This is my take on an Indian Erotica. I researched it but I am not a native speaker. My alter ego "Tharki" is pretty much how I'd be if I was lucky enough to be born in India.
He's an old school pervert and he's probably dyslexic, which leads for some fun with words (And a proper excuse when i fail to get the AI image just right).
I made a metric shit-ton of images for this one. it was fun and I like doing it. If that's not your bag, I apologize. This story will likely be 3 chapters total . I wanted to go back to a classic ENF format.
Three girls get caught stealing from a poor family that employees them.
They get a choice:
We can call the constable, but they take forever to get out here in Dharavi (a rough part of Mumbai) OR
We can call the local "Head Man" Malik. He's the gangster that can put them to work HIS way.
OR they can go to Auntie Seetha's Kuttiyan (Bitch) training school. One thing I learned writing this is that Indian people say it the other way:
Seetha Auntie.
If you see it flip-flopped like that, it's me being authentic. I spent way more time than i thought I would researching this fantastic culture. Yes, I took some liberties. Dhak Dhak jars are not a real thing, at least as far as i know. Yes, India is super conservative but it wasn't always that way. In fact, before British colonizers they didn't give a shit about nudity and truly didn't think women needed modesty as far as covering their chests.
So, Tharki is an adherant of that way of life.
I also created my own Girl Scout's over there. "Ullu Scout".
Oddly enough, Indian people think owls are foolish for some reason, and Ullu means Owl. I slipped some references to that into the story and I may do one of those.
Yes, I know I have other active stories but this one was dying to get out of my head and I had to stop and write it while I was inspired.
The heat in the Dharavi galliyan is like an oppressive weight that slows you down and saps you of strength. We grew up without air conditioning, playing in the streets of the crowded slum but even my little brother and I were not prepared for days like this.
My mother stood dutifully behind the rusted counter of our family stall. Everyone calls her Seetha Aunty. My mother is a very lively, outspoken woman with a commanding presence. She can be stern, but at times turn on the charm if that is what it takes to make a sale.
I must admit, my mother is also very big breasted and is known for her large ass. I would not say it is legendary or the biggest in the world, but most men would identify her as the “Big breasted Woman that works at the Anul milk stall.”
There are many women who work in stalls selling hand shaken milk, and all of them are expected to show a little skin, and shake what they have. My mom gives a little extra because of her size.
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I have overheard men heaping praise on her chest. My father takes pride in it, even though he doesn’t tolerate men talking like that around him (or her).
Amul is a brand of cow milk, so our landlord thought to confuse tourists that our goat milk is from this famous chain of stores. I have since come to learn that English speakers may think Anul means anal or from the anus, much to our chagrin.
I assure you that we do have our own goats, and they are freshly milked each day. Tharki is quite old and says he does not speak English very well, but I think that is a lie. It may be our landlord’s joke that he added the phrase “Freshly Squeezed” in English to the sign to indicate freshness of the milk.
Our family stall was passed down from her father to my father. It began as a simple shake stall, but over time my parents expanded to selling pet supplies after my father failed when opening a dog obedience school.
The hosiery stall that sold lingerie, adult novelties, and knock off designer bags closed down a few years ago when the owner retired. They sold their stock to my parents. Our landlord painted a new sign for the business “Sarama Prasanna Hosiery & Amul Dairy” that he said would catch many eyes.
It certainly did, because it is far more provocative than my mother would have wanted. Our landlord sells custom prints and erotic arts in the next stall and Tharki Uncle painted our stall sign in the likeness of an inappropriately dressed Betty Boop.
When my mother immediately complained he said, “What do you want for free?” and laughed it off by saying we would see much more business. The society of Mumbai has become more conservative though and some find it offensive.
My father did not paint over what Tharki painted, because he did not wish to offend our landlord.
You will find other stalls like it selling naughty sex toys and pornography. There is a milk stall run by a midwife that will make your drink with the squeezings from her own breasts and that of her lactating daughters.
