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

[novelistcasanova]

Sudha Sweet Stall 

By Novelist Casanova 

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



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


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



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



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


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







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



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


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



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


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


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


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

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


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

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

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


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

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


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

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

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

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

To Be Continued...!

[novelistcasanova]

I bent over the cot and I kissed my husband’s forehead before I left, my lips on him, my perfume already on my neck, the pink chiffon saree hanging forward as I leaned, my heavy breasts in the pink blouse and the white bra close to his sleeping face. He did not wake. I stood back, looked at him once more, and I went down the stairs from the first floor to the ground floor.

When I came out onto the road Santosh was already there in front of Mary Sweets, and he laughed at me as well. He laughed looking at the closed shutter of Sudha Sweet Stall and then looking at me in the pink saree, the same laugh he had used on my husband in front of the customers and the workers, and the sound hit me on the pavement and made me so angry that I looked at him and wanted him dead at any cost. I told myself that this should be his last laugh. I did not speak to him. I stood in front of our closed shop and I looked at it, the shutter down, the name still painted above, the ground floor empty, the basement empty, no trays, no workers, no morning crowd, and I felt what I had said in the middle of the night, that we would have to build from the scrap if I did not do something. I wanted the shop open like before. I wanted the road turning to us. I wanted my husband number one again. The emptiness of the stall sat in my chest beside that anger, the grey panties against my shaved pussy under the pink petticoat, the gold anklets sounding when I turned away from Santosh and from our shutter, the want for him gone from the road sitting in me with the want to save the stall.
I raised my hand and I took an auto.
“That side, I will tell you the place, go,” I said, sitting in the back, the pink saree around my hips and my ass, the perfume in the small space of the auto.
“Tell me when to stop,” the auto driver said, and the auto pulled into the road, away from Mary Sweets, away from the closed stall, toward Ranga’s area, toward the gated house I had seen on the phone in the dark, my hands in my lap, my face forward, Santosh’s laugh still in my ears and already marked as the last one I was going to take.



The auto stopped in the area I had seen on the phone and I got down in the pink chiffon saree, the grey panties against my shaved pussy, the white bra holding my breasts under the pink blouse, the perfume still on my neck, the gold anklets sounding on the road. Ganesh Chaturthi flex banners were everywhere. Every wall and every pole held a wide banner with Ganesh in the centre and Ranga’s big photo on the side, that same ugly scary face from the videos, and around the big photo the tiny photos of his men sat in rows, small heads, small names, the whole area wishing Chaturthi with his face printed larger than anyone else’s.
I took out my phone and I opened the same videos I had watched in the middle of the night and I looked from the screen to the banners and back, matching the hard uneven face, the deep eyes, the dark look, the shoulders, until I was sure this was the place. I asked a man standing near one of the banners.
“Ranga, where is he, I came to see him, the videos show this area,” I said, holding the phone so he could see I was not lost.
“He is sitting in the corner inside, that auto, go there, he is there now,” the man said, pointing past the banners toward a corner where an auto stood.
I put the phone away and I began walking toward that auto, the pink saree moving over my hips and over my ass, the pink petticoat low below my navel under it, my heavy breasts forward in the pink blouse, my mouth slightly open, my large eyes on the corner, Santosh’s laugh still in me, the closed stall still in me, and the ugly scary man from the screen waiting in that auto in the corner of his own area.


I walked toward the auto in the corner, the pink chiffon saree moving over my hips and over my ass with every step, the gold anklets sounding, the Ganesh banners with Ranga’s big face hanging over the street behind me. Inside the auto the auto driver was sitting in the driver’s seat. Ranga was sitting in the back seat, the same ugly guy from the videos, darker in the real light than on the phone, his face hard and uneven, his eyes deep, his lips thick, his shoulders filling the back of the auto, scary even while he was only sitting.
The moment I saw him I began introducing myself.
“I am Sudha, I came from the other side of the city, I saw your videos last night, I found this area from those videos, I need to talk to you, I need your help,” I said, standing beside the auto, my hands on the door, my breasts forward in the pink blouse, my mouth dry.
The auto driver turned in the driver’s seat and began looking at me, his eyes going over my face and then down over the pink blouse and over my hips and over the saree on my ass, and he did not look away. Ranga looked at me from the back seat the same way, slower, from my large eyes to my full lips to my breasts to the pallu at my waist.
“Sit inside, sit next to me, tell me about you, tell me what you want, do not stand on the road and talk, come,” Ranga said, moving a little on the back seat to make space.
I got inside the auto and I sat next to him on the back seat, the pink saree gathering around my thighs and my ass, my grey panties against my shaved pussy, my shoulder close to his shoulder, the ugly scary face I had wondered about in the night now beside me, the auto driver still looking at me from the front, and I drew one breath and got ready to tell him who I was and what I had come for.


“Start the auto, keep moving, do not stop until I say, go around,” Ranga said, and the auto driver started the auto and pulled out of the corner and kept moving through the area, the Ganesh banners sliding past the open sides, Ranga’s own face on the flex going by while the real Ranga sat next to me on the back seat.
He put his left hand around my shoulder and kept it there, heavy on the pink blouse, his fingers near my neck and near the mangalsutra, and he listened like that. His eyes were all over me, ogling, going from my large eyes to my full lips to my neck to my heavy breasts inside the pink blouse and the white bra, then down to my waist and to my hips and to my thighs under the pink saree, then back to my breasts again, not hiding it. The wind from the moving auto lifted my pallu and made it flow off my chest and off my shoulder, and each time the pallu flew the pink blouse showed the full shape of my breasts, the nipples pressing from inside the white bra, and I felt his eyes catch that and stay. I had come for Santosh. I had come because I wanted him dead at any cost. And still, with that ugly scary face beside me and that left hand on my shoulder and the pallu flying, lust moved in me against my will, my shaved pussy warming against the grey panties, my nipples tightening, my breath changing while I talked.
“Now say, who are you, what happened, what do you want from me, tell me everything, do not cut,” Ranga said, his thick lips close, his dark body filling the seat, his left hand pulling my shoulder a little toward him so my breast almost touched his chest.
I began saying it. I told him I was Sudha, a housewife, that my husband had built Sudha Sweet Stall and put my name on the shutter, that the stall had been number one, that we had a house of four floors over the ground floor and the basement, that five workers had made the sweets below while my husband sold them on the road. I told him Mary Sweets opened opposite, that Santosh spread rumours through every contact that our sweets were low quality, that the regulars stopped coming, that offers and extra samples did nothing. I told him Santosh laughed at my husband in front of customers and workers, that my husband came home silent and could not sleep, that our three sons saw their father humiliated, that the next day my husband settled the balance and sent the five workers off because he could not maintain them. I told him the basement went empty, the shutter went down, and this morning Santosh laughed at me also when I came out in this saree, the same laugh, and that laugh had made me so angry I wanted him gone from the road at any cost. While I said all of it the wind kept making my pallu flow, my breasts kept moving in the pink blouse, his eyes kept ogling, his left hand kept holding my shoulder, and the lust sat in me beside the anger, unwanted and already there.
“He humiliated my husband in front of everyone, he laughed at me today in front of our closed shop, he took the road with rumours, five men are gone, my husband cried on me in the night and he could not even make love, I came here from those videos, I want your help to kill Santosh, I want that laugh finished, I want my stall back, that is why I sat next to you,” I said, my hands tight in my lap, my breasts rising under the pink blouse, my grey panties wet against my shaved pussy as the auto kept moving, the auto driver listening from the front and looking at me in the mirror, Ranga’s ugly face close to mine and not yet answering.



