Misc. Erotica The Goddess (COMPLETED) - By Novelist Casanova

[novelistcasanova]

Oh wait.

I forgot to tell you about myself properly.
My name is Sudha. I am a housewife in this village of twenty-five families, ten kilometres deep inside the forest. My husband is Rajesh. He is a textile merchant, and most of his days are spent travelling between our village and Chennai — carrying cloth, taking orders, returning with money and new stock, then leaving again. Because of his work he is away more than he is home. When he is here he is often tired from the long journey and the heat of the city. When he is gone, the house, the three children, and the quiet days belong only to me. I cook, I clean, I walk to the river, I go to the temple, and I wait for the sound of his return.

I know how I look.

My face is the kind that makes people look once, then look again, and then keep looking even when they try not to. Wide, dark eyes sit large and slightly almond-shaped under soft, naturally curved brows. Those eyes hold a quiet, steady gaze, as if they already understand what a man is thinking before he speaks. The surface of my cheeks and forehead is smooth and warm-toned, with a soft natural glow that the clean river water and the open forest air only deepen. High cheekbones catch the light whenever I turn my head, giving my face a clear, striking structure. My nose is straight and finely cut. My mouth is full — the lower lip naturally thicker, soft, and always a little parted when I am listening or lost in thought. When I smile, even a small, closed smile, the corners of my lips lift slowly and change the entire face, making it warmer, softer, more open. My hair is thick and long, pure black, heavy when it is left loose. Most days I tie it in a large knot at the back of my head, yet several long strands always escape. They fall across my temple, slide along my cheek, or rest against the side of my neck, drawing the eye to the smooth surface there.

My body matches the face and makes the looking harder to stop.
I am taller than most of the women in our village, and every part of me is full. My shoulders are rounded and soft, never sharp. From those shoulders my chest rises heavy and high. My breasts are large and weighty, the kind that press firmly against the blouse with every single breath. They shift with a slow, natural heaviness whenever I walk, bend, or reach for something. The deep line between them stays visible whenever the pallu of my saree moves or slips. Inside the blouse my bra holds them, yet the weight is always present, always moving. My waist pulls in sharply, creating a clear, deep curve that the eye follows without permission. From that narrow waist my hips flare wide and round, the shape full and firm. When I walk they move in a steady, rolling sway that pulls the saree tight across them. My ass cheeks are deep and generous. The saree stretches over them and shows their exact round curve from behind; when I bend even slightly the cloth pulls tighter and the full shape becomes impossible to ignore. My thighs are thick and strong, pressing together when I walk, the soft inner thighs touching with every step, the warm space between them always present under the petticoat and the panties.

Even the smallest movements make me harder to look away from. When I lift a pot of water my breasts rise and settle again with a heavy, liquid motion inside the blouse. When I bend to pick something from the ground the saree pulls tight across the round swell of my ass cheeks and the deep hollow of my lower back. When I simply stand and talk, one hand resting on my hip, the full shape of my body remains completely present — breasts, waist, hips, thighs — all of it soft, abundant, and quietly demanding attention.

This is who I am.
A housewife who belongs to this small forest village, who raises her three sons, who waits for her husband Rajesh to return from Chennai. And also the woman the village men watch from behind the trees and bushes when she bathes in the clean river. The woman the town men stare at during Pongal shopping. The woman who knows exactly what her body looks like under the saree, under the blouse, under the bra and the panties — and who has always, except for two small secret moments in the town, kept that body loyal to her husband alone.


I love my husband Rajesh more than I have ever loved anyone.
He is kind in a way that settles deep into the everyday. He is good-hearted. Even after long, tiring journeys to Chennai and back, he speaks softly. He never raises his voice at me or at the children. When he is home he asks about my day in detail — whether the river was clean, whether the boys listened, whether I slept well the nights he was away. His hands are careful when they touch me. His eyes stay warm when they rest on my face, even after years of marriage. He is handsome too. Tall, dark, with a steady gaze and a quiet smile that still loosens something inside my chest every time he walks through the door after days in the city. The smell of the journey clings to his clothes, and somehow that smell alone makes me want to step closer to him.
I have always enjoyed making love to him.

From the first nights of our marriage I was ready for him whenever he reached for me. I never made him wait. I never turned my body away. When the children were small and finally asleep, or when they were not yet born, I would feel him move behind me on the mat and I would already be wet. I loved the weight of his body settling over mine. I loved the way his cock pressed against my clean-shaved pussy lips and then opened me slowly, inch by inch, until he was buried fully inside. I moved under him the way he liked — lifting my hips to take him deeper, rolling them in small circles so he felt every part of me, tightening my pussy around his cock when I sensed he was getting close. I poured all my love into those nights. I kissed him with open mouth. I held his shoulders and his back. I let him take his pleasure as long and as hard as he needed, and I gave him mine in return without holding anything back. I gave him my mouth, sucking him slowly until he was fully hard and wet. I gave him my heavy breasts, letting him suck my nipples and press his face between them. I gave him my pussy and, when he wanted it, my asshole. Everything I had belonged to him in those hours.
For that love I gave him three sons.

