Misc. Erotica The New House (COMPLETED) - By Novelist Casanova

[novelistcasanova]

The New House 

By Novelist Casanova 

My name is Sudha and I am a housewife, tall enough that my head almost reaches the top of the kitchen doorway when I pass through it. I keep my long, thick, dark hair in a low bun when I work, and the weight of it sits at the back of my neck. My face is long, with high cheekbones, a strong jaw, a straight nose, and a wide mouth whose full lower lip stays slightly parted when I think. My brows are defined and my eyes are large and dark. My shoulders are broad for a woman, my breasts are heavy, my waist is narrow, my hips are very wide, and my thighs are full, so when I walk my hips move first and the rest of my body follows.

Every day I wear my saree over my blouse, my low-below-navel petticoat, my bra, and my panties.
I wear my saree because my mother taught me that a married woman should keep her saree on through the day. My hips are wide enough that the pleats sit full over them and sway when I walk from room to room. I wear my saree all the time, morning, afternoon and evening, and only at night, when I sleep, I change into my nighty and keep only my panties underneath.

My blouse is front-hook, and the front hooks close between my breasts while the six back hooks of my bra stay hidden under my blouse. The sleeves end above my elbows so I can work at the stove without pushing them up again and again. The neckline of my blouse rests across the upper curve of my breasts, and when I lift my arm to reach the high shelf my breasts lift with my bra and my blouse pulls across my nipples. When I bend to pick up the steel dabba the neckline of my blouse opens a little and the valley between my breasts shows.

I wear my petticoat low because my mother taught me that tuck. The string sits two fingers below my navel so my waist stays neat when I tuck my saree, and when I tuck my saree the petticoat stays hidden unless the pallu slips. Every morning I do it in front of the steel almirah, turn sideways, and look at the line of my waist and the flare of my hips. When I walk the petticoat moves against my thighs.
I wear my bra for comfort and coverage. My bra is a 36D layered-coverage bra, seamed and panelled, double-layered, full coverage, everyday, back-hook, non-wired, non-padded. My breasts are heavy, and my bra holds them high and close the whole day. The bra straps rest on my shoulders under my blouse so the bra cups do not drop, and the bra cups cover my breasts and keep my nipples inside. When I cook, sweat gathers in the valley between my breasts, inside my bra, under my blouse. The bra cups stick for a second and then release when I turn. If a nipple shifts I wait until I am alone, put my hand inside the left bra cup, lift my breast, and settle the nipple again, then do the same to the right breast.

I wear my panties for comfort and coverage. My panties are XL hipster panties. They sit just under my navel, and the leg openings hold the upper curve of my ass cheeks and cover them when I walk. When I walk from the stove to the sink my panties ride a little into the crack of my ass, and I slip two fingers inside and pull them back into place.
This is who I am and this is how I dress every day: my saree on my wide hips, my blouse over my breasts, my petticoat under my saree, my breasts inside my bra, and my ass cheeks under my panties. In the morning I finish tying the pallu over my left shoulder and walk to the gate.

We live in a small middle-class house in Bangalore, the kind with one hall, two rooms, a narrow kitchen, and a grill at the gate that rusts a little every monsoon. A couple of houses away, on the same street, we are building our new house. The mixer starts early. Cement dust sits on the neem leaves. I can see the rising walls from our gate when I step out with the cloth bag.

My husband is a budding stock broker. He leaves early with a file and comes back late with the same file, talking about markets in a voice that tries to sound bigger than this old house. I am the mother of three sons. I cook for five, wash for five, and count every rupee before it leaves my hand, because every rupee we save has to go into the construction.

I am stingy because the new house would not rise if I were not stingy. I would not buy a new bra or new panties when I wanted them. I would buy them once in six months. Until then I would wash my bra and my panties every day, hang them behind the bathroom door, and wear them again the next morning. The bra straps would darken a little at the shoulders. The bra cups would soften from washing. My panties would loosen at the waistband. I would still wear them because a new pair was money, and that money had to go into cement, steel, and moulding.

