[S Darko]

Swati peers through the peephole, clad in only her towel. It is a large, colorful, beach towel, and she can comfortably knot it over her breasts, and besides, it reaches down to almost her knees. Swati not infrequently walks about the house in her towel, with another one wrapped around her head, waiting for her hair to dry, and this is not new to her. Under her towel, Swati is fresh, moisturized, anointed with fragrant cream and completely and delectably wholesome.


Parvati stands outside, looking a little tense. There is a man with her, a swarthy sort, slight, but a little crazy looking. He has a weird mushroom haircut, white walls all around with a sprouting top, like a crazy plant, and a scar down one side of his face. A little dangerous, maybe. She can see all this because the man keeps looking from side to side, giving her a great look at his face and both profiles. He holds Parvati’s arm firmly around the bicep, and she has a grimace on her face that she’s trying hard to mask.

 It seems to Swati that she knows the man; he is no stranger. Perhaps her husband? Was Parvati married? She racks her brain, but she doesn’t remember. She thinks that she has always thought of her maid as a young girl, but then these low class types do get married early, don’t they?

For a moment, she wonders if she should go and slip on something, a pair of pants or a skirt, and a top, but then decides against it. It’s only Parvati. She can let her in and have the guy wait outside while she gets dressed. 

She slides back the safety chain and opens the door. 

A surprise greets her. Off to one side stands another man, his hands in his pockets, dressed in a pair of jeans and a thin jacket. He looks strangely out of place without his uniform. It takes her a minute to place him before recognition dawns. He is grinning savagely at her.

“Bitch!” Prakash says in Hindi. His voice cannot contain his satisfaction. His face is all smiles.

Swati feels the bottom of her stomach fall to her feet.

She has always compartmentalized her life—office and home. The two never intersected. She knows, of course, that people at her office might know her address, HR for sure, but she has never imagined that Prakash the security guard she has so happily been fucking for months might materialize at her doorstep. 

She stands paralyzed. The tableau of the two men and one woman outside the door and the one woman inside the door is frozen for a minute. Swati thinks furiously. She should bang the door in their faces and call the cops. A second later reason dawns. Parvati has the key. They can simply open the door and enter. And if the cops came, what would she do anyway? What could she tell them?

Parvati says, “Madam!” Her voice is stricken, as though she feels she is to blame for the whole situation. She has no idea how wrong she is. 

Nawaz, who was taciturn until a moment ago, is starting to smile after Prakash’s greeting. His eyes are roving up and down her body, appraising, evaluating and clearly finding much to his liking.

In the meantime, the mushroom haired man pushes Parvati into the open door and follows. Prakash pushes off the wall, and still smiling, follows them inside. Swati stands aside to avoid being run over, her expression as demure as she can make it. 

She wonders what the neighbors might think if they saw this. Not that she can see anyone, but she knows many of the women on the street have nothing better to do than peer out from behind curtains. Mrs. Singh across the street is notorious for that, and she is also a terrible gossip. Already she is manufacturing explanations for this visit. Someone from the office with something urgent, the two men work in her office, one a peon, the other a security guard. It might work. As long as they went away soon. But deep inside, she knows that is unlikely.

The very fact that Prakash has taken the trouble to trace her address and come there means that he has some other plan. She wonders what it might be. She doesn’t have to wonder long.

“How come you didn’t greet me?” He says. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Yes,” she agrees, “it has been a while.” She tries a small smile. Her gaze flits to the others in the room. Mushroom is still standing just inside the foyer, still holding Parvati, a half smile on his face. It makes him look stupid. The scowl suits him better.

Mushroom suddenly pushes Parvati forward, “Go make some tea for us, Paro.” 

He staggers slightly, and Swati realizes he is drunk. Prakash is probably drunk as well. This is not going to be good. She knows that Prakash drinks, but he always meets her after his shift in the office, and has never had time to imbibe. He always did stink of pan masala and cigarettes, and she can smell it even now.

The slap comes out of nowhere. The first indication is a white-hot pain in her face. She can feel the blood collecting there. She is sure there his fingers will be imprinted there if she cared to look. Her hands are free, the towel is still secure on her body. 

But there are other, more pressing matters that need to be addressed. When she regains her composure, she sees Prakash, still grinning at her.

“Who’s going to say Malik, huh?” His tone is belligerent now. He is enjoying humiliating her in front of her maid and this new man. 

Swati drops her gaze and says, “Sorry Malik.” 

“Huh? I didn’t hear that. Say it again.”

“Sorry, Malik,” she repeats in a louder tone. 

There is a gasp behind her and Parvati starts to wail. Mushroom steps forward and backhands her. “Paro, go and make tea for us.”

“Parvati!” Swati says. She sees that Mushroom has some sort of hold over her. He must be either her husband or…maybe a boyfriend. Prakash narrows his eyes at the mention of “Parvati,” and something seems to click in his mind. 

“Madam!” Parvati wails. “Madam! It’s all my fault! I was coming here like you said, and they caught me and…” Tears are running down the girl’s cheeks and her breath is hitching. 

Swati turns to her and says, “It’s okay, Parvati, I’ll take care of this. You go and make tea.” 

She has no idea what she is going to take care of, and if she even can. There are two men, one of who is her master—in a manner of speaking, of course—and he seems to want to play the game now in front of others. She will have to deal with it firmly. There is only so much nonsense she can deal with at one time.
Parvati disappears into the kitchen, still sobbing, and soon Swati can hears cookware banging as she puts the pan on the gas for the water to boil.

“Prakashji…” Swati says, trying hard to control her ragged breathing and rising panic, and catches the sharp look in his eye and adds, “Malik, this is too much. Why don’t we all sit down, you have your tea, and leave. We can discuss this later in the office.”

Prakash, who had been looking around the interior with wide eyes, taking in the furnishings and obvious wealth, whirls around and slaps her again. This time on the other cheek. She can feel the heat in her face. 

“I will tell you when you can talk.” His tone is calm. “Why don’t we all sit down and drink tea,” he mimics her in a falsetto and laughs. Mushroom laughs too.

“Oh, this is Nawaz, my friend,” Prakash says. “It’s his birthday today.” It comes out “budday,” but the meaning is clear. Nawaz looks puzzled, then surprised and then delighted. 

“Oh,” Swati says, and like a nice hostess, leads the way to the cream-colored leather sectional in the drawing room. “Happy birthday Nawazji.”

“Hmm,” says Nawaz, who hasn’t spoken a word until now. 

“Nawazji!” Prakash chuckles. “Has anyone called you Nawazji in your entire life, you motherfucker?” He laughs some more. Nawaz also chuckles, going along with the joke at his expense. He clearly feels uncomfortable, out of his depth in these luxurious surroundings. Swati can sense that Prakash too is uncomfortable, but hiding it well under cover of his “Malik” persona, and his general bravado. 

She wonders if they will simply drink their tea and leave, or if there is more in store for her. 

Her answer comes soon.

[S Darko]

Ramesh sees Prakash and Nawaz weaving erratically but talking animatedly as they leave the chawl and hail an auto. They don't so much hail an auto, as go and sit in the one that is usually parked at the end of their street. The driver is usually snoozing inside, and that solves the problem of going out to the Main Street and finding an auto that will tale them wherever thy need to go. 

People are walking up and down the street, cycles, motorcycles and scooters go up and down, hawkers hawk and naked children play by the gutters. It’s a commonplace scene that Ramesh is used to. 


Ramesh takes one last puff from his beedi and chucks it into the gutter, where it joins countless others. He wonders what is going on. Prakash is not simply poor, but also cheap. He will always take a bus when he can. Nawaz is more erratic, something that comes of an irregular income from the whorehouse he supposes. If Prakash is taking an auto, it must be something significant. And if they’re going off together, that is something even more significant. 

He watches the auto start up, then turn the corner and disappear from view. 

Ramesh climbs up the rickety stairs to the chawl room and looks about for clues. It isn’t a large room by any means, and the main furniture comprises three narrow pallets with thin cotton mattresses on them and empty floor space in the middle. The money plant that he has placed by the lone window has grown to be quite large and the leaves as big as the palm of his hand. That however is the only other living thing in the room. 

He scans the room, the three beds, two unmade, and his with a sheet tightly spread over it, as good as any hospital. There are a few discarded clothes on Nawaz’ and Prakash’s beds—their lungis and vests. The trapdoor in the far corner of the room is the cleanest part of the floor. Above him, hanging from a crossbeam in the ceiling, is a slowly whirling fan. 

He looks under his own bed and pulls out the metal trunk he came to Delhi with. It is small, but it contains all his worldly possessions. The small lock on it seems intact. He pulls out the key that is tied to his sacred thread, his janeyu, and opens the trunk. The contents seem to be all there. Including the automatic gun that he brought from the village. 

This one is a Ruger, not the country pistol he had been caught with ages ago. It is used, old, but in good condition. He hasn’t used it yet, but it has a full magazine that holds eighteen bullets and one in the chamber. He inspects it, then wraps it back up in the dirty looking old banian that he used to wear when he was a kid and puts it back in the bottom of the trunk. 

