26-05-2019, 09:30 AM
I fear what my state of mind is doing to my son as well. I have walked around in a constant state of arousal like a cat in heat. I can smell my desire constantly and I am changing panties several times a day as they become sodden with my juices. I've lost count of the times in the last several days that Jeff has been in the same room with me and has sniffed the air, brow furrowing in confusion and curiosity as he smells his mother's wet cunt advertising its need.
I've pitied my poor son as I watched him develop erections as he catches my scent, not realizing his body is simply responding to basic carnal instincts. And it has been a struggle not to touch myself in front of him. Like itches I cannot scratch, my hands are constantly moving of their own volition, touching the burning spot between my thighs or caressing a hard nipple through my blouse. I know he has caught me touching myself and I want to hang my head in shame, not wanting to think what he must think of his crazy mother.
The day crawls by, but at least I can suffer alone. Jeff and Bimal leave at noon for a weekend camping trip. Although the jungle is not tame, both boys are eighteen and competent. They have gone camping by themselves many times and I am not worried.
I shower and dress in the late afternoon. I wear a white blouse and khaki shorts. I sit on the porch, waiting for Ramita to arrive. I watch the sun travel slowly downward and try not to ignore the carnal fantasies running through my mind. I have to change my panties once, and then, oh thank God, and then Ramita comes down the street. It is almost sunset and she walks swiftly down the street, dressed in an orange and blue sari, her dark hair pulled back into a bun.
I meet her in the yard and see that she looks as tense and as tired as I do. It suddenly dawns on me that she too must be suffering from the desires that these dreams bring and I feel ashamed that I have not been more supportive of my friend.
"So, are you ready, my friend," she asks in a breathy voice. We look into each others eyes and I see the weariness and the yearning in her dark brown eyes that I see every time I look into a mirror. I nod slowly and then as one, we move together and embrace, hugging each other tightly. "It will all be over soon, Christine. Be strong a little longer, my dear," Ramita whispers in my ear.
"Yes," I whisper and we join hands and I let myself be led back up the street. We quickly make our way towards the edge of the village. As we walk I realize there are others walking with us as well. Ramita seems to be following a woman a hundred yards ahead. I soon sense someone behind us as well. I turn to see the widow Mamata following us, a look of weary anticipation on her face. Further behind her, comes Nilaya, hand in hand with another woman. I do not know her name, but I recognize her face. Her husband passed away a few years ago, a victim of lung cancer -- Joseph and I had called on them to pray over the poor dying man. Other than we women walking, the village seems deserted. No one is out and about. There is an almost eerie silence.
We walk and we walk as the sun begins to set. We reach the edge of the village and with some alarm, I realize we are stepping into the thick growth of the jungle as the sky slowly darkens. We follow others onto a narrow path and soon are deep in the gloom of the dark jungle, although it is not as dark as I would have thought. Moss hangs from tree branches and clings to trunks and as night comes on becomes luminescent, giving off a silvery glow that provides us plenty of light to follow the path.
As we make our way, the noises of the jungle seem muted as if the animals and insects have paused out of respect to our passage. We walk deep into the jungle. At one point, I sense movement at the edge of my vision and almost unable to believe my eyes, I see a Bengal Tiger's head emerge from the thick undergrowth. It watches us with avid interest, but I do not feel fear. It is aware of us and we are aware of it -- there is almost a sense of communion. I suddenly comprehend that it is a female and there is jolt of understanding, of oneness with the creature. As I pass it, the tiger nuzzles my hand as if to offer encouragement. I am filled with a sense of wonder and for the first time in weeks I believe that perhaps there is a resolution waiting for me at the end of our path.
We walk on, how long I'm not sure, time seems to have altered. Night has fallen, but how late it is, I have no idea. The land begins to rise, we are approaching hills and then the path emerges in a clearing. On the far side of the clearing, there is a rock face and I see a woman step to it and into an opening -- a cave.
