[dropcap2]T[/dropcap2]he door bell rang and I wondered ‘who could be there at this time of the day’. I was alone in my eighth floor flat, in a multistory apartment. It was my manservant’s Sunday-off and the maid had done the dishes and gone. My only son had married and settled in America. My wife died a few months ago. I was not expecting anyone.
I opened the door to find a beautiful young girl standing there. For sometime I could not place her, but I was over whelmed by her beauty. When she asked: “Clothes?” then I knew she was Champa, whom I had not seen for almost a year. Champa is the daughter of the Dhobi who works from a shack within the four walls of our apartment complex, and irons our machine-washed clothes for a living.
In India, the Dhobi community is one among the lowest rung of the society. They wash everyone’s dirty linen as one of the hierarchical professions, like many others of the Hindu caste system. They still use the old coal-fired heavy irons, as they don’t have the means to buy and operate electrical irons and washing machines, with their monthly bills that only the well-off can afford.
It was the Dhobi’s day to take my laundry for ironing, which I machine-washed the previous night. Earlier, Champa was collecting the clothes every alternate day, and she used to bring them back in the afternoon. Then her younger brother started coming regularly. Out of curiosity, I asked: “Where is Champa? I haven’t seen her for many days.”
He was blunt: “Married off.”
As per the Indian arranged-marriage custom, parents find a suitable match from within their caste and community to marry off young boys and girls, as soon as they reach puberty.
Champa had been around when she was in frocks and pig tails. She was a chirpy, bubbly kid and was always dressed in ill fitting clothes which belonged to someone else; old ones given away by some generous resident of the apartments. And if I was late in getting the clothes to the front door, she would scoot-off down the stairs to the next apartment. One day I gave her some toffees and she began to wait for me, and we got along well. After that, whenever I met her in the lift, she would ask with an eager look: “Clothes tomorrow?” and she would be there all smiles waiting for the toffees.
That day when I saw the grown up Champa, all the past buzzed through my mind. I was looking at her, and she was looking at me with the expectation of some clothes for ironing. Then she blinked her girly eye lashes lined with Kajal -Indian Kohl mascara- and asked again: “Clothes?”
I found my voice: “Champa, what are you doing here?”
As if the question was silly, I added: “You were married.”
When she didn’t reply I assumed: “So you are visiting.”
She didn’t say anything, but nodded indifferently. I was taken in by her beauty. My mind raced, ‘How much does marriage change little girls? It makes them blossom like the Champa flower.’
My eyes scanned her dusky beauty. Her large eyes were shapely and prominent because of the Kajal. She had an aquiline nose and a jaw beset with sensuous lips, which remained pressed together with that ‘mind-my-own-business’ attitude of her caste, that ekes out a living on a day to day basis.
Her hair was jet black and tied in a single plat, unlike the pig tail of her girly days. Her neck was long and slender. Looking down at her bosom, I saw her orange-size breasts tucked in under the pink-colored cotton shirt. She was not wearing a bra, as most females of her community can’t afford a new one, unless some generous lady gave away hers, if the size fitted. They were small lemons when I last saw her a year ago. Now the nipples were pushing the shirt up and looked very sexy. Since I last saw her, the figure had become somewhat like a coke bottle, and the pelvis was shaping up well. Her rump was well shaped, but her butt did not appear to be prominent yet. ‘A bit of kneading and massaging would do wonders there’, my mind said. She was dressed in a pink Punjabi dress called Salwar-Kameez – a loose pajama-like garment and a loose fitting shirt. The Dupatta – a stole-like cloth which is part of this dress, and is used for covering the bosom as well as the head – hung loosely from her slender neck, as if she was not interested in covering her oranges, which otherwise would have been hidden as per Indian norms of modesty.
The pink color added to the strong sex appeal exuding from her body. I was envious of the man married to Champa. Driven by her sex appeal, my mind had sent a signal to my meat-shaft, ‘Hey, old-cock! Wake up man! Here is something interesting.’
My poor-old-shaft had not had any sex since my wife fell ill and died. She knew about my numerous sex adventures. I had harvested many soils, plowing them to fertility. I used to wonder why God gave me such a demanding cock. Perhaps because my ancestors were believed to have been sailors from England, who had visited many ports, before they finally settled in Calcutta, and married native brown skinned woman. I am told that few English women could not survive the long sea travel around the southern tip of Africa, before the Suez Canal opened in mid 19th century. Therefore, employees of the East India Company were encouraged to take Indian wives. In fact, historically, the first Europeans to take on Indian wives were the Portuguese, followed by the French. Then the English followed in their footsteps. Therefore, I am an Anglo-Indian, or a dingo, or a fifty-fifty, of mixed blood, as my Indian army colleagues often teased me.
