index

Message-ID: <55281asstr$1170627001@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
Reply-To: katzmarek@excite.com
From: "Katzmarek" <katzmarek@excite.com>
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit
Subject: {ASSM} Indian Winter (Part 1) By Katzmarek (MF)
Lines: 663
Date: Sun, 04 Feb 2007 17:10:01 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d


 ch1

_______________________________________________
Join Excite! - http://www.excite.com
The most personalized portal on the Web!

<1st attachment, "Indian Winter01.txt" begin>

INDIAN WINTER (Part 1)

   By KATZMAREK (C)

   ---------------------------------------------------

   Author's note,

   This work is my property and cannot be used for gain without my express
permission in writing.

   ----------------------------------------------------



   Jake had inherited the two storey weatherboard building from his mother.
It had been her little nest egg, 'to pass onto you when I pass away.' Well
she passed away and a fat lot of money the two flats made for him.

   His mum had spent little money on them for the last ten years and he'd
found they were in dire need of serious renovations.  They proved hard to
let in a contracting market; even varsity students could get better, and
cheaper, accomodation elsewhere.  If they were to make a return, he had to
spend big money or sell them below market value.

   'If I did most of the work myself?' he reasoned, 'maybe I can get away
with about 4 grand for materials?' He knew he had to get the work done
quickly, otherwise, if they were left untenanted for too long, he wouldn't
be able to keep up on the costs.

   Jake laboured after work and weekends to get the flats up to scratch. 
His accountant advised him to sell, but he couldn't quite bring himself to
do that.  They had, after all, been his mother's gift to him.

   He'd barely finished the bottom flat, the one needing the most work,
when he received a request from the local women's refuge.  The lady on the
phone had an almost desperate tinge to her voice, as if someone's life
depended on his decision.  'Could he offer emergency accomodation to a
young woman in appalling circumstances?' That word, 'appalling:' yes, that
was the word she used: made it impossible to refuse.  How can someone turn
down the request of a woman in 'appalling circumstances?'

   The lower flat had been newly painted and still reeked.  He'd found a
second-hand stove, but it had yet to be cabled in by the electrician.  The
internal wiring needed repair before he could get certification.  A window
pane needed replacing, having been cracked by some previous tenant, but it
was liveable, just, and he agreed to rent to this 'woman in appalling
circumstances.'

   'Work and Income Department was going to pay the rent.  What was he
going to charge?' Well, if the government was going to underwrite her rent,
he'd better make it worth his while.  But, they had a formula, and he'd
little chance to pad out the bill.  180 bucks per week, shoot!  He began to
wonder if he was being screwed, by the women's refuge and the bloody
government.

   He was upstairs, painting, when the Salvation Army van arrived with a
load of used furniture for his new tenant.  A couple of worn chairs, a
double bed, dining table topped with yellow formica like some relic from
the sixties...  He figured he could do a little better than that crap, he
thought.  A woman in 'appalling circumstances' need a little break, rather
than someone's cast offs.

   Jake owned the local second hand mart.  It was far from a cash cow these
days because of the internet trading sites.  There's was no way he could
undercut the prices offered on 'Trade Me.' But he had some stuff in the
shop that was better than that offered by the Sallies.  That night, he
swapped over some of the furniture and brought kitchen things: cutlery, a
few appliances, and a Television set.  Why was he doing this?  He didn't
know.  Certainly there was little profit in it.

   Battered spouses didn't stay long, he knew that from his mother's
experiences.  They usually left after about a fortnight, often owing rent,
to go back to their partners.  Apparently everything was 'now okay,' they
had forgiven the last beating and made up.  His mother often shook her head
in frustration.  Her Frank had never laid a hand on her in anger, and if he
ever did, he'd never see her again.  'Those women have no self respect,'
she'd told him, 'to be so treated and go back for more.' She was a hard
woman, his mother, who saw things in monochrome.

   His mum was definitely old school, who thought that people get what they
deserve.  Perhaps that's why she'd never spent a penny on the flats?  They
should be grateful for a roof and running water, not bellyaching about the
peeling paint and the dodgy wiring.  'If they don't like it they can piss
off,' she'd told him repeatedly.

