Misc. Erotica Swati's Downfall (Original Story)

[S Darko]

Ramesh is not sure what to do next. His eyes take in the surroundings.


The tableau is frozen. Prakash, Mahender, and Ramona in one corner, next to the green screen. 

In the foreground stands the white man, his monster of a cock still erect, his hands up. 

There is a dog, standing midway between the white man and the three figures huddled in the corner. It is a huge dog, black and menacing. Incongruously, it wears pink socks on its forepaws. 

The dog growls, bares its teeth and takes a half step forward at the interlopers. 

Sammy takes a step back, pointing the gun at the large animal. Ramesh can feel the fear coming off him in waves.

Ramesh though holds his ground, and crouches down to the level of the animal’s eyes. 

He fixes the dog with his steely gaze, and his head tilts to one side. 

A brief staring match ensues. 

Then the dog looks away, whimpers, then sits on the floor, licking his hindquarters. 

This is Ramesh’s superpower. 

And then there is Swati madam on her knees in front of the man. 

Her eyes are glazed and she seems not to know what is going on. 

Her mouth is partially open and there is a string of saliva hanging from the corner of her mouth.

Then she speaks, her voice slurred like she’s drunk. 

Sammy wasn’t kidding. She’s been drugged for sure. 

“He’s not a white man,” she says. “He’s only got a skin condition…disease. He’s as Indian as all of us.”

The white man swallows, and seems to blanch, if that is even possible for one as white as him. “It’s true. I’m not Russian. My name is not Nikolai or Nakul Bhai. My name is Ramsaran and I’m from UP. Please let me go…I have a sick mother at home.” 

His words come out shaking and wobbling. His features are scrunched up, and he looks a far cry from the composed, tough, gangster he was just moments ago.

Ramesh watches with amazement as the UP accented Hindi words fall from the man’s mouth. The others, especially Prakash, also look equally astounded.

Prakash is the first to recover. 

He lunges toward Ramsaran, his hand raised. “Motherfucker!” He roars in Hindi.

His blow never makes it. 

There is a loud report, and he falls, clutching his thigh. Blood spurts from his wound, from between the fingers of his hand as he tries to tamp down on the injury. 

He moans like a dying animal.

Ramesh turns his head and sees smoke curling out of Sammy’s gun. 

“This fucker was selling her to that fucker,” Sammy says, pointing first at Prakash and then at Ramsaran. 

“They’re both criminals. They fucking deserve to die.” His voice is harsh, judgmental.

“Should I? Should I? Huh?” He roars, his pistol waving about.

Nothing like a new convert, Ramesh thinks. This guy was happily being a criminal until this morning, and now he’s a justice bringer.

Mahender and Ramona are watching Prakash with horrified interest. 

Their hands are still up, but fatigue is already setting in and their shoulders droop. 

Ramona’s eyes are as wide as they will go, the whites of her eyes visible all around the iris.

Swati seems to fall to the ground in slow motion. 

She falls away from Ramsaran.

Time stands still. 

Prakash, his mouth open in a moan. 

Mahender, raising his camera as though it would help deflect any trouble, a magic talisman. 

Ramona with her silicone enhanced lips parted in a ‘O.’ 

Ramesh watches Swati slowly sink to the ground, then roll. 

When she rights herself, she is on her knees, breasts shining with perspiration, breathing hard. 

She seems a little changed now. Perhaps more than a little changed.

There is clarity in her eyes. 

And there is a shiny, large gun in her hand. 

It looks enormous in her relatively small hands. 

It points directly at Ramsaran.