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Trying my hand now at an Old-Young story. I want to develop this further to include a relationship with the mother as well in a subsequent chapter.
During the IT boom of the late eighties and early nineties, most mid-to-large companies in the US out-sourced their IT work to India based technology firms. As a Senior Account Manager for one such firm, I was responsible for identifying, selling and staffing projects at the American companies.
A project in early spring one year brought me to a quiet, modestly populated midwestern city. I had identified a smart guy in my parent company in India to execute the project and was waiting for him to join me. I had known him from my visits to our HQ. He was young, fresh out of college, nerdy, smart and hardworking. I was glad to have him and hoped he would be the first of many I would need to build a good team.
When all the documentation and formalities were completed, I was surprised to learn that he was going to have his newly married wife and mother-in-law in tow!
He was as green as they come. I had seen and worked with a lot of guys in the same position and had brought them up to speed in different parts of the US, wherever my projects took me, and Prakash was no different. This was his first visit to the US. I took him under my wings and showed him the ropes. For instance, he had not driven a car in his life so it fell upon me to drive him around initially. He had a long way to go in terms of his taste in work clothes and I helped him fix his wardrobe. As expected, he hit the ground running as far as work was concerned and I had no concerns from this quarter.
Fortunately, my wife took on the responsibility of taking care of his wife (her name was Aruna) and mother-in-law (I was not sure of her name!), and they all hit it off. It helped that all of us were from the same southern State in India and spoke the same local language. The mother was a few years younger than my wife, and the Aruna would have been the same age as our son (now in college in India).
Aruna was just twenty years old (I had seen this from the documents), and I had a little less than thirty years on her. She and her mother quickly adjusted well to life in the US but still maintained certain aspects of their Indian life and upbringing. Within a few weeks, our families grew close, as was expected, and we exchanged visits often, and frequently went out together. I had lots of opportunities to take Aruna in.
She was like a breath of fresh air. She was not particularly voluptuous or sexy. She was just this normal looking Indian girl from a small town in the South. She reminded me so much of the young girls back home. Watching her took me back to the days of my youth, high-school and college when my friends and I spent hours ogling girls and young women like Aruna in public. And masturbated thinking and fantasizing about them in the privacy of our homes. It was all that we could do in the constricting and conservative society we grew up in.
I looked forward to seeing and talking to Aruna. I caught myself staring at her on many occasions. She was well built and looked fit and toned. Her clothes clung to her body and accentuated her curves. Her breasts were big (not huge) and her waist was narrow compared to her hips. When she wore a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, I found it very difficult to tear my eyes away from the way her ass cheeks stretched the fabric. My imagination ran wild whenever she wore the traditional Indian salwar-kameez or the sari.
The plumpness of her tits and her exposed cleavage drove me crazy. When we were close, I could smell the oil on her hair, the general natural aroma emanating from her body was so different from the fake perfume laden bodies of most of the women and girls I encountered. Her complexion was smooth and radiant without the need for makeup. She skin was flawless and was the color of light copper.
I found myself wanting to be around her more and more. I was infatuated with her. It was no surprise to me when I started fantasizing about her. She appeared in my head while I was having sex with my wife, which was the ultimate fantasy. I masturbated thinking about her. Frequently.
I timed my evening jogs around the neighborhood to coincide with her walks so I could approach her from behind and take a good look at her swaying ass, tight under her jeans. Some of her ‘walking’ pants were so tight that they bit into her ass and outlined her panties. For a panty man like myself, this was manna from heaven!
I visited Prakash on the pretext of talking about work so I could see her. On these occasions she would be puttering around the apartment in her gown (a comfortable dress that women/girls wore that covered them from the neck down, also used as a nightdress). It was loose around the front and when she bent down I could see her boobs clearly. When she got up, her dress made a wedgie on her ass, completely outlining her cheeks until she fixed çankaya escort it absentmindedly. I strived to chit-chat with her just to meet her eyes and hold them. To burn her images into my brain. She called be ‘Sir’ as a mark of respect and I wished she wouldn’t. It made me feel old and make me aware of the difference in our ages.
