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Message-ID: <51735asstr$1124536202@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Sharmila Sanyal" <anu_g42@hotmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} My Story  (Part 30)  by Sharmila Sanyal 
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Date: Sat, 20 Aug 2005 07:10:02 -0400
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<1st attachment, "MS30.TXT" begin>

Please write at <anu_g42@hotmail.com> with (sensible, not moral) comments 
and corrections.

NOTE:  Please visit my 'ftp' site at asstr-mirror.org's  Authors section to read 
the previous parts if you care.

WARNING:  Do not proceed beyond this "warning"  if you are not a mature 
person and/or are  offended by explicit written descriptions of sexual 
encounters.

Please also be aware of my copyright to this endeavor.



_____________________________________________________


My Story (Part 30) by Sharmila Sanyal


I am going to draw the curtain to this narration.  I have decided that the 
snippets of my life following what happens in this part of my life is better 
narrated later in shorter versions.  This present narration, "My Story", has 
laid the ground work for what my readers might imagine the adeventuresome 
life I have led for a long time.  It is needless pointing out that I 
emigrated to the USA several years back ... too many to bother remembering.

On with the story:

One morning, as I waited at the bus stop on my way to my college, I was 
pleasantly surprised to meet my cousin' wife, my namesake, Sharmila-boudi.  
Several months had passed since we met at my aunt's place when Sanju's 
father passed away.  I thought Boudi looked rather sad, with a forlorn 
expression on her attractive face.

"Hey! Boudi!" I hugged her tightly, "Haven't seen you in a long time ..."

"I know ... not since Mesho's shraddha," she acknowledged, and then 
complained, "You live just a few streets away from us, but never find time 
to visit."

"I ... I, well, you know how it is; studies and all," I try the age-old 
excuse.

"Yeah ... right.  I may not have studied to become a doctor, but I do have a 
BA, you know," she countered.

"Sorry, boudi, I will visit with you tonight ... how does that sound?" I 
said as I waived from the floor-board of the packed bus, precariously 
holding on to the vertical rod by the narrow door. She waived back.  Even as 
I squeezed myself inward towards the seats in a vain hope of finding a place 
ot seat, I promised myself to visit Parimal-Da and Sharmila-boudi that 
evening on my way home.

The day went by quite quickly.  It was our practicum day and we spent most 
of the day around the cardiolgy department examining patient histories with 
the senior students. A boring exercise for me.  In between, we had one 
lecture on oncology and another on recent developments in surgical 
procedures.  I think I had about a year and a half left to graduate then.

As I stepped outside the cluttered gateway of our college at the end of the 
day, it was already 6'O clock, and the steet lights were on.  I wondered if 
I should go to Parimal-da's place as I had planned.  I was somewhat tired, 
but I decided that a promise was a promise.

The ride back to our neighborhood was relatively more comfortable.  I found 
a seat almost as soon as I boarded the double decker bus. As I looked around 
the bus, I spotted one of our junior students.  I can't remember his name 
righth now, but he had always struck me as a very handsome guy.  He was 
looking my way too, and, as our eyes met, he grinned.  I grinned back and 
waived.  I looked away but I could feel his stare the entire way.  As I got 
off the bus, he shouted some niceties and a good bye at me, which I 
acknowleged with another of my polite smiles.

I was too tired to walk to Sharmila-boudi's place, so I availed myself of a 
rickshaw.  I never liked to be pulled by another human being, but there were 
occassions when I simply had to give in to my body's demands.  I know, I 
know ... I know what you all are going to say, and I can almost hear you 
chortle even as I write this. I would have edited this sentence out, but I 
will just let you have your fun for now.

"Oh! I didn't tink you would really come!" Sharmila boudi sounded genuinely 
surprised as I stood there at the doorway.

"A promise..."  I said simply.

"You look tired, Sharmi,"  an astute Sharmila-boudi observed. "Come in, come 
in and wash yourself. Let me prepare something for you ... an omlette, 
perhaps? Muri with it?  Bread?" She suddenly got busy at the kitchen as I 
sat down their small dining table, in their little strip of a space by the 
kitchen.

"Boudi, you don't have to worry," I squeaked, "Just a cup of tea ..."

"Nonsense,"  Boudi said in response, "Go, splash some water on your face, 
and then come and sit down."

I complied.  The cold water from the bucket freshened me up quite a bit. The 
bathroom was dark and the only small window high up opened into the alley 
that was also dark.  Their flat was on the first floor (the second floor for 
in American) of a five-story house.  It wasn't too small by today's 
standards, but was surely dark.

I had to pee, too. I did, and washed myself before I emerged from the 
bathroom.  The aroma of a fresh omlette with onions filled the still air 
inside the flat.  I became aware how hungry I was.

"See, and you wanted to have just a cup of tea!"  Boudi commented as I 
chomped down on the fried omlette sandwich, "Shouldn't have tea in an empty 
stomach."

"I suppose I was hungry," I smiled back and complimented Boudi, who sat 
across the tiny table, her hair all in a large bun behind her head, "The 
omlette is delicious."

"I know, I am a good cook," she said, and then with a hearty giggle added, 
"Otherwise your Dada would have left a long time ago."

"Yea right," I said, "And where do you think he would find a more beautiful 
bride?"

"Sharmi! I don't like such jokes," Boudi sounded hurt.

"Joking?  No way!"  I looked straight at her big eyes and said, "Even I find 
you very attractive," and as soon as I said that I knew that I had shot my 
mouth off too readily.

"You do?"

"I mean . . . if I find you attractive, imagine what you do to men!"  I 
cleverly explained my earlier compliment.

