Yesterday, 07:25 PM
Saga 9 - Scene 1 - Breastfeed the Beggars
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When Dipa walked through the door, Sameer rushed to her, scooping her into his arms. He didn't ask where she had been for ten days; the wild, hungry look in his eyes told her he only wanted to know what had happened. Tukun, now in Ramla's arms, squealed with delight at the sight of his mother.
Sameer: You’re back! I was going crazy! Tell me everything. Was it… was the healing successful?
Dipa: (a serene, tired smile) Yes, darling. He is well now. But I am exhausted. I gave him everything.
Sameer: I can’t wait to hear about it. All of it.
Later that evening, after she had bathed and cuddled Tukun, and after she had given Sameer a highly edited but intensely arousing account of her "charity work," she made a declaration.
Dipa: My social work will continue, Sameer. Those people need me.
Sameer: Of course, my love. Whatever you need. Your work… it makes me very happy.
The next day, Ramla Aunty arrived with news.
Ramla: Madam, it is strange. Since the stories of your generosity have spread, many of the men in the slum have stopped looking for work. They are just… sitting. Some have started begging on the main road. They say, why should we break our backs for a few rupees when a goddess lives nearby who gives her blessings for free?
Dipa’s brow furrowed with concern. Her charity was having an unintended consequence.
Dipa: This is not right. They have misunderstood my purpose. I give strength so they can live better lives, not so they can stop living altogether.
Sameer: What will you do, darling?
Dipa: I need to understand what is going on. Ramla Masi, tomorrow, find three of the men who have started begging. The most desperate ones. Tell them the Memsahab wishes to speak with them. Tell them to come here.
The next afternoon, three men arrived at her door. They were thin, filthy, and their eyes were hollow with a mixture of shame and desperate hope.
Dipa had them wait in the living room while Arun served them water. She was wearing a simple, sleeveless kurti and leggings, but she wore no bra, and her large, heavy, lactating breasts were prominently outlined against the thin cotton. Sameer sat in an armchair, observing the scene with a quiet, intense curiosity.
Dipa: Thank you for coming. I have heard that many of you have stopped working. I want to understand why.
One of the men, who seemed to be the eldest, spoke, his voice raspy.
Beggar 1: Memsahab, what work is there for us? We are weak. We have no energy. We break stones for ten hours for fifty rupees. The body breaks, but the spirit is already dead. Food fills the belly for a day, but it does not give a man the strength to face the next morning.
His eyes were not on her face. They were fixed, like the eyes of all three men, on her chest. They stared at her big, lactating breasts with a raw, primal longing.
Beggar 2: We have heard stories, Memsahab. Stories of your kindness. Of your healing touch. They say you are a goddess. They say you have a special kind of blessing.
Beggar 3: They say your milk… it gives men strength. We do not want your money, Memsahab. We want your blessing. We want a taste of the life that you give to everyone.
Dipa: The stories you have heard are true. Healing is for those who are suffering. If it is strength you need, then I will give it to you.
Dipa looked over at Sameer. He was on the edge of his seat, his own eyes shining, a look of unbearable excitement on his face. He gave her a small, almost imperceptible nod.
That was all the permission she needed. This was not a betrayal. This was her duty. This was her purpose. This was what her husband wanted.
Dipa: Sit, all 3 of you.
They scrambled to their knees on the Persian rug. She went to the first beggar, the eldest one, and placed her hands on his head.
Dipa: You are empty. I will fill you.
She pulled down the neckline of her kurti, freeing one of her massive breasts. She took the man’s head and guided his mouth to her nipple. He latched on with a desperate, hungry cry, his hands coming up to clutch her waist. She let him drink for a full minute, her eyes closed, a serene expression on her face. Then she gently pushed him away.
Dipa: That is enough for you, for now. Next.
She moved to the second beggar, offering him the same breast. He drank just as greedily. Then she moved to the third. As he suckled, she looked at her husband. Sameer was watching the scene, his jaw slack, his hand moving in his lap under a cushion, stroking his own hard cock as he watched his wife, his goddess, breastfeed a trio of filthy, desperate beggars in the middle of their living room.
When the third man was finished, Dipa adjusted her kurti. The three men remained on their knees, looking up at her with tears of gratitude streaming down their faces.
Dipa: Now you have my strength inside you. Go. Do not beg anymore. Use this strength to work. To live. And tell the others: the goddess gives her blessing not to the idle, but to the hardworking who have lost their way.
They bowed their heads to the floor, then rose and left without another word. As the door closed, Dipa turned to her husband, a triumphant, powerful smile on her face. He was staring at her, his face flushed, his breathing ragged.
Sameer: My God, Dipa… you are… you are incredible.