There are a couple of glasses, one half filled with foul smelling country liquor and the other empty. An empty packet of peanuts and an equally empty dish with a few crumbs of salt sticking to it’s bottom. There are two small stools, one of which is overturned. He doesn’t need to be Byomkesh Bakshi to figure out what has been going on. That too in the daytime. Prakash usually never starts drinking before seven or eight in the evening. It’s just half past five and there are two empties on the floor. 

Ramesh cleans up and wonders if today is the day. Will it be just Nawaz and Prakash, or are there going to be other participants? He had planned to go watch a movie with some of his pehelwan friends, but nor decides to stay around and keep vigil.

Rather than stay in the room, he decides to walk down to the street and watch the entrance to the chawl from the tea shop that is a few doors down and will afford him an unobtrusive view while remaining hidden behind the awning. He orders a cup of tea from the elderly '. proprietor and sits on a bench. 

Fifteen minutes later, a fat man appears at the end of the street, carrying a backpack, one of the carrying straps looped over his shoulder, the other flapping free. He is sweating profusely from the unaccustomed exercise, but looks happy nevertheless. 

Ramesh watches as Inder looks at the piece of paper in his hand, identifies the building, or more specifically, the chawl where they, Ramesh, Nawaz and Prakash live, on the second floor. The first floor houses a few more immigrant workers, people like himself. The second floor has been constructed without the benefit of permits and therefore is not legal. Which explains why there is a staircase with a trapdoor as the only entrance to the room he shares with Nawaz and Prakash. 

Ramesh has never even seen the owner of the property, dealing only with the middle man who collects the rent money every month without fail. For all he knows, the fat man may be the actual owner of the tenement.

Ramesh watches Inder mop his face with a handkerchief that he retrieves from his pocket as he waits. 

He clearly doesn’t know where to go beyond the address. He spends a few minutes looking for something, perhaps the mailbox, but there isn’t one. Finally, he pulls out his cellphone and makes a call. He shakes his head with frustration and looks at his phone as though it will provide clues as to why the other party won’t answer. After a while, he puts his phone away. 

He pulls a bar of chocolate from his backpack and starts to eat.

[S Darko]

Prakash’s phone in his shirt pocket begins to ring. He pulls it out, looks at the display and declines the call with a brief eye roll. 


Swati wonders who it might be, and what it might mean for her. She is suddenly conscious that she is barely clothed in the towel. Her shoulders are bare, and the towel has slipped a bit and showing more of her cleavage than she would like. 

She doesn’t want to draw attention to it by adjusting it, so she sits as still as possible. In the wild, she has read, it is movement that attracts the predator’s attention. She wonders if it applies in this situation, but there is no harm in trying. So she sits on the couch, head down, looking at the floor, trying to make herself as small as possible.

“What? No birthday gift for Nawazji?” Prakash says in with fake chagrin.

He looks from Swati to Nawaz, and back again. He spreads his hands, adding to the theater. His eyebrows go up. Then he stands.

Swati is getting increasingly uneasy and starts to fidget. Something is going to happen. Prakash is seldom so dramatic without an adverse consequence, usually, well, actually always, for her. What is he going to do?

“Nawazji,” he says with faux concern, still using a falsetto supposed to sound like her. “Don’t you want your birthday gift? Do you want it now?”
Nawaz is shifting uncomfortably in his seat. 

Swati can hear the tinkling of tea being poured into porcelain cups in the kitchen. Any minute now, and Parvati will come out bearing a tray of tea and probably biscuits. Randomly, she starts to think of what the biscuits will be. Marie or Good Day, or usually when the guests are of a certain class, Bourbon chocolate biscuits. Which is it going to be. She plays a game with herself trying to guess which it will be while she is aware the situation is going from bad to worse in front of her.

Prakash is gesticulating, more theater, speaking as though to a large audience, his manner expansive, almost like a politician. 

“…and Nawazji, don’t you feel that on your thirtieth birthday, you should have a special gift? I think I know what exactly you need Nawazji, and Swati madam here has it right here for you!”

Then he turns to Swati and her heart falls through her stomach to the floor.

“Please show Nawazji the present.”

Although his tone is civil and courteous enough, Swati knows there is a dangerous edge to it. She feels herself rising to her feet as though commanded by some higher force.

“I…I…gift? Present? I don’t know what you’re saying Prakashji, I mean, Malik.”

“Arrre! It’s all wrapped up, that’s why you don’t know. Take off the wrapper! The cover!”

Swati is fairly certain what he means by now. He wants her to take off the towel. It isn’t that the towel is especially sexy or anything. For all that, it is merely a layer of thick cloth on her body. No different from a dressing gown, a dress, a salwar kameez or anything, any piece of clothing, and yet the towel is so much more evocative and suggestive. 

Is it because of the imminent nudity that is so exciting? Or is it the fact that the towel is used to dry the naked body? She knows she is trying to think abstractly to keep her mind away from what she knows Prakash is asking, no, telling her to do. Namely, to take off the towel. 

So much for keeping still and not drawing attention to herself. Prakash is not merely a predator out to hunt. He is a predator who has tasted blood. Her blood.

She wonders what will happen after that. 

Will he expect her to have sex with Nawaz as part of his birthday gift? Vaguely, she wonders if it is even Nawaz’ birthday at all or if that is made up. 

Also, Parvati will be here any second. She will be paraded naked in front of her maid. She will never be able to live down the humiliation. Parvati will surely blab about this to her other maid type friends. And that will be the end of her life. She will have to leave this colony and probably move somewhere else, probably change her job…

And yet…despite all the dire prognostications her mind is making, she feels the shameful cravings of desire, the itch in her loins rekindled, a part of her is actually eager to see what will happen next. 

Prakash has his hand cocked, ready to slap her. 

“Bitch! Take off the towel. Can’t you fucking hear me?”

[S Darko]

Excellent update, please do update the next part. Keep up the good work bro

This is the internet...could be bro, or not. But thanks anyway.

[S Darko]

Dont be offended mam.
Its a generalised statement and its true people think only man will write something like this

no issues. Sent you a reply on pm

[S Darko]

Prakash’s phone starts to vibrate. It is such a strong vibration that it almost leaps out of his shirt pocket. Distracted, he takes his eyes off Swati and grabs the phone. This time, despite the eye roll, he answers. 


“Haanji!”

It is Inder, calling from the chawl. Over the speaker, he sounds impatient, angry even. Prakash is aware that the fat man has some evidence on him, but he has thought about it, and there is really no way he can get Prakash into trouble without implicating himself, and so he isn’t as scared of the guy as he used to be. 

Besides, he had video of the fat man playing with Swati’s nude body, eating chocolate from her cunt and even fucking her. So, yeah, the fat man can shove his anger where the sun don’t shine, he thinks.

“We are on our way,” he says. “Just fifteen minutes or so.” Then he drops his voice, looks about as though about to impart a great secret, and says, “Bitch was giving us some trouble. But it’s all sorted now.”

He hangs up, and snaps his fingers at Swati. One finger points at her towel, then at the ground. The meaning cannot be clearer. 

Swati sighs, undoes the knot at her chest, and slowly the towel slides off. Nawaz gasps and Prakash looks at him and grins. “You haven’t seen anything yet, baby.”
Swati stands uncomfortably, one hand trying to cover her breasts, the other her pussy. Prakash snaps his fingers again and her arms drop to her sides. 

Nawaz is practically salivating as he takes in her nudity. He takes a slow walk around her, admiring the scenery. 

Swati hangs her head and looks at the floor. 

Time to show the bitch who’s boss, Prakash thinks. 

He snaps his fingers again, and Swati obediently sinks to her knees and spreads her knees. Her pussy is clearly visible, and the arrow of trimmed pubic hair is clearly visible. The bitch must’ve shaved recently, perhaps she had just finished doing it when he had rung the doorbell.

A sigh escapes Prakash as he thinks about how lucky he is. Now he has the problem of taking her back to his chawl, shooting the video for Nakul Bhai and then the possibility of hitting a big payday also in the offing. So many things to worry about, but, on balance he decides, good problems to have. 

For now, he has to deal with the bitch, and the other whiny bitch, Inder who is waiting at the chawl in Bhim colony. 

He looks at the scene in front of him: Swati in position, naked and on her knees. He only has to give the command, and she will do anything for him. 

Including sucking Nawaz’s cock, if he only tells her to. He decides to order her to do just that. It would be very nice if the maid walked in when Swati was sucking his friend. He had not realized that Nawaz’ Paro was also Swati’s maid, so this was perfect. All things in the universe coming together at just the right time. 

Nawaz is standing now, clearly unable to believe how docile the madam is being. 

Prakash can see the bulge in Nawaz’s pants. What to do?

He makes a decision. He will give Nawaz a taste of things to come while simultaneously humiliating Swati in front of her maid and then take all of them to the chawl. 

There, he will maybe invite the guy that lives downstairs, Mahender, and let him handle the video part, giving him a chance at free high-class pussy as a reward. After all, the man works as in a movie studio, so he can be the director. Never mind he was only what they called a class four employee, probably a guard or gofer of some sort, but what the hell. But then, Inder is also going to be there, and he is an accomplished video geek. Hmm, decisions, decisions. 