I would not buy groceries from the shops near our street. Those shops would take half as much extra as the market. I would tie my saree, close the front hooks of my blouse, check that my petticoat string was tight below my navel, and walk to the bus stop with the cloth bag. An auto could save my feet and keep strange hands off me. A bus would save the fare for the new house, so I would take the bus.
The bus would always be crowded. When I climbed in, men would already stand on the steps. One hand would hold the rod. Another hand would find my waist over my saree, then slide down and press my ass cheeks as I pulled myself up. I would hold the cloth bag to my hip and keep moving inside. In the aisle a chest would press to my back. Fingers would come around and squeeze my breast over my blouse, feeling the bra cup underneath, pinching until my nipple tightened inside my bra. When the bus jerked, a palm could push between my thighs from behind, rubbing my pussy through my saree, my petticoat, and my panties. I would stare at the window and not speak. I needed the cheaper fare.

The conductor would never give the change the moment I gave the cash. He would write the change on the back of the ticket and tell me to collect it while getting down at my stop. I would keep that ticket in my blouse, above my bra, because my hands would be full with the bag.
At the market I would touch every tomato and ask the price twice. I would buy only what the week needed. I would put the heavy bag on my hip and take the bus back. Again the conductor would write the change on the back of the ticket.
When my stop was about to arrive I would have to hurry to the conductor at the back. The aisle would be packed. I would turn sideways and push through with the bag. That was when the horny, hungry men would feel up my ass over my saree, palms spreading my ass cheeks, fingers pressing the saree and petticoat into the crack of my ass, holding me there as if they were only making way. I would keep going because the change was written on that ticket and I could not lose even that small amount. I would reach the conductor, collect the change, and get down.

Getting down would still be narrow. Men would stand on the last step as if they could not move. When I turned sideways to step down, a hand would go straight to my ass cheeks again and lift the saree pleats against my petticoat. Another hand could come from the side, cup my breast, and press the front hooks of my blouse. I would pull the bag down first, then my body, and their hands would leave only when my foot hit the road. I would tolerate all of it for our house construction.
The worst day was also on that rush to the conductor. I was in the crowded aisle, going to collect the change, when one drunk man pulled me completely into his full embrace. He was too strong for me. His chest crushed my breasts inside my blouse and my bra. His one hand locked around my waist. His other hand gripped my ass cheek over my saree and pulled my hips against his cock. I pushed his shoulder. His arm did not open. Before I could turn my face away, he took my mouth and kept it. To me the kiss was filthy. His tongue pushed past my lips, licked my teeth, and went deep, wet with drink, while spit gathered at the corner of my mouth. He did not stop after one kiss. He sucked my lower lip, came back for my tongue, and kissed me longer, groaning into my mouth as if I had asked for it. To him it was passionate. Two men beside us did not look away. They watched his tongue in my mouth and his hand on my ass cheek and enjoyed it. Nobody helped me. The conductor said he was drunk, asked the driver to stop the bus, and made the drunk man get down. I wiped my mouth with the pallu, collected the change, and went home. I did not tell my husband.

By the time I reached our small house my blouse would be damp in the valley between my breasts, inside my bra. My nipples would still be tight from the hands on the bus. My panties would have ridden into the crack of my ass from the walk and from the palms that pressed me in the aisle. I would go to the bathroom, pull my panties back into place, wash my feet, and start the stove. I tolerated it for my husband. If I told him, he would make me take an auto every time, and the extra fare would come out of the construction money. Saving that money was what I could do as a housewife. I could not earn like him. I could only wash the same bra and the same panties, take the bus, bring the cheaper groceries, and help the new house rise. Through the window I could hear the mixer on our new plot, a couple of houses away.

This is our middle-class family. My husband looks at screens and counts the next floor. My three sons fill the old rooms with noise. I keep both houses moving by wearing the same bra and the same panties for months, by taking the crowded bus instead of an auto, by letting the conductor hold my change till the last step, and by walking past the nearby shops to the market where the price is half, so the money can go into the new house on our street.


My husband worked so hard for the house construction that the old house saw him only after dark. He would go to the plot a couple of houses away before the mixer started and stay there till the workers left. He would stand over the Mesthri with the measurement book, check the rods, argue about the mix, and count every bag of cement. He would pay the Mesthri himself so no extra rupee walked away. He would talk to the workers one by one, tell them which wall to raise, and then go himself to buy sand, jelly, bricks, and steel. He did that hard work for us, for our family, and for our future in the new house.
At night he would not come straight to bed. He would sit in the bedroom on the chair at the small table and write down the money spent on construction: cement, steel, Mesthri’s wage, extra sand, the amount still short. His shoulders would stay tight. The pen would stop and start. That was when I would go into the bedroom.