My cock had already made a tent of my trouser, and I could see Champa’s eyes fall on it. When she looked back at me, her eyes were wide open on seeing my burning desire. Then she shifted weight from one leg to the other. Lo and behold, her bra-less oranges moved sideways, and jingled for a short while before settling into a new position.
She caught me scanning her bosom, and her eyes briefly glanced down at her oranges, and then fell upon my cock-tent again. I took the lead to suggest: “Why don’t you come in and take the clothes?”
She did not want to come in so I brought two shirts. I was hoping that she would come back with the ironed clothes later in the day – as she had always done in the past – rather than her brother or one of the parents.
I asked: “Want some toffees?”
She smiled. I also smiled and brought a few.
Giving them to her I whispered: “Now you are grown up and become so very beautiful that I can’t believe my eyes.”
She gave me another smile and turned around for the lift. Those few steps she took to the lift made her little butt churn-up more desire in me. Just before entering, she looked back over her shoulders and smiled. She kept her eyes upon me as she stood in the lift waiting for the door to slide shut.
I closed the front door and leaned against it wondering, ‘I can’t believe it. Champa-the-lass has triggered my carnal desires? Well, well! I can see some openings coming up.’
It was an ideal Sunday with no-one around to bother us. The lift serviced only one more flat opposite mine on the eighth floor, and I had not seen any activity of my neighbors. Perhaps they were out for the weekend.
The afternoon came and my ears were tuned to the door bell. And to make it worst, when I thought of Champa’s sex appeal, my meat-shaft would stand up waiting. Then, at last, the door bell rang. I put a fistful of toffees in my trouser pocket and opened the door. Champa was there with my ironed shirts resting on her outstretched forearms. I slid both my forearms in between hers with the excuse to lift the clothes, but with an ulterior motive to touch her bosom. I had always done something like this with females who aroused my carnal desires. The discrete touch had always worked, helped to lower their guard and to bring them around. I had been very lucky because there was only one woman who didn’t like it. Others never objected.
As my hands went-in between her forearms her oranges snuggled into my palms. They were very soft and filled my hands most gratifyingly. I pressed them gently and Champa did something which most sex-desirous females do: look around to see that no-one was spying. Champa looked over her shoulder at the door of the opposite apartment, and then she quickly glanced toward the staircase. There was no-one there and the decks were clear. I had seen all those discrete signs.
I let one hand rest below the clothes while my palm still held the other breasts. I slipped the free hand around her slim waist and gave a gentle pull. She did not resist and slid toward me. As she came closer, I planted a gentle kiss on her left cheek. She did not take offense.
I pulled her through the door and slammed it shut with my left foot. Then I pushed her against the door and planted a kiss on her lips. She held her lips shut tight. I was surprised. My mind said: ‘Perhaps, she didn’t know how to kiss’.
I whispered: “Open your lips a little bit.”
She did and I grabbed her lower lip and sucked it. After that I grabbed her upper lip, and she did the same to me. Champa was learning fast.
By then, my ironed shirts were tossed on the nearby sofa, and both my hands were free. I slid one hand down to her hips and felt her body. She was in real shape.
After the preliminaries were done, my hands slipped under her shirt from the bottom, and caressed her belly. She was clearly in rapture: her head resting back on the door, eyes shut, and a pink blush on her cheeks – like the dress she wore – heightening the sex appeal. Just then she opened her eyes and stared at me in wonder. When my lips found her lips again, her eye balls rolled back in rapture.
There was a peculiar smell from her body, mixed with her perspiration on that warm Sunday. But it was one of those female odors which always aroused me. It was raw, sensuous and I loved it.
My hands slid up to her oranges and I grabbed the nipples and massaged them. Champa’s body slumped suddenly, and I managed to grab her from under the armpits and slid my right hand under her butt. She was light and came into my arms easily. I took her to my bedroom, not bothering to lock the front door. My golden rule in sex hunting has been very simple: don’t waste time when a really sexy bomb lands up in your arms for free. And I have always liked the environment of a kitchen or a bedroom; either mine or theirs.
