Misc. Erotica The New House (COMPLETED) - By Novelist Casanova

[novelistcasanova]

The New House 

By Novelist Casanova 

My name is Sudha and I am a housewife, tall enough that my head almost reaches the top of the kitchen doorway when I pass through it. I keep my long, thick, dark hair in a low bun when I work, and the weight of it sits at the back of my neck. My face is long, with high cheekbones, a strong jaw, a straight nose, and a wide mouth whose full lower lip stays slightly parted when I think. My brows are defined and my eyes are large and dark. My shoulders are broad for a woman, my breasts are heavy, my waist is narrow, my hips are very wide, and my thighs are full, so when I walk my hips move first and the rest of my body follows.

Every day I wear my saree over my blouse, my low-below-navel petticoat, my bra, and my panties.
I wear my saree because my mother taught me that a married woman should keep her saree on through the day. My hips are wide enough that the pleats sit full over them and sway when I walk from room to room. I wear my saree all the time, morning, afternoon and evening, and only at night, when I sleep, I change into my nighty and keep only my panties underneath.

My blouse is front-hook, and the front hooks close between my breasts while the six back hooks of my bra stay hidden under my blouse. The sleeves end above my elbows so I can work at the stove without pushing them up again and again. The neckline of my blouse rests across the upper curve of my breasts, and when I lift my arm to reach the high shelf my breasts lift with my bra and my blouse pulls across my nipples. When I bend to pick up the steel dabba the neckline of my blouse opens a little and the valley between my breasts shows.

I wear my petticoat low because my mother taught me that tuck. The string sits two fingers below my navel so my waist stays neat when I tuck my saree, and when I tuck my saree the petticoat stays hidden unless the pallu slips. Every morning I do it in front of the steel almirah, turn sideways, and look at the line of my waist and the flare of my hips. When I walk the petticoat moves against my thighs.
I wear my bra for comfort and coverage. My bra is a 36D layered-coverage bra, seamed and panelled, double-layered, full coverage, everyday, back-hook, non-wired, non-padded. My breasts are heavy, and my bra holds them high and close the whole day. The bra straps rest on my shoulders under my blouse so the bra cups do not drop, and the bra cups cover my breasts and keep my nipples inside. When I cook, sweat gathers in the valley between my breasts, inside my bra, under my blouse. The bra cups stick for a second and then release when I turn. If a nipple shifts I wait until I am alone, put my hand inside the left bra cup, lift my breast, and settle the nipple again, then do the same to the right breast.

I wear my panties for comfort and coverage. My panties are XL hipster panties. They sit just under my navel, and the leg openings hold the upper curve of my ass cheeks and cover them when I walk. When I walk from the stove to the sink my panties ride a little into the crack of my ass, and I slip two fingers inside and pull them back into place.
This is who I am and this is how I dress every day: my saree on my wide hips, my blouse over my breasts, my petticoat under my saree, my breasts inside my bra, and my ass cheeks under my panties. In the morning I finish tying the pallu over my left shoulder and walk to the gate.

We live in a small middle-class house in Bangalore, the kind with one hall, two rooms, a narrow kitchen, and a grill at the gate that rusts a little every monsoon. A couple of houses away, on the same street, we are building our new house. The mixer starts early. Cement dust sits on the neem leaves. I can see the rising walls from our gate when I step out with the cloth bag.

My husband is a budding stock broker. He leaves early with a file and comes back late with the same file, talking about markets in a voice that tries to sound bigger than this old house. I am the mother of three sons. I cook for five, wash for five, and count every rupee before it leaves my hand, because every rupee we save has to go into the construction.

I am stingy because the new house would not rise if I were not stingy. I would not buy a new bra or new panties when I wanted them. I would buy them once in six months. Until then I would wash my bra and my panties every day, hang them behind the bathroom door, and wear them again the next morning. The bra straps would darken a little at the shoulders. The bra cups would soften from washing. My panties would loosen at the waistband. I would still wear them because a new pair was money, and that money had to go into cement, steel, and moulding.

I would not buy groceries from the shops near our street. Those shops would take half as much extra as the market. I would tie my saree, close the front hooks of my blouse, check that my petticoat string was tight below my navel, and walk to the bus stop with the cloth bag. An auto could save my feet and keep strange hands off me. A bus would save the fare for the new house, so I would take the bus.
The bus would always be crowded. When I climbed in, men would already stand on the steps. One hand would hold the rod. Another hand would find my waist over my saree, then slide down and press my ass cheeks as I pulled myself up. I would hold the cloth bag to my hip and keep moving inside. In the aisle a chest would press to my back. Fingers would come around and squeeze my breast over my blouse, feeling the bra cup underneath, pinching until my nipple tightened inside my bra. When the bus jerked, a palm could push between my thighs from behind, rubbing my pussy through my saree, my petticoat, and my panties. I would stare at the window and not speak. I needed the cheaper fare.

The conductor would never give the change the moment I gave the cash. He would write the change on the back of the ticket and tell me to collect it while getting down at my stop. I would keep that ticket in my blouse, above my bra, because my hands would be full with the bag.
At the market I would touch every tomato and ask the price twice. I would buy only what the week needed. I would put the heavy bag on my hip and take the bus back. Again the conductor would write the change on the back of the ticket.
When my stop was about to arrive I would have to hurry to the conductor at the back. The aisle would be packed. I would turn sideways and push through with the bag. That was when the horny, hungry men would feel up my ass over my saree, palms spreading my ass cheeks, fingers pressing the saree and petticoat into the crack of my ass, holding me there as if they were only making way. I would keep going because the change was written on that ticket and I could not lose even that small amount. I would reach the conductor, collect the change, and get down.

Getting down would still be narrow. Men would stand on the last step as if they could not move. When I turned sideways to step down, a hand would go straight to my ass cheeks again and lift the saree pleats against my petticoat. Another hand could come from the side, cup my breast, and press the front hooks of my blouse. I would pull the bag down first, then my body, and their hands would leave only when my foot hit the road. I would tolerate all of it for our house construction.
The worst day was also on that rush to the conductor. I was in the crowded aisle, going to collect the change, when one drunk man pulled me completely into his full embrace. He was too strong for me. His chest crushed my breasts inside my blouse and my bra. His one hand locked around my waist. His other hand gripped my ass cheek over my saree and pulled my hips against his cock. I pushed his shoulder. His arm did not open. Before I could turn my face away, he took my mouth and kept it. To me the kiss was filthy. His tongue pushed past my lips, licked my teeth, and went deep, wet with drink, while spit gathered at the corner of my mouth. He did not stop after one kiss. He sucked my lower lip, came back for my tongue, and kissed me longer, groaning into my mouth as if I had asked for it. To him it was passionate. Two men beside us did not look away. They watched his tongue in my mouth and his hand on my ass cheek and enjoyed it. Nobody helped me. The conductor said he was drunk, asked the driver to stop the bus, and made the drunk man get down. I wiped my mouth with the pallu, collected the change, and went home. I did not tell my husband.

By the time I reached our small house my blouse would be damp in the valley between my breasts, inside my bra. My nipples would still be tight from the hands on the bus. My panties would have ridden into the crack of my ass from the walk and from the palms that pressed me in the aisle. I would go to the bathroom, pull my panties back into place, wash my feet, and start the stove. I tolerated it for my husband. If I told him, he would make me take an auto every time, and the extra fare would come out of the construction money. Saving that money was what I could do as a housewife. I could not earn like him. I could only wash the same bra and the same panties, take the bus, bring the cheaper groceries, and help the new house rise. Through the window I could hear the mixer on our new plot, a couple of houses away.

This is our middle-class family. My husband looks at screens and counts the next floor. My three sons fill the old rooms with noise. I keep both houses moving by wearing the same bra and the same panties for months, by taking the crowded bus instead of an auto, by letting the conductor hold my change till the last step, and by walking past the nearby shops to the market where the price is half, so the money can go into the new house on our street.


My husband worked so hard for the house construction that the old house saw him only after dark. He would go to the plot a couple of houses away before the mixer started and stay there till the workers left. He would stand over the Mesthri with the measurement book, check the rods, argue about the mix, and count every bag of cement. He would pay the Mesthri himself so no extra rupee walked away. He would talk to the workers one by one, tell them which wall to raise, and then go himself to buy sand, jelly, bricks, and steel. He did that hard work for us, for our family, and for our future in the new house.
At night he would not come straight to bed. He would sit in the bedroom on the chair at the small table and write down the money spent on construction: cement, steel, Mesthri’s wage, extra sand, the amount still short. His shoulders would stay tight. The pen would stop and start. That was when I would go into the bedroom.


I would stand where he could see me from the chair and take off my clothes in order so that he would watch. First my saree. Then my blouse, opening the front hooks between my breasts. Then my petticoat, pulling the string below my navel. Then my bra, opening the six back hooks, letting my heavy breasts down. Then my panties. I would do it slowly enough for his eyes. He would glance up and go back to the page. He would be busy. I would pick up the towel and go to the bathroom.

I would bathe slowly so I would be clean and fresh for him. I would wet my hair and my body, soap my neck, my shoulders, and the valley between my breasts, then lift each breast and wash under it. I would soap my waist, my hips, my ass cheeks, and between my ass cheeks. I would wash my thighs and my pussy until no market dust and no sweat from the stove remained. I would rinse until the soap left my nipples and my navel. I would dry myself with the towel, wipe between my breasts, wipe my pussy, and wipe my feet last.

I would come out of the bathroom wearing only my nighty. No bra. No panties underneath. The nighty would sit loose over my breasts and over my pussy. I would walk towards my husband at the small table. He would still be writing, stressed, the numbers in front of him.
I would stand beside his chair and tease him a little. I would put my hand on his shoulder, lean so my breast inside the nighty touched his arm, and speak close to his ear.
“Stop the accounts. Look at me.”
He would keep the pen in his fingers.
“Not now. I have to finish this.”
I would take his hand and put it on my hip over the nighty.
“You worked the whole day for us. You deserve this.”
“Later. I am tired.”
I would step back, pull my nighty up and off me, and stand naked in front of the small table. My breasts, my waist, my hips, my pussy were all there, clean from the bath. That was when he would get tempted. The pen would drop. He would look at me the way he looked at the rising walls, then stand, lift me, and carry me to the bed.
He would take off his lungi and his banian and get naked. He would lie over me and hold my breasts. I would open my thighs and take his cock inside my pussy. While he fucked me I would give him all the pleasure I could. I would hold his back. I would lift my hips to meet him. I would keep my breasts against his chest. I would tell him he had done enough for the day.
“Leave the table. Take me.”
He would fuck me until the numbers left his face, come inside me, and stay on me. After that he would hug me naked and go to sleep with his palm on my waist. I would stay against him with nothing on, listening to him breathe, while the new house a couple of houses away waited for morning.


My husband worked so hard for the house construction that the old house saw him only after dark. He would go to the plot a couple of houses away before the mixer started and stay there till the workers left. He would stand over the Mesthri with the measurement book, check the rods, argue about the mix, and count every bag of cement. He would pay the Mesthri himself so no extra rupee walked away. He would talk to the workers one by one, tell them which wall to raise, and then go himself to buy sand, jelly, bricks, and steel. He did that hard work for us, for our family, and for our future in the new house.
I understood that. I did not ask him why he came home late. I did not ask him why he sat with the accounts instead of talking. I knew the new house was sitting on his shoulders, and I supported him the only way I could: by keeping the old house quiet, by saving every rupee I touched, and by being ready for him at night without adding one more demand.

