Misc. Erotica A Mother’s Bargain - By Novelist Casanova

[novelistcasanova]

A Mother’s Bargain

“I opened my legs so my son could open his future.”

Early morning light, thin and grey like watered milk, crawled through the half-open window of my small Chennai bedroom. The air hung thick, heavy with the raw stink of hours of brutal fucking: sweat, cum, my own pussy juices, and the sharp musk of his balls.

I lay completely naked, half-asleep, body dead-weight on the drenched bed. My thighs were forced so wide apart that the inner muscles shook with tiny tremors. Thick, warm globs of the thief’s cum kept leaking from my swollen pussy lips, sliding in slow, sticky rivers down the crack of my ass cheeks, pooling under my asshole on the soaked sheet. Every few seconds my ruined pussy clenched weakly and pushed out another fat drop that stretched into a long, silvery thread before it snapped and joined the puddle beneath me.
Only my mangalsutra remained on my body. The thick gold chain with the long, heavy traditional one with coral beads, thali kodi, and the big gold thaali pendant had flipped upside down and now rested in the sweaty valley between my heavy boobs. The gold thaali was smeared white with dried cum; the coral beads were stuck to my skin with sweat and his loads. The chain had cut a thin red line across my left nipple because he had grabbed the mangalsutra and used it like reins while he fucked me from behind.
My boobs were marked everywhere. Dark purple fingerprints circled both nipples. The left nipple was swollen huge, still wet and shining from his tongue and teeth. The right areola carried tiny half-moon bite marks from the moment I tried to push him off at 3 a.m. Every time my chest rose, my boobs peeled off the sheet with a soft, sticky sound, then slapped back down.
Between my legs everything throbbed and burned. My pussy lips were turned inside out, puffy and dark pink, glistening with layers of his loads. The thief’s thick cock had stretched me so brutally that even now my pussy stayed slightly open, a small, dark tunnel that kept drooling cum. My clit stood out angry-red, pulsing with every heartbeat. Lower, my asshole winked and twitched; he had forced his cock inside twice, and the ring of muscle still hadn’t closed. A slow, creamy river ran from my asshole down to the mattress.
The thief moved.
He had slept half on top of me, one hairy leg thrown across my stomach, his softening cock still buried balls-deep inside my pussy. Now he grunted, lifted his hips, and began dragging that heavy, veiny cock out. Inch by filthy inch it slid free, coated white with our mixed juices. The wet dragging sound filled the room. When the fat cock head finally popped out of my pussy lips, a loud, obscene squelch echoed and a thick flood of trapped cum gushed out, splashing straight onto my clit and running down to my asshole.
He knelt up between my spread thighs, knees sinking into the soaked mattress. His cock hung half-hard, shiny and dripping, swinging like a club between his legs. He looked down at the mess he had made of me: boobs bruised, mangalsutra sticky with cum, pussy wrecked and leaking, asshole gaping, and a filthy, satisfied smirk crawled across his face.
He reached for his filthy gray underwear crumpled on the floor, stiff with dried cum and my juices. He lifted one foot, then the other, sliding the underwear up his muscular legs. When he pulled the waistband up, he had to grab his heavy cock and balls with one rough hand and stuff them inside the pouch. The dirty gray cloth stretched tight; the clear outline of his thick cock head and the ridge underneath showed through the thin material. He snapped the elastic hard against his stomach, making his balls bounce once.
Next he snatched his filthy black pants from the floor, the same pants he wore when he broke in, now crusted with white streaks and smelling of raw sex. He shoved one leg in, then the other, and yanked the pants up. The zipper rasped as he closed it over the bulge of his cock and balls, the black cloth hugging everything so tight the shape of his cock ran visibly down his left thigh.
Finally he grabbed his dirty white shirt, once white, now yellowed and reeking, buttons long gone. He dragged it over his head in one motion. The open shirt hung loose on his broad chest, showing dark nipples, sweat-matted hair, and the trail that disappeared into his waistband.
He stood there a second, nakedfoot, cock bulge swinging under the black pants, open shirt flapping, staring down at my naked, broken body. My boobs rose and fell slowly, mangalsutra and thaali glinting between them, pussy still leaking his cum in a steady stream, asshole twitching. He licked his lips once, remembering how I had no choice but to spread for him to save my son’s 2 lakhs, remembering how he had used every hole anyway.
Then, without a word, without even looking at the cupboard where the thief in the filthy gray underwear, tight black pants, and open dirty white shirt turned, walked across the wet floor, and slipped out the door into the morning light.
My name is Malini.
Ten years ago a filthy scoundrel sweet-talked his way between my thighs, fucked me raw every night with lies dripping from his tongue, pumped his thick cum deep into my pussy until my belly swelled, and vanished the morning I showed him the pregnancy test. God alone knows which cheap whore’s pussy he is destroying now. He left me with a stretched pussy, leaking boobs, and a screaming newborn clutched to my chest.
That newborn is Varun, my entire world, the only heartbeat I live for.
Varun is in college now, tall, handsome, brilliant, and every single rupee I earn is for him alone.
Every morning at 7:30 I stand in front of the cracked mirror and dbang my hotel uniform: the bright yellow saree made of thin polyester that clings to every curve of my ass cheeks like a second skin, the matching yellow blouse stitched so tight that my heavy boobs push against the hooks until the third hook from the top always threatens to burst open. The yellow blouse is cut short, ending just two inches below my bra, so when I bend over the reception counter my midriff stays naked, the yellow saree riding low on my hips, exposing the soft roll of my belly and the deep navel that still carries silver stretch marks from carrying Varun.
I wear a simple, regular bra inside, nothing fancy, just thick cotton cups that hold my boobs firm. The yellow blouse is so thin that the plain outline of my bra shows clearly through the material, the straight straps and the band under my boobs visible every time I move. My regular panties are simple cotton too, high-waisted, and when I tuck the yellow saree pleats tight between my thighs the pantyline cuts hard across each ass cheek, marking two deep lines over the yellow saree that every guest in the lobby can see when I turn.
I pull the pallu across my boobs and pin it to my shoulder. The yellow saree sticks to my sweaty lower back by noon, drawing a dark wet patch that runs from my spine straight down to where the saree disappears between my ass cheeks. My mangalsutra, thick gold chain with coral beads and heavy thaali pendant, swings between my boobs with every step, the thaali slipping inside the yellow blouse and rubbing my nipples until they harden and poke through the yellow blouse and regular bra.
The yellow blouse has only five hooks. By evening the top two are always open because my boobs keep pushing forward, so the edge of my regular bra and the top of my areolas peek out. Guests stare at the mangalsutra resting in the valley of my boobs, at the pantyline over my ass cheeks over the yellow saree, at the way sweat makes the yellow saree cling to my thighs. I smile, I bend, I let their eyes feast, because every extra tip goes into the steel box under my bed.
I never finished college, but this fair skin, these full lips, these 36-inch boobs that still stand proud after breastfeeding, and the way the yellow saree hugs my wide hips got me the job. I stand twelve hours straight, feet swollen inside cheap heels, back aching, boobs sore inside the tight yellow blouse and regular bra, pussy untouched for years, just to save those 2 lakhs for Varun’s college fees.
Every night I drag myself home, unpin the sweaty yellow saree, unhook the torture of the yellow blouse so my boobs spill free, pull off the clinging regular panties, and open the steel cupboard. There sit the two fat bundles of thousand-rupee notes, my blood, my pain, my swallowed pride.
I touch the key that hangs between my boobs along with my mangalsutra, the thaali brushing my nipples, and I whisper:
“Everything is for Varun. My pussy can stay dry, my boobs can ache inside this yellow blouse, my ass cheeks can carry pantyline marks forever, but my son will never beg.”
Those 2 lakhs are my life.
I will kill, I will die, I will spread my legs and give my pussy to anyone before I let that money disappear.