Sharmila boudi sat there looking away at the wall where a copy of their 
wedding picture  - framed by a nondescript wooden frame - hung on the wall. 
I could tell that she was thinking about something.

"What is it?" I pressed.

"Oh nothing," she responded.

"Are you sure? You seem to be worried or something. Are you well?" I asked.  
I was reminded of something from our meeting back at our aunt's (Sanju's 
parents') place, when she said she wanted to discuss with me about something 
which had to do with me being a medical student.

"Why do you ask that?" She said in a monotone, as if begging to be pressed 
for another follow-up query from me. I obliged.

"Just that you seem very pre-occupied and you looked rather tired and sad 
this morning,"  I said gently.

"Perhaps you can help ... if there is some medication,"  Boudi actually 
stammered that out.  She even looked embarrassed as she spoke.

"Sure, what is it?" I felt worried at such a question.

"I don't know how to ..." she hesitated some more, "I don't know ... you are 
younger than me ..."

"Yeh right ... by about a year?" I rolled my eyes, "You just got married 
early, that's all."

"Well ... I suppose ... as a doctor ... would be doctor ..." she still 
stalled.

"Well...?"

"You know ... I cannot do it properly with your Dada ..." there, she finally 
dropped the bomb.

"Do what?" I knew what she was talking about, but I still needed to be sure.

"You know ... the "sex" thing," she used the English term. It was so much 
easier ... the English word.  The Bengali equivalent of what she meant is in 
the realm of profanity and I am sure she didn't even know the term. The word 
used in literary writings (cohabitation) barely gets used in regular 
conversation.

"What do you mean you can't do it?" I threw back the question at her. I 
couldn't reconcile her word with her sensuous exterior.  I remembered from 
Chhordi's (Anjana's) wedding how sexy she looked.

"I hurt," she said looking down at the floor.

"Parimal-da ...?"  I let it hang in the air.

"No! No ... no  ... oh no ..."

"Then?"

"You know ... not that he is rough or anything ..."  she paused, "I seem to 
remain dry."

"Dry?"  I was at a loss.  Sharmila-boudi dry!

"That's why I was wondering, whether I am getting ... you know ... early 
menopause or something,"  Boudi sounded very sad.

"My god no ...  at this age?"  Although I wasn't sure, it seemed very 
unlikely that someone in her early twenties would experience menopause.  
"Who told you that?"

"Nobody, I just picked up a magazine and they were talking about what 
happens during menopause, so ..."

"Well, I am not an expert, really in this, but I doubt it," I was honest.

"Can you find out please?" I detected a hint of desperation in her pleading.

"I will, but have you tried other things, like a liniment ... a gel or 
something?"  I knew she wouldn't have.  It wasn't easy to come across sexual 
parafernalia in Calcutta, especially for a girl.  I was familiar with the 
"gel", among other things, because I was a med student.

"What liniment? Like vaseline?"  She giggled.

"Well, not really ... well, I will get you some," I said.

"I am worried,"  Boudi said with concern.

"So, are you having your period regularly?" I asked.  That would have been 
my first question towards a diagnosis, anyway.

"Well, my periods have always been a little irregular."

"Irregular? How irregular?" I pressed on.

"Just that I could never predict ..." she said with a laughter that betrayed 
her embarrassment at talking about it.  Even among women it was quite a 
taboo to be talking abbout female health.  I think it has changed somewhat 
these days.

"I see," I pondered, "You know, lot of women have irregular cycles. Besides, 
if you had not had a month without any, then I wouldn't worry..."

"No, no ... that has not happened ..."  she smiled again.

"Well, perhaps if you got pregnant ..." I chuckled.

"Hmmm ... no ..."  She again seemed worried.

"Boudi, your skin looks fine, you do not have any other symptoms of 
menopause, as far as I can tell; so I wouldn't worry too much."

"I suppose ..."  she still didn't sound too assured.

"I will get you the gel and you can try that ..."  with that I took leave 
that evening.


	For the next few days I was too busy and too tired to go back to Sharmila 
Boudi.  I also kept forgetting about the vaginal "gel".  I finally 
remembered about it one morning while I was at the dispensary and asked the 
clerk to give a sample tube. She looked at me with a wicked smile and gave 
me a small tube.

"Not for me," I tried in vain to assure her.

"Well, I didn't ask, did I?" Her grin told me that I wasn't going to 
convince her otherwise.


	As I was about to knock at Boudi's door, it opened and there stood 
Parimal-da, my cousin, in is usual long hair and stubbles.  He was going 
out.

"Hey!  Sharmi!" He greeted me with a big smile, "Your Boudi told me you had 
come by.  So, what made you change your mind about visiting us?"

"Parimal-da, I couldn't come just because of my schedule," I said.

"So, you are the only one with a "schedule", right?" He said, "Anyway, I 
can't stay to chat with you, I have to get to Tollygunje to meet someone.  
Come by another day too, when I am around."

"I will, Parimal-da,"  I said.  I liked my artist cousin.

"Come in ... come in .." Sharmila boudi emerged from the kitchen as 
Parimal-da scurried off towards the corner to catch the bus.  From there, he 
would have to change bus at least once to get to Tollygunje.

"How are you doing?" I asked and then apologized for not having returned 
earlier as promised.

"Oh ... forget about it,"  she sounded quite shy as she said that.

"No ... I brought you the gel," I took out the tube and placed it on the 
dining table.

