Misc. Erotica On the Day of Ayudha Pooja (COMPLETED)- By Novelist Casanova

[novelistcasanova]

On the Day of Ayudha Pooja

By Novelist Casanova 

The house in Koramangala sat on a wide corner plot, three floors of white walls and tall windows, with a long driveway that curved past the garden before it dropped into the basement ramp. From the upper balcony I could see the tops of the trees along the main road. My husband had bought the place after the big political case closed. The boys still called the top floor theirs. My room faced the garden. The basement was the only place big enough for all the vehicles at once.
We had come down to wash the vehicles. The servants had already laid out the buckets, the sponges and the long green hose. Three cars waited under the high concrete ceiling—the black SUV, the white sedan, and the older silver one—plus the two bikes and my white Activa near the ramp. Water already trickled toward the drain. My husband and the boys had changed into shorts and old T-shirts. I had stayed in my white cotton nighty. My white bra sat under it, cups snug over my heavy breasts. My pink panties rested low under my wide hips against my pussy.
I was still bent over the front tyre of the black SUV with the sponge when the first cold spray hit my back. I straightened, pushing my long wet hair off my face, large eyes blinking against the water. My husband stood ten feet away holding the green hose nozzle in both hands, already smiling. The boys were laughing before the water even reached me.
“Appa, again,” the youngest said.
“Rajesh,” I said. “The cars first.”

He squeezed the trigger. Water slammed across my full breasts and soft stomach. My white cotton nighty soaked through at once and clung tight. Underneath, my white bra showed clear through my wet nighty, cups stretched over my heavy breasts, the deep cleavage visible where the fabric had gone thin. Lower, my pink panties went translucent the moment the water reached them. The hem of my nighty lifted with the force and stuck wet to my thick thighs.
My husband walked closer. He aimed the nozzle lower and held it. The next burst went straight under my nighty. Cold water rushed up between my thick thighs and drove hard against my pink panties, soaking the cotton right over my pussy. I gasped, my full lips parting. I stepped back. My panties plastered tight against my pussy lips and the soft crease where my thighs met. I could feel every seam and the way the thin cotton had gone see-through over the shape of my pussy and the curve of my wide hips. The boys howled. The middle one nearly dropped his bucket.

I turned toward the workbench for a dry cloth, my heavy breasts shifting inside my white bra, and saw the driver. He had moved behind the big concrete pillar near the tool rack. Only his shoulder and one arm showed at first. Then he shifted, getting bolder. His white uniform pants were already tight around a thick boner. He glanced once toward my husband and the boys, then slowly pulled his cock out through the open fly. His cock stood hard and thick in his fist. He began masturbating, slow strokes at first, eyes fixed on me through the gap beside the pillar—on my beautiful face with the water running down my cheeks and full lips, on my heavy breasts outlined under the wet nighty, on my wide hips and the pink panties plastered over my pussy, on my thick thighs. He kept his hand moving on his cock.
I looked back at my husband and the boys. They had not seen him. My husband lifted the nozzle again.
“One more,” he said. “Then we do the Activa.”
He sprayed full force across my soft stomach and then lower, lifting my nighty and driving the water straight against my pink panties. The cotton clung so tight the shape of my pussy showed through, my wide hips and thick thighs glistening. My nipples had stiffened inside my white bra, hard points poking against the cups over my heavy breasts. The youngest was laughing so hard he had to hold his stomach. My husband kept the spray moving, slow, watching my face while the water ran under the hem and down my thick thighs.

Behind the pillar the driver grew bolder. He pulled his cock fully out and stroked faster, fist tight around the thick shaft, eyes locked on my heavy breasts under the wet nighty, on the deep cleavage, on my pussy under the soaked pink panties, and on the way my thick thighs pressed together. His cock stayed thick and rigid in his hand. He did not look away from my body or my face.
I stayed where I was. I laughed when the youngest pointed at how my nighty stuck to me, my full lips curving. I let my husband pull me closer by the wrist so he could rinse the sponge water off my arms. I did not turn toward the pillar again. The basement echoed with their voices and the slap of water on concrete. I kept my eyes on my husband and the boys and let the rest of it stay behind the concrete where it could not touch the morning.