Ramita guides me towards it. I do not hesitate. I follow my best friend into the cavern. A narrow passage awaits us. It takes us deep under the hill. Torches mounted in the cavern walls light our way. Then we are in a large chamber. It is warm and humid. As my eyes adjust to the dimly lit room, I see steam rising from a pool of water. There are a few women already in the pool, bathing. The woman we followed in is disrobing and for the first time since our journey began, I truly feel uncomfortable. My Protestant faith has instilled in me a terrible sense of modesty.
"Before the rite must begin, we must bathe and be purified in the holy waters that Danteshwari provides," Ramita says to me in a tone I'm sure she uses to mildly chastise Bimal. I look at her and she is already disrobing, her massive breasts exposed. I stare in surprise. Ramita smiles back at me, amused I think by my expression of embarrassment. She reaches out and strokes my cheek affectionately. "Come now, Christine. We are women. There are no secrets between us. Hurry now, we must bathe."
Ramita continues to disrobe. I watch her unable to tear my gaze away, even as I begin to unbutton my blouse. For the first time in my life, I openly stare and admire another woman's naked form. Ramita is a generously built woman. Slightly stocky, she is what we used to call Ruebenesque. She stands maybe five foot seven. Her breasts are incredibly large. I guess maybe by American measurements, her breasts are maybe 50EE, huge udders that lay upon her chest like giant gourds, her dark, almost black nipples are round like quarters and standing up almost half an inch. Ramita's skin is flawless, a beautiful brown. From below her round tummy rises a forest of thick, black pubic hair. Her arousal is evident, her thick labia lips slightly spread, a tropical orchid in a forest of black hair and as she moves, she offers hints of creamy, glistening pink flesh.
Ramita smiles again at my gaze, a little more shyly now as she looks at my body. I slip off my khaki shorts and panties and am aware that my own desire is evident with my flowered cunt lips and the hardness of my long, erect nipples. "My friend, Christine, you are beautiful!" Ramita whispers.
"So are you, Ramita. Your body is -- is um, glorious!" I reply, barely able to believe my own voice. Ramita shakes her hair out of the bun and it falls down her back and she is now incredibly beautiful -- truly the glory of Indian womanhood.
I've pitied my poor son as I watched him develop erections as he catches my scent, not realizing his body is simply responding to basic carnal instincts. And it has been a struggle not to touch myself in front of him. Like itches I cannot scratch, my hands are constantly moving of their own volition, touching the burning spot between my thighs or caressing a hard nipple through my blouse. I know he has caught me touching myself and I want to hang my head in shame, not wanting to think what he must think of his crazy mother.
The day crawls by, but at least I can suffer alone. Jeff and Bimal leave at noon for a weekend camping trip. Although the jungle is not tame, both boys are eighteen and competent. They have gone camping by themselves many times and I am not worried.
I shower and dress in the late afternoon. I wear a white blouse and khaki shorts. I sit on the porch, waiting for Ramita to arrive. I watch the sun travel slowly downward and try not to ignore the carnal fantasies running through my mind. I have to change my panties once, and then, oh thank God, and then Ramita comes down the street. It is almost sunset and she walks swiftly down the street, dressed in an orange and blue sari, her dark hair pulled back into a bun.
I meet her in the yard and see that she looks as tense and as tired as I do. It suddenly dawns on me that she too must be suffering from the desires that these dreams bring and I feel ashamed that I have not been more supportive of my friend.
"So, are you ready, my friend," she asks in a breathy voice. We look into each others eyes and I see the weariness and the yearning in her dark brown eyes that I see every time I look into a mirror. I nod slowly and then as one, we move together and embrace, hugging each other tightly. "It will all be over soon, Christine. Be strong a little longer, my dear," Ramita whispers in my ear.