"Sharmi ... !"  She seemed scandalized that I should be so bold as to put 
something like that out there in the open.  That was quite a different side 
of Sharmila boudi from what I remember of our encounter during Chhordi's 
wedding.  She spoke more boldly then.  Perhaps I was being too bold after 
all, I thought.

"Boudi, if you cannot even look at it, how are you going to use it?"  I 
quipped to put her at ease.

"We'll see ..." she still wasn't to sure, "Now, tea?"

"Sure," I said.

"Want to have some rice here?"  She asked.

"No, Boudi, I am not hungry yet,"  I answered, "Besides, Debi will be 
waiting for me."

Boudi was looking better than she did the last time I saw her.  She was 
wearing a pale yellow saree that was loosely wrapped around her in the 
typical homely Bengali fashion. Although we were just about a year apart in 
our ages, she probably looked quite a bit older than I did.  She looked more 
mature.  Her figure, which would quite esily draw admiring second glances on 
the streets, was hidden behind the unadorned homely attire.

""Busy, eh?"  Boudi sat down across from me at the table with two cups of 
tea.  She pushed one towards me and dragged the small tin of tea biscuits 
towards her.

"Very ..." I said, "This final year is like that."

"I am sure," She responded.

"Tell me more about it, Boudi," I abruptly broke into the subject.

"About what?" By the color on her face, I was sure she knew what I was 
referring to.

"You know ... what you were woried about ..." I smiled at her.

"Oh I don't know,"  She rearranged her aanchal over her chest -- a habit, 
more than anything. I remember thinking that she had a modest bust.

I pondered  a while and then threw the question straight at her without much 
preamble: "So, you do not get enough secretion when you ... I mean ... when 
... I mean ..."

Boudi laughed out loud. "See, even a doctor cannot talk about it without 
stuttering."

"Hmmm ... I admit ..." I conceded my inexperience in dealing with the 
subject as a "physician".  I wouldn't have been so tongue-tied if she 
weren't my sister-in-law, I imagine. I remembered how shy I was in front of 
her while changing into her dry clothes after Sanju and I returned from the 
market place all drenched in the rain.  I hadn't had any chance of being any 
more at ease with her in the last three years since that afternoon.  But I 
soon rgained my footing - as a senior year medical student at least - and 
asked her if she couldn't come over to my college for a professional 
examination.

"Well,  I don't know about that ..."  It was her turn to be unsure at that 
suggestion,  "It isn't ... as if ... it's not a life and death thing, you 
know, that I will have to see someone else at the college!"

"No ... It isn't, but it could be if you are experiencing such an early 
menopause," I said calmly.  It wasn't my intention to scare her about the 
implications of such a condition.  Even back then, we were vaguely aware of 
the the etiology of cancer and hormonal imbalance -- especially in the 
female physiology.  "How about if I played the doctor?"  I added, to make 
things light.

"Get out of here! Really?"

"Yes!"  I said with some assertion, "I am almost a doctor, I will have you 
know."

"I don't know,"  she said bashfully.

"Well, if you prefer a starnger as the doctor who will examine you, I can 
talk to our gynae Madam,"  I said.  We used to address our professors as 
"Sir" or "Madam" ... another hold over from the British Raj.

"No ..."  Boudi looked down at the floor and said, "No ... I suppose you 
should be fine.  If you need to consult someone else, I am sure, you will 
later; but for now ..."

"It's settled then, give me a couple of days to consult with the gynae 
deptartment, and I will let you know when,"  and I assured her that 
everything should be fine and that there would be therapy regimes to delay 
the menopause, if that's what it was.

"Don't tell anybody, Sharmi!"  Boudi suddenly sounded more tense.

"Why should I, Boudi?"  I assured her of our confidentiality.  I felt sorry 
for her, especially since she used to be so jovial and attractive.  I cannot 
say enough about her simple yet highly sensual face. I was sure she had had 
caused quite a few skipped beats in many a heart. Her figure was something 
that any girl would die for.  I later learned that she regularly played 
badminton at a local club and participated in tournaments. To this day, she 
has maintained her athleticism and her sensuous charm.


A few days later, one afternoon, I escorted her to a corner room of our 
gynae wing.  The room had been under disuse. It had an examination table 
that gave away its age by its sheer ugliness.  The historical existence of a 
vinyl cover it might have had the occassion to boast about, was only 
betrayed by a few dry tattered pieces that clung to the the sides, held in 
place by a rusty metal lining. I was lucky to have actually dioscovered that 
room before it was turned into a de facto dumping ground for unwanted junk.  
A friendly "Sister" (nurse) had obliged me by covering the top of the table 
with a clean white linen. I had asked her if she could be present when 
Sharmila Boudi showed up.  She had said, "Sure!"

I could tell Sharmila Boudi was apprehensive about what I might "diagnose".  
I introduced her to the Sister (I don't rcall her name) and tried to put her 
at ease by making small talks even as I helped her up on the examination 
table.

"What are going to examine?" asked Boudi.

"Don't worry Boudi, it will be fine," I tried to assure her with some degree 
of authority in my voice.  I wasn't sure myself.  I wanted to rule out the 
possibilty that there might be a polyp or two, and that she might have been 
experiencing dryness due to pain during intercourse.  I couldn't ask her 
about that in front of the nurse, so I asked the next obvious question, "Do 
you get any bleeding ... from there ...?"

"Why ... every month ..."  Boudi answered in a confused tone.

"No ... not that bleeding," I said, "Beside that ..."

"Ummm ... I don't think so!" Boudi said.

"Well,  then it shouldn't be anything alarming,"  I said, as I instructed 
her to spread her legs apart in as much of a professional manner as I could. 
I put on a glove on my right hand and reached inside between her legs.