My husband dropped the hose and stepped in close. His arms came around my waist from the front, pulling me against him. Water dripped from both of us onto the concrete. He leaned in, mouth aiming for mine.
“The boys are right here,” I said, turning my face. My full lips brushed his cheek instead. “Stop. They’re watching.”
He only laughed, low in his chest. His hands slid lower, gripping under my wide hips, and he lifted me clean off the floor. My thick thighs locked around his waist for a second before he turned and set me down on the soapy stretch of concrete near the SUV. The foam was cold against my back through my white nighty.
“Rajesh—”
He caught both my ankles in his hands and started walking backward, dragging me across the wet floor. My white nighty rode up at once. The hem climbed past my knees, then past my thick thighs, until it bunched above my waist. My pink panties showed fully—plastered tight over my pussy, the elastic sitting low on my wide hips. The boys burst out laughing. The youngest clapped his hands.
I tried to push my white nighty down with one hand. My husband kept pulling. Another drag and my white nighty climbed higher still, sliding up over my soft stomach until the lower edge of my white bra came into view. The cups strained over my heavy breasts. My large eyes went wide. Heat rushed into my face.
“Enough,” I said, voice tight. “The boys—”
He only grinned wider and gave one more slow pull. My white nighty bunched under my arms. My white bra and my pink panties were both out in the open now, soap suds streaking across my thick thighs and the curve of my wide hips. The boys were laughing so hard the middle one had to lean on the car door. I covered my face with one forearm, embarrassed, my full lips pressed together, while my other hand tried and failed to tug my white nighty back down.
Behind the big pillar the driver’s hand had gone still for a second. Then it moved faster. His cock jerked in his fist. Thick white cum shot out in heavy spurts, striping the concrete at his feet and coating his fingers. His eyes stayed locked on my white bra stretched over my heavy breasts and my pink panties soaked over my pussy the whole time. When the last pulse left him he tucked his cock away, wiped his hand once on his pants, and stepped quietly out from behind the pillar. He walked toward the ramp without looking back, shoes leaving wet prints, and disappeared up the slope while the boys were still laughing and my husband still held my ankles.
I stayed on the soapy floor a moment longer, my white nighty bunched high, face hot, listening to the sound of his footsteps fade.


I pushed myself up off the soapy concrete, my white nighty still clinging wet to my heavy breasts and wide hips, the hem stuck to my thick thighs. My full lips curved even while heat stayed in my face. I grabbed the long broom stick leaning against the workbench and turned toward them.
“Oh, so this is how it is now? All of you ganging up and laughing at me?” I said, voice light but warm. “Come here then. Let’s see who is laughing after this.”
My husband was already backing away, still grinning, water dripping from his T-shirt.
“Sudha, put that down… we were only playing,” he said, hands half-raised, laughing. “The boys started it.”
“The boys started it?” I said, stepping after him and tapping the broom lightly across his upper back. “And you held the hose like you had no part in it? Stand still, Rajesh. At least take it properly.”
He ducked and spun, still smiling.
“I am taking it, I am taking it… slowly, slowly…”
The boys shouted and ran to his side, feet slipping in the suds.
“Appa, we are with you! Don’t worry!” the middle one called, half-laughing, half-breathless. “Amma can’t catch all of us!”
“Oh, she can’t?” I said, turning the broom toward them, my large eyes bright. “Then all of you. Come. Since you are all on his side today, you can all take a little of this too.”
They scattered across the wet floor, laughing so hard they could barely run straight. I chased the youngest first.
“Amma, no, no, I didn’t do anything!” he shrieked, dodging behind the white sedan. “It was Anna!”
“It was both of you,” I said, tapping the broom gently against his back while he yelped and laughed. “And you were clapping the loudest. Come here.”
Then the middle one, then my husband again when he tried to pull one of them clear. Every time the broom landed they yelled and laughed louder, voices bouncing off the concrete. My heavy breasts shifted inside my white bra with each quick step. Soap streaked my thick thighs. For a few minutes the basement was only noise and movement and the three of them trying not to get caught, all of them happy, all of them loud.
When they were breathless and still grinning I lowered the broom, chest rising.
“All right… enough now,” I said, softer. “Look at all of you. Soaked, laughing like children. Go up. Take your baths properly. Change into the new clothes. Be ready when we start the pooja. Go on.”
My husband ruffled the youngest one’s wet hair, still smiling.
“You heard Amma,” he said. “Upstairs. All of you. Before she picks that broom up again.”
The boys were still laughing as they headed for the ramp, wet shorts slapping against their legs.
“Amma, you also come fast,” the youngest called back.
“I will,” I said. “After I finish here. Go.”
My husband looked back once, the smile still on his face, and followed them. Their voices faded up the slope and into the house.
I stayed. I swept the soapy water toward the drain with long strokes of the broom, pushing the foam and the dirt into the channel. Then I took the hose and rinsed the open stretch of concrete until the suds cleared and the floor shone wet under the basement lights. When the last of the water ran away I set the broom in the corner against the pillar, bristles down. My white nighty was heavy with water. My pink panties still clung between my thick thighs. I wiped my hands once on the nighty, turned, and walked up the ramp into the house.