I would stand where he could see me from the chair and take off my clothes in order so that he would watch. First my saree. Then my blouse, opening the front hooks between my breasts. Then my petticoat, pulling the string below my navel. Then my bra, opening the six back hooks, letting my heavy breasts down. Then my panties. I would do it slowly enough for his eyes. He would glance up and go back to the page. He would be busy. I would pick up the towel and go to the bathroom.

I would bathe slowly so I would be clean and fresh for him. I would wet my hair and my body, soap my neck, my shoulders, and the valley between my breasts, then lift each breast and wash under it. I would soap my waist, my hips, my ass cheeks, and between my ass cheeks. I would wash my thighs and my pussy until no market dust and no sweat from the stove remained. I would rinse until the soap left my nipples and my navel. I would dry myself with the towel, wipe between my breasts, wipe my pussy, and wipe my feet last.

I would come out of the bathroom wearing only my nighty. No bra. No panties underneath. The nighty would sit loose over my breasts and over my pussy. I would walk towards my husband at the small table. He would still be writing, stressed, the numbers in front of him.
I would stand beside his chair and tease him a little. I would put my hand on his shoulder, lean so my breast inside the nighty touched his arm, and speak close to his ear.
“Stop the accounts. Look at me.”
He would keep the pen in his fingers.
“Not now. I have to finish this.”
I would take his hand and put it on my hip over the nighty.
“You worked the whole day for us. You deserve this.”
“Later. I am tired.”
I would step back, pull my nighty up and off me, and stand naked in front of the small table. My breasts, my waist, my hips, my pussy were all there, clean from the bath. That was when he would get tempted. The pen would drop. He would look at me the way he looked at the rising walls, then stand, lift me, and carry me to the bed.
He would take off his lungi and his banian and get naked. He would lie over me and hold my breasts. I would open my thighs and take his cock inside my pussy. While he fucked me I would give him all the pleasure I could. I would hold his back. I would lift my hips to meet him. I would keep my breasts against his chest. I would tell him he had done enough for the day.
“Leave the table. Take me.”
He would fuck me until the numbers left his face, come inside me, and stay on me. After that he would hug me naked and go to sleep with his palm on my waist. I would stay against him with nothing on, listening to him breathe, while the new house a couple of houses away waited for morning.


My husband worked so hard for the house construction that the old house saw him only after dark. He would go to the plot a couple of houses away before the mixer started and stay there till the workers left. He would stand over the Mesthri with the measurement book, check the rods, argue about the mix, and count every bag of cement. He would pay the Mesthri himself so no extra rupee walked away. He would talk to the workers one by one, tell them which wall to raise, and then go himself to buy sand, jelly, bricks, and steel. He did that hard work for us, for our family, and for our future in the new house.
I understood that. I did not ask him why he came home late. I did not ask him why he sat with the accounts instead of talking. I knew the new house was sitting on his shoulders, and I supported him the only way I could: by keeping the old house quiet, by saving every rupee I touched, and by being ready for him at night without adding one more demand.

At night the stress would still be on him. He would sit in the bedroom on the chair at the small table and write down the money spent on construction: cement, steel, Mesthri’s wage, extra sand, the amount still short. His shoulders would stay tight. The pen would stop and start. He would rub his forehead and look at the page as if the next floor depended on those numbers. I would watch him from the doorway first and feel the tiredness on his face. That was when I would go into the bedroom.
I would stand where he could see me from the chair and take off my clothes in order so that he would watch even while he was busy. First my saree. Then my blouse, opening the front hooks between my breasts. Then my petticoat, pulling the string below my navel. Then my bra, opening the six back hooks, letting my heavy breasts down. Then my panties. I would do it slowly enough for his eyes. He would glance up, swallow, and force himself back to the page. I would not pull the page away. I would pick up the towel and go to the bathroom.

I would bathe slowly so I would be clean and fresh for him. I would wet my hair and my body, soap my neck, my shoulders, and the valley between my breasts, then lift each breast and wash under it. I would soap my waist, my hips, my ass cheeks, and between my ass cheeks. I would wash my thighs and my pussy until no market dust and no sweat from the stove remained. I would rinse until the soap left my nipples and my navel. I would dry myself with the towel, wipe between my breasts, wipe my pussy, and wipe my feet last.

