Misc. Erotica A Wife’s Revenge

[novelistcasanova]

After I closed the door on the neighbour’s wife, I stood still for a few seconds in the quiet kitchen. The revenge had settled something inside me. I felt calm again.

I went to the main door and called my sons back inside. They came running, still full of Sunday energy. I served them the idlis and chutney I had prepared earlier, watched them eat, and tried to relax. I sat on the sofa in my white nighty and yellow panties, sipping the last of my coffee, thinking the morning’s tension was finally over.
That was when a worker from our construction site came running through the gate, breathing hard.
“Amma! Please come! Santosh Anna is yelling at Ram Sir. He is not allowing the moulding to continue. He is creating a big scene!”
I stood up at once.
“What happened?”
“Dust from our site fell on his side, Amma. But he is using it as an excuse. He is shouting and stopping everything. Ram Sir is trying to talk, but Santosh Anna is not listening.”
I sent the worker back immediately.
“Go. Tell them I am coming.”
I quickly called my friend who lived two houses away and asked her to come over and look after the boys for a while. The moment she arrived, I went into the bedroom. I removed my white nighty and yellow panties. I wore my brown panties, my white bra, my yellow leggings, and my red kurti top. I slipped on my sandals and almost ran out of the house toward the construction site.
When I reached, the scene was already ugly.
Santosh, my husband’s cousin who lived in the house right next to our new construction, was standing in the middle of the road, shouting at the top of his voice. Labourers had stopped work. The mesthri and workers stood to one side, unsure what to do. Several neighbours and relatives from the surrounding houses had come out and were watching.
Santosh was completely disrespecting my husband.
“Who do you think you are, Ram? Just because you are building a six-floor house you think you can throw dust on my property? This is my house! My compound! You people have no manners!”
My husband was trying to speak calmly.
“Santosh, it is only some dust from the jalli. We will clean it. The moulding has to continue today. Please—”
“Please? Don’t ‘please’ me!” Santosh cut him off loudly, stepping closer. “You have become arrogant after buying this site. You think money makes you big? You are still the same soft man who cannot even raise his voice!”
He pushed my husband’s shoulder with his hand. My husband stumbled half a step back but did not raise his own hand. He looked helpless. Around us, the watching relatives and neighbours said nothing. Some of them even seemed to enjoy the public humiliation.
Santosh continued, his voice growing uglier.
“Everyone knows you. Soft. Spineless. You cannot even control your own site. Go home and sit. Let real men handle construction.”
My husband finally took out his phone and called the security officer. Two constables arrived after some time. Both sides spoke. Money quietly changed hands. The constables told everyone to settle it themselves and left without doing anything.
The moulding somehow continued after that, the workers returning to their places in silence. But my husband walked to the corner of the site and sat down on a stack of cement bags. His shoulders were bent. His face was tight. He was trying not to cry in front of everyone, but his eyes had already filled.
I stood there watching him, the red kurti top sticking to my back with sudden heat, and felt my own eyes burn. Tears rolled down my cheeks. The public disrespect, the helplessness on my husband’s face, the way Santosh had pushed him and called him spineless in front of relatives and neighbours — all of it cut deep.