I left my slippers at the bottom of the stairs and went up barefoot, the wet hem of my white nighty brushing my thick thighs with every step. The marble was cool under my feet. The staircase itself was wide, polished stone with a dark wood handrail that my husband had chosen because it looked solid, expensive. Framed photographs lined the wall—wedding pictures, the boys as babies, one of my husband in his black advocate’s coat outside the court. Higher up, the landing opened into a long corridor with tall windows that let in the late morning light. Everything smelled faintly of the fresh flowers the maids had already placed for the pooja.
This house had come after the big cases. My husband was an advocate. He did not take ordinary matters. He stood in court for the men who could not afford to lose—politicians, the ones with money that never quite showed on paper. He knew how to move it, how to keep it quiet, how to make a crore look like a gift or a settlement or something that never needed explaining. The cars downstairs, the diamond he had fastened around my neck only yesterday, the way the boys never asked where things came from—he handled all of it so cleanly that even I sometimes forgot to wonder. People in the city knew his name. security officer officers stood when the advocate entered a station. Judges listened longer when he spoke. Inside these walls we simply lived with what that power bought.
I reached our bedroom at the end of the corridor. The door was open. My husband stood near the wardrobe in his white shirt and white dhoti, the cloth still half-wrapped, one end in his hand while he looked for the pin. His hair was damp from the bath. He glanced up when he heard me, and his eyes stayed on me longer than usual.
“You’re still in that nighty,” he said, voice lower. “It is stuck to you everywhere. I can see your white bra… and those pink panties. You look too sexy like this. I almost don’t want you to change.”
I stayed in the doorway, my white nighty heavy and cold against my heavy breasts and wide hips, my pink panties still damp between my thick thighs. His gaze dragged slowly over the shape of my white bra and the way my pink panties clung, and I saw the temptation move across his face.
“I will change,” I said. “But first go to the boys. The youngest still doesn’t know how to tie his dhoti properly. He was struggling with it last year and he’ll do the same today. Help them. Make sure they look right before everyone comes.”
He nodded, but his eyes did not leave my body at once. He folded the end of his own dhoti once more, still looking.
“All right. I’ll see to them,” he said. “But you standing there like this… it is difficult to walk away.”
“And tell them not to run down before we call,” I added. “I don’t want them dirty again.”
“I will,” he said. He picked up the small gold pin from the table, fixed his dhoti, and walked past me toward the boys’ rooms. His hand brushed my arm, then lingered a second at my waist, fingers pressing lightly over the wet nighty above my wide hips. “You also get ready. Don’t take long… or I might come back before you finish.”
I watched him go down the corridor, white shirt bright against the walls, then stepped fully into the bedroom and closed the door behind me.