At night the stress would still be on him. He would sit in the bedroom on the chair at the small table and write down the money spent on construction: cement, steel, Mesthri’s wage, extra sand, the amount still short. His shoulders would stay tight. The pen would stop and start. He would rub his forehead and look at the page as if the next floor depended on those numbers. I would watch him from the doorway first and feel the tiredness on his face. That was when I would go into the bedroom.
I would stand where he could see me from the chair and take off my clothes in order so that he would watch even while he was busy. First my saree. Then my blouse, opening the front hooks between my breasts. Then my petticoat, pulling the string below my navel. Then my bra, opening the six back hooks, letting my heavy breasts down. Then my panties. I would do it slowly enough for his eyes. He would glance up, swallow, and force himself back to the page. I would not pull the page away. I would pick up the towel and go to the bathroom.

I would bathe slowly so I would be clean and fresh for him. I would wet my hair and my body, soap my neck, my shoulders, and the valley between my breasts, then lift each breast and wash under it. I would soap my waist, my hips, my ass cheeks, and between my ass cheeks. I would wash my thighs and my pussy until no market dust and no sweat from the stove remained. I would rinse until the soap left my nipples and my navel. I would dry myself with the towel, wipe between my breasts, wipe my pussy, and wipe my feet last.

I would come out of the bathroom wearing only my nighty. No bra. No panties underneath. The nighty would sit loose over my breasts and over my pussy. I would walk towards my husband at the small table. He would still be writing, stressed, but his eyes would lift the moment I came close.
I would stand beside his chair and tempt him, put my hand on his shoulder, and lean so my breast inside the nighty touched his arm. Close to his ear I would tell him, “Leave the accounts. I am here.” He would keep the pen in his fingers a little longer and answer, “The Mesthri asked for more tomorrow.” I would not argue with the Mesthri or with the numbers. I would take his hand from the page, put it on my hip over the nighty, slide it up to my breast, and tell him, “Tomorrow is tomorrow. You worked the whole day for us. Let me take the tension.”
I would step back, pull my nighty up and off me, and stand naked in front of the small table. My breasts, my waist, my hips, my pussy were all there, clean from the bath. The pen would drop. I would tell him, “Come.” He would look at me until the numbers left his eyes. I would pull him up from the chair, take off his banian, open his lungi, and take the lungi off him until he was naked. Then I would take him to the bed.
Some nights I would push him onto his back, climb over him, and take his cock inside my pussy. I would ride him. My breasts would move over his chest. I would hold his shoulders and lift my hips and come down on him again and again, telling him, “Don’t think of the plot now.” He would hold my waist and say only my name, “Sudha.” I would tighten my pussy around his cock, ride him faster, keep him deep, and tell him, “Give it to me. I will make you come.” I would not stop until his hands gripped my ass cheeks and his head went back. I would take him all the way and make him come inside me.

Some nights I would not ride him. I would sit beside him on the bed, take his cock in my hand, and jerk him off, stroking him slowly at first, then faster, watching his face lose the accounts, telling him, “Let it out. You have done enough today.” He would breathe against my shoulder and say, “Don’t stop.” I would keep my fist moving on his cock until he came on my breasts and my hand.
Some nights I would take his cock in my mouth and suck him off. I would lick the head, take him deeper, and suck until his hand held my hair. I would pause only long enough to tell him, “Come in my mouth. Leave the table.” He would look down at me and say, “Sudha.” I would suck him until he came, swallow, and stay with my mouth on him until his shoulders loosened.

The pleasure I gave him would take the tension out of his body. His breathing would slow. The tightness would leave his face. That was all I could do, and I did it with a full heart. I was only a housewife. I was not earning. I could not pay the Mesthri or buy the steel. I could only understand his hard work, support him without complaint, save on the bus, wash the same bra and the same panties, and give him my body at night so he could put the construction down for a while.
After that he would hug me naked and go to sleep with his palm on my waist, the accounts still on the small table, unfinished. I would stay against him with nothing on, listening to him breathe, knowing this relief was my share of the work, while the new house a couple of houses away waited for morning.


As I continued travelling in the bus to the market, I began hearing one name again and again. Market Ravi. The women near the door would say it first. The men near the conductor would say it next. I heard it for many days and still did not know the face behind it. I would stand in the crowded aisle with the cloth bag against my hip, my saree pleats pressed to my thighs, and listen. I did not speak to those strangers. I only collected the name the way I collected the change written on the back of the ticket.
I also saw what that name could do inside the bus. When a man put his hand on a woman’s ass over her saree, she would push his wrist away and tell him, “Remove your hand. I will tell Market Ravi.” The man would pull his hand back as if the rod had burned him and look at the window. Another day a man pressed a woman’s breast from behind while the bus jerked, and she turned her face and said, “One more time and I will tell Market Ravi.” He got down at the next stop without waiting for his own. If anyone misbehaved in that crowd, the women had started using that name the way other people used a security officer complaint. The perverts got scared. I heard it enough times to understand that Market Ravi’s name travelled even when he was not in the bus.
One afternoon I asked my friend Kamala. Kamala was a housewife like me. She also came to the market to save money for her house. After I finished touching the tomatoes I pulled her aside and asked her, “Kamala, who is this Market Ravi? For many days I have been hearing that name in the bus and near the shops, and I still do not know who he is.”

Kamala’s face changed as if I had opened a wound she kept tied under her pallu. Her eyes filled before she answered. She looked around once and then told me, her voice low and breaking, “Market Ravi controls this whole market, Sudha. He has many cases against him. The security officer know his name and still he walks here as if the road belongs to him. People are afraid of him. I was also afraid. I did not want to stand in front of a rowdy. But when nobody else stood for me, he stood. If a problem sits in this market, he is the one who solves it.”
Then she told me her story and she could not keep it flat. A broker named Venkatesh had cheated her of one lakh, and the words came out of her as if she was living that week again. “It was one lakh, Sudha, my husband’s money, money we had kept for my daughter’s wedding. I carried that shame on my face for days. Nobody helped me. They looked at me and sent me away. At night I could not sleep. I kept thinking my husband would ask where the wedding money went and I would have no answer. I thought the marriage was finished. I thought I had failed my daughter.” She swallowed and wiped her cheek with her pallu. “Then I told Market Ravi. My hands were shaking. I thought he would laugh at me standing there with a story. He did not laugh. He found Venkatesh. He beat him so badly that Venkatesh’s legs stopped working and he has been paralyzed since that day, sitting in a chair while his wife talks for him. After that Venkatesh’s wife came herself and put my one lakh in my hand. I held that money and I sat down on the road because my legs would not carry me. That man gave my daughter’s wedding back to me. He gave me my husband’s face back. I still get afraid when I hear his name, and I still say it with respect.”

I asked her if he had truly got her money back, and Kamala nodded, tears coming again, and said, “Yes, he got my money back. Say what you want about him. Call him rowdy. Call him criminal. For me he was God that day. If he had not come, I would still be lying to my husband, and I could not have lived with that lie.”
I took the bus home with that story in my head. The mixer was running on our new plot a couple of houses away. My husband was still on the site, standing over the Mesthri, writing numbers that never became enough. I was only a housewife. I was not earning. I could not beat a cheat or force money back. But I began to think Market Ravi was a moral man in his own way. He had cases against him, yes. He was a rowdy, yes. He still returned what had been stolen, and even his name could make a man take his hand off a woman’s saree. In that crowded market, that sounded like justice.
I did not tell my husband. I kept the name Market Ravi to myself, the way I kept the bus hands and the conductor’s unpaid change to myself, and went home to cook.


Every time we put moulding on the new house, my husband’s cousin Santosh made sure the day did not pass quietly. Santosh stayed right next to our newly under-construction house, a couple of houses away from our old one. When the mixer started and the dust rose, he would come out of his gate as if the street belonged only to him. He would call the cops. He would stand in front of the workers and raise his voice at my husband until the whole street stopped to listen. He would humiliate my husband in front of the Mesthri, in front of the labourers, in front of neighbours who had drunk tea in our house.

On the second floor he did the same. He called the cops for dust, for noise, for a petty reason that could have been settled with one sentence. My husband tried to speak politely. Santosh did not let him finish. On the third floor he did the same again. Another complaint. Another jeep. Another hour wasted while the cement waited and the numbers on my husband’s small table grew heavier.
Today we put moulding for the fourth floor. Today it was not only Santosh. Today his entire family came out and humiliated my husband. His wife stood at the gate and raised her voice. His relatives stood behind him and laughed when my husband tried to explain. They forgot every year my husband had helped their family finally, every time my husband had stood there for them when they needed money, a word, a roof, a name in this city.

Santosh pointed at my husband in front of the workers and abused him openly. He said, “Who do you think you are? You have no respect. You fill the street with dust and act like a big man. Your father is gone and you have become this. Your mother’s name is also finished. Your mother raised a dog, not a man. Go tell your mother to come and stand here if you cannot.” His wife laughed and added her voice to his. The relatives behind him repeated the words about my husband’s mother as if that was the easiest way to break him. They said the construction was a shame on the street. They said it loud enough for the workers to hear and look down at their feet.
My husband came home completely broken. He sat at the small table and could not open the accounts. He could not lift his face. At night he put his head in my lap and cried like a man who had been emptied in public. I held his head and felt his shoulders shake against my thighs. His tears wet my nighty. He told me he could not walk that street tomorrow. He told me they had used his mother’s name. I let him cry. I did not tell him to be strong.

My blood boiled. I sat there with his head in my lap and knew I had to avenge that bastard Santosh. Not a complaint. Not another polite word. Something that would make that whole family feel what they had poured on my husband and on his mother’s name. I was only a housewife. I could not stand in that street and return the abuse. But the heat in me did not go down. I listened to him cry and swore that Santosh would not get away with this.

To Be Continued ..!

[novelistcasanova]

I put my husband to sleep. I held his head until the crying slowed, wiped his face with the end of my nighty, and waited until his breathing became even against my thigh. I did not leave the bed until I was sure he would not wake and sit at the small table again.

Deep inside I was already plotting. The street abuse, his mother’s name, the workers looking down at their feet — all of it sat in me after he slept. That was when I remembered Market Ravi. The name from the bus. The name the women used when a man put his hand on a saree. The name Kamala had said with tears when her daughter’s wedding money came back. A man who had cases against him, a man who still solved what the street would not solve.
I decided I would meet him the next day. I did not tell my husband. I pulled the sheet over his shoulder, lay down beside him, and went to sleep with that decision already made.


The next day I woke up early. My husband had already woken up. He was in the living room, sitting sad on the sofa, his back bent the same way it had been at the small table. My sons, who did not know what had happened on the street, were playing around him. One climbed the arm of the sofa. One ran with a college bag. They laughed and pulled his hand. He looked at them and could not smile.
I stood for a moment and watched that. Then I went into the bathroom and shut the door.
I lifted my nighty to my waist. I wore nothing under it. I sat on the commode with my thighs open and my ass cheeks on the seat, my pussy and my asshole over the hole. I leaned forward a little, put my elbows on my knees, and waited until the pressure came down. My belly tightened. I pushed. The first stool was hard and it stretched my asshole as it came out, slow, a thick piece that hung for a second and then dropped into the water. I breathed out. I pushed again. Softer stool followed, warmer, sliding out of my asshole in a longer piece, and I felt my asshole open and close around it until it broke and fell. I sat there and pushed once more until the last of it left me. I took the jet spray, aimed it at my asshole, and washed until the water ran clean. I flushed and stood up. My nighty fell back over my hips.
After pooping I felt fresh and clean and free. My belly was light. My asshole was washed. The heaviness of the night had left my body even if it had not left the house. I went to the tap, took the toothbrush, put paste on it, and brushed my teeth slowly, looking at my face in the small mirror. I rinsed my mouth, washed my face, and stood there with the same decision I had taken in the night. Today I would find Market Ravi.


