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

[novelistcasanova]

Sathyavathi turned toward the door and called out.

“Kumar. Come inside.”
A moment later the door opened. Kumar stepped in, followed by my three sons. He still looked uneasy, his eyes lowered. Sathyavathi shifted slightly on the sofa and patted the place beside her. Kumar sat down next to her. Manish, Rakesh and Rahul remained standing near the wall.

I looked at him properly for the first time since the morning. He was not pleasant to look at — dark, slightly uneven features, a thin frame, the kind of face that did not draw the eye easily. Yet the earlier anger in my chest had already begun to soften. After everything Sathyavathi had told me about his father Venkatesh, his mother Sheela, the orphanage, and the reason he had come, I felt a quiet, unwilling pity for him.
Sathyavathi turned back to me, the red saree bright as she moved.
“I came to take you to town,” she said.
“We need to buy a few things for the Seed Sowing Festival. Get ready. We are leaving now.”
A small excitement rose in me at once. After the heavy morning — the interrupted goodbye, the unfinished heat, the shouting — the thought of going to town for the festival felt like a clean breath of ordinary life.
“What about Malliga?” I asked.
“She has some work at the temple,” Sathyavathi answered.
“She can’t come today. It will be just us.”
I nodded.
“Alright. I’ll get ready.”
I stood up and began to turn toward the bedroom. Before I could leave the room, Sathyavathi spoke again, her voice a little lower.
“Sudha… before we go, show him your father’s photos and the medals. That is the reason he came all the way from the neighbouring village. He has been waiting to see them.”
I looked at Kumar once more. He still sat quietly beside Sathyavathi, eyes down, hands resting on his knees. The pity in my chest deepened a little further. Whatever had happened in the kitchen doorway, this part of his visit had been innocent.
“Come,” I said to him, my voice quieter than before.
“I’ll show you.”
Kumar stood up at once. I turned and led him inside, toward the place where my father’s photographs and the medals and trophies were kept, while Sathyavathi and my sons remained in the living room behind us.


I led Kumar down the short passage and into the room where I kept everything that belonged to my father.
The moment we stepped inside, the air felt different — quieter, heavier with memory. Along one wall stood a wooden shelf and a glass-fronted cupboard that I cleaned every week. Inside and on top of them were the things my father had received during his years in the Army: rows of medals with faded ribbons, polished trophies of different sizes, certificates under glass, and a few framed photographs of him in uniform. Some of the medals were for bravery, some for long service, some for operations whose names I had heard since childhood. I had arranged each one carefully over the years. This room was the place in the house where I felt the proudest.
Kumar stopped just inside the doorway.

He did not speak at once. His eyes moved slowly across the shelf, then to the cupboard, then from one medal to the next. The uneasiness he had carried in the living room seemed to fall away. His face changed. For the first time since I had seen him that morning, he looked completely absorbed.
“These are all his?” he asked quietly, almost under his breath.
“Yes,” I said.
“Everything he received. The medals, the trophies, the citations. I keep them here.”
He stepped closer to the glass cupboard, careful not to touch anything, and looked at the rows of medals for a long time. Then he looked at the larger trophies on the upper shelf and at the photographs of my father standing straight in his uniform. The impression on his face was clear and deep. Whatever stories Sathyavathi had told him, seeing the actual medals and trophies with his own eyes had struck him harder.
I stood a little to the side and watched him. The anger from earlier in the morning still existed somewhere in me, but in this room, in front of my father’s things, it felt smaller. Kumar’s silence and the open wonder in his eyes made the pity I had begun to feel settle more firmly. He had come all the way from the orphanage in the neighbouring village for this, and now that he was standing in front of it, he looked like a boy who had finally found something he had only heard about in stories.
I let him look for as long as he needed, proud of every medal and trophy my father had earned, while the quiet of the room held both of us.

Kumar stayed in front of the glass cupboard for a long time. When he finally turned to me, his eyes still carried the same open wonder.
“Do you have any photographs of him when he was younger?” he asked.
“Before all the medals… when he was still a young man.”
I felt a quiet pride rise in my chest.
“Yes,” I said.
“They are kept on the top shelf. I will show you.”
I pulled the small wooden stool from the corner and placed it in front of the cupboard. Holding the side of the glass for balance, I stepped up onto the stool. The higher shelf held a few older albums and a small stack of loose photographs from my father’s early years in uniform. I reached up with both hands, fingers searching for the right album.
Kumar stepped closer.
“Let me help you, Aunty,” he said, his voice polite and almost innocent.
“You might lose balance.”

He raised both hands and placed them on my waist, holding me through the white nighty as if to steady me. The warmth of his palms soaked through the white nighty against my bare waist. Because of the height of the stool and the way he stood close to support me, his face came level with my stomach. His lips brushed against my navel over the white nighty. The warm, soft contact of his mouth right on my navel sent a sudden, unexpected jolt through me. He did not pull his face away at once. The touch lingered for a second longer than necessary while his hands continued holding my waist.