I have to admit that when I first contacted ASSM and started sending in the 
story, I had no idea that it would be received so well.  I have, since the first post, 
received numerous letters of encouragement.  Some of them (blush) have been 
rather amorous while most are quite objective.  Taken together, the response 
has put an extra burden on me which I regard with both enjoyment and 
trepidation.  I sincerely hope that I can (or, more aptly, My Story) live up to the 
expectations.  Hence the spacings in my postings.  I am trying to do as thorough 
an editorial job on my writing as my schedule would permit.  I have also taken 
the plunge and made an FTP site available for myself from the ASSTR, and I 
thank the abministration for it.  So, from now on, this story will be 'simulnet' 
(there you go, another weird coinage - if it does not already exist) to the readers 
as 'email'  and  at my site (look under 'authors').  

MY STORY (Part 3)

	Debi called me up that day.  It was a Friday morning  in May, a few 
months after her first sexual intimacy with Ajit.  Our summer vacation had 
started and, it being my last year in high school, I was supposed to be studying 
hard for my State Board Exam.  I have always done well in my studies and never 
have had to be tutored by anybody.  But my parents wanted me to do really well 
if I wanted to be a doctor.  Admissions in Medical Schools in India required 
making it through a very tough "Joint Entrance" exam.  To be able to go to a 
school of your own choice, you had to rank high.  And there were other 
independent tests for private schools.  So I was studying in my room.  Or so my 
parents thought. 

	I was; but after a couple of hours, tired of reading for the exam, I was 
lying down on my bed with a Bengali smutty novelette.  Debi somehow 
managed to buy those books without any embarrassment.  This one even had 
about twelve pages of colored photographs, poorly copied from some European 
porno magazines.  They were probably meant for some extra stimulation and 
had little relevance to the actual story.  But the story I was intently reading was 
hotter than the picture of that blonde servicing three men, or the one of a 
German shepherd mounting the brunette.  Personally, I hate themes involving 
bestiality.  

	When my Mother knocked at the door and announced Debi's phone 
call, I was about to reward myself with my fingers for having read about five 
pages without so much as a squeeze of my thigh muscles (You see, my clit is 
set low enough between my legs which enables me to pleasure myself quite 
easily).  "I'll be right out, Ma .  .  ." I answered. 

	I wasn't undressed; so I hid the book under my bed and opened the 
door.  My Mother had already left by then.  We had the phone on the second 
floor.  I ran down the flight of stairs, my cunt tingling with each step I took. 

"Want to spend the night here with me?" Debi asked.  

"What's up?" I couldn't help but notice the excitement in her voice.

"Ma and Baba are away for the weekend with Sutapa," Debi announced, "They 
are on there way to my MejoMashi's place and won't be back till Monday"

"You mean .  .  ." I gasped, "you're all by yourself . . . in the house?" I thought I 
had not heard it right through all the honking of those cars down below on the 
streets.  

"What have I been telling you?" unable to contain her excitement too long, Debi 
sounded irritated at my questions, "do you want to spend the weekend here or 
not?"

"Let me ask .  .  ." with that I put the phone down and went upstairs to ask my 
Mother.  She did not find anything wrong with that and actually encouraged me 
to take my books along with me so that Debi could tutor me if needed."OK . . . 
will be there in a few hours" I added into the phone with a chuckle, "and Ma 
wants you to show me a few things."

"Yeah . . . that can be arranged, I'm sure" Debi chuckled back, "see you .  .  ."

	As you probably guessed by now, I could not have enough sex even as 
a teenager.  At this mature age of thirty-something (I'm not giving it away, 
though), I have to have it about  four or five times a day.  At work, I have my 
fingers and a small vibrator.  At home . . . well . . . I urge patience.  I later 
learned that such sexual need was unusual for a girl between the age of thirteen 
and eighteen.  

	I was aroused even at the thought of spending the whole weekend with 
Debi, my partner in carnal pleasures.  The very prospect of finding ourselves 
alone in that house, with nobody else to bother us, sent electricity all through my 
body, the tingling sensation from my head to toe translating into shallow spasms 
in my vaginal muscles.  

