Sneha at the Mall — The Book
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Sneha is a 41 year old woman. This is a story about a mall visit. This story inspired by a conversation with someone (who chooses to be anonymous) on Discord.
Fridays on the roads of Bombay are horrible. You’d think that people will be chilling on a Friday evening, but there’s no chill. Cars, filled with 20-somethings, out to party, cars filled with tired professionals, wanting nothing more than returning home and having a cup of tea, and maybe help their kid with the homework for the first time in the week, maybe have sex with their wives, for the first time in the week.
Sneha wasn’t that kind. But, she had to endure the traffic anyway.
She had her hands firmly fixed on the wheel, gripping it with her manicured fingers, maybe a little too tight. She had gotten off work around 0630 PM, and wouldn’t have taken this trip to the mall if it weren’t for a tantrum from her daughter. She had called Sneha at the office and had demanded that she bought a dress for her so that she can attend the birthday party of one of her friends on Saturday.
Sneha had to oblige, because she had promised to order something on Monday. It was Friday, and yet, she couldn’t find the 10 mins to place the order. So, that Friday evening, she would have to waste an hour, wading through traffic, to cut across from Chembur to Ghatkopar to buy something for her daughter.
She sighed deeply and mumbled a curse when the car in front of her cut the lane.
Sneha’s life was hard. Yes, she had a job that paid decently. But it was demanding. The mornings were crazy, and afternoons demanded focused work if she planned to go back home on time to her daughter. She had one other job — being a single parent.
Dipak, her ex-husband, was not an absent father. It’s just that, he was a bad influence. Sneha, made it a point to keep her daughter, as far away from Dipak as possible. Five years after their divorce, Sneha was friendly with her ex-husband, but, not so friendly that she could trust her daughter with him.
At 41, it was a difficult thing to balance life and work, especially when life had a daughter, for whom Sneha was willing to do pretty much anything.
She looked at the clock on the dashboard. It was close to 730 PM, and she was still about 10 mins away from the entrance of the mall. Her daughter was at an age, at which she didn’t require constant supervision. But, Sneha wanted to be home. Because she wanted to sit on her favorite sofa, have a hot cup of coffee, and watch something on her phone. She wanted to be with her daughter too, but she wanted to rest her ass and finish The Last of Us which she had started a month ago.
Sneha parked her car and picked up the tote that she carried everywhere. It was a Christian Dior knock-off that she purchased from the Causeway. She liked using knock-offs. Not because they were cheap, but because if she was carrying a knock-off, it was believable. She had been working on that skill for decades by now.
She was around 22, in the final year of college, when she read somewhere that it was all about optics. That you have to pair real things with fake ones, and people will believe that the fake ones were the real thing.
The One Rule? The most visible thing should be real.
So, Sneha made it a point to keep her hair colored, in the trendiest way that her salon guy could. Each month, she spent a fortune to get her hair done, because that was what people noticed first about her.
She kept her hair loose. It wasn’t very long, but she always did a haircut that made it look voluminous. If she brought her hair to the front, it will end right above her nipples.
She wore a CK perfume, because she loved how men turned their heads whenever she went past them. Women too. She left behind a faint smell, in each room, she walked into. At work, she had been asked many times, which perfume she used. Her answer was always vague. It was one of the real luxury products on which she spent money.
The other one was lingerie.
Sneha loved her lingerie. Now and then, she would open her wardrobe and look at her collection of lace lingerie, the numerous pairs of thongs, the strapless bras, and the sheer night dresses, and wonder when she would wear these. She kept these out of reach of her daughter, and the eyes of her mother who, even at 65, was vigilant about everything that Sneha wore.
Sneha was 29 when she fell in love and married Dipak. Dipak, a handsome man, with a handsome job, was too good to be real. And she got to know about it in a couple of years into marriage.
She got pregnant within, the first year of marriage. She was the happiest person when that happened. Her husband was happy, but for another reason. Sneha stayed home, while Dipak stayed out late, ‘working’. It was in her last trimester of pregnancy, that Sneha found out about Dipak’s whoring.
“It’s just paid sex, Sneha. Don’t make it a big deal!” Dipak had said. It was 9 AM in the morning, and Sneha had spent the last night, sleepless from sickness, and the morning, in the bathroom, throwing up. All because, she was carrying the child of the man, who was out whoring the entire night.
Sneha had called him, around 2 AM, only for the call to be answered by a girl. She sounded high and started laughing when Sneha asked for Dipak. That would have been alright, but before the whore handed the phone to Dipak, she moaned and groaned.
Dipak was out of breath, and impatient when he said, “I will call you later.”