I put her down on the bed and hurriedly got out of my clothes. My shaft was fully erect, having suffered enough denials. I untied the cord of Champa’s Salwar and pulled it off her legs. She was not wearing a panty, as most of her kind can’t afford one. Her shapely thighs and voluptuous black bush were the most inviting sight I had ever seen since long. It had been a long time since I got the chance to seduce someone of Champa’s age. With one hand, I spread out her legs, bending them at the knees and with the other, I pushed her shirt up to expose her well shaped young breasts. My lips went straight for them, and I sucked the small nipples to my full delight.
Every time I left one breasts to go for the other, they would shake sideways. That excited me more, and my desires increased. My meat-shaft was already near her mound, with the young turf never shaved before. It was so near that I could have just pushed.
I looked at her young bush. It looked fresh and raw, as if it had never been explored. Therefore, before letting my instrument do any deep probing, I decided to find out how tight she was. I shoved my middle finger in and hit the hymen. I was amazed. Champa was still a virgin after a year of marriage. How?
Sensing that providence had sent her to have sex with me, I was on the guard. I ought to be careful. There was only one virgin I came across in all my sex adventures. All the others, including my late wife, have had sex before they came to me. And that virgin had found it very painful. She had screamed, and fortunately no-one heard. But once we got over it, we both enjoyed as one would enjoy the high of a drink.
In anticipation of a blood-laden orgasm of a virgin like Champa, I pulled the tissue box next to us. When I was all set, I lowered myself upon her and probed her with my tongue. I enjoyed touching her virgin wall, tongue running round and round. Her hole was wet with a salty taste. At the same time both my hands cupped her breasts, and my fingers kneaded the small nipples.
Champa got excited and started moving her hip as I probed her inside. I felt that the time was ripe to make entry. I looked at her hole as I shoved in. I like the sight, because it looks like it is opening its hungry mouth to gobble up the banana. But in this case, it had to be probed open. The side walls gave in with a slow and gentle shove. I wanted Champa to treasure this experience and come back for more, since she had remained a virgin all for me to deflower her. I went in one fourth.
Then, as a precaution, I locked my lips with hers to stifle the scream, just in case. My tongue was as much upon her tongue as was the contact down below. Champa must have felt the pain because she opened her eyes to look at me, just when I broke through. Champa’s body shuddered momentarily and she gave a subdued shriek, which was made feeble by my tongue.
I pulled out a bit and pushed in very gently. Her face showed feeling of pain but she didn’t scream. I worked slowly, and as I began to piston in and out, her eyes became wide open with desire. I took my tongue out of her mouth, and went for her breasts. She seemed to enjoy the sucking because she grabbed my head, and started directing me from one breasts to the other. It was a unique experience. We carried on alternating the breasts while I gently went in-and-out, in-and-out for a long time.
By now I was going fully in, right up to the hilt, and at times the tip was touching the other end. While she took care of my head – guiding it from one breasts to the other – my hands went for her butt and started kneading. Then we got into a slow rhythm and began to enjoy each and every moment of our intimacy. I went in and she would change my mouth to the other breasts. I came out and she would change it to the other. Our speed gradually picked up and she came around bouncing under me wanting more of it. I could feel the tip making contact with the other end. I could make out that the signal was about to go to my balls: standby to fire full blast.
With us locked in such intimate desires, her mouth opened and she began to breathe hard. Soon her eyeballs rolled backward and I could feel myself drenched in her orgasm. Her body slumped, and just then I also discharged.
We lay there in each other’s arms, and I thoroughly enjoyed the feel of her young body. It made me feel young all over again. I was wonderstruck by the whole experience: how Champa had walked into my life just when I was looking for some sex. We lay there for a long time, locked in an utterly unique sexual experience.
Lifting her up while still inside, I took her to the bathroom, and lowered her upon the washbasin to drain out. She washed quickly and got back into her clothes. As she dressed, I fed her some toffees. She smiled as she ate, and marveled at my size. I have a fairly large one when it is fully awake, provided there is good hunting ground around.
I wanted to ask how she had remained a virgin, even after a year of marriage, but something stopped me. Perhaps, she was getting late and her parents may be waiting for her to deliver the next batch of ironed clothes to other apartments. I paid her for the ironed shirts and she left.