I came out of the bathroom with the towel around me and opened the cupboard. I let the towel fall. My breasts hung heavy and still damp at the nipples. My pussy was clean from the shower. I picked up my maroon panties, bent, and stepped my right foot in, then my left. I pulled the maroon panties up my thighs, over my ass cheeks, and settled the waistband just under my navel. The leg openings held the upper curve of my ass cheeks. When I stood straight the maroon panties sat close on my pussy.
I picked up my white bra. I bent forward so my breasts fell into the bra cups, hooked the first of the six back hooks, then the next, until all six were closed and my breasts sat high and close inside the white bra. The bra straps rested on my shoulders. My nipples pressed into the bra cups. I put two fingers inside the left bra cup, lifted my breast, and settled the nipple. I did the same to the right breast.
I took my white petticoat, stepped into it, and tied the string two fingers below my navel, over my maroon panties, the way my mother taught me. The white petticoat covered my thighs and hid my maroon panties. I turned sideways and looked at the line of my waist and the flare of my hips.
I picked up my yellow blouse and put my arms through the sleeves. The yellow blouse sat tight over my white bra. I brought the front hooks together between my breasts and closed them one by one. The neckline of my yellow blouse rested across the upper curve of my breasts. When I breathed, the shape of the bra cups showed under the yellow blouse.
Last I lifted my yellow chiffon saree. I tucked it at my waist over the white petticoat, made the pleats, and set the pleats full over my wide hips. I brought the pallu around and over my left shoulder. The yellow chiffon saree sat on my breasts and on my hips. When I walked two steps to see the fall, the pleats swayed and the white petticoat moved against my thighs.
I went to the living room. My husband was still sitting sad on the sofa. My sons were still playing around him, not knowing what the street had done to their father. I went to the stove and prepared breakfast: dosa and chutney. I packed the tiffins, sat my sons down, and made them eat. Then I sent them off to college.
I stood in front of my husband and told him, “Stay at home today. The moulding is curing. You do not have to show your face outside. Rest.”
He looked at the door and did not argue.
I told him, “I am going to the market to buy groceries.”
I picked up the cloth bag, checked the pallu on my shoulder, and went outside the house, my yellow chiffon saree moving on my hips as I walked to the gate.




I stood near the door with the cloth bag in my hand. My yellow chiffon saree was tucked. The pallu sat on my left shoulder. My husband was still on the sofa, sad, not looking at the street. My sons had already gone to college. The moulding was curing. I had told him I was going to the market for groceries.
I did not open the gate at once. I took the phone into the narrow space beside the almirah so my husband would not hear the name. My fingers were cold. I called Kamala as if I was only checking something small before I left.
She picked up on the second ring. I could hear a vessel in her kitchen.
“Kamala, it is me. I am stepping out for vegetables. You are going today or you already went?” I said.
There was a pause, then her voice came easier, ordinary.
“Not yet. Why? You need me to pick something?” Kamala said.
I looked at the door of the living room. My husband had not moved. I kept my voice light, as if this was market talk.
“No, no. I will go myself. Just one thing. That name we heard the other day. Market Ravi. I keep hearing it in the bus. I was wondering, if someone wanted to find him in the morning, where would he be? Near the onion shops, or somewhere else? I am only asking. People talk as if he is always there,” I said.
Kamala did not answer at once. I heard her walk away from the stove. When she spoke, the ordinary tone had thinned.
“Sudha, why are you asking like this? You sound as if you are going to stand there and wait for him,” Kamala said.
I gave a small laugh I did not feel.
“Nothing like that. Curiosity. The women in the bus say his name as if he lives in the market. I thought you would know. You hear more than I do,” I said.
“Listen to me. He is not sitting in the market like before. After that Venkatesh matter the security officer started asking more. He is in hiding. That is what the women are saying. Even I don’t know where he is now. If I knew the house I would tell you. I don’t have a lane or a door to give you,” Kamala said.
My hand tightened on the phone. The cloth bag slipped down my wrist. I still did not give her Santosh, or my husband’s crying, or the street.
“Hiding? Then the market people must know something. If I go now, who do I even ask? I don’t want to look foolish standing there with a bag,” I said.
“Ask the people who move all day. The flower women, the men near the onion shops, the auto drivers at the stand. They see him even when he is hiding. Don’t say anyone’s name. Don’t say why. If they know, they will know. If they don’t, buy your vegetables and come home. Don’t walk into a lane because a stranger pointed,” Kamala said.
I closed my eyes. I saw my husband’s head in my lap. I kept that picture out of the phone.
“All right. I will see. Don’t make a big thing of this call. I only asked because I heard the name again. My husband is in the next room,” I said.
“Go carefully, Sudha. Hearing a name and looking for the man are not the same thing,” Kamala said.
I cut the call. I put the phone inside the cloth bag, checked the pallu on my shoulder, and went out of the house as if I was only going for groceries. I already knew I would not look for tomatoes first. I would look for a mouth that knew where Market Ravi was hiding.

[novelistcasanova]

I decided not to take the bus. Kamala had said the auto drivers at the stand saw Market Ravi even when he was hiding. I walked out of our street with the cloth bag on my wrist and that small hope sitting under my pallu.

The auto stand was at the corner, five autos parked one behind the other. Five drivers stood in a loose knot beside the first bonnet, khaki shirts, khaki pants, tea glasses in their hands. The moment I came into the open they stopped talking. Their eyes went to my face first, then to my yellow blouse, then to the way my yellow chiffon saree sat on my hips.
That was when the temple priest stepped into my path. He was a well-respected man on our street, the kind people touched feet for on festival days, and today that respect was still on his forehead while something else sat in his eyes. He folded his hands as if this was a blessing, but his gaze was already travelling over my dress. The five men behind him leaned in without moving their feet. I felt their watching before I felt his first question, and my throat went tight.
“Sudha, this yellow is good. Turmeric colour. Auspicious. A woman should leave the house in a colour the lamp will accept. Tell me one thing first. Are you wearing anything black under this? Black is not a good colour to take out when you have work, and if there is black on the body, the work you are going for will slip.” the temple priest said.
I glanced at the khaki shirts. One man had already stopped his tea. I looked down at the cloth bag and shifted it in front of my hips.
“Swamy, there are people standing here.” I said.
He did not look at them. He looked at the neckline of my yellow blouse, patient, as if the street belonged to the temple.
“They are standing. They are not coming to the temple with you. Answer me. Anything black, or not?” the temple priest said.
My fingers tightened on the bag. I shook my head once, small.
“No. Nothing black. Only this saree.” I said.
He smiled sideways, cunning, the respected voice still in place, the hunger sitting under it. The drivers leaned an inch closer.
“I did not mean the saree. I can see the saree. I meant inside, and we will go one by one so there is no confusion. First the petticoat, because that is what sits under the saree. Is the petticoat black?” the temple priest said.
Heat climbed my face. Five pairs of eyes sat on the tuck of my yellow chiffon saree. I pulled the pallu half an inch and it hid nothing.
“Swamy, that is not a thing to ask in the street.” I said.
He waited. The stand was quiet enough to hear a glass tap against a tooth.
“It is a thing to ask if the morning has to sit. Is the petticoat black?” the temple priest said.
“No.” I said.
A breath moved through the khaki shirts. He tilted his head, not done.
“No is not enough. What colour is the petticoat? Say it plainly.” the temple priest said.
I hesitated. One driver leaned in. My mouth felt dry.
“White.” I said.
A low sound came from the khaki shirts. One man wiped his mouth. Another’s hand went down, idle, and stayed on the front of his khaki pants as if he was only settling the fold. I saw that hand and looked away, ears hot.
The priest nodded, pleased, and asked the next as if he was still checking a lamp.
“White is clean. Good. Now the bra. Is the bra black?” the temple priest said.
I looked at the ground. I could feel them waiting for the next colour the way they waited for a signal. My shoulders drew in.
“Swamy, please. The petticoat was already too much.” I said.
He did not soften. His eyes stayed on my yellow blouse.
“The petticoat is done. The bra is next. Black or not?” the temple priest said.
“Not black.” I said.
“Then what colour? Don’t hide half of it the way women do when they get shy in the street.” the temple priest said.
I swallowed. The word sat on my tongue and still came out.
“White.” I said.
One auto driver muttered white-on-white. Another leaned on the bonnet and rubbed himself once over the khaki pants, slow, not hiding it well. Knowing the petticoat and the bra had already made them horny. They were waiting for the last colour, and they were enjoying that I did not want to give it. My stomach turned.
The priest’s voice went softer, cheeky, the temple still in it.
“White petticoat, white bra, under a yellow saree. That is proper. Now the last one, and this is the one that decides the morning. Are your panties black?” the temple priest said.
I stood there with my lips closed. The stand felt smaller. A breath went out of one man. Another rubbed his cock over his khaki pants more openly now, watching my mouth, waiting for the hesitation to break. A third shifted his weight and did the same, eyes on the tuck of my saree. The priest waited too, respected, horny, not helping me out of the pause. My feet wanted the gate. They did not move.
“Swamy, I cannot say that here. They are all looking.” I said.
“Let them look. They are not the temple. Black or not?” the temple priest said.
I shut my eyes for a second.
“Not black.” I said at last.
He stepped half a foot closer, as if the last piece had to be pulled.
“Not black is only half, Sudha. What colour are the panties? Say it the way you said white. I am standing here for the blessing, not for a riddle.” the temple priest said.
I stood there with the word stuck. He had asked too many questions, one after another, and he had left me no side road. The drivers leaned in. One of them rubbed again, hungry for the colour they did not yet have. I heard myself as if I was standing outside my own body.
“Maroon.” I said.
That was what finished them, and that was what finished me. One auto driver laughed under his breath and looked at my hips, his hand still on his khaki pants. Another said maroon to the man beside him and rubbed slower, as if the word was enough. A third crushed the tea glass too hard and did not look away. They had the whole ladder now: white petticoat, white bra, maroon panties. Shame came late and heavy. I could not believe I had stood in front of a respected priest and five watching men and given him every colour he wanted. I wanted to pull the pallu over my face.
The priest nodded as if I had given an offering. His eyes dipped once more to my waist, then returned to the blessing.
“White is clean, and maroon is also not black, so you can go. Don’t worry about the new house. I will pray for the construction. Cement and steel also need a blessing. Tell your husband the temple has not forgotten him.” the temple priest said.
“I will tell him, Swamy.” I said.
My voice was small. I walked toward the line of autos with my ears burning, embarrassed after the revealing, the answers still sitting in the air. The khaki shirts parted just enough to let me through, their hands slower to leave the front of their pants, their eyes still on my blouse and on the place they now had a colour for. I had come out to find Market Ravi, and I had stood in the street and named my petticoat, my bra, and my panties, one by one, with five men listening and getting hard on the words.


