Misc. Erotica Sudha Sweet Stall (COMPLETED) - By Novelist Casanova

[novelistcasanova]

Sudha Sweet Stall 

By Novelist Casanova 

Sudha Sweet Stall sat on the ground floor of our house and opened straight onto the wide road, the shutter pulled up early every morning so the trays of mysore pak, jangiri, badusha and laddu faced the street and the people walking past could see everything from the pavement. The road itself stayed crowded from seven o’clock, autos stopping, men in shirts standing and pointing at the trays, women with bags waiting their turn, the smell of hot ghee and sugar already spilling out onto the road and mixing with the dust and the vehicle smoke. Inside the stall the wooden counter ran along the front, the money box sat under it, and behind the counter the door led down the steps into the basement where all the sweets were made, the big vessels sitting on the stoves, the workers stirring and pouring and cutting, the heat from those stoves rising up the steps and filling the ground floor so that even the air above the trays felt warm. Trays kept coming up from the basement one after another, fresh and shining, and the five workers moved between the basement and the ground floor without stopping, carrying the heavy trays, setting them on the counter, taking the empty ones back down. Customers leaned over the counter from the road side, calling out what they wanted, holding out notes, and the stall stayed packed like that through the whole morning, the road outside never empty, people coming from both directions, some standing and eating right there on the pavement, some taking boxes and walking away. The name Sudha Sweet Stall was painted above the shutter and everyone on that road knew it, the business had been running strong for two years, the trays emptying and filling again and again, the basement never quiet, the ground floor always smelling of sugar and ghee, the road in front always full of the same morning rush.



I am Sudha, a housewife, the wife of Rajesh, and my husband loves me very much, so much that he named the stall Sudha Sweet Stall after me. I stand 5 feet 9 inches tall and I weigh 70 kilos, my breasts measure 38, my waist 28, my hips 40, my bra is 38D and my panties are XL, and my husband looks at me the same way he looked at me when we married, his eyes going over my face first, the large eyes, the dark brows, the straight nose and the full lips, then down over my tall body, my straight shoulders, my long neck, my long black hair that I oil and leave loose or tie back. For that love I gave him three handsome sons. I wear a saree all the time with a blouse and a petticoat tied low below my navel, the pallu tucked at my waist, and the blouse sits tight across my breasts so that the heavy shape of them is clear, the nipples pressing from inside my bra. My waist stays narrow under the saree while my hips spread wide and my ass is full and round, the two ass cheeks sitting heavy under the petticoat and the saree, and when I walk my thick thighs touch and the inner thighs rub with every step. The saree stretches over my hips and over my ass and over my thighs. The mangalsutra rests against my chest above the blouse and the gold anklets sit on my ankles. Under the petticoat and the saree my panties rest against my pussy and against my clit. At night I take off the saree and the blouse and the petticoat and I wear only my nighty with my panties underneath. Whenever my husband was horny he would come to me on the first floor after the three sons were asleep, pull the nighty up, slide my panties down, and make love to me, enjoying my heavy breasts in his hands, my wide hips under him, my full ass, my thick thighs opening for him, and I would cooperate every time, hold him, lift my hips, let him take all the pleasure he wanted from my pussy and from my mouth and from my breasts until he finished.
“Sudha, you give me everything, I cannot stay away from you when I am like this, open for me,” my husband would say, already pushing into me.
“I am here Rajesh, take what you want, I will give you all of it,” I would say, my legs around him, my breasts against his chest, cooperating until he had taken every bit of pleasure he came for. My husband loves me, he tells me I am his, and I stay his wife and the mother of his three handsome sons, tall and curved inside the saree during the day, inside the nighty at night, my breasts heavy, my hips wide, my ass full, my thighs thick, my face the first thing he sees when he comes home.


