Misc. Erotica The Night Bus (COMPLETED) - by Novelist Casanova

[novelistcasanova]

The Night Bus

by Novelist Casanova

My name is Sudha and I am a housewife living in the city with my husband Rajesh Mani, who is a successful criminal lawyer and earns handsomely. I have a fair glowing face with large dark eyes that look wet even when I am only standing quietly, full lips that stay a little open when my mind is elsewhere, and a heavy body that I have carried since I was a young woman. My breasts sit high and full and need proper hold through the day, which is why I always wear a regular Indian everyday bra — seamed, panelled, double-layered, full coverage, non-wired, non-padded, 100 percent cotton, with a back closure — because it keeps my breasts in place when I cook, bend, and walk around the house without letting them bounce or show their shape too clearly under my saree. My waist goes in sharply and then my hips open wide, and my thighs are thick where they meet when I sit, so when I walk from room to room my ass cheeks move under the saree in a way I have stopped trying to hide.


I wear my petticoat low, below my navel, the way I learned years ago, and under it I wear hipster panties because they sit on my hips instead of cutting across my waist and they stay hidden under the low petticoat without riding up when I move. My mangalsutra hangs between my breasts and small gold earrings touch my neck whenever I turn my head.

Rajesh leaves early in his white shirt and returns late; he kisses the side of my head and the house becomes quiet again. I keep the house, I fold his clothes, and I wait.
God has blessed us with three handsome sons who all look exactly like my husband, and that is the one thing Rajesh and his family never stop being proud and happy about. They see those three faces and they see him repeated, and in their eyes that is enough. What they do not see, or what they refuse to forget, is my side. Rajesh hates my family. He hates my relatives most of all because years ago they insulted him in front of others, spoke to him as if a man who had come up by his own work was still less than them, and he has never let that wound close.

Then the news came from the village. Their car met with an accident on that narrow road. My aunt Kasiamma died on the spot. Santosh, who had been driving, lost both his legs. His wife Lydia was left completely paralyzed. When I heard it I felt a heaviness in my chest that had nothing to do with Rajesh’s pride. These were still my people. I sat across from my husband that evening after the boys had gone to their rooms and I told him I had to go to the village, attend Kasiamma’s funeral, sit with Santosh and Lydia and give them my condolences.

“I will not come,” Rajesh said. He did not raise his voice. He only looked at the files on the table as if the matter was already finished. “You want to go, go. I am not stepping into that house.”
I felt my throat tighten. I asked him again, and then once more, keeping my voice low so the boys would not hear.
“Please come with me, at least for one day,” I said. “They have lost everything. I cannot walk in there alone.”
He shook his head the same way he shakes it in court when he has already decided.

“I said no. Go alone if you must. I will not.”
There was nothing left to argue. I had no other choice. I packed a small bag and decided I would travel by myself to Kasiamma’s funeral in that remote village in Tamil Nadu.
I went into the bathroom and closed the door behind me and pulled my yellow nighty up over my head and dropped it on the stool, then I hooked my thumbs into the sides of my cream color panties and pushed them down my thighs and stepped out of them so I stood bare. I turned the shower on and stood under the warm water and let it run from my hair over my face and then over my breasts and down my waist and across my hips and between my thighs. The water hit my nipples and they tightened and stood out while the streams ran between my breasts and over the heavy underside. I soaped my breasts with both hands, lifting each one and sliding my palms under them and then over my nipples, feeling how full they were. I turned and the water ran down between my ass cheeks and I reached back and soaped each cheek, then I brought my hand between my thighs and washed my pussy, fingers parting the lips and rubbing over my clit until the water rinsed the soap away and left me warm and a little open. I stood a moment longer with the water on my shoulders and my breasts rising and falling, then I turned the tap off.

I took my towel and dried my hair and my face and my neck and I pressed my towel over my breasts, squeezing each one, and then I dragged it down my stomach and over my hips and between my thighs, rubbing my pussy once more, and then I dried my ass cheeks and the backs of my thighs before I wrapped my towel around myself and stepped out.
In the bedroom I opened my cupboard and dropped my towel on the bed. I picked up my maroon color panties and stepped into them and pulled them up over my hips so they covered my pussy. I took my white color bra and hooked it behind my back and settled my breasts into the cups and pulled the straps onto my shoulders. I stepped into my white petticoat and tied it low, below my navel, over my maroon color panties. I put on my yellow blouse over my white color bra and hooked it in front. Then I took my yellow chiffon saree and wrapped it around my waist and tucked the inner end, brought the pallu across my breasts and over my left shoulder, and pinned it. I picked up my handbag, looked once at myself in the mirror with the mangalsutra lying between my breasts, and I was ready to leave for the village to attend Kasiamma’s funeral.

It was evening when I locked the house and took an auto to the bus terminal, sitting in the back with my handbag on my lap and my yellow chiffon saree tucked around my knees while the city lights slid past. At the terminal I found the bus that went to the village and I was lucky, I got a seat near the window because the bus was almost empty, only a few men and two old women, and I sat with my pallu over my shoulder and watched the road turn from city streets to dark highway and then to the narrower village roads until we reached the main village stop.
I took a local auto from there to our remote village, the vehicle bouncing on the uneven path, and when I stepped down Santosh received me from his wheelchair and Lydia lay on the cot inside, unable to move, and they told me how brutal the accident had been, how the car had gone off the road and turned, how Kasiamma had died on the spot, how Santosh had watched his own legs crushed and how Lydia had not moved since that hour, and how their lives had changed forever and become the worst kind of living. I sat with them and I felt sorry for them in a way that sat heavy in my chest and I had no words that could make any of it lighter.

After Kasiamma was buried that evening I took another local auto and went to the bus stop on the highway, the kind of place where you stand at the edge of the road and raise your hand to stop the buses that go to the city. It was eight in the evening. Almost every bus that came was already crowded, faces pressed to the glass, people standing in the aisle, and none of them slowed enough for me. For the next one hour no bus came at all. I stood alone at that highway stop with my handbag held against my side and the dark road stretching both ways and I was scared. I decided that the next bus, no matter how crowded it was, I would get into it.
The crowded bus slowed at the highway stop and the conductor jumped down from the front opening with the ticket board in his hand. I stepped forward from the dark edge of the road, holding my handbag and the pallu of my yellow chiffon saree against my chest.
“City,” I said.
He tore a ticket and I paid him and took it and folded it into my handbag while the engine kept running and men shouted from inside. The front opening was blocked with people already standing on the steps, so I walked quickly to the back and put my foot on the first rear step and began to climb.

That was when I saw him. An ugly stranger stood half-turned in the aisle near the rear door, and he looked straight at my face and did not look away. His eyes moved over my mouth and my eyes and then down to my breasts under the yellow blouse and back to my face again, and he stayed like that, spellbound, as if he had already decided he wanted to do me now, right there, before the bus even moved.
I lifted my yellow chiffon saree with one hand and climbed. Hands from the side pressed my hip and the back of my thigh as I took the second step. I kept my face down and held the rail and did not turn because I did not want to create a scene on a dark highway.
“Move, get in,” a man above me said.
I pulled myself up through the back opening and pushed into the aisle until I was fully inside. The conductor climbed back through the front, slapped the side of the bus, and we jerked forward. I grabbed the overhead rail with my right hand and stood facing the dark window.
The ugly stranger moved in behind me until his chest almost touched my back. He bent his head near my hair and sniffed, slow and open, taking in the perfume I had put on my neck and my shoulder after my shower. Then his left hand came around and settled on my waist, over my yellow chiffon saree, fingers spreading on the dip above my hip.
I pushed his hand off at once.

