17-11-2020, 01:32 AM
"Bua, I know that you can do whatever you want to me. I LOVE you. I submit to you unconditionally, of my own accord. I am your doormat. I am your whipping boy. I know my love for you is one way, but it is what it is. I love you, bua."
"And," Rashida continued to enjoy her soup as she prodded me with her words. "What exactly would you do to me in bed, baba?"
Once again I decided to go for it.
"Bua, I love your big breasts. I would kiss them. Suck on them. Play with them. Jiggle them. Then I would strip you naked and kiss you everywhere, bua. Your big boobs. Your thick lips. Your giant ass. Oh, I would love to kiss your huge ass and your choot -- your cunt. And then ... you know ... I would ... make love to you."
There was a little pause as we both tucked into our soup. Then Rashida looked at me, a twinkle in her eye.
"Is that why you love me, just to take me to bed? And once you are done, you will forget about me? That's lust, Tarek, not love. Is that all I am to you -- a piece of meat to be fucked?"
"No, bua, no!" I vehemently denied it. "My love for you has nothing to do with sex. I LOVE you. Spiritually. And yes, I am attracted to your body. Your lovely, beautiful, big body. I do want to make love to you, bua. I cannot deny that. Every day I dream of fucking you. Whenever I masturbate, bua, it is to thoughts of you. But even more than that, I love you for what you are. And what you mean to me. And ... um ... what you do to me."
We had to stop talking as the waiter came to clear our soup bowls and then bring the main entrees. The good thing about a Chinese restaurant was the fast service. As we began to take the food onto our plates and tuck in, Rashida spoke.
"Baba, I never told you about how I came to be in the service of your family, did I?"
"Er ... I don't think so, bua."
"I was nineteen ... or twenty ... don't remember exactly ... when I started to work for your mother." Rashida recalled. "You were merely a toddler of three years of age then. Or two ... it's slipping my mind."
I remained silent and quietly ate some chilli chicken. Rashida meanwhile was tucking into some of the Hakka chow mein with relish. Then she continued her story.
"My father was an abusive man. He was a day labourer back in the village, working on the farms and other projects in and around our village. After the day's work, he would go with his ***** friends and drink bhaang, even though it is haram, and get drunk. And then come home and take it out on my poor mother."
"Take. It. Out." I repeated. "What do you mean, Rashida? Would he ... um ... beat your mom?"
"My poor mom!" Rashida reminisced for a bit. "Her name is Dania, and she's one of the sweetest Bengali women you could imagine. Smooth, milky fair skin, almost like a Kashmiri girl, long hair, and sharp, prominent features. Even now, she's pushing seventy, but she looks no older than fifty. Sometimes, due to my ... er ... being fat, I look as old as her -- people often mistake us for sisters when we are together. Of course she has trouble walking a lot now, so there is that, but boy at one time she was a spunky young woman! And yet how cruelly my father treated her!"
"Er ... what exactly did he do, bua?"
Rashida shook her head sadly.
"My father is a big reason I grew up hating ALL men! He would slap my mother on the slightest pretext. He would hit her and beat her mercilessly at times. He was drunk all the time, Tarek. And he was a bastard. Even now my mother's cries sometimes haunt me."
There was a pause as I took in this story, and we continued to eat. Then Rashida picked up her story again.
"When I was eighteen, mother became pregnant again. By this time, my father was older, and couldn't work as much due to his deteriorating health, and he started to gamble as well. I had to drop out of college and help the family, so I began to work as a maid in the rich people's houses in the village. My father was still as cruel as ever, and this is the time I began to actively hate all men, simply because I had him as a role model. And then my employer in one of the houses tried to bang me."
"Oh, no!"
"Oh yes, Tarek. That is our lot as the poor service folk." Rashida said. "The malkin of the house wasn't there -- she had gone out to the market, and the husband tried to press me to go to bed with him. That was his big mistake. At that time, I had been angry at my father because he wasn't paying much attention to his pregnant wife. I was angry at having to drop out of college and work as a maid. I was angry that I had no friends. I was angry about my whole lot in life, and then there was this man trying to grope me. So, I snapped. I took out all my anger on him. I raised my hand and gave him a tight slap. I just let it all out in a violent smack on his cheeks."