I walked toward the line of autos with my ears still burning from the priest. The khaki shirts did not wait. All five came to me at once, circling the cloth bag, smiling too wide. Their eyes went to my yellow blouse, to my breasts. I pulled the pallu of my yellow chiffon saree across my chest and covered them. The eyes dropped to my waist, to the navel where the saree tucked. I pulled the pallu lower and covered that too. I felt the want on them. They were not looking for a drop. They were looking at a body they wanted to fuck.
“Where, madam? Tell me. My auto is first.” one auto driver said.
I stopped a little short of their circle and held the bag against my waist.
“No, mine. Market? House? I will take you anywhere.” another said.
I turned to the man in front of me so I could speak to one face, not five. Behind my shoulder the others put their heads together, tea glasses hiding their mouths, thinking I could not hear.
“What a woman, da. Look at that saree on her hips.” one whispered.
My fingers tightened on the bag. I kept my eyes forward.
“I would fuck her in the auto itself. Blouse, waist, everything.” another whispered.
Heat climbed my neck. I pretended the tea stall was interesting.
“Lucky the man who gets her inside. I am hard just standing here.” the third whispered.
I heard it. Anger sat under the embarrassment. I still made my voice light, as if this was only an errand.
“Market. I have to go to the market. Also, I need to see Market Ravi. If you know where he would be at this hour, you can tell me.” I said.
The man in front smiled too quickly. His eyes went to my breasts again. I pulled the pallu across my chest once more. Behind him the whispers did not stop.
“Market I can take you. Market Ravi also I know. He is behind the onion shops today.” the first auto driver said.
I nodded as if I was only checking a shop name. I did not lean in.
“Ask her to sit in yours and take the long road.” someone whispered.
I swallowed and did not turn. Another man’s gaze sat on my navel. I gathered the pallu and covered the tuck of my saree.
“Don’t listen to him. Ravi is not there. He is near the flower row, the old godown.” the second said, louder, for me, then dropped his voice again. “I would take that pallu off before the first signal.”
My pallu felt thin. I pulled it again and let it sit over my breasts.
“Both of you are lying. He is in the lane next to the mutton stall. I dropped a man there yesterday.” the third said.
“Wrong. He moved again. He is on the other side of the market, near the bus depot wall.” the fourth said.
Four places. Four mouths. My head went around with their pointing. The fifth man only stared at my waist and smiled. Under the pointing I still heard the other talk, the talk they thought was private: what a woman, how they would fuck me, how they would keep me in the auto. A cold thought came with it. If I sat in one of these autos, they might not stop at looking. They might bang me on some long road and leave me. I looked at their faces and I knew. They could take me to the market. They could not take me to Market Ravi. They wanted my body. The name was only bait to keep me in their autos.
I stepped back from the circle. My voice stayed polite. My feet wanted the road.
“It is all right. I will see. Thank you.” I said.
I turned to leave the stand and look for some other auto on the road. That was when one came past, empty, slower than the rest. The man at the handle was not ogling. He was looking at the road, strict, khaki shirt buttoned, mouth closed. I lifted my hand because he did not look like the five.
“Market.” I said.
He glanced at me once, only at my face, and nodded.
“Get in.” he said.
I put my foot on the step. From the stand, one of the five reached in as if he was only helping me with the saree, and grabbed my ass, full, through the yellow chiffon saree and the white petticoat. His fingers sank into my ass cheek and held. Anger jumped into my face, and under the anger the fear came back, that this was how it would start if I stayed with them. I turned my head and gave him a look, hard, enough to cut the smile. Then I sat inside quickly, pulling the pallu over my breasts, pulling the saree over my knees, the cloth bag on my lap. The passing auto moved. Behind us the khaki shirts laughed. In front of me the strict driver did not look back. I still thought I was only going to the market, and from there I would see Market Ravi myself.

[novelistcasanova]

The auto went down the main road. The driver did not use the mirror on my body. He watched the traffic. His face was dark-skinned and ugly, the jaw heavy, the mouth strict. I sat with the cloth bag on my lap and did not know how to open my mouth. After the five men at the stand, even a question felt dangerous. I gathered all the strength I had and leaned a little forward.

“Anna, have you heard of Market Ravi?” I said.
His hands tightened on the handle. He did not look back at once.
“Why are you asking?” he said.
I kept my voice light, as if it was only street talk.
“Nothing. I am only hearing a lot about him. In the bus, in the market. That is all.” I said.
He did not answer. The auto bumped over a patch and my pallu slipped. I pulled it back across my chest and waited. The silence sat between us. I tried again, smaller.
“Is he still in the market, or is he hiding from the cops?” I said.
That was what broke the strict face. He shouted without turning fully, the word hitting the roof of the auto.
“Ravi Anna is not a coward.” he said.
I sat back. My heart jumped. He had said Anna. Not Market Ravi like the women in the bus. Ravi Anna. The word told me he knew him personally. I held the bag tighter and let the fear mix with a thin hope. I began to say all the nice things I had, carefully, so his anger would not come back on me.
“I did not mean coward. I have only heard good things. He solves what the market will not solve. He even helped my friend Kamala. A broker named Venkatesh cheated her, and Ravi Anna beat him and paralyzed him, and Kamala got her money back. People say that with respect.” I said.
He did not answer. He kept riding, eyes on the road, jaw tight. I watched the back of his khaki shirt and did not push again. The Anna was enough. Somewhere in that silence I believed this ugly, strict man could take me where the five smiling ones could not.


I asked again, because the silence was worse than a no.
“Anna, if you know Ravi Anna, even a little, you can tell me where I should stand. I will not trouble you after that.” I said.
He did not respond. His shoulders stayed hard. The auto went past two signals. I looked at the ugly, strict line of his jaw and understood that casual talk would not open him. I decided to tell him what had happened, and why I needed help.
My voice came out uneven. I held the cloth bag like a support.
“It is not curiosity. Yesterday we put moulding on the fourth floor. My husband’s cousin Santosh lives next to that plot. Every floor he has called the cops and stopped the work. Yesterday it was not only him. His whole family came out. They humiliated my husband in the street, in front of the workers, in front of the Mesthri. They forgot every time my husband helped their family finally. Santosh abused him. He used my husband’s mother’s name. He said my husband’s mother raised a dog, not a man. My husband came home broken. At night he put his head in my lap and cried. I have never seen him like that.” I said.
The tears came while I was still talking. I wiped them with the pallu of my yellow chiffon saree, then they came again. I did not care if the strict driver saw.
“I am only a housewife. I cannot stand in that street and return that abuse. I need Market Ravi. I need him to get my revenge on that bastard Santosh. If Ravi Anna could get Kamala’s money back, he can teach Santosh. That is why I sat in your auto. That is why I asked.” I said.
I wiped my face again and looked at the floor of the auto. For a stretch he said nothing, but the silence had changed. His hands loosened on the handle. He glanced once at the mirror, not at my blouse, at my wet eyes. Sympathy sat on that ugly, strict face as if it did not know how to sit there. He kept riding and did not speak.


The sympathy on his face did not cool me. The more I sat with the story in my mouth, the more Santosh came back. The street. The workers looking down. My husband’s mother’s name. My hands closed on the cloth bag until the handle hurt.
“I want to kill that bastard. I am saying it plainly. I want Santosh to feel what he poured on my husband. I cannot do it. I need Ravi Anna’s help. If you know him, you have to take me to him. I did not come out for vegetables.” I said.
My voice shook with anger, not only tears. I wiped my face with the pallu and stared at the back of his khaki shirt, waiting.
He rode a little further, then spoke without raising his voice this time.
“Ravi Anna will not help now. He is in hiding from the cops. After Venkatesh, the security officer started coming to the market every other day, asking shops, asking autos, asking who saw him last. He is not sitting in the open. He is not meeting people. He is not in the mood to help anyone. A man who is dodging jeeps will not come out to settle a street fight for a woman he has not even seen. If you go to the market and say his name, you will only bring trouble on your own head. He will not come out for this.” the auto driver said.
I sat back as if the seat had gone thin. The hope I had carried from Kamala’s call and from the word Anna sank in my chest. I looked at his ugly, strict face in the side of the mirror and did not know whether he was protecting Ravi Anna or closing the door on me.


The door he had closed did not sit in me. I started crying again, not politely, the kind of crying that made my chest jerk under the yellow blouse. I needed Ravi Anna. I needed revenge on Santosh. The two things had become one thing.
“If Ravi Anna could help my friend Kamala, why can he not help me? I am asking you properly, Anna. Kamala is a housewife like me. She also went with a problem, and he listened, and he did something. My husband was humiliated in the street. Santosh used his mother’s name. So why is Kamala’s pain worth a beating and mine is not?” I said.
The auto driver kept quiet and rode faster. The shops began to blur. I held the side bar and wiped my face with the pallu, then asked again because the quiet was like another insult.
“Anna, answer me. Why Kamala and not me? Take me to him. Let him say no to my face if he wants to say no. I cannot go home with my husband sitting on that sofa and Santosh laughing in the next house.” I said.
He jammed the brake. The auto stopped so hard I had to catch the seat. He turned, ugly face dark with anger, and the strictness came back like a slap.
“Your friend Kamala must have slept with Ravi Anna. That is why he helped her. That is why Venkatesh is sitting paralyzed. Don’t come in my auto and talk as if help is free. Are you ready to sleep with Ravi? Say that first. Then talk about revenge.” the auto driver said.
The words shut me down. My mouth opened and nothing came. Tears were still on my face. The market noise went on around a stopped auto, and I sat in it with his question sitting on my chest like a hand.


He started the auto again. The brake came off with a metal knock and the road took us. Hot air from the engine came back under the seat and sat on my thighs through the yellow chiffon saree. I sat with his question still on my chest and did not answer it at once.
I thought of my husband’s face in the street, white, the workers looking at their feet. I thought of Santosh’s face, the mouth that had opened on a respected man’s name. I thought of Santosh’s mother’s face at the gate, laughing with the rest of them, as if my husband’s help had never happened. I thought of my husband in my lap at night, crying, the wet of his tears through my nighty, his shoulders shaking against my thighs. The insult sat in me heavier than shame. Revenge sat heavier than the priest, heavier than the five men, heavier than what this auto driver had just asked.
A horn passed on the left. Dust came into my mouth. I wiped my face with the pallu of my yellow chiffon saree and tasted salt. The pallu came away dark at the edge. My hands were shaking on the bag handle. The vinyl seat stuck to the back of my thighs. I looked at the sweat line on the back of his khaki shirt and made the choice. The word Anna had done something in me. I was talking to this ugly, strict man as if he was an elder brother who had stopped the road to listen. I trusted that silence more than I had trusted the smiling men at the stand. When I spoke, the words did not come like a bargain. They came like something I had already buried and dug up again.
“I am ready.” I said.
He did not turn. The auto hit a stone and my breasts lifted inside my white bra, then settled under my yellow blouse. I swallowed the tightness in my throat and gave him the rest, because one line would sound like fear.
“Anna, listen to me. I am telling you this the way I would tell an elder brother. I sat in your auto and I opened my house to you. I am not saying this to sound brave. I sat with my husband’s head in my lap last night and I listened to him cry over his own mother’s name. I can carry shame. I cannot carry that. If Ravi Anna helped Kamala because she paid with her body, then I will pay the same. I want Santosh to pay. I want my husband to lift his face in that street again. The rest I can take home and hide. I am trusting you with this because you said Anna, and because you stopped when I cried.” I said.
The elder brother landed on him. I saw it from behind. His shoulders dropped. The tight line of his neck loosened. His hands eased on the handle as if the iron had gone soft. He looked into the mirror, and the ugly, strict face had melted. The anger that had stopped the auto was not sitting there anymore. For a second he was only a man who had been called Anna by a crying woman, and he did not know where to put his eyes.
He still did not speak at once. He rode as if the road needed care now. I sat back with the bag on my lap, the yellow chiffon saree over my knees, the wet pallu of my yellow chiffon saree cooling against my neck, and waited.


He rode a little longer with that melted face. The handle sat loose in his hands. Once he lifted his fingers as if he was going to speak and put them back. I watched the sweat on the back of his khaki shirt and waited, my own hands locked on the bag, my wet lashes sticking to the skin under my eyes.
Then he spoke, still looking at the road, as if looking at me would make the words harder.
“Think one more time, sister, don’t say ready because you are crying and your face is wet and you want the anger to leave your body today itself. Sleeping with him is not enough. Ravi Anna will not move for a woman who lies there and waits for it to finish, because he has security officer on his back and he is not in the mood to help a stranger for one night that means nothing to him. You have to cooperate with him fully, whatever he asks, however he takes you, and you cannot pull back in the middle and remember your house and your husband and decide you are a decent woman again. If you cannot do that, get down now, before I take you any further.” the auto driver said.
I did not get down. My knees stayed pressed together under the yellow chiffon saree. I saw Santosh’s face instead, the mouth in the street, the laugh at the gate, and I wanted that face broken. I wanted revenge sitting on him the way humiliation had sat on my husband. A shiver went through my shoulders. I wiped the pallu of my yellow chiffon saree across my mouth, then across my eyes, and I answered him with my throat tight.
“I have thought, brother, I am not getting down. Santosh’s face has to break, that is the only thought I have left, and I will cooperate with Ravi Anna fully. I will not lie there like a stone. I will give him all the pleasure he wants, and if that is the price for my husband’s name I will pay it and take the rest home and hide it.” I said.
The auto did not stop. His hands stayed easy on the handle. I sat with my yellow blouse tight across my breasts and my yellow chiffon saree over my knees, breathing through my mouth, and the word cooperate stayed in the air between us.