Sneha was shocked. Not because she found out that her husband was fucking someone else. But because she didn’t feel jealous or betrayed. Angry, yes. Annoyed, yes. But not betrayed. She had spent that night, wondering how she could fake anger the next morning.
She couldn’t fake it.
“Do you always use protection?” she had asked, almost too calm for a pregnant woman who found out her husband was fucking whores.
Dipak had paused for a moment and then replied, “Of course, darling. I am not stupid. It’s just that I can fuck these women however I want to. You are my wife. I cannot tell you to finger my ass or rim my ass. I cannot spit on your face, or pee on it. These women…” Dipak seemed lost in thought. He turned to his wife, and said, “These women, would do whatever you ask them to.”
Sneha had stood by the kitchen counter, with her palms on her belly, and had listened to her husband quietly, describing all the things he did with his whores.
She sighed and retired to the bedroom. She had spent the entire day, reading a book. Dipak had tried to talk to her, but she had refused to do so. It continued for a few days before she started talking with him again, never to raise the topic again.
Her daughter was born. Dipak was a loving father, always taking care of the slightest of things that the toddler needed. He would stay up all night, giving up on his whoring, to take care of the daughter. Sneha had started to forget what Dipak liked to do.
Time passed by. Sneha went back to work. Dipak and Sneha went out for date nights when it was possible. Sneh browsed the internet and scoured the malls, to find the sluttiest things to wear.
It didn’t take much to make Sneha look sexed up. Even after childbirth, even in her early 30s, Sneha had a young woman’s body. She was taller than average. It was her hips and her breasts, that were impossible to miss. Even in a simple kurta, her hips looked sensual. Wide and bubbly, all that was needed to make Sneha like one of Dipak’s whore, was fitting jeans or a dress.
As time went by, Sneha started buying the slutty kinds of lingerie. It was difficult to find such lingerie online, the kind that fit Sneha well. Sneha didn’t have the slender proportions of the models on Myntra or H&M.
She went to the mall, to find the lace bras that would bite her breasts. Then she would pick one of the random dresses, and will try to sleep in those lace bras for trials, even if it was not something that the malls allowed. She would stand in the trial room, strip naked, wearing each of the bras, and see how full her breasts looked. Sneha had dark skin, but her breasts, never exposed to much sun, were lighter than the rest of her body.
Sneha would stand in the trial rooms, and squeeze her breasts together, to see how sexy she looked. She would buy thongs, with straps so thin, that they will disappear entirely in her butt. She would wear them, and turn around, to look at her wide hips, which looked bare, her hungry butt swallowing the flimsy thong.
Back in the bedroom, with Dipak, Sneha learned how to finger a man’s ass. How to swallow cum and enjoy it, and how to lube up her breasts, so that he could fuck them, and finish on her face. She didn’t enjoy those things much. But she loved Dipak, and it was cute, the expression he made when he came hard, with Sneha’s finger inside him, when he squirmed in pleasure, when his legs shivered and when his asshole throbbed around her finger.
One evening, she came back home from work, to find Dipak in bed, with one of his whores. She looked barely 20. The whore, was on her fours, sucking Dipak’s cock, with her finger in his ass. Sneha had never heard her husband moan that loud. The whore, was naked, her butt swaying in the air, as she slurped on Dipak’s dick. They didn’t realize that Sneha was at the door.
Before Sneha said anything, she went to check on her daughter. She was asleep. She closed the door and returned to her bedroom.
The first thing she did was throw her bag at her husband’s face. It hit him, straight on the nose. He panicked and tried to get up quickly, only to knock the whore off the bed. The whore lay on the floor, laughing, as she saw Sneha. The whore’s breasts jiggled as she laughed out loud. Sneha stood there, shocked, her fingers in a fist.
Sneha came back and sat on the couch, and waited for them to get out. It took them 15 more minutes to come out. She heard Dipak moan, probably cumming, getting his money’s worth. The whore walked out of the bedroom, wiping her lips. She smiled at Sneha, a lazy smile, wearing a skirt and tee shirt and no bra. The whore’s young tits perky and and her nipples hard.
That evening was five years ago. Sneha and Dipak were divorced shortly after the evening. But all the things she did for the man she loved, stayed with her. She was 41 now, and yet, was in a mall, feeling all the things that she shouldn’t.
On the escalator to the floor which had the Shopper’s Stop, Sneha noticed the stares. She loved it, but she knew that she shouldn’t. Not because it was a bad thing, but because if she did enjoy it, it’d be taken away from her. That has been with other things in her life. Whenever she started liking something, it was taken away, for one reason or the other.