I was jealous of Prakash. I envied the fact that he was having sex with her. I pictured them naked, him on top of her and she with her legs wide open accepting his thrusts, fucking like rabbits. She feeding him her tits and he fingering her hole. She sucking his cock (obviously thinner and smaller than mine!) Motherfucker!
One Friday evening we were visiting their house. The mother-in-law was a terrific cook and put out a mouth-watering spread for us. After dinner, an Indian movie was started on the DVD player. While others watched the movie, I watched Aruna. No one paid me any heed, but I did notice the fact that she was aware that I was looking her over. She looked at me once or twice from where she was sitting and I had to turn away sharply. This played out a few times, and I couldn’t really help it. One time, she held my eyes for a little longer and asked, ‘Sir, would you like some real South-indian coffee?’
I quickly said yes, and she got up to make coffee for all. I followed her into the kitchen, “Let me see how you make it. Your coffee is always soo good.” Still, no one paid us any attention.
I stood close to her. I could smell her natural aroma, the herbal cream she had spread on her body, the jasmine scented oil on her hair. Her breasts rising and falling. I could see the straps of her bra, and the outline of the cups on her blouse. The sari had exposed her midriff and I could see very minute drops of perspiration on her back and on the small roll of fat on her hips. Her beautiful hands worked expertly on making the coffee. It was exquisite! I wanted this moment to last forever.
I had a feeling that she could sense the effect the closeness was having on me. Was she experiencing the same emotions? Was she excited also?
She abruptly turned towards me and said, “Oh, Sir. Our washing machine is broken I think. Water is leaking from it. I have not been able to run it this week. I don’t know what to do!”
“Really?” I asked, distractedly, as I tore my eyes away from her. “Did Prakash take a look?”
“Uff ho, he wouldn’t know head or tail of a Washer or what to do. I do everyone’s laundry at home. Should I call someone? Can you take a look, Sir?”
“No, no,” I said, reluctantly turning away. “Yes, I will take a quick look.”
I walked to the closet where the washer-dryer was installed. I peered at the connections in and around the washer. Then I realized that it was still full of clothes. I had to take them out as I needed to look inside for some reason.
I opened the lid and began to lift the clothes and dump them on the empty laundry baskets nearby. I had pulled out the second batch of clothes and was about to transfer them to the baskets when suddenly she appeared, startling me.
“Oh, Sir. Sorry, I should have emptied it. I did not know you were going to…” She said, but paused as she saw me holding her clothes in my hand.
“No worries…” I started to say, and at that very instant some of the pieces slipped out of my grasp and fell to the floor. I instinctively reached out and grabbed the first piece off of the floor to put it back in the basket. I picked it up and realized with a start that it was one of her panties! It was pale blue with dark blue piping and border and I accidentally had held it by the crotch. (I swear. I remember it like it was yesterday!)
For some reason, I held my hand out to her and and froze. It was only for a second or two, then I looked up at her, again only for a second. She was also frozen in her tracks, clearly shocked and embarrassed to see me handling her intimates. She looked at me and what I held in my hand, and started to say something but she could only stutter, “Sir, sorr..sorry, I mean, I don’t , didn’t know…”
“Oh, no, no, no,” I managed to say. “I am sorry, I shouldn’t have…” But by then she bent down and collected the rest of the clothes in the baskets. She plucked her panties from my hand and put it on the pile on the baskets, lifted them and placed them on the shelf nearby.
But in her hurry to end the awkward moment, she had forgotten to handle her dress properly. The Pallu of her sari (the piece of cloth that goes over a woman’s chest to cover her breasts) had slipped off of her shoulders as she bent down, and I had an unobstructed view down the front of her blouse. She was young, and her breasts were full and round and were jiggling in her loose fitting bra. The plumpness of the tops of her tits were clearly evident. I could make out the faint outline of a thick, distended nipple. Her breasts were not huge, but were big, and clearly profiled as they pushed against the light cebeci escort fabric of her blouse. She then realized what had happened, and almost certainly knew that I had seen down her blouse – she had bent down to pick up the basket and I had looked down at her and could naturally see what was provided as a view. She adjusted her pallu and covered herself. Her face was flushed and red in obvious embarrassment. All this transpired in a few seconds, during all of which I stood transfixed, following her moves, looking at her body, taking in her boobs, inexplicably rooted to the spot and unable to move.