Ranga took his left hand off my shoulder slowly, his fingers dragging across the pink blouse at my back, and he placed that hand on my lap. The heat of his palm came through the pink saree onto my thigh and stayed there, heavy, not moving at first, only holding my thigh as the auto shook over the road and the Ganesh banners kept sliding past. Then he grabbed my waist gently with the same hand, sliding up from my lap to the side of my waist, his fingers on the pink blouse, his thumb near the line where the blouse met the saree, holding me on the seat so I could not lean away. His eyes stayed on my face for one second and then they went down, ogling my heavy breasts inside the pink blouse and the white bra, ogling the nipples that the wind and his hand had already made tight, ogling the pallu each time it lifted and showed more of the blouse. The auto driver kept the auto moving and kept looking in the mirror. I sat with my grey panties wet against my shaved pussy and I felt the tension in my stomach and in my clit at the same time, anger for Santosh and lust for this ugly scary man sitting in one body, and I waited for him to speak.
“Why should I do that for you, you sat here and told me a long story, Santosh is not my problem, your stall is not my stall, what will you give me if I take this on, say it clearly,” Ranga said, his ugly face close, his thick lips almost at my ear, his breath on my neck, his hand tightening a little on my waist so my breast shifted toward his chest.
I swallowed. The wind lifted the pallu again and the pink blouse showed the full shape of my breasts and I knew he saw it. I thought of money because money was the only clean thing I could offer in an auto next to a man like this.
“I will give money, I can arrange money, tell me how much, I did not come empty, my husband built that stall, I will pay, I only want Santosh finished, I only want the laugh finished,” I said, my thighs tight under the saree, my grey panties stuck to my shaved pussy, my voice trying to stay even while his thumb moved once on my waist.
“I do not want money, money I have, you can keep your notes, that is not the price, do not talk money to me,” Ranga said, and he moved his hand from my waist back down to my lap and left it there, covering more of my thigh, the pink saree trapped under his palm, his eyes going slowly over my breasts again as if the answer was already sitting on my body and I was only late to say it.
The auto turned a corner. My gold anklets sounded. My ass slid an inch on the seat toward him. I looked at his thick lips and I remembered wondering in the night how a woman would kiss those lips and how ugly he would look naked, and the thought did not go away. I had to ask. The tension in my pussy and in my chest would not let me sit silent.
“Then what do you want, tell me, I came this far, I sat next to you, I told you everything, what do you want from me,” I said, my full lips open, my heavy breasts rising against the pink blouse, the mangalsutra shifting on my chest, my hand gripping the seat so I would not shake.
“I want you, that is the price, you, this body, you let me fuck you, if you agree I can kill Santosh tomorrow itself, no waiting, tomorrow he is gone, that is what I want, say yes or get down,” Ranga said, his fingers pressing my thigh through the pink saree, pressing close enough that I felt it in my clit, his dark ugly face waiting, his eyes on my nipples where they pressed the pink blouse, the auto still moving, the driver still listening, no place to stand up and no place to hide.
Santosh’s death was sweet to me. For a long second I sat with that sweetness and with his hand on my lap and with the pallu flying and with my grey panties wet, and killing Santosh began to appear more happiness to me than myself, more than my own body, more than the lust, more than the fear of giving this man what he was asking. I saw the closed shutter. I saw my husband crying on my neck in the dark. I saw the three sons watching him silent at the dining table. I saw Santosh laughing at me on the pavement in this same pink saree. The tension broke into the only answer that would take me back to a stall that opened, and I put the condition in before the yes could go without it.
“I will agree, I will let you fuck me after you kill Santosh and after you close his shop, not before, you do that first, then I will give you me, you agree to that and I am yours after,” I said, my hand still on the seat, my ass on the moving auto, my breasts against the wind, the pink pallu flying across his arm.
“I agree, Santosh first, his shop closed, then you, tomorrow I start, you go home and wait, when it is done I will call you to my house,” Ranga said, his palm still on my thigh, his ugly face close, and the deal sat between us in the moving auto while the road kept taking us around and around his area.
“Tell him your address, he will drop you home, say the road, say the stall,” Ranga said, his hand still leaving heat on my thigh even after he lifted it, his ugly face close in the moving auto.
“No, do not come to my house, drop me at the nearest auto stand, I will go from there, my husband is on the first floor, my sons are in the house, I cannot get down with you in front of our shutter,” I said, my pallu still restless from the wind, my grey panties still wet, fear coming back now that the deal was spoken.
“I have to look at Santosh and I have to look at his shop, I have to analyse the road, the shutter, who stands where, you will show me, that is part of this, you agreed, we go there, you show, then you go up,” Ranga said, and the auto driver waited with his hands on the wheel.
I sat with that for a second, the closed stall in my head, Santosh’s laugh in my head, and I agreed.
“All right, go to our road, I will show you from a distance, do not stop in front of Mary Sweets, do not stop in front of our shutter,” I said.
The auto reached our house. The driver parked at a distance, far enough that the two shutters sat down the road, Sudha Sweet Stall closed on one side, Mary Sweets open on the other. All of us got out. I stood in the pink chiffon saree on our own road again, the gold anklets sounding, and I lifted my chin and showed them.
“That one far side is Santosh, Mary Sweets, that shutter, he stands there and laughs, this one is ours, Sudha Sweet Stall, closed, the basement is under this, empty now,” I said, keeping my voice low.
Ranga and the auto driver walked around and casually scanned, looking at the road, at the opposite shutter, at our closed shutter, at the windows of the first floor, at the lane beside the house, not stopping long in one place, two men who could have been anyone passing. I walked away from them and I stood at my basement, at the door of the empty steps, the same door I used to go through every morning at 10 AM in a low saree when the five workers were still there. After they finished scanning they came toward me at the basement. I looked once at the road and at the first-floor windows and I went inside the empty basement so that no one would see the three of us standing together. They both followed inside. The air was still thick with old sugar and old ghee, the vessels sitting without fire, the heat leftover, and I stood in the pink saree between the silent stoves with Ranga and the auto driver coming down the steps after me, the deal already made, Santosh’s shop still open above us on the other side of the road.


