Misc. Erotica Swati's Downfall (Original Story)

[S Darko]

Swati drives to work with butterflies in her stomach. 

She has no idea what the evening holds for her. She doesn’t know what Prakash will do, and what he will expect her to do other than wait for him naked in the conference room. She hopes he will not bring other people into the mix. Not yet anyway. 


She imagines for a moment, becoming the whore for the whole office and a frisson of excitement passes through her tired body. She has not slept well, and as a result hasn’t been able to wear her contacts today. Her eyes are too tired and gritty. 

She has instead worn her glasses that give her a sexy college teacher look, at least according to Ashok. 

Last night was a crazy whirlwind. After the skull fuck at the office, when Prakash hadn’t been able to get it up again, she had felt interminably horny. It is a feeling she’s been having since the adventure with Ramesh had started, but last night was something different. 

The skull fuck was both exhilarating and frightening. The feeling of complete helplessness and being used as a sex toy, a fuck doll, was so fantastic that she started to fear for her life. She worried that if this was the level of extremes she wanted to go in her sex life, craved to go in fact, she might not be able to keep her sanity. Like a drug that you have to keep escalating the dosage, she worried what she would have to do the next time to reach that same high. 

She had decided on using her dildo, the Hitachi that she had packed into her purse, hoping for a quiet session after Ashok had gone off to sleep, or maybe he was late, and she could fit it in before he arrived. But he’d been there, all solicitous and nice, and homey. Exactly what she didn’t need. 

Her needs have changed significantly over the last few months. Once, it might have satisfied her, sated her. She might have enjoyed it. But no more. Now, it is a different thing she hankers for. More danger, violence. Pain?

She was aroused all evening during the drive home, and when Ashok felt her up at the sink, it was all she could do not to scream. There was no way she was going to be able to explain the redness and scratches on her boobs and ass, and she had delayed it until he was already in bed and the lights were off. Her first instinct when she’d flinched with his touch had been to come up with the first thing that popped into her head. A rash! From a new bra. How stupid. But that was what she had said. 

The lovemaking had been ferocious and satisfying, almost as good as it had been when they had first been married. But there was something missing she felt, even as she shuddered through her orgasm. 

Again, she thought, Ashok was different, unusually responsive to her needs and requirements. What had changed? Was it her? Or was it him? She knew the answer. At least she thought she did. 

She missed the violence that she has now started associating with sex. She has been watching more BDSM porn on her computer. More degradation of the women, more beating, tying up, rough treatment, nipple torture—clips and clamps, multiple penetrations and so on. Of course, always with the VPN on. 

These days, it is not only after hours, but also during her lunch break and during any other breaks. Sometimes, she leaves the video on and just minimizes the window. Anyone can walk in and see what she has been working on. It is dangerous, she knows, but her activities have taken a life of their own. She simply can’t help herself as she fingers or vibrates herself to multiple orgasms during the day. 

Her orgasms, even when she is with her dildo have been explosive of late, but the lovemaking with Ashok was strangely unsatisfying. 

And what is that with the new couple they met at the resort? What is Ashok saying? She tries to think between the lines of their pillow talk, the post-coital conversation. He was quite insistent they make of night of it in Delhi, at the residence of Abhi and Menaka. 

Is he trying to set something up? Something to spice up their sex life? Does Ashok have the imagination to do something like that.

She remembers Menaka very well, of course. Abhinav, not so well. She thinks he was a little on the plump side, darker than Ashok, but about as tall, reasonably good-looking. Younger than them by a few years, no kids yet, they seemed well off, and from what Ashok has told her, they have a pretty large property in Delhi somewhere. What was the place in Delhi again? She can’t recall. Never mind, not important. It is not the going or getting there that occupies her mind. The GPS will lead them there when the time comes. 

What occupies her mind is the evening Ashok has proposed (and she has accepted). Will they be interacting with this new couple one on one, or will there be other guests? The way Ashok said it, she suspects there is no one else, which means there is some ulterior motive, some sneaky thing he is trying or going to try. 