"You don't need any gel?" the Sister asked and handed me the sample tube of 
the vaginal lubrication.

"No!"  I didn't mean to utter it the way it escaped from my mouth with some 
bewilderment hanging to that single syllable. Sharmila boudi was well 
lubricated already. "I don't see any problem, Boudi!" I said to her.

"I don't understand ..." Boudi muttered under her breath.

"And ..." I palpated the walls inside and up to her cervix, "there doesn't 
seem to be any polyps either."

I had to feel around since I couldn't possibly ask Sharmila Boudi to bare 
herself completely.  Were she a real and "anonymous" patient, I wouldn't 
have much of a problem instructing her to undress to her petticoat and then 
put her feet against stirrups on a properly equipped room.  That room had a 
makeshift examining table, and a dimly lit table lamp in one corner.  The 
room was generally lighted by the sunlight that found its way - reflecting 
off the dirty wall of the adjacent wing - through the small window with 
broken glass panes.

"Unnh ... " I heard Sharmila Boudi's unguarded moan.  The Sister cleared her 
throat and excused herself out of the room saying something like "I think 
you have everything under control" or "I will be around in other rooms, if 
you need me."

"Are you okay, Boudi?" I asked as I palpated around the vulva to feel for  
any abnormalities.  As my fingers moved over the general area of her 
clitoris, I could feel that it had distended considerably.

"Hmmmmm..." was all I hear from her.  By that time, her glands had done a 
superb job of lubricating her. I pulled my hand away from under her saree 
and peeled the latex glove off my hand.

"Boudi, can I speak freely?" I said to her.  Her eyes were shut. As I spoke, 
she opened them wide abruptly and looked at my face with her large eyes ... 
then her droopy eyelids covered them half way.

"Yesss ... what?"  was her torpid response.

"Have you ever ..." I asked with a pause, "You know ... done it yourself ... 
with your hand ... I mean ..."

Boudi sat up abruptly and tried to straighten the saree out around her 
thighs. She breathed with some labor and looked at my hand that still held 
the glove. I could see the confounded embarrassment in her expression.

"No ... of course not!" she answered in a sharp whisper, as if apprehensive 
that someone might hear me even asking such a question.  From my impression 
of her, I never once suspected her to be a prude who would go red in the 
face at the mere mention of self-pleasure.

"Boudi!" I desperately tried to sound professional, "There is nothing to be 
so shy about, even if you did ... have done ... do it yourself."

"I am happily married, Sharmi," she said in a tone that tried to establish a 
proviso justifying her answer.

"Boudi," I put my right hand - the hand that was carefully trying to look 
for a cause for her discomfort between her legs - on her arm and calmly 
said, "Marriage has nothing to do with it."

"Girls don't do that when you are married," even as she said that, I thought 
I detected some dubeity in the way she said it, with an unasked, "Do they?" 
hanging in the air.

"Don't be ridiculous," I said, "Have you ever done it ... before your 
marriage, I mean?"

Boudi blushed. "Well, once ..." she tentatively admitted.  Nobody does it 
once, and I didn't believe it.

"Once?" I looked at her smiling.

"Ummm ... right"  She tittered, and added, "Well, ..." She looked down at 
the floor as she said that.

"Well what?" I pressed on.

"Actually I didn't do it myself ..."  Boudi was still looking down at the 
floor.

"Wow!" I expressed my admiration, "I didn't know Parimalda to be ..."

"Shhh ... It wasn't him,"  she blurted out and then shyly bit her tongue.

"Wow!"  was all I could say.

"It was long before I got maried ..." I could sense the desparation in her 
voice as she set out to rescue her good name.

"Hmmm ..." I nodded, not quite sure what I could say.

"And it wasn't a "boy"," she confided, "My best friend ... she did it to me 
... you know ...and ... I still wasn't ..."

"Well, I am sure a good friend!" I chortled.

"Sharmi!" she hissed.

"Well," I went on, "At least you know what I am talking about ... and 
technically it is still "masturbation" ... I think."

"Is it?" She wasn't comfortable about it, "We went to school together and 
she lived on the same street. She was very precocious, you know.  Knew 
everything ..."

"Hmmm ... Okay," I said, "You mean to say you haven't had an orgasm since 
you got marrried?"

"No ... I didn't ... initially ..." she paused, "I ... I didn't even then."

"You mean ... when your friend did it ... you didn't ...?" I asked.

"Hmmm ... right," Boudi looked at me finally.

"What does Parimal-da say?"

"Sharmi!  What will he say? YOu think he knows anything about it?"

"Parimalda doesn't know that you ..." it was my turn to be really surprised. 
  How could one lead a conjugal life without knowing such intimate details?

"Of course not ... and I am not going to tell him that I ..." she fumbled 
with the words, "Your Dada isn't too ... you know ... not very passionate 
anyway ... he isn't a very passionate when it comes to . . . you know ..."

"I see ... well, he never struck me as a very passionate guy either," I said 
in solidarity.  "I thought yours was a love marriage!"

"Love marriage? No way ... my parents would have killed me if I so much as 
looked at a boy the 'wrong way'," Boudi laughed aloud for the first that 
afternoon, "No, no ... it was arranged."

"I see," I looked at her and uttered, reflecting on my inference that theirs 
was a "love marriage".  I suppose the sensuality and animalism that I sensed 
in Sharmila-Boudi, brought me to the conclusion that she could not not have 
gone unnoticed by "boys" or "men".

"Never mind, Sharmi, there is more to a marriage than just that ..."  Boudi 
rationalized.