Ranga stood close to me between the silent vessels in the empty basement and he asked for an advance.
“You agreed, I start tomorrow, I take an advance now, here, before I go,” Ranga said, his ugly face over mine, the auto driver standing near the steps and watching.
“How much money, tell me the amount, I can bring it, do not do this here, my husband is upstairs,” I said, my back near a cold stove, my heavy breasts rising in the pink blouse.
“Not money, a kiss, that is the advance, mouth on mouth, now, then I go and I look after the other side,” Ranga said, already putting his hands on my waist.
I reluctantly agreed. He put his filthy mouth on my lips. His mouth tasted of old smoke and spit, his thick lips wet, his tongue pushing into my mouth at once, filling my lips, licking my teeth, leaving his spit on my tongue and on the corners of my mouth, and he kissed me like that, messy, filthy, his nose against my face, his dark body pressing my breasts through the pink blouse and the white bra. I held the pink saree at my hip and I took that kiss because of tomorrow. In the middle of it he turned his head just enough to look at the auto driver and he spoke against my mouth.
“Yummy, you see this, yummy, rare like this does not walk into an auto every day,” Ranga said, and then he put his filthy mouth back on my lips and continued kissing me, panting between the kisses, looking at the driver again, his hands on my ass over the saree.
“Rare babe, look at these lips, look at these breasts, she will be great in bed, tomorrow after the job I will take all of this, you stay and watch the road,” Ranga said, and he kissed me again, spit on my chin, his tongue in my mouth, my grey panties wet, my clit tight, my full lips trapped under his thick lips.
“Stop, my husband will come down, the boys are in the house, this is the basement, he will hear, please, the kiss is enough, leave,” I said, breaking the kiss, turning my face, my mouth wet with him, my breath coming fast.
“Not just a kiss, I want your panties, the ones you are wearing now, that is also the advance, give,” Ranga said, holding my waist, his ugly face shining.
“No, I cannot give my panties, I have to go upstairs, I am wearing the saree, no,” I said, shaking my head, my hands on his chest.
He stood in front of the steps and he made it plain he would not leave without my panties. The auto driver did not move. The empty basement held the three of us and the leftover smell of sugar.
“I am not going, lift the saree, take them off, put them in my hand,” Ranga said.
I began lifting my pink saree along with my pink petticoat, the pink saree and the pink petticoat coming up over my thighs and over my hips, my shaved pussy showing in the grey panties, my ass showing, and I put my thumbs in the grey panties and I started removing them, pulling them down over my ass and over my pussy. By the time I was removing them he held my face with both hands and kissed my lips nicely, cheekily, a smaller kiss after the filthy one, almost a thank you on my mouth, and he collected my grey panties from my ankles with one hand. Then he and the auto driver left the basement and went up the steps and out toward the auto parked at a distance, and I stood in the empty basement with the pink saree and the pink petticoat falling back down, no panties on my shaved pussy, his spit still on my lips, the advance already gone with him.


I went back up from the empty basement to the first floor at 8 AM in the pink chiffon saree, no panties on my shaved pussy, the pink petticoat and the saree falling over my ass and my thighs, Ranga’s spit still on my lips, and I walked into the hall as if I had only come from the temple. My husband was awake. The three sons were coming down from the second and third and fourth floors. I went to the kitchen and I prepared breakfast, idli and chutney, the same breakfast I made when the stall was number one, my hands working the batter and the chutney while my grey panties were gone in another man’s pocket and my mouth still held his filthy taste. I served them at the dining table, idli on the plates, chutney in the bowl, coffee for my husband, and I sat with them and I settled down, the mangalsutra on my chest, the gold bangles on my wrists, the perfume from the morning still under the smell of the chutney.
“Temple was crowded, I came back, eat, the idli is hot, I will sit,” I said, keeping my voice ordinary, my thighs closed under the pink saree so no one would know I had no panties.
I went to the bathroom after they started eating and I brushed my teeth again, the brush hard on my tongue, paste filling my mouth, water again and again, trying to take his taste out. His taste was still in my mouth. The smoke and the spit and the filthy kiss sat under the paste, on my tongue, on the inside of my lips, and I stood at the basin with my heavy breasts in the pink blouse and I could not brush it away. I came back to the dining table and I sat with my family and I ate a little idli, and even the chutney could not cover what he had left in my mouth, the house settling into an ordinary morning while the advance was already done below us in the basement and tomorrow was already promised.



The whole day we were sad. The shutter of Sudha Sweet Stall stayed down. My husband sat on the first floor and did not go to the counter. The three sons moved quietly between their floors. I served lunch and I served coffee and I kept the pink saree on and I kept my face the same, and under the pink petticoat I still had no panties, and under my ordinary talk I waited.
At night I took off the pink chiffon saree and the pink blouse and the pink petticoat and the white bra and I put on my nighty, the nighty falling over my breasts and over my waist and over my hips, my shaved pussy bare under it, and I went to the balcony. Mary Sweets caught fire. I watched from the balcony in my nighty, the road lit by the flames, the opposite shutter already eating itself, smoke going up past our four floors, people starting to shout on the pavement. I stood with my hands on the balcony and I felt my goal arriving in front of my eyes. The laugh was burning. The rumours were burning. The shop that had taken our road was burning. I was delighted and I was full and I was shaking from it, and I did not let that come onto my face. My husband came behind me and he took out his phone to call the fire engine.
“I am calling them now, it will jump to our side, look at that, I am calling,” my husband said, already unlocking the phone.
“Stop, wait, do not call yet, let them come on their own, our shutter is down, it will not jump, put the phone down,” I said, and I put my hand on his wrist and I made him stop.
We stood on the balcony and we watched. I watched the fire take the inside of that shop and I was sure he was suffering. I was sure the heat reached him before he could get out. I was sure he screamed on the same road where he had laughed at my husband and laughed at me. I was sure he felt it for a long time, trapped behind his own shutter, breathing the smoke, burning while the shop he used against us became the thing that killed him. That certainty made me so happy I had to press my lips together. I thought of the name on our shutter. I thought of my husband number one again. I thought of the basement filling with workers and trays. I thought of the three sons seeing their father smile at the dining table. My goal was there in the flames and it was emotional in my chest like a prayer that had been answered in the ugliest way, and I held the balcony so I would not show any of it. I watched until everything on that side was burnt down, the shop, the trays, the name on the shutter, the place where he had stood in the morning. Only after that I myself called the fire engine.
When they came they broke what was left of the shutter. Santosh’s dead body was inside and it was as gruesome as a body can be after fire. He was charred black from head to foot, the face gone, the mouth open in a cooked scream, the lips burnt away, the eyes empty holes, the nose flattened, the hair gone, the hands drawn up and stiff and cracked, the fingers like burnt sticks, the stomach split and ruined, the legs thin and black and broken at the knees, the whole body stuck to what was left of the floor, stiff, wet in places from the water they threw, smelling so strong the people on the road covered their mouths and still stared. No one could have said it was a man except that it was lying where a man had been. Looking at that body I was sure he had suffered. A death that left a man like that was not a fast death. I felt so happy I had to hold the balcony with both hands so my face would not show it. I kept my mouth still. I kept my eyes only as wide as a neighbour’s eyes should be. Inside I was glad he had suffered. Inside I was glad the body looked like that. Inside I knew I had done what I came down the stairs that morning to do. My husband looked down and he did not know that this was the job I had paid for with a filthy kiss and with my grey panties in the empty basement, and I stood beside him in my nighty with my goal achieved on the other side of the road, and I let the night take the other shop off our street so ours could live again.

[novelistcasanova]

The whole day we were sad. The shutter of Sudha Sweet Stall stayed down on the ground floor and the basement under it stayed empty, the vessels cold, the steps quiet, no 10 AM walk, no trays coming up, no customers on the road. My husband sat on the first floor and did not go to the counter. He sat at the dining table and he sat on the cot and he looked at the window that opened toward the road and he did not count notes because there were almost no notes to count. The three sons moved quietly between the second and third and fourth floors, coming down for food and going back up, their voices smaller than they used to be when the stall was number one.