Our house stood tall above Sudha Sweet Stall and it was beautiful because of the sweet business, four floors of rooms and windows rising over the ground floor and the basement, the paint fresh, the grills shining, the stairs wide and clean from the bottom to the top. On the ground floor my husband stood at the counter and sold the sweets to the people coming in from the road, and down in the basement the five workers made those sweets from morning, the vessels on the stoves, the trays going up the steps and coming back empty. The first floor was where my husband and I lived, the hall wide, the dining table in the centre, our room at the side, the windows opening toward the road so the sound of the stall came up, the rooms smelling of incense and the coffee I made. The second floor belonged to one son, his room, his bed, his cupboard, his books, the floor mopped every morning and the windows open to the same road. The third floor belonged to the second son, the same way, his own room, his own bed, his own things kept neat, another set of windows and another fan turning slowly. The fourth floor belonged to the third son, his room at the top, the terrace just outside his door, the pots along the wall, the breeze coming over the road and over the stall below, and from there anyone could look down and see the shutter of Sudha Sweet Stall and the people on the pavement. Every floor had been built and kept beautiful from the money the stall brought, the basement working, the ground floor selling, the first floor for my husband and me, the second and third and fourth for our three sons, and I walked those stairs in my saree from the first floor to the fourth and back down again, the house standing over the business that had given us all of it.



I went down into the basement every morning at 10 AM in my saree, the steps hot from the stoves, the air thick with sugar and ghee, the five workers bent over the vessels and the trays, their shirts already stained, their hands sticky, sweat on their faces and on their necks from standing over the heat since dawn, and I did not mind how dirty they were because they were the reason behind our success, the reason the trays on the ground floor stayed full and the reason customers kept coming from the road. The moment my saree and my blouse and my petticoat appeared on the steps they all looked up even while their hands kept stirring. My husband was rude to them on the ground floor, he raised his voice when a tray was late, he told them to work faster and not stand, he did not thank them, but I was sweet to them and that was the only reason they stayed and worked so hard. Before I entered the basement I pulled the saree low on my hips so the petticoat sat low below my navel and the curve of my waist and my hips and my ass showed clearly, and I walked in like that so they could feast their eyes on me and I could tempt them and make their day and make them horny enough to keep stirring until evening. They kept their words on the sweets and called me down to see the badusha or the mysore pak, but I could see their eyes go to my breasts inside the blouse, to my hips and my ass under the low saree, to my thighs when I stood near the vessels. My husband did not know. I talked to them, I joked with them, I smiled at them and let them look as long as they wanted. On their birthdays I went down and hugged each one, my arms around their shoulders, my breasts pressing against their chests through the blouse and my bra, my hips and my ass coming close under the saree, and I felt how they went still and how they grew horny in that one hug, their breath changing, their dirty hands hovering at my waist as if they wanted to hold me there and not let go. I told them the counter needed two more trays and I turned slowly so they could see my ass and the low line of the saree on my hips, then I went back up the steps to the ground floor, stopped before my husband could see me, and pulled the saree up and adjusted the pallu modestly across my chest and over my hips the way a wife should look while he stood at the counter selling, none of the low hip, none of the looking, and none of those hugs ever reaching his ears.



I started grooming myself not only for my husband but also for the five workers in the basement, so they would feel me every morning at 10 AM and stay. In the first floor room I oiled my long black hair slowly and tied it so my neck and my shoulders stayed open, I settled the mangalsutra against my chest above the blouse, I put the gold anklets on my ankles, and I dbangd the saree with the petticoat tied low below my navel knowing I would pull that saree lower still the moment I reached the basement steps. I checked the blouse across my breasts so the heavy shape sat forward, I checked how the saree stretched over my hips and over my ass and over my thighs, and I felt my panties against my pussy and my clit before I went down. My husband saw only the modest pallu when I stood near him at the counter, but the grooming was also for the stained shirts and the sticky hands waiting below, for the eyes that would go to my breasts and my waist and my ass the second I entered the heat. I wanted them to feel me in the air of the basement, to feel that I had dressed and walked those steps for them as much as for the man selling sweets on the ground floor, so they would keep working, keep making the sweets that brought the customers, and keep lusting after the same body my husband took at night on the first floor. After I came back up I adjusted the saree again and became only the wife on the ground floor, but downstairs I had already given them the groomed walk, the low hips, the oiled hair, the anklets, and the smile, and that was how I began to keep them.


