Misc. Erotica Swati's Downfall (Original Story)

[S Darko]

The waiting room outside the ICU is large, sunny and comfortable. Instead of the usual plastic chairs and stark decor, this room is well appointed with several comfortable, upholstered chairs, and has a coffee machine, snacks and a magazine rack that has current issues. 


Ashok is napping in one of the corner chairs when Arvind walks in and wakes him up by putting gentle pressure on his shoulder. 

“Bhaiya, it’s me, Arvind,” he says when he sees the confusion in Ashok’s eyes. 

Arvind sees the recognition dawn in his older brother’s eyes. Ashok is only four years older, but in their parents’ eyes, has made so much of a success of himself compared to his relatively shiftless ways.  

“Oh, hello Arvind.” Ashok’s voice is flat, emotionless as he takes in his brother’s presence. It is clear from his tone that he hadn’t expected Arvind to show up this quickly, if at all. But Arvind understands this. By giving them no expectations of himself, he has now the power to surprise and shock.

“How’s Bapu?” This is how they’ve always called their father. 

“He’s…um…what they call it, stable. He has all these tubes and such in his body, and he is still not doing well, but at least he is not going downhill.”

“What is it? Heart attack?”

“No, no. It is some kind of lung infection they think he got from China. They seem to be having an outbreak of it somewhere…Suhan, Wuhan, something like that.”

“Oh.” Arvind has heard vaguely of some illness that has being going on in China for the last couple of months, but he hasn’t paid any attention. It’s not like it’s in their backyard. 

“Hopefully, he will be better soon. I have some work… I mean, I can stay for a few days, but then I have to go.” He looked up at Arvind, who still stood over him. Arvind knew what he was going to say, and already resented the question before he asked it.

“What’s your schedule like, Arvind? Can you stay here, help out?” Arvind knows his older brother is needling him, his lack of gainful employment, but it still surprises him that no one wonders how he is able to afford the Mercedes he drives, or the expensive clothes, and the accouterments.

“How’s Bhabhi?” He says instead of replying. 

He emphasizes the word “bhabhi” in a derisive way, as though it wasn’t a completely respectable word denoting his sister-in-law Swati. He had taken to saying ‘bhabhi’ in that way ever since the day she had spurned his advances. 

She is something, even when fully clothed, and when he saw her in only the towel after a shower, he couldn’t help himself and propositioned her. Of course, he’d been waiting for such an opportunity and spied on her whenever he could, but that was not the main issue here. He’d seen Indian porn that showcased such things, and the bhabhi always gave in. 

He allows that at the time he'd been in his teens, and what he'd watched was porn, wherein the bhabhi allowed herself to be seduced by the devar, and in some cases actually did the seduction herself. Of course, if the seduction failed, if nothing happened, it wouldn't have been porn. 

Overall, he estimates, perhaps fifty percent of such cases of devar and bhabhi end up in bed after the former propositions her, but he has no idea about the real numbers. There are no actual polls or studies or anything on the subject, after all.  

Regardless, he feels, there must be a certain percentage of women who gave in to their brothers-in-law. 

But then again, definitely a certain percentage that said no. 

Sometimes he thinks she was right to do that, to spurn him, to deny him the heavenly experience that her body surely was, but she could have been so much nicer. Perhaps she could have let him down gently, lovingly, like a bhabhi should,  with maybe the promise of revisiting the issue at a later date. 

But the way she had actually dismissed him, like a small boy, someone of no consequence, had really riled him. 

She had slapped him. Had she? In his repeated imaginings of the event, he has magnified certain things, and he is no longer sure if she’d slapped him or not, but he goes with it. The bitch had slapped him. He’d been no more than a poor horny, frustrated teenager, and she could have been kind. She was giving herself to his older brother, and it wasn’t like she would lose something if she shared with the younger brother too. Of course, it would have to be kept secret, and that he understood. But no, she didn’t want any part of it. 

As he stalked out of the room, his face red and stinging (he remembers the pain of the slap even now, and probably the imprint of her fingers on his face when he looked in the mirror), hot tears threatening to overflow his eyes, he promised vengeance. He would get her for sure. Maybe not that day, maybe not that year, but some day for sure. 

The feeling hasn’t abated at all, and if anything only intensified over the ten or so years since the incident, as he sees her at different family events, always clad in tight, form fitting clothes. 

Even in a saree, there is something slutty about her. 

And then there are all the Facebook and Insta posts with selfies and pouting lips with her girlfriend, what’s her name…Neha? Neetu, yeah, that’s right, Neetu. That little tease. 

But Swati is the bigger tease, he thinks. Some day he would fuck her, either literally or figuratively, or both.

Ashok simply nods and says, “So…you’re not busy, right?” 

Arvind knows his brother suspects that there is bad blood between his wife and his brother, but he doesn’t think Swati has told him the specifics. He wonders why. Is there a loophole he can exploit? 

He thinks that is probably why Ashok has skirted the question he asked about bhabhi. The evasiveness irks him. He is also fairly sure Ashok thinks he is a philanderer. Which, while not far off the mark, also irritates him. 

“I have to check,” Arvind says churlishly. He pulls out his cell phone and plops down on one of the cushioned chairs, leaving one chair empty between them. “Where’s Mai?”

“I sent her home to rest.” Ashok has the business times spread out on his lap and avoids looking at his brother. 

Arvind grunts. 

His phone dings. He glances at it. 

There’s a message from his friend and partner, Alexei. 

It’s on the secure messaging app that deletes messages after a certain period, leaving no trace. 

There’s a photo attached to the message. 

Making sure Ashok can’t see his screen, he taps on the photo.

What he sees makes his heart leap straight into his mouth.