Misc. Erotica Swati's Downfall (Original Story)

[S Darko]

This one is also in the nature of a flashback; linear storytelling sometimes becomes boring. Again, a nod to Pro10 for some of the ideas (dialogs toward the end of the scene). He has been really engaged with the story. Thamks Pro10.




When Mahender took off the nipple clamps, she had screamed from the severe pain from he blood returning to the tender flesh of her tit nubs. Her cunt throbbed in sympathy when he took off the second one.


“It’s really something when I take off the clamps,” he said. “Other girls have told me it is almost like an orgasm when that happens.”

Swati was too engulfed by the pain and pleasure of the moment to reply, but she acknowledged his statement with a nod. 

“Unhhhh,” she moaned, the smell of cum and sweat thick in her nostrils. It was a heady mixture, the combination of smells, the poorly lit room despite the new lights Mahender had installed, and the small but now cozy room thanks to the heater that had been running all through. 

When he’d let her out of all the ropes, she’d collapsed on the floor, weak and worn out, a sodden mess. She’d swallowed down three glasses of water before she could even make sense of her surroundings. 

Swati ate a banana, the first thing in many hours. The pizza had been the last thing and that had been before they started, many thousand calories ago. 

Constant sex did take a toll, she thought. She was tired beyond reckoning, more tired that the wringer of a gym session she’d taken with a personal trainer a few weeks ago. 

And yet, when Prakash, still hyperventilating, had cackled and laughingly asked, “Enough? Or you want more?”

She had taken a deep shuddering breath and said, “more! I want more!” Then, in a parody of a long ago ad, she said, “Yeh dil manage more!” And they’d all fallen about laughing their guts out. 

Swati rubs her sore breasts, the rope marks still fresh on them. She thinks they would have flopped over her upper chest and face if they hadn’t been tied up during inversion. There was that to be said about rope—it kept things from flopping about, especially with all that vigorous, calisthenic sex. 

Her timeline shifts again. She is no longer sure of the sequence of events. By the time Mahender had tied her up, Inder was tired. He’d left after ejaculating in Swati’s cunt for a change. By then he’d come four times by Swati’s count, not that she was really counting, but somehow she kept track of the fat man. 

She thought he was addicted to oral sex, both giving and receiving, for sometime during that night he had eaten her out, repeating his chocolate eating stunt. Of course, she had come that time too, squirting rivulets of chocolate colored and flavored pussy juice.

She thinks about it a little more, and realizes that no one other than Inder has ever eaten her out. It must not be a thing for the lower classes. All they wanted was to use her, have her suck their cocks and accommodate them where she can, any hole will do. 

Swati rolls her shoulders. To her surprise, there is no pain, no pain that usually accompanies such a movement. There was something to be said for the thebangutic effect of having your shoulders retracted and arms bound behind your back after all. The constant backache, especially at days end from having to carry her heavy breasts around isn’t there today. 

Another advantage of light bondage and gangbangs.

She has another hazy memory. It must've been before Inder left. Or maybe it was later? The throbbing in her temples reminds her of what transpired. 

It must still have been relatively early, before midnight perhaps, and Inder had left another bottle of whiskey with Prakash. 

The men had taken turns forcing her to drink with them even as she was tied up and being fucked. 

Mahender, in fact, was fucking her pussy doggystyle, with her bent over, when Prakash took a swig and then grabbed her head and forced her to swallow a mouthful. Then he plugged her mouth with his cock, and the booze went straight down into her stomach. 

Or when Nawaz was in her ass—a very difficult and painful penetration, at least initially, despite the lubrication her juices had provided—and Prakash was maneuvering to get into her pussy, the largest combined DP she’d received that night, Mahender had poured the equivalent of a couple of pegs down her throat as she gasped for breath. 

Then, emulating Prakash, he’d stuffed his cock into her mouth despite her coughing. He delighted in the strong spasms in her throat as her cough was muffled, because she supposed it gave him greater pleasure. Trying to suppress her coughing made strong milking motions on his cock all the more powerful. 

A broad smile spreads across her face as she remembers how she was used. Yes, there was no other word that used, because they took her every which way they could come up with regardless of what she wanted. She was just a set of holes that had to be used. 

No different from how one might use a toy, a gadget, anything really. And especially something that was cheap and disposable because they took no care in treating her. 

Like tissue paper, she thinks, that was most apt. She knows deep inside that once she fails to be of use to them, she will be discarded just like a used tissue.

Her phone dings and she picks it up. There is a message from an unknown number. 

A picture. 

She opens it and sees herself. 

Her mouth is wide open, as are her legs and cunt agape, and all she can see it the base of a large cock in her ass. 

Her eyes are blindfolded. 

There are large brown hands on her paler tits, literally crushing the life out of them, and between the fingers of the brown hand, she can see the glint of nipple clamps and the connecting chain. 

The image is so evocative that she has to put her hand between her legs and rub at her poor sore pussy. 

Around two or three in the morning, everyone was drunk, exhausted and fell asleep where they lay. 

She was awoken at around five in the morning by Parvati’s embrace. There was sympathy and love and question in her eyes, and Swati silenced her with a kiss before she could say anything, Plenty of time for that later.

They had cuddled lovingly for a while, unwilling to stay apart, but also not aroused enough to do anything. 

Slowly, gently, unlike the way the mean had treated her, the smaller woman had caressed Swati’s boobs, then pussy, and soon they were both aroused. 

They twisted around on the wooden floor warmed by the heat from a electric heater, and sixty-nined for a while. They licked and sucked at each other’s pussies and clit until Paro came in Swati’s mouth with a cry and powerful shudder. 

