Adultery Pakistani wife on an Indian Submarine by nandinimathur

[ronylol]

dose any one have this story "Adultery - Pakistani wife on an Indian Submarine"


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[sarit11]

Pakistani wife on an Indian Submarine

writer :- nandinimathur 

19 December 2015

http://www.xossip.com/showthread.php?t=1409625

[sarit11]

CHAPTER 1



The immigration officer stared at his computer screen. “Asif Ali,” he said in his heavy accent. ”Nandini Ali.” Then he spat something in the local language.

“Punjabi, please,” said Nandini sweetly. “My husband is Pakistani.”

The immigration officer reacted as if she’d said I had a contagious disease. He held out his hand for my passport. “Business or pleasure?”

“Business,” I said proudly. “We work together.”

He looked suspiciously at my dark blue Pakistan passport and then Nandini’s much more elaborate, Indian one. He stared at her picture for a long time, and I knew why. Passport photos are always unflattering, so it takes a very beautiful woman to have a knockout photo. Nandini was just such a woman. Her Northern Indian heritage had given her high cheekbones and full, sensual lips. Her lustrous, honey-blonde hair hung long and straight down her back and her blue eyes shone with enthusiasm and just a hint of wicked promise.

It was that promise—that hint of sex—that had made our business such a big hit. We’d filmed over a hundred short documentaries together, with her as presenter and narrator and me as cameraman and editor. With a good camera rig and a laptop to edit on, we were a two-man production house: filming, editing and uploading, then making money from ads as people watched. I was well aware that it was the glimpse of Nandini in the video’s thumbnail that got so many people clicking on them. She always wore something appropriate for the location, be it overalls or a blouse and skirt. But she always seemed to find a way to tweak it to be just a little sexy—a button unfastened here, a zip lowered there. With her full breasts and tight, toned ass, the camera loved her—it was actually hard, sometimes, even as her husband, to resist tilting the camera down to look down her top, or to focus for too long on her ass as I trailed behind her.

Did it bother me that our business swung on Nandini’s sex appeal? Not at all. In fact, the idea that somewhere out there, tens of thousands of guys were fantasizing about my wife kind of turned me on. It wasn’t as if she ever actually showed anything…and besides, they were only watching. Let them look. It was me she got to go home with. For all her sexiness, my wife was actually sort of shy, when it came to meeting other men face-to-face. Sometimes, I actually wished she’d be a little more flirtatious.

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Nandini nervously pushed her hair back behind her ear and gave the guard a worried but beautiful smile, showing perfect white teeth. “Okay?” she asked, eager to be off. She’d kept her Indian accent, even after four years in the Pakistan. It actually seemed to add to her appeal amongst our audience. Maybe if our documentaries had appealed to housewives, they would have preferred an all-Pakistani girl. But we specialized in Indian army stuff—behind the scenes with the army’s new helicopter, that sort of thing. So the viewers were almost all men, and they found her Northern Indian accent bewitching. It didn’t hurt, either, that we’d found a niche in which all the other presenters were aging men or over-enthusiastic teenagers with no social skills. A helicopter firing missiles? That’s cool. But a helicopter firing missiles while a beautiful blonde with a sexy accent explains the new targeting system? That’ll get you a million views.

“How long you stay in Vishakapatnam?” the guard wanted to know. I wasn’t sure if he was being annoyingly thorough because I was Pakistani, or because he wanted to keep talking to my wife. Looking around at the rest of the arrivals, I could see why he wanted to make the most of her. There were some depressed-looking business people in suits and that was about it. Our flight had been mostly empty. Nobody flew into Vishakapatnam. They all got out as soon as they could afford it, just as Nandini had.

“Just today,” Nandini told him with another huge smile. “We’re sailing out tonight.”

The guard nodded sullenly, glaring at me. “Is not good time to be here, as Pakistani,” he said.

I shrugged. Sure, there had been some saber-rattling going on between the Pakistan and India. But it was all just politics and talk. Still, old habits died hard, out here. It wasn’t so long ago that the whole area had been allied against the Pakistan, back before capitalism won out. They still thought like ***** fundamentalists, over here, and I was still the enemy. I did my best to smile at the guard, in an we’re all friends, hands across the water kind of a way. He glowered at me and finally waved us through.