	 I was old enough by then to start wondering if I were a true lesbian.  Not 
that it bothered me too much; I seemed to have fallen madly in love with my 
older cousin.  Also, as I have tried to convey, I have been  -- as they put it in the 
West --  rather oversexed.  

	Sex in India, though a taboo subject now, had always been regarded an 
integral part of human existence.  It was never supposed to have been set aside 
from our spirituality, for a satisfied libido has less distractions for spiritual 
pursuits.  I suppose that undercurrent of that Indian sexuality still flows beneath 
the facade of middle-class morality.  Indeed, the lowest and the uppermost 
strata of the Indian society have never been too attentive of such moralities.  
pardon my digression. Anyway,   On with my narration.  

	It wasn't anywhere near a 'few hours' before I found myself ringing the 
door bell at Debi's.  Indeed, I was at their door-step within the hour since talking 
to her over the phone.  It was the middle of the day and the streets were not as 
crowded.  The bus was packed, however, and, save the occasional gusts 
through the open windows, the humid summer air inside was almost 
unbreathable.  I was hot and so was the bus.  Before the seat in front of me was 
vacated and I could grab it, I had to endure the poking of a hard member from 
behind.  

	A man, standing right behind me, took advantage of the crowded bus 
and made little effort to move his swelling manhood away from my buttocks.  He 
was wearing a dhoti* and panjabi**, and there was little between my dress and 
his cock.  I was hot enough to not mind and actually enjoyed the feeling of the 
hard thing between the crease of my buttocks; especially when I sensed that he 
was looking over my neck and straight into my blouse.  
	Over the past several months, I had developed from a nondescript teen 
into a shapely one.  Regular sex and the associated foreplay had helped me 
develop into a young lady.  Although I never flaunted my obvious prides, their 
shapeliness attracted second looks which I enjoyed.  

	So, the man standing behind me was not helping his condition by 
getting a deeper look down my blouse.  I arranged my sari, as if oblivious to his 
stare, so that a little more of the open, rounded, neck of my blouse was 
exposed.  And I felt his member throb a few times.  He started to take advantage 
of the bumpy ride through the streets and I almost sensed his urgency.  That 
had to wait.  The seat in front of me came vacant and I, somewhat reluctantly, 
slid into it.  

	I wish I had not.  The man was in his fifties and had scraggly beard all 
over his face.  He did not even try to hide his excitement; and I could see it 
pushing up the bunched up fabric of his dhoti.  He was obviously wearing the 
Indian version of "boxers" under his dhoti, which help little in concealing such 
states.  I wished I had not seen his face, for it immediately dampened my 
arousal - the arousal that I had been saving for Debi.  I wished my fantasy about 
a hard cock of a handsome man against my buttocks were  left intact.  I shifted 
my eyes to his groin area.  Through my sunglasses, I kept staring at the sign of 
his arousal.  For the rest of the commute, I tried to imagine a handsome man as 
its owner.  And that kept me from getting to Debi with a dry cunt.  

	Debi was probably taking a shower.  She peeked through the small 
window that flanked their front door.  Spotting me, she opened the door and 
stood aside behind it, out of sight from the busy street outside.  She did well, for 
she was only wearing a petticoat from under her armpits.  It covered her breasts 
and ended right below her buttocks.  Her hair was wet.  "I just got out" she said 
and gave me a hug.  It felt good after travelling thirty minutes in the humid heat.  

"Oh . . . I must be stinky .  .  " I said, trying to get away from a clean and fresh 
Debi.  

"No, No," Debi did not let me go; and, poking her nose into the side of my 
sweaty shoulder drew a deep breath, adding, "I like your natural smell . . . it 
makes me hot, you know."

"Yeah, right .  .  " I managed to get away from her, more than a little flattered.  

She bared her beautiful teeth and grinned.  "I was doing it in the bathroom when 
you rang the bell . . . see .  .  ." and she took hold of my hand, guiding it under 
her petticoat and between her legs.  I touched her there and, beside feeling the 
stickiness, was surprised to discover that her dense bush was reduced to a very 
short patch.  

