This time, night had already camouflaged with Lakshman’s skin. His body shining like the preserved armour of a lost battle, his eyes safe under the visible dark; it seems as if this night has been waiting for his arrival. He was all equipped, with a britelite torch clasped between his teeth and a white towel covering his head. Nothing has changed so far, Lakshman’s daily habit of painting tar all over his torso, the black lungi coordinating his pilgrimage, and the usual sly gesture of aiming his target. Despite the routine, he profusely sweated each day. He looked perplexed devoid of a frame to read his negatives. His urge demanded him to cut these tits, fold them and insert each down his abdomen. A pen knife of long lost lust started working and exhausted it started chopping off the extras. At the end, two big tits of our heroine on the poster were pressed into his underworlds.This has been his job, his chore. He was a tit-burglar. At least that is how the folks named him. Lakshman would roam every night through the filthy pavements of his colony. He knelt down at places where people mistake human faeces for piled up mud. Lakshman was sharp and accurate in finding out the best undressed breasts of heroines. He found full lounging breasts and cut the paper along its margins. His experience had turned him to an expert. Every night before sleeping with a tit-less lady he would fit these cut-outs around their nipples and squeeze the papers with pleasure. Fitting breasts at the proper place was a tiresome job; he had to find the best suited to dupe originals. When his head fumed out of the paper orgasm, he would let him consume into her. His intercourses were thieves into his own imaginary forbidden bungalows. The ladies’ open ups were an exquisite search for a broom to clean up their dirty huts. When he gets out of their home with satisfaction, Lakshman would make sure that his body was the perfect slot for night to fit into. They would dissolve into one; none knew where the darkness started and where he ended.
All of a sudden, in his successful 30 years of tit burglary today jotted in. He was ready with the pieces of chopped breasts secured under his panties. She looked a lot anorexic; one would vomit seeing her hanging hands and legs. None could find a hint about the existence of her mammary gland. Lakshman tried fitting in breasts of all sizes. He tried with different colours, shuffled with shapes and sizes, altered positions, and nothing worked.
“What is so funny here?” Lakshman noticed her spilling into a huge laugh.
“You look so worried” She replied eating up the laughter in hesitation
“I need fillings to squeeze, yours is so plain and naive”
“Fine, give me yours”
“What! I don’t have a tit”
“No you have one, like the one in the cut outs”
She made a bold move and pasted a matching cut out covering his nipples. She did one more thing that was quite unexpected, she tore off the paper along with some of his body hair and pasted on her spot. It still remained unfitted, but there were his remnants on her. She took his arm on her paper pop-ups. Lakshman threw back himself, screamed and ran missing into the blueprints of that night.
The dark arms vested him new frames unlike the tits those rejected her.
— Malavika S Udayan
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