I slipped my arm around Nandini’s waist as we moved on through the terminal. She slowed to a stop, turned to face me and, suddenly, we were kissing.

I’m not the biggest guy, but Nandini’s still shorter than me unless she’s got her very highest heels on—the ones she wears for the shoots. She just felt right in my arms, her soft breasts pressing up against me, her long legs skimming my jeans, nylon stockings whispering. She was in a sensible, mid-length skirt for traveling—like the heels, she kept her more daring stuff for the actual filming. My tongue teased her lips apart and it turned into a deep kiss, tipping her backward slightly on my arm. She sighed softly into my mouth and I felt her smile under my kiss.

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Nandini is…sensual. I don’t mean that in any kind of slutty way. We’ve been married for three years and we probably have less sex than most couples, because we both work so hard. What I mean is…she reacts a lot to touch. You know those women who need hours of foreplay to get them going? That’s not her. I only need to stroke her breasts, or her thighs, and she really responds—almost helplessly. It’s one of the many things I love about her.

When I broke the kiss, I could see a couple of local men sneering at us. I knew exactly what they were thinking, because I’d seen plenty of it when I first came to Vishakapatnam, four years before. They were thinking I was some rich Pakistani, and I was being conned by a gorgeous local girl, and that she’d let me spirit her off to America and fuck me in return for a green card, then dump me.

They didn’t know a damn thing. I mean, sure, those women existed. When I’d come out here, four years ago, working for a TV production company, I’d had plenty of them come onto me. Nandini was different. She had a degree in engineering—another reason she was such a good presenter in our documentaries—and when I met her, she was swiftly working her way up the ladder in the corporate video company she worked for. We’d met by chance at one of those “East meets West” media conventions, and within one evening we went from conference room to hotel bar to elevator to Nandini naked on my hotel bed, heels kicking in the air, as we fucked like I’d never fucked before. Six months, and I had her back in the Pakistan. Seven, and I’d quit my day job to shoot our videos full time.

I was the luckiest guy in the world. I had a gorgeous, sexy Northern Indian wife who was completely faithful to me, and a job I loved. After marriage I already thought of her as Pakistani. She had very little contact with her homeland—in fact, I was always surprised that she never seemed to want to email her old friends, or invite them to stay. She’d become the model Pakistani wife—even her accent had faded considerably. But right now, her heritage was a bonus. It was how we’d got this opportunity—a job that was going to make us a small fortune.

Nandini grabbed her suitcase—a small mountain of clothes, make-up and, of course, lots of pairs of heels to give her that delectable ass wiggle in front of the camera. I grabbed my flight case, checking that all the locks were still sealed. My camera rig is my baby. Ultra-portable but capable of shooting in Super-HD with high-quality sound, it’s what sets us apart from the amateurs. In contrast to Nandini , I had a couple of changes of clothes and that was it. She’s the one who needs to look good; I was in my usual hooded top and jeans.

Outside, a fancy black SUV with Indian army plates was waiting for us. It stuck out, next to all the aging Mercedes spitting smoke and the even older locally-made cars. The whole of Vishakapatnam was still crawling out of the Nehru Socialist era, its economy in tatters. Back in the old days, its position close to the South East Asia had meant that it had been an important Indian army port, and that’s where most of the money and jobs had come from. Now that we were all friends, the country had found itself with a massive Indian army fleet to maintain and no money coming in. Bad luck for them. Good luck for us—it was what had led to our trip.

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As soon as he saw us, an eager young Indian army driver jumped out of the SUV and opened the rear door. Just as we approached, a man stepped out.

And my wife and I both stumbled to a stop.

He was big. He must have been six-three, and he was wide as well as tall, the sort of guy who you keep thinking is going to bump his shoulders on doorframes. There didn’t seem to be an ounce of fat on him—he was all solid, hard muscle. And as my eyes tracked up to his face, I saw that he was good looking, too. Nandini had once said that Indian men fell into two categories—dumpy and surly looking, or chiseled and really good looking. I hated to admit it, but I suddenly saw what she meant. The immigration guard had been the first kind—the guy had basically had no neck—but this guy was most definitely the second. He had sculpted cheekbones, a strong jaw and a dusting of dark stubble around his jaw. His eyes were as coldly blue as Nandini’s are calmingly green, and his dark brows and lashes gave him a look that women would call brooding.