Every time my husband yelled at a worker on the ground floor or beat him for a late tray or a burnt batch, that man would come to me instead of going straight back to the basement, and I would take him into a complete embrace and hug him against my saree and my blouse and my petticoat. I ignored the filthy smell on his shirt and on his neck, the sugar and the ghee and the sweat from the stoves, and I held him with both arms, my breasts pressing into his chest through the blouse and my bra, my hips and my ass coming against him, my cheek near his shoulder.
“Akka, he shouted again in front of the road, he hit my shoulder because the tray was late, my hands are still shaking, I cannot go down like this, I came to you only,” the worker said, his voice low against my neck, his dirty hands hovering at my waist and then settling there.
“I know, I heard him, you come here, you do not stand there and take it alone, I am holding you, breathe, the stall needs you in the basement not standing angry on the steps, stay against me until it goes,” I said, tightening the hug so he could feel my breasts and the low line of the saree on my hips, consoling him until the sad look and the angry look began to leave his face. I felt his body change in that hug, the stiffness of the shouting turning into the same horny stillness I felt on their birthdays, his breath warmer, his hands heavier at my waist as if he had forgotten the beating.
“I will go down now Akka, I will finish the next batch, I am all right, you do not tell him I came to you,” the worker said, still not stepping back, still holding the shape of my waist through the saree.
“Go, make the sweets the way you always make them, I will be here if he shouts again, do not carry the anger to the vessels,” I said, keeping the embrace one moment longer and then sending him off down the steps so he would go back to the stoves horny instead of angry, still working, still making the sweets that kept the road full. My husband never saw those hugs. He stayed at the counter after he shouted, and I stayed the sweet one who opened her arms, ignored the filthy smell, and sent the worker back changed.







My husband wanted Sudha Sweet Stall to stay number one on that road and in that area, he wanted the trays to empty faster than any other stall, he wanted the name he had put on the shutter after me to be the first name people said when they thought of sweets, and at night on the first floor after the three sons were asleep that want sat on him even when he was touching me. He did not say he was afraid, but I felt it in the way he counted the notes twice, in the way he asked if the morning crowd had been less, in the way he held my hips and my ass and still talked about the stall as if losing first place would take something from him I could not give back with my body alone. I wanted to support him in all the ways possible. I wanted the basement to keep producing, the five workers to stay, the road to stay full, and I wanted him to come upstairs still the man whose stall carried my name. That is why I went down at 10 AM, why I pulled the saree low on my hips only on those steps, why I hugged a worker after my husband shouted, why I ignored the filthy smell and turned anger into the horny mood that sent the man back to the vessels. My husband thought I supported him only with coffee and with my nighty and with my panties coming down on the first floor when he was horny. He did not know the other support, the one I gave in the heat under the stall so that his want to be number one would not break.
“Sudha, the stall has to stay first, I built this for you, I will not let anyone stand in front of us, tomorrow I will push them harder,” my husband said one night, his hands on my breasts, his mouth near my neck.
“I am with you Rajesh, I will support you in every way, you will stay number one, I will not let the stall fall,” I said, opening my thighs for him, giving him the pleasure he came for, and keeping the basement and the workers and the low saree inside my own want, the buried one, the one that already belonged to keeping him first even if he never saw how I did it.