“Don’t,” I said, keeping my voice low.
He waited only a second and grabbed my waist again with the same left hand, firmer this time, pulling me back a little so my ass almost touched him, and he sniffed my hair again as if he had not heard me at all. I held the rail and stared at the glass and did not create a scene.
His left hand stayed on my waist even after I had pushed it off once, and then his fingers began to move, slow, following the line of my yellow chiffon saree where it was tucked at my side. He found the inner edge and slipped two fingers under the tuck and reached inward across my stomach until the pads of his fingers touched the bare skin above my white petticoat. My petticoat sat low, below my navel, so there was a strip of open skin there, and that was where he stopped.
He pressed his fingertips into my navel first, circling it, then flattening his hand so his palm covered the whole of that soft dip while his thumb rubbed the rim. He bent his head again and sniffed the perfume on my neck as he did it, as if my navel and my scent belonged to the same thing. I sucked my stomach in and tried to twist away from his hand without letting go of the rail.
“Remove your hand,” I said, still looking at the dark window.
He did not remove it. He only pressed deeper into my navel and dragged his finger around it again, then down to the exact place where my white petticoat began, hooking that edge for a second and lifting it a little so more of my stomach came under his palm. The bus jolted and his hand stayed locked there, warm and heavy on my navel, and I felt the heat of it go lower than I wanted to admit. I held the rail tighter and did not create a scene.
He did not take his hands off my ass. He shifted closer until I felt him, hard, pressing into the split of my ass cheeks through my yellow chiffon saree and my white petticoat, and he held me there by the ass cheeks so I could not step forward. He rolled his hips once, slow, dragging that hardness up and down my ass crack, then again, using the sway of the bus to grind against me while his fingers kept sinking into the underside of each ass cheek.
Sudha, this is a night bus full of men. You have three sons. Your husband would not even come to the funeral. What are you doing standing here letting this ugly man grind his cock into your ass crack? Shout. Elbow him. Call the conductor. My mouth stayed shut and my hand stayed on the rail and the only thing that moved was my ass in his palms.
His right hand stayed on my ass. His left hand slid around my hip, under the hanging pallu of my yellow chiffon saree, and found the low tie of my white petticoat. He followed that string with two fingers, rubbing along the skin just above it, then down onto the petticoat itself, pressing until the cloth outlined the round of my hip and the start of my ass. He sniffed my neck again, open-mouthed now, and I felt his breath wet on my skin.
Rajesh only kissed the side of your head this morning. He did not even look at you. And this man is weighing your ass cheeks in his hands like he already owns them. Stop him, Sudha. My pussy was wet. I could feel it with every grind, the lips swelling, the heat spreading down the inside of my thighs, and I hated that my body was answering him while I still held the rail like a decent woman on a night bus. If he puts his hand lower you will stop him. You will. Don’t be stupid. Even as I told myself that I knew I had already let him stay too long.
“People will see,” I said.
“Let them,” he said against my hair. “You are standing like you want it. Your ass is sitting in my hands.”
You don’t want it. You can’t want it. You are only scared. The bus is moving. There is nowhere to go. He pulled my ass cheeks apart through the saree and then crushed them together around the shape of his cock, and he kept that rhythm, grind and squeeze, grind and squeeze, until my knees dipped and I had to lock them to stay standing. I stared at the black window and saw only my own mouth slightly open. Sudha, if you don’t move now this man is going to finish what he started. And still I did not create a scene.

His right hand stayed on my ass cheeks, still crushing them around his cock through my yellow chiffon saree and my white petticoat. His left hand left the petticoat string and came up under the pallu and closed over my breast, over my yellow blouse, taking the full weight of it in his palm.
He squeezed. My breast overflowed his hand. He found the nipple through the blouse and rolled it between his finger and thumb until it stood hard, then he opened his hand and took the whole breast again, lifting it, pressing it, flattening it against my chest and letting it fall back into his palm. He did the same to the other breast, crossing over, squeezing both one after the other while he kept grinding into my ass crack from behind.
Sudha, that is your breast in a stranger’s hand. You are on a bus. People are standing this close. Take his hand off. Take it off now. I did not take it off. My nipple hurt in a way that went straight down to my pussy, and I felt more wetness gather between my thighs each time he pinched.
“Not there,” I said.
“Why?” he said against my neck, sniffing again. “They are sitting in my hand like they were waiting.”
He used both hands then for a moment, leaving my ass only long enough to hold my breasts from behind, one in each palm, thumbs rubbing the nipples through my yellow blouse in tight circles while his cock stayed pressed into my ass crack. My breasts moved in his hands when the bus jerked. I bit my lip and held the rail.
You are letting him milk your breasts in front of all these men. Rajesh has not held you like this in years. Stop him before he puts his hand inside the blouse. Sudha, stop him.
He went back to one hand on my breast and one hand on my ass cheeks, squeezing both in the same rhythm, and I stared at the dark window and did not create a scene.
He left my ass and brought his other hand up too, so both his hands were on my breasts over my yellow blouse. He stood tight behind me with his cock still pressed into my ass crack and he held my breasts as if that was all he had come on the bus to do.
He weighed them first, one in each palm, lifting them and letting them sit, then he squeezed them together so they met in the middle of my chest and I felt the heat of his fingers through the blouse. He opened his hands and took a full grip again, fingers sinking into the heavy underside, thumbs on my nipples, rolling them, pinching them, flattening them, then letting them spring back. He moved his hands in slow circles, massaging the whole of each breast, then he pushed them up and held them there so the shape showed hard against my yellow blouse, and he made a sound in his throat like a man eating.
Sudha, both his hands are on your breasts. He is enjoying them in the middle of the aisle. Everyone behind you can see his arms around you. Push him. Shout. Do something. My arms stayed up on the rail. My breasts moved in his palms with every bump of the road and my nipples were so tight they ached.
“You are spoiling my blouse,” I said.
“I am holding my woman,” he said into my hair, and he squeezed harder, gathering as much of each breast as his hands could take. “These are heavy. They fill the hands properly. Don’t stop me.”
He bent his knees a little so his cock rubbed up and down my ass crack while he kept both hands busy on my breasts, kneading, lifting, pressing the nipples in with his thumbs and rubbing them in small hard circles. Wetness had soaked through between my thighs. I could feel it when I shifted my feet.
He is using your breasts like they belong to him. You showered and wore this blouse to go to a funeral and now an ugly stranger is milking you on the highway. If you don’t stop him he will put his hand inside. Sudha, he will.