I managed to look away at the instant that she looked up at me to see if I had take a peek, but I was a fraction too late. She knew I had. I hurriedly said, “Er, eh, I didn’t mean… I don’t know what is wrong with the Washer. I need to look again… Sorry for …”
“It’s okay, Sir,” she said.
“OK,” I repeated, and looked at her. She met my eyes for a brief moment, and then looked down and turned to walk away. I myself had turned to look back down into the washer, absentmindedly. I then realized there was one last piece down in the bin.
“Wait,” I said. “There is one more.” I reached down and pulled it out, and immediately regretted it. She had turned back to see what I pulled out, and I she and I both saw it at the same time. I looked at what I had in my hand. Fuck! It was another pair of panties! This time is was a purple number with dark horizontal stripes.
“Eh, no, er..I did not see it, I thought, all, I am sorry…,” I mumbled.
She did not say anything, or meet my eye. She just stepped the few steps towards me, reached out and grabbed her panties and threw it on the basket, and left hurriedly. I had noticed her face turning another deeper shade of red as she walked away.
Man. What had happened? It was so embarrassing. But was it? I was embarrassed during the moment. But now, I felt something else. I had held a young woman’s panties in my hand, unintentionally as it was, and she had seen me. She was embarrassed. But it kind of turned me on. Yes, those few seconds had aroused me. I realized I had a hard-on coming. Fuck! This was good! God, I could still feel the softness of her panties, the semi-hard crustiness of the gusset in my hand, the moist fabric. Man, I hadn’t even seen my wife’s panties in a while. In a long long while. The whole situation drove me wild.
But here I must stop and confess. My name is Vish, and I have a panty fetish. Enough said. And my brief encounter (real and not fantasized) with Aruna and her panties had aroused all sorts of emotions, feelings, desires and wants in me in those few seconds. I had a raging erection in my pants. I wanted to preserve these memories. I wanted to bottle the feel of her panties and store them for later use. Oh, to see her panties once again! To hold and smell them. Will I get another chance? What if she tells the story to my wife and her mother and laugh about it. Fuck that. She respected me, and I her in the normal sense. But the situation we found ourselves in those five or ten seconds showed the us man and woman we really were. She knew I had ogled her. I had feasted my eyes on her body. And she knew that I knew. There was no way for her to stop me from imagining things, to erase those images from my brain. There was no going back. I wanted more. I was convinced she would not share these moments with anyone. With any luck I/we would have more of these one-on-one experiences.
But I needn’t have worried. The opportunity presented itself to me quite suddenly.
While I was figuring out what was wrong with the washing machine, the ladies had decided that the next day being a Saturday and coincidentally an auspicious day in our Hindu calendar, the family would have to visit the Hindu temple which happened to be about an hour away. My wife knew I wasn’t religiously inclined so I wasn’t included in the trip, which would entail a temple visit, lunch, and some other program in the temple in the afternoon, evening snacks and another visit to the sanctum sanctorum of the temple. Turned out I’d have the day to myself, after all.
“Ok, Prakash,” I said. “Looks like you just need a new hose. Too late to go get one. I will get this fixed tomorrow while you are away.”
But all of them were engrossed in the discussion and did not pay much heed to me. Prakash did not seem to notice as he was glued to the TV.
“Oh, that’s alright, Sir. We are in no hurry. We can wait a day,” Aruna said. I looked at her, and our eyes met. I expected to see some shyness or embarrassment, or an inkling of the recognition of what transpired between us, but she showed none. In fact, she held my eyes a lot longer than was necessary.
It was simple after that, actually. With all of them out of the way, I let myself in with the spare key (we exchanged spare keys to be used in times of emergencies. This really was one!).
I could hardly control myself. ankara escort I hurriedly fixed the washing machine. The laundry basket was right where she had left it yesterday. My excitement was rising. Would the panties be still there? What if she had taken them away?! I reached up and pulled the basket down and rifled through it and to my utter relief, her undergarments were still there! With more from this morning!