There is another decision to be made—what will he have Swati wear during the trip. He goes over the possibilities—usual office wear, slutty western clothes, or maybe, and this is exciting, just the towel? He has time to decide. 

“Okay Nawaz, my friend, you are going to be treated to the best blowjob of your young life. Bitch! Get to it. As quick as you please. And that means now!” 

He raises his voice at the last part and Swati scoots over on her knees as though she has been expecting this command. 

[S Darko]

Swati is acutely aware she is stark naked in front of yet another stranger. 

This is not the first time this has happened, of course, but previously she has always been in a compromising position in the relatively safe zone of her office conference room. And Ramesh had always been there. She is sure he would have protected her if she had only asked. If only she had so much as looked at him with a plea in her eyes. She has never felt the need.


But the demon has possessed her again, and she cannot wait to embark on this new adventure. 

Her cunt is tingling with anticipation, and—this is a strange new feeling, one that has come over her in the last few weeks—her mouth opens as though longing for something to fill the space. Something, anything, but preferably a cock. She has found herself unconsciously opening her mouth and keeping it wide open while working, and once, embarrassingly, during a meeting. It is a strange empty feeling, this longing for something thick and hard to fill her mouth. One time she has fellated the cucumber she brought for lunch and another time looked longingly at a sausage at the supermarket. 

When Swati has undone Nawaz’s fly and extracted his member, she gasps. 

The cock is strangely shaped. Strange doesn’t even start to describe it.

The best she can think of is a miniature toilet plunger. The shaft is relatively narrow, but long, perhaps six or seven inches, and it curves upwards. 

The head of his cock is where the anomaly lies. It is disproportionately large, like a ball on a stick. Swati thinks of a large tomato, or a small apple, and wonders how wide she will have to open her mouth to accommodate this monster. She might actually dislocate her jaw, she thinks, like some snakes routinely do.

Then the thought crosses her mind. His dickhead is shaped very like his actual head! She suppresses a chuckle, but a small smile creeps onto her lips.

“What the fuck you smiling at bitch?” Prakash snaps. Evidently, he has been watching her closely.

She shakes her head. Better to keep quiet and not invite any more beatings, although that too has its place in the scheme of things.

And then the time for thinking is over, and the head of his cock is invading her mouth. As she suspected, she has to open really wide, and since the head is so large, there is no way to deep throat it. It fills her oral cavity and cuts off her breathing as it enters deeper, past her tonsils. Her cunt pulsates in sympathy or excitement, she doesn't know which, and she can feel the gush of wetness between her legs.

Swati has just enough time and the neck flexibility to glance at Prakash. He, too, seems mesmerized by the scene, by Nawaz’ cock. 

Parvati chooses this moment to make her entry. She gasps as she enters the room and drops the tray. Swati is too fully occupied to see the cups crash to the floor, too busy to see what biscuits Parvati has chosen to bring.

Nawaz is laughing, a strange, high-pitched cackle. She hears him speaking, but the words seem muffled, like she is underwater, probably because of the cock in her throat. In her mind’s eye, she can see his cock in her esophagus where he has been steadily forcing it, like a python with a large animal in its throat. 

Swati takes it up like challenge, to try and deep throat this cock, but she is rapidly losing oxygen to her brain. Black spots are starting to pop up around the periphery of her vision.

From a distance, a great distance it seems, she hears, “Suck my friend’s cock!” Presumably this is a command to Parvati from Nawaz, since she’s already sucking his cock.

She feels movement behind her, and she imagines Parvati sink to the floor in front of Prakash. She can only see him from the waist down, and soon his hairy legs are revealed as Parvati takes down his jeans.

The blackness is creeping into the outer edges of her vision, what she can see has narrowed into a tunnel.

She has one last lucid thought: How come Parvati didn’t protest at all when Nawaz ordered her to suck off Prakash?

The blackness is complete. 

Swati passes out.

[S Darko]

It is full dark by the time Prakash and party return to the auto and start for the chawl. 

Swati is grateful for the cover of darkness that will hopefully keep Mrs. Singh from seeing her depart her house clad only in an oversized and colorful towel. The streetlight in front of their houses is broken, and the moon hasn’t yet risen. Very little light bleeds through the windows to let people see what is going on in the street. All this is good because the fiction of someone from the office with work related stuff will wear thin when confronted with her clothing, or rather lack of it when laving the house.


The auto driver, an older man with a white beard, nearly has a heart attack when he sees the two women the men have brought. 

He seems to know Parvati, whom he greets cordially, and when he sees three others, he slides over in his diver’s seat and makes space for her. Swati gets into the rear bench seat together with Prakash and Nizam, sandwiched between them. Prakash holds the large rectangular pizza box.

The last few minutes…or has it been longer? have been a blur. 

Th elast thing she remembers is the blackness,  passing out while Nawaz’ freakish organ was in her throat. 

She doesn’t know how long his cock was in her throat, or even if he came in her esophagus. 

The next thing she does remember is the pimply pizza guy grunting between her legs. The boy hadn’t even bothered to take his pants off, just unzipped the fly. Perhaps he was in a hurry, maybe he felt if he lost any time, he would lose the opportunity altogether.

“What the fuck?” she said when she felt her body being jostled in an all too familiar rhythm. When she opened her eyes, she sees a grinning Prakash and an equally amused Nawaz, the former still getting his cock sucked, the latter all zipped up and ready to leave.

It took her a full minute to realize where she was and what was happening. She was flat on the floor, on the carpet really, of her drawing room, and she could feel the soft fibers of the expensive rug on her bare skin. 

The rest of the memories came rushing back—how Prakash and Nawaz had forced their way into her house and the last memory of the weird and enormous cockhead being forced inch by agonizing inch into her throat. 

She recalls taking it up as a challenge, to try and deep throat Nawaz’ cock, and she isn’t sure if she succeeded. She licks her lips and tastes the salty residue of cum. Yes, he had ejaculated inside her mouth. More likely her throat, and this was only the overflow from what she hadn’t swallowed. Or not been able to.

“Your pizza arrived,” Prakash said, leering at her. Then he put on a sad expression. “But we had no money to pay him, and we went through your pockets…heh, heh, but you had no pockets, so we offered him what we thought was a fair trade.”

Nawaz cracked up at this witticism. It seemed to Swati that Nawaz was a big fan of Prakash. He seemed to hang on every word, find every joke, however stupid, sidesplittingly funny.

Meanwhile, the boy was pumping away at her pussy. She ignored him, still befuddled. 

There was not much sensation down there. She still felt numb, but the boy appeared to be enjoying himself. Like a windfall, he had probably never imagined a chance for an actual fuck, that too with a real live woman, naked and ready and apparently willing. He would probably pay for pizza out of his pocket, but it would be worth it for him. 

The boy grunted, his guttural groans rising to a crescendo. He went rigid, then juddered for a bit, and groaned like he was dying. 

He was done. 

The boy stood, wiped himself on the discarded towel that lay at his feet, and smiled at Prakash with pathetic gratefulness. 

He gave Swati not even a glance. 

Swati thought he looked awfully young, probably not even eighteen. She had no time to register any more than that—just an average kid, probably in high college. She didn’t even notice if his cock was small or large; she was still wrapping her mind around the new reality.

So the pizza guy had come, and she had been offered as payment. How cliché, she thought. The stuff of so many porno movies. 

And here she was in the same situation, and it was her reality. 

Usually though, the pizza guy gets offered a blowjob or a glimpse of naked boobs, sometimes the entire naked woman. With Swati, the fucker had gotten straight to the fucking. 

Lucky guy.

Prakash's phone buzzed agian, and aftera glance at the caller, he slapped Parvati on the face and pulled her by the hair off his cock. “We have to go, bitch! You’re a terrible cocksucker. You should learn from your madam here.”

For some bizarre reason, Swati felt a flush of pride at this backhanded compliment. 

“Come on,” said Prakash, “we have to go to the party! Party! Party!” 

He pulled her to her feet just as his phone started ringing again. Prakash pulled it out, said, “We’ll be there in a minute,” and hung up. 

“But I have to wear something! Let me just go get some clothes on, won’t take a minute,” Swati said.

Prakash kicked at the towel on the floor, and then at her. 

Swati stared at the orange and red and blue beach towel and back at him. Surely he was joking? 

But the set of his face told her otherwise. She had no choice. She picked up the towel and wrapped it around herself, securing it around her chest. It reached her mid-thigh, longer than some mini skirts she had in her closet, stuff she was sure Prakash would surely be delighted to see. And yet, she felt vulnerable and underdressed. 

She followed him barefoot out of the house. 

And so, here they are, five of them squeezed into the auto, in a space meant at most for three. 

She is acutely aware of her nakedness under the towel. It is a thick Turkish towel, but still, only a towel. One tug and it will come off and she will be as naked as the day she was born. 

The driver wears his religion like a badge, the skull cap, the beard without a mustache and kohl in his eyes. His eyes widen when they see her, but he makes no comment.