"What the .  .  .!"  I exclaimed, and pulled the hem of her petticoat up.  

"Like it?" She tried to gauge my reaction.  

"I do . . . but . . . why . . . how?" I really wasn't sure how to react.  It was a novelty 
to me, seeing her without the silky curls that used to frame her nether lips.  But 
it felt good to the touch.  The triangle was not completely bare.  It is hard to 
describe, so I will not attempt.  

	I could not help myself.  I knelt down in front of her, right there - just 
inside of the doorway - and, grabbing her buttocks with both hands, drew her 
clipped muff to my face.  She shuddered as I took the swollen lips into my 
mouth and gently nibbled on them.  

 "Ooooohhhngggh .  .  ..  Sharmi" She cried out and grabbed my hairs, gently 
tugging at them in an attempt to free herself.  "Wait, wait, not now . . . oh, oh, 
oh, I will . . . cum . . . right now . . . if you don't . . . no, no, don't . . . yessss . . . 
oh my . . . no .  .  " with my tongue inside her, she obviously could not make up 
her mind.

	I was too hot to let her go; especially after finding her already hot from 
an unfinished shower masturbation.  My own vaginal muscles were in violent 
spasms all by themselves.  All I needed was a finger inside there . . . and it 
would have been all over for me too.  

"No!  Sharmi .  .  ." Debi finally wrestled herself off my mouth.  "I don't want to 
finish it right now, Sharmi."

"But" I let myself collapse on my butts and let out a whimper.  

"I am just too horny right now" Debi tried to reason, "And you know we never 
rush through it.  If you ate me one second longer, I would've cum in your mouth 
right now."

"OK, OK . . . My God . . . I am terribly hot .  .  " I declared, "Let me take a shower 
then to cool off." I said; then, looking at her eyes, I added quizzically,  "And what 
are you going to do in the meantime; not finger yourself I hope?"

"So what if I did?" Debi said in jest while helping me get off the floor. 

"C'mon Debi . . . you didn't let me finish you, and now .  .  ." I played along coyly.  

"You know what? Let me come into the shower with you" 

"Hey . . . We have never done it in the shower . . . like we read in those stories" I 
was most definitely eager.  We soon discovered it was not as easy as the 
stories made it out to be.  

	We went to the bathroom and, standing outside the door, she helped 
me undress.  In India, the bathroom floors are almost always wet.  Few houses 
have anything like a bathtub or a separate shower stall.  The showers in some 
houses are separate from the lav.  That's how it was at Debi's, and we didn't 
want to get our clothes wet.  

"You soaked your panties, Sharmila !" Debi laughed out loud checking them out.  
She tugged at the chords of her  petticoat and it fell to the ground.  I smiled back 
and said, 

"Let me go pee and I'll tell you all about it."  I needed to relieve the pressure on 
my bladder that had built up over the last hour or so due to my prolonged state 
of arousal.  

	I felt refreshed as I stood under the stream, the cool water washing 
away the salty sweat that had formed a sticky layer on my skin.  Debi watched 
me for a while and then stepped in under the shower.  

"What was it that you wanted to tell me?" She asked while forming some lather 
up with the bar of soap.  She started to put the lather on me with her soft hands 
and I started to narrate my bus-ride experience.  It was nothing new to her, she 
said: "Oh . . . I get that all the time .  .  " and ran her two palms across my 
already hard nipples.  

"You do?" I asked, "but you never told me .  .  ."

"Yeah . . . one day I even felt a guy cum like that"

"How could you tell?"

"You know . . . " Debi explained, "I felt it jump a few times and go soft in a little 
while"

"I wonder if he wet his pants through" I was getting even more excited imagining 
the cum oozing out from under his underwear and onto the fabric of his pants.  I 
put my fingers to work.  

	The soap had washed off my skin by then.  Debi was holding me from 
behind, her two hands cupping my well-formed breasts.  She was massaging 
them in a slow circular motion.  I inserted two fingers inside myself . . . and it 
hurt a little .  .  .I withdrew them right away and tried rubbing my clit.  And it did 
not feel right!  I turned around to face Debi and she planted a full kiss on my 
mouth.  Our tongues mingled, the water running down our faces and into our  
mouths.  I took my hand between our bellies, parted her swollen lips and started 
stroking her love-button.  We have masturbated each other standing up many 
times.  Our juices flowing out would be plenty for the lubrication.  But, Debi also 
complained about it now.  