   But, today, you can't run a business like that.  His tenants were
'clients' who required 'service.' An existing client cost a fifth of what
it would be to attract a new one.  A satisfied customer saved the
businessman money, so he learnt from his 'small business diploma course' at
the local college.

   On the other hand, if he didn't own the building freehold, then he'd be
out of business.  When push comes to shove, it was the bottom line that
dictated the difference between going down the gurgler or making a profit.

   Jake lived alone, having never married.  He'd converted the top floor of
the mart into an apartment.  A year ago, he'd decided to try internet
dating, but it hadn't worked out.  He'd figured, at 42, he'd become too set
in his ways to have someone come into his life.

   Kids didn't interest hime either.  He was far too selfish, he thought,
to have to care for children.  It wouldn't be fair to impose that attitude
on another human being.  He was better off without them.

   The following Saturday morning, a car turned up in the drive while he
worked on the refurbishment of the upper flat.  A stern looking woman got
out and approached him.

   "Jake?" she asked, forcing a civil smile.  Jake shook her hand and the
lady introduced herself as 'Mary from the refuge.' She had with her papers
for him to sign; tenancy agreement, privacy statement, and forms from 'Work
and Income.' "Thank you for this," Mary smiled genuinely for the first
time, "it's difficult finding reasonable accomodation and landlords willing
to take in these people."

   'These people?  What are they?  Lepers?' he thought, but he left it
unvoiced.

   "I see you have gotten her some things?" Mary continued, as Jake
unlocked the door, "that's very kind of you, Jake." He felt a fleeting warm
glow of sainthood.  It soon disappeared, however, when Mary pointed out the
stove still not wired in.

   "I'll get that done today," he told her.  She hadn't finished with her
inventory, however, and soon he had a list of work still to be done before
she was satisfied.  She required him to notorize everything on the tenancy
agreement.  By the time she returned to the car his anger was beginning to
rise.  He was doing this out of the goodness of his heart for bugger all
reward and here she was demanding more.  No wonder she found it hard to
find suitable accomodation with willing landlords.  He knew what his mother
would tell her, 'take it or piss off!' 'No mucking about with mum,' he
thought.

   Presently, the 'woman in appalling circumstances' rose unsteadily from
the back of the car.  She was Asian, small in stature, with a flowery,
billowing sari wrapped around her.  Her expression was one of uncertainty,
her eyes were downcast and submissive.  "This is Shamira," Mary introduced
her, "could you fetch her bags from the boot?"

   'Fetch her...!' Jake stopped the thought in mid sentence.  'Damned cheek
of the woman!  No please or thank you, just an instruction as one to a
hotel busboy.' Nevertheless he found himself obeying and pulled the
suitcase and one carrybag from the back of the car.

   'Is this all there is?' he mused, 'the sum total of the woman's
possessions?' He thought of her fleeing into the night with barely the
clothes she stood up in with a raging husband inside threatening to do
unspeakable things.  Maybe a flying wedge of supporters from the refuge
then returned to collect these meagre things for her?  A flying wedge
consisting of women like this Mary?  'Hell,' he thought, 'the guy must have
run for his life?' He found himself chuckling at the thought.

   'But, hey, wait a minute?  What if the guy should show up here with his
cousins and uncles?' He didn't want some pack of goons breaking up the
place.  His insurance premiums would go through the roof!  He should check
with Mary.

   "Mary?" he asked, "is she, er, safe here?  Is there anyone, er, likely
to cause trouble?"

   "I see," Mary smiled, "worried about the windows?" She made it sound
such a craven question, like he didn't care what happened to Shamira as
long as his property was safe.  He guessed it could be interpreted that way
and felt a twinge of guilt.  "There'll be no trouble," she replied, "there
won't be anything like that, don't worry."

   Jake was far from reassured but he left it.  He felt like some
caricature of a grasping landlord.