After I came up from the basement I had put on another pair of panties under the pink petticoat so I could walk the first floor in the pink chiffon saree, the pink blouse, the white bra, the mangalsutra on my chest, and I kept my face the same. I went to the kitchen and I cooked lunch, rice and sambar and a little pickle, my hands on the vessels, my gold bangles sounding, and I served them at the dining table as if this were any other day. I put the rice on the plates. I poured the sambar. I set the water. I sat with them and I told the boys to eat and I told my husband to eat, and under that ordinary talk I waited.
“Eat, the rice is hot, do not sit looking at the window, we will open when we open, now eat,” I said, keeping my thighs together under the pink saree.
In the afternoon I made coffee and I served it to my husband on the first floor, the cup in his hands, his eyes still on the road, Mary Sweets still open opposite us, and I sat near him and I did not speak about last night and I did not speak about the auto and I did not speak about the empty basement. In the evening I served a small dinner, the same plates, the same dining table, the four floors of the beautiful house sitting over a stall that was not working, and after the three sons went back to their floors I washed the vessels and I wiped the table and I settled the hall.
At night I took off the pink chiffon saree and I took off the pink blouse and I took off the pink petticoat and I took off the white bra. I put my thumbs in my panties and I pulled them down over my ass and over my shaved pussy and over my thighs and I dropped them with the rest. I put on my nighty. The nighty fell over my heavy breasts and over my waist and over my hips and over my ass, my shaved pussy bare under it, my nipples against the nighty, my long black hair down my back. I lay on the cot on the first floor beside my husband and I pulled the sheet to my waist and I closed my eyes and I pretended to sleep with no panties on, the gold anklets off, the earrings off, the perfume faded, the closed stall below us, the other shutter still open across the road, and tomorrow already sitting in my chest while his breath went slow beside me.






The phone buzzed under the pillow. I opened my eyes on the first floor in the dark, my husband still asleep beside me, his breath slow, the three sons still on the second and third and fourth floors. I slid my hand under the pillow and I took the phone and I got off the cot without shaking it. The nighty moved over my breasts and over my hips, my shaved pussy bare under it, my feet quiet on the floor, and I went to the balcony and I shut the door behind me so the house would stay asleep.
“Watch and enjoy,” Ranga said.
I stood at the balcony in my nighty with the phone against my ear and I looked across the road. Mary Sweets was already burning, quietly, no crowd yet, no shouting, no one on the pavement noticing, only a low fire eating the inside behind the shutter and a thin smoke going up. I held the railing and I watched and I enjoyed it. I was so happy I had to press my lips together. The shop that had taken our road was going while my husband slept on the cot behind the door. The laugh was going. The rumours were going. Justice was sitting on the other side of the street and nobody had even turned their head. My nipples were tight under the nighty. My shaved pussy was bare under it. My face stayed still and inside I was glad.
While I was still enjoying the burning, his voice came again.
“Now come down to the basement and let me inside, you said after, I am at the door, come,” Ranga said.
“I am coming, I will let you inside, I am coming now,” I said, and I locked the phone.
I looked once more at the quiet fire across the road, then I turned from the railing in my nighty and I walked back through the first floor, past my husband sleeping on the cot, past the dining table, down the stairs, toward the empty basement door.


I left the balcony and I crossed the first floor on the balls of my feet, one step, then another, tiptoeing slowly so the wood would not speak, so the cot would not move, so my husband would not open his eyes and see me in the nighty going toward the stairs. His breath stayed slow on the pillow. His shoulder stayed under the sheet. The dining table sat in the dark with the day’s plates already washed. I held the hem of the nighty at my thigh so it would not brush the chairs, my shaved pussy bare under it, my heavy breasts moving with each careful step, my nipples tight from the night and from what was waiting below, and I reached the top of the stairs and I went down them one by one.
Each step took me farther from the cot and closer to the empty basement. I was happy. I was delighted. I was victorious. The quiet fire was still in my head, the other shutter dying across the road while nobody on the pavement had even turned, the laugh going with the smoke, the rumours going with the smoke, the name on our shutter already alive again in my chest. My gold anklets were off. My earrings were off. Only the nighty was on me. Only the mangalsutra was on my chest. My long black hair hung down my back and I gathered it once with one hand so it would not catch on the railing.
At the bottom the basement air met me, cooler, thicker, the old smell of sugar and ghee still sitting in the dark even though the stoves were cold and the vessels were silent and the five workers were long gone. I stood still until my eyes found the shapes of the trays and the steps that used to bring sweets up to the ground floor. Then I took the phone out of my palm and I called Ranga, my mouth close to the phone, my voice almost a whisper so it would not climb the stairs.
“Come from the back door of the basement, not the road, not the ground floor, the back door, I am inside, I will let you in,” I said.
“I am coming, open it, wait there,” Ranga said.
I walked through the empty basement toward the back door, past the cold vessels, past the place where I used to pull the saree low on my hips at 10 AM so the workers could look, past the place where I had given him the filthy kiss and my grey panties that morning. My nighty whispered against my ass and against my thighs. My shaved pussy felt the air. My breasts felt the nighty. I put my hand on the latch of the back door and I did not open it yet. I waited for him there, excited and happy, my palm damp on the metal, my breath short, my nipples pushing the nighty, my clit already tight from the fire and from the deal and from the man who was about to walk through that door. I did not go up. I did not check the cot again. I stood in the empty basement, victorious, the quiet burning still on the other side of the road, and I waited for the back door to take the rest of the price.


The back door opened and Ranga came into the empty basement, the same ugly scary face from the auto, dark in the low light, his shoulders filling the doorway, the smell of the road still on him, and he held out his phone between us before he even touched the nighty.
“Look, you watch this, this is what you asked, look properly,” Ranga said.
I stepped closer in my nighty, my bare feet on the basement floor, my heavy breasts moving under the nighty, my shaved pussy bare, and I looked at the small screen. The video was inside Mary Sweets after the quiet fire. Santosh’s dead body lay on the floor of his own shop, charred black from head to foot, the face gone, the mouth open in that cooked shape, the hands drawn up and stiff and cracked, the whole body ruined and stuck where he used to stand and laugh at my husband and laugh at me. I watched the first seconds and my breath went short and happy.
While I was watching, Ranga came behind me and started hugging me from behind. His arms went around my waist over the nighty, wrapping me, hugging my 28 waist, his chest pressing my back, his mouth coming into my long black hair, his cock already hard against my ass through the nighty, the head of it rubbing the line of my ass as he hugged me tighter so I had to stay on the phone. My breasts rested on his forearms. My nipples tightened against the nighty. My shaved pussy warmed and opened a little as if the video and the hugging were one thing.
“It was all for you, this body, this shop, I did it for you, you watch, you do not look away,” Ranga said, hugging me, speaking into my hair.
I turned my head to the right, my cheek toward his ugly face, my full lips near his thick lips, my neck open to his mouth, and I thanked him and I went back to the screen and I kept watching and I kept enjoying. His hugging pulled my ass back onto his cock. The nighty was a thin thing between my ass cheeks and him. I could feel how hard he was. I could feel my clit pulse each time the video showed the black body on the shop floor. I was so happy I had to keep both hands on the phone so I would not moan up the stairs. I was delighted. I was proud of Ranga. Proud that this dark ugly man was hugging me in my own basement while the man who had humiliated us was only a burnt shape on a screen.
“Thank you, I am proud, I am happy, this is what I wanted, I will not forget this, you hug me, I am watching,” I said, my voice still low, my mouth turned to the right, my eyes still on the charred body, my breasts rising and falling on his arms.
He whispered against my neck, his thick lips brushing me, his breath hot, still hugging me from behind, his cock dragging slowly against my ass as he spoke.
“After that kiss I was desperate, after your mouth in this same basement, after your panties in my hand, I wanted to do this for you and I wanted to enjoy you after, I finished him so I could have you tonight in this nighty, you keep watching, then I take you, I have been hard since the auto,” Ranga said.
I watched the video until the end, hugging back against him without putting my arms around him, only pressing my ass and my waist into his hugging, my shaved pussy dripping down my inner thigh, my nipples scbangd by the nighty, my full lips open, the empty vessels around us, my husband asleep above, and the price I had promised already rubbing my ass in the dark while Santosh’s dead body stayed locked on the phone.