I was half expecting Champa to tell her parents that she had been raped. So I kept my fingers crossed till Sunday ended, and the next day dawned. You can never tell with the lowest caste of the Indian society. They can always spring a surprise to extract some unscrupulous advantage. I have seen that happen with others who took liberty with their maids. But I have been very lucky. I have screwed wives of some of my colleagues in the army, but no-one had ever blackmailed or embarrassed me.
The next day also passed without any incident or complaint.
Then the subsequent day was supposed to be the day for Champa to collect my linen for ironing. She came in the morning and my servant was surprised to see her. He informed me, and I went to give the clothes myself, which otherwise he would have done. I told my servant to do something in the rear part of the apartment while I saw Champa. She was all smiles and looked dashing as all virgins do when they have had a good time. I asked her to come back with my clothes once my servant leaves for the day.
She came and we made love for a long long time. Once we finished, we lay in the each other’s arms. I was still inside when she started pushing her pelvis up, wanting more, and we went for another round. After the second bout, she looked exhausted and I asked her if she was hungry. She nodded and I lifted her off the bed. She encircled his legs around my waist. I walked to the fridge holding her up from her butt. When I told her to take out the milk can, she put its nozzle to her mouth and drank as if she had not had milk for a longtime.
Once the fridge was shut, I lowered her on to the kitchen counter, and we started another session. She leaned back on the counter resting her palms. Her legs were up resting on my shoulders, and I did a long slow slam. We had another orgasm together and she fell back on the counter, exhausted. We cleaned in the kitchen and she rushed into her clothes. There was an urge in me to know the mystery of her virginity, but I stopped short of asking.
On the next occasion, when it was time for her to come for my linen, I had already sent my servant off on an errand, which would take him at least two hours. Champa and I rushed to the bedroom and were out of our clothes as fast as we could. When she was spread-out on the bed, I gave her a slow and deep suck, reaching inside with my tongue, and tickling her sides with the tip. She began to grind her pelvis and grabbed my head, pushing me down yearning for a deeper probe.
I must say that I don’t like anyone sucking my cock. It’s my personal opinion that it could cause a medical problem. And I don’t like to discharge in the mouth of the female, because then I can’t kiss her.
I switched positions and came onto her left. I sucked her breasts one by one, and she was so excited that she put her lips to my left nipple and gave me the works. I have learnt this position from the wife of one of my army colleague, long time ago.
Next she came on top. I leaned back on the headrest and she lowered herself upon my shaft. She held the headrest with both her hands, and brought her breasts down hovering invitingly before my mouth. Champa was really a quick learner and she knew how to innovate. While she was grinding down below, she kept switching her breasts into my mouth; now the left and then the right. We got into a rhythm and soon hit orgasm together. She slumped upon me and remained there.
When we recovered, I asked: “Champa, I want to know something.”
“Tere admi ne teri chute nahi marri?” I asked in Hindustani, which everyone speaks, that can translate in: ‘Did your husband not fuck your cunt?’
Chute is the north Indian word for cunt. I was amused when I read a sign board ‘garbage chute’ in the local mall. How the two words convey the same meaning: both are shafts. The cunt is for disposing off your sexual desires – the consumable waste of your body – and the garbage chute, or shaft in a building, is for disposing off the consumable waste of the environment. Both serve the same purpose. These are the strange similarities in the Indo-European group of languages.
Her body language showed that there was something she was hiding.
She asked: “Why do you ask?”
I told her how I found her hymen intact, and how she had bled during our first sex. I told her briefly that a girl’s virginity is indicated by bleeding. She replied that she knew all that.
When I asked: “Firr, tere admi ne teri chute kayon nahi marri?” (read: ‘Then why didn’t your husband fuck you?’)
Her reply was a cold single word: “Namard!” (Impotent).
And gradually she came out with more. On the first night after the wedding ceremonies, the festivities at her in-law place came to an end. All the female guests left giggling as if they knew what was to happen next. The invited men had a boozing session like all men from the Dhobi caste do: swallow the neat homemade brew in one go and get a high as soon as possible. Then talk nonsense including a quarrel with one of their kind over some trivial issue.
The men from the Dhobi caste have to struggle all their lives. They wash the dirty linen of the Indian society day-in and day-out. In most places, they wash in the nearby river at a specified place called Dhobi Ghat. A Ghat is also for ceremonial bathing in a holy river for Hindus. But in cities, where the population is large and there may not be enough water in a nearby river, the city municipality makes special washing platforms called Dhobi Ghat. The men soak the linen in soap suds and heat it in large clay vats or metallic vessels. Then they hold the linen from one end and swing it, banging it upon a rock or the cemented platforms of the Dhobi Ghat. Thus through repeated banging, they thrash out the dirt. Wherever they wash, they have to endure the splash of dirty water upon their semi-naked bodies. They work bare footed and often bare backed. It is a sorry state they endure.