I stepped off that crowded bus in Chennai with one torn rexine bag in my hand and Varun sleeping against my boobs, still smelling of milk.
Inside the bag: exactly two regular bras, both white, already grey at the straps from too many washes; two regular panties, one blue, one faded pink, both with tiny holes near the elastic; three old sarees, one green, one maroon, one brown, all bought second-hand from the village market; and a heart burning with one single promise:
I will raise my son so high that the bastard who secretly tied this mangalsutra around my neck one drunken night, fucked me for months, filled my pussy with his cum, and ran away the moment my belly started showing, will one day choke on regret.
I still cannot believe how much I let that dog enjoy my body.
I remember every filthy detail.
I was nineteen, stupid, and starving for love. He would drag me behind the coconut grove, grab my boobs through my blouse, squeeze my nipples until I cried, then bend me over a stack of dry coconut leaves and ram his thick cock into my pussy from behind while I bit my own palm to stay quiet. He would fuck me standing against temple walls, in empty classrooms after tuition, on the riverbank under moonlight, always finishing deep inside me, always whispering “I will marry you, Malini, I swear on the goddess.” I would feel his hot cum flooding my pussy, dripping down my thighs while he tied my mangalsutra in a secret ceremony under a tree, only the two of us and a cheap priest he paid fifty rupees. I thought the thaali around my neck meant forever.
Three months later I was vomiting every morning, my boobs swollen and sore, my pussy still remembering the shape of his cock, and he was gone. Vanished. No note, no address, nothing. Just me, a swollen belly, and a mangalsutra that suddenly felt like a noose.
I cried for weeks, but tears don’t feed a baby.
So I packed those two bras, those two panties, those three sarees, took the night bus with Varun kicking inside me, and came to this city that smelled of sea and strangers. I slept on railway platforms, washed my panties in public toilets, fed Varun with one boob while I begged for work with the other boob leaking milk through my **blouse.
Every night I touched the thaali pendant resting between my boobs and made the same vow:
My son will study in the best college.
My son will wear crisp shirts and speak English.
My son will never know hunger.
And one day, when that bastard hears Varun’s name, he will burn with shame for abandoning the woman whose pussy he used like a free whore, whose boobs he sucked dry, whose womb he filled and then threw away.
That vow is why I stand twelve hours in this tight yellow saree and yellow blouse every day.
That vow is why I smile when drunk men stare at my boobs bouncing under the yellow blouse.
That vow is why I let their fingers brush my waist, why I bend lower than needed, why I swallow every insult, why I save every single rupee.
Because every coin that drops into my palm is another slap I send across that coward’s face.
Because every thousand-rupee note folded into that steel cupboard is another step Varun takes away from the dirt that man left us in.
Because the day Varun walks across the college stage in his mother will stand in the crowd wearing the same mangalsutra that liar tied, but now it will shine with pride, not shame.
And somewhere, wherever that dog is hiding, he will hear my son’s name and know:
I raised a king with the same pussy he once used and threw away.
That is my revenge.
That is my victory.
That is why those 2 lakhs locked in my cupboard are more sacred to me than my own heartbeat.