He was in full captain’s dress uniform—and Vishakapatnam really goes to town when it comes to their Indian army. His uniform was all rich, dark blue fabric and perfectly-polished brass buttons, and there were a good few medals across his chest. He took off his hat when he saw Nandini and held it neatly under one arm.

“Miss Mathur,” he said formally in heavily-accented Punjabi. “I am Captain Akshay Singh.” And he reached for her hand.

I blinked, because he’d said Miss and used her maiden name. Nandini had said something, when she’d organized the trip about using her maiden name to reinforce the fact she was Hindi, but I hadn’t realized she’d neglected to tell the Indian army she was married.

When I turned to look at her, she looked…hypnotized. She was much smaller than the captain, so she had to crane up to look into his eyes. She didn’t resist as he gently took her hand, lifted it up to his mouth…and kissed it. And then he looked up from her hand, straight into her eyes, as he held it there for a second.

Nandini didn’t speak. She took a breath and then another and I heard a little shudder in her breathing, as if she’d just stepped off the treadmill at the gym.

There was something about him that’s difficult for me to explain. He was…foreign, but I don’t mean anything to do with his looks or his voice. He just felt very unfamiliar. The best way I can describe it is: we’d travelled around both America and Western Europe a lot, during our years filming. All over Germany and France and Italy, I couldn’t read the road signs, but I could at least recognize the letters. But when we came far enough east, to places like Vishakapatnam, the entire alphabet was different. You couldn’t even take a stab at pronouncing the words, because it was just totally alien and strange. That’s how meeting Captain Singh felt. Like I’d just come up against something I’d never experienced before.

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The captain smiled and finally dropped Nandini’s hand and the spell that had been holding both of us was broken. I stepped forward and offered my hand. “Asif Ali,” I said firmly.

The captain turned to me and smiled politely but a little disinterestedly. “Miss Mathur’s cameraman?” he asked.

“And also her husband,” I told him. I’d been planning it in my head, and in my head it sounded confident and grand—putting him in his place a little. But when it came out of my mouth, it didn’t sound confident or grand at all. It sounded nervous and petulant, like a child demanding the grown-ups acknowledge that he really is a pirate.

It made him take notice of me, though. Just not in the way I’d been hoping.

“Her husband?” said the captain. He turned to Nandini . “But you are unmarried.”

My wife did something I’d never seen her do before: she dropped her eyes to the ground, just for an instant, as if shamed. She’s never done that with me. She’s a very proud woman, always holding her ground in an argument. Then she looked back up into those cold blue eyes. “There must have been a mistake,” she said quietly.

The captain pulled a piece of neatly-folded paper from his pocket and made a big show of unfolding it and reading it. “Miss Nandini Mathur,” he read in his deep, accented voice, “requests to accompany the Sindhughosh on its final voyage, together with her cameraman.”

There was absolute silence for a second. I should have been leaping to my wife’s rescue, but I felt almost ill. It was like being a couple of high school kids, caught by the principal.

“I made a mistake,” said Nandini in a voice that was almost a whisper. “Galti ho gayi.” Sorry.

I blinked. I’d barely heard her speak Indian in years. And she was gazing up into his eyes in a way I’d never seen before. On camera, she could be flirty and vivacious, but when she met men in person she was shy and almost awkward—people often couldn’t believe it was the same woman from the videos. But she didn’t look shy or awkward now. She looked more…dumbstruck. Awed, almost.

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Suddenly, the captain smiled. “Well,” he said, slipping the paper back into his pocket. “I’m sure we can make it work.” And he waved at the Indian army driver to get Nandini’s case. The man reacted as if he’d been whipped, darting to the kerbside and grabbing the case, then carrying it as if it was a Faberge egg. Clearly, the captain was a man you didn’t upset.

I noticed that no one moved to help me with my much heavier flight case. Well, fine. Vishakapatnam was Vishakapatnam, and it’s always been a pretty old-fashioned, macho place. So I heaved my own case up into the trunk and went to climb into the rear seat with Nandini .

Only to find that the captain had already climbed in beside her. He indicated that I should ride shotgun up front. He didn’t bother to actually speak to me or even look at me, just pointed.

