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

[novelistcasanova]

My tiny 20 × 25 plot now had a ground-floor room, but I wanted more.

I wanted five full floors shooting into the sky, rented rooms, steady cash flow, a concrete tower that screamed “Varun will never beg again.”
I needed crores, not lakhs.
I went to Sathiyamoorthy Sir on a Sunday when his wife was at the temple.
I wore my best silk saree, pallu low so my boobs swelled over the tight blouse, mangalsutra resting deep between them. I knelt in front of him, folded my hands, and begged, “Sir, I want to build five floors. Please help me get loans, permits… and the government job you promised.”
He stared at my boobs heaving with every breath, licked his lips, and answered, “Both will happen, Malini. The job file is moving. The bank loan I will sanction myself. But you must obey me completely.”
From that day the game changed.
Every weekend when his wife left town he locked the master-bedroom door, opened his laptop, and played the same porn: wrinkled grandpas in their sixties and seventies owning young girls my age. Grey hair, sagging balls, veiny cocks, but total control.
He stripped me naked, sat me on the bed with my legs wide, pussy lips spread, mangalsutra swinging between my boobs, and forced me to watch.
He copied every move.
When the old man on screen grabbed the girl’s boobs from behind and crushed her nipples, Sir grabbed my boobs from behind and crushed my nipples exactly the same.
When the old man bent the girl over the table, lifted her saree, shoved her panties aside and hammered his wrinkled cock into her pussy, Sir bent me over the same table, lifted my saree, shoved my panties aside and hammered his fat cock into my pussy with the same brutal rhythm.
When the old man made the girl ride reverse, boobs bouncing, mangalsutra slapping her chest, Sir lay back on his wife’s bed and made me climb on top reverse, my pussy swallowing his cock while my boobs bounced and my mangalsutra slapped my chest exactly like the video.
And when the old man roared and pumped thick ropes of cum deep inside the young pussy, flooding her womb, I closed my eyes and pretended it was that stranger grandpa breeding me, not Sir’s hot cum splashing my cervix, not his wrinkled balls slapping my clit, not his old hands squeezing my boobs while he emptied himself.
I never came for Sathiyamoorthy Sir’s pleasure.
I came only for the bank loan and the government job.
But those videos woke something filthy inside me.
Every time the old man on screen groaned and unloaded his balls inside the girl, my pussy clenched hard around Sir’s cock and I secretly wished it was that stranger’s cum flooding me, breeding me, owning me.
Sir noticed.
He started calling me “my little porn-girl”, made me beg in the same slutty voice the actresses used, made me spread my pussy lips with my own fingers and show the laptop camera how soaked I was while he recorded “for memory”.
He promised, “Keep obeying like this and your five floors will rise faster than my cock.”
So I obeyed.
I let him fuck me exactly like every dirty old man in every video.
I spread my ass cheeks when he wanted my asshole.
I opened my mouth when he wanted to paint my mangalsutra with cum.
I rode him, I knelt, I begged, I screamed “Sir, fill your young second wife” while secretly fantasizing about the wrinkled grandpas on screen breeding me raw.
Every load he shot inside my pussy was another stamp on my loan file.
Every drop drying on my boobs was another signature on my government-job order.
I hated the taste of his sweat, hated the smell of his old cock, hated how my pussy still squirted when those videos played.
But I spread my legs wider, took his cock deeper, milked his balls dry, because five floors and a government job were worth more than my shame.
One day the loan will clear, the appointment order will come, and the building will rise.
Until then I watch those old-man videos with my legs open, let Sathiyamoorthy Sir copy every filthy thrust, and secretly cum harder than ever while dreaming of a stranger grandpa’s cum flooding my pussy instead of his.
A mother’s pussy can survive anything her son’s future demands, even the dirtiest fantasies.
Manoj landed again, this time with a giant African-American man in tow.
The man’s name was Tyrone.