He did not put his hand inside yet. He only enjoyed my breasts with both hands, slow and greedy, sniffing my neck between squeezes, and I stared at the black window and did not create a scene.
His left hand left my breast and travelled down, palm open, over my ribs and across my stomach until the fingers found my navel and paused there, pressing into that dip above the low tie of my white petticoat. Then he turned his hand and pushed it under the tucked portion of my yellow chiffon saree.
I felt the saree loosen a little at my waist as his hand went in. His knuckles dragged over my lower stomach, hot and rough, and then his whole hand was inside the petticoat, trapped between the petticoat and my belly, moving down in that tight warm space where the petticoat was tied low. The string of the petticoat scbangd the back of his hand. His fingertips reached the waist of my panties and stopped for a second on that elastic, and I felt every finger separately as they hooked under it and pulled it toward him just enough to make room.
The elastic dragged across my hips as his hand sank inside my panties. First the back of his fingers touched the hair, then his palm covered the mound, heavy and wide, and then his middle finger slid into the split of my pussy and I felt it in one long stroke from the front of the lips down through the wetness. My pussy closed on that finger by itself. He opened the lips with two fingers and the air inside the panties was already wet and hot around his hand.
I caught his wrist through the saree and tried to stop him.
“No,” I said.
He turned and kissed my right cheek, mouth open, and his hand stayed inside, cupping my pussy so that my clit sat under the pad of his finger and my lips sat in his palm.
“No. Take it out,” I said, pulling at his wrist.
The hand did not come out. It only settled deeper inside my panties, inside the petticoat, under the tucked saree, and began to play.
Sudha, you felt every inch of that hand coming in. You felt the saree tuck give way and the petticoat string and the panty elastic and then his palm on your pussy. You are holding his wrist and he is still in there. Pull him out before he puts the finger inside. My fingers stayed weak on his wrist and I did not create a scene.



He kept his right hand heavy on my breast over my yellow blouse and he kept his left hand inside my panties, under the white petticoat, under the tucked portion of my yellow chiffon saree. He opened the lips of my pussy with two fingers, slow, peeling them apart so that the wet inner flesh sat exposed against his fingertips, and he held them open like that while his thumb found my clit and rested on it, not rubbing yet, only pressing, as if he was counting how hard it had become.

I dropped my hand from the rail and caught his wrist through the saree and tried to pull him out. The wrist did not move. His fingers only opened my pussy a little wider.
“No. Don’t put it in,” I said.
He turned his face and kissed my right cheek, filthy and wet, and at the same time he brought the tip of his middle finger to the hole of my pussy and paused there, just the pad of the finger sitting on that opening, feeling it twitch. Then he pushed. The tip went in first, stretching me, and I felt every grain of his finger as it entered, the wetness making a small sound inside the panties that only we could hear. He pushed again and the finger slid in up to the first knuckle, then to the second, then in to the root, until his palm was flat against my pussy and the whole finger was inside me.
My pussy closed on it by itself. I felt the walls grip him and I felt my own wetness run along the sides of his finger and down toward his palm. He did not pump yet. He only kept the finger buried and moved it in a tiny circle inside me, pressing the front wall, while his thumb came down on my clit and began the smallest rub.
I pulled at his wrist again. My knees had already started to soften. I locked them and they softened once more. His cock was still hard in my ass crack through the saree and the petticoat, and every time I tried to stand straight I only sat back on that hardness with his finger deep in my pussy.
Sudha, that is his whole finger inside you. You can feel the knuckle. You can feel your pussy holding him. Pull the hand out. Stand straight. You are a married woman on a night bus and you have a man’s finger in your pussy.
“Take it out,” I said, and my voice was already thinner than I wanted it to be.
He kissed my right cheek again and kept the finger in, buried to the root, and began, very slowly, to draw it out an inch and push it back, out an inch and push it back, so that I felt the slide of it along the wet walls of my pussy from the inside. I bit my lip and held his wrist and held the rail and I did not create a scene.
He drew the one finger out until only the tip stayed in the hole of my pussy, and then he put a second finger with it and pushed both in together. The stretch was sudden. My pussy opened around the two fingers and then closed on them, tight, and I felt the ridge of both knuckles pass inside me one after the other until his palm was flat against my pussy again, two fingers buried to the root under my panties, under the white petticoat, under the tucked yellow chiffon saree.
He opened the two fingers inside me, spreading the walls, then brought them together, then opened them again, feeling me from the inside. He curled both fingertips forward and found that rough place on the front wall and rubbed it in short hard strokes while his thumb came down on my clit and pinned it. Each curl of his fingers sent a jolt up through my lower belly. My hips jerked. I tried to stand straight and my knees folded a little and I had to lock them, and when I locked them my pussy only gripped his fingers tighter.

I pulled at his wrist through the saree.
“Take them out,” I said.
He kissed my right cheek and shook his head against my face and kept the two fingers working, curling, rubbing, in and out in a short filthy stroke that never left my pussy empty. The bus hit a hole in the road and both fingers slammed deeper and I grabbed the rail with my other hand and a sound almost left my mouth. I bit it back. Wetness ran over his fingers and pooled in the crotch of my panties and I felt it when he spread his fingers and the wetness made a small slick noise.
Sudha, there are two fingers inside you now. You can feel them opening you. You can feel them rubbing that place that makes your knees go. Stand up. Pull his hand out. If you keep standing like this he will think you want the third finger too.
My thighs started to shake. I tried to close them and only trapped his hand more firmly between them, two fingers still buried, thumb still on my clit, his cock still grinding into my ass crack from behind. I stared at the dark window and I did not create a scene.


He found a rhythm and he kept it. Two fingers in, two fingers out, in to the root, out to the first knuckle, in again, never leaving my pussy empty, the wet sound of it trapped under my panties and the white petticoat and the tucked yellow chiffon saree. His thumb stayed on my clit and moved in the same count, circle on the in-stroke, press on the out-stroke, so that every time his fingers filled me his thumb punished my clit at the same second. His right hand squeezed my breast over my yellow blouse in that same count, nipple caught between finger and thumb, so my breast and my pussy were being worked as if they were one thing.

I bit my lower lip. I bit it until I tasted it and still a moan started in my throat and I swallowed it and bit again. My hips began to move. I told them to stop and they moved anyway, a small dirty push onto his hand each time the fingers came in. I tried to stand straight. My knees dipped on the in-stroke and I locked them on the out-stroke and they dipped again. The rail was wet under my palm.
“You are holding it in,” he said against my cheek. “Let it out.”
“No,” I said, with my lip still between my teeth.
He fucked my pussy a little faster. The two fingers curled on every inward push and rubbed that inner place until my belly tightened and my thighs shook and I had to lean my weight on the rail to stay up. His cock ground into my ass crack in the same rhythm. Wetness ran down his hand inside the panties and I felt it on my inner thighs when I shifted my feet.
Don’t moan, Sudha. Don’t you dare moan on this bus. Bite your lip and stand. If you make a sound the men next to you will know what his fingers are doing inside your pussy. Don’t come. Not yet. Not here.

A broken breath left my nose. I bit my lip harder and held his wrist and held the rail and I did not create a scene.
The bus swayed and every sway drove his two fingers deeper into my pussy. I tried to keep my back straight and my knees kept folding. I locked them and they folded again. I locked them a third time and a tremor went through my thighs and up into my belly and I knew I was on the edge of coming. Wetness ran along his fingers and soaked the crotch of my panties and slipped onto my inner thighs. He spread the two fingers inside my pussy and closed them, spread them and closed them, stretching me and then making me grip him, and my mouth opened and I bit my lip to shut it and the bite was not enough.
He took his right hand off my breast and caught my jaw. His fingers held my chin and the side of my face and he turned my head away from the window and toward him. I saw his ugly mouth coming. I said no and the word was still on my tongue when his filthy lips covered my lips.