He did not lock the phone. He opened the video again and we rewatched it in the empty basement, the small screen lighting my nighty and lighting his ugly face over my right shoulder. The charred body filled the picture a second time, black and stiff on the floor of Mary Sweets, the mouth open, the hands drawn up. I watched and I enjoyed it again. My happiness was already making me horny. The justice in my chest went down into my nipples and into my shaved pussy and I stood in the nighty getting wet from how glad I was.
Ranga stepped back only enough to take his clothes off. He pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it on the basement floor. He opened his trousers and pushed them down with his underwear and stepped out of them and then he was naked behind me, dark, ugly the way I had wondered on the cot, his cock hard before it found my ass through the nighty. He came back against me naked.
Only after that his left hand came up over the nighty and grabbed my left breast, the whole breast in his palm, the nipple caught through the nighty. His right hand lifted the nighty up over my hips and over my ass until it sat bunched at my waist, and he grabbed my shaved pussy and just held it, his whole palm covering my pussy and my clit, not rubbing yet, only holding while we looked at the video.
“He cried like a coward, he begged to spare his life, he said please, he said he would close the shop himself,” Ranga said, his mouth at my right ear, his palm owning my pussy.
The more he talked about how Santosh suffered, the happier I got, and the happier I got the hornier I got, and his hand holding my pussy made both things worse. My clit swelled against his palm. My wetness sat on his fingers. I smiled to the right.
“I did not spare him, he screamed, he called for help, nobody came, you are looking at what is left,” Ranga said, squeezing my left breast, still only holding my pussy.
More talk. More happiness. More horny. I giggled into my throat so it would not climb the stairs. My inner thighs opened a little so he could hold more of me. My ass rubbed back on his naked cock by itself. I turned my face to the right and looked at him and smiled, delighted, shaky, my full lips open.
“I am so happy,” I said, and I went back to the screen, his left hand on my breast, his right hand holding my pussy, his words about Santosh’s suffering pushing more happiness into me and that happiness pushing more wetness into his palm while the dead body played again on the phone.


He thumbed the video forward to another part and held the phone in front of my face while his right hand stayed on my shaved pussy and his left hand stayed on my left breast. The screen jumped to Santosh’s mouth, still a man’s mouth in that clip, not yet the black shape from the end.
“Here, listen to him,” Ranga said, close to my right ear. “Money, he is saying money, any amount, he will close the shop, he will leave the road. I did not take it. I beat the shit out of him anyway. You watch his face.”
On the phone the voice came small and broken, offering notes, offering the shutter, offering anything if they would stop. I watched that part and the happiness went through me again, down my chest, down into the pussy Ranga was holding. While I watched he slowly began playing with me, the holding turning into a slow rub, his fingers sliding through my wetness, his palm dragging on my clit, not rushing, just playing, as if the begging on the screen and my pussy were one thing. Each time Santosh offered money I got happier. Each time I got happier I got wetter. His fingers noticed. He did not say anything about that. He only played slower.
I decided to pleasure him for how he had punished Santosh. I put my right hand behind me, felt down his naked stomach, and found his cock against my ass. I grabbed it. It filled my fist, thick, hard, hot, the head already wet. I stroked it once, twice, and then I just held it and kept watching the phone, my breast in Ranga’s left hand, my pussy in his right, his cock in mine.
The upstairs was quiet. I took the phone from him and I placed it on the table beside a cold vessel, the video still playing, that begging still coming out of the speaker small and far. Then I turned around in his arms. The nighty stayed bunched at my waist. My heavy breasts came against his dark chest, nipples dragging on him. I held his cock between us with my right hand and I put my mouth on his filthy mouth.
His lips were wet and thick and already open. He spit into the kiss at once, not a little, a smear of it on my tongue and on my front teeth, the old smoke taste from the morning still in him, sour, heavy, and he pushed his tongue in as if my mouth was another pussy he had grabbed. I took it. I sucked his tongue. I let the spit run to the corner of my lips and down toward my chin. He licked that too, licked my chin, came back to my full lips and kissed me messier, panting into me, his teeth knocking mine, his hand still on my ass now that I had turned, my fist tight on his cock between our stomachs. The kiss made a wet sound in the basement. I was afraid the stairs would hear it. I still did not pull away. I kissed him filthier, I opened wider, I let him use my mouth the way he had used it for the advance, and only then I spoke into that spit.
“You did this,” I said against his mouth, my lips sliding on his. “I am so happy I don’t know what to do with it. Let me show you. Don’t talk for a minute.”
I went down on my knees on the basement floor. The concrete was cold under me. I gathered my long black hair with both hands and I put it in a ponytail so it would not fall over my face, pulling it tight at the back of my head, my breasts hanging forward in the bunched nighty, my mouth now level with his cock, his spit still on my lips, the phone still talking on the table, my husband still asleep above. I looked up at his ugly scary face, holding his cock at the base, and I waited one breath so the thank you would stay in my body and not become a speech.


I stayed on my knees on the mat on the basement floor. The mat was rough under my knees and under my shins, a small worn mat near the cold vessels, and I settled my weight on it so I would not slip. My nighty fell down over my hips and over my ass and spread around my knees, the hem touching the mat, my heavy breasts hanging forward inside the nighty, the nipples tight against it when I bent. Under the nighty my shaved pussy was bare and wet, my clit touching nothing but air, my inner thighs closed until I opened them a little to kneel properly.
I had pulled my long black hair into a ponytail with both hands before I came in front of him, pulling it tight at the back of my head so my face stayed open and the hair would not fall into my mouth. In front of me Ranga stood naked. His dark ugly body filled the space between the vessels. His cock stood thick and hard close to my mouth, the head already wet, a string of it shining, the smell of his cock mixing with the old sugar and ghee that never left the basement. I looked at his cock the way I had looked at the phone, happy, horny, thankful, my full lips already parted.
I brought my right hand up and I held his cock at the base. My fingers did not go all the way around. I felt him twitch in that grip, hot, heavy, the vein under my thumb. I leaned in until my mouth almost touched him and I kissed the head first, only a kiss, my full lips closing on the wet head, filthy from the spit still on my mouth from his kiss, leaving a shining mark on his cock. I kept the kiss there a second longer than a wife should keep a kiss on another man’s cock, and I tasted salt.
“Let me, you don’t talk, you just take it,” I said, my voice low so it would not climb the stairs to the cot.
He breathed out above me, a thick sound, and he moaned once, small, and his cock twitched again in my hand while I kept my lips on the head and got ready to open.