Ugly the way only raw power can be ugly: thick gorilla lips, wide flat nose, shaved head shining under the colour of engine oil, arms thicker than my thighs, chest like a wall. When he smiled his teeth flashed white against midnight skin and his eyes crawled over my boobs and ass cheeks like he already owned them.
From the first hour Tyrone stared at me openly, licking those huge lips every time I bent to serve coffee, eyes locked on my mangalsutra swinging between my boobs in the low-cut blouse.
That same night Manoj pulled me into the guest room, locked the door, and laid out the new plan.
“Malini, listen carefully. Tyrone is a US citizen. If the embassy believes you two are a real couple, he can file for you and Varun. Green card, citizenship, everything. But they need proof: photos, videos, intimate ones. You have to pose with him, let him touch you, let him fuck you on camera. Only then will the file move.”
I looked at Varun sleeping in the next room and felt my heart split in half.
Manoj continued, “**Just two weeks. Act like his woman. Let him grab your boobs, let him kiss you, let him record his black cock inside your pussy. The embassy loves interracial couples. They will eat it up.”
I swallowed the vomit in my throat and whispered, “For Varun’s passport?”
“For Varun’s American passport,” he confirmed.
So I agreed.
The next fourteen days became a filmed nightmare I sold my soul for.
Tyrone wasted no time.
Morning: he sat on the sofa, pulled me onto his lap in front of Manoj’s phone camera, wrapped one massive black hand around my waist, the other grabbed my left boob over the saree, squeezed until my nipple poked hard against the pallu, and kissed me deep, those gorilla lips swallowing my mouth while Manoj recorded every second.
Afternoon: he made me wear tight jeans and crop t-shirt, took me to the terrace, stood behind me, both black hands openly grabbing my ass cheeks over the jeans, grinding his already-hard cock between my ass cheeks while Manoj clicked photos for “couple album”.
Night: the real filming began.
He stripped me naked in the guest room, phone on tripod, red light blinking.
He pushed me to my knees, pulled out his monstrous black cock, thick as my wrist, veins like ropes, huge balls hanging low, and ordered, “Kiss it for the camera, baby.”
I closed my eyes, thought of Varun in an American college, and opened my mouth.
Tyrone grabbed my hair, fed inch after inch down my throat until tears ran, then pulled out and slapped that wet cock across my boobs, leaving shiny trails on my mangalsutra.
He threw me on the bed face-down, spread my ass cheeks, spat on my asshole, and shoved two thick fingers inside while the camera rolled. Then he mounted me, rubbed that giant cock head between my pussy lips, and pushed.
I screamed into the pillow as my pussy stretched wider than ever before.
He fucked me slow and brutal for the camera, black hands crushing my boobs, pulling my mangalsutra like reins, growling in my ear, “Tell the embassy you my woman now.”
Every night he finished the same way: roared like an animal and pumped thick ropes of African cum deep into my pussy, flooding my womb while Manoj zoomed in on my pussy lips gripping that black cock, cum already leaking out.
Some nights he flipped me over, made me ride him reverse cowgirl so the camera caught my boobs bouncing and my mangalsutra slapping my chest while his black cock disappeared inside me again and again.
Some nights he took my asshole, slow at first, then savage, until my ass cheeks turned red from his slaps and his cum dripped from both holes.
Every video ended with him kissing my forehead, saying loud for the microphone, “I love my Indian wife Malini,” while I lay trembling, pussy and asshole ruined, cum pooling under me, thinking only of the green card.
I never came for pleasure.
I came only for Varun’s American future.
But my body betrayed me every single time, pussy gushing the moment that monster cock stretched me, clit throbbing when those gorilla lips sucked my nipples, asshole clenching when he filled it with cum.
I hated myself for every squirt, every moan, every time my hips pushed back to take him deeper.
When the two weeks ended Tyrone flew back with a hard drive full of me being his black-owned slut.
Manoj kissed my cheek and promised, “**File goes to embassy next month.”