Mary Sweets opened directly opposite us on the same road, the new shutter going up across the street from Sudha Sweet Stall, at first looking like just another stall with its own trays and its own name painted above. For two days the morning crowd still came to our counter, then I saw people walking past our ground floor and standing in front of the other shutter, pointing, buying, turning away without looking at our mysore pak and our jangiri. Fake rumours began circulating that our sweets were low quality, that the ghee was less, that the sugar was not right, and those words moved through the contacts on the road faster than any tray came up from our basement. My husband tried to keep selling the same way, standing at the counter, calling the same people, but fewer notes went into the money box and more empty trays went back down the steps. In the night on the first floor his smile at the dining table grew thinner. He sat with the three sons and with me and he asked them about college and he looked at me, but the look was already shorter, and after the boys went to the second and third and fourth floors he counted the day’s notes twice and did not talk about being number one the way he used to.
“They opened right in front of us, people are going there, someone is saying our sweets are not good, I heard it from two customers today, I will not let this sit,” my husband said, pushing the notes together, his voice already tighter than the voice he used when he asked me to open for him.
“We will see tomorrow Rajesh, the basement is still working, the workers are still there, the stall has your name and my name on it, it will not fall in two days,” I said, standing behind him in my nighty, my hand on his shoulder, feeling the first crack open on the road outside while the four floors above us stayed quiet and beautiful and already a little afraid.


After Mary Sweets opened opposite us the footfall on our ground floor dropped a little, not all at once, only enough that I began to notice the gaps between customers and the trays that did not empty before noon the way they used to. People still came, the five workers still sent sweets up from the basement, my husband still stood at the counter, but more pieces stayed in the trays and more boxes stayed unfilled, and the road that had always turned toward Sudha Sweet Stall now turned both ways. I noticed my husband staying later. After he pulled the shutter down he did not come up the stairs to the first floor at the old time. He stayed on the ground floor with the unsold trays, lifting the lids, counting what was left, writing numbers, going back to the money box and counting again, the tube lights still on over the counter while the road outside grew quieter. I waited on the first floor in my nighty and heard him below, the sound of trays moving, the sound of him not climbing the steps, and I knew the little drop in footfall had already made him stay behind with what had not sold.
“There are three trays still full, I am counting again, you go up, I will come after I finish this,” my husband said when I went down once to call him, not looking at me the way he looked when he was horny, only at the unsold sweets.
“I am upstairs Rajesh, the boys are already on their floors, come when you finish, I will keep the coffee,” I said, and I went back up and left him on the ground floor with the trays that had not moved, the first small step of the drop already sitting between the stall and the house.



The rumours spread through the contacts on the road because Santosh, the owner of Mary Sweets, put them there, from one regular to another, from the people who used to stand at our counter every morning to the people who only passed by, and the words were always the same, that Sudha Sweet Stall was selling low quality now, that Mary Sweets across the street was better. The regulars stopped coming. Faces I had packed boxes for two years did not stop at our shutter. They crossed to the other side and I watched them from the ground floor while my husband called out offers, extra pieces in the same box, a sample held out over the counter, a smaller price spoken fast before the customer could walk away. Nothing worked. The extra samples went back into the trays half eaten or not taken at all, the offers did not bring the old crowd, and the money box stayed lighter even when he stood there from morning and tried every line he knew. I saw his shoulders change at the counter. I saw him look across the road at Mary Sweets and at Santosh and then look down at our trays again. In the basement the five workers still made the same sweets, but fewer trays needed to come up, and when I went down at 10 AM the heat was the same and their eyes were the same and still the ground floor above us was losing the people who used to belong to us.
“Santosh is talking, he is telling everyone our sweets are not good, I am giving extra, I am giving sample, they still go there, I will try again tomorrow, I will not close early,” my husband said at night on the first floor, the notes in a thin pile, his hand on the table instead of on me.
“Try again Rajesh, the stall is still ours, the name is still on the shutter, I am with you, we will not let Santosh and his rumours finish us in one week,” I said, standing near him in my nighty, wanting to support him in every way while the regulars kept walking past our door to Mary Sweets.


