Disclaimer: This is my second attempt at writing erotica. Please give me your feedback, and forgive me for the many mistakes this story is bound to have.
Young Indian Mother’s Fall from Grace
“Oink, Oink, Oink,” I scream, as Billoo pulls back my hair and fucks me balls deep in my living room while my wimp of a son lies passed out on the couch, right next to us. Till last week, I was just another upper-middle class Indian housewife leading a routine life.
But over the course of a week, I’ve flashed my tits to strangers, drugged my son, and used my husband’s retirement savings to buy Billoo a brand-new Royal Enfield motorcycle, and shamelessly climaxed from rubbing my naked pussy against the bike’s hot leather as Billoo video-recorded the disgraceful act.
I wasn’t born a pig slut, no. In fact, I had always lead a vanilla sex life. Fuck sessions with my husband were few and far between. He was mostly out on business trips.
Things changed when one evening my son came home with a bleeding nose. “It was Billoo, again,” he whined. “I stood up to him like you told me to but he dead punched me in the face.” Name-calling and teasing were still excusable, but there was no way in hell I was letting Billoo get away with physically harming my son.
I picked my car keys and stormed out. Enough of Billoo’s bullying, I thought. I was going to settle this once and for all.
Billoo’s family lived in a rented accommodation just outside our locality. His father was a traffic cop, and his mother a Hindi teacher. Our families had known each for 10 years, but since our lifestyles were classes apart, we had never really gotten along.
“Is someone home?!” I shouted as I banged my fist on the rickety wooden door. A minute later, the door swung open, and Billoo emerged. He was wearing an off-white t-shirt that hung loosely over his wiry frame. He wasn’t a lot bigger than me.
“You son of a bitch! How did you dare to hit my son?!” I yelled.
“Like this,” he said and planted a tight one on my cheek. I was stunned and, before I could regain composure, he grabbed me by the hair and pulled me inside. In less than a flash, he had my wrists tied behind my back and a rolled-up handkerchief shoved in my mouth. He acted with such expertise that I knew I wasn’t his first victim.
“Nobody barges in my house and calls my lovely mother a bitch,” he slapped me across the face, again. A stream of tears rushed down my cheeks. “I’ll make you pay for this, you Randi. But before I discipline you, I’d like to know who the fuck are you, and what the fuck did you come here for?”
So he hasn’t recognized me, I thought. Even though we lived within a radius of half a kilometer, I could see on his face that he had no idea who I was.
“I’m going to take off this handkerchief, but if you scream, by god, I will break your skull,” he continued.
To say I was scared would be an understatement. I was shaking uncontrollably and tears ran down my cheeks. In my mind I was ready to comply with anything he said. My only concern was to get out this situation unharmed.
I heard myself gasping for air when he took out the handkerchief gag. So far I’d only been breathing through my nose. “Please…let me go. I’m sorry. Please, I mistook you for someone else. I came to the wrong address, I’m sorry, please” I begged, hoping he wouldn’t see through my lie.
Ktaak! Another slap. I could feel my cheek turning a bright shade of red.
“You’re one stupid pig, aren’t you?” he said. I could smell the alcohol on his breath as he brought his face uncomfortably close to mine, and whispered in my ear: “You made a mistake for which you must face retribution. But I’m a fair man, so I’ll let you choose your own punishment.”
“Once you’ve atoned for your crime, you are free to leave. But ofcourse, you may stay if you wish,” he said as an evil grin formed on his face.
Young Indian Mother’s Fall from Grace
“Oink, Oink, Oink,” I scream, as Billoo pulls back my hair and fucks me balls deep in my living room while my wimp of a son lies passed out on the couch, right next to us. Till last week, I was just another upper-middle class Indian housewife leading a routine life.
But over the course of a week, I’ve flashed my tits to strangers, drugged my son, and used my husband’s retirement savings to buy Billoo a brand-new Royal Enfield motorcycle, and shamelessly climaxed from rubbing my naked pussy against the bike’s hot leather as Billoo video-recorded the disgraceful act.
I wasn’t born a pig slut, no. In fact, I had always lead a vanilla sex life. Fuck sessions with my husband were few and far between. He was mostly out on business trips.
Things changed when one evening my son came home with a bleeding nose. “It was Billoo, again,” he whined. “I stood up to him like you told me to but he dead punched me in the face.” Name-calling and teasing were still excusable, but there was no way in hell I was letting Billoo get away with physically harming my son.
I picked my car keys and stormed out. Enough of Billoo’s bullying, I thought. I was going to settle this once and for all.
Billoo’s family lived in a rented accommodation just outside our locality. His father was a traffic cop, and his mother a Hindi teacher. Our families had known each for 10 years, but since our lifestyles were classes apart, we had never really gotten along.
“Is someone home?!” I shouted as I banged my fist on the rickety wooden door. A minute later, the door swung open, and Billoo emerged. He was wearing an off-white t-shirt that hung loosely over his wiry frame. He wasn’t a lot bigger than me.
“You son of a bitch! How did you dare to hit my son?!” I yelled.
“Like this,” he said and planted a tight one on my cheek. I was stunned and, before I could regain composure, he grabbed me by the hair and pulled me inside. In less than a flash, he had my wrists tied behind my back and a rolled-up handkerchief shoved in my mouth. He acted with such expertise that I knew I wasn’t his first victim.
“Nobody barges in my house and calls my lovely mother a bitch,” he slapped me across the face, again. A stream of tears rushed down my cheeks. “I’ll make you pay for this, you Randi. But before I discipline you, I’d like to know who the fuck are you, and what the fuck did you come here for?”
So he hasn’t recognized me, I thought. Even though we lived within a radius of half a kilometer, I could see on his face that he had no idea who I was.
“I’m going to take off this handkerchief, but if you scream, by god, I will break your skull,” he continued.
To say I was scared would be an understatement. I was shaking uncontrollably and tears ran down my cheeks. In my mind I was ready to comply with anything he said. My only concern was to get out this situation unharmed.
I heard myself gasping for air when he took out the handkerchief gag. So far I’d only been breathing through my nose. “Please…let me go. I’m sorry. Please, I mistook you for someone else. I came to the wrong address, I’m sorry, please” I begged, hoping he wouldn’t see through my lie.
Ktaak! Another slap. I could feel my cheek turning a bright shade of red.
“You’re one stupid pig, aren’t you?” he said. I could smell the alcohol on his breath as he brought his face uncomfortably close to mine, and whispered in my ear: “You made a mistake for which you must face retribution. But I’m a fair man, so I’ll let you choose your own punishment.”
“Once you’ve atoned for your crime, you are free to leave. But ofcourse, you may stay if you wish,” he said as an evil grin formed on his face.
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