He stopped the auto in an isolated place. No shops. No other autos. A stretch of empty ground and a few trees. He got down with the phone already in his hand and walked a few steps away. I sat inside and looked at him.
His face was dark-skinned and ugly in the open light, heavier than it had been in the mirror. The jaw, the mouth, the strict eyes. I caught myself thinking how ugly a man could be, then I shut myself up. He had melted when I called him brother. He had listened when I cried. I told myself he was like my brother and I had no work measuring his face.
He talked to someone over the phone. I could not hear the other side of the conversation. I only heard him, low, then a little clearer when he turned toward the auto.
He came closer, the phone still at his ear, and looked at me.
“Sister, he is asking. Are you okay getting fucked with a blindfold on?” the auto driver said.
I sat with the bag on my lap and thought. Blindfold. Fucked. I thought of Santosh. I thought of my husband on the sofa. I thought of cooperate.
“I am okay.” I said.
He put the phone back to his mouth. I still could not hear the other person, only him.
“Pictures of her? Okay.” the auto driver said.
He hung up. He came to the auto and tapped the side.
“Get down, sister.” the auto driver said.
I got down. My yellow chiffon saree moved around my ankles. He stood back and lifted his phone and took my full-size pictures, from my face to my feet, the yellow blouse, the pallu, the tuck at my waist, the bag still in my hand. He sent them without letting me see the screen.
“Get inside.” the auto driver said.
I sat again. He started the auto. We left the isolated stretch and went towards a remote location, the road getting quieter, and I still thought the man on the phone was Ravi Anna.


The remote road had only just begun when his phone rang again, and he did not stop. He steered with one hand and answered with the other while hot air from the engine came back under the seat and sat on my thighs through the yellow chiffon saree, and I watched his shoulders because I could not hear the other man, only the low shape of his voice and the way my fingers would not stay still on the bag.
A hard wind came in from the side and lifted my yellow chiffon saree with my white petticoat, both of them rising together till my knee, and I pressed them down too fast, almost tearing the pleats, while the inner skin of my thigh felt the air. He noticed it in the mirror, his face tightening, not hungry, and eased the auto a little until I had the saree and the petticoat back in place, and I was breathing through my mouth by then as he kept talking into the phone.
Then he hung up, turned his face half toward me, and spoke over his shoulder.
“Sister, Market Ravi is in a slum nearby. I know the house. I know the exact lane. I will take you there now.” the auto driver said.
The handle of the bag bit my palm and my stomach dropped and then lifted, because tonight had been sitting in me from the way he had listened and now it had a place, and I had to swallow before I could speak.
“Take me, brother.” I said.
He turned off the main road and the lanes grew narrower around wet drains and low roofs, children shouting and then going quiet, and every turn made my heart knock against my yellow blouse because I kept thinking the next door would be the one and then it was not, my feet pressing the floor of the auto as if I could stop us with my toes. He stopped in front of a small slum house with a tin sheet over the door and the smell of smoke and damp cloth, and I did not get down at once because my knees had gone soft.
“This is it. Come.” the auto driver said.
I got down with the bag, my yellow chiffon saree holding the dust of the road at the hem, and the ground was uneven so I held the side of the auto for a second before he opened the small door and waited like a brother. I stepped inside and the dark after the street made me blink. The room was low, one cot, one plastic chair, a curtain instead of a wall, and I could hear my own swallowing. I still thought Ravi Anna was behind that curtain, or on his way, and I stood in my yellow blouse with my heart so loud I was afraid the room would hear it.


I was still standing in the low room when his phone rang. He answered it near the curtain, turned his back, and I could not hear the other side, only the short way he said yes. The cot was so close my yellow chiffon saree brushed the rough wood. Sweat sat in the valley between my breasts, inside my white bra, under my yellow blouse, and the blouse stuck there when I breathed. Then he hung up and came to me with that same brother face.
“Ravi Anna will be here in five minutes, sister.” the auto driver said.
My hands tightened on the bag until the plastic handle bit my palm and left a groove. Five minutes. The words went down my throat and opened something in my stomach that was fear and heat together. This would be the first time a man other than my husband put his body on mine. I was doing it for my husband, for the way he had cried in my lap, and that thought did not stop my knees from going soft. He set the bag on the plastic chair and the chair scbangd. Then he lifted both hands and held my face, his palms warm on my cheeks, his thumbs near the wet under my eyes.
“Don’t worry. I am your brother here and I will protect you. I did not bring you to throw you into a room and walk away. I will be there for you, and through Ravi Anna I will help you avenge Santosh, so keep your face up for these five minutes and trust me.” the auto driver said.
The hold on my face undid me. Tears came again, not only from fear. I put my hands over his wrists and held them there. I trusted him completely. The five men at the stand had wanted my body. This ugly strict man had slowed the auto for my saree and held my face like family.
“Thank you, brother. I have no one else with me today. I am doing this for my husband and I am frightened, and still I am putting myself in your hands because I know you will not leave me.” I said.
He nodded with my face still in his hands, then he let go and spoke as if a brother was telling his sister how to get through a hard thing, not as if he was sending her to a bed.
“When he comes, don’t be afraid of him, enjoy yourself if you can, and make sure Ravi Anna enjoys fucking you so the help does not slip. Don’t go stiff and don’t lie there thinking of the street. Give him all the pleasure you promised in the auto. I will be right outside. If anything goes wrong you call and I am at the door.” the auto driver said.
My throat was dry. I thought of Santosh, of my husband’s head in my lap, of the word cooperate, and under that I thought of a stranger coming through that door to fuck me in five minutes. Nervousness ran down my inner thighs until the skin there felt wet against itself. Excitement sat with it, unwanted, warm, where my maroon panties were already close on my pussy.
“I will give him everything I promised, brother. Stay where I can call you if I lose my nerve.” I said.
“I will be right outside the door. I am not going anywhere. You don’t have to hold that fear alone.” the auto driver said.
He took the kerchief from his neck. It was warm from his skin and smelled of sweat and sun, the cloth slightly rough, damp at the fold. When he lifted it toward my eyes I did not step back. The blindfold was good for me. If I did not see Ravi Anna’s face I would not carry that face home to my husband. I could give my body and keep the memory without eyes. I trusted the hands that tied it. He put it over my eyes and the first touch was heat, then darkness. He tied the blindfold behind my head, over my hair, and the knot pulled a few strands. My lashes brushed the kerchief every time I blinked. I heard my own breathing, loud. He turned me a little by the waist. His palm sat on the tuck of my yellow chiffon saree, over my white petticoat, over the string below my navel, and the string pressed into my skin under his hand. He left me standing in the middle of the room, alone, the cot somewhere to my left. The floor was uneven under my feet. Without sight my breasts felt heavier in the yellow blouse. Without sight the air on my neck felt like a mouth that had not yet arrived.
“One more thing before I go, and I am telling you this so you don’t get frightened. Ravi Anna will not speak a word to you while he is fucking you, that is his way, he will come, he will take you, he will leave. Don’t pull the blindfold. I am outside. You already agreed, and I am still your brother.” the auto driver said.
I swallowed behind the kerchief and held the pallu of my yellow chiffon saree without knowing I was holding it. The chiffon slid between my fingers. My knees were not steady. My pussy had gone warm inside my maroon panties and the panties had crept a little with the standing, and I stood there ashamed of that warmth and still waiting for it, glad I would not have a face to remember, glad the man I trusted was on the other side of the tin.
“I understand, I will not take it off, it is better I don’t see him. Tell him I am ready.” I said.
I heard his feet on the floor, then the small door, then the tin sheet scbanging and settling. Then I was alone in the dark, counting five minutes that would not stay still, listening for a man who would not speak, my yellow blouse rising and falling too fast over my breasts, the underarms of the blouse wet, the string of my white petticoat marking my waist, telling myself this first time with another man was for my husband, and that my brother was just outside.



The tin sheet settled and I was alone. I stood in the middle of the dark room with the blindfold on my eyes and my yellow chiffon saree still tucked the way I had left the house, and I spoke to my husband as if he could hear me through the walls.
“Forgive me, I am doing this for you, I have no other choice, because if I go home without this Santosh will keep that mouth and you will keep that sofa, and I cannot watch that again. I want him paid back, and if I cannot kill him I want him paralyzed like Venkatesh, sitting in a chair with his pride gone, that is why I am standing here in a room I cannot see.” I said.
My voice came out thick inside the kerchief. I pressed the pallu of my yellow chiffon saree to my mouth after I said it, as if I had to hide the apology from the empty room.
I prepared myself mentally to sleep with Market Ravi. I told my mind that a man would come through that door in a few minutes, that he would not speak, that he would fuck me and leave, and that I would give him everything because the auto driver, my new brother, the man I trusted so much, had asked me to make sure Ravi Anna enjoyed it. I was going to satisfy him the way I satisfied my husband when he was tired from the construction, only this time I would not see the face.
My body did not wait for my mind to finish. Excitement ran under the yellow blouse. My nipples stayed tight against the bra cups of my white bra and scbangd when I breathed. Heat gathered at my waist under the string of my white petticoat. Between my thighs my maroon panties were already damp on my pussy, close, warm, and I felt ashamed of that wetness and still I felt it grow. This was the first time I would be with another man. The newness of that sat in my stomach like a drop of hot oil. I was nervous enough that my knees kept wanting to fold, and I was excited enough that I shifted my weight so the maroon panties moved on my pussy. I wanted the door to open and I wanted the five minutes to last. I wanted Ravi Anna to take me so the revenge would start, and I wanted to give him pleasure because my brother outside the tin had told me that was how the help would come.
I stood there in the dark, first time, for my husband, wet inside my maroon panties, listening for feet that would not speak, and I did not lift the blindfold.