	It didn't take us long to figure out that the running water was washing us 
away and we were losing our natural lubrication.  We lathered up our hands and 
tried again; but it stung a little.  I guess, the use of our fingers everyday had 
caused minor abrasions down there.  So, we decided to let our shower fantasy 
remain a fantasy for then.  We have had  good laughs about that incident 
whenever the subject came up.  It wasn't until much later that we got to doing it 
'in shower'; but let us continue on with the present timeline. 

	We wanted to do it in the shower so we had to do it in the bathroom - at 
least!  We shut the water off and, standing under the shower-head in a tight 
embrace - our wet bodies connected almost at every square inch, we started 
finger-fucking each other.  Our mouths locked in a deep deep kiss, our tongues 
darted in and out of each other with fiery passion.  I grabbed her mons as if to 
tear it off her body, my short nails digging into her clipped thatch, and into the 
flesh surrounding the opening of her cunt.  

"Aaaaahhhhnghhhh . . . yessssss!" pulling her mouth away slightly, she almost 
yelled out in a pleasure sensation that bordered pain.  Her finger dug deeper into 
me, the passage, by now, filled with my love- juice.  

	I could feel her whole body tighten up.  Her stiff, swollen nipples dug 
into my breasts as she started rubbing them against mine.  Sparks shot out from 
my own and spread downwards, crossed the valley of my stomach and, 
following her finger, into the deep dripping crevice of my cunt.  The muscles 
under my navel contracted spasmodically . . . almost too strongly for me to 
remain standing.  I steadied myself by putting my free arm around and over her 
shoulder.  

"I am ready." Debi declared.  

I had not even touched her clit!  

	It made me feel so good that I started bucking my hips on her finger and 
rubbing her cropped mons with the heel of my palm at the same time.  I was 
ready too.  

"Yeaaaasss . . . Debi .  .  ..  do it . . . frigg . . . frigggg . . . fuck . . . fuck . . . Ooooo 
my god . . . aaaaaah . . . aaaah . . . aaah .  .  ." I screamed out.  Our repertoire of 
Bengali sexual slang was essentially a la those smutty stories that we devoured 
regularly.  Such words are considered "untouchables" in our language and 
society; and  it took us a while to internalize them.  Yet, once we got used to 
them, our sessions rarely were complete without whispering them to each other.  
The frequency and intensity of such utterances have been directly proportional to 
the state of our arousal.  

"Yesss . . . fuck . . . fuck . . . cum . . . cummmm . . . nicely . . . yesss . . . oh, oh, 
oh, oh . . . aaaargghhhnnnng . . . do it . . . aaahng . . . do it . . . aaaaaaaaaaaaa . 
. . .  ." We came.  

	We came with earth shattering intensity.  Juices, pent-up since that 
morning  -- and through all that had happened -- gushed out with uncontrollable 
spasms from deep inside my cunt.  Debi had been so aroused that she didn't 
need any clitoral stimulation, although I finished her off by pressing down hard 
on it with all my fingers and doing a pumping maneuver.  Her legs shook 
violently and we dropped to the wet bathroom floor, still in each other's arms.  

	Lunch was almost perfunctory.  Debi's mom had prepared food to last 
us a couple of days and left it the small fridge.  She knew I'd be spending the 
weekend there, and took the liberty to cook a few of my favorite dishes.  
	Ordinarily, the mere mention of bottle-gourd and shrimp curry would 
make my mouth water.  But, that afternoon, something else was in a constant 
state of wetness that demanded attention.  So, we decided to savor the 
delicacies during our supper.  

+++++ end pt 3

* A 5-yd length of finely woven cloth worn by men as a traditional attire ** Kurtaa 
in Hindi; almost knee-length shirt, usually w/o collar.  Usually worn over dhoti or 
pajama. 
 ++++++++++++++++