There were a couple of guys behind, her, probably half her age. They were quietly talking, and she heard a clear intake of breath. She turned her head slightly, to see them from the corner of her eyes. They were looking at her wide hips.
Sneha had come straight from work. She dressed Indian at work. Always in a Kurta and a salwar. A dark kurta and light-colored salwar. That evening in the mall, she was wearing a black sleeveless kurta, with a long slit, that showed just a bit of her flesh near the waist. She liked it that way, a tantalizing view of the skin she had.
And it also made her hips look wider, and her waist tinier. She could have easily dressed up in a top and jeans, and she would have filled the top the way it was supposed to. But she preferred Indian dresses.
Off the escalator, she walked, her loose hair, ever so slightly flowing in the air, as she moved swiftly. She knew her breasts bounced when she moved that fast. Her breasts always strained against her bras, especially the flimsy ones she wore. She liked how they left her breasts supple, a youthfulness to them, even at the age of 41.
She had no plans of being with a man that evening, and yet, Sneha was wearing a thong. She had gotten fond of thongs. Nobody saw her in thongs, but she liked how they felt against her pussy. She liked feeling vulnerable down there, she liked how there was just a thin patch of cloth that covered her modesty. And whenever she would walk, the thong would move, reminding her how frugally she was dressed underneath. She will feel the air hit the sides of her waist, from the little patch that her slit left. It made her wet, it made her walk up straighter, with her breasts pushed out.
Sneha had two stops. One for her daughter, and one for herself. The stop for her daughter was rather simple. She knew what her 11-year-old will like. All she had to do, was visit the kids’ section and pick her daughter’s favorite color.
The stop for herself was a fun one. She didn’t need another pair of sexy lingerie, but she would go and buy some anyway.
The last man she was with, was almost a year ago. He was from work, a mistake that Sneha had pledged not to make again. The man was married, and yet Sneha loved how much attention he gave her.
The first time she had checked in with him in a hotel, she had fucked him the way she knew — like a whore. Every man she had been with (a list which was rather a short one), after Dipak, she had thought that the way to please them was to be a whore, to be a shameless hungry woman, to crave for his dick, to open her mouth wide, to open her legs wider, to moan louder than she had to, to contort her face in pleasures that she wasn’t feeling.
The colleague had finished inside her, within a matter of minutes, only to later comment, “You are so wild.”
He was pointing at the lace panty that was on the floor.
They checked-in a few times after that, each time, Sneha moaned loudly, and each time the man finished inside her quickly, leaving her wanting. All that was alright, because it gave Sneha something to look forward to, a reason to decide which lingerie she should wear when she left for work in the morning. When she returned home, after being cum inside in a matter of minutes, she will get under the sheets and touch herself, looking at porn.
At videos of women with four men, of women as big as she was, being handled by men with muscles, who were fucked for 10s of minutes instead of the minute that she got from the colleague she fucked.
It was a simple routine until everybody in the office found out.
It was a difficult couple of months for Sneha, with whispers, everywhere she went. She felt bad, not because everyone was talking about her, but about the wife of the colleague she fucked. For below-average sex, a woman’s peace was disturbed. She vowed not to fuck colleagues or married men.
That decision reduced her pool of men. Her only source of pleasure was the stares she got, from young guys, or even married men. She had a trusty and worn-out vibrator, something she used while she looked at herself in the mirror by her bed. She didn’t take off her thongs when she used her vibrator — she just slid the thong aside and touched the vibrator to the clit.
She wished she had a man, who would slip his hard dick like that. With her thong still on, with her legs wide open, wanting all of his hard dick. She wished there was somebody who could fuck her long, who would stop after she came, just like her vibrator did.
There was one more thing that Sneha liked to do — to buy the dirties and naughtiest of clothes at the malls, in a public place, making a grand show of it, and remember how everyone looked at her. Even the young salesgirls, behind their polite smiles, were judgemental. Sneha absorbed that judgment, and turned that into fodder for her imagination as she would lie in the bed later at night, using her vibrator, wearing the same piece of clothing that she was judged for.
It was part of her mall visit experience. That evening’s visit was a little different though.
She went to the aisle that she went to in that mall, to get her things. She visited that mall frequently enough to know the layout, but her visits were spaced far enough for the salesgirls at the aisle to be different in her visits.
She browsed through some lace bras, and then was touching and feeling up some lace panties when a salesgirl came behind her and said, “Hi Madam, may I help you?”
Sneha turned around. The girl was young and slender, almost malnourished. She was dressed in a uniform. She was shorter than Sneha, and because of being slender, she looked even tinier than she was.