The tin sheet moved. Feet came in and stopped so close I felt the heat of a body before I felt a hand. I turned my face toward the sound and did not lift the blindfold. I told myself Market Ravi had entered, the man who would not speak.
He stood in front of me. I smelled sweat and sun and the same morning heat that had sat in the auto, smoke from the slum mixed into it. His breath touched my forehead. My yellow chiffon saree was still on me the way I had tucked it at home, pallu on my left shoulder, pleats at my waist, the hem holding the dust of the road.
His fingers found the pallu of my yellow chiffon saree first. They were hard at the palm, rough at the tips, and they closed on the pallu where it lay over my breast. I lifted my left arm to help him. I took the pallu off my own shoulder and put it into his hand, the yellow chiffon saree sliding over my upper arm and the inside of my elbow, leaving that skin uncovered. The pallu had been covering the neckline of my yellow blouse. When it left, air sat on the top of my breasts, on the yellow blouse, on the shape of my white bra underneath. Together we drew the pallu across my chest. The yellow chiffon saree whispered. It caught for a second on the front hooks of my yellow blouse, then came free. This was the first time another man was taking a saree off me, and I was helping him do it. My breath went short inside the kerchief. Heat sat in my maroon panties. I felt the maroon panties cling to my pussy when I shifted my feet to give him the pallu.
He gathered the loose pallu of my yellow chiffon saree and I put my own hand to the tuck at my waist so he would not have to search. My fingers found the tucked end under the pleats. His knuckles covered my fingers and pressed my belly through the yellow chiffon saree and through the white petticoat. We pulled the tuck out together. The pleats at my waist loosened and the yellow chiffon saree slipped a finger’s width down my hip. I felt the string of my white petticoat then, sitting below my navel, no longer fully hidden. His hand stayed at that place longer than the tuck needed. I did not move his hand. I was doing this for my husband. I was also wet.
I turned when he began to walk the yellow chiffon saree off my hips, helping him unwind it, my palm holding the pleats so they would not tangle. Each turn took more of the yellow chiffon saree off me. The saree dragged across my ass, across the white petticoat, and I felt my ass cheeks move under the petticoat as the yellow chiffon saree left them. The pleats opened down my thighs. Air found the back of my knees and the inner skin above them. I held his forearm once to keep my balance, and the forearm was thick, work-hard, warm. He brought the last of the yellow chiffon saree down my calves. I lifted one foot, then the other, and he took the yellow chiffon saree off my insteps. I heard it fall near the chair.
I stood in my yellow blouse, my white petticoat, my white bra, my maroon panties, blind. Without the yellow chiffon saree my waist felt naked even though the white petticoat was still on. Without the yellow chiffon saree my breasts sat more honestly in the yellow blouse. The smell of him was closer now. I stepped a little toward it without meaning to, first time, for my husband, my hands still open from helping him, waiting for the next thing those hard hands would take.

[novelistcasanova]

I stood in my yellow blouse and my white petticoat and my maroon panties, the yellow chiffon saree already gone, and even with the blindfold I felt him looking. The looking sat on my face first, then on the front of my yellow blouse, then on the line of my white petticoat at my waist. It made me uneasy. I could not see his eyes and I still knew they were travelling. I crossed my arms once and dropped them. The room felt smaller because of that look.

His hands rose to my yellow blouse. I felt him find the front hooks between my breasts, the same hooks I had closed in front of the cupboard that morning. I lifted my own hands and put them over his so he would not fumble in the dark I was wearing. Together we opened the first hook. The yellow blouse eased. I felt my breasts settle a little inside my white bra, heavier now that the yellow blouse had given them room. The second hook was tighter. My fingers shook and his did not. We opened it. The third hook came free and the yellow blouse parted down my front. His knuckles brushed the valley between my breasts only as the hook needed. Air went into that valley and found the sweat that had been trapped under the yellow blouse all morning.
I turned my shoulders so he could take the yellow blouse off. I pushed the first sleeve down my arm myself. The sleeve clung at my underarm where the yellow blouse was damp, then gave way. He took the other sleeve. The yellow blouse left my back and my waist. For a second it hung at my wrists and I shook it off into his hands. I heard it fall near the chair, on top of my yellow chiffon saree.
I stood in my white bra and my white petticoat and my maroon panties, blind. Without the yellow blouse my breasts sat in only the white bra, the cups holding them, the nipples tight against the inside of the cups, scbanging when I breathed. Cool air found my underarms and the damp skin there stung. I could smell him closer without the yellow blouse between us, sweat and sun and the slum.
I felt that he was enjoying it. He did not put his hands on me again. He stayed in front of me, close, and the looking I could not see sat on my white bra and on my waist. His breath hit my collarbone, heavier than before. A sound sat low in his throat without becoming a word.
“Do you like it? My blouse is off. Tell me if this is what you wanted.” I said.
He said no word. He leaned in and I felt him nod near my forehead, once, firm, his breath on my face. The same short sound sat in his throat, like yes. I took that as his answer. I was doing this for my husband. I waited for him to take the next thing I was still wearing.
I stood in my white bra and my white petticoat and my maroon panties, and even with the blindfold I felt him looking again. The looking had left my yellow blouse on the chair and come down to the string of my white petticoat, to my hips, to the place where the white petticoat hid my maroon panties. It made me uneasy in a different way. Without the yellow blouse my waist felt more open. I put my hands on the string myself so the looking would have something to follow besides my breasts.
His palms came to my waist and covered my fingers. The string of my white petticoat sat low below my navel, the way I had tied it in the morning. Together we found the knot. My fingers shook. His did not. We pulled. The knot gave and the string slipped through the hem, a long whisper around my hips, and the white petticoat loosened and dropped a finger’s width. Air found the skin above my maroon panties. I felt the waistband of my maroon panties then, no longer fully hidden.
I helped him take the white petticoat down. I pushed it over my hips while his hands guided it, and the white petticoat slid over my ass cheeks, over my maroon panties, over my thighs. It caught at my knees. I bent a little and he took it the rest of the way, down my calves, off my feet. I lifted one foot, then the other. The floor was uneven under my bare soles. I heard the white petticoat fall near the chair, on my yellow blouse, on my yellow chiffon saree.
I stood in my white bra and my maroon panties only. Cool air ran up my inner thighs and found the damp of my maroon panties on my pussy. I could smell him closer still, sweat and sun and the slum. I felt that he was enjoying this too. He did not put his hands on my ass or on my pussy. He stayed in front of me, close, and the looking I could not see sat on my maroon panties and on the bare skin of my thighs. His breath was heavier. A sound sat low in his throat without becoming a word.


I stood in my white bra and my maroon panties, and even with the blindfold I felt him looking. The looking sat on the bra cups of my white bra until I could feel it on my nipples through the bra cups, then it went to the valley between my breasts, then to the bra straps on my shoulders. Heat climbed my neck. I wanted to cover myself and I kept my hands at my sides because I had promised I would not go stiff. This would be the first time another man saw my breasts. My mouth had gone dry inside the kerchief.
His hands came up my sides. I flinched when they reached the front hooks of my white bra, a small shy pull of my shoulders in, not away. He opened the first hook himself. My breasts shifted and I felt them settle heavier against the loosening bra cups. He opened the next. The bra cups gave. My breasts came forward, bare, into the room, and the air found my nipples at once and pulled them tight. I turned my face as if there was somewhere to hide. There was not. He drew the first bra strap down my arm. The bra strap scbangd a line of heat over my shoulder. He took the other bra strap. The white bra left my back and my wrists. I heard it fall near the chair, on my white petticoat, on my yellow blouse, on my yellow chiffon saree.
I stood in only my maroon panties, blind, my breasts bare. Cool air sat on them. My nipples stood so hard they ached. I crossed my arms over my breasts, shy, holding them the way I hold them when someone enters a room I have not locked. Then I dropped my arms because I had promised pleasure, and because I could feel him enjoying the moment I uncovered them again. He did not put his hands on my breasts. He stayed in front of me, close, and the looking I could not see moved from one breast to the other, slow, as if he was taking them in for later. His breath hit my collarbone, heavier than before. A sound sat low in his throat without becoming a word. I could smell him, sweat and sun and the slum, and my maroon panties were damp on my pussy from standing like this.


I stood in only my maroon panties, my breasts bare, and even with the blindfold I felt him looking. The looking had left my breasts and come down my waist, over the skin below my navel, and stopped on the waistband of my maroon panties. Heat climbed my face until my ears burned. This was the last thing. After this there would be nothing between another man and my pussy. Embarrassment sat in my throat. Excitement sat under it, lower, where my maroon panties were already wet. I kept my hands at my sides and my thighs close and still I wanted the maroon panties off.
His fingers hooked the waistband of my maroon panties at my hips. I flinched, a shy tightening of my thighs, not a step back. He drew the maroon panties down. The waistband scbangd my ass cheeks. The front of my maroon panties peeled off my pussy, wet, sticking for a second to the hair and to the skin, then leaving me with a cool line where the wet had been. I was embarrassed that he would feel how wet the maroon panties were. I was excited that he would feel it. I turned my face into the dark. He took the maroon panties down my thighs, over my knees, down my calves. I lifted one foot, then the other. I heard the maroon panties fall near the chair, on my white bra, on my white petticoat, on my yellow blouse, on my yellow chiffon saree.
I stood naked except the blindfold and my mangalsutra. Air touched my pussy. I felt how wet I was on my inner thighs and the shame of that wetness made my stomach pull in, and the excitement of it made me want to open my thighs. I crossed one hand over my breasts and the other over my pussy, shy, holding myself from him, then I dropped both hands because I had promised pleasure, and because I could feel him enjoying the moment I stood uncovered. He did not put his palm on me. He stayed in front of me, close, and the looking I could not see sat on my breasts and on my pussy until my skin there felt burned. His breath hit my collarbone, heavier than before. A sound sat low in his throat without becoming a word. I could smell him, sweat and sun and the slum.


He came in close and put his arms around me while I stood naked except the blindfold and my mangalsutra. He was only in his underwear. His chest hair scbangd my bare breasts and his stomach sat damp against my waist, and with that closeness the stink arrived fully, sweat and old sun and unwashed underwear, a sour heat that filled my nose inside the blindfold until turning my face did nothing. Disgust sat on my tongue. For a breath I wanted to change my mind, I wanted my yellow chiffon saree on my body again and the door open behind me, and then Santosh’s face came back, and my husband’s crying in my lap came back with it, and the promise I had made held me where the smell wanted me to run.
He held me nicely. One palm stayed on my lower back as if to keep me from folding, and the other went down over my ass and took both ass cheeks without hurting them, only holding their weight, his fingers resting in the dip between my ass cheeks. When he pulled me in, my pussy touched the front of his underwear and I felt him hard behind his underwear, and the smell of him was stronger at that distance. The sound I made into his shoulder was half a flinch and half something I did not want to name. His hand left my lower back, found my waist, then rose and covered my breast, thumb passing over my nipple until it stood tighter, then the other breast the same way, and after that he felt me the way a man feels a body he has been allowed to have, slow, from my breasts to my waist to my ass to the wet on my pussy, his fingers sliding through that wet and returning as if to confirm it. Shame went through me because my hips followed his hand even while my throat wanted to close, and under the shame there was excitement I hated, first time, another man’s underwear against my pussy, another man’s stink in my mouth.


He walked me backward by the waist until the edge of the cot touched my calves. I sat because my knees had no other choice. The wood caught my ass and I felt the grain. He came down with me and laid me back, one hand behind my shoulder, and the cot took my shoulders and the back of my head. The blindfold pressed my lashes. I could not see the roof. I could smell him over me, sweat and old sun and unwashed underwear, and I turned my face and the smell followed.
I heard him push his underwear down. His knee opened my left thigh, then my right, and he settled between my thighs until the insides of my knees held his hips. His cock touched my pussy first on the outside, hot, thick, sliding through the wet that had been sitting there since the maroon panties came off. He rubbed the head of his cock up and down my pussy, over my clit, then down to where I opened, and each pass spread me a little more. Disgust and heat lived in the same breath. For a second I wanted my yellow chiffon saree and the door. Santosh’s face held my thighs apart. My husband’s crying held them apart.
He put the head of his cock at my pussy and pushed. I was tight. This was the first cock other than my husband’s, and my pussy did not want to remember a new shape. He worked himself in with short pushes, half in, then back, then in again, stretching me until the stretch became a full ache. I held his shoulders. His skin was damp. His chest hair scbangd my nipples as he came down. He pushed until his stomach sat on my stomach and his cock was all the way inside my pussy, and I was full of him, full of the stink, full of the first time.
He stayed there for a moment as if he was enjoying the fact of being inside me. A sound sat in his throat without becoming a word. Then he started to fuck me with short thrusts, not kind, not cruel yet, testing how my pussy closed on his cock each time he drew back. I felt every inch leave and come back. My breasts moved under his chest. My mangalsutra lay trapped between us. I bit the inside of my mouth and still a sound came out of me. I was doing this for my husband. I was also wet around another man’s cock, taking him, waiting for him to enjoy the rest of me.