I slumped into the passenger seat, sulking a little. As we pulled away, he started to chat away to my wife, asking her about what the video would be like, how she got started in the business and a thousand other things…all questions that we should have been answering together, as a team. But he was treating us as if she was the boss and I was just her hired lackey. After a while, they switched to Hindi, speaking in rapid fire phrases that I couldn’t catch. I’d tried a few times to learn to speak Hindi, but it was a tough language for an outsider to pick up, full of rolling “Rs” and harsh “Ks” and “Qs.” I knew a few words, but that was about it.

The Indian army driver kept his eyes on the road, as silent and serious as a statue. So eventually, I glanced back at Nandini and the captain.

His hand was on her knee.

That’s the very first thing I noticed, before I saw how he leaned in to her when he spoke, or how his eyes were locked on hers. His hand was on her knee. I was so shocked I didn’t even get angry at first. It was just so completely inappropriate, so far outside acceptable behavior in America, that it refused to compute.

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And it wasn’t as if it was just an accidental touch, or a good-humored slap on the thigh. No, he had his palm—and it was a big palm, much bigger than mine—flat on her stockinged thigh, between her knee and the hem of her skirt. His fingers were wrapping around the curve of her leg. Nandini has beautiful, shapely legs—it’s why our viewers enjoy it so much when she wears skirts—and I could imagine how smooth and warm it must feel. My wife. My wife! The anger boiled up inside me.

I didn’t know what to do. Say something? Yell? The Vishakapatnamn Navy had granted our request, but the captain still had the right to refuse us access. We’d fly home thousands of dollars out of pocket, not to mention the weeks we’d spent planning and prepping.

I tried to catch Nandini’s eye, to indicate that she should stop him. But she didn’t seem to even be aware I was there. She was gazing into the captain’s eyes with an expression on her face I’d never seen before—something between shock and awe.

As I watched, he gave my wife’s thigh a tiny squeeze. Barely enough to be noticeable, if I hadn’t been staring so intently. But I saw my wife react. Her lips widened a little, her breathing sped up. So she was aware he was doing it—she hadn’t just not noticed. Why didn’t she tell him to move it?

And then suddenly, the captain glanced at me. He didn’t move his head, just looked at me from under those heavy brows for an instant, without a trace of shame, and—

I flushed. I actually felt my cheeks go red, and that’s not something I could ever remember doing. It felt as if I’d been caught doing something wrong, as if I was the guilty one. I turned back in my seat to face the windshield and a tiny part of me actually wanted to say sorry. What the hell?!

“We’re here,” said the driver.

And we got our first look at the Sindhughosh. The Sindhughosh submarines, designated 877EKM, were designed as part of Project 877, and built under a contract between Rosvooruzhenie and the Ministry of Defence (India).

Sindhughosh has a displacement of 3,000 tonnes, a maximum diving depth of 300 meters, with a top speed of 18 knots, and can operate solo for 45 days with a crew of 53. The unit was equipped with the 3M-54 Klub (SS-N-27) antiship cruise missiles with a range of 220 km.

It was a monster.

***

[ronylol]

thanks brother please post the full story

[sarit11]

CHAPTER 2

The submarine was much, much bigger than I’d expected. Over four hundred feet long, I’d heard—but hearing it wasn’t the same as seeing it. The idea that something so big could move, let alone submerge, was difficult to accept. The conning tower rose above me like a small building. All I could do was sit there and gape through the windshield.

Nandini , meanwhile, had already jumped out and was deep in conversation with the captain, pointing to the sub and asking questions. I grabbed my flight case and hurried after her.

The way his hand had been on Nandini’s thigh still bothered me but, now that it was over, I could chalk it up to Indian sexism—it might not be a San Relando, but it still wasn’t exactly forward-thinking. We were out of the SUV and after this, we probably wouldn’t see the captain again for the rest of the trip. Besides, Nandini had called in a lot of favors to get us this gig and I wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardize it. This film could be our best ever.

The submarine had once been the pride of the Vishakapatnam navy. It carried ICBMs once targeted at cities in the Pakistan, but rapidly looking outdated and irrelevant in today’s peaceful times. That’s why it was about to take its final trip. It was going on a four day voyage to a shipyard where its missiles would be removed and the sub itself would be decommissioned. The end of an era. A sad day for captain and crew. A massive, fascinating piece of Indian army hardware, soon to be gone forever. This voyage had it all…and we were there to capture it. For four days, we’d live alongside the sailors. Nandini would do interviews while showing the viewers the sub and, at the end of it all, we’d have hours of footage to cut together into a whole series of documentaries. This was going to be epic, in every sense of the word.