Prakash begins to chuckle. 

He is talking in general, but Nawaz and to some extent Parvati, understand the context. The old auto driver is simply soaking in this unexpected free entertainment. 

“Did you see how the boy looked when I said instead of money, you can fuck the woman on the floor?”

Nawaz dutifully chuckles.

“And when I started going through my pockets to see if I had any money, how he simply unzipped and jumped on her, hahaha!”

Even Parvati cannot suppress a giggle at the vision, and Swati is the only one that feels left out. Well, she was left out because she was out cold. Pretty good reason. Under other circumstances, she too might find it funny. 

Right now, all she feels is apprehension. She is going to a party with Prakash, clad only in a towel. She can  very well imagine what is going to happen there. 

More likely than not, it is she that will be the main entertainment. She is sure Nawaz, birthday boy that he is, will be there too. Idly, she wonders how the weird cock will feel inside her. 

Inside her pussy. 

Inside her ass. 

The tingle in her cunt that she had started feeling when Nawaz’ cock choked her out, hasn’t been sated by the pimply boy at all, starts up again. Her heart starts going faster, and the fluttery feeling in her stomach is at full intensity. 

She is ready, but also very, very apprehensive. 

She wonders if Ramesh will be there. 

Just a little insurance. 

She is unsure how much he will help if she gets into serious trouble. 

There has never been any open dialog between them, but from time to time, he will step in and make sure she is ok. She always says no problem, she’s ok, even though there have been times when she might have said, “No, I want to stop now.” She wonders what would have happened if she had indeed said those magic words. 

No, those magic words belonged in the porn site. 

They were for the female talent if the men got too rough. This was real life, there was no contract, and Ramesh was, when you got right down to it, an unknown quantity.

And that’s when Prakash reaches across her and hands the pizza box to Nawaz. 

On the way, he casually flicks her towel open. After a brief moment as the towel tries valiantly to cling to the friction that will keep the garment, such as it is, closed, it gives up and falls open. 

The towel puddles to her waist, to the cold seat. 

The cold December air rushes across her bare boobs and her nipples spring to attention immediately. 

[S Darko]

It is only when they arrive at the chawl that Prakash permits her to wrap the towel around herself again. 

After undoing the knot at her chest, Prakash had pinched her ass until she lifted it, then he’d pulled the towel away from under her. The cold was numbing for a few minutes after she sat back down on the freeing vinyl. 


All during the ride, both men have been playing with her boobs, pulling on the nipples, squeezing her tit-meat like buyers at a vegetables market. Prakash has been fingering her as well, and she is wet and ready to party. 

Nawaz has been a little more restrained, whether it’s because he is unfamiliar with her or a natural shyness, Swati doesn’t know, but surely after receiving a blowjob from a woman, you don’t think her unfamiliar? Shy, she decides. By now, Nawaz has ingratiated himself in her consciousness, and no longer feels like another outsider. 

Parvati on the other hand, Swati thinks, is another issue. She is equivocal about her. Not that she can do anything about it; both of them have to party regardless of their wishes, but she wishes she understood the relationship between Nawaz and Parvati better before she made a decision. A decision that is, about her feelings about Parvati being involved. 

All the while, Prakash and Nawaz have been talking loudly over the noisy auto engine about the upcoming elections, the weather, cricket, movies, his upcoming possible trip to his native place.

They treat her like a piece of meat, not a person, definitely not someone to be engaged in conversation with. And Swati just loves it. The abasement of it all, the feeling of being nothing more than property, chattel, a set of fuckholes.

Prakash takes her hand and places it on his crotch. Swati discovers he has unzipped himself. She feels around in the dark and finds Nawaz hasn’t, and so she helps him out. She strokes both cocks expertly, slowly, keeping them on hard, and on edge. No one wants to cum too soon on this trip.

After a while, conversation ceases other than heavy breathing from the back seat for obvious reasons. The vehicle is noisy to begin with and then when driving, there is the wind and the street noises and so on, and so most of the noises during the drive have been grunts and moans from her and the two men. 

Parvati has been staring fixedly through the front windshield. Swati realizes that she is holding a large gym bag in her lap, one that she recognizes. She wonders what Prakash has brought with him. She hopes some of her toys are there.

It is also a blessing that it is now quite dark, and the streets they have driven through have been more or less deserted. No interior lights in the auto mean no one can see what is going on inside. 

But now they are slowly bumping along in the shack lined by-lanes of Bhim colony, and there are occasional streetlights and lamps on buildings that  provide adequate illumination for people on the street--those huddled around trash fires in the street corners-- to see inside. 

And see they do. 

People sitting on the sidewalk, or along the street corners where they normally congregate to smoke or chew paan stare open-mouthed at the fair and beautiful woman partially masked by the two men, her big naked tits jumping up and down with every pothole the auto strikes. 

Some whistle, some make catcalls, and there are many offers to help her out in exchange for several crude favors, but the auto stops for no one. Swati feels quite excited and also apprehensive in equal measure at the crude men who were propositioning her, but they are men and would have gone after any woman in the neighborhood. 

Especially if the woman looked like her and was naked to boot.

She allows herself fantasies of being taken from the auto and gang banged in public, perhaps in a dirty public bathroom that the new prime minister had built for the people. She has no idea how clean those will be, having never had cause to visit one, but she has no doubt they will be dirty. Filthy, probably. And that adds to the excitement she feels. She is practically dripping when the auto stops in front of a small building.

As she rises to get out of the auto, in the faint light, she sees a puddle of whitish liquid on the vinyl seat. Her own secretions, no doubt, plus the deposit the pizza boy had made. She hasn’t noticed until now, although she did feel the combined heat and chill in her nether regions all through the ride, not to mention the lubrication from Prakash’s stimulation. The heat from her own genitals, and the cold of the plastic seat, made colder by the cum leaking from her cunt. 

She drags the towel across the little puddle—the pizza boy had already wiped himself on it before, and a little more wouldn’t hurt. Besides, the towel is old, and probably done. She will toss it at the next opportunity. 

By the time she steps out of the auto followed by Nawaz, she is heady from excitement, anticipation and the expectations she has built in her mind. There is also some panic. 

She hopes Ramesh will be there, since she knows he and Prakash share the space. Did Nawaz also live with them? She doesn’t remember, but perhaps he is a neighbor, and also perhaps he has some kind of relationship with Parvati.

She looks at Parvati and sees she is standing quietly by the auto, waiting for orders. From Nawaz apparently. Perhaps Parvati and Nawaz share the same relationship she and Prakash do? Similar perhaps?

Then she sees a dark lump detach itself from the wall of the building in front of her, and Inder comes into view. He is munching on a chocolate bar, dark stains around his mouth, and he is smiling. 

“Finally!” He says. "You fuckers show up an hour after you said you’ll be here."

Inder is sulky, petulant, but the heat of his anger has all but dissipated now that they have arrived.

“Sorry Boss,”says Prakash, not sounding sorry at all. 

He pays the driver off, hesitates, then says, “Party upstairs, you want to come?” He indicates the women with his head. “Your choice…any one or …both?”

The driver’s eyes go wide at the mention of both women, and he looks lustfully at them, one dressed in a dowdy saree, and clearly a maid type, and the other, equally clearly a high class woman, wearing only a colorful towel. 

Swati can almost hear the gears moving in his head.

A look of profound regret crosses his face, and he shakes his head. “I have to go,” he says and gets back into the auto.

“Your loss!” Prakash calls after him and starts to cackle. 

Nawaz too starts to laugh, and Inder joins in after a beat.

“He has three wives, and he lives in the next street over. If he came up, they would hear about it in  less than fifteen minutes, and then his life would be hell for the foreseeable future,” Nawaz explains.

They laugh some more at the driver’s predicament, and then they all look at each other in the gloom. It is cold, and Nawaz shivers slightly.

“Let's go up and get the party started,” Nawaz says.

“It’s his birthday,” Prakash says to Inder.

[S Darko]

“What have you got there in the bag?”


“Stuff you asked for,” Inder said, opening the bag and pulling out a bottle of whisky. 

“Oh great!”

They are standing in the little room, having climbed the rickety stairs and through the trap door which lies open, two squares, one dark and the other brighter. Swati wonders at the arrangement, and how they lock it at night. For security. Or perhaps they had no need of security given their meager possessions. There was no bolt or hasp on it after all. Perhaps there was one outside that she had missed?

The men ignore Swati as they take out an assortment of glasses from a built-in shelf in one corner and pour themselves hefty measures of the amber liquid. It is Bagpiper, one of the most popular brands of indigenous whiskey. 

Prakash swirls the drink in his glass, a steel tumbler, and finally looks at her as she stands, not cowering, not standing at attention, but just standing near the open hatch door and looking around, taking in the surroundings. 

“Good stuff,” he says as he takes a careful sip. Clearly, he is not used to this class of liquor which can be sipped and appreciated. His drinks are probably those you have to choke down. He doesn't feel the need to offer any liquor to the women. 