Most of them do not come out and advertise it. You must know through word of mouth and ask discreetly, or they will turn you away. The maze of streets in Dharavi are lined with vendors selling everything and anything. If you want it, you can find it in Dharavi.
Today was a day we would be entering a new line of trade. I just did not know it yet. As far as I knew, it was a fine sunny day, and my younger brother and I were trying to avoid work and our studies.
We are known for leather and pottery but you can find cardamom dealers, fish peddlers, bootleg DVDs, cigarettes and vape pens, and knock off designer goods on every street.
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The aroma of Indian cooking is so pungent and distinct that you would know it anywhere, but it is actually a combination of dozens of cultures and cooking styles combined coming from the stew pots and kitchens of the nearby apartments and stalls.
Most of us lived above our stall, and we would likely grow old and die above our stall before we ever made it out of Dharavi.
My mother’s red saree was so thin and sweat-soaked that it clung to her skin. She wore a modified Kota Doria half-saree that was popular in the streets of Mumbai due to it being so breezy.
Silk is only used strategically to give the illusion of it being an expensive garment. Sheer and opaque paneling in the garment gives the impression that the female form is nude underneath and most women wear it with an undergarment to protect their modesty.
Most milk maids that work in the stalls, do not. Even though it is scandalous now, it was common even after British colonial rule for milk maids and wet nurses to work without a top at all.
The British taught modesty and shame to such women. Now, glimpses of breasts shaking and bouncing while shaking a milk refreshment by hand are only available in back alley stalls like ours.
Seetha fanned herself and scratched her bottom as she waited for a tourist, tradesman or neighbor to wander down the alley so she could hawk our wares.
If she doesn’t make a sale, we go hungry.
“Bol, kya haal hai mere aashiq?” Our stall neighbor and landlord asked. He used the same line every day, a rhythmic challenge delivered with a grin. It was a line straight out of some old Bollywood corny romance film.
“Ghanta!” My mother shouted angrily.
I laughed because every day the dirty old man that sold erotic art next to our stall greeted my mother the same way. He is a family friend and landlord, so it is tolerated by my father. Tharki usually waits to greet my mother this way when my father is away on errands (like today).
Each time she pounded her fists on the table and scolded him. I thought she would miss it if he ever stopped admiring her. I considered Tharki an uncle and he had been selling erotic art and custom prints next to our family stall since before I was born. In the old days, there were brothels and stalls like his all over the place, but even places like Kamathipura had cracked down on those businesses.
“Baby, tu toh bilkul garam mirchi lag rahi hai ... ek baar taste kar loon toh pata chalega kitni teekhi hai andar se.”
Tharki is an old pervert, but he is also a hopeless romantic who lives in the past. His lines are corny and his jokes are stale but there is something to be said for tradition and respect. The line that Tharki just used made me blush. It was something about eating the girls like they were hot chilis.
“That filthy line might work on the Kapoor sisters,” my mom rolled her eyes derisively. She did not like or trust the young girls that worked for our family. “You should see if they’d be interested. You’ll have better luck if you pull out a wad of rupees and say nothing.”
“I am a man that knows what he likes, and likes what he knows, big tits, big asses, beautiful faces,” Tharki insisted sweetly. The girls were pretty, but Tharki Uncle had been enamored with my mother for years.
“You are such a bad liar, and I am a married woman,” My mom shrugged off his advances. “I take it you are here for my Basundi?” she asked him angrily. My mother was an imposing woman, standing taller than most men, with long straight black hair and eyes that could cut you right in half if you look straight into them.
Basundi is slow cooked all day, and then my mother and other shakers that work the streets fluff and hand shake it for the enjoyment of customers. I honestly don’t think it changes the flavor.
“I am here for your fantastic tits,” Tharki stroked his beard and curled his long handlebar mustache slyly. “I shall settle for a well-shaken Basundi.”
Tharki loved my mother’s huge breasts, almost as much as he loved her huge ass. She knew that, but it didn’t prevent her from rolling her eyes in disgust.