Sneha hesitated. Even after all these years of seeking out these kinds of moments, she felt shy when she said out loud, “I am looking for something like this,” she pointed to the lace panty. Sneha knew that her hips were too wide for it, that lace panty will be a pathetic excuse to cover her crotch.
Then she saw it. A tiny smile formed around the salesgirl’s lips, which she suppressed. Sneha’s pussy tingled, she felt her thong more vividly at that moment.
“Madam, I think,” the salesgirl paused, “I think it will be small for you.”
Sneha pursed her lips, and sighed, “Is there something my size, but this type?”
As Sneha said that, she took the lace panty off the display and held it in her hands, feeling up the fabric. There were people passing by. As Sneha waited for the girl to respond, she gave a quick look around. A couple nearby deep in conversation about a pair of pants, another man deep in conversation walking back and forth, and another one on the emergency stair, staring at his phone.
“Let me go and check ma’am,” the salesgirl finally said.
As she went to the computer, typing away and talking to her fellow salesgirl, smiling and chuckling, Sneha looked around. That’s when she saw him.
A man. Tall, with a broad chest. He looked older than the way he dressed. He was wearing a tight tee shirt, which squeezed his biceps. He wasn’t particularly muscular, but his tummy was flat, and his arms veiny. And more importantly, he was staring at Sneha. Well, at Sneha’s hand, where she held the lace panty. Sneha stared at him. The man realized that soon, and looked up. Their eyes met and the man pretended to check something on his phone.
The salesgirl came back and said that there was indeed something bigger.
“Okay, but I also want this to be tight and fitting,” Sneha said.
The girl almost chuckled that time, but she said, “Yes, ma’am, it will be fitting.”
“Okay, I’ll give these a try,” she said.
“But, ma’am, we cannot give these things for trial. These are —”
“Of course. Silly me,” Sneha chuckled, raising the panty in the air. She made it a point to look at the man. Their eyes met again, and he again pretended to check something on his phone.
“Okay, I want to see what sort kind of dresses you have,” Sneha said.
And, with the lace panty in her hand, Sneha followed the girl to the aisle with tight dresses.
Well, they weren’t tight, but the way Sneha’s curves were, everything was tight, everything was body hugging. Sneha could have asked for a carry bag to keep the lace panty as she browsed the dresses, but she didn’t want to. She kept it in one hand, and browsed through dresses with long slits and plunging necklines.
From the corner of her eyes, she kept looking for the man who was looking at her earlier. She couldn’t find him. She sighed. She picked up a beige dress, and a mustard-colored one. She checked the size, it was just enough to fit her. All she needed was to click a few photos anyway. She never bought such dresses. The photos she took in the trial room, that’s what she used to touch herself later, to feed her imagination.
The salesgirl showed her way to the trial room. Sneha smiled and moved toward it.
Inside the trial room, she kept the clothes down and turned around to lock the door. But she didn’t. She never did. Especially recently, when she developed this kink of letting the door of the trial room ajar, while she tried the dresses on. It was close to 8 PM, and the crowd in the mall had started to thin out a little, but it was still large enough to hear a footstep or two right outside her trial room door.
The trial room that Sneha entered, had a loose hinge. No matter how much she tried to leave the door only slightly ajar, it will swing open. She kept her bag down, and set it against the door, keeping it only slightly ajar, supported by her bag. If she was ever discovered, leaving the door open while she stripped down, and trying the tightest of dresses, she wanted it to look like an honest mistake.
Sneha started stripping down. The first thing to go was her black kurta. Underneath that she was wearing a comfortable lace black bra. As she was setting the kurta down, she heard voices, of people passing by. Her heart skipped a bit, and her pussy moistened.
She untied her salwar’s knot and got out of it.
She loved the flattering lights of a trial room. She took the phone out of her bag, leaning down. Before getting up, she looked up, to look at the reflection of her ass. She swayed her ass in the air, and smiled, at how lewd she looked. In fact, before standing straight up, she clicked a few photos of herself in the reflections of mirrors.
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She faced the largest of the mirrors and unclasped her bra. She didn’t have to, but she liked trying the dresses braless. She liked how her nipples looked. She liked how there was a natural sag to her breasts, and yet they were perky. For her age.
She took off her bra. Right then, a group of women was talking loudly, very near her trial room. They were discussing which dress looked the best on the other.
Sneha was out of breath, from excitement. These little joys of life. These little pleasures of risks.