Santosh came to the edge of the road in front of our ground floor and laughed at my husband in front of the customers who were still standing near our counter and in front of two of the workers who had come up from the basement with trays. He laughed loud enough that the people on both sides of the street turned, he pointed at our trays, he said our name as if it was already finished, and my husband stood behind the counter with the money box open and took that laugh in front of everyone. I was on the first floor and I heard it through the window. The sound came into my chest and stayed there. I went down and I saw my husband’s face closed and I saw the workers looking at the floor and I saw Santosh already walking back to Mary Sweets still laughing, and I felt the humiliation as if he had laughed at me also, at the name on the shutter, at the four floors built from that stall, at the man I had given three sons. I wanted Sudha Sweet Stall the way it was before his shutter opened, the road turning only to us, the trays emptying, my husband number one again and smiling at the dining table. The pain sat in me while I was still standing on the ground floor. My husband did not answer Santosh. He sold what he could sell and he pulled the shutter down earlier than usual and he came up the stairs silent. On the first floor he sat at the dining table and did not eat and did not count the notes the way he always counted them. The three sons came down from the second and third and fourth floors and they saw their father like that, silent, his shoulders in, the humiliation still sitting on him from the road, and they went quiet too, and I felt that also, the boys seeing him small, and the pain went deeper. At night he could not sleep. He turned on the bed on the first floor while I lay beside him in my nighty, and every time I put my hand on his chest he only stared at the ceiling.
“He laughed in front of them, in front of the customers, in front of the workers, I stood there and I took it, I cannot sleep, I keep hearing that sound,” my husband said, his voice flat, his body not turning toward me.
“I heard it Rajesh, I felt it, the boys saw you when you came up, the stall will still open tomorrow, I am here, you do not have to carry it alone on this bed,” I said, keeping my hand on him, feeling the silence of the four floors and the laugh from the road still working inside the room and inside me, the pain already looking for a way to bring the old stall back and to make him number one again, and none of that reaching his ears.


The next day my husband settled the balance with the five workers and sent them off because he was unable to maintain them. He called them up from the basement to the ground floor one after another, counted the notes, put the money in their hands, and told them not to come tomorrow, the trays were not moving, Mary Sweets had taken the road, and he could not keep five men when the money box was that thin. I stood near the counter in my saree with the pallu modest across my chest and I watched them take the balance. Their shirts were still stained from the morning stoves, their hands still sticky, and when they looked at me they looked only for a second because my husband was standing there. I wanted to take them down the steps and embrace them the way I had after every shouting, ignore the filthy smell, change the mood, tell them to wait, but I could not do that in front of him. They went out onto the road with their money and they did not come back. The basement went quiet. The vessels sat without anyone stirring them. The heat that used to rise through the ground floor at 10 AM was only leftover heat. My husband pulled two trays forward and tried to sell what was already made and he did not talk while he did it. On the first floor that night the house felt larger and emptier, the second and third and fourth floors still holding the three sons, the basement below us empty for the first time since the stall had been number one.
“I paid them and I sent them, I cannot keep five people when no one is buying, tomorrow I will make what I can make and I will stand at the counter, that is all we can do now,” my husband said, sitting at the dining table with a smaller pile of notes than even the night after Santosh laughed.
“You did what you had to do Rajesh, the stall is still here, I am here, we will open tomorrow,” I said, my hand on the table near his, the basement already gone from our mornings and the pain of the empty steps sitting in me with the rest of it, and none of what I had been to those five men reaching his ears.