“We will go on board,” said the captain. “But I want to make it clear before we do: this is still a navy vessel for another four days. While you’re on board, you may be civilians but you will be under my command. Understood?”

I hesitated for a split second, thinking of that hand on Nandini’s thigh. But when I glanced at my wife, she gave me an encouraging smile. If she was willing to put with his attentions then I could, too.

“Understood, captain,” I said respectfully.

The captain took us aboard and showed us to our cabin. In every room and corridor we entered, the crew snapped to attention, men standing straight and tall, eyes fixed in front. It certainly didn’t feel like a submarine on its final mission—the crew were as orderly and respectful as if this was the maiden voyage. Captain Singh obviously ran a tight ship and, looking at him, I could see why the crew feared him. He had to duck to get through each door and almost turn sideways to get through them…and yet, strangely, I was the one who was awkward moving around, always narrowly avoiding banging my head. This was Singh’s home, I realized, every inch of it familiar. I was the interloper.

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It didn’t help that I couldn’t read any of the signs. Every corridor looked the same and I knew I’d get lost in about thirty seconds on my own, so I made sure I hurried along behind the captain and my wife. A few times, the captain pulled up short and Nandini , unable to stop, would crash into him. She’d jump back and say Galti ho gayi again, her eyes downcast—like me in the car, she reacted as if she was the one who’d done something wrong.Then, he would turn around and smile benignly, as if forgiving a wayward child…but I wondered why it was that it kept happening. Nandini has wonderful breasts—large for her frame and just the right mixture of pert and weighty. Pillowing against his back through her blouse, they must have felt amazing. And her soft hair brushing the back of his neck, the smell of her perfume in his nostrils…could it be deliberate?

The two of them were still chatting away in Indian and part of me was annoyed by it. They both spoke Punjabi—why couldn’t they be polite and let me join in?

The captain had allocated us a private room next to one of the crew’s dorms. Walking to it meant walking straight through the dorm, between all the bunks, and Nandini , of course, got a lot of attention. Some of the men must not have known we were coming aboard, because the first reaction was shocked silence. The men stayed quiet long enough for their captain to pass. Once he’d strode off ahead of us, the hushed comments started. Nandini didn’t seem too fazed by it but she blushed a few times, so I knew the sorts of things they must be saying about her. They barely gave me a glance.

Our cabin was tiny—barely room for a tiny desk and chair…and two bunks, one on top of the other. I hadn’t thought of that. Sex was going to be…interesting.

“I like it,” said Nandini with a laugh. “It’ll be like being children again. I call dibs on the top bunk.”

The captain checked if there was anything we needed—well, more precisely, he checked if there was anything Nandini needed--then left us. I noticed that he gave a long, lingering look back at Nandini as he walked away, and I felt a twist of jealousy. Then I shook it off. It wasn’t as if she was going to cheat on me. I trusted her completely. So the captain had the hots for her—so what?

We swung into action—I started setting up my camera rig while Nandini got changed. The sun was going down and we wanted to get some footage from the outside before we set sail.

As I worked, kneeling next to my bunk, something bothered me. There was something off about the cabin we’d been given, something I couldn’t put my finger on….

I shook my head. I’d figure it out later. I had a lot to do: checking my lenses, attaching batteries, setting up the stabilization system that allowed me to shoot handheld without getting that amateur, shaky look. But it was difficult to concentrate with Nandini shedding her clothes right in front of me.

First, she took off her business-like blouse, revealing an equally business-like white bra underneath. She unzipped and stepped out of her modest, knee-length skirt and kicked off her heels, then stood there like that for a second while she found her new clothes. She was wearing, as always, black hold-ups that made her long legs shimmer and gleam in the harsh overhead lights. Her white panties were simple, but they looked incredible next to her smooth, peaches n’ cream complexion. And just beyond the edge of her panties, high up on the inside of her left thigh, there was her secret—the tattoo that only I and her knew about. A simple design the size of a quarter, picked out in black ink. A tiny flower with a P in the center.

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I remembered seeing that tattoo, that night I’d met her. She’d explained to me that it was a symbol of purity, that it indicated that she’d save herself for the man that she’d marry—and she told me, shyly, that she thought that man was me. I’d been secretly delighted that I was her first.


