Misc. Erotica A Wife’s Revenge

[novelistcasanova]

The auto suddenly slowed and then came to a full stop at the edge of a crowded, low-lying slum. Narrow lanes twisted between rows of tightly packed houses with tin and tarpaulin roofs. Electric wires hung low and tangled. The air carried the thick smell of stagnant water, frying oil, and damp earth. A few children ran barefoot across the open space near the entrance. Women stood in small groups with steel vessels, watching the auto with mild curiosity before turning back to their work.

The driver turned in his seat and looked at me directly.
“Wait here, madam. Do not get down.”
He switched off the engine, pulled the key out, and stepped onto the broken ground. Without another word he walked into the narrow opening between two houses and disappeared from sight. I remained alone in the back seat of the auto, still wearing my purple saree, my hands resting tightly on the market bag in my lap. Minutes stretched. I watched the entrance of the slum without blinking, counting the people who passed, listening to distant voices and the cry of a child somewhere deeper inside. My body stayed still, but my mind kept turning over the same cold purpose: find Market Ravi, hire him, make Santosh suffer.
After a long wait the driver reappeared. An old man in a faded, once-white lungi walked slowly beside him. The old man’s face was deeply lined, his back slightly bent. They stopped a few feet away from the auto. I watched the driver take a hundred-rupee note from his shirt pocket and place it carefully in the old man’s open palm. The old man folded the note at once and pushed it deep into the fold of his lungi. Then they began speaking in low, serious voices. Sitting so close, I could hear almost every word.
“Ravi’s name is on the encounter list now,” the old man said, glancing around once before continuing. “Cops are looking for him seriously this time. They will kill him if they find him. That is why he is hiding properly. Even people in the slum don’t know the exact place anymore.”
The driver’s voice came next, quieter but urgent.
“Then who knows where he is?”
“Only Loki knows. These days Ravi trusts only him. Nobody else.”
“Where is Loki?”
The old man raised a thin hand and pointed in a rough direction while giving a short address.
“Scrap metal market. He sits there in the evenings near the big godown on the left side. If anyone can take you to Ravi now, it is only Loki.”
The driver nodded once, thanked the old man in a low voice, and walked back toward the auto. He climbed into the driver’s seat, inserted the key, and started the engine. For a moment he did not look at me. When he spoke, his tone was practical and focused.
“We have to meet Loki in the scrap metal market. Through him we will find Ravi.”
He pulled the auto back onto the main road and began driving with clear purpose, faster than before, changing lanes whenever he could. The earlier crude, teasing mood had thinned. In its place was a man who was actually working a lead.
After a short stretch of silence he spoke again, eyes on the road.
“If a rowdy’s name comes on the encounter list, the cops usually don’t arrest. They encounter. They finish it.”
The words landed heavily inside the auto. For a moment a sharp, cold fear moved through my chest. I sat very still in the back seat and prayed silently, without moving my lips, that Market Ravi should not be encountered by the security officer before he had the chance to punish Santosh. The thought of coming this far — enduring the driver’s hands, his comments, his power — only to lose the one man who could make Santosh suffer, made my fingers tighten hard around the handle of the market bag.
The driver glanced at me once in the rear-view mirror. Something in my silence must have reached him. His next words came steadier, almost reassuring.
“Don’t worry, madam. If we find Loki, we will find Ravi. I will make sure of it.”
I looked at the back of his head and, for the first time that day, felt a thin but real thread of trust form toward him. He was still the same man who had grabbed my ass cheeks and spoken shamelessly about my body. That had not changed. But right now he was also the only person who had paid an old man from his own pocket, walked into a slum to ask questions, and was driving from place to place without complaint to locate Market Ravi. The determination in the way he held the steering wheel and the way he followed each new piece of information showed that he was genuinely trying.
I nodded once, even though he could not see it clearly from the front.
“Okay,” I said quietly. “I am trusting you to find him.”
He did not reply with any crude comment this time. He simply pressed the accelerator harder and turned the auto toward the scrap metal market. The vehicle moved forward with purpose, and inside my chest the same cold purpose moved with it: reach Loki, reach Ravi, and begin the punishment that my husband’s suffering demanded.