I would come out of the bathroom wearing only my nighty. No bra. No panties underneath. The nighty would sit loose over my breasts and over my pussy. I would walk towards my husband at the small table. He would still be writing, stressed, but his eyes would lift the moment I came close.
I would stand beside his chair and tempt him, put my hand on his shoulder, and lean so my breast inside the nighty touched his arm. Close to his ear I would tell him, “Leave the accounts. I am here.” He would keep the pen in his fingers a little longer and answer, “The Mesthri asked for more tomorrow.” I would not argue with the Mesthri or with the numbers. I would take his hand from the page, put it on my hip over the nighty, slide it up to my breast, and tell him, “Tomorrow is tomorrow. You worked the whole day for us. Let me take the tension.”
I would step back, pull my nighty up and off me, and stand naked in front of the small table. My breasts, my waist, my hips, my pussy were all there, clean from the bath. The pen would drop. I would tell him, “Come.” He would look at me until the numbers left his eyes. I would pull him up from the chair, take off his banian, open his lungi, and take the lungi off him until he was naked. Then I would take him to the bed.
Some nights I would push him onto his back, climb over him, and take his cock inside my pussy. I would ride him. My breasts would move over his chest. I would hold his shoulders and lift my hips and come down on him again and again, telling him, “Don’t think of the plot now.” He would hold my waist and say only my name, “Sudha.” I would tighten my pussy around his cock, ride him faster, keep him deep, and tell him, “Give it to me. I will make you come.” I would not stop until his hands gripped my ass cheeks and his head went back. I would take him all the way and make him come inside me.

Some nights I would not ride him. I would sit beside him on the bed, take his cock in my hand, and jerk him off, stroking him slowly at first, then faster, watching his face lose the accounts, telling him, “Let it out. You have done enough today.” He would breathe against my shoulder and say, “Don’t stop.” I would keep my fist moving on his cock until he came on my breasts and my hand.
Some nights I would take his cock in my mouth and suck him off. I would lick the head, take him deeper, and suck until his hand held my hair. I would pause only long enough to tell him, “Come in my mouth. Leave the table.” He would look down at me and say, “Sudha.” I would suck him until he came, swallow, and stay with my mouth on him until his shoulders loosened.

The pleasure I gave him would take the tension out of his body. His breathing would slow. The tightness would leave his face. That was all I could do, and I did it with a full heart. I was only a housewife. I was not earning. I could not pay the Mesthri or buy the steel. I could only understand his hard work, support him without complaint, save on the bus, wash the same bra and the same panties, and give him my body at night so he could put the construction down for a while.
After that he would hug me naked and go to sleep with his palm on my waist, the accounts still on the small table, unfinished. I would stay against him with nothing on, listening to him breathe, knowing this relief was my share of the work, while the new house a couple of houses away waited for morning.


As I continued travelling in the bus to the market, I began hearing one name again and again. Market Ravi. The women near the door would say it first. The men near the conductor would say it next. I heard it for many days and still did not know the face behind it. I would stand in the crowded aisle with the cloth bag against my hip, my saree pleats pressed to my thighs, and listen. I did not speak to those strangers. I only collected the name the way I collected the change written on the back of the ticket.
I also saw what that name could do inside the bus. When a man put his hand on a woman’s ass over her saree, she would push his wrist away and tell him, “Remove your hand. I will tell Market Ravi.” The man would pull his hand back as if the rod had burned him and look at the window. Another day a man pressed a woman’s breast from behind while the bus jerked, and she turned her face and said, “One more time and I will tell Market Ravi.” He got down at the next stop without waiting for his own. If anyone misbehaved in that crowd, the women had started using that name the way other people used a security officer complaint. The perverts got scared. I heard it enough times to understand that Market Ravi’s name travelled even when he was not in the bus.
One afternoon I asked my friend Kamala. Kamala was a housewife like me. She also came to the market to save money for her house. After I finished touching the tomatoes I pulled her aside and asked her, “Kamala, who is this Market Ravi? For many days I have been hearing that name in the bus and near the shops, and I still do not know who he is.”