"Yes," I whisper and we join hands and I let myself be led back up the street. We quickly make our way towards the edge of the village. As we walk I realize there are others walking with us as well. Ramita seems to be following a woman a hundred yards ahead. I soon sense someone behind us as well. I turn to see the widow Mamata following us, a look of weary anticipation on her face. Further behind her, comes Nilaya, hand in hand with another woman. I do not know her name, but I recognize her face. Her husband passed away a few years ago, a victim of lung cancer -- Joseph and I had called on them to pray over the poor dying man. Other than we women walking, the village seems deserted. No one is out and about. There is an almost eerie silence.
We walk and we walk as the sun begins to set. We reach the edge of the village and with some alarm, I realize we are stepping into the thick growth of the jungle as the sky slowly darkens. We follow others onto a narrow path and soon are deep in the gloom of the dark jungle, although it is not as dark as I would have thought. Moss hangs from tree branches and clings to trunks and as night comes on becomes luminescent, giving off a silvery glow that provides us plenty of light to follow the path.
As we make our way, the noises of the jungle seem muted as if the animals and insects have paused out of respect to our passage. We walk deep into the jungle. At one point, I sense movement at the edge of my vision and almost unable to believe my eyes, I see a Bengal Tiger's head emerge from the thick undergrowth. It watches us with avid interest, but I do not feel fear. It is aware of us and we are aware of it -- there is almost a sense of communion. I suddenly comprehend that it is a female and there is jolt of understanding, of oneness with the creature. As I pass it, the tiger nuzzles my hand as if to offer encouragement. I am filled with a sense of wonder and for the first time in weeks I believe that perhaps there is a resolution waiting for me at the end of our path.
We walk on, how long I'm not sure, time seems to have altered. Night has fallen, but how late it is, I have no idea. The land begins to rise, we are approaching hills and then the path emerges in a clearing. On the far side of the clearing, there is a rock face and I see a woman step to it and into an opening -- a cave.
Ramita guides me towards it. I do not hesitate. I follow my best friend into the cavern. A narrow passage awaits us. It takes us deep under the hill. Torches mounted in the cavern walls light our way. Then we are in a large chamber. It is warm and humid. As my eyes adjust to the dimly lit room, I see steam rising from a pool of water. There are a few women already in the pool, bathing. The woman we followed in is disrobing and for the first time since our journey began, I truly feel uncomfortable. My Protestant faith has instilled in me a terrible sense of modesty.
"Before the rite must begin, we must bathe and be purified in the holy waters that Danteshwari provides," Ramita says to me in a tone I'm sure she uses to mildly chastise Bimal. I look at her and she is already disrobing, her massive breasts exposed. I stare in surprise. Ramita smiles back at me, amused I think by my expression of embarrassment. She reaches out and strokes my cheek affectionately. "Come now, Christine. We are women. There are no secrets between us. Hurry now, we must bathe."
Ramita continues to disrobe. I watch her unable to tear my gaze away, even as I begin to unbutton my blouse. For the first time in my life, I openly stare and admire another woman's naked form. Ramita is a generously built woman. Slightly stocky, she is what we used to call Ruebenesque. She stands maybe five foot seven. Her breasts are incredibly large. I guess maybe by American measurements, her breasts are maybe 50EE, huge udders that lay upon her chest like giant gourds, her dark, almost black nipples are round like quarters and standing up almost half an inch. Ramita's skin is flawless, a beautiful brown. From below her round tummy rises a forest of thick, black pubic hair. Her arousal is evident, her thick labia lips slightly spread, a tropical orchid in a forest of black hair and as she moves, she offers hints of creamy, glistening pink flesh.
Ramita smiles again at my gaze, a little more shyly now as she looks at my body. I slip off my khaki shorts and panties and am aware that my own desire is evident with my flowered cunt lips and the hardness of my long, erect nipples. "My friend, Christine, you are beautiful!" Ramita whispers.
"So are you, Ramita. Your body is -- is um, glorious!" I reply, barely able to believe my own voice. Ramita shakes her hair out of the bun and it falls down her back and she is now incredibly beautiful -- truly the glory of Indian womanhood.
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