I closed the bedroom door and crossed to the tall cupboard. The room was quiet, the late morning light falling across the wide bed and the polished floor. I opened the cupboard doors. Rows of folded clothes sat in neat stacks. I reached for the panty pack first and slid out a pair of maroon panties, plain cut, the colour deep against my fingers. Next I took a white bra from the shelf, then a white petticoat, a yellow blouse, and the yellow chiffon saree that had been kept aside for today. I carried them to the bed and laid them out in a line—maroon panties, white bra, white petticoat, yellow blouse, yellow chiffon saree—smoothing each one once so nothing would crease.
I picked up a fresh towel from the rack, my white nighty still heavy and cold against my heavy breasts and wide hips, my pink panties damp between my thick thighs. I walked into the bathroom and shut the door. The tiles were warm under my feet. I turned the shower on and waited until the water ran hot, steam already rising and clouding the mirror. Then I pulled my white nighty up over my head and let it drop. My white bra came next. I reached behind, unhooked it, and shrugged it off. My heavy breasts fell free, full and soft, nipples already tight from the cooler air. I hooked my thumbs into my pink panties and pushed them down my thick thighs, stepping out of them. For a moment I stood naked, wide hips and soft stomach and the dark triangle of hair above my pussy visible in the steam.
I stepped under the spray. Hot water struck my shoulders first, then ran in heavy streams over my heavy breasts, tracing the deep cleavage and spilling from the undersides. I tipped my head back. Water poured over my face, into my large eyes, over my full lips. I reached for the soap and worked it between my palms until it foamed. My hands moved slowly over my neck, then down to my heavy breasts. I cupped them, lifting the weight, thumbs circling my nipples until they stiffened harder under the slick soap. The water beat against my chest. Soap slid between my breasts and down my soft stomach.
I soaped lower, over the curve of my wide hips, then between my thick thighs. My fingers parted my pussy lips gently, washing carefully, the hot water rushing over the sensitive skin and making me draw a slow breath. I stayed there a moment, one hand braced on the wall, the other moving in small circles, feeling the heat and the slip of soap and the way my body answered even this. Water streamed down my thick thighs and pooled at my feet. Steam filled the small room. My full lips stayed parted. My large eyes stayed half-closed under the spray.
I rinsed slowly, turning so the water could clear every part of me—my heavy breasts, the dip of my waist, the full round of my wide hips, the length of my thick thighs. When the soap was gone I stood under the hot stream a little longer, letting it pound against my shoulders and run in continuous lines over my body, the sound of the water loud in the quiet bathroom. Only when my skin had flushed warm all over did I reach for the tap and turn it off.


I stepped out of the bathroom, towel loose around my heavy breasts and wide hips, steam still rising from my thick thighs. The bedroom was bright. My full lips curved. It was Ayudha Pooja morning and the happiness sat easy in my chest. I could already hear the boys moving somewhere down the corridor, their voices light.
I let the towel fall. I stood beside the bed, water still sliding from the undersides of my heavy breasts down my soft stomach, gathering at the top of my thick thighs. My large eyes moved over the clothes I had laid out. I reached for my maroon panties first. I lifted one foot, then the other, and drew them slowly up my thick thighs. The elastic settled low beneath my wide hips. I pulled them snug so the front rested close over my pussy, then smoothed both sides with my palms, feeling the fit against me.
I took my white bra next. I slid my arms through the bra straps and brought the bra cups up beneath my heavy breasts, lifting their full weight. The bra cups closed over the deep cleavage. I reached behind my back, fastened the hooks, and adjusted each bra strap until my breasts sat high and rounded inside my white bra. My nipples, still tight from the shower, pressed lightly against the inside of the bra cups. I ran my fingers once along the top edge of the bra cups, settling everything.
My white petticoat waited. I stepped into it and drew it up over my maroon panties and wide hips. I tied the string low, below my navel, the way my mother had shown me years ago, so it sat smooth. It brushed over my thick thighs as I let it fall. I turned once, watching how it moved with me.
I picked up my yellow blouse and slipped it on over my white bra. The sleeves fitted close. I buttoned the front slowly, one by one, my yellow blouse closing neatly over my heavy breasts. When the last button was done I smoothed my yellow blouse down at my waist, feeling my white bra and the full shape of my breasts held in place beneath the bra cups.
Last was my yellow chiffon saree. I shook it out so the length floated, then began making the pleats with careful fingers. Each fold dropped straight. I tucked the pleats into my white petticoat at the waist. I wrapped the rest of my yellow chiffon saree around my wide hips, drawing it close, then brought the pallu over my left shoulder so it dbangd softly across my heavy breasts and my yellow blouse. I pinned it in place. My yellow chiffon saree looked bright and festive against me.
I turned fully toward the mirror. My large eyes were clear. My full lips smiled. My yellow chiffon saree shifted over my thick thighs and wide hips when I moved, the pallu resting lightly over my yellow blouse and my white bra beneath, the bra straps just visible at my shoulders. I touched the edge of the pallu once, then reached for my bangles. The happiness stayed. Everything felt right for the day. I was ready.



