Misc. Erotica Swati's Downfall (Original Story)

[S Darko]

Prakash looks at her with a steady gaze, like a connoisseur appraising a rare object, not necessarily beautiful. 

He runs a finger over her face from her forehead where her third eye might have been, down her nose, her upper lip. He pokes it in her mouth for a moment, and she obligingly sucks. When he pulls it out, he can see the glint of her saliva, thick on his finger.

He drags his finger down her pink lower lip and downward ever so slowly.  Her eyes converge as she watches the slow movement of his finger, no doubt wondering what he is up to. 

Down her neck he goes soft as a butterfly’s kiss, then his fat finger gets stuck momentarily in the valley of her tits, then trails downwards as he traces down on her smooth flat belly. 

He hooks her belly button, which allows his digit up to the first knuckle. His slowly rotates his finger in her belly button and his thumb makes slow circles, feather stroking her skin. 

She shivers and her breasts jiggle on her chest. Like the ripple on a still pond when you toss in a pebble, only better. Way better. It is the most erotic sight he has seen. The raw sexuality of this woman affects him like no other. 

He gets a heady feeling like one might in the presence of something powerful and otherworldly. He’s had it once when his family had visited the famous temple in Jammu. 

Sometimes Prakash feels Ramesh understands this whole business better than himself, this matter of men and women, sex, the whole shebang. He can admire the man’s self-restraint in that moment, his refusal to have sex, uninhibited sex with someone who is clearly a willing slut.

But he lets the thought pass. His venal self overcomes the little spark of divinity that had reared its head, however briefly. He stands to make a shit ton of money. He can’t get emotional about this. 

But, he thinks, seeing himself making a wicked, villainous face in his mind, laughing out loud like Amrish Puri, there’s no harm in pretending, right?

He looks critically at her face. Something has to be done about her makeup. He gets an idea. 

“Paro,” he says, and she looks up at him from the corner she has been hiding in. 

She is half naked, wearing only a petticoat, and somehow he knows he will not find any underwear underneath. The thought excites him, but there are other pressing matters to be dealt with, not the least is the making of the video.

“I see you have your purse with you. You have some make-up in there? Some lipstick, kajal, like that?”

Paro nods. Perhaps she is intimidated by the situation, or maybe she has never been naked in front of three men at the same time. 

“Can you do some make up for Swati madam’s face? Just make sure you do it a little different from the way she does it--do something different with the eyes, the lips. And do some coloring on her nipples too.” 

He thinks that if he is able to get Swati to look different from usual, it will be to his advantage. Sometimes it is hard to look past the superficial, and excessive makeup is as good a device of disguise as a mask. He gives her further instructions and leaves them to it.