It was around six in the evening when the driver spoke again, his voice cutting through the steady rattle of the auto.
“Madam, I am hungry. Are you hungry?”
The simple question pulled me out of the narrow tunnel of thoughts I had been travelling in for hours. Only then did I realise I had not eaten any lunch. The entire afternoon — the crowded market, the repeated refusals, the search for Market Ravi, the slum, the old man’s words about the encounter list — had been driven by one cold, continuous anger toward Santosh. Food had not entered my mind even once. My stomach was empty, yet until that moment I had not felt it.
“I have not eaten since morning,” I said quietly.
He nodded as if he had expected the answer and turned the auto toward a smaller side road.
“There is a small roadside idli shop nearby. I will stop there. Will you have something?”
“Okay.”
He drove for another full thirty minutes. The light faded slowly around us. The sky turned from pale orange to deep grey, then almost black. By the time the auto finally slowed, it was properly dark. In the middle of the long, empty stretch of highway, under a few sparse trees, stood a tiny hotel made of coconut leaves — a low, rough tent-like hut with one weak yellow bulb glowing inside. The structure looked temporary, held together by bamboo poles and dried palm fronds. An old lady sat just outside the open front, working over a large steel steamer, her hands moving with long practice.
The driver stopped the auto on the gravel shoulder a few feet away. We both got down. The evening air smelled of fresh rice batter, steam, wood smoke, and the mild dust of the highway. The old lady looked up as we approached the small coconut-leaf hut. Her face was lined and calm.
“What do you have?” the driver asked.
“Idli, dosa, masala dosa,” she answered without stopping her work, still turning the idlis with a wet cloth in her hand.
The moment the words “masala dosa” left her mouth, my empty stomach responded at once. Saliva gathered under my tongue. The long day of anger and nothingness hit me fully.
“Give me masala dosa,” I told her.
The driver ordered idlis for himself and received them on a plain steel plate. I stood near the open side of the hut while the old lady spread batter on a small, well-used tawa. The first masala dosa came golden and crisp, folded around soft, spiced potato filling. She placed it on a plate and held it out to me. We stood there in the almost-dark, only a few feet from the quiet highway, and began eating.
I washed my hands first with water from a plastic mug that hung from a nail near the entrance. The water was lukewarm. Then I tore a piece of the hot masala dosa and put it in my mouth. It was better than I expected — crisp at the edges, soft inside, the potato filling perfectly seasoned. I had not realised how deep the hunger had become. I finished the first dosa quickly and asked for another. Then a third. I stood there in my purple saree, the pallu resting over one shoulder, eating one masala dosa after another while the mild night wind moved the cloth gently around my legs.
The driver stood a short distance away with his plate of idlis, but his eyes were not on his food. He watched me openly and without any attempt to hide it — the way I tore the dosa with my fingers, the way I brought each piece to my mouth, the way my lips closed around the food, the way I chewed. After a while he spoke, still watching.
“You like it, madam?”
“Yes,” I answered between bites, not looking at him. “It is delicious.”
He kept his gaze fixed on my mouth. His voice dropped lower, thick with open, shameless appreciation.
“Your lips are so beautiful when you eat… the shape of your mouth, the way your tongue touches the food, even your teeth. Everything looks soft and clean.”
I noticed the clear, hard outline of a boner rising under his lungi as he stood there watching me. He made no effort to turn away or adjust himself. He simply remained in place, plate held loosely in one hand, eyes locked on my mouth, fully hard while I continued eating under the weak yellow bulb of the coconut-leaf hut.
I did not react. I gave him only a small, calm smile and returned my attention to the masala dosa. Piece after piece, I fed the hunger that the long day of revenge-focused anger had created, letting the simple roadside food settle into my empty stomach while the highway stayed dark and almost empty around us.


