Misc. Erotica Swati's Downfall (Original Story)

[S Darko]

Swati walks disconsolately along Ring Road in the shadow of the Red Fort. 

Tomorrow is Independence Day and the Prime Minister will be speaking from the ramparts, telling crores of Indians all about how things are, what his plans are and so forth. He has been a good Prime Minister, this tea-seller from Gujarat, she reflects. His graph has gone exponentially up. Her’s, on he other hand, instead of going up, had rapidly gone the other way.


She looks down at her clothes. The shirt she is wearing belongs to a man, and the weird thing is she does not even remember who the man was. Underneath, she wears a short skirt, black with spangles. A party mini skirt really. No underwear. She looks like one of the streetwalkers she used to wonder about. She remembers vaguely the party last night at Kalkaji, or was it somewhere else? Vasant Vihar? Green Park?

A nice posh nightclub, a padded, soundproof back room with hooks and bolts on the floor, ceiling, walls. 

There were many men that Vicky (that was his name, right?) had asked her to entertain and she had done that with her usual enthusiasm. Her breasts throbbed a little from the rope bondage, but nothing that wouldn’t go away in a few days. The cigarette burns though, that would take a little more time. 

There was a time when Vicky wouldn’t allow the merchandise to be marked, the merch of course, being her, but not any more. Now anything and everything was possible for the clients to do and she had no limits, hard or soft.

She recalls the cage she was in, then the spanking horse where she was whipped brutally. While being fucked in the ass and the mouth. There were nipple clamps she recalls, floggers, clamps on her cunt lips. Someone had even attached weights to the cunt clamps and laughed hysterically as she writhed in pain. All the while someone had been fucking her in the ass. Later, there were beer bottles, baseball bats. The brutes delighted in inserting anything they found, that was easy to hand, the bigger the better. Initially her moans were for effect, later they were real. 

They delighted in making her scream.

Despite all the torture she has endured, the remembrance of last night brings a tingle to her sore nipples and they stiffen in the slight breeze. That itch she used to feel in her pussy, the feeling that something was empty and needed to be filled, preferably by a stiff cock, has become an almost continuous ache. 

She realizes she has become a sex addict and there is no cure. 

No cure other then white knuckle, cold turkey abstention. Perhaps for life. For that she needs support, and that is something she doesn’t have. 

There is nothing left of her family; Ashok has left her, and taken Dhruv with him. She can’t even remember when the divorce came through. She doesn’t even know where they are, and even if she did, she doesn’t have the resources to go there. 

She is nothing now, not the IT middle manager with promise, not the mother, not the high flying wife. She has lost her high paying job, her perks, her car and house. She has no life anymore. She is no more and no less than a whore, on the verge of being washed up. 

On the verge of becoming a fifty rupee whore that only the lowest of the low visit.

The way ahead is easy to see because it is all downhill, and there is nothing in the way. Marginal subsistence, desperate poverty, disease, and then the final equalizer of them all. It is not pretty. And yet, she has no one to blame but herself. 

It had all started innocently enough with an inadvertent exposure of her body to the janitor. The janitor actually turned out to be a possible savior, but he was weird, and he gave way to the garage security guard, then came the chai w,.', not that she had anything against chaiw,.'s, then it became a blur. There were pimps photographers and videographers and a whole slew of low class slum dwellers, and other strange people involved, and somehow even her savior, Ramesh couldn’t help her from her downfall.

There was a time when she was to be sold off to a rich Arab sheikh, but somehow she slipped those grasping hands and instead ended up in Delhi in the care of a pimp called Vicky (Vicky, right? Or was it Vinny?). He shopped her around, in the high class party circuit, then slowly the class started going down, the regulars wanting more and more roughness. 

It was now nothing for her to entertain more than one man at a time, animals too if she remembers last night well. Drugs seem to be a good way to cope, something she had never done before, but now, well now there is no other word for it other than junkie.

She is in Old Delhi now, not even remembering how she got there. Somewhere near Paharganj or Chandni Chown. There are old houses on both sides of the narrow street. Someone comes at her. The woman is carrying a bucket of water. 

Dirty water as it turns out. She has a grimace on her face, and she spits on the ground before she upends the bucket on her head. Not just dirty water as it turns out. Worse, much worse.

“Whore! Whore! Whore!” The woman is screaming at her. 

She falls to the ground in despair, stinking and dripping. Crying.

She grasps at a straw. Ramesh! She whispers the name. 

He has always been the one to ask her during her rougher adventures if she was ok, if she wanted to stop. She has never paid him much heed, but he was good to have, like a little puppy. Oh, if only she had paid more attention to him. 

Oh, if only she had given him more importance in her life. He had once tried to give her advice, good advice as she now thinks back on it.

Ramesh!

Ramesh!

Ramesh…the words dribble out of her mouth like water she cannot swallow and it drips down her chin and chest. 

She is all wet. 

From head to toe. 

And shivering. Like a malaria patient. 

And it was indeed Ramesh who came to find her. He’d been sitting at the tea shop, when he heard the men bragging about how the men had gangfucked the high class madam and left her to wallow in their excrement in the mori, and came to investigate.

When Ramesh came to her, he was livid to see her chained like an animal to the water pipe. 

The sight of Swati, naked and shivering melted his heart, and tenderly he undid the chain—it turned out not to be locked, merely tied, and she could have undone it herself—and carried her to the auto. 

Perhaps Prakash expected that she would undo the chain and come inside. Who knew? He found a sheet and wrapped her in it and took her home. 

On the way, Ramesh said, “Madam, you need to rethink what you’re doing. These are not good people. Especially that Prakash fellow.” 

Swati was so out of it that she could not reply. 

The truth was she was scared and at one point feared for her life. But how could she tell these things to Ramesh? 

And the dream felt so real. Had she really been sold? Nah, that was all just a dream. Wouldn't happen in real life. She would get control. 

When she could finally speak, she forced a level of gaiety into her voice. “Oh, don’t worry about it, Ramesh. Prakash isn’t such a bad guy. He’s all bark and no bite. What do you think he’s going to do that I don’t already want? And besides, isn’t he your friend?”

In reply Ramesh had just muttered something inaudible and Swati had let it go. 

He carried her into her uninhabited home, washed her tenderly in the tub, and tucked her in. 

She reached for him, for his crotch, but he shied away, gently put her hands under the covers. 

After that, he left. 

Swati slept the sleep of the dead.