In some pockets of Dharavi and parts of Mumbai, everybody knew the joke about shake stalls. Shakes are handled with care and shaken vigorously by women with big breasts that hang free. They say it’s for health reasons and to ensure the ingredients are well blended, but women smiling while shaking their tits is a universal commodity.
You don’t even have to know what it looks like to know it’s fun to watch them do it. I’ve seen women shake one canister in each hand make it look like they were having fun and masturbating two men at once.
My mom got down to business. She’d been working in this stall since she was my age, and she was no stranger to the way the dance and shimmy that came along with it.
She usually winks and gives a little head bobble or dance to try to earn a tip from new customers, but I know despite her bluster, she’s mortified.
She says she thinks she’s old and fat, and that they are laughing at her, but everyday rain or shine, she’s out there again milking the goats in the mornings before the Kapoor sisters arrive to start working. My mom will put on a happy face, jiggle and serve up Aaiskrim, Malai Kulfi or her famous Basundi.
My mother wore her usual thin red saree, the everyday one, faded at the pleats and damp at the spine. She had no blouse lining worth naming and no bra under it. In another part of India that would have been a scandal before breakfast. Here, in the alleys where ten people shared one tap and summer sat on your skin like a second body, practical things often looked indecent to outsiders.
“Are you sure I can’t call one of the girls to do this for you? They are younger and more attractive than me,” my mother offered futilely. She knew what the old man wanted to see. I suspected she would have felt jealous if he had said yes. He had been asking for the same show for as long as I could recall.
“Those three horny, flat, snotty, slum rats of yours wouldn’t put on half the show that you do,” Tharki insisted as he made no secret that he was trying to see through her top.
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My mom adjusted her modesty and half-smirked. “I don’t know why my husband paid those Chinal. They didn’t do any work,” my mom said as she continued to prepare the thick slow-cooked, sweetened milk flavored with nutmeg, cardamom, and nuts for his shake.
My mom openly called the Kapoor sisters “Chinal” which meant sluts. She made no secret she didn’t like them. They were giggly and boy crazy but not for the likes of me or my little brother. They liked tough guys with mopeds who could grow mustaches.
“No work at all?” Tharki admitted that was the one thing they had in common with him.
“I am sure you do twice as much as they do,” my mom added cleverly. Twice as much of nothing was still nothing.
“Where are the Chinal?” Tharki asked as he looked around the shop while angling to get a better look at my mom’s big butt.
“Up to no good, I am sure,” she frowned before telling him to get behind the counter. “The girls were supposed to be unloading boxes in the alley behind the store, but I am sure they are flirting with boys, or each other.”
“They are sisters, aren’t they?” Tharki retreated behind the counter after he took a good look at my mom’s ass.
“Chinal like them would play with anyone and anything if it suited them, they had no morals. Their mother has taught them nothing of modesty.”
“Girls like them don’t need modesty until they are older,” Tharki insisted. He had always believed that. People were very uptight about that, but Tharki insisted girls my age thought little of wearing clothes and frequently wore outfits like the one my mom had on. The Kapoor sisters liked to wear short skirts and tank tops but refused to wear the kind of work saree that my mother wore.
My mom began to shake the drink in an old canister that had flecks of rust on the outside. The heat bouncing off the blue roofs of the buildings clustered together so closely that it could melt ice cream before it touched your mouth. Her tits bounced upward as her butt cheeks made an audible clap while she bent at the knee and jiggled. All the while, she rolled her eyes derisively.
Tharki wasn’t looking at my mother’s face. He was in a “titty trance”. He could not take his eyes away or look up.
“You know it’s quite rude to stare with your mouth open, Tharki! My husband could come and see.”
“Let him see, you were doing a good job. You were a hard worker, Seetha!”