Manish (Babloo) came first — the eldest, serious even as a child. Then Rakesh (Pappu), the middle one, restless and quick. Then Rahul (Chintu), the youngest, still soft-faced and close to me. Three boys I carried in my belly and birthed for him, each one a living result of the nights we spent joined together on the mat. Even after three pregnancies and three births my body remained hot and full and ready. My breasts stayed heavy and high. My hips stayed wide. My waist still curved in clearly. My clean-shaved pussy stayed soft, smooth, and open for him. Whenever Rajesh returned from Chennai and the house was finally quiet, I was ready. I would stand in front of him and remove my saree slowly. I would unhook my blouse and then my bra, letting my heavy breasts come free into his hands. I would push the petticoat and the panties down over my hips and step out of them, standing completely naked so he could see that nothing had changed — that I was still the same woman whose body wanted him.
He still loves eating my pussy and my asshole.

Even now, after years of marriage and after three sons, he puts his head between my thighs with the same hunger he had at the beginning. He spreads my legs wide with his hands. He looks at my clean-shaved pussy for a moment, then parts the soft naked lips with his thumbs and runs his tongue slowly along the smooth skin, tasting me, licking from the lower opening up to the swollen bud and back down again. He sucks gently on that bud until my hips start to lift toward his mouth. He slides his tongue inside me, then out, then higher again, taking his time, making wet sounds that fill the quiet room. When he has made me wet and open he turns me over onto my stomach or onto my hands and knees. He spreads my ass cheeks with both palms, exposing the clean-shaved, naked asshole, and he licks it with the same slow care. He circles it with his tongue, presses against it, flicks over it, sometimes pushing the tip of his tongue inside just enough to make me push back toward his face and moan into the pillow. I love those nights more than I can say. I love the feel of his mouth on my most private places. I love how hard his cock becomes while he eats me. I love the moment he finally rises, positions himself behind me or over me, and pushes that hard cock into my already wet pussy, fucking me with the taste of me still on his tongue until he finishes deep inside.
I love him so much.

Every time he is away in Chennai I miss the weight of his body, the thick fill of his cock, the wet heat of his mouth between my thighs. Every time he returns I give him everything again without being asked — my mouth, my heavy breasts, my clean-shaved pussy, my asshole, my full attention, my love. I am still hot. I am still sexy. My body is still ready for my husband whenever he wants me. And it always will be.


More than anything else, more than the river, more than the forest, more than our own houses, we loved and worshipped our Village Goddess.
She was the centre of everything for us. The entire village of twenty-five families lived under her protection. When a child was born we first carried the baby to her temple. When a girl reached puberty we brought her to the Goddess before anyone else. When someone fell sick we lit a lamp at her feet and prayed. When the monsoon was late or the river rose too high we gathered in front of her and asked for mercy. Every important decision in the village — the date of a wedding, the sharing of water, the settling of a dispute — was spoken in front of her idol as if she herself was listening. She was not just a stone to us. She was the quiet mother who watched over all of us, the one who kept the forest from swallowing our small circle of houses, the one who kept the outside world from entering too deeply.
Her idol was ancient.

No one in the village could say exactly how old it was. The oldest men only repeated what their grandfathers had told them — that the Goddess had already been here when the first families cleared the small patch of land and built the first thatched roofs. The idol was made of black stone, polished smooth by generations of hands and oil and sacred ash. She stood only a little taller than a grown woman’s waist, yet her presence filled the entire small temple. Her face was calm, almost severe, with large eyes that seemed to look straight through whoever stood in front of her. One hand was raised in blessing. The other held a small bowl. Soft moss had grown in the deeper cracks of the stone over the years, and the oil lamps had left dark, shining trails down her arms and breasts and stomach from decades of daily worship. The air inside the temple always smelled of camphor, oil, and the faint sweetness of the flowers we placed at her feet every morning and evening.
We treated her with complete devotion.

No one entered the temple with footwear. No one spoke loudly near her. Women who were bleeding did not go inside until they were clean again. Before any long journey — even the ten-kilometre walk to the town — we first stopped at her temple and asked for safety. When the men returned from the fields or from the rare trip outside, they often went to her before they went home. During the annual Goddess festival the whole village stayed awake through the night, singing, offering food, and keeping the lamps burning until dawn. We believed she listened. We believed she protected us. We believed that as long as her idol stood in that small temple half-hidden by the peepal trees, our village would remain safe inside the forest.

She was more important to us than any living person.
The Village Head’s word was final in daily matters, but the Goddess’s presence was final in everything that mattered deeper. We loved her with a quiet, constant love that sat under all our other loves — under the love for our husbands, our children, our own bodies. She was the ancient heart of the village, the black stone mother who had watched over every birth and every death for longer than any of us could measure. And we, all of us, lived our lives around her.