I could see at least five pairs of different colors but the same not-so-expensive Indian brand. I picked and put the first one to my nose and sniffed the gusset. Heaven! I repeated this with all the other panties. The gusset of each of the panties was crusty, with the faint aroma of her juices and secretions in them. The more recently used ones were still moist in the crotch area. Man, this was ecstasy if ever there was one!
I could not control myself any longer. My cock was stiff as a pole and was straining to get out of my pants with a force that hurt. I had to wank, that was the only solution. I took the panties to the half-bath.
There I was, somewhere in the American midwest, in the half bathroom of a two-bedroom apartment, in a development called Mountain View, where there was neither a mountain nor a view of it.
I had Aruna’s recently used Indian panties with me. I had the one with black stripes on purple held to my nose. I had the other light blue one wrapped around my throbbing swollen cock and was stroking it slowly with my other hand. The rest of he panties were on the floor.
Oh! God! How exquisite it was! The feeling of the Indian cotton panties on the thick vein on the underside of my cock! The smell of a cunt juices intermingled with a slight hint of piss from the one held to my nose. I imagined her wearing these panties. The gusset would obviously be tight and packed against her hairy mound. There would be hair peeking out from either side in front. What the fuck – maybe from the back near her asshole as well.
Goddam! I took it slow. I reached the edge and stopped stroking my cock. I switched panties and still got the same smell and sensations. I repeated the process numerous times with each of her panties. Fuck! This was going to be a great session!!
She was kneeling in front of me and I was holding her thick, black, shiny, jasmine scented hair with both my hands and was thrusting my cock in and out of her mouth. It made a squishing sound, and she was moaning in rhythm with my thrusts.
“Mmm, mmm, mmm,” she moaned, with my distended penis still in her mouth. I could see the thick veins on my cock as they glistened with her spit.
No! She was on the floor with her legs spread wide apart and held back high with her hands behind her knees and I was plowing into her with long, slow thrusts. Then I increased my pace and finally was pounding her ferociously, grunting and struggling with each of my thrusts into her. She responded with grunts of her own,.
She cried, “Yes, yes, yes, sir! It is good. Fuck me! Don’t stop. Aah, Aah, Aah. Amma, Aiyoh! It’s so good. Do you like it? Fuck!”
A blob of precum oozed out of my cock head and I used her panties to wipe it off. And continued stroking my dick.
She was on all fours, and I was behind her, leaning over and grabbing her swollen tits and squeezing them. Then my hand was between her legs cupping her hairy (yes, she would not have shaved ever in her life!) mound, feeling the wetness and finding her hole, inserting my middle finger into her cunt, pulling it out and tasting and smelling her juices as I brought my hand to my face.
I slid my cock into her from behind, spreading her ass cheeks and taking a long, clear look at her puckered, hairy (yes, hairy!) asshole as it winked in tune with my cock going in and out of her.
“Oh, sir! So fucking good! Oh! How I like it!” she moaned.
I pumped my cock with my hand for about ten minutes, fantasizing in this manner and looking at myself in the mirror. Oh, how I wanted to fuck her! I wanted to touch every part of her body. Explore all her holes, cum in her hairy cunt and hairy asshole, cum on her pubic area, on her belly, her tits as she squeezed and presented them to me, on her face, in her mouth! And she swallowed!
I prepared myself for ejaculation. I lifted the toilet seat and saw myself sideways in the mirror. I took my hand away from my thick, black, shiny cock and it stood erect, jutting at an upward angle, the foreskin all tucked neatly under the huge purple head. I grabbed it again with my hand and in two pumps, I came. I saw my cock in the mirror as cum exploded out of it in great, long, thick white spurts. Motherfucker! What a release! What a feeling!
“Oh, sweetie, let me come on you. Take me on your face. Oh, I want to see it on your tits. Here I come! Owwww, owww,” I screamed.
“Ok. Do it. Do anything you want, Sir. I want you. You are so strong. Your cock is so hard. Take it. Take me!
My first spurt fell on her tits as I scrambled up from between her legs and pumped my cock.
“Oh, yes. It’s so thick…,” she managed to say as I climbed up more and straddled her face.
My next three long spurts fell on her nose and forehead forcefully. She had closed her eyes.
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