We finished eating near the small coconut-leaf hut. The last pieces of masala dosa and idli were gone. The driver turned to the old lady and spoke.
“Pour two coffees.”
I finished the final corner of my third masala dosa, then walked the few steps to the plastic mug again. I washed my hands thoroughly under the thin stream of water. After that I cupped a little water in my right palm, took it into my mouth, gargled once, and turned toward the low bushes at the edge of the highway shoulder. I spat the water cleanly onto the dark leaves.
The driver watched every movement. His eyes stayed fixed on my mouth and on the way I spat. The outline of the boner under his lungi, which had not gone down while I was eating, grew clearer again. His voice came low and thick.
“Spit on me next time, madam.”
I did not reply. The old lady handed him two steel glasses of hot filter coffee. He held one out to me.
“Coffee.”
“Thank you,” I said, taking the glass carefully by the rim.
I stood under the weak yellow bulb and began drinking. The coffee was strong and slightly bitter, the way roadside filter coffee often is, but it felt good after the long day. The driver held his own glass and did not drink. He simply stood there with the untouched coffee in his hand, his eyes moving slowly over my face, my lips, my throat as I swallowed, and lower over my body in the purple saree. He spoke while watching me.
“You are so beautiful, madam. Whatever you do looks beautiful. Even washing your mouth. Even the way you spit. Even the way you are drinking this coffee right now.”
I ignored the lustful comments the same way I had ignored everything else since the market. I gave him only a small, calm smile and continued drinking my coffee in slow sips, looking out toward the dark highway instead of at him.
When the glass was half empty he suddenly stepped closer. He took my coffee glass from my hand without asking and placed his own untouched glass in my palm instead. Then, without any hesitation, he raised my half-finished glass to his mouth. He placed his lips exactly where mine had been, tilted the glass, and drank. He tasted the coffee that still carried the mild warmth of my mouth and the trace of saliva that would have touched the rim. His eyes stayed on me the entire time he swallowed.


I continued drinking the coffee he had given me, standing under the weak yellow bulb of the coconut-leaf hut. The strong filter coffee settled warmly in my empty stomach after the long day of nothing but anger and movement. The night air on the highway was cooler now. A single lorry passed in the distance, its headlights sweeping briefly across the gravel before disappearing again into the dark.
The driver did not stay in one place. He walked slowly around me in a small, deliberate half-circle, openly enjoying the full view of my body in the purple saree. His eyes moved without haste — first over the heavy shape of my breasts under the matching purple blouse, then down the neat curve of my waist, then lower to the way the saree dbangd over my hips and the full round outline of my ass. He took his time, as if the empty highway and the old lady’s quiet presence gave him complete permission.
After a moment he stepped closer behind me. His right hand came to rest on my ass — not the sudden rough grab from inside the house earlier, but a slow, deliberate touch. His palm settled over both cheeks through the purple saree, the petticoat and my panties, feeling the weight and the shape. His fingers spread slightly, pressing in just enough to confirm the softness, then moved in a gentle caress that followed the full curve downward.
“Your ass is tempting me so much, madam,” he said in a low voice near my ear, close enough that I felt the warmth of his breath. “This panty line… I can see it every time you move even a little. It is making me go crazy. How come you rich women are so hot? Always covered properly in saree, yet always tempting us like this. Your body does not hide anything even when it tries.”
I did not reply. I kept the steel glass at my lips and continued drinking the coffee in small, steady sips, looking toward the dark stretch of highway instead of at him. Inside I controlled every reaction. The same cold purpose that had carried me through the market, the slum, and his earlier hands on my body still held me in place. My husband’s broken face, the tears on the bedroom floor, the silence that had swallowed our home — those images kept me still while the driver’s palm rested on my ass. After a few more seconds he finally stepped back.
He turned to the old lady who was wiping her hands on a cloth.
“How much?”
“Three hundred,” she answered.
He reached into his shirt pocket for the notes. I shook my head at once and lowered the glass.
“No. I will pay.”
I placed the half-finished coffee glass carefully on the low wooden stool next to the old lady and walked the short distance to the auto to take money from my bag. I bent down near the open back seat, pulled the bag closer with one hand, and began opening the zipper with the other, searching for the notes in the dim light.
That was when his voice came from directly behind me, already moving closer.
“I already paid. Let’s go, before we miss Loki.”
Before I could straighten fully, both of his hands grabbed my ass completely. Both cheeks filled his palms and fingers at once over the purple saree, the petticoat and my panties. The grip was firm, sudden, and fully claiming — his fingers sank into my soft ass cheeks, lifting them slightly, holding the entire weight and shape of my ass in both large hands as if it belonged there. The heat of his palms burned through every layer straight onto my ass cheeks. He squeezed once, hard enough for me to feel the strength in his fingers, then gave a short, possessive pat that sent a clear message of ownership.
“Get inside.”
The sudden full grip shocked me. My entire ass had gone inside both of his hands. I felt the complete enclosure of his fingers around both of my ass cheeks, the way he held the full roundness without any gap, the way he tested the softness and the weight in that single long second. I knew he must have enjoyed every part of it — the size, the give of my ass cheeks, the way my ass filled both of his hands so perfectly that nothing was left outside his grip.
To stop him from enjoying my ass any longer, I pulled away at once. I straightened, stepped forward quickly, and rushed into the back seat, sitting down hard and pressing my back against the seat so there was no more space for his hands to return.
He climbed into the driver’s seat without comment, started the engine, and pulled the auto back onto the dark highway, heading toward the scrap metal market. I sat in silence, the vivid, complete feeling of that full claiming grab still clear on both of my ass cheeks — the heat, the pressure, the way my entire ass had disappeared inside both of his hands. My eyes stayed fixed on the road ahead. The only thing that mattered remained unchanged: reach Loki, reach Market Ravi, and make Santosh suffer. Everything else I continued to tolerate for that single purpose.


