…”
He nodded, kissed my lips deep, tongue tasting me, then lined his cock with my pussy lips and pushed inside slow.
My pussy, already full of the shorter thief’s cum, welcomed him, walls hugging his cock tight, cum squelching around him.
I wrapped my legs around his waist, grabbed his ass cheeks, pulled him deeper, and began giving him everything I promised.
I rode his thrusts, ground my clit against him, clenched my pussy walls around his cock with every stroke, moaned loud and filthy into his ear, “Feel how my pussy squeezes you… all for you… fuck me deep…”
The shorter thief watched, cock hardening again just from the sight, hand rubbing himself slow.
The tall thief groaned, hands crushing my boobs, fingers pinching my nipples raw, cock slamming deeper.
I built the pleasure for him, slow then fast, pussy gripping, releasing, gripping again, milking him exactly as I promised, my clit grinding against his body, waves of heat building again in my belly.
“Mnmmmmmm mmmmmmm mmmmm” I moaned as I was about to cum, the fire coiling tighter, my pussy fluttering around his cock, ready to explode.
The moment “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah... aaaaaaaaaaaaah... aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah...!” he moaned and came deep inside my pussy, thick jets blasting into my already-full womb, mixing with the first load, I could not hold it anymore “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.... aaaaaaaaaaaah... aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah...!” I moaned and began cumming all over his cock, my pussy convulsing in violent spasms, squirting hard around him, juices spraying out, soaking his balls, my legs locking, ass cheeks clenching, body arching off the bed in blinding ecstasy, tears streaming, every nerve on fire as the orgasm tore through me even stronger than the first, my pussy milking him relentlessly, pulling every drop from his balls.
He collapsed on me, cock pulsing, adding his thick load to the shorter thief’s, filling me so full cum gushed out around his cock and soaked my ass cheeks.
The tall thief pulled out, cock spent, cum dripping from my pussy onto the sheets.
He stood, dressed quickly, looked at the open cupboard, shook his head, and walked out without another word, leaving the money untouched.
The shorter thief stayed, lay beside me, hand gently squeezing my boob, kissing my shoulder.
We two slept together like that, his body entwined with mine, cock softening against my thigh, my pussy still leaking both loads, mangalsutra resting between my boobs.
In the morning, light filtering through the window, the shorter thief woke, kissed my lips soft one last time, whispered, “Your pussy… unforgettable…”
He dressed, glanced at the cupboard, smiled, and left quietly.
I lay alone on the ruined bed, pussy sore, boobs bruised, mangalsutra sticky, cum drying on my body and leaking from my pussy.
I touched the cupboard, felt the 2 lakhs still there, safe.
Tears of triumph rolled down my face.
I had done it.
My son’s fees secure.
My body the weapon.
My pussy the savior.
I would bathe, dress, take the bus to the hostel, hand Varun the money, watch him pay, hug him tight.
He would never know what his mother gave to keep his future safe.
I whispered to the empty room, voice raw from screaming their names:
“It was worth it, baby.
Every cock inside me.
Every load of cum.
Your degree is safe.”
The house stood silent.
The 2 lakhs untouched.
My body marked forever.
The inciting night ended.
The price paid in full.
A mother’s pussy—the ultimate bargain.
I woke up naked on the double bed, sunlight streaming through the window, sheets tangled around my ankles, mangalsutra the only thing still on my body, chain sticky with dried cum resting between my boobs.
My pussy throbbed sore and full, cum from both thieves still leaking slow from my pussy lips, coating my inner thighs and ass cheeks, the smell of raw sex thick in the room.
The shorter thief had left at dawn, kissing my lips soft, whispering he would never forget my pussy.
The tall thief had left earlier, angry but spent.
I thought it was over.
I was wrong.
An hour later, the front door creaked open.
Footsteps.
The tall thief walked back into the bedroom alone, eyes wild, cock already hard and bulging in his pants, face twisted with desperate need.
He dropped to his knees beside the bed, grabbed my hand, kissed my fingers, voice breaking, “Please… your pussy… I can’t stop thinking about it… I left but I couldn’t walk away… I need it again… please let me fuck you… I am begging you…”
I looked at him, the man who had terrified me hours ago, now on his knees begging for my pussy.
My body betrayed me.
My pussy clenched at his words, fresh wetness mixing with the dried cum, nipples hardening, clit throbbing.
I was horny too.
The memory of his cock stretching me, filling me, the way my pussy had milked him, still burned fresh.
I sat up on the bed, naked boobs bouncing, mangalsutra swinging, spread my thighs slow, showed him my cum-crusted pussy lips, and whispered, “Come… fuck me… fill my pussy again…”
He groaned like a dying man given water, climbed onto the bed, kissed my lips deep and desperate, tongue tasting me hungry, hands grabbing my boobs, squeezing hard, nipples rolling between his fingers.
I grabbed his cock through his pants, felt it throb, pulled it free, stroked the length, guided it to my pussy lips.
He pushed inside slow, eyes rolling back, “Fuck… your pussy… so perfect…”
I wrapped my legs around him, pulled him deep, pussy swallowing every inch, walls hugging his cock tight, cum from last night squelching around him.
He fucked me slow at first, savoring, then harder, balls slapping my ass cheeks, hands crushing my boobs, mouth sucking my nipples until I arched.
The pleasure built fast, my pussy on fire, clit grinding against him.
“Mnmmmmmm mmmmmmm mmmmm” I moaned as I was about to cum.
The moment “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah... aaaaaaaaaaaaah... aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah...!” he moaned and came deep inside my pussy, thick fresh load blasting into me, I could not hold it anymore “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.... aaaaaaaaaaaah... aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah...!” I moaned and began cumming all over his cock, my pussy spasming wild, squirting hard, soaking his balls, body shaking in waves of raw ecstasy.
He collapsed on me, cock pulsing, filling me again, kissing my lips soft, whispering thanks.
We lay like that, his cock softening inside my pussy, when the door opened again.
The shorter thief walked in, eyes lighting up at the sight of me naked under his partner, cum leaking from my pussy.
He stripped fast, cock hard, climbed onto the bed, kissed my lips hungry while the tall one watched.
I spread my legs for him, “Fuck me again…”
He slid into my cum-filled pussy easy, groaned at the warmth, and began pounding slow and deep.
The tall thief watched, cock hardening again, stroking himself.
The shorter thief built rhythm, cock stroking every sensitive spot, my pussy responding greedy.
“Mnmmmmmm mmmmmmm mmmmm” I moaned as I was about to cum.
The moment “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah... aaaaaaaaaaaaah... aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah...!” he moaned and came deep inside my pussy, adding his second load to the mix, I could not hold it anymore “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.... aaaaaaaaaaaah... aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah...!” I moaned and began cumming all over his cock, pussy convulsing, squirting again, pleasure ripping through me even stronger.
We three collapsed together, exhausted again, cocks spent, my pussy overflowing with fresh cum.
They kissed my lips, my boobs, whispered they would never forget.
Eventually the tall thief dressed and left first, shaking his head, unable to believe he came back for my pussy.
The shorter thief stayed longer, fucked me one gentle time more, slow and loving, cumming soft inside me before kissing my lips goodbye and leaving in the late morning.
I lay alone at last, naked, pussy throbbing and full, cum leaking slow, mangalsutra sticky between my boobs.
The 2 lakhs still safe in the cupboard.
My body used again, willingly this time.
My pussy addicted them both.
My son’s future protected by the pleasure only I could give.
I touched my mangalsutra, smiled through sore nipples and aching pussy, and whispered:
“They will never forget amma’s pussy…
And Varun will never know what it saved.”
The house quiet again.
The thieves gone.
My body marked deeper.
The price paid, and paid again.
A mother’s pussy—unbeatable.
That morning I woke alone on the ruined bed, naked, pussy sore and leaking the thieves’ cum, boobs bruised, mangalsutra sticky between them.
I bathed slow, scrubbed every trace of their hands from my boobs and ass cheeks, washed their cum from my pussy lips, dressed in a fresh blue saree and matching blouse, mangalsutra clean again resting between my boobs.
I opened the cupboard, took the 2 lakhs bundles, hugged them to my boobs one last time, locked the house, and took the bus to Varun’s hostel.
I reached at noon, found him waiting anxious at the gate.
I handed him the bundles, watched him count, watched his face light up.
He paid the fees at the office, hugged me tight, “Amma, thank you… I thought I would lose everything.”
I smiled, tears in my eyes, mangalsutra pressing between our chests, “Never, baby. Amma will always protect you.”
He never knew what I gave to keep that money safe.
I returned home relieved.

