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

[novelistcasanova]

The father’s name was Sathiyamoorthy.

He started feeding me the dream of a permanent government job: fixed hours, pension, medical benefits, and most of all, lifetime security for Varun after I’m gone. I began tasting that dream every night when I touched my mangalsutra and pictured myself walking into a government office in a starched saree, people standing up when I entered.
He bought me expensive silk sarees and matching blouses, made me wear them, and paraded me at his friends’ houses as “my young second wife Malini”, his fat hand openly grabbing my ass cheek over the new saree while his friends stared at my boobs straining the blouse.
Every few weeks he sent his wife to Tirupathi or Tiruvannamalai with her friend, handed her cash, and the second the door shut he dragged me to their master bedroom. He ripped the pallu off my shoulder, grabbed both my boobs over the blouse, squeezed my nipples until I gasped, then pushed me onto his wife’s bed. He lifted my saree and petticoat to my waist, shoved my panties down to my knees, spread my pussy lips with rough fingers and slammed his thick cock into me while growling, “You will be my second wife, Malini.”
I wrapped my legs around his back, let him pound my pussy raw, let him flood my womb with his hot cum again and again, and answered every time, “Yes, Sir… only get me the government job.”
He laughed, grabbed my mangalsutra, pulled my boobs to his mouth, sucked my nipples until they turned purple, and promised, “Next month your file will reach the minister, I swear.”
I never came for pleasure.
I came only for the government job.
Every thrust into my pussy, every load shot deep inside me, every time he grabbed my ass cheeks or boobs was payment toward that permanent post. I spread my legs on his wife’s bed, on the dining table, against the fridge, in the bathroom under the shower, wherever he wanted, because every drop of his cum inside my pussy was another signature on the application he swore he was pushing.
He acted like Varun’s real father in public: dropped him at college in his government car, attended every meeting holding my hand, paid fees in cash, bought books and uniforms, made everyone believe my son belonged to a rich officer. Because of him neighbours called Varun “officer sir’s son” and gave him respect no maid’s child ever gets.
For that respect and for the government job I let him fuck me whenever his wife left town.
I wore the silk sarees he gifted, let him introduce me as his young second wife, let his friends slap my ass cheeks over the saree, let him grab my boobs while they drank, because every dirty touch moved my file forward.
I hated the smell of his sweat on my boobs, hated the sticky cum drying between my pussy lips, hated how my body still shivered when he called me “second wife”. But I opened my legs wider, moaned “Sir, harder” when he asked, begged him to cum inside “for luck”, because a mother will rent her pussy a million times if it buys her son a government future.
I never came for pleasure.
I came only for the government job.
One day the appointment order will arrive, or one day he will learn that a mother’s pussy is the highest price any man ever paid for empty promises.
Until then I wear his silk sarees, let him fuck me in every room of his house, let him call me his young second wife, and keep my mangalsutra swinging between my boobs while his cock fills my pussy again and again, because every thrust is another stamp on the file that will one day set Varun free forever.
While I was selling my pussy to dreams (to Manoj’s American Dream and to Sathiyamoorthy Sir’s government-job promises), I was quietly saving every extra rupee that fell into my hands.
Tip money, festival bonus, the cash Sathiyamoorthy Sir slipped into my bra after fucking me, the dollars Manoj stuffed into my panties after shooting his load inside my pussy (every single note went into a secret biscuit tin hidden under my clothes in the servant room).
With that blood-and-cum money I bought a tiny plot of land on the outskirts (just 3 cents, but it was mine and Varun’s).
I needed to put up at least a small house before Varun grew too old to believe his mother could give him a real roof. So I collected 2 lakhs in cash again, wrapped the bundles in plastic, and handed them to a construction-material supplier named Venkatesh Jayanna.
I still remember the day: I stood in his shop in my saree, mangalsutra resting between my sweaty boobs, handed him the two bundles across the counter, and begged, “Anna, please send cement, bricks, sand, steel… I want to build my son’s house.”
He smiled, counted the notes in front of me, nodded, and promised delivery in fifteen days.
Fifteen days came. Nothing.
One month. Nothing.
Three months. Nothing.
I went to his shop again and again, stood with folded hands while customers stared at my boobs straining the yellow blouse, and begged for my 2 lakhs back or the materials. He laughed, called me “maid whore”, and told me to get lost.
That night I knelt in front of the small lamp in my room, touched my mangalsutra, looked at Varun sleeping, and cursed Venkatesh Jayanna from the deepest part of my heart:
“Let every rupee he stole from a mother’s womb burn him.
Let his children taste hunger.
Let his wife cry blood.
Let his body rot while he still breathes.
Until he returns every paisa that belongs to my son’s future.”
Within weeks the curse started working.
His lorry business collapsed.
His elder son lost everything in gambling.
His daughter’s husband threw her out after catching her in bed with another man; divorce papers came.
His younger son turned to drugs and disappeared.
His wife fell into debt, creditors attached every property, court seals went up on his house and godown.
Then came the stroke.
One morning Venkatesh Jayanna collapsed in his shop, half his body paralyzed, drooling, unable to speak. Doctors said he would never walk again. His wife sold her mangalsutra and gold bangles to pay hospital bills, but nothing helped.
Six months later his men arrived at my doorstep with three lorries: cement bags, bricks, sand, steel rods, everything worth exactly 2 lakhs and more, unloaded in front of my empty plot while neighbours watched.
He sent a message through his driver:
“Amma, forgive me… take the material… the rest of my life is already hell.”
I stood in my old saree, mangalsutra shining between my boobs, looked at the mountain of bricks that would become Varun’s room, and felt no pity.
I felt justice.
I touched the thaali pendant, whispered thanks to the goddess who listens to mothers, and told the driver,
“Tell him the debt is settled.
But the curse stays until he takes his last breath.”
Today his daughter begs on the streets, his sons are paupers, his wife sells flowers at the temple, and Venkatesh Jayanna lies on a cot, shitting in diapers, waiting for death.
And on my land the walls are rising, brick by brick, paid for with the same 2 lakhs he tried to swallow.
Never steal from a mother’s pussy money.
The goddess keeps better accounts than any bank.