After the female guests left, Champa’s mother-in-law had shown her into the second room of their two room shack, in a shanty town where all Dhobis live.
She told Champa: “Your husband will be here soon. Don’t be scared. My son is a nice boy.”
The room was half full with washed and unwashed linen piled up all along the walls. There was no formal bed or the Indian string-cot. They all slept on the floor in either of the rooms. The room smelled of dirt of others. But it was nothing new for Champa. The smells and sounds were the same as in her parent’s place. She had grown up with them. It was all part of life for children of the Dhobi community.
They work with their parents to augment the family income, and to learn the trade of their caste, or else they would starve. They go to school to learn how to add, subtract, multiply and divide only, and dropout when done. Just to prevent clients cheating them. There are no birthdays and wedding anniversaries. No-one keeps track of such dates. If you ask a woman ‘when her son or daughter was born’, she would relate it to the full moon, or the season of the year, or someone who had married or died. Age is irrelevant for a girl. She would be married off when her bosom begins to show, or someone passes lewd remarks at her swinging hips. That the women of Dhobi caste may have a discrete fling with a customer is a great possibility. Ironically, men from other higher castes or of better social status who have sex with a Dhoban – the wife of a Dhobi – and impregnate her, don’t realize that their off-springs would be washing the dirty linen of the society for the rest of their life.
Finally, Champa’s husband staggered in. He was pissed out and slammed the door shut, which woke her up. She quivered when he touched her legs and spread them out. He lifted her shirt up and fumbled to grab the lose end of the cord, which held the Salwar at her waist. He managed to find it inside where his hand rubbed her. With one jerk, he untied the cord and pulled the Salwar down her legs. Then he got out of his pajamas and kneeled between her outstretched legs. The room was dark, with a dim light from the street lamp coming through a small window.
Champa saw his languid and drooping tool. She was surprised because she had observed her father’s full erection whenever he fucked her mother. She had seen them do it, as most poor children do when they sleep in the same room as their parents, and learn all the tricks. Champa saw her husband fumbling and rubbing it desperately. After some time it began to rise, but all of a sudden he squirted the semen, which went all over Champa’s belly and clothes. She shut her eyes and winced, turning her face away. When she looked back he had swooned and fallen away from her. She was shocked and relieved at the same time. On the contrary, she had often seen her parents gyrate about for a long time and then gradually slow down. And she had seen her father pull out a wet cock, which he wiped with one of the unwashed linen lying nearby. Champa told me that when she was led into the room, she was reminded about her parents having sex and how they managed to clean up. But her husband was impossible. He was snoring after the premature ejaculation.
Next day her mother-in-law came in to inspect the sheets and found that there was no blood spot. She curled up her nose in distaste and glared at Champa. Other women deliberately dropped by to ask the outcome, and her mother-in-law had to cut a sorry face: implication being that her new daughter in law probably had had sex and she was obviously of dubious character.
This carried on almost every night: he would have a drink, come and pull her Salwar off, try hard to raise his tool, and the end result was always the same. Champa started keeping some cloth handy to soak off the discharge.
She was crying telling me this. Then her mother-in-law accused her of having had sex before marriage because she did not ‘bleed-the-sheets’. One day, when Champa was alone with her, she told her how her husband was ‘unable’. Her mother-in-law slapped her: “How dare you accuse my son, you slut.” Other women started avoiding Champa, and they would often raise their stupid chin and smirk on seeing her.
This mental torture carried on for a long time. After that slap, Champa kept her mouth shut and silently did the business of their lowly profession. Her parents came to know her plight from some welling meaning people. Finally, her father came one day and expressed the desire to take Champa along, as she had not visited them after the marriage, which is customary in India. That is how she landed up upon my bed and into my welcoming arms.
Champa and I carried on enjoying sex for many days. She would often inform me beforehand, and I would get the servant out of the way, or ask her to come on a Sunday.
Almost a month passed, and then one day she did not turn up when she should have been there. Instead, her brother came.
I asked: “Today you have come after many days. Where is Champa?”