I opened my mouth the way I open for a kiss and I took the head of his cock in. The head was thicker than it looked. It stretched my full lips into a wet ring and sat on my tongue, hot, heavy, already leaking, the salt spreading to the sides of my mouth at once. I closed my lips around the ridge and I held his cock there so I could feel every small pulse against my tongue. My right hand stayed at the base of his cock, thumb pressed to the vein, fingers not meeting, and I could feel the head swell inside my mouth when I tightened that hand.
I went down only an inch. His cock slid over my tongue and bumped the beginning of my throat and I stopped and I came back to the rim of the head, slow, my lips dragging, a thin string of spit connecting my mouth to his cock when I almost let his cock out. I did not let his cock out. I took the head again. In an inch. Out to the ridge. In an inch. Out. Each time my tongue pressed the underside and rubbed that one spot under the head, the spot that made his stomach jump. My lips made a small wet sound I was afraid of. I kept it as small as I could.
My heavy breasts hung inside the nighty and swung forward when I leaned, the nipples scbanging the nighty. Under the nighty my shaved pussy was so wet my inner thighs had started to stick. My clit throbbed every time the head of his cock stretched my lips. I looked up at his ugly face with his cock in my mouth so he would see I was still happy.
His hand came to my ponytail. He closed his fist in the hair I had tied and he only rested it there at first, heavy on the back of my head, not pushing. He moaned once, low, a sound that stayed in his chest.
I sucked the head of his cock gently and I let my tongue work under it in a slow circle, then I took the inch again and came back, spit shining on his cock down to my fingers. I came off his cock only enough to breathe.
“I am happy,” I said, very low, the words almost not a sentence, and I put the head of his cock back in my mouth before I could say anything that did not belong on that mat.
I put the head of his cock back in my mouth and this time I took more. Not all of his cock. Enough that my lips slid down the shaft and my tongue had to make room and my right hand had less of his cock to hold. I went down until the head touched the beginning of my throat and I stayed there for a long pull, sucking, then I came back up to the ridge shining with spit and I went down again.
My heavy breasts swung inside the nighty with each pull. The nighty stayed around my knees on the mat. Under it my shaved pussy kept dripping, a slow wet line on my inner thigh. My clit throbbed in time with my mouth. I looked up at his ugly face with his cock stretching my full lips so he would see I was still happy.
His stomach jumped. His knees bent a little and then locked. The hand in my ponytail tightened and then loosened as if he remembered the stairs. His hips twitched toward my mouth and he stopped them himself, a small shake in his thigh against my shoulder.
He moaned.
“Ahh… nn… ahh…” he went, the sound staying in his chest. He did not speak. His head tipped back once and came forward again so he could look at my mouth on his cock.
I came off his cock just to breathe and I kept my hand moving on the wet shaft. His cock twitched in my fist. A fresh wetness came from the head onto my thumb. He moaned again, longer, and his other hand found the edge of the table and held it.
“Ahh… don’t… ahh…” he went, and then he bit it back, only breath and that sound, his stomach going tight.
“You taste like the kiss,” I said, almost to his cock, and I took his cock into my mouth again before the stairs could hear anything else. He answered with another low “ahh…” over my head, and his hips gave one more small push he could not stop.
He began to use my ponytail. Not a hard pull. Small pulls that brought my mouth a little deeper onto his cock and then let me come back, as if he was learning how much of his cock my throat would take without a sound that would climb the stairs. I let him. Each pull slid his cock over my tongue. Each release let me breathe through my nose against his stomach.
Spit ran down his cock and over my fist and dripped onto the mat between my knees. I stroked the wet shaft I could not fit, my hand and my mouth meeting in the middle, twisting once on the way up, tightening on the way down. Under the nighty my shaved pussy kept leaking. My breasts swung. My lips stayed stretched around his cock.
The phone on the table had gone quiet. Only the vessels and his breath and the small wet sound of my mouth were left in the dark.
His thigh shook against my shoulder. His stomach jumped again. The hand in my ponytail pulled, stopped, pulled. He moaned into his closed mouth.
“Nn… ahh… ahh…” he went, and his hips gave those same small pushes he kept trying to hold back.
I came off his cock long enough to wipe my chin on my shoulder and I looked up at him.
“Slow, I will take it, don’t pull too much,” I said, and I put his cock back in my mouth and met the next small pull with my own down-stroke so the ponytail and my thank you were doing the same work.
I pulled off his cock and a string of spit followed my lips. I licked his cock from the base to the head, one long lick, my tongue flat, looking up at his ugly face while I did it, then I licked the head in a circle and I put his cock back in my mouth.
This time I went as far as my throat would take. The head pushed in and my throat closed and my eyes watered at once and I stayed there, nose almost at his stomach, my right hand on his thigh so I would not fall forward on the mat. I could not breathe well. I could feel his cock pulse against my tongue. I stayed until the water in my eyes ran to the sides and then I came off his cock gasping, a wet sound I tried to swallow, spit hanging from my lips to his cock.
His knees bent. His hand crushed my ponytail and then remembered itself and loosened. His stomach went hard.
“Ahh… fuck… ahh…” he went, the moan breaking, his hips jerking once toward my face.
I breathed with my mouth open against the head of his cock.
“Wait, I can do it again,” I said, and I put his cock back in my mouth before the gasp could turn into a louder sound, and I went down until my eyes watered a second time.
I sucked his cock harder. I put both hands on his ass and I held him there so I would not drift back, my fingers on his ass cheeks, my mouth working the wet shaft in longer pulls, spit loud now no matter how careful I was. My nipples scbangd the nighty each time I went forward. Under the nighty my clit throbbed with no hand on it, happiness and horny still the same thing, the burnt shop on the other side of the road sitting in my mouth with his cock.
His ass tightened in my hands. His thighs opened a little. The fist in my ponytail shook. He leaned his other hand heavier on the table so his knees would not give.
“Ahh… nn… ahh… ahh…” he went, one moan after another, his stomach jumping, his cock swelling against my tongue as if he was close and fighting it.
I came off his cock only to breathe against his wet shaft.
“Enjoy, I am not stopping, just don’t finish yet,” I said, low, and I took his cock back in and sucked harder, my hands pulling his ass toward my face, my eyes up so he would see I was still happy while I did it.
I took my mouth off his cock and I turned him with both hands on his hips. He understood and he faced the table, his palms going onto the wood beside the quiet phone, his ugly back to me, his ass in front of my face. I stayed on my knees on the mat. I kept his cock in my right fist, reaching through his thighs, and I stroked his cock slowly so his cock would not go soft while I moved.
I put my face lower, between his ass cheeks. For a moment the smell of his asshole hit me, strong, dark, like his filthy mouth but heavier, heat and sweat, and I did not pull away. I kissed his asshole the way I had kissed his filthy mouth, wet, open, my full lips first. Then I put my tongue on his asshole. The taste of his asshole sat on my tongue at once, bitter, dirty, a taste that belonged in a basement and not on a wife, and I kept my tongue on his asshole and I licked.
He went still. Then his back arched and a moan came out of him that he tried to push into the table.
I licked his asshole slowly, circling with the tip of my tongue, then flattening my tongue and licking his asshole, then circling again, the smell of his asshole in my nose, the taste of his asshole in my mouth with the spit, and I stroked his cock at the same time, spit running over my fist and over his cock. My ponytail hung down my back. My nighty stayed around my knees. My shaved pussy dripped onto the mat.
“Ahh… ahh… nn…” he went, his thighs opening, his ass pushing back onto my mouth a little as if he could not help it, his cock jumping in my fist.
“Stay like this, hold the table,” I said against his asshole, and I kissed his asshole again and kept my tongue on his asshole, filthy, stroking his cock, thanking him in a place my husband would never see.
I licked his asshole deeper. I pushed the tip of my tongue against the tight ring and I worked it there, spit running down his ass cheeks onto my chin, the smell of his asshole still in my nose, the taste of his asshole still on my tongue. At the same time I stroked his cock faster, my fist wet, twisting over the head of his cock on every up-stroke, coming down to the base.
His cock swelled in my fist like it wanted to finish. He tried to hold it back. His thighs opened and then locked. His ass pushed onto my mouth and then pulled forward as if he could run from my tongue. His hands went white on the table. His stomach sucked in and stayed hard. Every time I licked his asshole his cock jumped, and every time his cock jumped he froze, fighting the finish, breathing through his teeth so the moan would not become a shout that would wake the first floor.
“Ahh… wait… ahh… nn…” he went, the sound broken, his knees shaking, his cock leaking over my fingers.
My shaved pussy clenched on nothing. I kept my face between his ass cheeks. I did not make it easier for him. I stroked his cock through the fight and I licked his asshole through the fight and I felt him lose a little and catch himself and lose a little again.
“Don’t finish on the floor, hold it, I am still thanking you,” I said against his asshole, and I licked his asshole again while his cock throbbed in my fist on the edge and did not go over.
His thighs started to shake so hard the table shook with them.
I took my tongue off his asshole. I took my left hand off his ass cheeks. I kept my right hand on his cock and I stroked his cock while I moved him so his cock would not lose the pleasure.
I put both hands on his hips and I turned him around toward me. He turned. The table was at his back. I was still on my knees on the mat in front of him. His cock was in front of my mouth, wet from my spit, the head shining.
I brought my mouth onto the head of his cock and I sucked him the way that makes a man forget the room. I took the head of his cock in, tight lips, tongue rubbing that spot under the head in slow circles, then I went down the shaft and came back up with a long pull. My right hand stroked what my mouth left, twisting over the wet skin of his cock, meeting my lips each time I came up. My left hand held his hip and then cupped his balls and rolled them gently while I sucked.
I looked up at his ugly face with his cock stretching my lips so he could watch my mouth work. My nighty stayed around my knees. My ponytail hung down my back. My heavy breasts hung inside the nighty. My shaved pussy dripped onto the mat.
He shook from the pleasure. His stomach jumped. His knees bent. His hand found my ponytail and used it only to keep my mouth on his cock, not to hurt. He was still fighting not to finish and the fight itself was making his cock harder against my tongue.
“Ahh… like that… ahh… nn… I can’t…” he went, the moans wet, his hips giving small pushes into my mouth he could not stop, his cock leaking straight onto my tongue.
I stayed kneeling in front of him on the mat and I gave his cock all of it, mouth and hand and the look in my eyes, and I held him on that sweet edge while my husband slept above us.