As I watched, she stripped off the bra, changing it for a sexy push-up one. In truth, her full breasts didn’t need any help. They were ripe and pert, yet with just enough size and weight to make them bounce alluringly—perfect. Her skin there was beautifully smooth, her nipples a delicate rose pink, and my eyes were glued to them until the bra went on.

With the push-up bra, her breasts were transformed, becoming overtly sexual—the first thing you noticed about her. She put on a low-cut top and then a scoop-neck black sweater, since it would be getting chilly outside. A figure-hugging gray skirt followed, and this one finished well above her knees. The final touch was a pair of smart, three-inch heels. She looked just classy enough to be a presenter, but sexy enough to make any man gasp. When she added a little more make-up, it was impossible not to stare at her pouting, pink lips or those gorgeous blue eyes. She looked breathtaking…and very much the perfect Indian woman, all blonde hair, blue eyes and sex appeal.

This time, when we walked back through the bunks, she got a lot more attention. Without the captain to scare them into silence, there were wolf whistles almost constantly, and a few hands reached out toward her. None of them actually touched her, but there were a few obscene gestures and some comments in Indian that made her blush more than she had before. The men seemed…hungry. I had more time to get a look at them, this time, and they all had that same Indian look—the handsome kind, not the surly kind. Military muscle, I guessed—they weren’t allowed to be fat. Still, it was a little intimidating to see just how many strong jaws and blue eyes were on show. Many of the men were between shifts and were lounging around in vests, and I saw Nandini’s eyes flick to their bulging muscles more than once.

Outside, she stood on the shore and we shot an introduction piece with the submarine in the background. I noticed that, as she talked, sailors gradually filled the small standing area at the top of the conning tower, some of them climbing down to the deck. They weren’t waving in an I’m on TV way—they just seemed to be trying to get a look at her. Nandini didn’t mention it, but I found it a little unnerving.

As we were returning aboard, the fresh food for the galley arrived and we had to stand and wait until the corridors cleared. Nandini was off talking to a sailor in Hindi, asking him how we felt about the voyage. The sailor next to me motioned to my camera rig. “Pretty cool,” he said in heavily-accented Punjabi.

It was the first time anyone had spoken directly to me since we’d come aboard. I showed him how it worked and, when it seemed polite, I nodded to Nandini and said, “The men seem to like her.”

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The sailor beamed and then gave me a wolfish grin. He jerked his head towards the ocean. “We’ve been out there for three months,” he said. “Tonight was meant to be shore leave. But then they say we have to go straight to shipyard.” He shrugged. “Men are…how you say? Hot?” He mimed fanning his face. “They want drink and prostituka.”

“Oh,” I didn’t know what to say. God, no sex for three months, and their night of cheap sex snatched away from them at the last minute. No wonder they were horny as hell.

The sailor grinned at me and nodded to Nandini . “You get to film her all day, huh? Lucky guy.”

That I could agree with. I beamed and nodded. “Yes, lucky guy.”

The sailor nudged me. “Maybe some of us get lucky, no?” He nodded towards Nandini . “Get her legs open?”

Cold shock went through me, quickly followed be rage. Of course—he had no idea we were married. He thought I was just her cameraman. “She’s my wife,” I said tightly.

The sailor’s eyes went wide. “Oh,” he said, stunned. Then he looked between her and me. I couldn’t tell if he was shocked that she had married me, or that I’d chosen to bring my wife on board a metal can full of horny sailors. He mumbled an apology and walked away.

On the walk back to our cabin, the muttered comments from the men we passed took on a whole new meaning. They weren’t just being jerks—they were like dogs in heat. I realized that, that night, some of them would probably jerk off to her, now that they’d seen her and heard her and smelled her perfume.

That should have bothered me—and it did, in a way. I felt angry but not outraged. In fact, the thought that all those horny guys would be lying in their bunks, trying to quietly find relief without their bunk mates hearing, while thinking of my wife’s long, nylon-clad legs or her pert, mouthwatering breasts…I kind of liked that. It was a new sensation for me and one I had to try to wrap my mind around, but it was definitely there.

