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

[novelistcasanova]

I decided not to take the bus. Kamala had said the auto drivers at the stand saw Market Ravi even when he was hiding. I walked out of our street with the cloth bag on my wrist and that small hope sitting under my pallu.

The auto stand was at the corner, five autos parked one behind the other. Five drivers stood in a loose knot beside the first bonnet, khaki shirts, khaki pants, tea glasses in their hands. The moment I came into the open they stopped talking. Their eyes went to my face first, then to my yellow blouse, then to the way my yellow chiffon saree sat on my hips.
That was when the temple priest stepped into my path. He was a well-respected man on our street, the kind people touched feet for on festival days, and today that respect was still on his forehead while something else sat in his eyes. He folded his hands as if this was a blessing, but his gaze was already travelling over my dress. The five men behind him leaned in without moving their feet. I felt their watching before I felt his first question, and my throat went tight.
“Sudha, this yellow is good. Turmeric colour. Auspicious. A woman should leave the house in a colour the lamp will accept. Tell me one thing first. Are you wearing anything black under this? Black is not a good colour to take out when you have work, and if there is black on the body, the work you are going for will slip.” the temple priest said.
I glanced at the khaki shirts. One man had already stopped his tea. I looked down at the cloth bag and shifted it in front of my hips.
“Swamy, there are people standing here.” I said.
He did not look at them. He looked at the neckline of my yellow blouse, patient, as if the street belonged to the temple.
“They are standing. They are not coming to the temple with you. Answer me. Anything black, or not?” the temple priest said.
My fingers tightened on the bag. I shook my head once, small.
“No. Nothing black. Only this saree.” I said.
He smiled sideways, cunning, the respected voice still in place, the hunger sitting under it. The drivers leaned an inch closer.
“I did not mean the saree. I can see the saree. I meant inside, and we will go one by one so there is no confusion. First the petticoat, because that is what sits under the saree. Is the petticoat black?” the temple priest said.
Heat climbed my face. Five pairs of eyes sat on the tuck of my yellow chiffon saree. I pulled the pallu half an inch and it hid nothing.
“Swamy, that is not a thing to ask in the street.” I said.
He waited. The stand was quiet enough to hear a glass tap against a tooth.
“It is a thing to ask if the morning has to sit. Is the petticoat black?” the temple priest said.
“No.” I said.
A breath moved through the khaki shirts. He tilted his head, not done.
“No is not enough. What colour is the petticoat? Say it plainly.” the temple priest said.
I hesitated. One driver leaned in. My mouth felt dry.
“White.” I said.
A low sound came from the khaki shirts. One man wiped his mouth. Another’s hand went down, idle, and stayed on the front of his khaki pants as if he was only settling the fold. I saw that hand and looked away, ears hot.
The priest nodded, pleased, and asked the next as if he was still checking a lamp.
“White is clean. Good. Now the bra. Is the bra black?” the temple priest said.
I looked at the ground. I could feel them waiting for the next colour the way they waited for a signal. My shoulders drew in.
“Swamy, please. The petticoat was already too much.” I said.
He did not soften. His eyes stayed on my yellow blouse.
“The petticoat is done. The bra is next. Black or not?” the temple priest said.
“Not black.” I said.
“Then what colour? Don’t hide half of it the way women do when they get shy in the street.” the temple priest said.
I swallowed. The word sat on my tongue and still came out.
“White.” I said.
One auto driver muttered white-on-white. Another leaned on the bonnet and rubbed himself once over the khaki pants, slow, not hiding it well. Knowing the petticoat and the bra had already made them horny. They were waiting for the last colour, and they were enjoying that I did not want to give it. My stomach turned.
The priest’s voice went softer, cheeky, the temple still in it.
“White petticoat, white bra, under a yellow saree. That is proper. Now the last one, and this is the one that decides the morning. Are your panties black?” the temple priest said.
I stood there with my lips closed. The stand felt smaller. A breath went out of one man. Another rubbed his cock over his khaki pants more openly now, watching my mouth, waiting for the hesitation to break. A third shifted his weight and did the same, eyes on the tuck of my saree. The priest waited too, respected, horny, not helping me out of the pause. My feet wanted the gate. They did not move.
“Swamy, I cannot say that here. They are all looking.” I said.
“Let them look. They are not the temple. Black or not?” the temple priest said.
I shut my eyes for a second.
“Not black.” I said at last.
He stepped half a foot closer, as if the last piece had to be pulled.
“Not black is only half, Sudha. What colour are the panties? Say it the way you said white. I am standing here for the blessing, not for a riddle.” the temple priest said.
I stood there with the word stuck. He had asked too many questions, one after another, and he had left me no side road. The drivers leaned in. One of them rubbed again, hungry for the colour they did not yet have. I heard myself as if I was standing outside my own body.
“Maroon.” I said.
That was what finished them, and that was what finished me. One auto driver laughed under his breath and looked at my hips, his hand still on his khaki pants. Another said maroon to the man beside him and rubbed slower, as if the word was enough. A third crushed the tea glass too hard and did not look away. They had the whole ladder now: white petticoat, white bra, maroon panties. Shame came late and heavy. I could not believe I had stood in front of a respected priest and five watching men and given him every colour he wanted. I wanted to pull the pallu over my face.
The priest nodded as if I had given an offering. His eyes dipped once more to my waist, then returned to the blessing.
“White is clean, and maroon is also not black, so you can go. Don’t worry about the new house. I will pray for the construction. Cement and steel also need a blessing. Tell your husband the temple has not forgotten him.” the temple priest said.
“I will tell him, Swamy.” I said.
My voice was small. I walked toward the line of autos with my ears burning, embarrassed after the revealing, the answers still sitting in the air. The khaki shirts parted just enough to let me through, their hands slower to leave the front of their pants, their eyes still on my blouse and on the place they now had a colour for. I had come out to find Market Ravi, and I had stood in the street and named my petticoat, my bra, and my panties, one by one, with five men listening and getting hard on the words.