That night the house felt different.
My husband barely spoke during dinner. He sat at the table, eyes fixed on his plate, and ate only a few mouthfuls. The boys sensed something was wrong and stayed quieter than usual. After they went to bed, my husband sat on the edge of our bed in the dark for a long time. I sat beside him. When I touched his shoulder, I felt it shaking.
In the morning he broke for the first time.
I woke to the sound of quiet crying. He was sitting on the floor near the window, head in his hands. When I knelt beside him he did not look up at first. His voice came out rough and wet.
“He is four years younger than me, Sudha. Four years. I taught that boy how to ride a bicycle. I held the back of the seat while he wobbled down this same street. His mother… if my mother had not arranged her marriage to my mother’s elder brother, that woman would never even have come to Bangalore. We helped them settle. We helped them find a house. And today that same boy pushed me in front of everyone and called me spineless.”
He wiped his face with the back of his hand, but fresh tears kept coming.
“I stood there like a fool. I could not even raise my voice properly. The relatives were watching. The neighbours were watching. The workers were watching. And I just… took it. I called the security officer like a helpless man, and even they left after taking money. What kind of man am I?”
I held him while he cried. His body felt smaller somehow, folded in on itself.
I thought the pain would pass in a day or two.
It did not.
Days turned into a week, then longer. Happiness slowly left our house. My husband still went to the supermarket and to the construction site, but he returned each evening with the same bent shoulders. He ate very little. At night I felt him lying awake beside me for hours. Sometimes, when he thought I was asleep, I heard him crying quietly into the pillow. In the mornings his eyes were red and swollen. He tried to smile at the boys, but the smile never reached his eyes.
Our sons began to notice. The youngest started asking why Appa was not playing with him. The middle one became quieter. The eldest watched his father with a worried face he tried to hide. The light, teasing, slightly naughty atmosphere that used to fill our home was gone. Meals became silent. Evenings felt heavy. I cooked the same food, wore the same clothes, spoke the same soft words, but nothing could bring my husband back to the man he had been before that Sunday.
I watched him suffer every single day.
I watched him force food down his throat and then leave half of it. I watched him sit on the sofa staring at the television without seeing it. I watched him hold our sons a little too tightly, as if he was afraid he had already failed them somehow. At night, when he finally fell into a shallow, restless sleep, I lay beside him and felt the weight of his broken pride filling the room.
I reflected on our family.
I looked at my three sons and thought about the home we had built together. I thought about the ordinary mornings when my husband used to lift my white nighty and taste me with hungry playfulness. I thought about the way he used to laugh. All of it felt distant now. The man who once begged to kiss me before leaving for the shop now sat in silence, hollowed out by a public humiliation he could not forget.
Only after many days of watching this slow destruction did something hard and cold finally settle inside my chest.
A wife is not just a body that gives pleasure at night.
A wife is not just someone who cooks and keeps the house.
A wife must also make sure that the man who makes her husband cry will himself cry.
The man who makes her husband suffer must suffer more.
Revenge stopped being a passing anger. It became everything. I could still smile at my sons, still cook, still lie beside my husband at night, but underneath all of it a single cold purpose had taken root. Santosh had broken something in my husband in front of the whole street. I would not rest until that debt was paid in full. I wanted Santosh to feel the same helplessness. I wanted him to sit somewhere alone and cry the way my husband had cried on our bedroom floor. I wanted his pride crushed. I wanted his days restless and his nights bitter.
I became a woman who lived for revenge.
I did not tell my husband what had formed inside me. I only held him when he cried, kissed the top of his head, and let the decision harden fully in my heart while our family continued to live under the heavy shadow of that one public insult.


One day I went to the market wearing my purple saree and matching purple blouse. Underneath I wore my white bra, my white petticoat, and my white panties. The morning sun was already sharp. I walked between the fruit and vegetable stalls with my bag on my wrist, but my mind was not on the tomatoes or the coriander.
I still could not digest what Santosh had done.
All these years he had taken help from my husband. My husband had taught him to ride a bicycle when he was a small boy. My husband’s mother had arranged the marriage that brought Santosh’s mother to Bangalore. We had helped them settle, helped them find a place, stood by them in small ways for years. And in return that same man had stood in the middle of the street, pushed my husband, called him spineless in front of relatives and neighbours, and broken something inside him that had not healed even after so many days. Every time I remembered my husband’s quiet crying and the silence that had settled over our house, a cold anger moved through my chest.
That was when I heard the name.
Near the far end of the fruit market a sudden commotion rose. People stepped back quickly. A vendor was on the ground, holding his head. Three or four men stood around him. In the centre stood a tall, dark-skinned, muscular man with a hard face and thick arms. Someone near me whispered the name with fear.
“Market Ravi…”
I stopped and watched.
Market Ravi’s gang was beating the vendor who had not paid his hafta. The blows were heavy and without mercy. The vendor cried and tried to cover his face, but no one stepped forward to help him. The entire market had gone quiet. Shopkeepers looked away. Buyers moved back. Everyone was scared of the tall, dark-skinned man who stood there giving orders with a small movement of his hand. He looked completely in control. When the vendor finally pulled out money with shaking hands, Market Ravi gestured once and the beating stopped. The gang moved away as if nothing had happened. The market slowly returned to its noise, but the fear remained in the air.
I stood there in my purple saree, the white petticoat soft against my legs, and felt something click into place inside me.
This was the kind of man who could make another man suffer.
This was the kind of man who could break Santosh the way Santosh had broken my husband.
I watched Market Ravi walk away through the crowd, people parting for him without being told, and the decision settled firmly in my mind.
I would hire him.
I would pay him.
I would have him beat Santosh until the pride and the arrogance were gone.
The first step of the ladder had appeared in front of me in the middle of the vegetable market, and I knew I was going to take it.