He kissed me open. I kept my mouth tight for one second and then I kissed him back, shameless, my lips parting, my tongue meeting his, while his two fingers kept fucking my pussy under the panties and his thumb rubbed my clit in hard fast circles. He held my jaw so I could not turn away and he ate at my mouth as if he had been waiting for that more than for the rest of me. I moaned into the kiss. The sound went into him. My knees gave and I hung from the rail and from his hand on my jaw and from his fingers inside my pussy.
Sudha, you are kissing him. You are kissing this ugly man on a crowded bus with his fingers in your pussy and you are about to come. Stop the kiss. Pull your mouth away. If you keep kissing him you will come on his hand in front of all these men.
I did not pull my mouth away. I kissed his filthy lips harder and my pussy clenched on his fingers and the first wave started and I still did not create a scene.


I came on his fingers with his filthy lips on my mouth.
The first pulse closed my pussy hard around the two fingers and the wetness poured out over his hand in a hot rush, soaking my panties inside the white petticoat, running along his knuckles, and I kissed him through it, shameless, open, my tongue in his mouth while my body shook. He held my jaw with his right hand so I could not break the kiss and he kept the two fingers buried and kept his thumb on my clit, rubbing me through every pulse, dragging the orgasm out instead of letting it finish. My knees went. I hung on the rail and on his mouth and on the hand inside my panties. A moan went straight into his filthy lips. My ass sat back on his cock through the yellow chiffon saree and my breasts lifted against my yellow blouse and my pussy kept squeezing his fingers, pulse after pulse, as if it would not stop.
He did not take his fingers out. He only slowed them, still inside, still wet, still moving just enough to make the last waves keep coming while he kissed me and held my jaw.

Sudha, you came. You came on a night bus on a stranger’s fingers and you kissed him while you did it. You can feel your own wetness all over his hand. You can taste his mouth. You cannot pretend this was only the crowd anymore.
He pulled back from my lips only enough to speak against them, his fingers still in my pussy.
“Next stop is mine,” he said. “Get down with me. I will take you to a room and put you on a bed and do this properly. You cannot go home like this.”
“I am going home,” I said, but my voice was used up and my pussy was still fluttering on his fingers and my mouth was still wet from his filthy kiss.

“You will get down,” he said.
The bus slowed for the lights on the highway. He kept his hand inside my panties and his other hand on my jaw and I stared at him and I did not create a scene.
The bus began to slow for the next halt. He still had two fingers in my pussy, wet from my coming, and he still held my jaw as if I might turn back to the window and pretend nothing had happened. He drew the fingers out slowly, dragging them over my clit on the way, and I felt the empty ache they left inside my panties. He wiped those fingers once along my inner thigh, under the white petticoat, and then his hand came out from the tucked saree and rested on my waist again like a man who had finished one thing and started the next.
“This is my stop,” he said against my mouth. “Get down.”
Sudha, sit. Stay on the bus. You already came on his fingers. That is enough shame for one night. Go home to Rajesh. Wash. Sleep. Do not get down.

The conductor shouted the name of the place. Men near the back door started to shift. The ugly stranger took my handbag from the crook of my arm and held it as if it was already his, and with his other hand he held my elbow.
“I have a house to go to,” I said.
“You have a wet pussy and a husband who did not even come with you,” he said. “Get down. I will book a room. I will say you are my wife. No one will ask.”

The door at the back opened. Night air came in. I looked at the dark highway and at his ugly face and at my own yellow chiffon saree, still tucked, still looking decent from the outside. My thighs were wet against each other. My lips were wet from his filthy kiss.
If you step off this bus you are not the same woman who locked the house. If you stay you will sit in this seat with his wetness still on your thighs all the way to the city. Choose, Sudha.
He went down the rear steps first and turned and waited on the road with my handbag. I held the rail. I lifted my yellow chiffon saree with one hand. I put my foot on the step. I got down.
The bus pulled away and left us on the highway edge, the red lights shrinking, and he put his hand on my waist again and walked me off the road toward the small lodge lights he already knew. I did not create a scene. I had already left the scene behind.


to  be continued 

[novelistcasanova]

We stood on the edge of the highway with the lodge lights a little way off and the road empty except for the sound of the bus already gone. He put my handbag on the ground and took my face in both hands and kissed me.

It was not the stolen kiss of the aisle. He held my jaw and the back of my head and put his filthy lips on mine and opened my mouth and I said no into the kiss and then I was kissing him back again, my breasts crushed against his chest, my yellow chiffon saree caught between us, his cock hard against my lower stomach through the white petticoat. He kissed me like a man who had already been inside my panties and wanted the rest of me on the road itself. His tongue was in my mouth. His hands went down from my face to my ass cheeks and pulled me onto him.

I turned my face away and his mouth landed on my right cheek and then on my neck.
“Enough,” I said. “I have to go. That is enough. I will take the next bus.”
“There is no next bus for you,” he said, and he took my mouth again, sucking my lower lip, kissing me filthy and slow while one hand came up and squeezed my breast over the yellow blouse.
I pushed at his chest. My palms were on his shirt and they did not push hard enough.
“I came already. Leave me. I will stand here and stop the next bus to the city,” I said.
“You got down for me,” he said against my lips. “You don’t get down for a bus and then go home. You come to the room.”
He kissed me again, deeper, and I kissed him back even while I was shaking my head, my pussy still wet from his fingers, my thighs sticking when I moved. A lorry went past and the wind lifted the pallu of my yellow chiffon saree and he used that second to pull my ass cheeks against him and grind.

Sudha, you are on the highway kissing him. You told him enough and you are still in his mouth. The next bus will come if you step away. Step away.
“Please. Enough. I have a house. I have to go,” I said.
“After the room,” he said. He picked up my handbag and took my wrist. “Say wife at the counter. That is all.”
He walked me toward the lodge lights. I looked back once at the dark highway where a woman could still raise her hand and stop a bus, and then I looked at his hand on my wrist and I went with him.

The lodge sat just off the highway, a low two-storey building with a yellow bulb over a small counter and a board that had lost half its paint. He walked me across the open ground with his hand on my waist over my yellow chiffon saree, my handbag in his other hand, my thighs still wet against each other from his fingers and from the coming on the bus. Gravel moved under my feet. I could still hear lorries on the road. I could still have pulled my wrist free and run back to the dark edge and raised my hand for a bus. I did not.

He pushed the door and took me in. The counter man looked up from a register. He looked at my face, at the mangalsutra, at the yellow blouse, at the way the stranger’s hand sat on my waist as if it had a right to sit there.
“Room,” the ugly stranger said. “One night. My wife.”
The word wife landed in the small lobby and stayed there. I felt my ears heat. I opened my mouth and closed it. The counter man turned the register and held out a pen. The stranger wrote his name. He wrote wife beside it without asking me how to spell mine. He put cash on the wood. A key came down.
“I am not—” I started, very low.
“She is tired from the journey,” he said to the counter man, and his fingers tightened on my waist. “Upstairs.”

