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

[novelistcasanova]

I knew nobody in Chennai.

The only roof that opened was a third-floor flat: father, mother, and grown son. They needed a live-in maid. I needed milk in Varun’s mouth. So I bowed and said yes.
From day one their hands were on my boobs and ass cheeks.
The father, a fat officer with grey chest hair spilling out of his banian, waited until his wife left for the market. Then he walked behind me while I swept the floor, grabbed both my ass cheeks over my saree, squeezed so hard my ass cheeks spilled between his fingers, and growled, “Malini, anything you need for the boy, just ask daddy.”
His son, twenty-two and already rotten, cornered me in the store room, rubbed his hard cock against my hip through his lungi while pretending to reach for rice, and hissed, “Your boobs look heavier every day, Malini.”
I swallowed the shame because the father used his influence and got Varun a 1st-standard seat in the city’s most reputed college. He walked into the principal’s office, introduced himself as Varun’s father, signed every form, paid the donation in cash, and made sure my son sat in the front bench while village kids were turned away. For that seat alone I let their filthy hands roam over my boobs and ass cheeks.
Every morning the father hugged me in the kitchen. He wrapped his thick arms around my waist, grabbed my ass cheeks over my saree, pulled me hard into his belly so his cock poked stiff against my navel through his dhoti, and said, “Don’t worry, Malini, I will raise Varun like my own son.”
I forced a smile, wrapped my arms around his neck, let my boobs crush against his chest, and whispered, “Thank you, sir… thank you for being his father,” while his cock throbbed and leaked against my saree.
On every Parents-Teacher Meeting day he made me wear his wife’s rich silk sarees. He stood behind me while I dbangd the saree, hooked the blouse for me, fingers brushing my nipples deliberately. Then he drove me to college in his car. During the entire meeting he sat beside me, held my hand under the table, rubbed slow circles on my palm until his dhoti rose with a shameless cock boner. Teachers thought we were husband and wife. I smiled and let him squeeze my fingers while his cock leaked pre-cum into his dhoti.
Back home, when his wife slept, he called me to the living room to “talk about Varun’s studies”. The second I entered he pulled me into a hug, grabbed both my ass cheeks over the silk saree, dug his fingers deep between my ass cheeks until the saree bunched into my crack, and growled, “Be my secret second wife, Malini. I will keep you in gold.”
Every single time I answered, “Sir, I only want my son’s future,” but I still let him hug me, still let him grab my ass cheeks, still let his cock rub hard against my belly because every promise he made meant another year of fees, another uniform, another college trip paid.
I hated his sweaty smell, hated the wet patch his cock left on my saree, hated the way his son stared at my boobs while I served food. But I swallowed it all because Varun came home with new books, new shoes, and a college badge that made him walk like a prince.
I told myself:
Let him grab my ass cheeks.
Let his cock harden against my belly.
Let him dream of fucking my pussy.
As long as my son’s tomorrow stays safe, I will carry his dirty fingerprints on my boobs and ass cheeks like medals.
One day I will walk out of that flat with my head high and my son’s hand in mine, and that man will only have the memory of the ass cheeks he squeezed and the boobs he never tasted.
Until then I smiled, I hugged back, I let his cock throb against my saree, and I counted every rupee he spent on Varun as blood money he would never truly repay.
Every night I scrubbed his touch off my boobs and ass cheeks, touched my mangalsutra, and whispered to Varun sleeping beside me:
“One day, baby… one day we will be free.”
The son’s name was Manoj.
Every year he flew in from the US for exactly two months, suitcase full of dollars and a mouth full of dreams. The moment he landed he started painting pictures in my head: Varun in an American college, Varun wearing Nike shoes, Varun speaking English like a native, Varun never knowing hunger or shame. He whispered these promises while his hand rested on my thigh under the dinner table, fingers slowly crawling higher until they rubbed the edge of my panties over my saree.
He bought me gifts no maid had ever touched: tight jeans that hugged my ass cheeks like paint, short t-shirts that stopped right below my bra, leaving my navel naked. He made me wear the jeans and t-shirts every evening when his parents slept. He stood behind me in front of the mirror, grabbed both my boobs over the t-shirt, squeezed my nipples until they poked hard against the t-shirt, and growled into my ear, “In America you will wear only these clothes, Malini. You will be my girlfriend there. Say yes.”
I looked at Varun sleeping in the corner and I said yes.
For the next sixty days I became Manoj’s secret girlfriend.
He paraded me in front of his friends: took me to Marina Beach, to Bessy, to his college gang reunions, one arm locked around my waist, hand openly grabbing my ass cheek over the tight jeans while his friends whistled. He introduced me as “my girl Malini from Chennai” and let them stare at my boobs bouncing inside the t-shirt, at the mangalsutra swinging between my boobs like a dirty trophy. They laughed and asked if I gave good head. Manoj just squeezed my ass cheeks harder and answered, “Better than your wives.”
At night he dragged me to the terrace, pushed me against the water tank, grabbed my boobs with both hands, sucked my nipples through the t-shirt until the t-shirt turned wet, then turned me around, rubbed his hard cock between my ass cheeks over the jeans, and promised, “I will take you and Varun to America. You just keep being my girlfriend.”
I let him do everything.
He fucked me on the terrace floor, on the backseat of his friend’s car, in five-star hotel rooms he booked for “meetings”. He ripped my jeans down to my knees, shoved my panties aside, and slammed his thick cock into my pussy while I bit my own arm to stay quiet. He grabbed my mangalsutra, wrapped the chain around his fist, pulled my head back and pounded me until my boobs slapped together and my pussy lips turned raw. He always finished deep inside me, flooding my pussy with hot cum, then kissed my forehead and repeated, “Soon we will live in America together, baby.”
I never came for pleasure. I came for the visa forms.
Every thrust he gave my pussy, every load he shot inside me, every time he grabbed my ass cheeks in public, I counted as down-payment on Varun’s American passport.
When the two months ended he flew back, promising next year he would file papers. I pulled my old sarees over my bruised boobs and leaking pussy, went back to scrubbing floors, and waited.
Year after year he returned, repeated the same game: new jeans, new t-shirts, new friends to show off my ass cheeks, new promises, new cum deep in my pussy.
I kept spreading my legs, kept letting him grab my boobs in public, kept swallowing his lies, because every time he left he sent money for Varun’s college fees and whispered, “Next year, Malini, next year.”
I hated the taste of his cum, hated the smell of his cologne on my boobs, hated the way my pussy still clenched when he called me “baby”. But I smiled, I opened my legs, I let him use me like a girlfriend, because Varun’s future was worth more than my body.
One day he will keep the promise, or one day he will learn that a mother’s pussy is the most expensive thing a man can ever rent.
Until then I wear the jeans he bought, let him grab my ass cheeks in front of the world, and keep my mangalsutra swinging between my boobs while he fucks me senseless, because every drop of his cum inside me is another step toward America for my son.