Dipa: I know.
=============================
When Dipa walked through the door, Sameer rushed to her, scooping her into his arms. He didn't ask where she had been for ten days; the wild, hungry look in his eyes told her he only wanted to know what had happened. Tukun, now in Ramla's arms, squealed with delight at the sight of his mother.
Sameer: You’re back! I was going crazy! Tell me everything. Was it… was the healing successful?
Dipa: (a serene, tired smile) Yes, darling. He is well now. But I am exhausted. I gave him everything.
Sameer: I can’t wait to hear about it. All of it.
Later that evening, after she had bathed and cuddled Tukun, and after she had given Sameer a highly edited but intensely arousing account of her "charity work," she made a declaration.
Dipa: My social work will continue, Sameer. Those people need me.
Sameer: Of course, my love. Whatever you need. Your work… it makes me very happy.
The next day, Ramla Aunty arrived with news.
Ramla: Madam, it is strange. Since the stories of your generosity have spread, many of the men in the slum have stopped looking for work. They are just… sitting. Some have started begging on the main road. They say, why should we break our backs for a few rupees when a goddess lives nearby who gives her blessings for free?
Dipa’s brow furrowed with concern. Her charity was having an unintended consequence.
Dipa: This is not right. They have misunderstood my purpose. I give strength so they can live better lives, not so they can stop living altogether.
Sameer: What will you do, darling?
Dipa: I need to understand what is going on. Ramla Masi, tomorrow, find three of the men who have started begging. The most desperate ones. Tell them the Memsahab wishes to speak with them. Tell them to come here.
The next afternoon, three men arrived at her door. They were thin, filthy, and their eyes were hollow with a mixture of shame and desperate hope.
Dipa had them wait in the living room while Arun served them water. She was wearing a simple, sleeveless kurti and leggings, but she wore no bra, and her large, heavy, lactating breasts were prominently outlined against the thin cotton. Sameer sat in an armchair, observing the scene with a quiet, intense curiosity.
Dipa: Thank you for coming. I have heard that many of you have stopped working. I want to understand why.
One of the men, who seemed to be the eldest, spoke, his voice raspy.
Beggar 1: Memsahab, what work is there for us? We are weak. We have no energy. We break stones for ten hours for fifty rupees. The body breaks, but the spirit is already dead. Food fills the belly for a day, but it does not give a man the strength to face the next morning.
His eyes were not on her face. They were fixed, like the eyes of all three men, on her chest. They stared at her big, lactating breasts with a raw, primal longing.
Beggar 2: We have heard stories, Memsahab. Stories of your kindness. Of your healing touch. They say you are a goddess. They say you have a special kind of blessing.
Beggar 3: They say your milk… it gives men strength. We do not want your money, Memsahab. We want your blessing. We want a taste of the life that you give to everyone.
Dipa: The stories you have heard are true. Healing is for those who are suffering. If it is strength you need, then I will give it to you.
Dipa looked over at Sameer. He was on the edge of his seat, his own eyes shining, a look of unbearable excitement on his face. He gave her a small, almost imperceptible nod.
That was all the permission she needed. This was not a betrayal. This was her duty. This was her purpose. This was what her husband wanted.
Dipa: Sit, all 3 of you.
They scrambled to their knees on the Persian rug. She went to the first beggar, the eldest one, and placed her hands on his head.
Dipa: You are empty. I will fill you.
She pulled down the neckline of her kurti, freeing one of her massive breasts. She took the man’s head and guided his mouth to her nipple. He latched on with a desperate, hungry cry, his hands coming up to clutch her waist. She let him drink for a full minute, her eyes closed, a serene expression on her face. Then she gently pushed him away.
Dipa: That is enough for you, for now. Next.
She moved to the second beggar, offering him the same breast. He drank just as greedily. Then she moved to the third. As he suckled, she looked at her husband. Sameer was watching the scene, his jaw slack, his hand moving in his lap under a cushion, stroking his own hard cock as he watched his wife, his goddess, breastfeed a trio of filthy, desperate beggars in the middle of their living room.
When the third man was finished, Dipa adjusted her kurti. The three men remained on their knees, looking up at her with tears of gratitude streaming down their faces.
Dipa: Now you have my strength inside you. Go. Do not beg anymore. Use this strength to work. To live. And tell the others: the goddess gives her blessing not to the idle, but to the hardworking who have lost their way.
They bowed their heads to the floor, then rose and left without another word. As the door closed, Dipa turned to her husband, a triumphant, powerful smile on her face. He was staring at her, his face flushed, his breathing ragged.
Sameer: My God, Dipa… you are… you are incredible.
Dipa: I know.
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