Sudha, he has written you as his wife in a lodge book. That man saw your mangalsutra and still took the money. Walk out now. Take your bag and walk out.
I did not walk out. He took the key and took my elbow and steered me to the stair. The stair was narrow and smelled of phenyl and old rooms. I lifted my yellow chiffon saree with one hand so I would not trip and I climbed. He came behind me. On the second step his hand settled on my ass cheeks over the saree and the white petticoat and squeezed, not hiding it, because there was no crowd now to blame. On the fifth step his other hand came around and held my breast over the yellow blouse for three stairs in a row. I kept climbing.
“Enough. Not on the stairs,” I said.
“Inside,” he said. “Keep walking.”

At the landing he stopped me against the wall and kissed my mouth, filthy and short, and I said no against his teeth and still my lips opened. He unlocked the door at the end of the corridor. The room was small — one narrow bed, one fan, one window shut on the highway side, a bathroom with a bucket. He put me through the doorway with his hand on my waist and came in after me and closed the door and dropped the latch.
The latch sound filled the room.
He set my handbag on the chair and stood looking at me as if the bus and the highway kiss had only been the ticket.
“Now you are inside,” he said. “Now I will take this off and fuck you.”
I stood with my back near the latched door, my yellow chiffon saree still on, my mouth wet, my panties wet, and I did not create a scene. The entry was over. The room had already begun.
He came to me at the latched door and kissed my filthy-kissed mouth again and while he did it he pulled the pin from my yellow chiffon saree. The pallu slid off my shoulder. He unwound the saree from my waist and let it fall around my feet so I stood in my yellow blouse and my white petticoat, the petticoat still tied low below my navel, my stomach bare above the string.

“Don’t,” I said. “Leave the rest.”
He did not leave the rest. He opened my yellow blouse from the front and pushed it off my shoulders. My white color bra held my breasts in front of him. He put both hands on them over the bra and squeezed, then he reached behind me and opened the back closure and drew the bra down my arms. My breasts came out heavy into his bare hands. He bent and put his mouth on my right nipple and sucked, then on the left, wetting them, biting just enough that my back hit the door.
He pulled the string of my white petticoat. It dropped. I stood in my maroon color panties, the crotch dark with wetness from the bus. He went down and dragged the panties down my thighs and I stepped out of them because his hands were already there, and then I was bare except for the mangalsutra.

He opened his trousers and took his cock out and turned me to face the door. He put my palms on the wood, kicked my feet apart, rubbed the head of his cock along my pussy from behind, and pushed in. I opened around him. He went to the root in two thrusts and held my hips and fucked me standing, the latch rattling, my breasts swinging, his mouth on the back of my neck.
“You got down for this,” he said.
“In the morning I go,” I said, and then I moaned because he was hitting the same place his fingers had found on the bus.
He pulled me off the door and put me on the narrow bed on my back and lifted my thighs and went into my pussy again, deeper, looking at my face. I bit my lip and then I did not bite it. He held my ass cheeks and drove in until the bed knocked the wall. I held his shoulders and took it. He kissed my mouth with his filthy lips and came inside me with his cock buried to the root, and I felt the heat fill my pussy and I did not tell him to pull out.

He stayed on me, heavy, and the fan turned above us. I stared at the ceiling with his cum inside me and my yellow chiffon saree on the floor and I did not create a scene.
He put my palms on the door, kicked my feet apart, rubbed the head of his cock along my pussy from behind, and pushed in. I opened around him. He went to the root in two thrusts and held my hips and fucked me standing, the latch rattling, my breasts swinging.
“Ah—wait—” I said, and then the wait broke into a moan. “Ahh. Ahh.”
“Ugh. Take it,” he said against my neck, and he moaned into my hair as he drove in. “Mm. Fuck.”
He pulled me off the door and put me on the narrow bed on my back and lifted my thighs and went into my pussy again, deeper. I bit my lip and then I did not bite it.
“Ah—ah—don’t—ahh—” I moaned, each sound coming out on his thrust.
“Mm. Your pussy—ugh—hold it,” he moaned, ugly and open-mouthed, fucking me so the bed knocked the wall.
My moans got louder when he hit that inner place. “Ahh. Ahh. I’m—ah—”
“Come,” he said, moaning with me. “Ugh. I’m coming. Take it. Ahh.”
I came first, pussy clenching on his cock, a long broken “Ahh—ahh—mm—” going out of my mouth while my thighs shook in his hands. He slammed in to the root and came inside me with a thick groan, “Ugh—mm—ahh—”, his filthy mouth on my mouth, his cock pulsing, the heat filling my pussy, both of us moaning into the same kiss until the pulses stopped.
He stayed on me, heavy, breathing hard against my cheek. The fan turned. I stared at the ceiling with his cum inside me and the last small “mm” still in my throat and I did not create a scene.

He stayed inside me after he came, his cock still pulsing, his groan still in my neck, my own last “mm” still in my throat. The pulses slowed. He did not pull out. He lay on me, heavy, ugly, satisfied, his chest hair wet against my breasts, his filthy mouth open on my cheek. I felt his cum sit warm in my pussy and then begin to leak out around his cock, down the crack of my ass, onto the lodge sheet.
He kissed the side of my mouth the way a man kisses what he has already finished using, then he drew his cock out slowly. I felt the empty slide and then the wet heat spilling from my pussy onto my thighs. He looked down at it. He put two fingers against my pussy, not to finger me, only to feel his cum coming out, and he smeared it once along my inner thigh as if he was marking me.
“Don’t wipe,” he said.
“It is coming out,” I said.
“Let it.”
He dropped beside me on the narrow bed and pulled my back against his chest and put one hand on my breast and one hand between my thighs, covering my pussy, holding the leak in. The fan turned. A lorry passed on the highway. My yellow chiffon saree and my white color bra and my maroon color panties and my white petticoat stayed on the floor.
“In the morning I have to go,” I said.
“In the morning I will fuck you again,” he said into my hair. “Then you go.”
Sudha, his cum is in you and his hand is on your pussy like a lid and you are letting him hold it there. You can open the latch. You can wear the saree and stand on the highway. You will not. You will sleep with his mess inside you and tomorrow you will sit on a bus and walk into your house and you will not tell Rajesh.
I closed my eyes. His breath was on my neck. His hand stayed between my thighs. I did not create a scene. I slept.

I woke because his mouth was on my breast.
For a second I did not know the room. Then the fan clicked, the shutter showed grey morning, and his filthy mouth was already wet on my right nipple, sucking it out of sleep, tongue circling, teeth grazing just enough that my back arched before my mind had caught up. His hand was still between my thighs from the night, cupping my pussy, two fingers resting along the lips, sticky with his cum and with me. When he sucked harder those fingers pressed in, not entering, only claiming, as if my pussy had stayed his while I slept.

I made a sound. It came out of my throat before I could stop it, a thick “mm” that belonged to the nipple in his mouth. He moved to the left breast and took that nipple the same way, slow, greedy, pulling it up with his lips until it stood as hard as the first. His cock was already hard against my thigh, hot, tapping my skin when he shifted.
“The bus,” I said. My voice was still full of sleep.
“After,” he said, against my wet nipple, and he sucked again so that the word and the suction were the same thing.
He kissed up from my breast to my throat and then he took my mouth. Morning breath, filthy lips, open. I turned my face toward the wall and he followed and kissed me anyway until my lips opened and I was kissing him back on the lodge pillow with my breast still shining from his mouth and his hand still covering my pussy.
Sudha, get up. The highway is awake. Wash his cum off. Wear the yellow chiffon saree and go stand for the bus. If you stay under his mouth he will be inside you before you have said a full sentence.
I did not get up. My hand, traitor, had already gone to his hair. He sucked my nipple once more and pressed his palm harder on my pussy and I lay there in the grey room and I did not create a scene. After had already begun.

