She was a housewife, married for the past seven years. Now, at the age of twenty nine, she was a mother of two, a home-maker. She was confined within the walls of her husband's house, sharing the house with a nagging mother-in-law, as most average Indian families did. Her all-day working husband left her at the mercy of his mother, who treated her not more like a sophisticated maid. Her all-working husband treated her like a sophisticated maid too, one who also served as his 'free prostitute'.
'Free' because she was married to him, he could fuck her whenever he wanted to, however he wanted to. 'Prostitute' because his fucks were, well, indifferent and unattached. She would lay under him as he would pump his small penis into her, without any foreplay, without any emotions, without any love. It was as if it was a burden for him which he had to get out of his balls. Having filled her with his semen (no condoms, of course), he would snore away to oblivion as she was left hanging, having to rub herself to orgasm through tears of sorrow. Her husband's cursory fucking had made her anhedonic.
But that was the not her only problem, was it. Her mother-in-law fucked her mentally, almost as if raping her brain. From morning to night, she worked continuously. Preparing breakfast, sending the children to school, cleaning the house, cooking lunch, washing the utensils, taking care of the children's studies, making evening snacks, cooking dinner; all under the watchful and nagging eyes of her mother-in-law.
This had been the story of her life, every day for the past seven years. Well, more or less, not every day actually. Saturday was her saviour. That one day every week was what had saved her. She would have been driven to insanity had she not discovered this method to release her mental and physical frustration.
*****
It was Saturday. I woke up with a smile. After all today was my day.
After finishing my morning chores and sending the children off to school, I headed straight to my room, eager to get ready, my eagerness bordering on impatience. A broad grin was all I could see in the mirror as I stood before it.
Saturday was the day when I went to the market, to buy all household items required for the coming week. I could buy everything that was needed in the nearby local market, but I never did. Not since I had realized the importance of this day. I made it a point, giving one excuse or other, to go to the biggest market in the city. After all, it was my day.
I spent a lot of time and effort in preparing for the day's 'activities'. Right from a facial scrub to shaving my underarms and waxing my legs, it was a tedious process. But I did it with the same broad grin on my face every Saturday. Not that I wore revealing clothes, no. No sleeveless kurtas, no skirts, just the traditional Indian salwar kurta, but the lack of hair in my armpits and the smoothness of my legs gave a weird sense of confidence to the woman inside me.
The anticipation of the day's 'activities' made me work in a very efficient manner, making sure that I was out of my house by eleven in the morning. It gave me ample time to reach the main market by noon, a quarter of an hour away from my house by metro.
It was five minutes past eleven and I was at the metro station of my locality, waiting for the next train. In a couple of minutes I was standing inside the train coach. (It is impossible to get a seat on the metro here, even if it is not rush hour). It was not rush time so I had ample room for myself, not like office hours when it was impossible to differentiate one body from other. The rush would be in the evening, when I would be returning home; that thought made my grin even broader.
I saw my faint reflection in the glass windows of the metro coach. I was looking beautiful, more as if I was glowing with pleasure. I was wearing a pink kurta without a dupatta as women wore these days (with normal length sleeves, almost up to my elbow), and white leggings that were as tight as leggings usually are. Although the kurta was not hugging my body tightly (unlike the leggings), but still my figure could be made out underneath it. I carried a black purse, hanging on my right shoulder, which was actually large enough to be called a small bag.
I was a medium built woman, with fair complexion and shoulder length black hair, which I usually wore open, like today. My breasts were neither too big nor too small, just perfect on my body, good enough to attract their share of stares. My ass was another thing though. It was as if it had been stuffed good, bulging prominently out of my medium-built body. Today, my tight leggings were making sure that my most prized possession was jutting out on display, ready to attract stares and much more.
My name was Madhu and I was ready to enjoy my Saturday's 'activities'.
I stepped out of the metro at station serving the main market, aware of all the stares focussing on my ass, and felt a few hands brush meekly against it.
In the bustling cacophony of what was the busiest metro station in the city, I headed for the escalators at my own sweet pace. Given the huge amount of rush at this nodal station at any given time it was inevitable to bump into people accidently, more so when you were consciously trying to do the same.
In the couple of minutes that took me to leave the station and to ascend to ground level, I had bumped into at least a dozen people, all men. Some hands had found their destination, a poke on my breasts, their momentary half-cupping, a gentle but definite nudge on my midriff, and brushes against my ass. All of them were of the smallest magnitude of time possible, in the smallest magnitude of time that was available before the act seemed too obvious. Except for the fifteen second ride on the escalator, where a man behind me whose face I didn't see, made sure that his groin was tightly pressed against my left ass cheek. Well, it would be better if I said that it was me who made sure of that.
So here I was, at the inner circle of the main market. I smiled into my watch, it was exactly noon.
I looked around to see a plethora of high-end shops, offices, showrooms of the biggest brands, leading coffee chains and eateries. But that was not my mind focussed on. It was looking at the roadside vendors, people who sold things on the roadside, either wandering around or sitting on a thin cloth with all their items on display. Even though it was the high-end market area of the capital, it was inevitably splattered with such vendors, a ubiquitous sight all over India. They formed almost a complete ring inside the inner circle of this market, sitting opposite to and facing the elite shops, almost as if daring them.
These shops were manned by men from the lower classes. Those who lived on the edge of the pompous city's outer circle made their living by selling cheap items on the inner circle of its most glorious
bazaar.
They were the –
wallahs
, the book-
wallah
, the ice cream-
wallah
, the jewellery-
wallah
, the mehendi-
wallah
, and so on. Then they were other men, the homeless people, and the beggars, those who made their living scavenging on the rich environment. And then there were those men who just came to the bustling market to enjoy the sight and feel of the lovely high-class ladies who wandered about the place.
It was these three categories of men, present in abundance, which brought water in my mouth.
"How much is this book for?" I asked the book-
wallah
, pointing at a random book among the many spread out on the pavement. He was a dark fat middle-aged man who was sitting alongside his 'shop' of second-hand or stolen books.
"Fifty," he replied, eyeing me up and down, and I was sure he was imagining me naked.
"And what about that?" I pointed at another random book, now almost kneeling down on one knee to properly see the books.
He did not reply. I knew he wouldn't. Because now in my almost kneeling down position, I was bent slightly forwards, making my kurta fall away from my body. I looked up at him and saw his eyes looking down my hanging kurta, at my cleavage.
"How much?" I asked again, in a louder voice.
"That too fifty," he replied, diverting his eyes away in a jerk.