“Something was getting hard,” she mused in a sarcastic whisper. She did not know my brother and I were watching. We had seen her make shakes like this all of our lives, so it was not that odd to us but some of our friends thought it was quite amusing. The goat milk was considered to provide some health benefit along with the cardamom and spices. I was told that it must be heated and shaken because it was quite raw and this action sanitized the milk to make it safe. My brother and I drank raw goat milk all the time, and we had never become sick, so I thought this was an excuse to watch women shake their big tits.
I jerked off a lot for free. It only cost a few paise to have a woman at a stall shake one for you, but I’d never ask. My mom was part of what we called the “Auntie Network” of moms that run stalls and she would have spanked us for wasting money on what she could do for us for free.
It was just a milk drink, but it felt strange and inappropriate to enjoy watching my mother shake and stroke the drink with care like she was.
“Where is Sanjeev, anyway?” Tharki asked while licking his lips inappropriately. My mother pretended not to notice his lustful stares.
“Why?” my mother asked sarcastically. “Do you want Sanjeev to take over and shake it for you?”
She was clearly implying jerking him off, because that was exactly what it looked like when she hand-shook the drink, except her ass cheeks bounced and clapped while her tits jiggled.
It was hard not to picture being jerked off when observing the steady way, she lifted her hand while holding the container. It was similar to how she milked a goat; except she used two hands and squatted in front of it. One hand squeezing at a steady, consistent pace, up and down, up and down.
“No, you mentioned he might see and I just wondered where he was.”
“We knew that we owed you rent for the stall, if that was what you were wondering, Tharki.”
Tharki owned several stalls and apartments in the area. The stall next to us called “Leather Daddy” was another that had to pay him rent.
“Mrs. Kulkarni, I trusted you implicitly, and I was sure we could work something out if you needed a little time,” Tharki smiled.
My mom huffed indignantly and didn’t directly address the fact he implied he wanted sexual favors. “If you would remove the smut, you were peddling and repaint the signs, then we might get more foot traffic here and could pay our rent on time.”
Tharki was an amazing artist and many of the prints he sold were erotic art that he himself painted. He tended to copy the tantric styles of the Kama Sutra, and some of his work was quite naughty.
“Nonsense, there is nothing wrong with the signs!”
Tharki’s name was actually Thakur. Tharki meant pervert. I used to think he went by this name because he was a pervert. I thought the dirty old man might have dyslexia, but he answered to the name Tharki.
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“Look up at our sign,” my mom pointed up at the red sign featuring a nearly naked woman’s butt crack, and the “Anul” Gentle Milk logo in the style of the Amul milk logo.
“I know what was up there, I was the one who painted it,” Tharki demanded angrily as he kept his gaze on my mother’s steady one-handed stroke of his milk shake.
“It says Anul, not Amul!” My mom pointed out with a stern glare that Tharki did not notice. She had complained about this many times, but like the erotic painting he had made of her, he had refused to take it down.
“Amul was trademarked. When Sanjeev took over the stall from your father, he wanted to expand the milk stall. He wanted to teach dog obedience, and you wanted to sell women’s hosiery. I painted the sexy lady on the side of the sign to catch the eye!”
“Dog obedience? No one ever came here to train a dog. We had a few dog leashes and collars in the back, and YOU wanted me to sell lingerie so that I would try it on for you.”
“You could try on the dog leashes and dog collars as well,” Tharki grinned impishly. I was a bit too naïve to understand why he thought that would be provocative, but I was about to find out.
“Here is your shake, drink it in good health,” my mom abruptly handed Tharki the canister.
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Suddenly, we heard a loud bang like a gunshot. It was a crack out of nowhere that startled everyone. It could have been a crash. I wasn’t familiar with the sound of gunfire. Guns were very rare in Dharavi.
“What was that?” my little brother Chandu gave away where we were hiding to avoid work.
“Chandu? Prakash?” My mom yelled to summon my brother to help her with the mess that was created when white milky goo shot out of the canister that Tharki was holding and landed all over her face. It dripped down her hair and from her chin on to her good saree.