I was still standing in front of the mirror, fingers resting on the pallu of my yellow chiffon saree, when the bedroom door opened. My husband stepped inside and closed it behind him. In his hand he carried a long flat box. He did not speak at once. He only looked at me—my yellow chiffon saree dbangd over my wide hips and thick thighs, my yellow blouse fitted over my white bra, the bra straps just visible at my shoulders, my heavy breasts rising softly beneath the pallu.
“Turn around,” he said, voice quiet. “I have something for you.”
I turned. He opened the box. The diamond necklace lay against dark velvet, stones catching the light in a clean bright line. My large eyes widened. My full lips parted.
“Rajesh…”
He lifted it out and stepped behind me, both of us facing the mirror. His hands came around my neck. I watched in the glass as he settled the diamonds against my skin, just above the neckline of my yellow blouse, the weight of them resting where my heavy breasts began. He fastened the clasp. The stones sat cool and perfect. I could see them shine against the yellow of my chiffon saree, see how they drew the eye straight to the curve of my breasts and the line of my throat.
“Look,” he said, his mouth near my ear. “See how it sits on you. It was made for this. You look so beautiful. More than beautiful. I paid crores for it—real money, the kind that does not show on any paper—and still it looks richer because it is on you.”
My chest rose. Pride and happiness moved together under my yellow blouse. I touched the diamonds once with my fingertips, watching them flash in the mirror above my white bra and the full shape of my heavy breasts.
“Thank you,” I said softly. “It is too much. But thank you.”
His hands stayed on my shoulders. In the mirror his eyes met mine.
“Thank me properly,” he said. “Not with words. With your mouth.”
I turned in his arms. My yellow chiffon saree shifted over my wide hips and thick thighs. I rose onto my toes, my full lips finding his. The kiss was slow at first, then deeper. I opened for him, tasting him, my tongue moving against his while my heavy breasts pressed to his white shirt and the diamonds rested cool between us. His hands slid down to my waist, holding me close. I kissed him harder, happier, the festive morning and the weight of the necklace and the feel of his mouth all mixing until I forgot, for a moment, to breathe. When I finally drew back my large eyes were bright and my full lips were wet.
“Like that?” I asked.
He smiled, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth.
“Like that.”


My husband kept his hands at my waist, thumbs resting just above the tied edge of my white petticoat beneath my yellow chiffon saree. The diamonds sat cool against my throat. In the mirror I could still see how they shone above the neckline of my yellow blouse, how they drew the eye to the full rise of my heavy breasts.
“Do you know how lucky I am?” he said, voice low, mouth close to my ear. “To have married a wife this beautiful… this hot. Standing here in your yellow chiffon saree, that necklace on you, your heavy breasts filling your yellow blouse the way they do… I have been hard since I walked in. I want you right now. Right here, before we go down.”
His hips pressed lightly against my wide hips. I felt the heat of him through the layers. My full lips parted. I was about to turn and kiss him again when voices rose in the corridor—loud, happy, the youngest calling my name and the middle one answering. Footsteps came fast toward our door.
We stepped apart at the same moment. My husband smoothed his white shirt. I touched the pallu of my yellow chiffon saree, settling it over my white bra. The door opened and the boys spilled in, already dressed in their new shirts and dhotis, faces bright.
“Amma, are you ready? Appa, everyone is waiting downstairs,” the eldest said, grinning.
“We are coming,” I answered, smiling. My large eyes met my husband’s for a second. He smiled back, small and private. “Go. We will follow.”
We went down together. In the basement the vehicles stood clean and waiting. I took the small plate of white naamam paste and red kumkumam and moved from one to the next—the black SUV, the white sedan, the silver car, the two bikes, my white Activa. I marked each bonnet and handlebar with the naamam, then the bright kumkumam dots on top, the way we always did. My husband lit the lamp. We offered the flowers, broke the coconut, placed the lemons under the wheels. The boys stood close, watching, quiet for once. The diamond necklace shifted against my yellow blouse every time I bent.
When the pooja was finished our four servants stood in a line near the ramp—two women and two men, all in their work clothes. My husband nodded to me. I handed each of them a new set of clothes wrapped in paper, then a steel plate heaped with sweets, and finally a small envelope of money. Their faces changed at once. They smiled, thanked us, pressed their palms together.
“Happy Ayudha Pooja,” I said. “Wear the new clothes. Share the sweets at home.”
They bowed and stepped back, happy. Yet even while they smiled, the two male servants kept their eyes on me. I felt it—the way their gazes moved over my yellow chiffon saree where it clung to my wide hips and thick thighs, over the diamonds resting above my heavy breasts, over the shape of my yellow blouse. They had looked at me like that for years, wanting, waiting for some chance that never came. My husband never noticed. He was already speaking to the boys about the cars.
I kept my face calm and festive. I knew what those looks meant. I also knew that if I ever spoke of it, my husband would ruin them without hesitation. The only reason I stayed silent was that they came from poor houses and had wives and children waiting for the money and the sweets I had just placed in their hands. Otherwise I would have ended them long ago. I turned back to my husband and the boys, the diamonds bright at my throat, and let the morning continue.