“Nothing but the best for you,” Inder says, no hint of sarcasm in his voice. He is still a little short of breath after the climb upstairs.
 
Nawaz is speaking softly to Parvati in one corner—she is sitting on the bed, and he towers over her. His haircut looks even more incongruous in this setting, Swati thinks. 

“Chal, take off your clothes,” Nawaz says in a loud voice. 

Parvati cringes, but stands and unwraps the saree she is wearing and folds it roughly, and places it on one end of the bed. She stands, half naked in her blouse and petticoat, and for the first time Swati can see the outline of her breasts. They are well shaped, not as large as hers, but still a handful and then some. 

Nawaz turns her around and cups her tits from behind, squeezing, pressing, and grunting appreciatively. Parvati makes no reaction. She just stands there, allowing Nawaz to paw her body.

Swati is aware of Prakash’s eyes as he takes in the unusual sight of a practically nude woman in the tenement room. 

She ignores him for now—he isn’t making any demands yet—and focuses on the dirty window and the incongruously luxuriant money plant growing on its sill. Other than the humans, it is the only sign of life in the room. The view from the window is a depressing gray, the color of the other tenements that crowd together as though seeking shelter from the elements. Which they very well might be doing. 

“Nawaz, don’t waste time with that whore. We have a job to do. Leave her for now.” Prakash sounds impatient. 

He pulls Nawaz aside and in a low voice says, “This is not really a party, you know? We have to make that video.”

Nawaz’ eyes go wide in understanding, and together they move toward Inder who is already measuring out his second drink with the concentration of a concert pianist.

The three men join together and converse in low tones she cannot overhear. 

Then they start placing their phones in various strategic locations around the room. This is going to be a multicamera shoot, it seems. Inder, the IT guy, is orchestrating the placement of the cameras and probably managing the shoot—Prakash has no expertise in these matters. 

Prakash steps up to her and pulls the towel off. She has been clutching the knot at her chest, but her hand falls away, as does the towel. Inder whistles as she stands completely nude in the center of the room, her nipples hardening again in the cold air. 

She is aware that the pizza boy’s semen is still trickling out of her cunt and down one thigh, but there is little of it after the “deposit” she made on the auto rickshaw seat.

Swati feels uncomfortable, but also the need to exhibit herself. The lighting is stark—just one bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. She knows the shadows will not be flattering, but she has to work with what she’s got. 

She does a slow pirouette, allowing the men to take a good look at her. 

She spreads her legs, bends over, and gives them a view of her holes, both from the front and the back and wishes they will hurry up and start with the sex. She can’t wait. The anticipation is driving her crazy. She is lubricating profusely.

“Kya maal hai!” Nawaz says. “Prakash bhai, you were right. She is something indeed. So gori chitti makkhan malai!” He cannot stop his somewhat embarrassing description. “And her cunt is shaved so artfully, too! Like a painting yaar!”

“Like I said,” Prakash says, “hang out with me, and you’ll see all kinds of things.” He is grinning hugely, like a showman with an exceptionally good exhibit.

Prakash strokes his chin and looks at her speculatively, his brow furrowing with concentration.

“No, he says, this will not work.”

Swati cannot help but blurt out, “What? Why?”

“Sit,” he says, and motions to the middle cot, probably his. He squats in front of her, a decidedly not master-like position, and peers up at her face. “You have no make-up on.”

“I didn’t have time. I was just out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, when you came.” She indicates the towel that now lies like a dead animal in the middle of the floor. 

“No, no, we have to make a video. For…somebody. You have to look good. Also, you have to do some acting.”

“Acting?”

Prakash considers. “No, not really acting. Just act like normal. You can talk more, moan and so on, a little more.”

Swati feels the heat rise to her face. She is quite vocal during sex, she knows, and Prakash has commented on it numerous times, usually with delight. But they’re usually non-verbal moans and groans and sexy noises in general. 

“What do I say?”

“Stuff like we usually do…you know, which hole would you like, Sir. I am a whore, I like my holes stuffed with cock, the more the larger the better. Stuff like that.”

“But,” Swati says, “That’s all true, not acting really.”

Prakash bursts out laughing, and after a minute so does Nawaz. 

"She actually says that?" Nawaz is unbelieving.

Inder, who has been doing something on his phone, looks up and says, “What? What?” But the other two are too busy laughing. 

Swati too joins in the general merriment, aware of the more relaxed atmosphere than usual. One thing does bother her—Prakash is making a video for someone. It looks like he is doing something out of the ordinary, something special. What does it mean for her?

“I told you she is a born whore!” Prakash roars above the laughter, and Nawaz is slapping himself on his thighs, clearly unable to believe they’ve landed such a high class woman who’s ready to do whatever they want. 

Swati thinks back on her journey to this point. 

Has she always been such a slut? A whore? The pat answer she gave—that isn’t acting-- it’s real, and speaks volumes of what she has become, or possibly uncovered about her own character. How exactly did she get here? 

The answer of course is the exact same as for how to eat an elephant. One bite at a time, one step at a time.

[S Darko]

Prakash looks at her with a steady gaze, like a connoisseur appraising a rare object, not necessarily beautiful. 

He runs a finger over her face from her forehead where her third eye might have been, down her nose, her upper lip. He pokes it in her mouth for a moment, and she obligingly sucks. When he pulls it out, he can see the glint of her saliva, thick on his finger.

He drags his finger down her pink lower lip and downward ever so slowly.  Her eyes converge as she watches the slow movement of his finger, no doubt wondering what he is up to. 

Down her neck he goes soft as a butterfly’s kiss, then his fat finger gets stuck momentarily in the valley of her tits, then trails downwards as he traces down on her smooth flat belly. 

He hooks her belly button, which allows his digit up to the first knuckle. His slowly rotates his finger in her belly button and his thumb makes slow circles, feather stroking her skin. 

She shivers and her breasts jiggle on her chest. Like the ripple on a still pond when you toss in a pebble, only better. Way better. It is the most erotic sight he has seen. The raw sexuality of this woman affects him like no other. 

He gets a heady feeling like one might in the presence of something powerful and otherworldly. He’s had it once when his family had visited the famous temple in Jammu. 

Sometimes Prakash feels Ramesh understands this whole business better than himself, this matter of men and women, sex, the whole shebang. He can admire the man’s self-restraint in that moment, his refusal to have sex, uninhibited sex with someone who is clearly a willing slut.

But he lets the thought pass. His venal self overcomes the little spark of divinity that had reared its head, however briefly. He stands to make a shit ton of money. He can’t get emotional about this. 

But, he thinks, seeing himself making a wicked, villainous face in his mind, laughing out loud like Amrish Puri, there’s no harm in pretending, right?

He looks critically at her face. Something has to be done about her makeup. He gets an idea. 

“Paro,” he says, and she looks up at him from the corner she has been hiding in. 

She is half naked, wearing only a petticoat, and somehow he knows he will not find any underwear underneath. The thought excites him, but there are other pressing matters to be dealt with, not the least is the making of the video.

“I see you have your purse with you. You have some make-up in there? Some lipstick, kajal, like that?”

Paro nods. Perhaps she is intimidated by the situation, or maybe she has never been naked in front of three men at the same time. 

“Can you do some make up for Swati madam’s face? Just make sure you do it a little different from the way she does it--do something different with the eyes, the lips. And do some coloring on her nipples too.” 

He thinks that if he is able to get Swati to look different from usual, it will be to his advantage. Sometimes it is hard to look past the superficial, and excessive makeup is as good a device of disguise as a mask. He gives her further instructions and leaves them to it.

[S Darko]

I'm going to be posting a mega update soon because I will be offline for at least a week. Enjoy.

Simi

[S Darko]

The three men converge on her, a hand pinching her boobs, one caressing her ass, one finger trying to get into her cunt. There is a hand on her tummy, soft and sensuous, not at all like the Prakash she has known in the past. She wonders if this is because of the video they seem to be shooting. 


A vague thought of sexually transmitted diseases crosses her mind. But Grover has tested her, and she thinks Prakash is clean. Inder too. 

Nawaz? He seemed clean enough when she sucked him off. A little ripe, but probably better now with the saliva bath he’s had. Besides, he probably has never been with a girl other than herself, and even that was just pure luck. Why she thinks that, she has no idea even though he clearly has a relationship wtih Paro who is sitting in the corner, trying to disappear.

Nawaz is delighted with the wetness he discovers when he gets his finger into her cunt. 

“Oh my God! She’s so wet!” He addresses the remark to the other two men as though she doesn’t exist. They continue speaking about her like she’s not even there, and that’s fine with her. 

She is used to being treated like a piece of meat, a whore who has no say in anything. And that is part of the allure, the excitement. To be treated like no more than a set of holes and a couple of fun bags to be used as the men wish. 

The feeling of being a professional woman, one who has a brain and needs to be listened to, and taken seriously—that she gets plenty of in the office. The regular office that is. 

She also knows that secretly most men would want her to be a fuck toy rather than their colleague or boss, but there would be no fun in submitting to them. Not that she has, but she knows it would be boring. It would be sex, sure, kind of like what she had at Abhi’s house, but vanilla. If anything, that experience has cemented her likes and dislikes, and she is sure now what she wants.