   Shamira seemed pleased with the place at least.  Mary did her best to
warn her of the work still to be completed, but it didn't seem to dent her
enthusiasm.  Her face broke out in a smile of pure delight and thanked
Mary, nodding repeatedly.  "You must thank Jake," Mary told her, a little
embarrassed, "he gave you this television...  and kitchen things, look!"

   Once again, Jake felt a wave of sainthood course over him as the woman
turned to him, eyes still downcast, but smiling.

   "Thank you," she told him.

   She looked briefly up at him.  Her dark eyes gleamed and they mesmerised
him in their beauty.  He noticed for the first time the spot on her
forehead and the lock of dark hair escaping from beneath her scarf.

   "We'll let her get settled in then!" said Mary, bulldozing through the
moment.  Jake took the hint and mumbled that he'd some work to do upstairs.
"You get the stove fixed soon?" Mary commanded, and he obeyed.  He'd get
onto the electrician immediately.  "How is she supposed to cook dinner?"
Mary continued, unnecessarily.

   'He'll get the damned thing fixed if she'd shut the fuck up about it! 
Hell, he'd order Shamira some takeaways tonight if it would get this Mary
off his back.'

   Later, as Jake worked away upstairs, he began to think about his whole
attitude.  His mother had dominated both him and his father.  In some ways,
he thought his mum had hounded his dad into the grave.  Certainly, he
thought what little pleasure he remembered from his childhood had been days
with his father: afternoons in the park, down by the river, places they
could escape to.

   Some of his mother's hardness had rubbed off on him.  That hardness had
secured them from poverty, had given them respect and a good life.  Without
his mother his father would have gambled everything away.  He was one for
the horses and, latterly, the pokies down at the local pub.  His mother
rationed his money, told him what he could spend, and firmly banked the
rest.

   'Without control of your money you're dependent, nothing but a small
child living on handouts.  Money gave you power over your own life.' His
mother held the power.

   His business grew out of a hobby.  He'd always liked old things and his
father once told him, 'there's money in muck.' He was from Lancashire and
had a sackful of sayings from that part of the World.  His mother's accent
had been refined and affected, but his father's had lost none of the
Midland's earthiness and burr.  'If thow gets ort for nort, say nort.' Yes,
he remembered them all.

   He took his mother a business plan, and finally convinced her to extend
him the finance.  She would buy the whole building in case the mart failed.
In that event she could re-tenant the space and not disturb the cash flow.

   In any event, he hadn't failed, despite his mother's sanguine
expectations.  Jake knew the value of things, what would sell and what
wouldn't.  He looked after his customer base; that group of landlords
flicked on from his mother in one of her benevolent moods.  She never let
him forget it, too.  His mum had made him what he is; without her
indulgence, he'd be out of business.

   His mother's conditioning had served him well in the hard-headed world
of the second hand business.  He knew how to close the deal, to make money
work for him rather than the other way around and the difference between
gross and net.  That lesson had sunk many an aspiring businessman if not
learned thoroughly.

   His mother wouldn't have tolerated Mary, Sharmila, the women's refuge,
or 'the bloody state dictating what rent to charge a tenant.' But Jake
wasn't his mother.  He hoped he had a little more humanity and caring for
those less fortunate.

   That's the difference, he decided, between those that had to claw their
way to prosperity and those who had it handed to them.  Coming from the
bottom only made you more determined to stay at the top.  Empathy for the
poor was the preserve of inherited wealth.  Maybe something about the guilt
of having it so easy?

   And, despite his mother wishing he make it on his own, he knew that,
without her money, he'd never have had a start.  He wore the knowledge on
his shoulders.  It hunched him down long after his mother had died.

   'Well,' he decided, 'it wasn't going to be easy getting an electrician
on a Saturday.  Maybe I should offer to buy her dinner?'

   He stood taller, braced himself, then walked out, down the stairs to the
floor below.  He tapped lightly on the half-open door.  He could hear her
rummaging about and felt his nerve begin to fail.  'These Asians,' he
thought, 'might misinterpret his approach.' Was it okay to make such an
offer to a woman he'd only just met?  Would she run frightened from the
room and call the formidable Mary?  Would she defend her honour with some
hideous Indian blade concealed beneath her sari?  Maybe she'd just get an
uncle to beat the snot out of him for his impudence?