I took my mouth off his cock and I looked up at him from the mat. His cock was wet from my mouth, thick, close, the head shining with my spit, and he was fighting not to finish. I was happy. He had killed Santosh for me. The laugh was gone. The shop across the road was burning. I wanted him to enjoy me. I offered myself. I stayed on the mat and I turned so my ass and my pussy were toward him, my breasts hanging under the nighty, my thighs open, giving him the rest of me.
“Not in your mouth, inside your pussy, I want to cum inside you,” Ranga said, already enjoying the offer, his hand on my ass over the nighty.
Then he removed my nighty. He lifted it over my hips, over my breasts, over my head, and he pulled it off. I was naked on the mat, breasts bare, nipples tight, pussy bare, ass bare, the air of the basement on me. He hugged me naked. His chest came against my breasts, his cock wet with my spit against my stomach, his arms around my waist, his hands spreading my ass, holding the body I had offered.
Then he kissed me. It was a filthy kiss. He spit into my mouth, a wet smear on my tongue, and he pushed his tongue in after it, thick lips open, saliva running to the corner of my lips and down my chin. I took it. I sucked his tongue. I let the spit sit on my full lips and I kissed him back, messy, the taste of his cock and his mouth together, smoke and salt and saliva, my naked breasts pressed to his chest, my pussy against his thigh, happy, waiting for him to put his cock inside me.

[novelistcasanova]

He broke the filthy kiss. Saliva still connected his thick lips to mine for a second. He looked down at my pussy. His cock was wet with my spit, hard against my stomach, the head shining, and he wanted what he had said. I offered it. I was happy. He had killed Santosh for me, and I wanted him to enjoy the body I had given.