[novelistcasanova]

He came over me in the grey light and opened my thighs with his knee. I felt the cool air on my pussy for one second and then the head of his cock was there, thick, rubbing up through the wetness he had left in me at night, smearing last night’s cum along my lips and over my clit, once, twice, as if he was using my own mess to open me.

He put the head at the hole of my pussy and pushed. The first inch stretched me. I was swollen from sleep and from the night and I felt every ridge of him as he went in. He gave me another inch and stopped, breathing against my mouth, then he pushed again and my pussy took him in a slow wet slide until he was at the root and his heavy body was on my breasts and the mangalsutra was trapped between us.
“Ah—slowly—ahh.”
“Mm. Morning,” he said, and he did not thrust. He stayed buried. He ground in small circles so the root of his cock rubbed my clit and the head rubbed that inner place at the same time. My pussy clenched on him by itself. I felt the leak of last night move around his cock and come out onto my thighs.
My legs came up. I did not tell them to. They closed over his hips and locked him in. He kissed my filthy-kissed mouth and I kissed him back, slow like the cock inside me, while he kept those small circles and my breasts moved under his chest.
Sudha, he is at the root and you have not even said a full no. You can still push him off and sit up and ask for the bus. Your legs are around him. That is not how a woman asks for a bus.

“I have to go,” I said into his mouth.
“After this,” he said, and he ground deeper, still not stroking, just filling me, owning the morning from the inside.
I held his back and felt him pulse inside my pussy and I did not create a scene. The first thrust had not even begun. I was already taken.
He drew his cock out until only the head stayed in my pussy and then he pushed it back to the root. That was the first real stroke of the morning. The slide was wet and long. Last night’s cum and this morning’s wetness made a sound between us that the thin lodge walls would have heard if anyone had been listening. He did it again. Out to the head. In to the root. Slow. Heavy. Unhurried. Each time he landed, my breasts moved under his chest and my mouth opened.

“Ahh. Ahh. Don’t—so deep—ah.”
“Take it,” he moaned. “Ugh. Mm. Hold me inside.”
He found a rhythm and kept it, the same count he had used with his fingers on the bus, as if my pussy already knew his timing. In. Grind. Out. In. His filthy mouth came down on mine between strokes and I kissed him back, shameless in the grey light, my tongue lazy with sleep and want. He held my ass cheeks and tilted my hips so every inward stroke hit that inner place and my clit at once. My thighs began to shake against his sides.
I bit his shoulder to keep a moan small and the moan came out anyway.
“Ahh—wait—ahh.”
“No wait,” he said, and he kept the rhythm.
You said after. There is a bus on that highway. Your pussy is sucking a stranger’s cock in the morning like it belongs there. Stop meeting his strokes. You are meeting his strokes, Sudha.
I was. My hips came up off the sheet to take him. The bed creaked. The fan clicked. He kissed my neck and my mouth and my wet nipples when he could reach them and he fucked me in that deep morning rhythm until I could not remember the sentence about the bus, only the next inward slide and the moan that came with it. I did not create a scene. I created that wet sound instead.
The slow rhythm broke.

He planted his knees, lifted my ass cheeks in both hands, and drove into my pussy harder, deeper, the bed knocking the wall in a dirty knock-knock that matched his thrusts. The wet sound got louder. His cock came out shining and went back in to the root and my breasts jumped on my chest and I could not keep the moans in my mouth.
“Ahh—ahh—I’m—ah—don’t stop—”
“Ugh. Come,” he moaned. “Give it. Mm. Take it.”
My legs slipped on his hips and he caught them and folded them back so he could look down at my pussy swallowing him. I saw it too for a second — my lips stretched, his cock disappearing, last night’s white still on my thighs — and the sight shoved me to the edge. My belly tightened. My pussy started to flutter around him. I grabbed his shoulders and shook my head and still pulled him in.
“Ah—I’m going to—ahh—”
“Then come,” he said against my filthy-kissed mouth. “Come on it.”
If you come again in this room you will walk onto that city bus with a stranger’s second load in your pussy. Your knees will remember this bed. Come anyway. You are already there.
He rubbed my clit with his thumb on the in-stroke and slammed the inner place on the same count and my mouth opened on a long broken sound and I hung on the edge, shaking, wet, full, the latch still on from the night, the highway awake outside, and I did not create a scene. I only held him and waited for the fall.

I fell.
My pussy clamped on his cock and the orgasm went through me in pulses, hard, dirty, morning-long, and I moaned into his filthy lips, “Ahh—ahh—mm—ahh—”, my legs shaking in his hands, my breasts crushed under his chest, my nails in his shoulders. Each pulse milked him. Wetness spilled out around his cock onto the already stained sheet.
He did not slow down to be kind. He fucked me through it, groaning, “Ugh—mm—take it—”, and then his body locked and he slammed to the root and came inside me a second time. I felt every jet, hot, filling the same pussy he had filled at night, and he moaned into my mouth, “Ahh—ugh—mm—”, while I was still clenching, so that his coming and my coming ran together in one wet shaking mess on the narrow bed.
He stayed buried until the last twitch left him. Our mouths stayed open on each other, only breathing now, a small leftover “mm” in both throats. Then he pulled out. I felt the empty hole and then the leak, thick, running from my pussy down my ass crack onto the sheet. He looked at it. He put two fingers there and felt his own second load coming out of me, and he wiped it once on my inner thigh the same way he had at night.
“Don’t wipe it off inside,” he said. “Wear your saree over it.”
“The bus,” I said. My voice was used.
“Wash your face. Wear the saree. We eat. I put you on the bus.”
I sat up on the edge of the lodge bed with his cum sliding down my thigh, my yellow chiffon saree and my white color bra and my maroon color panties and my white petticoat still on the floor, the latch still on, the highway loud now, and I did not create a scene. The morning fuck was finished. The city was waiting.
I washed my face and my neck with the lodge bucket and I did not wash between my thighs the way he had told me not to. I picked my maroon color panties off the floor and stepped into them over the leak, then I hooked my white color bra behind my back and settled my breasts into the cups. I tied my white petticoat low, below my navel, over the panties. I put on my yellow blouse and then I wrapped my yellow chiffon saree around myself and tucked it and brought the pallu over my shoulder and pinned it as if I was only a woman going home from a funeral. The mangalsutra sat between my breasts. My handbag was on the chair where he had dropped it.
He watched me dress. He did not help.
We walked to a small idli shop on the highway edge. He ordered idli and coffee for both of us and we sat on the bench and ate. He ate like a man who had finished his night. I ate because my body needed something that was not him. A little of him still leaked into my maroon color panties while I sat there with the steel tumbler in my hand.
“That bus,” he said, pointing with his chin at the stop. “City.”
He walked me to the edge of the road and raised his hand. The bus slowed. He put my handbag in my hand.
“Go,” he said. “Don’t tell your husband.”
“I will not,” I said.
I climbed in. This time no one stood behind me. I found a seat by the window. He was already walking back toward the lodge side of the road. The bus pulled out. I sat with my yellow chiffon saree arranged decently over my knees and his cum still in me and I watched the village thin into highway and the highway thicken into city.
I reached home in the afternoon. I unlocked the door. I bathed. I changed. I cooked. Rajesh came late, kissed the side of my head, and asked if the funeral had been all right.
“It was all right,” I said.
I did not tell him. I set the plate down and I did not create a scene. The house was quiet again. Something in me was not.
The city bus ran and I sat by the window in my yellow chiffon saree with my handbag on my lap and his cum still in me under the white petticoat. No one stood behind me. No hand came to my waist. I watched the highway become streets and the streets become the road that led toward my house, and I rehearsed the only sentence I was going to need.
I unlocked the door in the afternoon. The house smelled the way I had left it. I went straight to the bathroom and washed his mouth off my lips and his hands off my breasts and I washed between my thighs last. I watched the water take the rest of him down the drain and I did not feel clean. I wore a fresh saree. I tied a fresh petticoat low below my navel. I cooked.
The boys came in from college. I asked about homework. I kept my voice ordinary. Rajesh came late, white shirt, files, the smell of court. He kissed the side of my head in the same place he always kisses.
“How was the funeral?” he asked.
“It was all right,” I said. “Kasiamma was buried in the evening. Santosh and Lydia are as they were. I took the night bus back.”
“You should have stayed another day,” he said, already looking at his phone.
“I wanted to come home,” I said.
I set his plate down. I sat across from him. I ate. I did not tell him about the crowded aisle or the fingers inside my panties or the highway kiss or the lodge register where another man had written wife beside his own name. I did not tell him I had come on a stranger’s hand and again on a stranger’s cock and again in the morning before idli. I cleared the plates. I folded his shirt the way he likes, collar first.
At night I lay on our bed and he slept with his back to me. I looked at the fan. It was not the lodge fan. I put my hand on my own navel, on the place the ugly stranger had touched first, and I took the hand away.
Sudha, you went to a funeral and you came back a different woman and no one in this house knows. You will get up tomorrow and make coffee and he will kiss the side of your head and you will let him. That is the end of it. That is not the end of it.
I closed my eyes. The house was quiet. My marriage was in its place. Something under my yellow-saree days was not. I did not create a scene.
That was the end of the story. I never told my husband.