At night on the first floor the room stayed dark except for the thin light from the window and then from my phone, the fan turning slowly above the bed, the heat of the day still sitting in the walls even though the stall below was shut and the basement was empty, and my husband finally slept on his side facing the wall, his breath slow, his shoulder rising and falling, the humiliation of Santosh’s laugh and the sending off of the five workers still on him but asleep at last.
I lay beside him in my nighty with my white panties underneath, the nighty settled over my breasts and over my waist and over my hips, the white panties sitting against my pussy and against my clit, my thick thighs touching, my ass on the bed, my long black hair spread on the pillow, totally depressed, the four floors of the house feeling too large over a stall that was no longer number one. I had to do something.
I took the phone from the side of the bed with both hands and held it above my chest, the glow on my face and on the nighty, my thumbs moving, and I opened Instagram first and scrolled without really seeing, video after video of other people’s shops and other people’s smiles, the same road I did not want to look at, my breath staying shallow while my husband slept and did not know I was awake.
Then a buildup video of a rowdy named Ranga came onto the feed, his name across the screen, people standing around him, and I stopped scrolling and I watched it twice, my thumb hovering, my other hand holding the phone steady so the light would not turn toward my husband’s face. I clicked through to YouTube and I went from one video to the next, lying on my back in the nighty, my white panties unmoving against me, my breasts heavy under the nighty, my nipples already pressing because of the heat and because of how still I was.
He was ugly and scary in every video. His face was hard and uneven, he was dark, his eyes sat deep, his mouth did not smile the way ordinary men smiled, his lips were thick and rough in the close shots, his shoulders filled the frame, and the people around him stood a little back even when they were thanking him, as if the same body that helped them also frightened them. I lay in my nighty and I wondered how any woman would sleep with him, how a woman would put her mouth on those lips and kiss him, how she would let that dark ugly body come over her, how ugly he would look naked, his chest, his stomach, his cock, all of it matching that face, and still the videos kept playing while I wondered and did not look away.
They still called him the Robinhood of the poor. People went to him with every kind of problem, rich or poor, a shop that was dying, a loan, an insult in front of a crowd, a man who would not stop talking, and the videos showed him listening with his head slightly down and then lifting that ugly scary face and solving what they brought, his name moving through the city the way Sudha Sweet Stall used to move through our road when the trays emptied before noon.
In the same videos I found his house. The camera stood outside a gated place in his area, men at the gate, the building behind them, comments and voice-overs naming the area again and again until I knew where he lived and how people went there when they needed him.

I watched him stand with people who had nowhere else to go. I watched mouths thank him while their eyes stayed careful. I watched the talk about how he helped and how he did not turn anyone away if they came to him properly. My thumbs kept opening the next video, my eyes burning a little from the screen, my mouth slightly open the way it stays when I am not speaking, and the depression in my chest changed shape while I watched, still heavy, but now pointed at a man I did not want to look at and still needed.
I held the phone until my hands grew warm. I thought of Santosh laughing on the road, of my husband silent at the dining table, of the three sons seeing that silence, of the basement with no workers and no 10 AM walk in the low saree, of the name my husband had put on the shutter after me.
I decided I would meet Ranga the next day itself. I needed his help. Ugly or scary I would still go to that area, to that house I had seen on the screen, and tell him about the rival stall, about the rumours Santosh spread through every contact, about the laugh in front of customers and workers, about the balance paid and the five men sent off, about my husband who could not sleep.
I did not wake my husband. I locked the phone, slid it under the pillow, turned onto my side facing his back, and lay in the nighty and the white panties with that decision already made, my breasts against his back without waking him, my hips still, my breath finally slower, the house quiet above the closed stall and the empty basement, tomorrow already fixed in my head, and none of the videos and none of the house and none of the decision reaching his ears.


In the middle of the night on the first floor the room stayed dark except for the thin light from the window, the fan still turning above the cot, the heat of the day still in the walls, the stall below still shut, the basement still empty, and I woke to my husband already awake. He was sitting on the edge of the cot beside me, one foot on the floor, his weight making the cot dip, and he had already lifted my nighty up over my hips and over my waist and over my stomach until the nighty sat bunched above my breasts. My breasts were bare in the dark under that lifted nighty, my nipples already tight, and he was looking down at my pussy over my white panties, his palms on my thick thighs, his thumbs near the edge of the panties, his eyes on the line of the white panties against my clit.
I lay there and felt his looking. I was ready to do anything to make him happy.
“You want me? I am here, you woke me like this, you can take me, I will give you whatever you want now, tell me, I will not say no,” I said, my voice still thick from sleep, my ass heavy on the cot, my thighs opening a little so he could keep looking at the white panties.