I walked toward the line of autos with my ears still burning from the priest. The khaki shirts did not wait. All five came to me at once, circling the cloth bag, smiling too wide. Their eyes went to my yellow blouse, to my breasts. I pulled the pallu of my yellow chiffon saree across my chest and covered them. The eyes dropped to my waist, to the navel where the saree tucked. I pulled the pallu lower and covered that too. I felt the want on them. They were not looking for a drop. They were looking at a body they wanted to fuck.
“Where, madam? Tell me. My auto is first.” one auto driver said.
I stopped a little short of their circle and held the bag against my waist.
“No, mine. Market? House? I will take you anywhere.” another said.
I turned to the man in front of me so I could speak to one face, not five. Behind my shoulder the others put their heads together, tea glasses hiding their mouths, thinking I could not hear.
“What a woman, da. Look at that saree on her hips.” one whispered.
My fingers tightened on the bag. I kept my eyes forward.
“I would fuck her in the auto itself. Blouse, waist, everything.” another whispered.
Heat climbed my neck. I pretended the tea stall was interesting.
“Lucky the man who gets her inside. I am hard just standing here.” the third whispered.
I heard it. Anger sat under the embarrassment. I still made my voice light, as if this was only an errand.
“Market. I have to go to the market. Also, I need to see Market Ravi. If you know where he would be at this hour, you can tell me.” I said.
The man in front smiled too quickly. His eyes went to my breasts again. I pulled the pallu across my chest once more. Behind him the whispers did not stop.
“Market I can take you. Market Ravi also I know. He is behind the onion shops today.” the first auto driver said.
I nodded as if I was only checking a shop name. I did not lean in.
“Ask her to sit in yours and take the long road.” someone whispered.
I swallowed and did not turn. Another man’s gaze sat on my navel. I gathered the pallu and covered the tuck of my saree.
“Don’t listen to him. Ravi is not there. He is near the flower row, the old godown.” the second said, louder, for me, then dropped his voice again. “I would take that pallu off before the first signal.”
My pallu felt thin. I pulled it again and let it sit over my breasts.
“Both of you are lying. He is in the lane next to the mutton stall. I dropped a man there yesterday.” the third said.
“Wrong. He moved again. He is on the other side of the market, near the bus depot wall.” the fourth said.
Four places. Four mouths. My head went around with their pointing. The fifth man only stared at my waist and smiled. Under the pointing I still heard the other talk, the talk they thought was private: what a woman, how they would fuck me, how they would keep me in the auto. A cold thought came with it. If I sat in one of these autos, they might not stop at looking. They might bang me on some long road and leave me. I looked at their faces and I knew. They could take me to the market. They could not take me to Market Ravi. They wanted my body. The name was only bait to keep me in their autos.
I stepped back from the circle. My voice stayed polite. My feet wanted the road.
“It is all right. I will see. Thank you.” I said.
I turned to leave the stand and look for some other auto on the road. That was when one came past, empty, slower than the rest. The man at the handle was not ogling. He was looking at the road, strict, khaki shirt buttoned, mouth closed. I lifted my hand because he did not look like the five.
“Market.” I said.
He glanced at me once, only at my face, and nodded.
“Get in.” he said.
I put my foot on the step. From the stand, one of the five reached in as if he was only helping me with the saree, and grabbed my ass, full, through the yellow chiffon saree and the white petticoat. His fingers sank into my ass cheek and held. Anger jumped into my face, and under the anger the fear came back, that this was how it would start if I stayed with them. I turned my head and gave him a look, hard, enough to cut the smile. Then I sat inside quickly, pulling the pallu over my breasts, pulling the saree over my knees, the cloth bag on my lap. The passing auto moved. Behind us the khaki shirts laughed. In front of me the strict driver did not look back. I still thought I was only going to the market, and from there I would see Market Ravi myself.