The End 

Regards 
Novelist Casanova

[Herotic]

Sir, a small request to u, write an incest (not cuckold) story please... It's been so long!

[novelistcasanova]

Sir, a small request to u, write an incest (not cuckold) story please... It's been so long!

Thank you for the request, Herotic! ❤️ I know it’s been a long time. I’ll keep your suggestion in mind and see what story idea comes up next. ?

[Sengolan]

I think it is actually Movie Director Myshkin who is witing these stories. Most of the items (leads) always wear yellow sarees. 

[novelistcasanova]

I think it is actually Movie Director Myshkin who is witing these stories. Most of the items (leads) always wear yellow sarees. 

Haha! ? Sengolan, you’ve caught my yellow-saree obsession! Maybe Mysskin has secretly taken over my keyboard! ?
Actually, there’s a reason I keep coming back to yellow. When I’m reading and visualising a scene, yellow gives me a strong cinematic feel—it stands out beautifully, carries warmth and energy, and somehow makes the character linger in the reader’s mind. ??
So yes… perhaps yellow has quietly become my signature colour! ?

[Asha 7777]

[Benita]

Great story, the way her mind resists the stranger and ultimately surrendering for strangers cock to get fucked, very nice. She getting down the bus for sex being married is very lusty. Good for Sudha that she finds these situations to get fucked hard.

[aravindkkumar08]

Hey bro what a change. Getting a almost weekly update with new story. They may be routine but narrative is simply brilliant. Two request one why always woman beautiful and men is ugly in your story why don't you change vice versa and write a story and second what are you going with amutha story?

[novelistcasanova]

Great story, the way her mind resists the stranger and ultimately surrendering for strangers cock to get fucked, very nice. She getting down the bus for sex being married is very lusty. Good for Sudha that she finds these situations to get fucked hard.

Thank you, Benita! ❤️ Glad you enjoyed Sudha’s character and the way her inner conflict shaped the story. I really appreciate you taking the time to share your thoughts! ?

[ananth1986]

Again Santhosh killed in an accident.
May Santhosh get many death,
we are getting more erotiis from "Novelisticasanova"
Thank you for Sudha's enjoyment.

[Samreen Shaikh]

He came over me in the grey light and opened my thighs with his knee. I felt the cool air on my pussy for one second and then the head of his cock was there, thick, rubbing up through the wetness he had left in me at night, smearing last night’s cum along my lips and over my clit, once, twice, as if he was using my own mess to open me.

He put the head at the hole of my pussy and pushed. The first inch stretched me. I was swollen from sleep and from the night and I felt every ridge of him as he went in. He gave me another inch and stopped, breathing against my mouth, then he pushed again and my pussy took him in a slow wet slide until he was at the root and his heavy body was on my breasts and the mangalsutra was trapped between us.
“Ah—slowly—ahh.”
“Mm. Morning,” he said, and he did not thrust. He stayed buried. He ground in small circles so the root of his cock rubbed my clit and the head rubbed that inner place at the same time. My pussy clenched on him by itself. I felt the leak of last night move around his cock and come out onto my thighs.
My legs came up. I did not tell them to. They closed over his hips and locked him in. He kissed my filthy-kissed mouth and I kissed him back, slow like the cock inside me, while he kept those small circles and my breasts moved under his chest.
Sudha, he is at the root and you have not even said a full no. You can still push him off and sit up and ask for the bus. Your legs are around him. That is not how a woman asks for a bus.

“I have to go,” I said into his mouth.
“After this,” he said, and he ground deeper, still not stroking, just filling me, owning the morning from the inside.
I held his back and felt him pulse inside my pussy and I did not create a scene. The first thrust had not even begun. I was already taken.
He drew his cock out until only the head stayed in my pussy and then he pushed it back to the root. That was the first real stroke of the morning. The slide was wet and long. Last night’s cum and this morning’s wetness made a sound between us that the thin lodge walls would have heard if anyone had been listening. He did it again. Out to the head. In to the root. Slow. Heavy. Unhurried. Each time he landed, my breasts moved under his chest and my mouth opened.

“Ahh. Ahh. Don’t—so deep—ah.”
“Take it,” he moaned. “Ugh. Mm. Hold me inside.”
He found a rhythm and kept it, the same count he had used with his fingers on the bus, as if my pussy already knew his timing. In. Grind. Out. In. His filthy mouth came down on mine between strokes and I kissed him back, shameless in the grey light, my tongue lazy with sleep and want. He held my ass cheeks and tilted my hips so every inward stroke hit that inner place and my clit at once. My thighs began to shake against his sides.
I bit his shoulder to keep a moan small and the moan came out anyway.
“Ahh—wait—ahh.”
“No wait,” he said, and he kept the rhythm.
You said after. There is a bus on that highway. Your pussy is sucking a stranger’s cock in the morning like it belongs there. Stop meeting his strokes. You are meeting his strokes, Sudha.
I was. My hips came up off the sheet to take him. The bed creaked. The fan clicked. He kissed my neck and my mouth and my wet nipples when he could reach them and he fucked me in that deep morning rhythm until I could not remember the sentence about the bus, only the next inward slide and the moan that came with it. I did not create a scene. I created that wet sound instead.
The slow rhythm broke.

