03-11-2021, 08:29 PM
The next time, before she could put the chunni on, Ramesh spoke.
“Madam, can you leave the dupatta off this time?”
His voice had a pleading quality, like a little child who is asking for a small treat. A treat that she could easily grant and something that cost her nothing, but that same thing would mean a lot to him.
So far, she had never spoken, and nor had he, not when she was putting on her show, but this time was different. The stakes had been raised once more. She felt the familiar giddiness, the heady feeling of transgressing some imaginary line, crossing some illicit boundary.
Her throat was dry like the Thar desert. She swallowed. “Theek hai, sure.”
She was still standing with her back to him, topless, and in the act of placing the kameez on the chair. Acutely conscious of her nudity, she laid the garment carefully on the chair so it wouldn’t wrinkle. Cotton fabric is the worst in that sense even though it is comfortable. In reality, she was buying time.
Her hands touched the chunni, hesitated.
She could picture the disappointment in Ramesh’s face. His mouth might turn down, his eyes lose their glitter. Her hands, which had traveled almost all the way to cover her breasts now dropped to her sides. Everything had a surreal, slow-motion quality to it.
And again, in complete silence.
Slowly, hands now by her sides, she turned giving him a side view, then a three-quarter, and then finally the full-frontal she had denied him the last time.
Her aureoles puckered, and her nipples hardened and pushed out further.
Hard as stainless steel, she thought, and giggled.
Ramesh must think she was some kind of tramp, laughing in this situation, this crazy circumstance.
But Ramesh was not looking at her face. He was rapt on her boobs as they swayed gently with her slow twirl, and of course, her breathing.
It was a look she has seen only on the religiously devout, that staring, unbelieving and mesmerized look, mouth slightly agape, tongue unconsciously moistening dry lips, and she felt a little surge of triumph.
She had done that. She had made him feel like he was close to God. That feeling would go away and Ramesh wouldn’t be quite as awestruck a few weeks from now, but she had no way of knowing that.
She was leaking down below. Her pussy was on fire. Must wear some thin panty liners if this keeps up, she thought. But then the fun of transparent lingerie would be gone.
Decisions, decisions.
Because every time she went through this, her panties were sodden and her salwar wet. She had to throw the whole suit in the wash rather than hang them up in the closet for one more wear. Panties of course would be washed regardless.
Ramesh’s hands came up, palms toward her, like he was going to push her. Or make a grab for her tits. But he stopped short. He must have massive self-control.
“Are you a Hanuman Bhakt?” She asked.
Wordlessly, Ramesh nodded.
She would not know this now, but later he would tell her.
He was indeed a bhramachari, a celibate person by choice. He had been in the shakha for a few years as a child and a young man. He had worshipped Hanuman and taken an oath of celibacy.
Now, of course, all that was in jeopardy. The oath was taken in some childhood or teenage excess of emotion, with peer pressure. He hadn’t known anything about the alternatives, except that they led to the road to hell.
Now, he could feel himself being dragged down into the depths of depravity by this gori memsaab and there wasn’t anything he could do about it. It was blackening his hitherto pristine, pure white soul and probably tainting his afterlife, but again, nothing do about it.
And he loved every minute of it.
She nodded understanding. That explained his enormous self-restraint in the face of overwhelming temptation.
But, she thought, if he had wanted, would she have let him touch her? Had he reached out for her, would she have shrunk back, avoiding his touch?
She imagined his dark, probably rough and callused hands on her cold cream and lotion pampered, soft and silky skin? The flesh of her breasts? Touching, caressing, maybe even kneading. Pulling at her nipples, palming and hefting the massive tits. Her intimate flesh that even Ashok couldn’t touch at will? She didn’t know and didn’t want to dwell on it right at that moment.
But later, with Neetu, she would face these questions and try to come up with some answers. Answers that she would not like because it told a story about her and what kind of person she was. But eventually, she would come to terms with that.
Her breasts heaved with her breathing, which was now coming in short gasps as she neared orgasm. At least she thought she was close.
This was a curious phenomenon that she still hadn’t come to terms with; whenever she was with Ramesh, doing a “show,” she would have an orgasm at some point. She had no control over it. Her pussy would lubricate and gush, and then the orgasm would be upon her, a surprise every time.
She had tried to research it online, but nothing conclusive. The female orgasm, it seemed, was in many ways a mystery, even to women.
It hit her as she picked up her bra and settled the cups on her breasts. It might have been the inadvertent stimulation of the nipples, or it might not, but her knees became water, and her hips thrust out in a mimicry of the sex act, and she came.
It was a powerful gush this time. Something she knew was called squirting in porn, and she had zero control over it. The crotch of her salwar and then the inner material that covered her thighs darkened with the deluge and as soon as she could, she pulled her kameez over herself to cover her shame.
Ramesh was watching goggle-eyed. He had no idea what had just happened.
If this was normal, or extreme sexiness, or something else, he had no idea. He thought he might ask Prakash about it, but decided that his buddy would probably know nothing either. But in that he would be wrong.