What she has now—this getting used by low class men in whatever way they want her, with no regard for her comfort or pleasure, this is where the rubber meets the road, where her fantasies lie. 

“Yes, yes, I’m so wet, I need your cocks! I’m so wet just for your cocks. Your lunds. I’m a whore for your cocks. Your marvelous hard and strong cocks. Please, please give them to me!”

Swati is aware she is hamming it up, but then they are shooting a porno, not someplace you associate with realistic dialog. She is proud that there is not one English word in all her dialog. All Hindi.

“I told you she’s a huge slut!” Prakash is delighted that his toy is performing well. “Keep rubbing her there, she gets wetter!” 

He sticks a finger there too to see for himself.

And so she gives herself to the depraved sensuousness of the situation, three pairs of hands roaming her naked skin, touching, pinching, caressing, pushing, rubbing…Parvati sits in one corner of the room like a neglected piece of furniture.

She feels relatively safe and, she thinks, probably immune from recognition after the make up session with Parvati. She too has started thinking of her maid as Paro, just like everyone else calls her. 

Paro has done her eyes in the style of old time Hindi movie heroines, the lipstick a little fuller than normal, suggesting thicker and somehow more sensuous lips. The rouge is also a little differently applied and makes her high cheekbones less prominent. She looks like she has full, apple cheeks instead of the lean cheeks she has in reality.

Prakash has her go through the usual set of questions and answers, and she obliges, informing them she is a slut, a whore, and will take their cocks in any holes, all holes, and would they give it to her please. She bends over, holding her ass cheeks apart, exposing her orifices for their examination. 

The men chuckle, dip their fingers in said holes, and finding her enthusiastically compliant, exchange high fives, Prakash beaming like the owner of a trained seal.

“We’ll fuck her together, you and me,” Prakash says to Nawaz. “I’ll take her ass and you can take her pussy!” They both chuckle while continuing to abuse her with their hands and mouths. 

This, Swati thinks, is s revelation. Here she was thinking about a DP with Prakash, and he has seemingly already thought of it and planned it. In fact, just the way she would have. 

Inder is sucking hungrily on her nipples, leaving red marks. He nips occasionally with his teeth. He takes his mouth off and says, “How about I put my dick in her mouth while you two guys are taking her front and back doors?”

The comment arouses laughter, raucous laughter, and for a moment there is nothing but the sounds of the men yukking it up.

“Ooh! Aah! Oooimaa!” Swati continues to moan and groan at the various hands doing different things to her body. She is not overacting, simply giving free rein to what comes naturally. 

In her mind, she thinks, airtight! Airtight! She has seen it often enough in porno movies, but had not yet considered the possibility of doing it in real life. Now she considers it and feels it would be a great new experience for her.

“It’ll make for a great video for Nakul Bhai,” Nawaz says. 

Inder stiffens. “Who’s Nakul Bhai?” 

No one says anything for a moment. 

Swati moans, trying to get their attention back to her.

Prakash says, “He’s a friend of ours…wanted to watch some video of her.”

“To sell?”

“No, no,” Prakash says, who knows exactly why the firangi wants the video, but chooses to play ignorant. At least he thinks he knows.

Swati hears the exchange and wonders too. 

She decides it is likely that the man, whoever he is, might be a voyeur, but she also conceded there might be more sinister motives. Under other circumstances, she might have thought it through, but she is so turned on, and so horny that she cannot think anymore.

The hands have fallen silent with this revelation, and Swati is feeling bereft. Instead of escalating, the sexual tension, Prakash and company have slacked off. She wants to rebuild it. 

“Fuck me!” She cries, again in Hindi, “don’t talk about Nakul Bhai and Shakul Bhai, just fuck me!”

Prakash turns surprised eyes at her. He usually doesn’t allow her to speak, preferring her to be a silent recipient of his attentions, but from his face, she can tell he thinks this is also pleasant, perhaps a welcome aberration. Then his face relaxes as he remembers what he told her, about the acting and so on. 

He turns to Nawaz and says, “See, how horny this whore is?”

“She speaks Hindi!” 

Nawaz is more surprised at what she said and the language she said it in. This is not the first time she has spoken in Hindi, but this is the first time Nawaz chooses to acknowledge and marvel at it.

“Oh yes, I’ve had to teach the slut, but she learned.”

Swati gives him a half smile, thinking perhaps she will feel him inside her pretty soon, and that she will be more than a match for him. 

She curtsies, her tits bobbing with the movement, and says, “Thank you!” 

She cups her breasts and holds them up like an offering.

“Watch this,” Prakash says. 

With that, he half turns her and half slides behind her. She gasps with the sudden motion, unsteady on her feet on the rough wooden plank floor. 

She is now between Prakash and Nawaz, Inder off to one side, sipping his whiskey and munching on yet another chocolate bar. His face is ferocious in it’s concentration, probably thinking about this Nakul Bhai, or more likely focusing on the taste of his chocolate. 

She hears the rasping sound as Prakash unzips himself, and with a little maneuvering—fingers moving from her pussy to her ass to get some modicum of lubrication—slides his rampant cock into her ass. 

Swati grunts at the intrusion and opens her mouth wide. She is half unprepared for this as the opening salvo, but it is welcome nevertheless. 

“Oh…ooooh…ooi maa!” She screams. It is a genuine scream, not hamming it up for the video.

Nawaz seems taken aback at this relatively sudden move. 

Inder of course,  is taking all this in stride, having seen this many times before, both on video and in person. The only other people who have witnessed this before, Ramesh and Ganesh the chaiw,.', are not there.

Prakash is performing for an audience. 

Swati takes the pounding he is giving her like a champ, her eyes half closed. 

Initially, when all this started, she didn’t like ass fucking much at all, but with time she has grown to love it, and she feels it is on par with cunt fucking. Sometimes maybe even better because she can simultaneously stimulate her cunt. 

Her hand drops to her pussy and she circles her clit slowly.

Nawaz watches intently and says, “Prakash bhai, she is fingering herself! Wow!”

“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” Prakash says, breathless. “Get Paro over her and have her lick the madam’s cunt!”

Swati hears this, and thinks this is a relative overreach for Prakash. She hasn’t ever been involved in a lesbian sex act in front of Prakash, but she isn’t a stranger to it. 

Just a few days ago in Menaka’s kitchen while Baldev was reaming her ass out, Sudha, of the big floppy titties had grabbed her legs and dived into her pussy like a starving animal. The sensations of being filled so much to the brim in the backdoor and the cool wetness that alternately caused pressure and suction on her front end made her come over and over. 

Sudha too was being fucked from behind at the same time, she remembers, probably by Pravin but it might have been one of the other men. 

“Paro! Come here,” Nawaz orders. 

Swati is breathing hard as she is being mercilessly pounded from behind, but she has enough breath to ask Nawaz, “Who… is she… to you?”

“She’s my bitch,” is his succinct answer. He slaps at her wildly wobbling breasts repeatedly as he answers, as though punishing her for daring to ask a question like that. Her wildly flopping tits trun a deep shade of red, further adding to the eroticism of the scene.

Meanwhile Parvati gets up from the bed she will later learn is Ramesh’s, and walks over, her eyes downcast. She is still dressed in only the ill-fitting blouse and petticoat, and Swati can see there is no bra, and probably no panties underneath. 

Nawaz roughly pulls at her blouse but Parvati grabs his hands and says, “let me.” Her voice is gentle and soft. She would rather not get one of her few garments ripped if she can help it. She unhooks the blouse and takes it off. 

Her breasts have very little sag to them and they stand out proudly. Darker than Swati by several shades, her nipples are perky and almost black in the poor lighting. Parvati unties the cord of her petticoat and it puddles around her feel. She picks up both garments and bundles them, throwing them on the bed with her saree. 

No panties.

In the meanwhile, Swati continues to get pounded from behind by Prakash. She and Parvati are the only ones naked in the room. Prakash has only taken his cock out. Otherwise, he stands fully clothed.

“Malik, jor se! Aur jor se!” Swati wails. 

Prakash responds with more athletic hard pounding. He pulls her arms behind her and they spread out like wings. Her knees are going weak and Prakash’s cock in her ass is pretty much all that is keeping her near vertical. He has started to breathe hard by now.

Parvati looks at her with an expression that Swati in her fuck-drunk state cannot understand. 

There is some pity there, she thinks, and perhaps something like apology? Perhaps she feels she has led these men to her door? No such thing is true of course. Parvati was merely an innocent bystander. Maybe not so innocent, being Nawaz’ bitch and all, but relatively so. 

She is definitely not responsible for Swati being sodomized right now. “That ship, baby girl, sailed a long time ago,” Swati thinks.

Paro kneels in front of her and starts licking her pussy like a cat. Bottom to top, then back again. She isn’t very experienced, but Swati cannot fault her. There is too much movement from Prakash’s athletic and enthusiastic movements. 

She groans and moans louder and starts coming. “Aah Paro! Aaaah! Ssssss! Ooooh!”

