UrbanSlut on Literotica has written a lovely story titled 'The Fifty Rupee Whore.' This story provides the male perspective of the story. As everyone has their own viewpoint, the man has a different account of the events.
------------------------------------------------
My name is Birju. I do not know how to read or write. Actually my vocabulary is only a hundred words or so. I speak without articles and adjectives. I would not even be able to understand all the words of this paragraph.
Rohan is writing this account for me. He has the cunning ability to understand my crude language. When I saw a pretty ass in the bustling streets of South Mumbai, I lack the word for 'butt' to tell him. Instead, I say 'woman' and both my hands make a round shape in the air.
And, Rohan can tell from the shape, if I refer to her butt or her tits. From the drawn out melodic 'uhhh' sound that I make singing through the air, Rohan can tell, if it was big ass filling the pants, an athletic tight ass, or skinny innocent ass of a young girl. He can tell if the fabric was tight to pull the butt into shape or a revealing skirt that made me squint to catch a glimpse of what was beneath. And, then he writes that down for you.
I am from the lowest caste. The dog that was walking next to me through the alley with the mixture of mud and shit had a lot in common with me. It was a scrawny dog chewed on by other dogs and beaten by brooms of shop keepers. On the side of the ribs was a large patch of hair missing to expose the skin. Either a bout of prolonged starvation or ugly disease had made it lose its fur.
That's me as well. And, the upper castes like it that way. They like to keep me destitute. They like to see me in stained and torn clothes. They like to see the stringy sinews and giant calluses on me. That's to lose the guilt, when they give me manure to shovel, sometimes with my bare hands, and other demeaning jobs. "Look he hasn't had food for days, but I was so merciful to give him gainful work, so that he could feed himself."
Sometimes, I find myself with 50 rupees in my rough hands. A smart man would have saved it, invested it in a clean shirt to get a better job. A devoted man would have gone to the temple, prayed and given an offering to buy a better life from the deities. In my long years, I learned such desperate tries to be foolish. I always end up sleeping in the mud and shit next to that scrawny dog. For food, I end up eating leaves from bushes and rotted food from garbage bins.
So, when I have 50 rupees, I think nothing of wasting them. That night, I had an itch for a whore. Down in the alley was a pimp, who had whores for 50 rupees. The lights were dim in that street. Men dressed in middle class clothing were standing in groups around the pimps in the streets to negotiate the price. The middle class of engineers and lawyers from the outsourcing companies came here. There money could buy a lot of time with a variety of poor rural women.
Even they had more than enough money, they were still yelling and screaming about the price and services. I silently walked past them, careful not to touch their clean and fresh smelling clothes to avoid a fight. All of the pimps were beyond my means, except for Begum. She ran the 50 rupee program for people like me.
Begum had her black hair neatly arranged and rolled on her head. The bun of hair was stuck in place with pins. She wore a black dress with elaborate stitching on it. Her cheeks were brown and chubby. Her hand was holding the golden cigarette holder with the swirling smoke at the other end of the cigarette. That hand pointed at a spot on the table for me to put my fifty rupees, so that she wouldn't have to touch it or me.
"Room 3: You have thirty minutes. One minute more and I charge you overtime."
I shuffled into the hallway slowly to take my time. The rooms were eight by eight feet cubes with only a ruffled curtain. On both sides of the curtain, I could peek into the rooms. That was the bonus to see girls wiping the spunk off their pussies or see a hairy ass thrusting forward into the loins of a woman.
The third curtain with a red and white checkered pattern that might have fallen off a Scottish truck was mine. I pulled the curtain to the side. The white scuffed mattress lay on the floor. A stunningly beautiful woman sat low on the floor.
Her hair was stunningly cared for by all kinds of hair products that I do not know about. She wore a wrap around skirt and a white t-shirt that showed her voluptuous boobs. Her lips smiled wide and warm, yet twitches in her face suggested her nervousness. The brown tone of the skin on her face was smooth like that of a statue. Her black eyes were large.
"I am sorry. They sent me to the wrong room."
Fear struck my heart. This woman was easily a 20,000 or even 30,000 rupee whore. The 50 rupee whores were ugly. They still had all their limps. Yet, their faces had such a mean look or such an ugly look that defied what one thought is possible of a human face. And, they are rough. They yell at you. They punch you in the face without reason. They refuse to provide the paid for services.
Those 50 rupee whores require an insistent demand and rough hand to force them to surrender to the sex, because they are tired. They are tired of the brothel life. And, they know that they won't get in trouble.
After overcoming her inertia, it is like plunging the penis into hell, a hell of flabby fat folds, gnarly black warts, and dried filth rubbed into black strings. If you survive that, she may actually open her mouth for a kiss. And, the yellow teeth and black gaps for missing teeth require a brave man not to run away. The stench of her poor diet will overwhelm you.
