Misc. Erotica Swati's Downfall (Original Story)

[S Darko]

It is late afternoon by the time they reach Abhi’s house. It is a two-story bungalow style house in a neighborhood of similar homes, with a large ornamental wrought iron gate and a sentry at the guardhouse. It reminds her a little of Prakash in his glass box. 


This guard is dark, bald and had a large mole on his cheek, like a villain in a Hindi movie, something that would have put her off in a previous life, but now it only makes her curious about how he might fuck her. The gate slides open, and they drive down a circular driveway and are met at the main door by a liveried valet. She gives him the keys, and he tells her he will get their bags.

Just then, the main door opens and Abhi and Menaka step out. 

Swati and Ashok both stiffen in surprise at the costumes the two are wearing. Abhi is in a white Arab dress complete with headband.  Menaka is wearing a loose fitting, shimmery but almost transparent shirt, and a pair of harem pants of the same material. Underneath, in the low lighting of the driveway and the last of the setting sun, Swati can see a set of dark lace bra and panties under the outerwear. She is heavily made up with dark eye shadow and glittery stuff on her cheeks. She looks beautiful, ravishing in fact.

“Didn’t realize it was a costume party,” Ashok says after he picks his jaw off the ground. “If you’d told us, we would have come prepared.”

Swati watches Abhi and Ashok as they shake hands. 

Ashok turns to Menaka and opens his arms for a hug. She steps in and Ashok whispers something in her ear. In the meantime, Abhi comes in for a hug, obviously a reciprocal one, and Swati feels his arms around her, one hand on her ass, gently squeezing and groping. 

So, she has been right. This was a sex thing. Probably swinging.

“You’re going to enjoy this weekend,” he whispers wetly in her ear.

Swati gives him a tinkly giggle, thinking he would appreciate it.

“What’s with the costume?” She says as they walk into the lobby. 

“Oh, nothing…this is just one of the role play things we do sometimes. I’m a rich Arab sheikh, and she is a slave, for auction, you know…oh, and we have costumes for you too in case you were wondering.”

Swati says nothing. She glances at Ashok, but he seems to be taking all this in with a degree of comfort and equanimity she finds surprising. He must be in on the whole plan, or at least parts of it. 

The lobby is grand, a three story, yawning expanse, richly decorated with dbangries, curtains, and gilded furniture. None of it looks very comfortable, but then she notices a separate area near the back where there are mattresses laid out on the floor, full of very comfortable pillows and blankets. It looks like the setting of a very decadent mujra, the only missing thing being the dancing girls.

Milling about are four more couples who are introduced to them, but Swati forgets the names almost immediately. Even though they’re all are in costume, dressed up as Arab sheikhs and harem girls, albeit the sexy type, underneath, they look like the successful banker or corporate type people she has known all her life. 

There are drinks. Top shelf stuff, Johnny Walker Blue, Pappy van Winkle, and Glenfiddich, and a bunch of others she has never heard of. She sticks to Grey Goose, and sips slowly and carefully as she gets a measure of the people around her. 

The conversation swirls around her, ebbing and flowing like the currents of a river. She says as little as she can, and there are no intrusive personal questions, but also no hints as to what will happen later. She supposes that the festivities might happen later, after dinner. 

A thought strikes her. What if this is just an elaborate fancy dress party and nothing more? She fingers the thin material of her harem pants and shirt and feels more exposed than she does in her office conference room, where she wears nothing at all. 

There are waiters in uniform who move around the room carrying trays of finger food. She tries some exotic sounding and pretty looking things. Lots of protein—paneer this, and chicken that, and even beef, even though most people would never admit to eating beef in any other company, this one seems to be among people who are elite, where such things are not talked about. 

 Once the food is cleared away, the servants disappear, melting away like butter hitting a hot skillet. Abhi brings out a bottle of Bailey’s. 

“There are other liqueurs, if you so prefer,” he says and rattles off a few names that Swati dent recognize other than Kahlua, a coffee liqueur. 

Everyone picks up a shot glass from a tray of them on the coffee table, and Abhi walks around filling glasses. Then, at a signal, everyone drains their glass, in the fashion of tequila shots. Swati follows suit after a moment.

“No one likes tequila, I mean like really like? You know what I mean? So we decided to do this instead. It’s our own thing.”

Swati nods like she understands. 