After the servants left with their new clothes and plates of sweets, the basement grew quiet again. My eyes went straight to the new white Honda Activa parked near the ramp. My father had bought it only weeks ago, on my birthday, and it still looked untouched. No matter how many expensive cars stood beside it, the Activa was mine.
My husband noticed where I was looking. He came closer, the teasing smile already on his face.
“Look at you,” he said, voice warm. “Three cars right here and your whole face changes the second you see that Activa. Every time. Your father really does know you better than anyone.”
I touched the handlebar, the diamonds shifting softly against my yellow blouse. My full lips curved.
“It is special to me,” I said. “He gave it on my birthday and I still haven’t taken it out properly. Today feels right. I want to ride it to the temple, do a proper pooja for it, and bring it back blessed before I start using it.”
He studied me for a moment, then his smile turned slower, the playfulness slipping into something lower.
“Before you go anywhere,” he said, stepping in, “tell me one thing. What colour bra are you wearing under that yellow blouse? I can see the bra straps, but I want to hear you say it.”
Heat moved into my cheeks. I laughed, small and surprised.
“White,” I said. “My white bra.”
His eyes dropped, following the line of my yellow chiffon saree over my wide hips.
“And the panties?” he asked, quieter now. “What colour are they? Don’t make me guess. Tell me.”
“Maroon,” I answered, still smiling, my large eyes on his. “My maroon panties.”
He let out a slow breath. His hand settled on my waist, thumb pressing just above where my white petticoat was tied.
“White bra, maroon panties, this saree sitting on you like that… your heavy breasts, your wide hips… and you are about to ride off to the temple looking like this. I am already hard just standing here. Come here.”
He pulled me in. The kiss was deep from the first second, his mouth open against mine, hungry. I kissed him back, my full lips parting, my heavy breasts pressed to his chest, the diamonds cool between us. When he finally drew back, his forehead rested against mine and his voice had gone rough and soft at the same time.
“I love you,” he said. “You know that, don’t you? More than all of this. More than anything I have ever won in court. I love you.”
My large eyes stayed on his. My full lips were still wet from the kiss.
“I love you too,” I said. “Always. You know I do.”
He kissed me again, shorter this time, then spoke against my mouth.
“Tonight, when everyone is gone and the house is quiet, I am going to fuck your brains out. I am going to keep you in that white bra and those maroon panties and I am not going to stop until you can’t even say my name properly. Remember that while you are riding.”
I laughed, breathless, my hands still on his shirt.
“Rajesh…”
He stepped back just enough to look at me, the smile turning a little tighter, a little jealous.
“Go,” he said. “Take your Activa. Do your pooja. Just… don’t let that priest bastard hug you too much, all right? I have seen the way he looks at you. The way he finds reasons to come close. Don’t give him anything. Come straight back to me.”
“I won’t,” I said, smiling, touching his face once. “Only the pooja. Then I come home to you.”
I untied the ribbon, swung my leg over the seat, my yellow chiffon saree shifting over my thick thighs as I settled. The engine started clean. I looked at him once more, still feeling the kiss and the weight of what he had said, and rode up the ramp into the daylight.


To Be Continued ..!