The auto had only been moving for a few minutes when the driver suddenly pulled out his phone. He dialled a number with one hand while steering with the other, then spoke quickly in a low, urgent voice. I could not hear every word over the engine, but the tone was sharp and hurried. After less than a minute he hung up abruptly and shoved the phone back into his shirt pocket.
He turned his head slightly toward me without slowing down.
“Hold the grill tightly, madam. I am going to ride fast. Loki will leave soon. If we miss him tonight we will not find him again easily.”
I gripped the metal grill of the auto with both hands at once. The moment my fingers closed around the cold bars he pressed the accelerator hard. The auto shot forward, rattling violently over the uneven highway. The wind rushed against my face and pulled at the pallu of my purple saree. Trees and dark fields blurred past on both sides. The vehicle leaned into every small curve. I kept my hold firm and fixed my eyes on the road ahead.
Inside I began praying silently, the same way I had prayed earlier about Market Ravi.
Loki should not leave.
We must meet him tonight.
Please let him still be there.
Every hard bump and every sharp turn fed the same cold urgency that had driven me since the market. If Loki left before we arrived, the thin path to Market Ravi would close again. I could not allow that. My husband’s broken face, the days of silence in our house, the tears I had watched him hide — all of it sat behind my closed teeth while the auto raced through the night.
Exactly fifteen minutes later the driver slowed and turned off the main road. We entered a wide, poorly lit area filled with stacks of scrap metal, old machinery, and large godowns. The air smelled of rust and oil. He stopped the auto in front of one of the bigger structures. A single tube light glowed weakly above a half-open shutter.
“We are here. Loki’s godown.”
It was already eight o’clock.
While the driver switched off the engine I took out my phone. My husband would be wondering by now. I typed a short message:
I am at Kasi Aunty’s funeral. Will be late. Don’t wait for dinner.
I sent it. A few seconds later his reply came.
Okay.
Just one word. No questions. No concern about the time. I stared at the screen for a moment and felt the familiar tightness in my chest. He was still not thinking about anything properly. The public humiliation by Santosh had left him hollow. He accepted my message without curiosity because nothing outside his own pain registered clearly anymore.
I locked the phone, slipped it back into my bag, and looked at the half-open shutter of the godown. The driver was already stepping down. I followed, the purple saree moving around my legs, the cold purpose inside me sharper than ever. Loki was somewhere behind that shutter. Through Loki lay Market Ravi. Through Market Ravi lay the punishment Santosh still had not received.