[novelistcasanova]

Weeks later, Sathiyamoorthy Sir’s wife Thaya came to visit.

She sat in my completed ground-floor living room, looked around at the tiled floor, the new furniture, the rising upper floors, and said soft, “He told me everything before he died… how he helped you… how you helped him… I want to continue.”
She handed me a bank cheque—20 lakhs.
“For the remaining floors. Complete your house. He wanted you safe.”
I cried, hugged her, boobs crushing against hers, mangalsutra chains tangling.
With that 20 lakhs the construction flew.
Floor by floor rose—first, second, third, fourth, fifth.
Roof poured, doors fixed, painting done, water tanks installed.
The house became a full five-storey building, ground floor our home, upper floors rented to families, bringing steady income.
I settled happily, 2 lakhs a year from rents alone, plus my salary.
No more worry.
Varun graduated, got a good job, lived with me proud.
The thieves?
Both got arrested months later in another robbery.
Jail for years.
But every time they came out on parole or finished sentence, one or both showed up at my door.
The shorter one first, then the tall, then together.
They begged at my doorstep, “Please… your pussy… we dream of it in jail…”
I was settled, safe, but my pussy remembered.
I let them in.
They fucked me for hours—pussy, asshole, boobs, mouth—cumming inside me again and again, addicted to my body.
I gave freely now, no fear, just raw pleasure.
One fine day they came, fucked me deep and long, left smiling.
Then they went missing.
Never saw them again.
security officer said they died in a gang fight.
I never knew.
I never asked.
I lived happily with my son.
House complete.
Income steady.
Varun married, grandchildren playing in the rooms I built with my pussy and tears.
I touch my mangalsutra every night, remember the thieves, Sathiyamoorthy Sir, the Africans, Manoj, all the cocks that filled me to save my son.
And I smile.
My pussy paid every price.
My son never knew.
I lived happily.

The End.

Regards
Novelist Casanova 

[Little finger]

Super story bro. But it was more sentimental than sexy.

[Sengolan]

This type of story has some melancholy. But your stories when the inner slut comes out of wifes and mothers - are better than these. Also when the story is through POV of son or described by him, it makes it more exciting.