Kamala’s face changed as if I had opened a wound she kept tied under her pallu. Her eyes filled before she answered. She looked around once and then told me, her voice low and breaking, “Market Ravi controls this whole market, Sudha. He has many cases against him. The security officer know his name and still he walks here as if the road belongs to him. People are afraid of him. I was also afraid. I did not want to stand in front of a rowdy. But when nobody else stood for me, he stood. If a problem sits in this market, he is the one who solves it.”
Then she told me her story and she could not keep it flat. A broker named Venkatesh had cheated her of one lakh, and the words came out of her as if she was living that week again. “It was one lakh, Sudha, my husband’s money, money we had kept for my daughter’s wedding. I carried that shame on my face for days. Nobody helped me. They looked at me and sent me away. At night I could not sleep. I kept thinking my husband would ask where the wedding money went and I would have no answer. I thought the marriage was finished. I thought I had failed my daughter.” She swallowed and wiped her cheek with her pallu. “Then I told Market Ravi. My hands were shaking. I thought he would laugh at me standing there with a story. He did not laugh. He found Venkatesh. He beat him so badly that Venkatesh’s legs stopped working and he has been paralyzed since that day, sitting in a chair while his wife talks for him. After that Venkatesh’s wife came herself and put my one lakh in my hand. I held that money and I sat down on the road because my legs would not carry me. That man gave my daughter’s wedding back to me. He gave me my husband’s face back. I still get afraid when I hear his name, and I still say it with respect.”

I asked her if he had truly got her money back, and Kamala nodded, tears coming again, and said, “Yes, he got my money back. Say what you want about him. Call him rowdy. Call him criminal. For me he was God that day. If he had not come, I would still be lying to my husband, and I could not have lived with that lie.”
I took the bus home with that story in my head. The mixer was running on our new plot a couple of houses away. My husband was still on the site, standing over the Mesthri, writing numbers that never became enough. I was only a housewife. I was not earning. I could not beat a cheat or force money back. But I began to think Market Ravi was a moral man in his own way. He had cases against him, yes. He was a rowdy, yes. He still returned what had been stolen, and even his name could make a man take his hand off a woman’s saree. In that crowded market, that sounded like justice.
I did not tell my husband. I kept the name Market Ravi to myself, the way I kept the bus hands and the conductor’s unpaid change to myself, and went home to cook.


Every time we put moulding on the new house, my husband’s cousin Santosh made sure the day did not pass quietly. Santosh stayed right next to our newly under-construction house, a couple of houses away from our old one. When the mixer started and the dust rose, he would come out of his gate as if the street belonged only to him. He would call the cops. He would stand in front of the workers and raise his voice at my husband until the whole street stopped to listen. He would humiliate my husband in front of the Mesthri, in front of the labourers, in front of neighbours who had drunk tea in our house.

On the second floor he did the same. He called the cops for dust, for noise, for a petty reason that could have been settled with one sentence. My husband tried to speak politely. Santosh did not let him finish. On the third floor he did the same again. Another complaint. Another jeep. Another hour wasted while the cement waited and the numbers on my husband’s small table grew heavier.
Today we put moulding for the fourth floor. Today it was not only Santosh. Today his entire family came out and humiliated my husband. His wife stood at the gate and raised her voice. His relatives stood behind him and laughed when my husband tried to explain. They forgot every year my husband had helped their family finally, every time my husband had stood there for them when they needed money, a word, a roof, a name in this city.

Santosh pointed at my husband in front of the workers and abused him openly. He said, “Who do you think you are? You have no respect. You fill the street with dust and act like a big man. Your father is gone and you have become this. Your mother’s name is also finished. Your mother raised a dog, not a man. Go tell your mother to come and stand here if you cannot.” His wife laughed and added her voice to his. The relatives behind him repeated the words about my husband’s mother as if that was the easiest way to break him. They said the construction was a shame on the street. They said it loud enough for the workers to hear and look down at their feet.
My husband came home completely broken. He sat at the small table and could not open the accounts. He could not lift his face. At night he put his head in my lap and cried like a man who had been emptied in public. I held his head and felt his shoulders shake against my thighs. His tears wet my nighty. He told me he could not walk that street tomorrow. He told me they had used his mother’s name. I let him cry. I did not tell him to be strong.

My blood boiled. I sat there with his head in my lap and knew I had to avenge that bastard Santosh. Not a complaint. Not another polite word. Something that would make that whole family feel what they had poured on my husband and on his mother’s name. I was only a housewife. I could not stand in that street and return the abuse. But the heat in me did not go down. I listened to him cry and swore that Santosh would not get away with this.

To Be Continued ..!