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

[novelistcasanova]

I stood motionless in that candlelit chamber, my mind a whirlwind.

The Swamiji… no, the man who had disguised himself as one… waited patiently, as if this was all divinely ordained, not a con played on a desperate woman.
My heart thudded in my chest. I had crossed every line already — lied to my husband, misused party funds, travelled alone with a stranger. What was one more step, if it brought me the power I had dreamed of?
I swallowed hard.
"If this is what it takes to become who I was meant to be..." I whispered.
He led me to the bed laid with saffron sheets, murmuring prayers and praises as he touched my hands, my face, his voice painting me not as a woman, but a goddess. I had never felt more objectified, yet never more dangerously close to what I thought was control.
The Swamiji’s gaze locked onto mine, dark and unwavering. His voice softened but carried an undeniable weight, “Sudha, we must enjoy ourselves — fully, deeply. Only then will the Device awaken its power.”
I swallowed hard, my breath catching. “And if I refuse?”
His lips curled into a faint, almost cruel smile. “Then everything you’ve sacrificed... everything you’ve built, will slip away. Your Ward Councillor seat, your dreams of becoming MLA — all gone. You’ll be left with nothing.”
The flickering candlelight cast shadows across his face, but his eyes held only certainty. My body trembled—not from desire, but from the terrifying gravity of the choice before me.
“I don’t want to lose everything,” I whispered, my voice trembling.
He stepped closer, his hand brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “Then trust me. Let me share this moment with you.”
My heart pounded wildly as I nodded, lips barely moving, “I agree.”
Inside, a fierce storm raged — shame battling hunger, fear tangled with desperate hope. As he reached for me, I knew there 
was no turning back.
The Swamiji’s voice dropped to a soft, coaxing whisper as he held me close, his hands steady yet gentle.
“Sudha, close your eyes. Imagine… I am your husband. The one who loves you, who has always desired you. Let yourself feel his touch, his kisses. Let me enjoy making love to you, just as he would.”
My breath hitched, heart pounding with hesitation and a flicker of forbidden hope.
“And now,” he continued, “imagine you are my wife — my beloved. Let yourself enjoy this moment, let your body remember what pleasure truly is.”
I trembled, torn between shame and a strange warmth growing inside me.
He pulled me closer, and began kissing my lips with a slow, lingering kiss. The world around me faded. For a fleeting second, it was as if it was my husband’s lips pressing softly against mine, the softness I longed for, the tenderness I craved.
A heat stirred deep within, a forbidden desire awakening as I found myself melting into the kiss, my body responding despite my mind screaming no.
I was lost in the fantasy — his hands tracing, his breath warm on my skin — and slowly, the walls I’d built around my heart began to crumble.
The Swamiji’s embrace tightened, and with each kiss, my resistance weakened until all that remained was the raw hunger pulsing through me.
As Swamiji began kissing my lips passionately, a slow, electric heat spread through me. My body betrayed my hesitation—my breath grew shallow, and I felt a growing warmth pooling between my thighs.
I became painfully aware of how wet my panties were getting, a silent confession of desire I couldn’t control. My fingers trembled as they clutched at his shoulders, caught between shame and a strange, undeniable craving.
Even as my mind screamed that this was wrong, my body answered differently—aching, yearning, alive.
The scent of sandalwood and sweat filled the air, mixing with the pounding of my heart, drowning out all doubts.
In that moment, I wasn’t just Sudha, the ambitious councillor or the wife—I was a woman lost in the intoxicating fog of forbidden passion.
The Swamiji’s fingers traced slow, deliberate lines along the edge of my saree, his touch both possessive and reverent. I felt the silk loosen as he gently pulled it down, revealing the familiar curve of my waist, the crisp white blouse clinging to my body, and the soft fabric of my petticoat wrapped around my hips.
His arms encircled me, steady and warm, pulling me close against him. For a heartbeat, my breath caught — the scent of his skin mixed with the faint fragrance of sandalwood that clung to his robes. The heat from his body seeped into mine, thawing my nerves and igniting a fire I hadn’t expected to feel.
I hesitated, caught between resistance and desire, but my hands moved of their own accord, wrapping around his back, clutching the rough fabric of his robe. His lips brushed against my neck, a slow, tantalizing kiss that sent shivers down my spine.
A delicious warmth pooled low in my belly, and I felt it—the unmistakable wetness spreading, dampening the thin cotton of my White Panties. My body betrayed me, betraying my careful mind with its hungry response to his touch.
Even as guilt gnawed at the edges of my thoughts, I couldn’t deny the growing need, the way his embrace made me forget everything else — the politics, the power struggles, even my own fears.