He picked me up, naked, one arm under my ass, one under my back, my breasts against his chest, and he carried me the few steps to the table between the vessels. He laid me on the table. The wood was cold under my ass and under my back. I lay back. My breasts were bare, nipples tight. I opened my thighs, wide, giving him the place he had asked for instead of my mouth.
He came between my thighs. He held his cock at the base and he rubbed the head of it on my pussy, slow, spreading my wetness and his spit together, the head catching on my clit, then sliding lower to my opening. I lifted my hips a little on the table so he could find me. He pushed. The head of his cock opened my pussy.
“Ahh…” I went, the sound small, afraid of the stairs.
He went deeper, thick, the shaft filling me inch by inch, stretching me, until his hips met mine and his cock was inside me on the table, buried, his stomach on mine, his ugly face over my face.
“Ahh… nn…” he went, low, his cock twitching inside my pussy.
I held his back. I felt full. I liked it. He stayed there, shaking, his spit still on my lips, and I moved under him on the table, a small lift of my ass, so he would feel I was enjoying what I had offered.
“Ahh…” I went again, into his neck, happy, full.
He pulled his cock back until only the head of his cock was inside my pussy, the shaft shining, and he stopped there so I felt the stretch at my opening. Then he pushed his cock in again, slow, deep, his hips meeting mine on the table, his stomach on mine, his cock filling my pussy all the way. He did it again. Long strokes. Out to the head of his cock. In to the base of his cock. The table took my ass each time his cock came forward. His hands left the wood and went to my breasts, squeezing, lifting, his thumbs rubbing my nipples until my nipples stood harder in his palms.
I took his cock. I liked his cock. I was happy. He had killed Santosh for me, and I had offered myself, and now I wanted his cock to feel that I was enjoying it, not only lying there. I lifted my ass on the table to meet his cock. I opened my thighs wider. My pussy took every stroke of his cock, wet, gripping his cock when he pulled his cock back, opening when he pushed his cock in. My breasts moved in his hands. My nipples dragged on his thumbs. My breath broke against his shoulder.
“Ahh… ahh… nn…” he went, low, trying not to wake the stairs, his ugly face tight, his cock swelling inside my pussy.
“Ahh…” I went into his shoulder, the sound small, my nails on his back, my hips moving with his cock, wanting his cock deeper.
The vessels stayed silent. The table creaked once under my ass. He fucked my pussy harder, the long strokes turning short, deep, his cock hitting the end of my pussy, his balls against my ass, not cumming yet. I stayed open for his cock. I enjoyed his cock. I offered more, a lift of my hips, a tightening of my pussy around his cock, happy, full, the basement dark around the table.
He put his hands under my ass on the table and he held my ass up so his cock could go deeper. Every stroke of his cock went to the end of my pussy. His balls hit my ass. His stomach pressed my breasts flat when he came down. My nipples dragged on his chest. I wrapped my thighs around his waist and I pulled his cock in, offering, happy, wanting his cock to take all of my pussy.
He fucked my pussy faster. The table moved a little under my back. My breasts bounced when he lifted. He bent and he sucked my left nipple, wet, then my right nipple, his cock never leaving my pussy, short deep strokes while his mouth was on my breasts. I felt it in my clit. I felt it where his cock filled me. I liked it. I moved my hips to meet his cock.
“Ahh… ahh… your pussy…” he went, low, his ugly face tight, his cock swelling inside my pussy.
“Ahh… deeper…” I went into his shoulder, the sound small, my nails on his back, my pussy gripping his cock.
He was close and he was holding it. His thrusts went uneven. His cock throbbed. He did not cum. He stayed inside my pussy, fucking, enjoying what I had offered, and I stayed open on the table, happy, full, waiting for the last of it.
He could not hold it. His cock swelled inside my pussy, thicker, the head deep, his thrusts going short and uneven, his balls tight against my ass, his hands crushing my breasts, thumbs still on my nipples. His ugly face went into my neck. His breath broke. I felt his cock throb, once, hard, and I knew he was there. I lifted my ass on the table and I pulled him in with my thighs so his cock would stay buried when he came. I was happy. I wanted his cum. He had killed Santosh for me, and this was the rest of what I had offered, my pussy open, my breasts in his hands, my mouth still wet from his spit.
“Cum inside my pussy,” I said, small, into his shoulder.
“Ahh… ahh… I—” he went, the moan breaking, and his cock pulsed.
He came inside my pussy. Thick. A lot. The first pulse hit deep, hot, then another, then another, his cock jerking, filling me, his stomach hard on mine, his hands shaking on my breasts. I felt every pulse. I held his back. I liked it. My pussy gripped his cock and took his cum, wet, tightening around him, until his cock had nothing left and only twitched inside me, spent, still buried.
He stayed on me, shaking, his spit still on my lips, his cock softening in my pussy, his cum warm and already leaking out around his cock, down my ass, onto the table. I lay under him, naked, thighs still open, breasts under his chest, nipples against him, happy, thoroughly enjoyed, the offering done, the vessels silent, my husband asleep above the stairs.
He pulled his cock out of my pussy. His cum ran out of me at once, warm, down my ass, onto the table between the vessels. He stood between my open thighs, breathing hard, his cock wet, spent, still shining, and he looked at my pussy as if he wanted to remember it.
“Your pussy is perfect, tight, I enjoyed your pussy, I will not forget your pussy,” Ranga said, his ugly face soft for a second, his eyes on where his cum was leaking out of me.
I sat up on the table. My breasts were bare. My thighs were still open. I pulled the nighty back on, over my head, over my breasts, over my hips, the nighty sticking a little where his cum had touched my ass. He picked up his shirt and his trousers from the basement floor and he put them on, stuffing his cock away still wet, buttons slow, his breath still short.
“Don’t worry, cops are my friends, next day they will give the report that Santosh died and his shop burnt from an electrical short circuit,” Ranga said.
I walked him to the back door. Before he went I hugged him. It was a heartfelt hug. My arms went around his neck. My breasts pressed his chest through the nighty. My face went into his shoulder. I held him there because he had killed Santosh for me and he had enjoyed the body I offered and I was happy. He held me back, his hands on my waist.
“Thank you,” I said, into his shoulder.
He let go. At the door he looked at me, naughty, his thick lips almost smiling.
“All the best for your shop, open it, fill it, one day I will come back for your sweet,” Ranga said, and he kissed my lips, slow, warm, his mouth gentle on mine, a kiss I wanted to keep, not the wet messy one from before.
Then he went out into the dark. I shut the back door. I stood in the empty basement with his cum in my pussy and that kiss still on my lips, the official story already in my head with the fire across the road, then I turned toward the stairs.


The area began to wake up to the fire. Voices started on the road. Someone shouted. I came up the stairs from the basement in my nighty, his cum still in my pussy, and I went to the balcony. My husband was already there.
“Where did you go, I woke up and you were not on the cot, I called once, I thought you were in the bathroom, then I heard the road, what happened,” my husband said, turning from the railing, his lungi on, his face still thick with sleep.
“I went down to check, I heard the noise and I could not sit, I went to the basement door and I looked out, there is a fire across the road, come and see,” I said, and I stood beside him as if that was the only place I had been.
The fire engine came. We watched. After a time they brought Santosh’s dead body out and they carried it, covered, then the cover shifted and we saw him, charred, burnt completely, black from head to foot, the face gone, the hands drawn up, not a man anymore, only what the fire had left.
“Santosh is dead, look, they are bringing him out,” I said.
My husband stared. He put his hand on the railing.
“He is burnt completely, I can see it from here, poor man, I did not like him, I would not wish this on him, they are carrying him like that in front of everyone,” my husband said, his voice low, kind, sorry.
I did not feel sorry. I looked at the charred body being carried and I kept my mouth still. I only felt the stall, the four floors, the three sons, and I let my husband be the kind one while I kept my happiness inside my own chest.


The same night the news came that Mary Lydia had hanged herself and died. Santosh was already gone, and Mary Sweets had no one left to open it. I heard it on the first floor and I kept my face still, happy inside, while my husband felt sorry for her and I let him.
A couple of days later my husband called the five workers back from their states. They came, and we went to the railway station, and I welcomed each of them with a hug, the same men he had sent off when the money was thin, and they came home with us. They started working, and the basement filled again, and my husband stood at the counter, and the shutter opened, and people came back because the other shop was gone. Business began picking up, and the four floors were alive again over a stall that had my name on it.
Every now and then I went down to the basement in only my nighty, no bra and no panties underneath, the nighty thin over my breasts and over my ass and over my pussy. I stood near the vessels and I let them feast their eyes on me so they would stay. They got bolder every day. First they only looked. Then they looked longer, at my breasts, at my hips, at my ass when I turned. Sometimes one of them hugged me, his chest against my breasts through the nighty, his hands at my waist, and I let the hug last, and I felt him get hard against me, and I smiled and I sent him back to the stove. My husband did not know. The trays kept coming up.
I watched the road turn toward us, the workers back, my husband at the counter, happily ever after.

The End

Regards
Novelist Casanova