What could it be? Probably wife swapping or maybe sex with each other with the other couple doing the same, and in the same room? Ashok has talked about that kind of thing in the past, but it has been a while. Yes, she thinks, that’s what it must be. It might even be fun. Abhinav is tall and handsome, and most Indian men are a little paunchy anyway, at least in her circle, so well, might as well try it. She will protest of course; she has a reputation to protect. 

She has watched everything on porn sites—threesomes, moresomes, gangbangs. In her imagination, at least, there is nothing that will shock her. If that is what Ashok is planning. Perhaps it will spice up their sex life again. Yet there is a strange feeling of being unfulfilled. Last night was good, but not as good as the preceding hours in the conference room even though there had not been any actual sex. 

Initially, it had all been a game, albeit unscripted. Prakash had been masterful, and she had gone along with his “Malik” business. Later, after the “punishment,” there were moments when she had wanted to please him, do whatever he wanted, go over and above and beyond even. As a consequence, she had felt the shame of failure when she couldn’t get him hard again afterwards. 

Yes, she has had time to consider her emotions, and it was shame for sure. She wanted so badly to please him, make him hard and have him take her there in the conference room that it was almost a physical ache that she had failed. 

As she ruminates, the garage comes up. 

Prakash—she now recognizes him, his coarse features—is at the kiosk. He gives her a smirk and points at his watch as though to remind her of their appointment in the evening. He also gives her a mock salute, quite unlike the ones he used to give her. 

She colors when she sees him, and wonders what he has up his sleeve. Her stomach flutters and she averts her eyes, but there is also a small smile playing on her lips she becomes aware of when she looks at herself in the mirror-like polished surface of the elevator doors. 

The day rushes by with her work, a presentation she zombies through, and three quick sessions in the ladies bathroom to relieve herself, and then the end of the day arrives. Her colleagues start leaving, bidding her goodbye. She overhears one of the younger ones say to another that Swati madam is so driven, she works late almost everyday. 

Ha, she thinks, if only they knew. Wait, she thinks all of a sudden. What if they did? She would either become the laughing stock of the company and made to resign in disgrace. Or…if they kept it quiet, she might become their plaything, a whore for all and sundry to do as they pleased with her all day long. She has read some stories like that on the internet. 

But, she knows, it is all a fantasy. The reality is a few minutes away when she must undress and walk to the conference room naked and wait for Prakash and allow him to whatever he pleases with her body. 

Must she? She allows herself a few seconds of introspection over the compulsive word, must. 

Prakash probably has incriminating pictures, maybe even video of her naked and showing off her nakedness like a shameless hussy. Perhaps even a video of her giving head to him in the conference room. So, what? He could put it on the internet, but there are so many naked women on the internet these days that there is a glut. 

Not like the early days of MMS scandals. Memories are short these days, and her notoriety, if there is any at all, will be short lived. Prakash could send the pictures to HR, her husband, her family she supposes, and yes, that will cause more damage, but is it something she cannot weather? She isn’t sure. 

Finally, she decides, yes, she will do it. As for must, the jury is still out. She is going to do it because she wants to, for now at least. She feels nominally in charge and as soon as that thought pops in her mind, she remembers the scene where she was gasping for breath as Prakash’s engorged organ invaded her throat again and again. She wasn’t in charge then, was she? Not hardly. 

Malik, she reminds herself, she has to call him Malik. 

Today, she has left her hair loose. She is wearing her heels and teeters precariously toward the conference room. She opens the door and walks in. 

Prakash is waiting, a sour expression on his face.

“I thought I said nangi, naked?” His voice is a bark.

Swati is disconcerted. She has taken more care than usual with her appearance today, more lipstick, a little more eye make up, her hair is loose instead of the usual professional ponytail. She has even touched up the pubic hair, shaving the stubble extra smooth in the shower. The vertical arrow is intact, more prominent for the grooming. 

She can’t imagine what she has missed. 

“The glasses,” he says, “What about the glasses?” 

As she moves her hand to remove them, he says, “stop, I like them. Leave them on.”

She guesses he likes the sexy college teacher look as well.