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My mother did not wipe it away immediately. She shook the cummy-milk from her hands and kept her eyes closed. “What was that? Did you do that?”
“No, Ma!” I assured her as I ran over to help her find a towel.
Madhukar the leather worker from Chamda Daddy (Leather Daddy) dashed over. He’s a big guy with a big heart. He speaks with a slightly cockney accent because he lived in England for a long time before moving back to India. We call him “Mad Max” sometimes as a nickname because he has a dangerous quality to him.
He was kicked out of the Kalla Killa (Black Fort) district because he got into a scrap with a prominent craftsmen there over a squabble, and he’s missing several teeth from past fights.
He mostly makes custom outfits for Europeans to wear to gay clubs. He also has a good collection of bullwhips for fending off Cobras and riding crops.
He gave her a rag, but it was dirty and oily, so she threw it in the dirt. “Prakash, guide me to the back. I have to take this off and clean up! Chandu watch the stand! DON’T give away ANYTHING!!”
“Chandu, Can Do!” My little brother loves saying that.
“That was cute when he was a little boy and I know your brother means well when he says that, but you are both getting older. You need to stop acting like children and help around the stall.”
“Sorry, Maa-Ji,” I said to her affectionately as I led her slowly through the stall. “We hardly get any customers, and the Didis are working. No one wants to see me and my brother give handshakes,” I joked before warning my mother to do the needful and step carefully. “Watch it, step over the dog food.”
“Prakash, if we don’t make more money soon, that dog food may be a meal and it has been sitting here since you were in diapers. I know you can’t perform milk shake dances.”
“Dance?” I asked.
My mom performed a head waggle and quick dance while still covered in the white goo. “It is better than to call it a hand job,” my mom moved her hand up and down in the universal hand gesture of pulling a cock until it explodes. My mom made it seem like it was no big deal.
I blushed. It did look like masturbation. There were no two ways about it. It’s hard to accept that your parents have sex. It is harder still to know your mom will shake milk like she is jerking someone off for a paltry sum on the street.
“You are embarrassed? How do you think I feel standing outside pretending I don’t mind having my tits stared at. I am old and fat. Even old Tharki will go get his milk shaken elsewhere, eventually.”
“Make the Didis do it,” I suggested as we neared the backdoor. Didis is a nickname my brother and I gave the Kapoor sisters, since they’d slap us if my brother and I dared to call them chinal. I continued to lead my mom by the hand as she dripped white cream down her chin and onto her great breasts. It made me feel good to do that for her.
“Those chinal don’t have any meat on their bones. You and your brother have the same size tits,” she insisted and before I could stop blushing, she added, “You could supervise those lazy Chinal in the alley to make sure they get some work done. There are goats to be milked, fed and washed. There are meals to be prepared.”
“Me? They barely listen to you! What can I do?”
My mother staggered, carefully making her way with her eyes covered in a milky glaze. I have to admit it did look like semen.
“You are a man. You could take a rod and tan their hides, which is something long overdue. They talk more than they listen, they are lazy as a toad and they lie like Natwarlal.”
Natwarlal is a notorious Indian conman that Tharki says trained him to be a Dalal and a rascal. A Dalal is sort of like a pimp, but he is also a street man who runs other criminal enterprises. The head man in our neighborhood is known simply as Malik. He is like the boogeyman and children are told to behave or he will take them in the night.
“I would love to put the girls in their place,” I said as I opened the door for my mother and walked into the deserted alley behind our stall with my mother not far behind.
The girls heard my mother as we stepped outside and glared at her. That was no surprise. They were often disrespectful to my mother.
My mother still had cream dripping on her face and in her eyes and could not see clearly. I was quite stunned by the spectacle in the back alley.
There were usually only a few goats and only our neighbors in the dirty back alley. The lavatory for us is here. Even though it is open, usually no one comes back there and witnesses while we are having our private time.
We keep a few goats, to eat the weed that grow in the backyard but the remainder are in the pen a short distance away.
