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

[novelistcasanova]

He finally released my maroon panties and bent down. He picked up the white petticoat from around my ankles and held it open with both hands.

“Step in, madam,” he said in the same calm, professional voice.
My legs felt unsteady. I lifted one foot and placed it inside the white petticoat, then the other. He began pulling the white petticoat upward. The soft material brushed over my calves first, then over my knees, then slowly along the length of my thighs. His fingers stayed in contact the entire time, sliding over the outer sides of my thighs as the white petticoat rose. When it reached my hips he settled the waistband carefully, smoothing it once at the front and once at the back. His palms rested for a moment on the upper curve of my ass and the soft lower part of my stomach before he tied the drawstring. He knotted it firmly, yet left just enough looseness that a hand could still slip underneath without difficulty.
Then he took the orange Kanchipuram saree from the display table and began dbanging it on me.
He tucked the first end into the waist of the white petticoat at my right hip. His knuckles pressed directly against the bare skin of my lower stomach under the white petticoat for a second longer than any normal tuck required. He brought the orange saree around my waist in a full circle, the heavy silk sliding across the white petticoat. Then he started making the front pleats. His hands worked close to my lower stomach, folding the orange saree with neat, practised movements, each pleat pressed flat between his fingers before being held in place.

“These pleats have to sit perfectly, madam,” he said, eyes fixed on the orange saree, face completely straight and professional.
“Otherwise the fall will not look clean.”
While his left hand held the gathered pleats firmly against my waist, his right hand suddenly changed direction. It slipped under the waistband of the white petticoat. The movement was smooth and unhurried. Before I could fully register what was happening, the same hand pushed further down, fingers sliding over the soft skin of my lower stomach, and went straight inside my maroon panties.
His fingers found my pussy at once.

I gasped. My whole body tensed. My thighs locked for a second.
He kept the exact same professional expression, as if he were only adjusting an inner layer for a better dbang. Two fingers slid between my already wet pussy lips and began moving slowly up and down the length of them, spreading the wetness that had gathered there. The tip of his middle finger found my clit and began brushing over it in a light, repeated circle — soft at first, then slightly firmer with each pass.
“Stay still, madam,” he said quietly, still looking at the orange saree pleats he was holding with his other hand.
“I am just making sure everything sits flat underneath so the pleats do not open.”
My hands reached out and gripped the edge of a nearby wooden shelf. A thick, heavy wave of heat rolled through my lower stomach and spread downward. Fresh wetness coated his fingers immediately, making the movement inside my maroon panties smoother and more slippery. The unfinished ache left by my husband in the morning and by Kumar later in the day surged back with full force, as if it had only been waiting for this exact touch. My knees weakened. Soft, broken breaths started leaving my mouth no matter how tightly I pressed my lips together.

He continued the slow, deliberate play under the white petticoat and inside my maroon panties while his outer hand kept arranging the orange saree pleats at my waist as if nothing unusual was happening. His middle finger pressed more firmly against my clit now, rubbing in tight, wet circles that made my hips threaten to move. Then he slipped the same finger lower, found my entrance, and pushed it just inside — only to the first knuckle — moving it in and out with short, controlled strokes. Each small thrust made my inner walls clench around the tip of his finger. After a few moments he withdrew it and returned to my clit, rubbing again with steady, focused pressure.
“Almost done with the front pleats,” he remarked in the same even tone, face still completely straight.

“The inner arrangement is very important for the final look.”
My hips gave a small, helpless push against his hand, seeking more of the friction even while my mind tried to stop them. The maroon panties were stretched around his wrist. The white petticoat and the orange saree hid everything from view, so the only visible evidence of what he was doing was the slight movement of his forearm under the white petticoat. The wet sounds of his fingers moving between my pussy lips were too clear in the quiet first floor. My heavy breasts rose and fell faster inside the yellow blouse. The heat between my legs built quickly — heavy, demanding, and no longer possible to ignore.
I bit my lower lip hard, trying to control the soft sounds that kept wanting to escape, while his fingers continued playing with my pussy in slow, thorough movements — rubbing my clit in tight circles, spreading my pussy lips open, pressing inside just enough to make my walls flutter and clench — all while he kept dbanging the orange saree around me with a perfectly professional face and a calm, helpful voice.