He planted his knees, lifted my ass cheeks in both hands, and drove into my pussy harder, deeper, the bed knocking the wall in a dirty knock-knock that matched his thrusts. The wet sound got louder. His cock came out shining and went back in to the root and my breasts jumped on my chest and I could not keep the moans in my mouth.
“Ahh—ahh—I’m—ah—don’t stop—”
“Ugh. Come,” he moaned. “Give it. Mm. Take it.”
My legs slipped on his hips and he caught them and folded them back so he could look down at my pussy swallowing him. I saw it too for a second — my lips stretched, his cock disappearing, last night’s white still on my thighs — and the sight shoved me to the edge. My belly tightened. My pussy started to flutter around him. I grabbed his shoulders and shook my head and still pulled him in.
“Ah—I’m going to—ahh—”
“Then come,” he said against my filthy-kissed mouth. “Come on it.”
If you come again in this room you will walk onto that city bus with a stranger’s second load in your pussy. Your knees will remember this bed. Come anyway. You are already there.
He rubbed my clit with his thumb on the in-stroke and slammed the inner place on the same count and my mouth opened on a long broken sound and I hung on the edge, shaking, wet, full, the latch still on from the night, the highway awake outside, and I did not create a scene. I only held him and waited for the fall.

I fell.
My pussy clamped on his cock and the orgasm went through me in pulses, hard, dirty, morning-long, and I moaned into his filthy lips, “Ahh—ahh—mm—ahh—”, my legs shaking in his hands, my breasts crushed under his chest, my nails in his shoulders. Each pulse milked him. Wetness spilled out around his cock onto the already stained sheet.
He did not slow down to be kind. He fucked me through it, groaning, “Ugh—mm—take it—”, and then his body locked and he slammed to the root and came inside me a second time. I felt every jet, hot, filling the same pussy he had filled at night, and he moaned into my mouth, “Ahh—ugh—mm—”, while I was still clenching, so that his coming and my coming ran together in one wet shaking mess on the narrow bed.
He stayed buried until the last twitch left him. Our mouths stayed open on each other, only breathing now, a small leftover “mm” in both throats. Then he pulled out. I felt the empty hole and then the leak, thick, running from my pussy down my ass crack onto the sheet. He looked at it. He put two fingers there and felt his own second load coming out of me, and he wiped it once on my inner thigh the same way he had at night.
“Don’t wipe it off inside,” he said. “Wear your saree over it.”
“The bus,” I said. My voice was used.
“Wash your face. Wear the saree. We eat. I put you on the bus.”
I sat up on the edge of the lodge bed with his cum sliding down my thigh, my yellow chiffon saree and my white color bra and my maroon color panties and my white petticoat still on the floor, the latch still on, the highway loud now, and I did not create a scene. The morning fuck was finished. The city was waiting.
I washed my face and my neck with the lodge bucket and I did not wash between my thighs the way he had told me not to. I picked my maroon color panties off the floor and stepped into them over the leak, then I hooked my white color bra behind my back and settled my breasts into the cups. I tied my white petticoat low, below my navel, over the panties. I put on my yellow blouse and then I wrapped my yellow chiffon saree around myself and tucked it and brought the pallu over my shoulder and pinned it as if I was only a woman going home from a funeral. The mangalsutra sat between my breasts. My handbag was on the chair where he had dropped it.
He watched me dress. He did not help.
We walked to a small idli shop on the highway edge. He ordered idli and coffee for both of us and we sat on the bench and ate. He ate like a man who had finished his night. I ate because my body needed something that was not him. A little of him still leaked into my maroon color panties while I sat there with the steel tumbler in my hand.
“That bus,” he said, pointing with his chin at the stop. “City.”
He walked me to the edge of the road and raised his hand. The bus slowed. He put my handbag in my hand.
“Go,” he said. “Don’t tell your husband.”
“I will not,” I said.
I climbed in. This time no one stood behind me. I found a seat by the window. He was already walking back toward the lodge side of the road. The bus pulled out. I sat with my yellow chiffon saree arranged decently over my knees and his cum still in me and I watched the village thin into highway and the highway thicken into city.
I reached home in the afternoon. I unlocked the door. I bathed. I changed. I cooked. Rajesh came late, kissed the side of my head, and asked if the funeral had been all right.
“It was all right,” I said.
I did not tell him. I set the plate down and I did not create a scene. The house was quiet again. Something in me was not.
The city bus ran and I sat by the window in my yellow chiffon saree with my handbag on my lap and his cum still in me under the white petticoat. No one stood behind me. No hand came to my waist. I watched the highway become streets and the streets become the road that led toward my house, and I rehearsed the only sentence I was going to need.
I unlocked the door in the afternoon. The house smelled the way I had left it. I went straight to the bathroom and washed his mouth off my lips and his hands off my breasts and I washed between my thighs last. I watched the water take the rest of him down the drain and I did not feel clean. I wore a fresh saree. I tied a fresh petticoat low below my navel. I cooked.
The boys came in from college. I asked about homework. I kept my voice ordinary. Rajesh came late, white shirt, files, the smell of court. He kissed the side of my head in the same place he always kisses.
“How was the funeral?” he asked.
“It was all right,” I said. “Kasiamma was buried in the evening. Santosh and Lydia are as they were. I took the night bus back.”
“You should have stayed another day,” he said, already looking at his phone.
“I wanted to come home,” I said.
I set his plate down. I sat across from him. I ate. I did not tell him about the crowded aisle or the fingers inside my panties or the highway kiss or the lodge register where another man had written wife beside his own name. I did not tell him I had come on a stranger’s hand and again on a stranger’s cock and again in the morning before idli. I cleared the plates. I folded his shirt the way he likes, collar first.
At night I lay on our bed and he slept with his back to me. I looked at the fan. It was not the lodge fan. I put my hand on my own navel, on the place the ugly stranger had touched first, and I took the hand away.
Sudha, you went to a funeral and you came back a different woman and no one in this house knows. You will get up tomorrow and make coffee and he will kiss the side of your head and you will let him. That is the end of it. That is not the end of it.
I closed my eyes. The house was quiet. My marriage was in its place. Something under my yellow-saree days was not. I did not create a scene.
That was the end of the story. I never told my husband.

The End 

Regards 
Novelist Casanova



Fantastic and mind blowing.... Hats off 

[novelistcasanova]

Again Santhosh killed in an accident.
May Santhosh get many death,
we are getting more erotiis from "Novelisticasanova"
Thank you for Sudha's enjoyment.

Haha! ? Ananth, poor Santhosh really has no luck in my stories!  ? Thank you so much for reading and for the wonderful support. ❤️

[novelistcasanova]

Thank you

[tweeny_fory]

Oh Casanovva, you are truly a master novelist! I am thoroughly enjoying all your stories, macha. What sets your work apart is the incredible balance—it has emotional depth, raw and intense sex, complex feelings, and the best part: every single arc ends with an absolute bang!

I genuinely love all your erotica pieces. Like Sengolan mentioned earlier, it's not just your recurring fondness for the iconic yellow saree that reminds me of director Mysskin; it is your entire storytelling approach, your pacing, and your dark, poetic narrative style that carries that exact Mysskin cinematic vibe.

You know how to build a scene and hook your readers completely. Keep rocking, macha—waiting eagerly for your next masterpiece