"I really don't believe that, and I am sure you don't either,"  I said 
sharply, "Otherwise you wouldn't have wooried about it, and you wouldn't 
have been here today."

"I was worried about myself ..." she tried to say.

"Has Parimal-da complained?"

Boudi laughed, "Why should he complain ...  he isn't the one who is dry."

"Well,  you are not dry anymore, so it should be okay," I tried to reassure 
her.

"Are you sure?" She wasn't.

"Let me see again,"  with that I put on another pair of gloves and examined 
her between her legs.  She was still moist, I could feel her clitoris 
portruding from behind her folds. "You are still wet," I declared with as 
much professionalism in my delivery as I could muster.

"Yes,"  she spoke under her breath.

"Maybe you should stimulate yourself before ... you know ... before you ... 
you know ..."  I was having trouble forming the right words to describe the 
act.  I wasn't a sex therapist and we didn't even learn how to counsel 
anybody in that area.  On top of that, despite the closeness of age between 
the two of us, I couldn't get over the fact that she was the wife of a 
cousin who was quite a bit older than me.  I was in very strange realm of 
having to be the "doctor" and the younger in-law at the same time. My right 
gloved right hand was still resting on the inside of one of her thighs close 
to her vulva.

"I think I forgot how,"  with that she giggled bashfully.

"I don't think so," I chortled.

"How would you know, Sharmi?" She tried to say, "It's been too long ..."

"Boudi!"  I said with a slight hint of castigation in my voice, "If you did, 
you wouldn't be so wet now." Indeed, she was again flowing quite copiously 
by then. I inserted four of my fingers into her very well lubricated passage 
in confirmation. I even felt the walls pulsate, and, as I pulled out my 
digits, they touched the distented nub of her clitoris.  I surmised by its 
feel that its dimensions were nothing to scoff at.

"I'll see tonight ..." Boudi had to force those words out.  As I looked at 
her face, I knew she was not just a little on fire.  While her initial 
lubrication at the beginning of the exam session might not have been all 
that naughtily suscitated, this time it was definitely more carnal.  I 
withdrew my hand from under her saree and I most certainly detected a look 
of disappointment from under heavy eyelids.

"Oh ..."  she let out an almost inaudible gasp.

"Perhaps tonight is the night, Boudi?"  I became a little more lewed in my 
remarks.  It is hard to translate all that I spoke of, but suffice it to say 
that we became more "friends" since that afternoon.

Despite my own state of arousal due to what happened in that room, I 
couldn't just momentarily shed the professional mores.

"Let me know how it goes," I said as Sharmila-Boudi stepped down from the 
exam table and started to rearrange her slightly dishevelled saree. I 
surmised that the two would have a wild night.

"I will, you Imp!"  was her jocund response, "Most certainly I do feel 
different."  And indeed I was glad to see she rediscovering her sprightly 
self that I had not seen in our latest encounters. None of us actually 
attributed it to anything but my very "astute" diagnosis of her lack of 
"self-stimulation".  We agreed -- and she seemed to take it to heart finally 
-- that she needs to do it on a regular basis to keep her 'juices flowing' - 
hardly necessitating any pun.

We exited the room once I was convinced that her breathing had returned to 
normal. On board the severely crowded bus together, we had little chance to 
even stand beside each other, let alone carrying on any conversation. So, we 
completed the twenty-minute ride exchanging occassional smiles across 
several very sweaty, and very weary passengers, got down at our common bus 
stop, and waived each other bye towards our respective flats.

The next morning, Sharmila Boudi was waiting for me at the bus stop.

"Hey!" I waived at her as I approached from our street corner. She smiled 
and waived back.

"I wanted to let you know ..." there wasn't any sign of the fatigued look 
that I had had observed in her even the afternoon before.

"So? How was it?" I pulled her aside and away from the crowd at the stop.

"Good ... Gooood, and I wanted to thank you for that!" She whispered in my 
ears.

"Thank me? For what?"

"I did it ... you know ... while he ... you know ... during ..."  She tried 
to gesticulate and speak into my ears at the same time.  She needn't have 
struggled, I knew what she meant.

"Good ..." I grinned and hugged her.  She smelled of the soap she used for 
her shower, "You smell nice too, Boudi."

"Anyway, I gotta head back home,"  she hugged me back and took off.

It wasn't too long before I met her again on my way to college.  She told me 
that she and Parimal-da had decided to get a divorce.  She couldn't go back 
and live with her parents, and since she needed to pay the rent whereever 
she lived, she was looking for a job. I had offered her our flat for 
sharing, but she declined.  She indicated that their divorce is going to be 
quite amicable and that she didn't want to publicize it yet.  Apparently I 
had been the first person she had taken into confidence about it.

It is best that I do not dwell on this matter too much. She was, and still 
is, a rather private person.  We developed a close friendship in the months 
and years that followed, and I understood her to be quite prudish in some 
ways.  Her solicitude about herself seemed strange and absurd at that time, 
but as I look back and consider, it wasn't that incongrous in the context of 
Indian - especially Bengali - social mores.


But, this saga is not sociological, nor is it intended to serve as a vehicle 
for social commentaries.  This is about things rather prurient by any 
standard, and I am not at all apologetic about it.  Furthermore, prurience, 
in my lexicon is a rather subjective interpretation of the extent of 
animalism within us.