His fingers did not stop.
Under the white petticoat and inside my maroon panties, his middle finger kept rubbing my clit in tight, wet circles. The rest of his hand stayed cupped firmly against my pussy, holding me open just enough for the finger to work without interruption. Every few strokes he would slip the same finger lower, push it inside my entrance only to the first knuckle, feel the way my walls immediately clenched around it, then withdraw and return to the swollen, sensitive nub with the same calm, measured rhythm. His outer hand continued arranging the orange saree pleats at my waist with neat, practised movements, as if the two actions belonged to the same ordinary task.
I tried to keep my face completely normal.

I fixed my eyes on a point somewhere past his shoulder — a folded stack of sarees on the far shelf — and forced my breathing to stay as even as possible. My hands remained on the edge of the wooden shelf, fingers gripping tightly enough that my knuckles had turned pale, but I did not push him away or step back. Outwardly I stood still and quiet, the picture of a customer simply waiting for a saree to be dbangd properly. Inside, the pleasure was climbing fast and without shame. The unfinished need left by my husband in the morning and by Kumar later in the day had found a focused, relentless answer in these slow, skilled fingers, and my body was taking everything it could get.
“Almost finished with the front, madam,” he said in the same polite, professional voice, eyes never leaving the orange saree.
“Just a little more adjustment underneath for the perfect fall.”
His middle finger pressed harder against my clit. The circles became smaller, tighter, more precise. Wetness had completely coated his hand now; every movement made a soft, slick sound that seemed too loud in the quiet first floor. My inner walls began to flutter in small, involuntary pulses. The heavy coil low in my stomach drew tighter with every pass of his fingertip. Soft, broken breaths kept rising in my throat; I swallowed them one after another and kept my expression as calm and ordinary as I could manage.
The guilt sat right beside the pleasure, sharp and clear.

I knew this was wrong. I knew a shop worker’s hand was inside my maroon panties, rubbing my clit and dipping into my pussy, while he pretended to care only about the fall of an orange saree. I knew I should stop him, should step away, should close my legs and end it. Yet the same part of me that had been left aching and unfinished twice already today was shamelessly pushing toward the release, drinking in every deliberate stroke, every wet circle, every brief push of his finger inside me. The guilt and the hunger existed together, neither cancelling the other.
He felt the change in my body with perfect clarity.

He felt the way my hips began to make tiny, involuntary movements against his hand, seeking more pressure.
He felt the way my pussy grew even wetter and started to clench in small, rhythmic pulses around his finger whenever he pressed inside.
He did not smile. He did not change his tone or his expression. He simply kept the same steady, focused pressure on my clit, rubbing with precise, unhurried circles while his other hand smoothed the final orange saree pleat into place at my waist.
The edge came suddenly and without mercy.
My thighs began to tremble. My stomach tightened hard, the muscles pulling inward. I bit the inside of my cheek until the taste of metal touched my tongue, forcing any sound to stay trapped in my throat. For one long second I managed to stay completely silent and still — the perfect image of a normal customer receiving ordinary service — while inside the orgasm broke open with full force.

My pussy clenched strongly around nothing, then pulsed in deep, rhythmic waves. Thick wetness spilled over his fingers in a sudden rush and soaked further into the already damp maroon panties, making them cling heavily between my lips. The climax rolled through me in long, shaking waves that started at my clit and spread outward through my lower stomach, my thighs, even the base of my spine. My inner walls fluttered and gripped at his hand as I came quietly, desperately, all over his fingers, the pleasure sharp and overwhelming after being denied twice before.
He kept his hand exactly where it was until the strongest pulses began to fade. He continued rubbing my clit in gentle, slowing circles, drawing out the last small shocks of the orgasm, milking every remaining tremor from my body while his face remained completely professional and his outer hand gave the final orange saree pleat one last neat, perfect tug.

Only when my breathing started to steady and the trembling in my thighs lessened did he slowly withdraw his hand. His fingers slid out of my pussy, out of the soaked maroon panties, and out from under the white petticoat. He wiped the wetness from his fingers discreetly on the inner edge of the orange saree, as if simply cleaning a bit of dust from the cloth, then stepped back half a pace to examine the overall dbang.
“There, madam,” he said in the same helpful, even tone he had used from the beginning.
“The saree is ready. Please look in the mirror. The fall has come very nicely.”
I stood in silence.
My legs were still slightly unsteady.
The maroon panties were wet and clinging tightly between my thighs, the evidence of what he had just done cooling against my skin.
Small aftershocks of the orgasm still flickered deep inside my pussy.
Outwardly I nodded once, as if simply acknowledging a job well done.
Inside, the shameless pleasure and the sharp guilt sat side by side, both equally real and both fully alive, while the orange Kanchipuram saree hung perfectly dbangd on my body and his professional expression never once broke.