Ahead of me Nandini had stopped to talk to three crewmen, nodding at their answers and scribbling down notes on a notepad. The men seemed friendly enough, but now that I knew the context I could see how much trouble they were having maintaining eye contact with her. Their gaze kept wanting to go downward, to her breasts. I hung back a little, not wanting to interrupt…and a little turned on by the sight of them staring.

As soon as it was polite, I hustled Nandini down the corridor to our cabin and closed the door. “Those guys were getting pretty turned on,” I told her.

She shook her head. “Just men being men.”

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I shook my head. “I’m serious. They were really staring at you. They haven’t had a woman in a while.” It was getting late, now, and outside I could hear the crew getting ready for bed. “Their only relief is their own right hands,” I said.

Nandini clapped her hand over her mouth. “I feel sorry for them. The poor things!”

I advanced across the cabin towards her…which took all of a few paces. “And what do you think they’re going to be thinking about, while they lie in their bunks tonight?”

Her eyes went huge. “Stop!”

“They will. They’ll be thinking about you—”

“Stop!” But she was smiling. Flattered.

“—writhing under them, legs spread—”

“Asif!”

I had her backed up against the door, now. “Groaning and moaning under them, their hands on your boobs.”

She slapped my arm playfully. “I didn’t know you got turned on by that.”

I stopped abruptly. I was a little surprised myself by what I’d said. I hadn’t known it was a turn on for me, either, until that night. I was a pretty normal guy. I watched some porn on the net now and then, the same as anyone, and the usual things turned me on: short skirts; nice breasts; maybe, occasionally, something a little hardcore, like a gangbang. But I hadn’t really been aware of this being a turn on until now, except in a very abstract way.

Now I thought about it…what sort of man sets up a company revolving around other men paying to watch his wife run around in a short skirt? Maybe this had always been there, under the surface.

I thought about it. As long as all they did was look and lust, and it was only me who got to see her naked, or touch her….

“Let’s give them something to think about,” I murmured. And I started to unbutton her blouse.

She bit her lip—something that always turned me on—and said nothing, but she started to breathe faster and faster as I moved down the line of buttons, exposing more and more of her firm cleavage. The push-up bra really did make it a joyous sight, her smooth tan skin as perfect as any model’s. I smoothed my hands over her breasts through the bra and she drew her breath in. I pushed the blouse back off her shoulders and off her arms, marveling at the lithe grace of her.

I reached behind her and unclipped the clasp and the bra went loose. I drew it off her shoulders and bared her magnificent breasts, the soft flesh rising and falling as she began to pant. I slid my hands up her body from her smooth, toned stomach up to her breasts, catching the warm globes and lifting them, then letting them fall back into place. She bit her lip again. I rubbed her nipples with my thumbs and she moaned.

“Yes,” I said. “Like that.”

She realized what she’d done and looked horrified, but giggled a little as well.

I lowered my head to her breasts. First, I kissed each nipple in turn, slowly licking it until it hardened under my tongue. Then I opened my mouth wide and engulfed as much of one breast as I could, lashing it with my tongue while I squeezed and kneaded the other with my hand. Nandini’s head started to grind against the door, her long hair cushioning it. Her breath was coming quick through her nose, now, her teeth clamped together to help her stay quiet. But I wasn’t going to let her stay quiet. The idea of them listening to her had me hard as hell.

[sarit11]

Still licking her breasts, I searched out the zipper on her skirt and yanked it down, then popped the button. She had to wiggle her hips to get the tight garment down them, and I pushed her panties down at the same time. And there, gleaming in the cold light from the fluorescent strip overhead, was the most beautiful sight in the world. Her tiny triangle of neatly-shaven blonde hair, almost the same color as the hair on her head, and, below it, the soft, delicate folds of her outer lips. Nandini has the most beautiful pussy I’ve ever seen. It’s so…private. Her outer lips are quite slender and remain tightly closed even when she’s really turned on, almost as if she’s shy. Her skin there is a beautiful, natural light tan and the golden hair is very soft. It doesn’t hide anything, shaved as it is, just points like an arrow to the heaven beneath. Whenever I see it, I always feel that I’m privileged. Especially because I was her first and only lover. I left her stockings and heels on. They made her already long legs look incredible. I slid my hand down her stockinged thigh, then up the bare flesh to cup her pussy. She groaned.

I smiled. I could see her fighting to control the noises she was making, but it was a losing battle. Nandini has always been a screamer.