I stayed near the fruit stalls a little longer, listening.
Other vendors and the people around them were already talking in low, nervous voices. One man selling bananas shook his head and muttered to the shopkeeper beside him.
“That Market Ravi… completely dangerous. Once he decides something, nobody can stop him.”
Another vendor, still glancing toward the direction Ravi had gone, spoke quickly.
“Don’t even look at him properly. Last month he broke a man’s leg for short payment. Everyone knows. Just give the hafta on time and stay alive.”
A woman buying onions pulled her daughter closer and whispered,
“Never mess with Market Ravi. His gang does not forgive. Even the security officer think twice.”
Their fear only confirmed what I already felt. This was the right man. This was the kind of force that could make Santosh cry the way my husband had cried. This was the man who could break the pride that had publicly crushed my family.
I needed to meet him.
I did not know how to contact him. I walked from stall to stall and tried asking carefully. I stopped at a coriander vendor first.
“Do you know where Market Ravi sits? I need to speak to him about something.”
The man looked at me, then quickly looked away.
“I don’t know anything, Amma. Please buy what you need and go.”
I asked another vendor who sold tomatoes.
“Can someone take me to Market Ravi’s place? I will pay for the help.”
He shook his head hard and stepped back.
“No one will take you, Amma. We don’t go near him unless we have to. Please don’t involve us.”
One by one, every person I asked refused. Some pretended not to hear. Some simply turned to another customer. Nobody was ready to take me to him. The fear in their eyes was thicker than the heat of the market.
Finally an old lady selling green chillies looked at me for a long moment. Her gaze moved over my purple saree, my matching purple blouse, and the way I stood. She spoke in a low, warning voice.
“Child, you are too beautiful. Market Ravi is not a man you should go looking for. If he sees you, he will enjoy you. Be careful. Go home to your husband.”
She was trying to scare me.
Little did she know that I was ready to die for my husband. The image of him sitting on the bedroom floor crying, the memory of his bent shoulders and sleepless nights, the silence that had swallowed our family’s happiness — all of it sat heavier in my chest than any fear she could offer. I wanted to meet Market Ravi so badly that my hands had started to tremble around the handle of my bag. I was ready to give him as much money as he asked. I was ready to stand in front of that tall, dark-skinned, muscular man and tell him exactly what I needed done to Santosh.
I thanked the old lady politely, adjusted my purple saree, and continued walking through the market with a new, hard determination. Someone in this place would eventually point me in the right direction. I would find Market Ravi. I would hire him. And I would begin the punishment my husband deserved to see.


I was losing hope.
No vendor would take me to Market Ravi. No one even wanted to speak his name for too long. Every refusal had been the same — quick eye contact broken, a shake of the head, a sudden interest in some other customer. The old lady’s warning still sat in my ears, but it did not change the hard decision inside me. I still needed him. I still wanted Santosh punished until he cried the way my husband had cried on our bedroom floor. Yet after asking one last shopkeeper near the banana stall and receiving only a nervous, almost angry refusal, the chance felt smaller than ever. My hands had grown slightly unsteady around the handle of my market bag. I decided to go home for the day and think of another way.
That was when I saw the same regular auto driver.
He was parked near the market entrance under the partial shade of a neem tree, one elbow resting on the open window frame, pretending to wait casually for any customer. I knew better. This was the same man who had watched my ass for the full fifty feet the last time he dropped me at the colony gate. The moment his eyes found me in my purple saree, his entire posture changed. He sat up straighter. His fingers tightened once on the steering wheel. He was waiting for me again.
I started walking towards the auto.
Today he was bolder than before. His eyes moved openly and without shame over my body as I came closer. First he looked at my heavy breasts under the matching purple blouse, watching the way they shifted with each step. Then his gaze slid down to the curve of my waist where the purple saree was tucked firmly, lingering on the mild dip of my navel that showed for a second whenever the pallu moved. He stared at the shape of my thighs pressing against the purple saree with every step, at the soft swing of my hips, at the way the pleats of the saree parted slightly when I walked. He did not even try to hide it. His eyes travelled slowly, hungrily, taking in everything my purple saree and purple blouse revealed and suggested, as if he was already imagining what lay underneath — my white bra, my white petticoat, my white panties.
Before I could open my mouth to tell him the destination, he spoke first, voice a little thicker than usual.
“Come, madam. I will drop you.”
I climbed into the back seat. As I stepped in and turned to sit, his eyes dropped lower at once. He watched the way the purple saree stretched tightly across my ass for those few seconds. He saw the faint panty line of my white panties show clearly when the saree pulled against my skin as I settled onto the seat. He stared at the narrow span of my waist, at the soft roundness of my hips, at every small adjustment I made while arranging the pleats of my purple saree over my knees. He was completely shameless today. His breathing had grown slightly heavier. I could feel the weight of his stare even after I sat down fully and looked straight ahead.
I ignored him completely.
My mind was still fixed on Market Ravi. The tall, dark-skinned, muscular man who had stood in the middle of the market and ordered the beating of the vendor without a single change in his expression. The man whose name made other grown men lower their voices and look away. The man I needed. Nobody in the entire market had been ready to take me to him, and the weight of that failure sat heavier in my chest than the auto driver’s hungry, open stares. I looked out at the passing streets, the shops, the people, and said nothing. Inside me the same cold purpose kept repeating itself: I had to find Market Ravi. I had to hire him. I had to begin the punishment that would make Santosh suffer.
The auto moved through the familiar lanes while the driver continued to glance at me in the rear-view mirror, still enjoying the full view of me in my purple saree, still hoping, perhaps, for another long look at my ass when I finally stepped down. I sat still, hands resting on my market bag, and let him look. My focus remained only on the tall, dangerous man I had not yet reached, and on the quiet, burning need to make my husband’s pain mean something.