There was a pause as we both refilled our plates and ate for some time. Then Rashida picked up her story again.
"And," Rashida continued to enjoy her soup as she prodded me with her words. "What exactly would you do to me in bed, baba?"
Once again I decided to go for it.
"Bua, I love your big breasts. I would kiss them. Suck on them. Play with them. Jiggle them. Then I would strip you naked and kiss you everywhere, bua. Your big boobs. Your thick lips. Your giant ass. Oh, I would love to kiss your huge ass and your choot -- your cunt. And then ... you know ... I would ... make love to you."
There was a little pause as we both tucked into our soup. Then Rashida looked at me, a twinkle in her eye.
"Is that why you love me, just to take me to bed? And once you are done, you will forget about me? That's lust, Tarek, not love. Is that all I am to you -- a piece of meat to be fucked?"
"No, bua, no!" I vehemently denied it. "My love for you has nothing to do with sex. I LOVE you. Spiritually. And yes, I am attracted to your body. Your lovely, beautiful, big body. I do want to make love to you, bua. I cannot deny that. Every day I dream of fucking you. Whenever I masturbate, bua, it is to thoughts of you. But even more than that, I love you for what you are. And what you mean to me. And ... um ... what you do to me."
We had to stop talking as the waiter came to clear our soup bowls and then bring the main entrees. The good thing about a Chinese restaurant was the fast service. As we began to take the food onto our plates and tuck in, Rashida spoke.
"Baba, I never told you about how I came to be in the service of your family, did I?"
"Er ... I don't think so, bua."
"I was nineteen ... or twenty ... don't remember exactly ... when I started to work for your mother." Rashida recalled. "You were merely a toddler of three years of age then. Or two ... it's slipping my mind."
I remained silent and quietly ate some chilli chicken. Rashida meanwhile was tucking into some of the Hakka chow mein with relish. Then she continued her story.
"My father was an abusive man. He was a day labourer back in the village, working on the farms and other projects in and around our village. After the day's work, he would go with his ***** friends and drink bhaang, even though it is haram, and get drunk. And then come home and take it out on my poor mother."
"Take. It. Out." I repeated. "What do you mean, Rashida? Would he ... um ... beat your mom?"
"My poor mom!" Rashida reminisced for a bit. "Her name is Dania, and she's one of the sweetest Bengali women you could imagine. Smooth, milky fair skin, almost like a Kashmiri girl, long hair, and sharp, prominent features. Even now, she's pushing seventy, but she looks no older than fifty. Sometimes, due to my ... er ... being fat, I look as old as her -- people often mistake us for sisters when we are together. Of course she has trouble walking a lot now, so there is that, but boy at one time she was a spunky young woman! And yet how cruelly my father treated her!"
"Er ... what exactly did he do, bua?"
Rashida shook her head sadly.
"My father is a big reason I grew up hating ALL men! He would slap my mother on the slightest pretext. He would hit her and beat her mercilessly at times. He was drunk all the time, Tarek. And he was a bastard. Even now my mother's cries sometimes haunt me."
There was a pause as I took in this story, and we continued to eat. Then Rashida picked up her story again.
"When I was eighteen, mother became pregnant again. By this time, my father was older, and couldn't work as much due to his deteriorating health, and he started to gamble as well. I had to drop out of college and help the family, so I began to work as a maid in the rich people's houses in the village. My father was still as cruel as ever, and this is the time I began to actively hate all men, simply because I had him as a role model. And then my employer in one of the houses tried to bang me."
"Oh, no!"
"Oh yes, Tarek. That is our lot as the poor service folk." Rashida said. "The malkin of the house wasn't there -- she had gone out to the market, and the husband tried to press me to go to bed with him. That was his big mistake. At that time, I had been angry at my father because he wasn't paying much attention to his pregnant wife. I was angry at having to drop out of college and work as a maid. I was angry that I had no friends. I was angry about my whole lot in life, and then there was this man trying to grope me. So, I snapped. I took out all my anger on him. I raised my hand and gave him a tight slap. I just let it all out in a violent smack on his cheeks."
There was a pause as we both refilled our plates and ate for some time. Then Rashida picked up her story again.
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