I began to rub her gently there, stroking just my fingertips up and down the length of her silken lips. She drew in a huge, shuddering gasp. Her ass ground against the door. Her fast response was always a turn on for me—knowing that she could get going so quickly from just a few light touches. Her outer lips were still closed, but I eased a finger into her…just the tip at first, then slowly in. Yes—she was already wet inside and getting wetter.

My thumb found her clit and started to circle, rubbing the smooth skin of her hood against the nub. She started to thrash her head from side to side, her hips grinding against my hand. “Yes,” she whispered at last.

“Hmm?” I asked. “What’s that?”

“Yes,” she said, louder.

I started to fuck her with the finger, crooking the end of it so that I hit her most sensitive place.

“Ah!” she gasped. “Ah! Yes!”

I fucked her faster, feeling her getting wetter and wetter. Her naked ass was pushing hard against the door, now, grinding like a cat in heat. “F—fuck me,” she gasped.

I grabbed her and pulled her over to the lower bunk, laying her down on her back. The bunk was so narrow that she had to bend the knee nearest the wall while the other leg hung down off the side of the bunk. It was an obscene pose, and it made even her pussy lips flower open a little.

I scrambled out of my clothes. Then, as I rolled on a condom, I had an idea. “Say it in Hindi,” I said.

She stared up at me, momentarily aghast. But as I stood there stroking myself through the condom, her lust got the better of her. “Jor se karo,” she panted. “Jor se karo!” Fuck me. Fuck me!

I climbed between her legs and hunkered down over her. The sight of her lying there, naked save for stockings and heels, her gorgeous breasts rising and falling, was incredible. The lips of her sex were open from her position and I could glimpse the glistening moisture inside. I ran the rubber-covered head of my cock over her folds. “Tell me what you want,” I said.

[sarit11]

She almost glared at me in frustration, but said, “Andar daalo!” Put it in me.

“Louder,” I said.

“Andar daalo!” she yelled.

I was rock hard, imagining the sailors on the other side of the wall, stroking their cocks while they heard her beg them to Put it in me! Put it in me!

I couldn’t hold back any longer. I pushed into her. For a second, her tightness resisted me. Then I sank into her depths, her heat blazing around me. God, she felt amazing. Tight and hot and silky smooth around me, and so wet. I slid in to half way and then drew back…all the way out. I wanted to experience the sensation of penetrating her again. That momentary resistance, before her body gave way. I pushed again, watching the anticipation build on her face…and then that vital instant when I breached her and my cock slid deep. This time, I went all the way in, as far as I could, and started to fuck her in earnest.

Even with one knee up and one leg off the bunk, she couldn’t open herself as wide as she normally would. The result was that she was tighter than normal, which only made it better. I’m not the biggest guy, but she fit me like a glove, like this.

I sped up. I was on my knees, my hands braced either side of her head. Unlike a bed, the bunk didn’t move at all so I could use all my energy to fuck her. I found I could go harder and faster than normal, and that had her tossing her long hair and bucking under me after just a minute or two. “Ah!” she gasped. “Yes! Yes!”

“Say it for them,” I panted.

“Haan! Haan, Haan!” Yes! Yes, yes!

I really started to pump into her, now. Her breasts were bouncing against my chest, her hard nipples scraping against me. She was writhing and twisting, thrashing around, and the head of the bed would have been banging against the wall in a normal room. Even so, there was plenty for the sailors to hear. Nandini’s breathing had become a series of panting wails, and the beams that secured the bunk to the wall gave a satisfyingly loud squeak every time we moved.

“Haan!” she yelled “Haan! Haan!” Then, “Aur! Aur!” Harder! Harder!

I put everything I had into it, my ass rising and falling like a machine between her legs. I was going balls-deep into her on every stroke, now, racing towards my finish—

But she got there first. With a sudden, frenzied groan that turned into a high-pitched wail, she curled upward off the bunk, her head going to my shoulder. I could feel her muscles tighten around me, clutching at me, almost milking me. And it worked. On the next stroke, I went over the edge, shooting spurt after spurt of blazing cum into the condom.

I slumped on top of her. I could hear cheers and applause from the corridor outside. At almost the same moment, we felt a vibration run through the sub as the engines started up and we began to move. We were on our way.

I grinned. This trip was going to be fun.

[Pok pokari]

Missing