He hooked his fingers in the sides of my white panties and pulled them down. I lifted my hips off the cot to help him, the nighty staying up around my breasts, and I felt the white panties slide over my ass and over my shaved pussy and down my thick thighs. I used my feet to push them off my ankles and they dropped beside the cot. Then I lay there with the nighty bunched above my breasts and nothing on my pussy and nothing on my ass, the night air on my clit, on my shaved pussy, on my asshole.
He looked at my clean shaved pussy first, then at my asshole. He put his thumbs on me and spread my pussy open and held it open on the cot, the two sides of my pussy in his hands, my clit showing, and he kept looking as if the stall and Santosh and the empty basement were all sitting in that one look.
“If I close the shop, if Sudha Sweet Stall goes, will you still love me, look at me and say it, I need to hear it while I am looking at you like this, while I am holding you open,” my husband said, his thumbs keeping my pussy spread, his breath coming faster, his body still on the edge of the cot.
“Come on Rajesh, I am your wife, I always love you, shop or no shop I am not going anywhere, you look at me, you hold me like this, you take what you want, I am yours, I will not leave you,” I said, keeping my thighs open, my shaved pussy in his hands, my breasts rising and falling under the lifted nighty, my long black hair on the pillow.
He moved his hands down from my pussy to my ass. He spread my ass cheeks with both palms and held the two ass cheeks apart and looked at my asshole the same way he had looked at my pussy, leaning a little on the edge of the cot, his breath hitting me, the fan turning above us, the house quiet on the second and third and fourth floors where the three sons were still sleeping.

“You are my only happiness now, this, you on this cot, the boys upstairs, I do not have the stall the way I had it, I only have you, I only have this, I am looking at you because this is what I have left,” my husband said, his fingers still spreading my ass cheeks, his eyes on my asshole and then on my shaved pussy again.
“Do not worry, somehow God will help us, we will build the shop from the scrap, we will be number one again, you come here, I am your wife, I love you, that will not change, you keep looking, you take me if you want me, I am here,” I said, my ass in his hands, my shaved pussy open, the white panties already off on the floor, the nighty still up over my breasts, giving him the middle of the night on the first floor and keeping the next day’s visit to that ugly scary man inside my own head where he could not hear it.


I sat up on the cot in the middle of the night and pulled the nighty off over my head and dropped it beside the white panties, and then I was naked on the first floor, my breasts free, my nipples tight, my shaved pussy and my ass bare, my thick thighs on the cot. I put my hands on my husband and I removed his banian first, lifting it over his chest and over his shoulders and off his arms, and then I opened his lungi and pulled it away from his waist and off his legs until he was naked with me. His cock was against my thigh and it was not ready. I lay back and I pulled him onto me so he could make love to me, my breasts under his chest, my thighs open, my shaved pussy waiting for him, my hands on his back and on his ass, and he tried to settle on me and he could not. His cock stayed soft against my pussy. He put his face in my neck and he started crying, the sound small and broken in the dark, the pain coming out of him while the fan turned above us and the three sons slept on the floors above.
“I built Sudha Sweet Stall for you, I put your name on the shutter, now it is nothing, Santosh took the road, he laughed, he spread the talk, I cannot even make love to you, my dream is gone, I am nothing on this cot,” my husband said, his tears on my neck, his body heavy on my breasts and on my stomach, his cock still soft against my shaved pussy.

“Do not cry, do not say you are nothing, I am here, I am your wife, the stall is not the only thing, you lie on me, you breathe, we will be all right, God will help us, you do not have to do anything tonight,” I said, my arms around his back, my thighs still open under him, consoling him while he shook on top of me.
Deep inside I wanted to destroy Santosh’s life and destroy his shop. The crying on my neck fixed that want. I made up my mind to meet Ranga the next day at any cost, ugly and scary or not, because my husband was naked on me and could not make love and could not stop crying and the name on the shutter had been reduced to nothing. I did not say any of that. I held him until the crying slowed. I turned him onto his back and I slept on top of him, my breasts on his chest, my shaved pussy against his cock, my ass under the fan, my long black hair falling over his shoulder, my mouth near his ear, and I stayed on him until he slept under me and I slept on him, naked on the cot, the white panties and the nighty and the banian and the lungi on the floor, tomorrow already decided and still not reaching his ears.


