10-03-2023, 12:35 AM
It is Thursday, mid-afternoon when Prakash calls on her.
It has been a while since the night she was chained to the tap at the mori behind the chawl, the night of the glory hole, the night when she was pissed on and humiliated. She has had no contact with anyone since that night. Indeed, it took her the better part of a week to recover from that night, physically and mentally.
After her conversation, nay, confession to Neetu, Swati has been alone. She works from home, and only rarely goes to the office. The office in any case is almost deserted. Swati meditates these days to control the cravings, focusing on her breath, but it isn’t easy. Images of intense sex, humiliation, and carnal hunger crowd her mind as soon as she closes her eyes, and even though she thought that time would diminish the intensity of these feelings, that hasn’t happened so far.
She’s tried to abstain from masturbating, but occasionally she’s had to give in and use one or more of her toys when she can’t stand it any more. Paro, when she comes, sees her mistress in dire straits, and says nothing. Dark circles discolor her eyes, and she looks gaunt even though her figure is still as voluptuous as ever.
Swati has been to the hospital several times to see Ashok, but the staff there are very busy, and they won’t let her see him anyway because there is widespread fear of an epidemic that is raging uncontrolled. No one knows what the virus is other than it is from China. It has already claimed many lives, including those of her in laws. There is no known cure.
She’s just finished working out, a fairly intense yoga routine, and is just a little bit sweaty. She was in the process of planning what she would put into her afternoon smoothie when the doorbell goes ding-dong.
Prakash simply shows up at her door, all by himself — no Nawaz today — with no forewarning, no call or text or voice message. He wears a crooked grin, a smirk really, and looks her up and down like one might a prize cow at the village fair.
The sight of him fills her first with terror, then intense need, like a junkie craving a fix.
He is dressed today in a green tee shirt and a pair of track pants she didn’t know he owned. He is also wearing the track top, unzipped all the way. It is not so cold in Delhi any more, and a light jacket is all that’s needed.
As she opens the door and he steps inside, the longing is so intense in the pit of her stomach that she doubles over, gasping. She knows her pussy is a sopping mess, and that Prakash probably knows it despite the clothes she is wearing, yoga pants, sport bra, and a loose tee shirt that leaves her midriff bare.
She wants to pull out his cock, suck him to hardness and present him with her holes to choose from. She wants him like a dying man wants water.
Prakash ignores her and looks at the interior of the house as though he has never seen it before. “Rich people,” he mutters under his breath.
When he finally turns to look at her, Swati is already pulling off her clothes.
She has been well conditioned.
She lays her clothes on the nearest chair and kneels before him, legs wide, cunt on display, hands cupping her breasts in offering.
He glances at her and nods appreciatively and this pleases Swati more than it should.
He caresses her tits, pulls on the nipples, fingers her cunt and she squirms on the ground in front of him like a dog that has been well trained and accepts what affection even a cruel master will give. She is ready to offer him any hole he would like, whatever form of ravishment he would desire.
But that is not to be.
“Get dressed,” he says. “We have to go to the chawl.” He throws the yoga pants and the insubstantial tee shirt at her, throwing the sport bra and her panties into a corner. She follows the trajectory of the garment, and again a thrill goes through her.
She’s going to get fucked today after a long time.
Her heart races and there are butterflies in her stomach, something she didn’t even have when she was getting married.
As she rises to put on the clothes he has chosen, her cunt squelches, a sound almost like the queef she had in the conference room, a lifetime ago.
It has been a while since the night she was chained to the tap at the mori behind the chawl, the night of the glory hole, the night when she was pissed on and humiliated. She has had no contact with anyone since that night. Indeed, it took her the better part of a week to recover from that night, physically and mentally.
After her conversation, nay, confession to Neetu, Swati has been alone. She works from home, and only rarely goes to the office. The office in any case is almost deserted. Swati meditates these days to control the cravings, focusing on her breath, but it isn’t easy. Images of intense sex, humiliation, and carnal hunger crowd her mind as soon as she closes her eyes, and even though she thought that time would diminish the intensity of these feelings, that hasn’t happened so far.
She’s tried to abstain from masturbating, but occasionally she’s had to give in and use one or more of her toys when she can’t stand it any more. Paro, when she comes, sees her mistress in dire straits, and says nothing. Dark circles discolor her eyes, and she looks gaunt even though her figure is still as voluptuous as ever.
Swati has been to the hospital several times to see Ashok, but the staff there are very busy, and they won’t let her see him anyway because there is widespread fear of an epidemic that is raging uncontrolled. No one knows what the virus is other than it is from China. It has already claimed many lives, including those of her in laws. There is no known cure.
She’s just finished working out, a fairly intense yoga routine, and is just a little bit sweaty. She was in the process of planning what she would put into her afternoon smoothie when the doorbell goes ding-dong.
Prakash simply shows up at her door, all by himself — no Nawaz today — with no forewarning, no call or text or voice message. He wears a crooked grin, a smirk really, and looks her up and down like one might a prize cow at the village fair.
The sight of him fills her first with terror, then intense need, like a junkie craving a fix.
He is dressed today in a green tee shirt and a pair of track pants she didn’t know he owned. He is also wearing the track top, unzipped all the way. It is not so cold in Delhi any more, and a light jacket is all that’s needed.
As she opens the door and he steps inside, the longing is so intense in the pit of her stomach that she doubles over, gasping. She knows her pussy is a sopping mess, and that Prakash probably knows it despite the clothes she is wearing, yoga pants, sport bra, and a loose tee shirt that leaves her midriff bare.
She wants to pull out his cock, suck him to hardness and present him with her holes to choose from. She wants him like a dying man wants water.
Prakash ignores her and looks at the interior of the house as though he has never seen it before. “Rich people,” he mutters under his breath.
When he finally turns to look at her, Swati is already pulling off her clothes.
She has been well conditioned.
She lays her clothes on the nearest chair and kneels before him, legs wide, cunt on display, hands cupping her breasts in offering.
He glances at her and nods appreciatively and this pleases Swati more than it should.
He caresses her tits, pulls on the nipples, fingers her cunt and she squirms on the ground in front of him like a dog that has been well trained and accepts what affection even a cruel master will give. She is ready to offer him any hole he would like, whatever form of ravishment he would desire.
But that is not to be.
“Get dressed,” he says. “We have to go to the chawl.” He throws the yoga pants and the insubstantial tee shirt at her, throwing the sport bra and her panties into a corner. She follows the trajectory of the garment, and again a thrill goes through her.
She’s going to get fucked today after a long time.
Her heart races and there are butterflies in her stomach, something she didn’t even have when she was getting married.
As she rises to put on the clothes he has chosen, her cunt squelches, a sound almost like the queef she had in the conference room, a lifetime ago.
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