As they lay on the cot, regaining their energy, she saw all three men looking at her with undisguised hunger. They were all limp, other than Nawaz who was semi hard.

She grinned cheekily at Nawaz and said, “Why birthday boy, sated with your gift yet? Satisfied?” 

Nawaz gave her a wolfish grin, his canines exposed. "Heh, heh," he said.

Swati turned to Prakash, baiting him. “Malik, all fucked out? No more starch left in your lauda?” 

She purposely used the crude word to get a rise out of him. 

It was fun to watch Prakash slowly color, his already dark complexion getting darker. His eyes narrowed to slits and his lips curled cruelly.

Rising slowly, he reached over and slapped her face hard. He grabbed her face in one hand, and moving close, spat into her face. His spittle landed on her cheek just below her eye and slowly rolled down her face. 

Despite the double shock of the slap and the spit, Swati smiled. It was her slow, slutty smile, the one she had perfected in college when she had first met Neetu. 

To her surprise and delight, Prakash rose and slapped her face. It was a hard slap and her head rocked with it, but she’d expected it. 

He cupped her chin in his hand and deliberately spat into her face. The glob of spittle landed on her cheek, just below her left eye and slowly dripped down. 

“My God!” he said, “how much of a bitch whore are you?” There was wonder in his voice. 

Wonder at her brazenness, her insatiability, and the understanding that he alone might not be enough for her, that he’d created a monster. 

He put two fingers in her mouth and wiggled them around, getting them nicely coated with her spit. 

Swati moaned in anticipation, loud, horny moans, the meaning of which could not be disguised as anything other than what it was: a mature female in heat. A bitch ready to be fucked.

“You’re not satisfied yet? Even with all these cocks?”

Swati moaned again, surprising herself. “I’m never satisfied! I’m constantly horny Malik. Ever since I met you and you trained me! All day, everyday, I dream of being fucked. I’m never satisfied. I want you to destroy me, take me any which way you want. Squeeze me dry! Devour me! I don't want any part of me left alive by the time you’re done with me!”

She took a deep breath. She didnt know it yet, not at a conscious level but what she said was the truth, no make believe. She was aware, but not conscious that she said all this with the cameras running, recording every word she said. 

And now, as she lies in the tub, rubbing her sore pussy, sticking two, three fingers in, the cum still oozing from her love tunnel in translucent runnels, she can’t help but be amazed at how she has thrown caution to the winds. She has literally asked, no begged, her tormentors to fuck her to death. Nothing could be more sexy, debauched or depraved. 

She is suddenly aware of her heart drumming in her chest, a palpitation that she thinks heralds doom. 

She revisits the road from simple housewife, perhaps a little frustrated, but a simple housewife nevertheless, and a high powered IT executive to what she has become now. A plaything for low class men who has literally spent a night getting gang fucked by them in a slum. 

How much further will she fall? 

She feels cold all of a sudden. Goosflesh marches over her back and arms. 

Swati shivers, leans forward, and turns on the hot water tap to increase the heat of the water in the tub. Where is the woman with the drinks and the food? 

Where is Paro? 

Swati leans back and closes her eyes. Instantly the film she has been running in her head resumes. 

Prakash steppped back for a second, taken aback with her words. She could see the confusion in his face, his attitude. He is shocked, but also angry; and the conflicting emotions make him cast around for inspiration. 

Swati had squealed as he plunged into her, and that roused Nawaz, and without even pausing to rinse out his mouth, he had started kissing Swati, using his disgusting morning breath flavored with the smoking and drinking from earlier, his tongue dueling with hers. 

Of course, they had to sandwich her one last time. 

A Swati sandwich between two dark skinned slum dwellers on each side, one in her ass, the other in her overflowing cunt. 

By that time, she was so loose everywhere, there wasn’t anything she couldn’t have taken in any of her holes. And so the last DP of that night had proceeded, Paro jumping in and hungrily licking their conjoined genitals.

Nawaz tired of the difficult position and withdrew. He then used Paro’s cunt to satisfy himself—it took a long time but in the end he seemed to have a dry orgasm, and lay back exhausted.

Swati hadn’t known at the time, but Paro too had been used during the night, and almost as relentlessly.  

Paro hadn’t been double teamed, that honor being reserved for her alone, but she’d been fucked and sodomized besides being used as a fluffer all night long. 

Finally just before six, when Prakash could no longer get it up, and Nawaz was too fucked out, they brought her back to the street, again wrapped in the towel, and got into the auto. 

It was still dark and bitterly cold, but Swati was too tired to care. 

She too was totally fucked out, aching all over. 

After the women returned, they had simply passed out as they were, and slept like the dead for hours. 

Swati remembers that long sleep with relish. 

She needed it. 

They needed it. 

She feels a twinge of guilt for not having called Ashok, but consoles herself with the thought that he must be busy caring for his father. 

Her whole body is sore, especially her holes. It is a pleasant soreness. 

There are welts on her skin, areas of bruising, small linear areas of redness she knew would be there. Nothing she cannot deal with. Time will heal all. 

There is a light knock on the door and Parvati enters. Finally!

She carries a tray with two flutes of champagne and a quarter plate of peanuts. 

She sets the tray down by the sink and brings over one glass to Swati, and takes the other for herself. 

There is only one thing that is unusual about this otherwise humdrum, domestic scene. 

Paro is naked. 

Not a stitch of clothing on her. 

Swati watches her through half lidded eyes, langor spreading through her limbs like an intravenous sedative.

Paro slips into the water with a groan of relief. 

Their legs intertwine, one of her feet between Swati’s legs. 

Her great toe slips right in.

Swati moans and spreads her legs more to accommodate the new invader.

Paro grins and begins a leisurely in and out motion.