I woke early on the first floor while the light was still thin, still naked on top of my husband, my heavy breasts flattened on his chest, my nipples against him, my shaved pussy resting on him, my ass under the slow fan, the nighty and the white panties and his banian and his lungi still on the floor from the middle of the night. His breath was even. The three sons were still asleep on the second and third and fourth floors. I put my mouth close to his ear and I whispered so the house would not wake.
“You take rest, I am going to the temple and coming, you sleep, I will be back, do not get up,” I said, my lips almost on his face.
I pushed myself off him gently, lifting my breasts away from his chest first, then my stomach, then my hips and my shaved pussy, and I sat on the edge of the cot with my thighs together and my ass on the wood and I picked up the towel from the chair. I went into the bathroom first for the things I did every morning before the water. I sat and relieved myself, then I stood at the basin and brushed my teeth, the brush in my mouth, my breasts hanging as I bent, my ass bare, and I washed my face with both hands, water on my eyes and on my lips and on my neck, and I looked at my face in the small mirror, the large eyes, the full lips, the same face my husband loved, before I turned to the shower.

I took a shower. The water ran over my long black hair and down my neck and over my shoulders and over my heavy breasts and across my nipples until they tightened under the stream. It ran over my narrow waist and over my wide hips and over my ass cheeks and into the line of my ass, over my shaved pussy and over my clit and over my inner thighs and down to my ankles. I stood there and let it, one hand on the wall, the other moving the water over my breasts and between my thighs, washing the night off my pussy and off my ass and off my nipples, until I was clean.
I turned the water off and I toweled myself slowly. I dried my breasts first, lifting each one in the towel, rubbing the nipples until they stood, then my waist, then my hips, then each ass cheek, then I put the towel between my thighs and dried my shaved pussy and my clit and my asshole, and I came out of the bathroom wrapping the towel around me. The towel sat tight over my breasts and tucked at my chest, the top of my ass showing when I walked, my wet hair down my back.

I opened the cupboard. I picked up my white bra and my grey panties and my pink petticoat and my pink blouse and my pink chiffon saree and I laid them on the cot near his sleeping feet. I dropped the towel. I stood naked again in the thin morning light, my breasts heavy, my nipples tight, my shaved pussy open to the room, my ass full, and I stepped into the grey panties. I pulled them up over my thick thighs and over my ass until the grey panties sat against my shaved pussy and against my clit, the back of them holding my ass cheeks. I put my arms through the white bra and settled my heavy breasts into the cups and closed it at my back, and the white bra lifted and held them, the nipples pressing from inside at once. I tied the pink petticoat low below my navel, low on my hips, the way I had learned, so the petticoat sat under my waist and above the grey panties. I put on the pink blouse and closed it across my breasts, the blouse sitting tight over the white bra, the heavy shape of my breasts pushing the pink blouse forward. I dbangd the pink chiffon saree over the pink blouse and over the pink petticoat, tucked it at my waist, brought the pallu around, and I stood getting ready in front of the cupboard, adjusting the saree over my wide hips and over my ass, the grey panties and the white bra hidden.

I put the mangalsutra around my neck so it rested against my chest above the pink blouse. I put the gold earrings in my ears. I slid the simple gold bangles onto my wrists. I put the small bindi on my forehead. I put the gold anklets on my ankles. I opened the perfume and I put it on my neck and behind my ears and on my wrists and once between my breasts over the pink blouse, a small amount, enough that I would carry it out of the house. I looked at my husband once on the cot, naked under the sheet I pulled up, and I left the first floor in the pink chiffon saree, the perfume already on me, the temple only in the whisper I had given him, and Ranga’s house already waiting in my head.

To Be Continued...!