   'Dammit!  In any case, she'd just have to get used to our Western ways.'

   The rummaging stopped and there was an unpleasant pause.  Presently, she
appeared at the door, eyes startled with a hint of fear.

   "Yes?"

   "Excuse the intrusion, madam.  The electrician won't be able to get the
stove working until Monday morning.  Perhaps, if you would permit me, I
could buy you a meal tonight from the local takeaways?  What would you
prefer...  er...  Indian food perhaps?" To his ears he sounded over-formal
and mildly patronising.  He wondered how well she understood English. 
Hopefully his manner would fly over her head and he could try a simpler,
more natural, approach.

   "That is very kind of you, sir," she replied in text book, upper class
English with a faintly lilting New Delhi accent.

   'Damn!' he thought, 'she speaks better English than I do!' He didn't
know why he felt so surprised.  Perhaps he thought, being Indian, she'd be
poorly educated?  Another block of prejudice kicked out from under him?

   "Call me Jake," he hastened to be less formal.

   "Jake.  You shouldn't spend your money.  The Work and Income Department
has given me a cheque for expenses.  I will go the the grocery shortly."

   "No," he told her boldly, "allow me.  I insist.  Call it a house-warming
gift."

   "But this apartment is warm already," she explained, "I have a heater,
look!"

   The comment floored him.  Gradually it dawned on him that she was
kidding.  She betrayed a cheeky grin and he smiled back.

   "Very good!" he chuckled, "but, please...  it is the least I can do for
not having the stove fixed in time."

   "But that is not your fault.  You were not expecting a tenant so
quickly. It is I who have imposed on your kindness..."

   This was going nowhere.  They'd be apologising to each other till
midnight.  "Look, you're hungry, I'm hungry, what do you say?"

   At the end of the day, Jake knew how to close a deal.  She accepted.

   -------------------------------------------

   He'd wondered whether he was overdoing it a bit.  The Cambodian
restaurant wasn't cheap, but the food was one of his favourites.  They took
phone orders, too, and delivered.  What pang of responsibility was driving
him to do this?  Why was it important that she be impressed by his charity?
She'd have been satisfied with a feed of fish and chips with a squirt of
tomato sauce.

   He hovered on the landing above until he saw the van pull up the street.
He hurried down with the plastic to pay the man before Sharmila demured. 
Knocking on the door, he triumphantly brought in the box containing the
delicacies.

   Sharmila stood perplexed at the display.  "But you've spent too much!"
she protested.  But Jake saw the anticipation in her expression.  It must
have been a good while since she'd had such a meal.

   "Wine?" he said, "I think you'll find it a cheeky little vintage!" Who
was he kidding?  'Sauvergnan Blanc' was the extent of his knowledge.  He
meant the name, of course.  He'd read in the paper that some local vinyard
had won an international award for its 'Sauvergnan Blanc.' 'Blanc' meant
white, he was sure, and was the correct wine to have with the Cambodian
dishes.  At least he hoped it was.

   "Oh my!" she said in wonder, "but this is so...  overwhelming!  You
musn't do this...  it is too much!"

   Now he could see she was embarrassed and he had gone overboard.  Jake
began to feel a little foolish.  "Okay," he said, "I'm sorry if this is too
much.  I guess I didn't know what I was thinking.  You must think that...
that..."

   "That, what?  Oh, I see.  You mean that I would consider this an
advance?" Jake nodded.  "I did wonder," she said, "and it is very
flattering, but I couldn't agree to such an approach..."

   "Of course not!" he agreed, trying to regain his self respect.

   "But if you are merely offering friendship?" Jake nodded, relieved,
"then it would be a shame to let this food go to waste," she told him,
smiling.

   "It would!" he smiled back.

   The wine and fine cuisine gradually relaxed them both.  Naturally, they
began to talk about their lives.