Dipankar and I courted each other for about a year before he seriously 
proposed. Strangely enough, in spite of my liberated soul, I never once 
questioned the apparent lack of advances from him.  The physical attraction 
between us was there; I had absolutely no doubt about it.  During our 
passionate kisses, I felt the stirrings between his legs and fantasized 
about it at night.  In darkened theaters, my hand, resting upon his lap, 
could easily sense the warmth and the hardness.  Dipankar never showed any 
sign of losing control over such fleeting encounters. It was as if we were 
both playing a game of chicken - only in reverse - each waiting for the 
other to slip up and collide head on.

So, when he finally proposed after I finished my last exams, my knee almost 
buckled.  I loved him so much! It was a strange feeling.  Finally I could 
graduate from my fantasies (which I had started to share freely with Debi 
and Promila by then) and into the realm of actual intimacy with the King of 
my heart.

"What do you think my answer should be, Dipu?"  I had to breathe in deeply 
and compose myself before I could say it.

"Well, we really never talked about marriage and I wasn't even sure if you 
were ready for it,"  he said sipping his tea.  We were at a South Calcutta 
restaurant eating our supper.  We visited that restaurant often, and upon 
Dipankar's insistence, at least once a week we used to have a meal there.  
That evening, he had dressed up a little more than usual, and put on some 
manly perfume.

"True,"  I admitted, "I wasn't actually ready for the question, but here is 
the answer: Yes."  I admitted to him later that even as I was saying it, I 
was feeling the tingling between my legs.  If Dipankar were not so reserved 
by nature, I might have jumped him right there in that booth.

"Let's get married then," I could hear the excitement in his voice as he 
said that.  "Do I have to go and ask mashima and meshomashai?"  He asked 
quite naively.

"Well, I suppose you do have to, at some point,"  I grinned and replied. I 
knew, as well as he did, that my mom or dad were absultely bowled over by 
Dipu and would probably start jumping up and down as soon as he asked their 
duaghters hand in marriage.  I had declared that I had no intention of 
becoming a clinician, and they were quite visibly worried about my not 
following the beaten path.  This would reassure them that their daughter 
wasn't going to have to live a hand-to-mouth existence.  Dipankar would be 
an excellent provider.

So, we got married the following winter.  Thankfully, that year, the Spring 
that followed lasted for for as long as it was officially Spring.  It was a 
grand wedding, although I remember precious little about the ceremony.  I 
was in a daze for about two weeks that led up to it.

Although traditionally we were supposed to wait an extra night to 
consummate, we sent everybody packing from our room at midnight, feigning 
weariness.  Debi and Promila didn't believe it, but took our leave anyway -- 
and not without some lewd remarks.  I seem to remember that Sanju was the 
last to leave. I think I saw a very sad look in his eyes, but I winked and 
assured him of our intimacy.

If we were not tired before, the following morning we most certainly showed 
signs of fatigue.  Dipankar took me in so many different ways that it is 
hard to describe all of them even in this lurid tale.  I was quite impressed 
at his skill, and I didn't ask where or how he had become so proficient in 
pleasing a woman. I decided that there would be plenty of time for such 
revelations.  We have had such a bond from the very first evening that I saw 
him with Ajit and Debi at our place, that it was immaterial whether he had 
had any other experiences other than with me.  I didn't expect any kind of 
pre-marital celibacy from him, and it was quite liberating that first night 
to suppose that Dipu too had had a few tales to share.

After everybody had left, we looked at each other and knew exactly what we 
wanted.  I closed the door shut and bolted it.  In that same room, I had had 
my first encounter with another person - Debi.  Now, the small cot was 
replaced by a larger ornate bed and the air in the room was filled with a 
somewhat stale aroma of flowers.  We looked at each other with a lust that 
had been pent up over too many years to remember.  I had not seen that look 
in his eyes before.  He grabbed me in a tight embarce and opened my mouth 
with his tongue.  Our tongues played with each other in a moist battle.  We 
drank each others saliva like honey.  That was not the first night we 
kissed, but our tongues never tasted so delicious before that night.

I could feel his manhood against me.  He was in the traditional "dhoti" and 
I reached between us to directly touch it under the loin cloth.  He was 
wearing the Y-front undershort, and I could easily slide two of my fingers 
into the slit. That was the first time my skin touched his most intimate 
part. My fingers felt the searing heat of the aroused manhood, and my two 
fingers could barely encircle its girth.  I felt it quiver at my touch.

He tried to carry me up and towards the bed, all his gentlemanly restraint 
having sublimated suddenly in the heat of our passion.  I liked what I felt 
about him. I cannot deny that sometimes his severe sense of chivalry, and 
its accompanying restraint, had made me feel inadequate. Not that night.  
His passion reminded me of my cousin Sanju's, and I felt all powerful.

"Shhh ..." I pushed him away a little bit, with one hand and with the other 
I freed his manhood partially through the slit of his undershorts.  I only 
caught a glance of the glans.  I wanted to see the whole thing, but I didn't 
rush. I decided to get out of my wedding dress instead. My lavishly ornate 
saree - the color of the evening sun - came off in a hurry and lay around my 
feet in a redundant heap. I had started perspiring underneath the gold 
threads.  The sheer weight of that thing was itself oppressing.  I wore a 
sleeveless white blouse and a silken petticoat that night.  As I tugged at 
the chords of the peticoat, Dipu stopped me.

"Leave it on," he said, "You look so sexy in that! And let me unbutton your 
blouse."  I let him.  We sat on the edge of the cot and, our mouths locked, 
sex afire, he proceeded to unbuttton my blouse at an excruciatingly slow 
pace. He took forever to free my breasts from underneath the blouse, and had 
I been wearing a bra, he might have taken another eon to unhook that!  I 
remember thanking Promila in my mind for having suggested the redundancy of 
the bra that night.  I think she had said something like, "You don't need 
any other times, why bother today? It would be so much easier for Dipu-da!"  
I pinched her hard for being so impish in front of my other friends who had 
no idea about Promila's place in our family other than that she was our 
maid.