She pointed the camera at the mirror, cupped one of her breasts, with her large nipple between her thumb and index finger, and squeezed it. She clicked a few pictures like that, in the warm yellow light of the trial room.
And right then, he walked in.
All the times she had left the doors of trial rooms ajar, while she tried dresses that she mostly didn’t buy, she had thought that this might happen. She had thought it would be another woman, with a bunch of dresses, rushing into the trial room, only to be shocked to see a naked woman, with a full figure, with a thong on, clicking her pictures. She had imagined being judged, and then returning home, with a throbbing pussy, and touching herself to orgasm, thinking about all the stories the other woman will tell about her.
She had also imagined a man walking in, only to apologize profusely and leave.
But she wasn’t prepared to look into the man’s eyes, through the reflection of the mirror, and for the man to not flinch.
It was the same man, who was pretending to check something on the phone, whenever their eyes met earlier in the lingerie aisle.
Sneha didn’t move. She stood there, with her breast cupped, and her phone directed at her reflection in the mirror.
Her heart was racing. She saw the man look behind him, and then open the door wide enough for him to enter, and he locked it behind him.
The trial room, which appeared all too spacious moments ago, suddenly looked small. Too small for Sneha’s voluptuous body and a man.
The man rested his back against the door and checked her naked body. She had the thong on, but from behind, it was useless in covering any of her wide hips, her bare waist, her bare back, and her bare neck. His lips parted, as he stared at her.
Sneha finally moved. She covered her breasts with her hands, her hands too small to cover her huge breasts. She turned towards him, and was about to say something when the man suddenly lunged toward her and covered her mouth.
It was the first time he touched her. But it didn’t feel that way, the way he had his arm around her bare back, the way he covered her mouth, the way his chest pressed against her breasts, with only her hands separating her bare breasts from his broad chest.
He slowly shook his head, which Sneha took for “Keep quiet.”
Sneha felt his fingers dig into her bare flesh, into her waist. This man, whose name she didn’t know, was standing in the tiny trial room with her. Her heart was racing, but she gave a slight nod. Her eyes were wide.
The man removed his hand from her mouth. He reached for her phone and took it from her. He kept it near her bag and then returned to hold her wrists.
He started pulling her wrists away. Sneha resisted at first, but then she felt his grip tighten around her wrists, tight to the point of hurting her. She let her arms be pried away from her breasts.
She saw him, and look at her breasts. She had not been looked at that way by a man, in a long time. Her last fling loved her breasts, but he didn’t look at them that way. He would cup them, he would suck her large nipples, and he will knead her breasts, but never looked at her bare breasts with the kind of longing that the man in the trial room did.
He kept taking her arms away, till the point that her arms were up in the air, her bare breasts pushed toward him. The air in the room felt colder than it did before. Her nipples started to harden, from the cold in the room and from his stare.
With her arms raised above her head, the man, leaned forward to kiss her breasts. One breast at a time, he kissed her right above her nipples. He looked up at her, as he took her nipple in his mouth.
Sneha had her nipples sucked by men before. Men loved doing that to her. Her nipples were both thick and when erect, were long. But that man, the way he sucked her — it was different. He would take her nipple between his teeth, and give it a small nibble, before replacing it with his soft tongue. He went around her nipple, circling it with the top of his tongue, before he did the same thing to another nipple.
When he was not sucking her, he was smiling at her. The smile made Sneha wet. Because it was not a loving smile. It wasn’t a smile of lust. It was a smile of judgment. She was letting a strange man, in the trial room of a mall, suck her nipples. He could enter the room because she had kept the door ajar. The same man, for whom she was looking around, with a lace underwear in her hand.
Sneha shifted her legs, thinking that it will calm her pussy down. But it didn’t.
The man let go of her arms and instead started cupping her breasts. His face between her large breasts seemed perfect. He smiled and cupped her breasts, and nibbled at her nipples. Sneha had forgotten that she didn’t have to keep her arms in the air. Even without him holding them in the air, she did that, frozen in place, letting her nipples be sucked.
And then, the man’s hand moved down to her crotch.
He didn’t have to fight her thong. All he had to do, was slide the thong away, to touch her pussy. Sneha kept her pussy shaved. The man sucked her nipple, cupped the other breast, and with the other hand, he started caressing her pubic bone. It was a slow caress, with the pressure increasing, every time he went past her clit. He couldn’t have been doing it, if he didn’t know where the clit was.
She was hoping that he waited till he touched her slit. She was hoping that it doesn’t become all too obvious that a 41-year-old woman, who was clicking nudes in the trial room, with the door open, was soaking wet already, for a man who hasn’t even spoken a single word to her.
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