The short thrusts did not last. His hips found a harder rhythm and he fucked me as if the waiting in the room had been for this only. Each thrust slapped his stomach against my pussy and the front of my thighs, a wet hit I could hear under the cot knocking the wall. His chest hair scbangd my breasts until my nipples burned and stayed standing against that scbang. He put his mouth on my neck without a kiss, only open heat and sweat, and the stink of him filled the blindfold until I had to breathe through my mouth.
He held my waist with both hands and pulled me onto his cock every time he drove in, so I met him whether I lifted or not. My breasts shook toward my chin and fell back. My ass slid on the wood and he dragged me under him again by the waist, his thumbs pressing the soft place beside my navel. I felt his cock hitting deep, the head of it at the end of me, and my pussy had to open for that depth again and again, stretching around him on the way in, clinging on the way out.
“Ah… wait… ah—” I said, and the rest broke into a moan I could not hold.
He enjoyed that sound. I felt him enjoy it in the way his next thrust came faster, in the way his fingers dug into my waist and then left my waist for my ass cheeks. He spread my ass cheeks and held me open so he could go deeper, his fingers in the dip between my ass cheeks, his cock using the extra room until I felt him against a place that made my thighs jump. I thought of my husband on the sofa. I thought of Santosh at the gate. I still lifted my hips because I had promised I would not go stiff, and because my pussy had started taking him with a wet sound I could hear under his breathing, a sound that told me how much of him I was giving.
“Mm… Ravi…” I said, only that, and then I closed my mouth on another moan.
He fucked through that wetness like an animal that had been allowed a body and meant to use all of it, his stomach slapping my clit now and then, his balls against my ass, his breath broken on my neck. I held his back and felt the sweat run under my palms, down the groove of his spine, onto my wrists. First time. Another man’s cock. Another man’s stink. I stayed open for him.


He pulled his cock out of my pussy and the empty feeling made me grab the cot. He turned me by the hip, first onto my side, then onto my knees, and I went where his hands put me because I had said I would cooperate. My cheek found the wood. My breasts hung and my nipples touched the cot. I was blind, on my knees, my ass in the air, and I felt him looking at that before he touched me again.
He put the head of his cock at my pussy from behind and pushed in on one long stroke. The new angle opened a deeper place. I gasped into the wood.
“Ah—” I said, and bit the cot.
He held my hips and fucked me in long strokes, drawing almost out so I felt the ridge of his cock leave me, then filling me until his stomach slapped my ass. He enjoyed that slap. I felt him enjoy it in the way he kept finding it, in the wet sound my pussy made each time he came home. My yellow chiffon saree was on the chair and I was here. I pushed back onto his cock because my brother outside the tin had told me to make sure this man enjoyed it, and because revenge needed this body to work. Each time I pushed back he took more of me.
His right hand left my hip and came around my waist, down over the skin below my navel, and found my pussy from the front while he was still fucking me. His fingers rubbed my clit in time with his cock, slow at first, then surer, until my thighs shook and I could not keep my knees still. The stink of him hung over my back. Sweat from his stomach ran down the dip between my ass cheeks.
“Mm… like that… please…” I said, and hated that I had said please.
I gave him everything I had promised in the auto. My back arched. My breasts swung on the cot. My pussy held his cock and his fingers at once. First time on my knees for another man. For my husband. For Santosh. I stayed on my knees and let him use both.


He pulled out and turned me onto my back again as if the cot belonged to him. The wood took my shoulders. He lifted my knees and folded them toward my breasts, and I held my own knees because my hands needed somewhere to go. I was open to him in a way I had only ever been open to my husband. He put his cock at my pussy and went in to the root in one push. I felt him watch me even behind the blindfold, the looking sitting on my face and on my breasts and on the place where his cock stretched my pussy.
He fucked me deep from there, using my pussy as if it belonged to these minutes only. Each thrust pinned my knees to my breasts. Sweat from his chest dripped onto my nipples and ran into the valley between my breasts. The stink and the pleasure mixed until I could not separate them. I held his ass and pulled him in, ashamed of my own fingers on him, and I did not let go.
My pussy started to clench his cock in waves I could not order. I was close, first time with another man, the closeness coming whether I invited it or not.
“Ah… I can’t… Ravi… ah—” I said, and the rest went into a broken moan.
He fucked through those waves like an animal that would not stop to be kind, enjoying every clench, enjoying every sound I made into the dark, his stomach slapping my clit, his hands keeping my knees where he wanted them. I shook under him and still took him. I thought of my husband and the thought did not close my pussy. I thought of Santosh and the thought made me hold his ass harder. He used me through it, deep, wet, silent except for the sound in his throat, and I stayed on my back and let him have the rest of the minutes.
I felt him change inside my pussy before I understood the change. His cock grew thicker, the easy long strokes broke into shorter ones that went deeper instead of kinder, and the head of him stayed at the end of me as if he had found a place he did not mean to leave. Panic cut through the heat. I let go of my knees. My palms found his damp stomach and pushed.
“Don’t come inside me, please, not inside, pull out, I am asking you, I cannot take that home to my husband, I did everything you wanted, don’t leave it in me.” I said.
He was not in the mood to pull out. I felt that in the way his body became heavier, in the way he took my wrists and put them back beside my head and held them there, in the way his hips kept working. He fucked me vigorously through the asking, deeper than before, as if my please had only shown him I was close enough to finish. Each thrust slapped his stomach on my clit. My breasts shook toward my chin. The cot knocked. The stink of his sweat filled the blindfold. I turned my face and his cheek followed mine.
“Please… pull out… ah… I can’t… Ravi—” I said.
He fucked me through the please. My pussy started to warn me in small clenches around his cock, then stronger ones, my thighs shaking against his sides, my back lifting off the wood. I was at the edge and I knew if he stayed I would go over with him inside me. Shame and hunger lived in the same breath. I had come for Santosh. I had come for my husband. My body was no longer listening to either of them. My hips lifted to keep his cock where it was.
“All right… do it… I can’t stop… I’m yours… ah—” I said, surrendering, my wrists turning in his hands so I could hold him instead of pushing.
He buried his cock to the root and came inside my pussy, hot, pulse after pulse, filling me, his stomach locked to mine, his mouth open on my neck.
“Ah… ah—” he moaned, only that, torn out of his throat as his cum pumped into me.
The very next moment I came all over his cock while his cum was still going into me. The pleasure ran from my pussy through my belly to my nipples and back, long waves I could not order, my thighs locked on his hips, my wetness mixing with what he was leaving in me, and I enjoyed it, I hated that I enjoyed it, I came anyway.
“Ah… I’m coming… ah… Ravi… mm—” I said.
He left himself in me until both of us finished, still moaning low against my neck, enjoying the way my pussy milked his cock for the last of it. When he pulled out, I felt his cum follow, thick, down the inner skin of my thigh, onto the cot, mixed with how wet I had come. I kept my thighs together too late. Guilt arrived with the enjoyment and did not cancel it. I had asked him to stop and then I had asked him to stay. I had another man’s cum in my pussy and I had come on that cock the moment after he filled me.
He did not get off me at once. He stayed over me, his chest hair sticking to my breasts, his breath on my lips, so close I could taste the sweat on his mouth without touching it. I lifted my chin a little in the dark, guilty, satisfied, still shaking, my mouth open under his, and I did not lift the blindfold.
I lifted my chin in the dark and his mouth found mine. He did not ask. The kiss was wet from the start, his lips opening mine with his tongue, the taste of his sweat going into my mouth, sour and hot, the same stink I had been breathing all evening now sitting on my tongue. I turned my face and he followed and kissed me deeper. I had another man’s cum in my pussy and now I had his mouth.
It was filthy. His spit ran to the corner of my lips. He sucked my lower lip and then pushed his tongue in again, slow, then hungry, as if the fucking had not finished what he wanted from my face. My hands left the cot and held his head. I kissed him back. I was guilty while I did it. I was still shaking from coming. My breasts stuck to his chest hair. My thighs were wet with him. I opened my mouth wider and let him take it.
He kissed me like an animal that had already used my pussy and still wanted the rest of me, his nose against my cheek, his breath broken, a sound in his throat going into my mouth. I thought of my husband’s mouth and the thought made the kiss worse and I did not stop. I sucked his tongue once, shy, then not shy. He pressed me into the cot with the kiss until I had no air and then he gave me a little and took it again.
When he lifted his mouth I could still feel it. My lips were wet. My chin was wet. I lay under him with the blindfold on and his taste in my mouth and his cum in my pussy, first time finished, kissed like that, my chin still lifted, waiting for his mouth to come back.
When he lifted his mouth I did not let him go far. I pulled his head down by the hair and found his lips again, shameless, my tongue in his mouth first this time, licking the sweat off his upper lip before I kissed him properly. A giggle came out of me into the kiss, surprising me, the kind of giggle I had never made on a cot in a slum. My wet thighs opened around his hips. I could still feel his cum sitting in my pussy, warm, leaking when I moved, and I pressed that pussy up against his naked cock and rubbed myself on him, using the wet we had made.
“Mm. This cock. Ravi, this cock finished me. I have never been fucked like that, I am not lying.” I said, and I giggled against his mouth. “I came on you while you were still coming in me. I enjoyed it. Listen to me, I enjoyed it. I can still feel you inside, thick, the way you stayed when I said pull out. Bad man.” I said.
I kissed his mouth, then the corner of his mouth, then the wet place on his neck where the sweat collected, little shameless kisses, and another small laugh shook my breasts across his chest hair. My hand went down between us and found his cock, slick from my pussy and from his own cum, and I closed my fingers around it and stroked it along my pussy as if I was playing with a thing I already owned.
“This cock I want again. You held my wrists and kept fucking me, you took me to the edge until I said all right do it, and I am not sorry. Call me and I will come. Any time you want this pussy I will come running. Don’t send me home and forget how I opened. I have fallen for this cock. I have fallen for how you took me.” I said, and I giggled again, low, dirty, into his throat.
I kissed him open, spit and all, my words going into his mouth between the kisses, my hips still working his cock against my clit. He did not speak. He answered with his tongue, with that sound in his throat, with his hand closing on my ass cheek and pulling me tighter. I took the sound as yes and kissed him harder, shameless, giggling when I had to break for air, already asking with my mouth and my pussy for the next time.
My phone rang. The sound came from the bag on the chair beside the cot. I reached out blind, found the bag, took the phone out, and kept the bag aside on the floor. I sat up only as much as I had to. His cum was still in my pussy. I answered.
“Where are you? I have been calling.” my husband said.
His voice put the house in the room. I swallowed.
“I am at the market. What happened?” I said.
“Santosh is dead. They found him with a pulse and took him to the hospital. At the hospital they said brought dead. Heart attack.” my husband said.
For a moment I could not speak. Santosh’s face at the gate went empty.
“Heart attack? You are sure?” I said.
“I am sure. He is gone.” my husband said.
“I am coming.” I said.
I cut the call and put the phone aside with the bag. For a moment I thought if that bastard had died a couple of hours earlier I would not be here, I would not be naked on this cot, I would not have another man’s cock and another man’s cum and another man’s spit on my mouth. The thought was sharp and then it left.
He moved first. He came down on top of me and slept on me, his full weight, and took me into his complete embrace, both arms under my back, his chest on my breasts, his stomach on my stomach, his thigh between my thighs, hugging me so tight the blindfold pressed my lashes and his smell filled me again. That was when I realized what I had been missing all these days, this hold, this body, this cock still wet against my pussy, a man who took me until I surrendered. I needed this man. I put my arms around him and hugged him tight, my nails on his back, my face in his neck, Santosh dead in the hospital and this hug alive on the cot, and I did not lift the blindfold.