He was curt: “Gone back to her in-laws.”
I was stunned beyond belief. How could Champa leave without telling me? Her brother seemed to understand something at his young age. Perhaps he suspected that I have been seducing his sister during her long absence from their shack. Her brother turned away for the lift, giving me an askance look, and left. From his stance I was sure that he suspected us.
When I went for a walk, I made it a point to go past the shack of the Dhobi. Walking toward it, I saw Champa’s brother going away to deliver a bundle of ironed linen. Through the small window, I saw Champa’s mother busy with the heavy iron-press: every time she lifted the heavy press, her big breasts shook. When she moved the iron press, the breasts moved sideways in a sexy way. I was correlating Champa with hers, and my damn shaft stirred in my trousers.
Then she saw me. She kept the press on one side and glanced sideways in a discrete manner. I think she looked at her husband, who came into my view when he moved to place some ironed clothes upon a shelf on the wall. Champa’s mother looked at me and smiled. That was strange because all these years, as and when she came to collect or deliver clothes, she never smiled. I was intrigued.
I came home and could not stop wondering at the whole mystery: Champa going away without telling me, her brother’s body language indicating that he suspected us, and her mother smiling at me but making sure that her husband did not see her doing it. What is this all about?
A few more days passed. I was feeling miserable. Then Sunday came and Champa’s mother rang the bell to take my linen. I remarked, before giving her my linen: “Champa was visiting you. She is quite a lass now.”
Her reply astounded me: “It is all the kind grace of people like you.” And she smiled before turning away for the lift. I was stunned with that reply, and remained standing there, looking at her go into the lift, turn around, and stand there looking at me, waiting for the door to shut. I was really puzzled now. My mind went into a whirlpool of possibilities. Her remark was very suggestive, as if she knew something in the same way as Champa’s brother. And her body language was the same as Champa’s when we met on the first day. My hands were akimbo and I stood there in a daze, trying to make sense of it.
The lift had gone down, and I was brought back to reality when the door of the opposite flat opened. Kamini, my neighbor, stepped out to go somewhere. We exchanged pleasantries as she waited for the lift: “Haven’t seen your husband for sometime. Is he out again?” I asked.
“Gone to America.” she replied.
“Business?” (he writes software.)
She nodded and smiled. The lift arrived and she left. When she swung around for the lift, her tits took some time to follow her. They remained facing me for a fraction of second and then they moved sideways to the new bearings; a most disturbing sight for me. Saliva came to my mouth as if I had just witnessed a juicy fruit which was out of reach. I swallowed and turned around to get into my flat.
Days passed, and everyday I went for a walk, making sure I crossed the Dhobi’s shack. Champa’s mother would see me coming toward the shack, and her body language became familiar: she would glance askance discretely at her husband and then smile at me. Then I noticed one day that her Sari Pallu was down, and I could see her cleavage. It was warm, and she had let her Pallu down to catch a breeze. She glanced at me, and I could see her eye droop down to her cleavage for a moment, as if to see if it was showing. I slowed my pace to admire her. Her breasts shape appeared to be the same as Champa’s, the only difference being her size: she had weaned two children. While I was admiring her cleavage, I passed close to the window and shouted loud enough for her husband to hear: “Tomorrow take my linen.”
She smiled and said okay. I winked at her and she responded with a smile. From my vast experience, I know when a woman invites. When my naughty cock jumped up I patted it down. This happened on a Saturday evening, and I was waiting for the Sunday to dawn. And it came bright and sunny. The door bell rang and Champa’s mother was there wearing a nice Sari, and she seemed to have propped up her breasts by tugging the bra straps a little extra. They were erect as if they were her daughter’s. She didn’t ask for my linen and nor did I give it. I opened the door wide and stood aside. She stepped through and stopped facing me. I shut the door and bolted it.
I looked at her and she kept looking down. I followed her gaze and I think she was looking at the tent which my meat-shaft had already made. On a closer look, I realized that she was quite a beauty. Pity she was a Dhobi’s wife, who had to stick to her lowly profession. Mother and daughter appeared to be very much alike. I decided to find out how similar they were. My hands went for her Pallu and dropped it. Her assets were hidden behind a blouse buttoned up from the front. I carefully opened the buttons one by one starting from the top. As one button fell open, the cleavage came into view and then the next gave me a fairly good idea of what lay ahead. When the last button was undone, the blouse was out of the way, and her bra held the assets tightly snug.