   Jake found out Sharmila had been born in Fiji but had gone to India to
get a better education.  Her family had money, lots of it, both in India
and Fiji.  She'd gone to some of the best and most exclusive schools in
India and Switzerland.  Short of being a humble peasant, she'd little
experience with manual work, having been brought up with servants around
her.

   Jake was dumbfounded.  He felt the last block of asumption melting away
before a tale of such privilege, as he'd never experienced, and educational
achievement, that far outshone his own.  Sharmila was a graduate of the
University of New Delhi with a masters in commerce and business
administration.  She had been used to everything of the highest quality,
yet, here she was, 'a woman in appalling circumstances.' Jake couldn't help
but ask what happened.

   "It is by my own foolishness...  and vanity," she began.  "You see? 
India is generally a very conservative society but one that is in the
throes of great change.  There are two Indias, the hinterland where
everything is as it ever was, and the cities like Mumbhai and New Delhi. 
There it is fast growing towards any city in Europe or America, very
westernised, but with an Indian flavour," she smiled.  "It is rather like
this Cambodian food," she explained, "you have a mix of the traditional
Asian with the flair of the French, no?" Jake nodded, slowly, wondering
where this was all heading but enthralled nonetheless.

   "My family is very educated," she continued, "but despite this, they
like to cling to some of the traditions of India.  It is what sets them
apart, you see, from any upper class family in the UK, for instance. 
Coming from Fiji," she chuckled, "I was always the poorer cousin, but
still, I was expected to obey the rules.  You must understand, Jake, that
Fiji is a far cry from New Delhi.  Things were so much freer for me there.
Sure, I did not have such a comfortable life, but I was used to pleasing
myself in many ways, ways that were not acceptable to the Indian branch of
the family."

   "In what way?" Jake asked.

   "Why, specifically, things to do with relationships, sexuality..." Jake
had figured that was what she meant.  He was beginning to get the picture.

   "Like arranged marriages?" he asked.

   "Of course, but that is not as repugnant as it might sound to Western
ears.  Arranged marriages work out more happily than not.  One often has a
choice.  One never has to accept the first proposal...  or any, for that
matter."

   "Your husband, he was selected by your father?"

   "No," she said sadly, "perhaps things may have worked out more happily
if he'd had?"

   "So, are you saying you eloped with someone who your family disapproved
of?"

   "Very much so.  You see, that would've been tolerated in Fiji...  maybe
not so much tolerated but...  recognised?  In India that caused a great
deal of fuss.  But I was determined to behave as a liberated woman," she
smiled, wryly, "I thought I knew better than my parents.  In the West, that
is quite common, to know more than your parents," she grinned again, "but
in India it is considered the height of vanity.  It is only now I see why.
I did not make such a good decision."

   "What?  He beat up on you?" Jake asked.

   "No, not beat...  he was not prepared to be faithful to me.  This I
could not tolerate.  He considered it his right to take anyone he wanted
into our bed.  I did not agree."

   "I should say not!" Jake agreed.

   "But also, I think, he had a very traditional view of women and how a
good Indian wife ought to behave.  I am not a very good housewife...  I
have never cleaned up after myself...  never done any laundry nor cooked
for myself beyond boiling a jug.  He considered me lazy and inadequate,
even though I was better educated.  I took a job with an accountancy
company.  I didn't ask him first and he became very angry."

   "How came you to this country?" Jake asked.

   "My husband is a Fijian Indian.  After the first military coup there,
Indians were fearful for their future and certain foreign countries allowed
us in as refugees.  I thought we could make a fresh start in a free
society, but I was wrong.  My husband was a manager, but he found little
work because of his poor English.  I began to support us both, and my
husband couldn't tolerate that situation.  It was as if I'd cut off his
penis.  I'm sorry for talking that way but I know no better way to explain
it."

   "No problem.  You explain it very well!" Jake explained.  "But would
you've fared any better marrying someone selected by your family?"

   "I think so.  He would've been from my class.  He would've been well
educated and able to bring in a good income.  I wouldn't have needed to
work if I didn't want to.  But, if I had, there would've been no jealousy
between us."