Red faced, her eyes on the floor, Swati left, but not before securing the day and time of her next “date.”
“Madam, can you leave the dupatta off this time?”
His voice had a pleading quality, like a little child who is asking for a small treat. A treat that she could easily grant and something that cost her nothing, but that same thing would mean a lot to him.
So far, she had never spoken, and nor had he, not when she was putting on her show, but this time was different. The stakes had been raised once more. She felt the familiar giddiness, the heady feeling of transgressing some imaginary line, crossing some illicit boundary.
Her throat was dry like the Thar desert. She swallowed. “Theek hai, sure.”
She was still standing with her back to him, topless, and in the act of placing the kameez on the chair. Acutely conscious of her nudity, she laid the garment carefully on the chair so it wouldn’t wrinkle. Cotton fabric is the worst in that sense even though it is comfortable. In reality, she was buying time.
Her hands touched the chunni, hesitated.
She could picture the disappointment in Ramesh’s face. His mouth might turn down, his eyes lose their glitter. Her hands, which had traveled almost all the way to cover her breasts now dropped to her sides. Everything had a surreal, slow-motion quality to it.
And again, in complete silence.
Slowly, hands now by her sides, she turned giving him a side view, then a three-quarter, and then finally the full-frontal she had denied him the last time.
Her aureoles puckered, and her nipples hardened and pushed out further.
Hard as stainless steel, she thought, and giggled.
Ramesh must think she was some kind of tramp, laughing in this situation, this crazy circumstance.
But Ramesh was not looking at her face. He was rapt on her boobs as they swayed gently with her slow twirl, and of course, her breathing.
It was a look she has seen only on the religiously devout, that staring, unbelieving and mesmerized look, mouth slightly agape, tongue unconsciously moistening dry lips, and she felt a little surge of triumph.
She had done that. She had made him feel like he was close to God. That feeling would go away and Ramesh wouldn’t be quite as awestruck a few weeks from now, but she had no way of knowing that.
She was leaking down below. Her pussy was on fire. Must wear some thin panty liners if this keeps up, she thought. But then the fun of transparent lingerie would be gone.
Decisions, decisions.
Because every time she went through this, her panties were sodden and her salwar wet. She had to throw the whole suit in the wash rather than hang them up in the closet for one more wear. Panties of course would be washed regardless.
Ramesh’s hands came up, palms toward her, like he was going to push her. Or make a grab for her tits. But he stopped short. He must have massive self-control.
“Are you a Hanuman Bhakt?” She asked.
Wordlessly, Ramesh nodded.
She would not know this now, but later he would tell her.
He was indeed a bhramachari, a celibate person by choice. He had been in the shakha for a few years as a child and a young man. He had worshipped Hanuman and taken an oath of celibacy.
Now, of course, all that was in jeopardy. The oath was taken in some childhood or teenage excess of emotion, with peer pressure. He hadn’t known anything about the alternatives, except that they led to the road to hell.
Now, he could feel himself being dragged down into the depths of depravity by this gori memsaab and there wasn’t anything he could do about it. It was blackening his hitherto pristine, pure white soul and probably tainting his afterlife, but again, nothing do about it.
And he loved every minute of it.
She nodded understanding. That explained his enormous self-restraint in the face of overwhelming temptation.
But, she thought, if he had wanted, would she have let him touch her? Had he reached out for her, would she have shrunk back, avoiding his touch?
She imagined his dark, probably rough and callused hands on her cold cream and lotion pampered, soft and silky skin? The flesh of her breasts? Touching, caressing, maybe even kneading. Pulling at her nipples, palming and hefting the massive tits. Her intimate flesh that even Ashok couldn’t touch at will? She didn’t know and didn’t want to dwell on it right at that moment.
But later, with Neetu, she would face these questions and try to come up with some answers. Answers that she would not like because it told a story about her and what kind of person she was. But eventually, she would come to terms with that.
Her breasts heaved with her breathing, which was now coming in short gasps as she neared orgasm. At least she thought she was close.
This was a curious phenomenon that she still hadn’t come to terms with; whenever she was with Ramesh, doing a “show,” she would have an orgasm at some point. She had no control over it. Her pussy would lubricate and gush, and then the orgasm would be upon her, a surprise every time.
She had tried to research it online, but nothing conclusive. The female orgasm, it seemed, was in many ways a mystery, even to women.
It hit her as she picked up her bra and settled the cups on her breasts. It might have been the inadvertent stimulation of the nipples, or it might not, but her knees became water, and her hips thrust out in a mimicry of the sex act, and she came.
It was a powerful gush this time. Something she knew was called squirting in porn, and she had zero control over it. The crotch of her salwar and then the inner material that covered her thighs darkened with the deluge and as soon as she could, she pulled her kameez over herself to cover her shame.
Ramesh was watching goggle-eyed. He had no idea what had just happened.
If this was normal, or extreme sexiness, or something else, he had no idea. He thought he might ask Prakash about it, but decided that his buddy would probably know nothing either. But in that he would be wrong.
Red faced, her eyes on the floor, Swati left, but not before securing the day and time of her next “date.”
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)