“See! I told you!” Prakash manages as he pants, breathing through his mouth. 

He slows down, almost stops, and lets Swati hang from the pivot point of his cock. She hangs limp, her arms stretched out behind her, legs quivering. The orgasm slowly washes away, receding, but still there, on a hair trigger. Just a little more will push her over the brink. 

There is heavy breathing all around for the next few minutes. 

Everyone is still, as though in a tableau. 

It is the lull before the storm, the movement into the eye of the storm perhaps, when things are quiet momentarily before picking up again. 

Swati is fuck drunk. She can’t even fathom that just an hour or so ago, she was in her own house, taking a bath. 

And now she is in this filthy chawl, getting fucked by low class people and loving every minute of it. 

[S Darko]

Thanks

[S Darko]

hot and dark side

It may have to get darker before there is light...

[S Darko]

Nawaz unzips himself and slowly pulls at his menacingly deformed cock. His strokes are backhanded, palm down, slow and methodical. His fist covers roughly half of his cock, the head peeking out from beyond his fingers. He pulls Paro away from Swati and to him, and she obligingly starts to suck. 

Swati notes that Paro takes his cock in without trouble, and feels a pang of jealousy. No matter, she will get better with more practice. But has Paro been part of similar orgies in the past? Swati has no time to wonder. She is too busy in the here and now. 


Inder has dropped his pants now, and moves in front of her. He grabs her by the neck and pulls her down, effectively bending her in half. His four-inch cock is erect, as big as it will get, and dwarfed by his pot of a belly. He sucks in his gut and pokes his erection at her face.

Swati accommodates him, spreading her legs for better balance. 

Prakash slaps her ass hard, perhaps because she hasn’t asked for his permission, but he is still breathing hard. His cock, is still rampant, still in her ass, and she realizes he hasn’t come yet. His strokes have slowed to near stillness. Good god, the man has enormous staying power.  

She opens her mouth and takes Inder in, something that she has been doing for the past several weeks when he comes into her office at lunchtime. First, of course, she licks off the dew of pre-cum glistening at the tip of his pee hole. 

The first time she took his cock in her mouth under the table so to speak, was of course when Ashok had come looking for her, but he has repeated the scenario several times after that, perhaps secretly hoping someone might come in, but no one else ever came in to the room during that time. 

Perhaps people wondered why the IT guy came so frequently to her office, but she occasionally complained her laptop wasn’t working right, and no one actually questioned her. 

Nowadays, Inder comes to her room, looks at her menacingly, and she undresses and gets under the table without question. Inder had begun taking off his trousers entirely, rather than simply unzipping. Perhaps that adds to the sizzle of the situation, and Swati is pleased with the developments. 

The only downside is that Swati couldn’t eat lunch those days, having to remain satisfied with the small portion of a protein diet from Inder’s cock. 

His cock isn’t very big, but his semen is tasty, possibly because of all the sweets he eats, and the depravity of the situation of being naked and under her own desk with imminent discovery an ever present danger, is what adds spice, the mirch-masala, to the moment.

Each time Prakash pushes into her ass, he drives her head, mouth first, into Inder’s crotch and his cock drives into her throat. She gags each time, but with a small, ladylike gagging sound, unlike when her better endowed male friends literally fuck her throat. She still has some control, especially given his not so large cock size. 

Swati feels Inder stiffen further, the head of his cock swelling. 

The idea that all these men have enough blackmail material on her doesn’t even enter her mind. 

She is more concerned with the heady feeling of illicit sex in bizarre situations rather than the tawdry blackmail situation. The fear of discovery, of course, is what drives this. The fluttery feeling in her belly, the itch, that insatiable itch in her pussy, the pleasurable palpitations in her chest, all these are what she lives for, what she craves. 

She is suddenly afraid of where her depravity will lead her. 

The cocks in her body continue to pound in and out, in and out.

Swati lets out a muffled yell as she starts to climax, all thoughts of danger driven from her mind. 

[S Darko]

The bidi burns almost to his fingertips when he drops it with a yelp, and vigorously shakes his hand. Ramesh has been so deep in thought that he has forgotten the smoke in his hand. He has sat at the tea shop for quite a while now watching the tableau. 


He watched Inder eat four chocolate bars from a seemingly inexhaustible supply in his backpack and make calls several times. His phone looks exactly like one of his candy bars, and it is difficult to figure out which he has in his hand in the gathering gloom. 

Ramesh sees him finally get through. The exchange is short, but the fat man sits down on the ledge that sticks out of the building with more equanimity than before. Prakash must be on his way.

The auto pulls up, and he catches a glimpse of Swati madam in the backseat, naked. Of course, she’s naked. That’s just how she rolls. 

When the vehicle stops, Prakash allows her to pull up some sheet like garment, perhaps a towel—hard to see what it is in the darkness—and wrap it around her body. 

Ramesh shakes his head. That madam and her crazy shenanigans. But, he reasons, that is her choice, and that is paramount. As long as she is okay with it, Ramesh will go along with it. 

He watches as Inder detaches himself from the side of the building and approach them as they exit the auto. There is some conversation between the auto driver and Prakash, then Inder and Prakash and Nawaz, and then they all get into the building and up the stairs.

That’s when he notices the second woman for the first time. He frowns. Who is she?

She seems to be a servant type from the way she is dressed and the way she walks. Ramesh can tell. He has had a lifetime of experience in the short months he has lived in Bhim colony.

He lights another bidi and thinks. This must be the party that Prakash had been talking about. The one where they wanted to make a video and so on. It looked simple enough—three men and one extra woman. Nothing Swati madam hadn’t handled before. He tries to decide if he should go now to check on her or later. 

Later, he decides, after a few seconds of conjecture, perhaps in an hour or so. 

After all, this is the first time she has been to his home. He might get something to eat for her from the halwai at the end of the street before he shows himself at the venue of the latest debauchery.  

His mind conjures up all the possible things they might be doing. He has witnessed many such combinations of couplings between man and woman, both at the temple in his youth, and again in the conference room of the office. 

There’s not much that can shock him, but he is no saint, detached from all worldly things. He feels himself getting hard. 

Painfully hard. 

He wills his mind to think of something else. 

He tells himself he has tremendous will power. 

Stupendous reserves of self control. 

He is a Hanuman bhakt above all else.

He focuses on a particularly tricky wrestling move, the twisting move that puts the opponent’s body behind you and leverages their own body weight against them, and soon his turgidity softens, disappears. 

Visualizing the mechanics of a dhobi pachhaad works every time.

[S Darko]

Loved the update

Thanks. And for that, one more update today. Must be Christmas (or Diwali) in July...

[S Darko]

Swati has an out-of-body experience as she kneels on the hard wooden floor. The discomfort, no, pain, in her knees is part of the fun. 

Not everything in sex should always be comfortable. 

Sometimes, the discomfort was part of the enjoyment. 

After all, weren’t pain and pleasure opposite sides of the same coin? 

She has a blindfold now, and there is very little she can see. 

A bit of the floor from the bottom of the band that binds her eyes, but she closes them because she wants to make the most of the deprivation of the sense of sight. 

Despite that, she sees herself as though floating near the ceiling. She sees herself kneeling in front of one of the cots, Inder sitting on it, and she's sucking his cock, her head nestled between his fleshy thighs. And from behind, she can feel Nawaz fumbling with his cock, trying to find the opening of his choice.


“Don’t worry, she’ll take it in any hole. She’s a three hole whore!” Prakash says. 

She knows he is getting his cock sucked in one corner of the room, Parvati naked, cowering, but compliant, playing the role of fluffer girl in this depraved scene. 

Not very different from a porn movie, Swati thinks, but totally Indian in context. Complete with bad lighting, the video would be nowhere near the quality Inder shoots in the conference room with its large lighted space and multiple hi-def cameras, not to mention the sound that he is able to capture with his strategically placed microphones. She can hear the sucking sounds and the occasional gagging that Prakash is eliciting from Paro.

“Yes, I’m a three hole whore! I’ll take your cock in my cunt, my ass, and of course my mouth. Anything for you, Malik!” Swati sticks out her tongue and waggles her ass as though to emphasize the point. 

Of course, because of the blindfold and also because her eyes are shut tight, she can see none of their reactions, but she is sure they appreciate the added layer of depravity, the declaration of pure lust to the situation. 

Inder had shown her his video creations a couple of times—strictly for personal use, he had assured her—and the quality of his videos, she knows, is very good. 

It was almost like he were bragging about his cinematographic prowess rather than showing her the videos as a way to keep her in line. She thinks he might be looking for validation rather than trying to extort her. 

If she is bothered by her unedited face in the videos, she has set that aside, ignoring it, thinking magically perhaps the depraved expressions of lust on her face would keep people from recognizing her if the videos ever became public. 

Somewhere in her rational mind, she knows she will be ruined if those videos ever hit the internet, that perfect copying machine. For all she knows, they might already have. 

But does she not care? 

She has tried to examine her complicated thoughts regarding this, and hasn't reached any conclusion. She doesn’t know what she wants, what is right and moral, but what she does know is she doesn’t want to give this up. These hours, minutes, seconds, are what make her alive and vibrant. 