   "That's a tall order," Jake chuckled.

   "Not in India.  That's not such a tall order there, I think."

   "So what?" Jake asked, "did things come to a head.  He chucked you out
on the street?  Took all your money..."

   "Very close!" she smiled, "I decided I'd had enough of his infidelities.
It was then I learned he'd gathered all our property in his name...  even
my dowry?"

   "He can't do that shit here!" Jake protested, "it's not lawful!"

   "Maybe, but he has flown out of the country taking everything.  I am
penniless..."

   "What about your family?  You said they had lots of money..."

   "We are estranged.  I cannot ask them for a single rupee.  I said some
unpleasant things to my father before I went away."

   "Well, ok, but I'm sure they'd help out once they learned..."

   "I cannot!" she said, firmly, "you don't understand the culture.  It
would be a humiliation to...  and," she added, "remember I talked about my
own vanity?  I have too much pride to ask them."

   "Can't you climb down off your high horse a little?" Jake suggested,
kindly he thought, with no hint of reproach.

   "Ah, but there you see you are English!"

   "No I'm not!"

   "Your outlook, I mean, is very English.  You see simple solutions
without appreciating the complexities of the situation.  It is what made
your forefathers masters of most of the known world.  You can dismiss
things like that..." she snapped her fingers, "when they don't fit into the
paradigm."

   "I suppose." She was leaving him a little way behind.  Maybe she was
right about the English?  Certainly his mother saw nothing that couldn't be
solved with a swift belt around the ear.  'There's none more English than
those who've left England,' his father used to say.

   It was well into the summer evening when Jake left.  The conversation
had petered out and Jake saw her body language change to one of impatience.
Clearly, she had things to do and Jake was in the way.  He made his
excuses, told her to call him if she needed anything, then left.

   The two flats were built into the hillside, as was common in that part
of the city.  The small outside area was shared and consisted of a backyard
behind the top flat.  To get access to it, and the clothes lines, was a set
of stairs leading up past the side door to the top flat.  It was a fairly
typical arrangement to hundreds of similar houses built during the
thirties.

   Jake had enjoyed the company.  She was well-spoken and expressive.  He
noticed how her eyes lit up as she stressed some point.  At other times,
during pauses, her eyes were down cast and lidded.  He found the effect
sexy, as if it was an act of submission.

   But, he discovered, she was aristocratic and proud.  How galling, he
thought, to have to explain to a stranger that she'd been made a fool of,
that she'd made unwise choices and now had to shoulder the consequences.

   Shamila would bounce back, of that he was sure.  She had a drive to
succeed and to prove she could make it on her own.  Why, he thought to
himself, she was even doing her own laundry!  He could hear the washer
going downstairs.

   Her haughtiness was alluring.  Jake had a weakness for strong women. 
Also, her scent still hung in his nostrils: sweet, like sandalwood.  It'd
been a while since he'd sat with female company and he was still a little
disorientated by the experience.

   Something else occurred to him, he was as horny as a toad.  His dick
swelled in his pants at the memory of the evening and he had to adjust
himself for comfort.  Jake made an attempt to continue painting the ceiling
but his mind wasn't on work.  Instead, he decided to sit on the sofa and
give himself some relief.

   He wrapped a cleaning rag around his dick and manipulated the knob with
his fingers.  He was well practiced at the routine, but he wanted the
sensations to last as long as possible.  Closing his eyes, he tried to
picture Shamila naked, but found no image that stayed in his mind.  Her
body had been shrouded in a long sari and loose shawl she kept clutched to
her upper body.  He face, however, was sexy, bronzed, with a delicate nose
and thin dark eyebrows.  A hint of red lipstick gleamed on her full lips.
But it was still her eyes that captivated him.  That, and her musical
vowels and precise English pronounciation.

   He was halfway there when he realised something that made him lose the
plot.  There were no curtains on the windows and one beamed the evening
sunshine directly in to the room.  Outside were the set of steps that lead
behind to the clothesline.  Shortly, Shamila will be coming past to hang
out her washing.