My right hand played over her light brown skin, while my left hand pulled my trouser zip down, letting my instrument jump out. Her eyes fell on it and she swallowed her saliva. I like that very much. It suggests that the woman wants more of it, with full force right up to the hilt. Taking a cue, I grabbed her right hand and brought it to my shaft. She grabbed it eagerly and began to massage it, pulling the foreskin back and rubbing her nail upon the tip. In the mean time, while my right hand pushed her bra aside and, lo and behold, the jewel-of-jewels were propped up in front of me like two large sized juicy mangoes waiting to be sucked. Her tits were just like Champa’s, but larger.
I could not hold myself back. I pushed her against the door and pulled her Sari up. She was not wearing a panty: very thoughtful. Her legs were cream colored, unlike her face and chest, which were tanned light brown, working in the bright sun. And her bush was spread out nice but not too wide, like it would be for women categorized as ‘elephantine’, in the Indian Kama Sutra. The bodies of Champa and her mother were like a ‘doe’ – my favorite and the most enjoyable – tight and sexy.
My manhood was rearing to go. I opened the top of the trouser and lifted her legs apart. Grabbing her by the buttocks, I raised her to me. The impact was perfect, and after a little adjustment, I was in. She was burning like an oven. The initial entry was tight and enjoyable. With a couple of shoves, I was comfortably lodged. My next target was the mangoes which were invitingly in front of my mouth.
Mango-breasts are a treat by themselves. While sucking. you can pull them deep into your mouth and move them in and out like the kernel of a mango; juicy and most satisfying. Unlike Champa’s nipples, her mother’s were hard and seasoned. To play with such nipples with the tip of my tongue has always been the most enjoyable act.
Once I was fully in up to the hilt, we began to move in and out and I heard the door creak. I carried her to my bedroom and she lifted her Sari up. But I took the initiative to pull it off and even pulled her bra off, at the same time I got out of my clothes. She was surprised to see my size, and fondled with it passionately. For a moment I thought Champa was in my arms, but soon remembered the old saying: ‘old is gold’ at all times. While I had to guide Champa and savor her bit by bit, her mother’s was the cherry on the pudding.
We got into slow and enjoyable sex, and kept at it for a long time. Her vagina fitted me as if made to order, and I could feel my meat-shaft exploring deep unknown and unseen secrets. We both hit orgasm together and remained in each others arms for a long time. When the discharge oozed out, I wiped it with a tissue and we began to ram again.
Then we walked into the kitchen in the locked-in position, and I let her help herself to a long swig of milk, just to energize and recharge her. Like I did to Champa, we had another long session on the kitchen counter. At the end of it, I found out that her name was Nisha. And we had the most passionate sex again and again for many Sundays.
Then one day Champa’s mother said: “I am highly indebted to you.”
“You saved Champa’s marriage.”
“How?” I was puzzled.
“She is going to be the mother of your child.”
I was stunned. I found my voice: “Is that the reason why she came here?”
“No. Not really. She came to get away from her mother-in-law’s taunts but you gave her a reason to go back and say that she is pregnant with the child of her husband.”
I was still stunned. She carried on: “She had indicated to me that she was pregnant so I told her to go back and spend some time with her husband, before announcing the pregnancy to her mother-in-law. She seemed to have done that and there were celebrations over there. We got the word two days before I offered my self to you.”
After Champa’s mother left, I was deep in thought. I was happy that my unending sexual demands were met, and in return – though unknowingly – I had done a good deed for someone. But I was sad as my child would be a Dhobi washing someone’s dirty linen forever.
The lure of Champa, when she came to me, was like the fragrance that the flower with the same name releases at night, to lure in Sphinx moths: the pollinators. The flower does not have any nectar, but the moths are duped by the heady fragrance and flit from flower to flower in search of the nectar, thereby helping in pollination. Champa is a flower, originally from tropical America named Plumeria, but now it’s common in India. My Champa, the Dhobi’s daughter, came to me for pollination, and unwittingly I played the role of a Sphinx moth.
But I enjoy Nisha – the cherry upon the pudding – even now, as and when she needs some break from her mundane job, and as and when I don’t find another one for a week or more. I just go past her shack and wink at her. She knows that signal: Sunday session.
Even Champa’s mother Nisha was pollinated by me and had a baby. Her husband and his friends drank themselves silly in celebration. Some luck I must say!
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