They make her tingle all over with a joy she thought she had lost forever. And that is a feeling she craves.
 
Just a few minutes ago, she had been bent in half, Prakash hammering away in her ass, and Inder in her mouth. Inder suddenly scooted forward, lifted his bulky legs in the air and around her head, and presented his ball sack to her mouth. 

It wasn't like Swati had never tea bagged someone, so she took his balls into her mouth, exerting gentle pressure on the fragile testicles, eliciting a groan of pleasure from Inder. 

She took care not to let her teeth smash into the soft skin of his perineum, but it was difficult with Prakash banging away at her backdoor. 

Swati put both hands on his inner thighs, separating the rolls of fat and flesh, and pushed her face further into his crotch. His dick was sitting right on her nose, and she tried her best to breathe. The musky smell mixed with a little urine and shit was like an aphrodisiac.

In other circumstances, she would have hated the smells, but in that moment, she reveled in it. And then Inder pushed it up one more notch. 

He pulled his ball sack out of her mouth with a pop, and scooted down even more, presenting her with his asshole. 

Swati pulled back, disgusted. She would never do something so nasty. 

She was okay with anal sex, in fact she now loved it, and had on occasion even done the ass-to-mouth thing with Prakash. 

But Inder? He was a fat slob, and that alone disgusted her. It was bad enough she had to spend several of her lunch hours sucking him off under her own desk, but this was something she drew the line at. 

Nothing happened for a minute, and she stayed there, her mouth inches away from Inder’s asshole, Prakash still pounding away from behind. 

And then Prakash gave her a resounding slap on her ass followed by a breathtaking push-fuck. 

“Lick his ass like he wants, bitch!”

Now there was no choice. 

She tried to rationalize it by thinking how much worse it would have been if Inder was a toilet paper user. At least, Indians used water almost exclusively, and most places now had jets or bidets to wash after taking a dump. 

She tried a tentative sniff, and it seemed okay. She poked her tongue out and touched his anal rim, then, emboldened by Inder’s sharp intake of breath, she poked her tongue out further.

Swati felt something hard and cold at the entrance of her pussy. She reached down with one hand and felt her own vibrator there. Prakash must be giving it to her as a reward, she thought, even as his hand pushed it inside and turned it up all the way. 

Swati’s tongue pushed into Inder’s asshole of its own accord, her body aching with need, with the urgency for release. 

Prakash slammed hard into her, once, twice, and then he started to cum. 

Warm semen coated the inside of her rectum and leaked out beyond the tight seal of asshole and hard cock. Her own orgasm started to build, spreading out from her ass, into her lower belly. 

Simultaneously, Inder spurted his meager seed into her hair and pulled her face into his ass. 

Swati couldn’t breathe. 

For the second time that day, she feared she was going to black out. 

Then Inder pulled away, and she discovered Prakash had pulled out and all that was left was the vibrator buzzing away on max in her cunt. She fell back, an insect on her back, limbs flailing, her orgasm starting to peak. 

Prakash reached down and yanked the vibe out, and that was when her orgasm crescendoed. 

It crashed over her and bore her away, and she lost it, her entire body going into convulsions of pleasure. She was vaguely aware of her thighs quaking, cramping, bent at the knees, her thighs wide open, toes curled. 

Her hips jerked spasmodically, mimicking the action of coitus.

She squirted, stream after stream, of clear fluid. 

And she was lost in the sea of pleasure that had no shore, no island, just the unending waves that she rode over and over and over, a surfer on a loop.

[S Darko]

The waiting room outside the ICU is large, sunny and comfortable. Instead of the usual plastic chairs and stark decor, this room is well appointed with several comfortable, upholstered chairs, and has a coffee machine, snacks and a magazine rack that has current issues. 


Ashok is napping in one of the corner chairs when Arvind walks in and wakes him up by putting gentle pressure on his shoulder. 

“Bhaiya, it’s me, Arvind,” he says when he sees the confusion in Ashok’s eyes. 

Arvind sees the recognition dawn in his older brother’s eyes. Ashok is only four years older, but in their parents’ eyes, has made so much of a success of himself compared to his relatively shiftless ways.  

“Oh, hello Arvind.” Ashok’s voice is flat, emotionless as he takes in his brother’s presence. It is clear from his tone that he hadn’t expected Arvind to show up this quickly, if at all. But Arvind understands this. By giving them no expectations of himself, he has now the power to surprise and shock.

“How’s Bapu?” This is how they’ve always called their father. 

“He’s…um…what they call it, stable. He has all these tubes and such in his body, and he is still not doing well, but at least he is not going downhill.”

“What is it? Heart attack?”

“No, no. It is some kind of lung infection they think he got from China. They seem to be having an outbreak of it somewhere…Suhan, Wuhan, something like that.”

“Oh.” Arvind has heard vaguely of some illness that has being going on in China for the last couple of months, but he hasn’t paid any attention. It’s not like it’s in their backyard. 

“Hopefully, he will be better soon. I have some work… I mean, I can stay for a few days, but then I have to go.” He looked up at Arvind, who still stood over him. Arvind knew what he was going to say, and already resented the question before he asked it.

“What’s your schedule like, Arvind? Can you stay here, help out?” Arvind knows his older brother is needling him, his lack of gainful employment, but it still surprises him that no one wonders how he is able to afford the Mercedes he drives, or the expensive clothes, and the accouterments.

“How’s Bhabhi?” He says instead of replying. 

He emphasizes the word “bhabhi” in a derisive way, as though it wasn’t a completely respectable word denoting his sister-in-law Swati. He had taken to saying ‘bhabhi’ in that way ever since the day she had spurned his advances. 

She is something, even when fully clothed, and when he saw her in only the towel after a shower, he couldn’t help himself and propositioned her. Of course, he’d been waiting for such an opportunity and spied on her whenever he could, but that was not the main issue here. He’d seen Indian porn that showcased such things, and the bhabhi always gave in. 

He allows that at the time he'd been in his teens, and what he'd watched was porn, wherein the bhabhi allowed herself to be seduced by the devar, and in some cases actually did the seduction herself. Of course, if the seduction failed, if nothing happened, it wouldn't have been porn. 

Overall, he estimates, perhaps fifty percent of such cases of devar and bhabhi end up in bed after the former propositions her, but he has no idea about the real numbers. There are no actual polls or studies or anything on the subject, after all.  

Regardless, he feels, there must be a certain percentage of women who gave in to their brothers-in-law. 

But then again, definitely a certain percentage that said no. 

Sometimes he thinks she was right to do that, to spurn him, to deny him the heavenly experience that her body surely was, but she could have been so much nicer. Perhaps she could have let him down gently, lovingly, like a bhabhi should,  with maybe the promise of revisiting the issue at a later date. 

But the way she had actually dismissed him, like a small boy, someone of no consequence, had really riled him. 

She had slapped him. Had she? In his repeated imaginings of the event, he has magnified certain things, and he is no longer sure if she’d slapped him or not, but he goes with it. The bitch had slapped him. He’d been no more than a poor horny, frustrated teenager, and she could have been kind. She was giving herself to his older brother, and it wasn’t like she would lose something if she shared with the younger brother too. Of course, it would have to be kept secret, and that he understood. But no, she didn’t want any part of it. 

As he stalked out of the room, his face red and stinging (he remembers the pain of the slap even now, and probably the imprint of her fingers on his face when he looked in the mirror), hot tears threatening to overflow his eyes, he promised vengeance. He would get her for sure. Maybe not that day, maybe not that year, but some day for sure. 

The feeling hasn’t abated at all, and if anything only intensified over the ten or so years since the incident, as he sees her at different family events, always clad in tight, form fitting clothes. 

Even in a saree, there is something slutty about her. 

And then there are all the Facebook and Insta posts with selfies and pouting lips with her girlfriend, what’s her name…Neha? Neetu, yeah, that’s right, Neetu. That little tease. 

But Swati is the bigger tease, he thinks. Some day he would fuck her, either literally or figuratively, or both.

Ashok simply nods and says, “So…you’re not busy, right?” 

Arvind knows his brother suspects that there is bad blood between his wife and his brother, but he doesn’t think Swati has told him the specifics. He wonders why. Is there a loophole he can exploit? 

He thinks that is probably why Ashok has skirted the question he asked about bhabhi. The evasiveness irks him. He is also fairly sure Ashok thinks he is a philanderer. Which, while not far off the mark, also irritates him. 

“I have to check,” Arvind says churlishly. He pulls out his cell phone and plops down on one of the cushioned chairs, leaving one chair empty between them. “Where’s Mai?”

“I sent her home to rest.” Ashok has the business times spread out on his lap and avoids looking at his brother. 

Arvind grunts. 

His phone dings. He glances at it. 

There’s a message from his friend and partner, Alexei. 

It’s on the secure messaging app that deletes messages after a certain period, leaving no trace. 

There’s a photo attached to the message. 

Making sure Ashok can’t see his screen, he taps on the photo.

What he sees makes his heart leap straight into his mouth.