   He quickly tucked himself away and listened for sounds below that might
indicate she hadn't come past yet.  Everything was ominously quiet.

   "Shit!" he said aloud.  The merest casual glance as she was passing
would've caught him in the middle of the act.  Any slightest chance he had
of becoming intimately acquainted with Shamila, he was sure, had been swept
away in a tide of revulsion.  How could this educated, sophisticated, proud
lady bear to look in his direction after being confronted with such a
degenerate act?

   Jake peeked to confirm his worst fears.  Through the kitchen window he
could see her hanging out her washing.

   Should he say something, attract her attention?  Would she be discrete
enough not to display her disgust, or will she look away?  Perhaps she
hadn't seen him and she'd act normal?  He had to test.

   "Hi!" he smiled, through the window.  She smiled back and continued
pegging out her washing.  "Um, should be a warm night!"

   "I hope so," she called back, "otherwise I'll have nothing clean to wear
in the morning."

   'Hells bells!' he thought, 'Was she teasing him?' "Should be good," he
replied, "clear skies and warm."

   "This is not warm," she laughed, "38 degrees, that is warm.  This is
mild to chilly!"

   'The way she says the word, 'chilly!,' he sighed, 'chilll-leee.' "38
degrees is an oven," he replied, "I don't know how you folks stand that
kind of heat."

   She smiled, grabbed her basket, then left to go back downstairs.  She
betrayed no sign of having seen him masturbating.  Perhaps, after all, in
their culture it would be far too rude for a well brought up woman to even
glance into another's window?  He sure hoped so.

   With that thought he relaxed.  His libido was now under control, the
effect of inadvertant discovery had been more effective than a deluge of
icy water.  He painted for another half hour before deciding he'd had
enough for the day.  He packed up, grabbed his carrybag, then locked up.

   The steps were old and the whole thing creaked when he walked down. 
'Why hadn't he heard her come up?' he wondered.

   The daylight was failing.  Shamila had switched on her standard lamp, he
noticed, because the glow through the window below was a soft yellow rather
than the harsh glare of neon.  He ought to get her some proper soft
lighting for the lounge, he mused, he didn't know why his mother had strung
up neon lights everywhere.  'Perhaps she got them cheap?' he wondered.  He
was fairly sure he was correct.

   He glanced into her window as he passed.  He couldn't help himself, he
thought afterwards, it's a normal human response.  The sight, however,
stopped him in his tracks, his mouth dry as the desert.

   Shamila was sitting on her sofa, the flicker of the television in her
face.  Her eyes, however, were lidded and her lips slightly parted.  She
was wearing western clothes, a sweatshirt and trackpants, that clung to her
curves more effectively than her traditional attire.  What caught Jake's
attention, though, was her left hand.

   It was thrust into the top of her sweats, the outline of her knuckles
plainly visible over her sex.  As Jake watched, her hand moved
rhythmically, alternately massaging and squeezing her pussy.  The dimness
of the room seem to complement the intimacy of the occasion, suffusing a
warm aura to the precedings.

   Did she know he was there?  How could she not?  She must have heard the
door close, his footsteps on those creaky steps.  Was she doing this for
his benefit, or maybe lost in that place where she didn't know or cared? 
As Jake watched, her face screwed up at an apparent surge of pleasure.  He
imagined her moaning, her breath laboured, and he felt a twitch in his
pants.

   What would she do if she opened her eyes and discovered him staring in?
Much as he'd like to stay, he decided he'd have to leave.  He couldn't risk
discovery, peering into windows like some peeping tom.  Reluctantly, he
continued down the steps to his car.

   He gave the window one last long look from his ute.  As he watched, he
saw the curtains close, the show was over.
   KATZMAREK (C)

	----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------
	This post has been reformatted by ASSTR's
	Smart Text Enhancement Processor (STEP)
	system due to inadequate formatting.
	----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------

	
<1st attachment end>


----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------
Notice: This post has been modified from its original
format.  The post was sent as an email attachment and
has been converted by ASSTR ASSM moderation software.
----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com>|
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderators: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|ASSM Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> |
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}|
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+