[novelistcasanova]

He slept on me in that complete embrace and I spoke into his neck with my breasts under his chest and his cock still wet against my pussy, the blindfold still on, Market Ravi’s weight still holding the last of the cot in place.

“I came to ask your help because I wanted you to kill Santosh or beat him until he could not stand, he is my husband’s cousin, and I offered myself for that and I let you fuck me for that on that cot, and now karma has taken him, my curse and my family’s curse, a heart attack, brought dead, and I did not even have to ask you to lift your hand.” I said.
Delight went through me in two places at once and I did not put either of them into my mouth. I was delighted Santosh was dead and I was delighted Market Ravi had satisfied me completely, and the two delights sat in my belly together, warm and wrong, and I kissed the sweat on his neck because I could not keep still under them.
“I have never been taken like that, your cock was worth this room and worth the blindfold and worth coming inside me on that cot after I said no, I enjoyed myself, I came on you, and I would have paid this price even if he was still breathing, that is how much you were worth doing on that cot.” I said.
I hugged him tighter and rubbed my cheek on his while the blindfold kept his face from me, and Market Ravi held me heavy with his cock still wet against my pussy and I took the silence as listening.
He spoke at last, the voice going into my neck, low and satisfied.
“I enjoyed fucking you on that cot, your pussy and your breasts and the way you surrendered when I would not pull out, you were worth the wait and you were worth every minute on that cot, I have not enjoyed a woman like this.” Market Ravi said.
He pulled me up from that cot and dressed me. He put my maroon panties at my feet and I stepped in, and he drew them up my thighs and over my ass until the waistband settled on my hips with his cum still wet inside them. Then he found my white bra and put my arms through the bra straps and closed the front hooks over my breasts, then tied my white petticoat at my waist with the string low below my navel, then held my yellow blouse while I pushed my arms into the sleeves and closed the front hooks between my breasts, then gave me my yellow chiffon saree. I tucked it myself with the pleats at my waist and the pallu on my shoulder, my fingers shaking.
“Come.” Market Ravi said.
The blindfold stayed on and his hand took my elbow and I went with him through the small slum house with his enjoyment still in my body and his cum still inside the maroon panties. He opened the door and the lane air touched my face, and that was when his hand changed on my waist.
He got hard against my hip while the door was still open. He turned me into the frame and kissed my lips through the dark of the blindfold, hungry again, as if that cot had not finished him. His hand went under the yellow chiffon saree and lifted it along with the white petticoat, the low string sliding, and then that same hand slid inside the maroon panties, palm against my wetness, and his fingers found my pussy and moved in and out while the maroon panties stayed on me.
I did not hold back. I opened my mouth to the kiss and rolled my hips onto his hand shamelessly, enjoying every stroke of his fingers inside the maroon panties, the wet sound, the pressure on my clit, the way the yellow chiffon saree and the white petticoat stayed bunched at my waist so he could have me in the doorway. Heat gathered low and I chased it, shameless, my thighs open around his wrist, my tongue in his mouth, my body asking for more instead of hiding from it.
“Ravi… I am close… don’t stop… I am enjoying it… ah…” I said against his mouth.
He did not stop. He kept his fingers in my pussy inside the maroon panties through the kiss until I came on his hand, shaking in the doorway, enjoying the coming as openly as I had enjoyed the fingers, the moan breaking into his lips so the lane would not take all of it.
“Ah… I am coming… mm… ah…” I said.
He worked me through the after-waves inside the maroon panties and kept kissing my lips. His mouth left mine only long enough to whisper against it.
“My lips are filthy, my mouth is filthy from your pussy on that cot, you don’t have to kiss me now.” Market Ravi said.
“I don’t mind, I don’t mind a filthy mouth, I still want it.” I said, and I kissed his filthy mouth anyway, open, shameless, tasting whatever of me was still on him after I had come on his hand.
I found his ear with my mouth, still shaking, still kissing back toward his jaw, and whispered into it.
“I love you. I will come back. I will come back to that cot, I will come back to your hand, don’t think this doorway is the last time.” I said.
He drew his hand out and pulled the maroon panties down my thighs. I stepped out of them because my legs had no argument left. He put the maroon panties away.
“These stay with me, a souvenir from that cot, they are sweaty from you and wet from me and that is what I want.” Market Ravi said.
“Okay, keep them, you can keep them if that is what you want.” I said.
The yellow chiffon saree fell back around my legs and the white petticoat sat bare against my pussy. His hand left my elbow and another hand took it. I felt handed over, finished with, kissed and brought off inside the maroon panties at the door and then given to the auto driver after that cot.
The auto driver took me through the narrow lane with the blindfold still on, my yellow chiffon saree tucked, my yellow blouse closed, no maroon panties under the white petticoat, my body still twitching from those fingers, the whisper still in that other ear, that filthy taste still on my mouth. The lane was uneven under my slippers. Someone’s radio leaked from a window. A dog went past my ankle. He held my elbow and walked me between the brick walls and the hanging wires until the heat of the auto’s metal reached my hand.
He helped me in.
His right hand went between my ass crack over the yellow chiffon saree and the white petticoat, the press sudden and too familiar through both layers, and I moved uncomfortably, twisting my hips away from that right hand, and sat down quickly on the seat with the bag near my feet and the white petticoat bare against my pussy and my face hot under the blindfold.
Then the auto driver pulled the blindfold off my eyes.
Afternoon light hurt. I blinked and saw the narrow lane again, and the ugly strict face in front of me, and my own yellow chiffon saree sitting on my lap as if nothing in that house had happened except a ride home.


The auto driver started the auto and the narrow lane began to move under us. I sat with the bag near my feet and the yellow chiffon saree tucked and the yellow blouse closed and no maroon panties under the white petticoat, afternoon light still sharp after the blindfold, his ugly strict face in the front seat as if he had only been waiting outside that slum house the whole time.
He talked like a caring brother.
“Sit properly, Sudha, the road is broken here, hold the bar, you have had a long afternoon, I will put you down at your gate, don’t worry, I am here, nothing will happen to you in my auto.” the auto driver said.
The words were kind. The voice was not.
It went into my ear and the cot came back with it, not as a memory I had chosen, as a slap. That low satisfied mouth against my neck. I enjoyed fucking you on that cot. That whisper against my lips. My mouth is filthy from your pussy. I told myself a brother’s voice could sit near another man’s. I told myself the dark had mixed them. I told myself I was tired and full of delight and that was why the front seat sounded like the man who had just sent me out.
Then he said my name again, softer, the way Market Ravi had said it when he told me to come, and the lie I had been living in since the door opened cracked down the middle.
I looked at him.
Not at his face first. At his hands on the steering. The same thickness that had tied the white petticoat below my navel. The same right hand that had gone between my ass crack over the yellow chiffon saree when he helped me in. A caring brother does not know a woman’s waist like that.
My eyes dropped to his pant pocket.
A maroon edge was peeking out.
Not a rag. Not a cloth. My maroon panties. Still folded the way they had been pulled off my thighs in that doorway. Still dark where they were wet. The souvenir I had said okay to. The souvenir Market Ravi had pressed into his fist and put away.
Market Ravi had not put them away.
The man driving had.
The shock did not come as a thought. It came as a fall. There was no second man behind that slum-house door. There was no Market Ravi sending me out. There was no brother waiting in the lane. This ugly bastard had taken me in under a blindfold, fucked me on that cot, come inside me, lifted my yellow chiffon saree and my white petticoat at the door, put his hand inside my maroon panties, made me come, let me kiss his filthy mouth, let me whisper I love you into his ear, let me promise I would come back, and then he had walked me through the narrow lane talking like family and sat down in his own auto with my maroon panties in his pant pocket like proof he had stolen a whole woman and she had thanked him for it.
I did not say a word.
If he found out I had caught him he could harm me. The lane was still his. The auto was still his. I kept my face turned to the passing walls and held the yellow chiffon saree at my knee until my fingers hurt, and I let him talk like a brother while the maroon edge in his pant pocket kept flashing the truth I could not swallow.
Embarrassment sat in me heavier than the delight had. I had let this ugly bastard fuck me on that cot. I was more ashamed that I had enjoyed it, shamelessly, that I had come on his fingers in the doorway, that I had told him I loved him and that I would come back. The white petticoat sat bare against my pussy and his cum was still in me and I could not even pull the truth up into my mouth.
I waited.
I waited through every turning until our house came into view, patient, quiet, the curse sitting behind my teeth. The moment the auto reached our house I got down and went inside without looking at his face again, walking quickly, quietly, cursing myself for being this dumb, for trusting a voice in the dark, for saying okay to the maroon panties, for whispering love into the ear of the man who had only been driving me home.


The auto reached our house and I got down before it had fully settled. I took five hundred rupees from the bag and put them in his hand without lifting my eyes to that ugly strict face, the yellow chiffon saree already pulled around me as if it could hide the bare white petticoat and what he had left inside me.
“Wait, Sudha, listen, I have not finished—” the auto driver said.
I turned then, only enough, and spat on his face.
“Get out. Take the five hundred and get out of this street and don’t stand at my gate, don’t say my name, get out.” I said.
I opened the gate and went in and I did not look back. The house took me the way a locked room takes a woman who has been too long in a lane. I crossed the living room and went into our bedroom and then into our bathroom and shut the door and only then did my hands start their work. I pulled the yellow chiffon saree off my body and let it fall. I opened the yellow blouse and took it off. I opened the white bra and took it off. I untied the white petticoat from below my navel and let that fall too, and then I was naked in my own bathroom with his cum still on my thighs and the doorway and the cot and the maroon panties in his pant pocket all standing on my skin.
I stood under the shower and turned it hard and angry. Water hit my breasts and my belly and ran down between my legs and I scrubbed as if heat could take a man’s name off a body. I cursed myself under the water, dumb, stupid, cheap in my own mouth, a married woman who had offered herself in a slum house, who had come on a stranger’s fingers at an open door, who had kissed a filthy mouth and whispered love into an ear that belonged to an auto driver, who had said okay to her own maroon panties and then sat in his auto like a fool while the proof peeked from his pocket. I cursed the blindfold. I cursed the delight. I cursed the moment I had said I would come back. The water went from hot to hotter and I stayed in it until my skin hurt and the cursing had no new words left.
I came out towelling myself and put on white panties and a white nighty over them, the cotton plain and clean, nothing yellow, nothing maroon, nothing from that lane. My hair was wet on my shoulders. My face was washed. I walked to the living room because I could not stay in the bathroom forever.
The front door opened and my husband came in with a happy smile I had not seen on him in months, the kind of smile that belongs to a man who has been released.
“Sudha, karma did it, our curse did it, Santosh is gone, he cannot stand in our life anymore, it is over.” my husband said.
For one breath the slum house tried to stand up inside me.
Then it fell.
I forgot the cot and the filthy mouth and the maroon edge in the pant pocket and the spit on that face and the angry shower. I forgot I had been cheated. I went to my husband and put my arms around him in the white nighty and held him the way a wife holds the only man she is supposed to hold, my wet hair on his shoulder, my face in his neck, and I let his happy smile come into me until there was no lane left in the room.
“It is over,” I said.
Soon the construction of our house was completed. We rented out all the four houses, and my husband’s younger brother settled on the fifth floor.

The End

Regards
Novelist Casanova  

[ananth1986]

Think Market Ravi get Santhosh some pills and got heart attack.
Any how another gem on your crown.
Thank you

[novelistcasanova]

Think Market Ravi get Santhosh some pills and got heart attack.
Any how another gem on your crown.
Thank you

Haha! ? Ananth,  Santhosh is dead, and that’s what matters! ? Thank you for reading and for the wonderful comment! ❤️

[Herotic]

Another Great story... From my favourite author!