Misc. Erotica Swati's Downfall (Original Story)

[S Darko]

Ramesh is shocked. 

This was not supposed to happen. 

How did Prakash get into the building? There was a reason why he thought it was safe—the security system. He knew Prakash didn’t have access, and yet here he was.


When Prakash walks into the room, yelling and screaming, he sees Swati stiffen at the sudden intrusion, and like some kind of unconscious reflex, he jams his finger on the screen. 

He must’ve raised the vibrations on the device to the max because Swati madam, instead of stopping her act, goes into a frenzy of what must surely be a world-class orgasm.

He watches as Swati madam convulses like an epileptic, and finally falls to the floor after finally having pulled the device from her pussy. He notices, even in that crazy adrenaline filled moment that the large end of the dildo makes a loud farting sound as it exits her body. He feels embarrassed for her, not for the orgasm, which was sublime, but the fart.

He is still rooted to his chair, still in shock, as Prakash walks up to her and starts yelling about Diwali bonuses. 

What? Diwali bonus? What is he talking about? Diwali isn’t until next month. What in the hell is he talking about?

Finally, Ramesh notices the dildo writhing on the floor, and he returns to the app and powers it off. The dildo dances on the carpet for a second more and then lies still. He feels like he has vanquished some crazy animal that might’ve attacked him. He breathes out in relief. 

But there is more going on in front of him, and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

Swati is halfway up, fear and anger in her face.

“Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?” She is screaming, half incoherent, and there is drool hanging down from her open mouth.

Then Prakash has Swati by the hair and is pulling, yelling, screaming. She is half off the floor, on her knees, but trying to get his hands off her hair. It must hurt, and he can see Swati madam’s face contorted in pain. 

Prakash seems to be in a frenzy, his face a rictus of rage, still spouting incomprehensibly about how he is not good enough, and still ranting about Diwali bonuses. 

Ramesh sits still, frozen.

Swati is still on her knees now, still trying to get her hair free, her neck twisted at an angle and her face a mask of pain. Prakash pulls her up by the hair, she is upright now. 

He relaxes his grip, but still holds on to her hair. They are almost face to face now and she is still yelling about how the hell he has managed to get into the office. 

Swati’s next move is to cover her breasts with one hand and her pussy with the other. She is failing miserably at both because Prakash is right there, within a foot of her, practically breathing his paan masala and cigarette flavored breath into her face.

He screams some more.

Then his face clears. The shadow of a grin appears on his face. A grin of triumph.

Swati isn’t screaming in pain anymore. But she is still trying to cover her privates, even though she must surely know there is no use.

“Shut your mouth!” Prakash yells. “Shut your fucking mouth!” With his free hand, he backhands her across the face, and her head snaps back. Immediately, red marks appear on her face. It must’ve been a really hard blow.

She is still covering her pussy and tits. Surely, her hand should go to her cheek to soothe the pain there, but her dignity must be more important to her. 

Prakash yells again, incoherent with rage. With his free hand, Prakash slaps at her hand that is covering her boobs. Short, quick slaps, like something a girl might do. 

Slap! Slap! Slap! The flat sounds of hand striking flesh reverberate in the large conference room. 

He slaps her hands and chest without discrimination, and several blows land on her boobs. Her complexion is so fair, and almost immediately, her breasts take on a reddish hue.

“Down!” He yells. “Hands down!” Slap, slap, slap.

This is the very opposite of what guys say in the movies when they have a gun in hand, and Ramesh is tickled by the irony.


He doesn’t think Swati madam will comply, but to his great surprise, she relaxes and her hands fall to her side. Her face is till held up by the pressure on her hair, but otherwise he thinks she might have been lowered it, eyes on the ground. Like one of those village women in the presence of a man. 

There is something in her face that looks like resignation to him, but he can’t be sure.