Misc. Erotica The Rice Pulling Scam: A Tale of Seduction and Betrayal By Novelist Casanova

[novelistcasanova]

The Rice Pulling Scam: A Tale of Seduction and Betrayal

By Novelist Casanova

The room seemed to shrink around us, the air thick and heavy with anticipation. Bathed in the soft amber light, I stood bare in my Black Bra and Black Panties, every inch of me alive under his gaze. The Party Leader’s eyes darkened with desire as he closed the distance, and he began hugging me only in my Black Bra and Black Panties and began enjoying himself kissing my lips, it was as if the world fell away—nothing existed but the heat of his mouth on mine.

His kiss was deep, demanding, and utterly consuming. His hands framed my face, fingers tracing the curve of my jaw, pulling me closer as if he feared I might slip away. I could taste the sharp tang of his breath—spiced with the faintest hint of alcohol—and feel the desperate hunger in the way he kissed me, slow at first, then fiercely, almost ravenously.
My own body responded instinctively—my lips parted, inviting him in, my hands trembling as they found their way to his broad chest, feeling the steady pounding of his heart beneath his shirt. His tongue traced mine with a possessive urgency, exploring, claiming, leaving me breathless and trembling in his arms.
His mouth left mine only briefly to trail heated kisses down my neck, across my collarbone, and back again, each touch sending sparks of pleasure mixed with a pang of something darker. His hands slipped beneath the lace, caressing my skin with a rough tenderness that both soothed and inflamed me. The warmth of his body pressed against mine was intoxicating, grounding me even as my mind spun with a whirl of conflicting emotions—desire, fear, power, and surrender.
In that moment, as he devoured my lips with a passion that left me dizzy, I realized I was more than just a woman in his bed. I was a symbol of ambition, a prize to be won, and yet beneath the lust, there was an undeniable connection — fragile, complicated, and impossible to untangle. And as his lips captured mine again and again, I felt myself caught between the pull of temptation and the dangerous game we were playing.

I am Sudha — a Ward Councillor in Chennai. Beautiful, poised, and deeply religious. I carry my strength not only in my voice but in every step I take. I am a woman who commands attention without asking for it.

Every morning, as the temple bells echoed through the streets, I stood before my mirror, dbanging the white saree with its bold red and black border — the official colors of our party. I wore it with purpose, pleated neatly, resting gracefully just below my navel. My long, oiled hair was always parted with care and tied into a braid that fell across my back. A round red bindi adorned my forehead, and my kajal-lined eyes — sharp and expressive — often spoke more than my words.
Even before I was elected, I noticed how heads turned when I walked down the street. I wasn’t just a woman — I was an image. A presence. My skin glowed with a dusky warmth that came not from parlors, but from morning sun and daily yoga under the open sky. I made time for myself — stretches that kept my back straight, my waist slender, and my body strong. I believed a leader must be centered — and I sought that balance in my daily rituals.
Despite being a mother of three, my figure bore little evidence of age or fatigue — a testament to my discipline and quiet pride. I was both rooted in tradition and reaching upward toward power.
I was married to a man who didn’t believe in God, but I held fast to my faith. He supported me silently, but I knew he would never understand the fire I felt whenever I watched the female MLAs walk past — commanding cars, crowds, and cameras with the flick of a finger. That’s what I wanted. Not for vanity, but for presence. To be seen. To be heard. To be obeyed.
And I knew — deep in my bones — that one day, I would get there.



It started with a glance. No—not from the Party Leader. From her.

She was everything I longed to be.
One morning, as I stood waiting for my turn at the constituency office, a sleek black SUV rolled up, and out stepped the newly elected MLA — dbangd in silk, flanked by men opening doors and bowing their heads. Her saree shimmered, her sunglasses flashed, and when she walked past me, even the crowd parted without a word.
No one dared raise their voice. Not even the Party Leader.
I felt something twist in my chest. Not jealousy. Yearning.
The respect, the command, the quiet fear she inspired—it lit a fire inside me that refused to die down. I wanted that. I needed that. And more than anything, I believed I was ready.
That night, I sat beside my husband under the dim kitchen light. While our sons slept, I told him what I wanted—not in a whisper, not with hesitation, but with the calm authority I had learned to carry.
“I want to be MLA.”
He looked up from his plate, eyes thoughtful. He had always supported my work. But when I asked him to speak to the Party Leader about endorsing me, he hesitated. He knew, as I did, what price the Party Leader would demand.
And I was right.
When my husband approached him—soft-spoken and sincere—the Party Leader simply smiled, then said it plainly:
"Two hundred crores... and your wife."
My husband said nothing. He came home, told me quietly, and went to bed.
But I lay awake the entire night.
That was the moment everything changed. I realized that no one would hand me power. If I wanted to become an MLA, I had to find my own path—no matter the cost.

They say the universe listens when a desire burns too hot. Mine did. It came, not in the form of a miracle, but in the guise of a holy man.

A few days after that humiliating refusal from the Party Leader, I was at a temple in Triplicane, pouring ghee into the sacred fire, praying silently for a sign—a path to power without shame. That’s when I met him.
He called himself Swamiji Kripananda. Dbangd in saffron robes, his forehead marked with sacred ash, eyes steady and calm—yet intense, almost too knowing. He greeted me with reverence, touched my feet instead of offering his hand. He said he had heard of me, that my name had appeared in visions.
I laughed politely, but something about his presence unsettled me. It wasn’t fear. It was curiosity.
He spoke of ancient secrets, of forces more powerful than politics. Then he whispered the words that made my heart stop:
“Rice Pulling.”
I had only vaguely heard of it—whispers of devices blessed by cosmic energy, capable of attracting wealth, power, even influence. But Swamiji spoke of it like a truth. He said there was a rare Rice Pulling device in Andhra Pradesh, hidden from the world, passed through generations of powerful kings and tantrics. He told me that those who possessed it gained more than riches—they gained command.
And then he said something that pierced right through me:
“You are meant for more, Amma. Not just to serve. To rule.”
I stared at him, stunned. No one had spoken to me like that before—not even my husband. It was as if he saw something buried in me, some truth I dared not admit to anyone: that I didn’t just want to be an MLA. I wanted to be obeyed.
“The cost,” he said, “is not money. The cost is belief. Trust. And readiness.”
But later, in a hushed meeting away from the temple crowd, he revealed the actual price.
One hundred crores. And secrecy.
I had to come alone. I had to keep it hidden from my husband, my party, even my family.
And I agreed.
I told my husband I had meetings with Andhra Ministers. He nodded, trusting me. And two days later, I boarded a car with the Swamiji, dressed in a cotton saree and shawl, a small bag clutched in my hand, my heart pounding with anticipation.
As the car left Chennai’s borders behind, I looked out the window and whispered silently:
“This is my path.”
What I didn’t know was that the path I had chosen was not lined with power—but deception, desire, and betrayal.