Dipu finally took between his fingers my already hard nipples.  They wanted 
to become more stiff, and they ached with an urgency.  At this point, I 
would simply push Debi's head down on them.  But it wasn't her, and the need 
I felt was intensified by that very reason.  It would be him from that night 
- and not Debi - who would love me and drive me to ecstasy.  I wanted him to 
follow his own routine, if he really had one.  I wanted to enjoy, and 
prolong the mystery of his desire.

"Uhhhhnnnn ... Dipu ...yessss .." I hissed out when he finally took a nipple 
between his teeth.  My inside spasmed with every gentle nibble.  I wanted to 
return the favor and sought out his.  I felt his chest with both my hands. 
My fingertips found his nipples, and I felt him shudder at my touch. I 
rolled the short nubs between my fingers, and looked down past his head.  I 
saw the still veiled cock of his jump up a few times, as if trying to free 
itself from the dhoti's fine fabric.  It was by then completely out of his 
undershorts, the shaft having proudly extricated itself through the Y-slit.  
  Its form was vague under the dhoti, but I was mesmerized nonetheless by 
its girth and length.  Fleetingly, it reminded me of Sanju's. I remember 
feeling proud of being the life-long mistress of that pleasure rod. Again 
and again I took in its veiled magnificience, savoring the sight of the 
mystery that would not remain a mystery too long.

'Husband!'  I mulled that word over and over again in my head. As I watched 
his cock jump at every tweak I administered to his two nipples, I imagined 
my 'husband' inside me.  I imagined it sliding in and out as I again 
remembered the feeling of Sanju's cock there.  It was a different sort of 
excitement; one that was -- and still is -- heightened by the joining of our 
souls.  As I imagined, I felt the inside of my pussy pulsate.  I felt my 
petticoat getting soaked under my buttocks.

"Ohhhh," he exhaled against my breast as I gave into the temptation and took 
his cock in my hand.  I dropped one of my hands from his chest to his lap, 
and grabbed its length; the dhoti that still separated my skin from his, was 
no insulation for the heat that warmed my palm.

"Like it?" I whispered against is fragrant and luxurious hair as he flicked 
his tongue at one of my nipples.  I had started stroking it back and forth.

"Ohhhh ... yessss ... ohhh ..."  Dipu exhaled in English against my bare 
flesh,  and his hand tried pulling my petticoat up along my legs.

"Wait, let me,"  I disengaged from him and dropped the offending silk.  I 
stood in front of him wearing nothing but the silk blouse that hid little.  
His cock jumped again a few times as he took in my nakedness with a look of 
veneration in his eyes.  I had seen that same look in Sanju's even when he 
looked at me fully clothed.

His cock stood proudly, tilted upward, from between the curtains of his 
disheveled dhoti.  I reached in front and pulled the fabric from his waist. 
It came undone from Dipu's waist.  He stood with his beautiful manhood 
standing out from his undershorts, declaring his passion for me.

"You are beautiful," I whispered at him in English, my eyes resting on his.

"I know," he said with an impish conceit in his voice.

"You do, do you?" I jumped him and he fell on the bed, landing on his back.  
The bed made a very faint creaking sound.  My old one made a lot more sound 
with Debi and me on it. "Who told you that?" I aksed as I sat astride his 
waist, my dripping and eager pussy several inches away from his shaft, 
"Girls, or boys?" I looked down at his cock as it jumped up towards me, 
ready to engage its target.

"Both," Dipu answered with his usual impish candor, his eyes wide with lust, 
"Now let me eat you."  He pulled me by my waist towards his head.  I slid 
myslef on my knees and settled gently on his mouth.

"Shhhhh .... nnnngh ..." I was driven out of my mind as his adroit tongue 
lapped at my juices everywhere between my thighs, but at the site of my 
urgency.  I tried to guide myself to his tongue, but it was like trying to 
catch the mouse. After a while I gave up and let him have his way.  I 
decided I would just relax and enjoy my lovers skill.  I turned my head and 
looked at his cock. Its engorged reddish head was moist.  He was oozing 
pre-cum almost as copiously as the flow from my pussy.  I whispered that I 
wanted to eat him too.

"Mmmmm ... nnnnn," he vehemently shook is head from side to side, his nose 
hitting my clit a few times; his cock jumped in unison.  I smiled.

"Then fuck me," I said in plain English.  Although I was long in my prurient 
state to be using the "F" word, I wasn't sure how the Bengali equivalent of 
that word - which I had had used regularly with Debi and Promila - would 
have sounded from a newlywed bride.

Although it was a short one, he Fucked me, with a capital "F".

We didn't last more than five minutes. It was a mind-blowing night's 
beginning that lasted several more minutes.  No,  my husband is not a 
"multi-orgasmic" male. They are a rare breed, and frankly, I don't see any 
usefulness on our side.  But, sometimes I  am; and his cock stayed hard the 
whole time.

We rested for a while and then resumed with more restraint. The rest of the 
night we talked and made love at a pace that reaffirmed the fact that we had 
our whole life ahead of us.

"Didn't you ever want to do it to me?" I asked him as he lay on top of me, 
his hard manhood moving inside me ... tout-puissant.

"Yesss ... ohhh ... yessss," he hissed against the side of my neck and 
thrust his hip forward into me, with every affirmation.