I sat in the back of the auto, looking out at the familiar lanes, still wondering how I would ever meet Market Ravi. Every refusal in the market kept replaying in my mind. The fear in the vendors’ eyes, the old lady’s warning, the way people stepped back at the mere mention of his name — all of it sat heavily in my chest. I needed that tall, dark-skinned, muscular man. I needed him to break Santosh. Yet I had no path to him.
The auto stopped at the colony gate. I paid the driver the exact amount, stepped down, and opened the gate. The path from the gate to my front door was a full fifty feet. I began walking.
I knew he was still sitting in the auto behind me. I knew his eyes were fixed on my ass cheeks under the purple saree. I knew he could see the faint panty line of my white panties each time the saree pulled tight with my steps. And I knew, with a cold certainty, that his hand was under his folded lungi, moving slowly over his underwear and then inside it, jerking off while he watched me walk away.
Halfway to the house something flashed through my mind.
What if he knew Market Ravi?
I stopped. I turned around and began walking back toward the gate. The driver was still watching me, his hand clearly moving under the lungi. His face was flushed. He was completely horny. The moment I reached the gate and stood on my side, he quickly pulled his hand out and sat up straighter, pretending nothing had happened.
I called him.
“Come here.”
He stepped out of the auto and stood on the other side of the gate. I kept my voice low and direct.
“Do you know Market Ravi?”
He looked at me for a second, surprised, then nodded.
“Yes, madam. He is from my slum.”
“Does he live there?”
“No. He doesn’t stay in the same place. But I know where he is these days.”
My heart beat once, hard.
“Can you take me to him?”
“Yes.”
I did not waste time.
“I need his help. I need him to punish a certain man. That is all.”
The driver studied my face. Then he spoke with a strange mix of respect and warning.
“Market Ravi is the right man for that, madam. He is deadly. Once he takes money for a job, he finishes it. He has broken bones, put people in hospital for months, made strong men cry and beg. security officer also think twice before touching him. If you want someone punished properly, he is the one.”
I felt a cold satisfaction at his words.
“Then take me to him. I will pay you double the charge for whatever distance it is.”
He suddenly laughed — a short, knowing laugh.
“Only I can take you to him, madam. Nobody else in this market will dare. Ravi keeps changing places. Even people from the slum don’t always know where he is. If I don’t take you, you will never meet him.”
I opened my mouth to offer more money. He cut me off.
“I don’t want money.”
I stared at him.
“Then what do you want?”
He looked straight at me, bold and shameless now that he knew he had the only key I needed.
“I have been watching you for months, madam. Every time I drop you I watch your ass. I go home and I cannot sleep. I want a hug and a kiss from you. That is the price.”
“No,” I said at once.
He shrugged, already stepping back toward his auto.
“Then I will never take you. And nobody else will either. You can keep asking the whole market. You will never find Market Ravi without me.”
I stood there at the gate, the purple saree still warm from the walk, my white panties and white bra invisible underneath, and felt the corner close around me. He was right. No one else had helped. No one else would help. If I walked away now, the only path to the man who could punish Santosh would close forever. My husband’s broken face, his quiet crying, the silence that had swallowed our home — all of it rose in front of my eyes.
I agreed for my husband.
I looked around quickly. A few people in the neighbouring houses were watching from their balconies and windows. I opened the gate wider and spoke in a low voice.
“Come inside.”
He stepped through at once. As he followed me up the fifty-foot path toward the house, he began talking boldly, no longer pretending.
“Your ass looks so good in this purple saree, madam. The way it moves when you walk… I have jerked off so many times sitting in the auto just watching you. Now I am this close…”
I ignored every word. I kept walking, eyes fixed on my front door, because this shameless auto driver was currently the only way I had to reach Market Ravi. Every step I took with him behind me was for revenge. Every comment he made about my ass and my body was something I forced myself to accept in silence, because my husband’s pain still sat heavier in my chest than any temporary disgust.
We reached the house.