“To this evening’s horse-trading…or rather, slave trading,” says one of the men, raising his shot glasses. He is a mustachioed dark man with a South Indian accent. Malayali if she has to guess.

Abhi sits down on the couch between Swati and Ashok. “You guys know the rules of the game, yeah?”

Ashok looks uncertain, but he nods and Swati shakes her head at the same time. They look at each other, embarrassed, and both laugh in the unsure way when both parties make an inadvertent joke.

“Oh,” Abhi says and stands up, a surprised expression on his face. “You guys are newbies?” This last is said louder and everyone turns to look at them. Ashok looks embarrassed, but Swati looks on with curiosity. This is definitely weird. 

“All right everyone!” Abhi claps his hands and the little conversation also fades away. Everyone is looking at Abhi, now standing in the middle of the large room. 

“A little going over the basics of the rules here. For the edification of our new friends here.” He points his head at Swati and Ashok. 

“Each of us here has a harem girl that counts as an asset. That would be the woman you came here with. It could be your wife, or girlfriend, or escort for the night, whatever. He can sell her, or not, and he can decide at the auction what he wants for her. Whoever buys the girl will have her for the night. Simple, yes?”

Ashok puts his hand up like he was in a class. “What about the money? Are we using real money here?”

Abhi laughed. “What do you think?”

Then he turns to the audience and says in his announcer voice, “All right. Shall we begin?”

The others know the routine, and the men retire to the low placed mattresses and pillows at the edge of the room and settle themselves on the cushions in a semicircle. In the middle is the swarthy man who spoke before, and Swati remembers his name as Krishnan. 

The women withdraw to the kitchen. She sees Menaka preparing one of the other women, a woman as busty as herself, but a few inches shorter, giving her an even more slutty look. She is also a little plump, but then some men like them that way. 

Menaka touches up her lipstick, tugs on the woman’s bra, giving her cleavage more definition, and gives her styled hair a quick rearranging. “Go,” she whispers, and pushes her toward Abhi.

Swati wonders at this strange game where the women are commodities to be sold like cattle. She flashes back to her own fantasy of only a few days ago where she was being fucked in the ass by Prakash and her holes were on display. “Here sir, here are her holes, 40,000 dirhams only sir,” she remembers thinking at the time even as she was being fucked into the stratosphere. 

In comparison, this looks very dignified and staid. For one thing, the women are clothed and there is hardly a naughty word spoken. Even the women are addressed respectfully as, “harem girls” rather than whores or bitches.

Abhi, it seems, is going to be the auctioneer. 

He takes Sudha by the arm and stands under a spotlight that had suddenly appeared in the middle of the room. He looks like a game show host, with his arm around her shoulder, the sides of their bodies making full contact. 

“Gentlemen, we have here a superb South Indian beauty. She is thirty-two years old, and her statistics are thirty-eight--”

Here he waits for the wolf whistles to die down before resuming. Swati wonders if he knows the number to be true or if he is just guesstimating. 

“Thirty, and forty. What do you bid for such a sexy item?”

The men talk among themselves and there is a low murmur of voices. 

“Ten thousand!” Krishnan says. 

Swati thinks this is probably not Krishnan’s wife, but then she hears Abhi say, “Kris man, you can’t bid on your own wife! I mean slave girl.”

Krishnan looks shamefaced and the man next to him, Ravi, says, “Twenty thousand.” He is halfway supine, one elbow solidly planted on a fat bolster.
“Twenty thousand one—“

“Thirty.” This time it is the bearded guy that looks like he might be a wrestler. 

One of the women leans over and whispers in Swati’s ear. “Baldev. He is actually my brother-in-law.”

Swati turns to her. “You’re here with him?”

The woman nods. Swati’s mouth falls open a little, but the woman says, “Nothing to worry. My husband is gay and Baldev, well, he is very well-endowed…” she grabs her right forearm midway to demonstrate. Swati makes big round eyes to indicate her surprise, and the woman giggles. 

“Aparna,” she says. 

Meanwhile, the bidding is proceeding apace. Baldev has reached ninety thousand and Abhi is saying, “Sold! For ninety thousand to Mr Baldev Singh.”

He leads Sudha who walks demurely with her eyes on the ground as though she were really a slave girl just purchased at auction. Abhi leaves her at the edge of the mattress and Baldev indicates his feet where she should sit, and she does.