"Why ... didn't ... you?" I groaned.

"Oh ... quiet ... I don't know," he said.

"What did you do when you got hard," I folded up my legs at the knees and 
opened them wide.  I wanted to feel his groin against me. I wanted it to the 
hilt.

"Guess ..."

"Tell me ..." I wanted to bring him out completely.

"Jerked off," he said in English.

"Ohhhh ... Dipu ... fuck me hard," I hissed.  I conjured up the image of him 
with his rock-hard cock in his hand, thinking of me ... It drove me over the 
edge once more for the second time.  We had been doing it for close to an 
hour already by then. So, when I groaned out my impending orgasm, he too was 
ready to come.

"Aaaahhhng ... yessss ... cum ... ohhhh," he sounded hoarse, his grunt muted 
against the side of my neck.  I felt my cunt filling up with his semen even 
as I spasmed beweeen my thighs, trying to milk his hard length to the last 
drop.

"Nnnnnghhhh ... shhhhhh ...." I suddered with my explosive release.

After about two more orgasms, I think we finally fell asleep around four in 
the morning.

When we woke up at the gentle tapping on the door, I was still holding his 
flaccid cock in my hand. I looked wearily at the wall clock. It was a little 
past nine.  We had barely slept for five hours.  A long day of rituals lay 
ahead of us.

"Hey, we have to get dressed,"  I chided Dipankar as I felt his member 
starting to come back to life in my hand.

"A quickie?"  He said playfully, and moved his hip back and forth, allowing 
his cock to come alive fully in my fist.

"NO! Shhh..." I said with feigned anger, "This is my parent's house, and I 
don't do quickies; not with my husband, anyway."  I let his dick go, and got 
off the bed.  "Just a minute, we are awake," I said aloud from within and 
heard Promila's voice on the other side.

"You don't need to hurry," she declared softly with a chortle, "Just to let 
you know that people are awake already ... just in case ..."

"Get out of here, you ... you ..." I stood naked by the door and chided her 
for her apparent insolence.

"Was that promila?" Dipankar asked.

"It sure was," I said, "She can be quite stupid at times. What if someone 
should happpen to hear her?"

"Well, there is nothing unusual about what she just said," Dipu turned over 
on his stomach, and said reassuringly, "We are now married, and I don't 
think anybody outside this room has any illusion about our celibate night. 
Do you?"

"I suppose not, but this is still my parent's house, and elders abound at 
earshots, I am sure."

"So, shall we ... a quickie?" A spread eagle, naked Dipankar pleaded.

"No, Sir," I had to put my foot down, "Besides, I have to go to the 
bathroom."  It was hard, especially with the sight of his firm and athletic 
butts flexing from time to time in front of my eyes.

"Okay ... after the bathroom," he said in a matter-of-fact manner and 
started to rub himself on the linen of the bed, his legs flexed, and spread 
apart.  The rogue saw how hungrily I looked at his form.

"Are you crazy?" I put on my night dress as I spoke, "We cannot lock our 
doors again in the morning!"

"Alright, we won't then ..."

"You are damn right we won't, not now!"  I put my foot down.

"The doors, I mean," he said with an uterly naughty wink.

[The End]
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Epilogue

Dipankar and I have a wonderful life together.

Dipu's tenure in India lasted for another two years following our marriage. 
Before returning to the USA after the wedding, his parents had formally 
transferred the ownership of the flat to us jointly.  The apartment, 
overlooking a man made lake in South Calcutta is a big one by any standard 
and I furnished it lavishly.

Soon after our wedding, though, Dipankar had to return to the USA for about 
two months.  Needless to say that I was miserable for thaoe two months.  My 
parents wanted me to come and stay with them then, but I declined the offer. 
  Besides, Debi and Promila had to visit several times during those two 
months to keep me from going insane with my libido.  Dipu and I talked over 
the phone everyday.  Some of those conversations lasted for over two hours, 
perhaps overheating the satellites that transmitted our signals.  In those 
days, phone rates were not what they are today.  So, he used to use his 
office phone after hours.  His boss was immensely understanding, and just 
cautioned him to not to do it everyday of the week.  However, after his 
return we more than made up for his absence.  He had bought with him a few 
X-rated films on video cassettes.  One weekend, when Ajot had come to city 
for visit, we had Dedi, Ajit, Promila over for a small party.  They all 
ended up spending the entire weekend at our flat.

I started to work in the area of Biomedical research with a young scientist 
who had returned from the USA recently and was trying to establish his own 
lab.  When Dipankar finally had to return to the USA, I stayed back for a 
couple of months to settle my own afairs.  I also made sure that before I 
left for the USA, I gave Sanju a call.  He was grown up by then, with his 
own girlfriend who was a couple of years older than him.  I had asked both 
of them to come over and visit, but only Sanju could make it.  I am sure he 
still remembers my parting gift.

Debi and Ajit also lives here in the USA.  Ajit was recruited by a 
headhunter from his old job and he had moved to Qatar after about a year 
after my wedding.  Debi needed to finish her work and so she couldn't 
accompany him.  She was comfortable with that since it was Qatar, and not 
the Netherlands.  Within another two years, Ajit got another job in the USA 
in a town about sixty miles from ours.  We hosted him for about six months 
and then he got his own apartment.  Debi and Ajit now live in one of the 
southern states.  While moving permanently, Debi brought along Promila as a 
maid.

Sharmila Boudi lives on her own in a small flat in South Calcutta and 
teaches at some school. Parimal-da never re-marrried. She and Parimal-da 
have kept up a very friendly relationship.
<1st attachment end>


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