My father was lying on his back, holding a Lathi clutching his leg, writhing in the mud and pointing it angrily.
Boxes of our supplies were just scattered around my father. Women’s lingerie, Oranges, dog food and leashes, even our old goat milking pump. There were boxes from the Leather Daddy stores as well containing leather vests and bullwhips. He makes custom riding crops and leather pants for American cowboys that are worn over the pants.
Many of my mother’s knock off Fendi clothes and purses were just thrown in the mud hastily!
I was so concerned for my father’s wellbeing and our supplies that I almost missed the fact that the Didi sisters were completely naked except for their panties. My father had lined them up and forced them to strip off everything except their undergarments.
They glared at me for daring to stare at them. The three of them looked so much alike. The trio of sisters appeared embarrassed and annoyed, not guilty or apologetic.
In my fictional version of Dharavi, some street vendors will hand shake your milk with a wink and a smile for a tip.
It's like when you go to the renne faire. There is usually a busty woman with a really long line at the lemonade stand hand squeezing, while the flat chesters are standing around with their fingers up their butt waiting for someone to order from them.
This one sort of stretched out more than I wanted. It's the stall where the story goes down. That's the mom -Seetha.
Easter Egg: I am Tharki and it means pervert. He's dyslexic and so he painted Anul up on the sign. At least, he says he is and he meant to paint the word Amul.
I hid one picture of the woman in the photo in my gallery. Tharki has a thing for her, so he's had it up there for years, much to her chagrin.
He's also her landlord.
Chamda Daddy (Leather Daddy) is a Arrested Development reference.
I believe that sign awning says "Girls Don't Need Modesty"
I went with the premise that the stall is sort of like Oscar's trash can or Doctor Who's whatever-mobile. It is infinitely larger on the inside than on the outside. Here I am inside the stall buying a Busundi from Seetha, just to watch her clap her ass and shake her tits. I do it everyday in this story.
Funny trivia: You don't need to shake Busundi up. However, I thought it would be fun if they did it anyway.
Russian people drink coca cola hot because they think it's healthier that way. Shaking it up gets the contents where they need to go and keeps it from congealing.
I spent way too much time trying to make this better, and it was the best I could do. A little later, cummy milk will explode all over her. I love when that happens.
This is actually based on a true story. Mughal Princesses were sent out naked to be humiliated to teach them a lesson/because their dad was a sadistic bastard, probably.
I actually made an entire comic strip of these before deciding on this one. In real life, they still put ladies on the back of donkeys and ride them around nude to shame them. It's supposed to be getting phased out.
I thought -wouldn't it be fun if it didn't?
That's hindi. She's saying something like "Oh no, everyone can see how wet my pussy is" and she has to go to every village and invite ridicule before returning to the palace.
I actually began with an old school cheesecake art of B.G. Sharma style. I ended up making so many edits and changes that it started to look photo realistic, so i just rolled with it. The original version, they had decorative ornate body jewelry holding their pussies and assholes open.
I feel like i look more like Tommy Chong in this one if he was mixed with the world's most interesting man.
The original version, all the girls were sort of cross-eyed, little titty, buck tooth which was kind of hot.
It's funny, looking at this now after the upscales and sharpening, it looks far less detailed to me. I love the panties though.
very unitarian, like their mom bought a pack of white ones and said "Here, divide thiese up amongst yourselves."
The problem with some AI is that for white and asian people they trained the fuck out of it.
for black people, hispanics, and indian people -not so much.
So, you are gonna get basically the same three Indian women, often twins or triplets. I don't care how you script it. I try doing face swaps later but at some point, i just give the fuck up and rolled with it.
I have to learn to stop being a perfectionist. I could have wrote a whole lot more today.
The funny thing is, the reason I stopped on my 1950s story was that it takes so long to make al the picture sand upscale them/edit.
I could have totally finished off chapter two today of that. I was just inspired to do this one. More to come. Second chapter is almost finished.
