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Message-ID: <34273asstr$1009228207@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Sharmila Sanyal" <anu_g42@hotmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} My Story (Part 23) by Sharmila Sanyal
Date: Mon, 24 Dec 2001 16:10:07 -0500
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<1st attachment, "Ms23.txt" begin>

For those handful of loyal reader of this
narration, I am posting this long overdue part. For
those who care, the previous parts are now back at
the ftp site of ASSTR.

As always, I will look forward to emails pointing
out mistakes and lapses in my writing. But that
surely does not mean that an occassional
encouraging letter isn't welcome.

Wishing you all a very fruitful 2002.

The usual warning, regarding immature brains, naive
and yet unprepared for the adult world: "Do not
venture any further down (pun happens) if you are
not biologically and/or mentally of the age that
allows such an undertaking"




My Story (Part 23) by Sharmila Sanyal.

	I closed the door and went back to my room.
The fragrance from the generous bunch of tuberoses
made the air inside the room heavy. Overwhelmed, I
opened the window to let some fresh air in.

	I would have waited for Promila to come back,
but I could barely keep my eyes open.  She had keys
to the front door, so I found no reason to be
waiting for her.  I changed into my night dress,
made my usual round to the bathroom and hit the
bed. A thousand thoughts tried to crowd into my
head, but I drifted quickly off to slumber land.

	I dreamt a wonderfully naughty dream. He was
kissing me on the slopes of my unrestrained breasts
as he lay on top of my eager body, his legs
straight and down between mine and his naked chest
flat against my belly. I felt his bare back and
traced my name with my nails on his skin.

	I felt his tongue on my taut nipples and
became aware of the wetness between my legs. It
soon turned into a river that carried my passion
between the ridges of my thighs. My naked skin
against his . . . his perspiration running down his
back and joining in a stream with my passion-river
. . . his unseen hardness trying to enter my
slippery cave . . .

	I held it in my fist and he thrust himself
inside me, and , in some magical contort, his young
tongue found its mark between my outstretched
thighs . . . the swollen seat of my excitement
throbbingly responding to his ministrations.

	I was matching the steady rhythm of his piston
with my hips, listening to his grunts against my
earlobes . . . his warm, heavy breath permeating my
warm being and down to the valley where we were
one.

	I held his head between my hands, and I
wrapped his robust back with my thighs.while his
soft hands kneaded my breasts and his ruddy lips
sucked on my aureoles . . .

	I heard him mutter my name, the sound muffled
against my own skin. As I took my hand between our
bodies and to the junction where he entered, I felt
his silky curls . . . the satiny feel of his wet
manhood, pistoning inside me made my entire body
jerk in pleasure and I touched my rudimentary shaft
with one wet finger . . . and that was all . . . a
spasm . . . a deluge . . .

	I woke up in a sweat . . . an utterly
satisfied body draped in a disheveled nightgown
bunched up above my waist with both my hands
securely lodged between my thighs . . . my legs
bent at the knees.

	A sliver of  the fluorescent light from the
street was all that softly sliced through the
darkness inside my room, casting an otherworldly
iridescence on the white-washed wall across from my
bed. I grabbed the sheet from under my feet and
pulled it over my almost bare body. I turned and
faced the window and went back to sleep hoping to
dream some more.  It was a feeling that I can only
re-live in my own memory, for words fail -- no
matter how I try -- to describe that satiated state
that gently swept over every follicle of my warm
body . . . that, yet, threatened to lift me up into
another height of passion with my dream-mate . . .
my unseen -- yet so familiar -- lover.  I dared not
go there once again as the delicious languor
overcame my still tingling body.

+++


"Hmmm . . . Sharmi-di, quite an evening you had I
suppose?" there was a naughty smile on her face as
she stirred the tea for me.

"What evening?" I tried to sound as casual I as I
could in trying to avoid Promila's probe, "we just
talked and then he left."  I knew I wasn't being
candid, but, in all honesty, that was the truth for
me.

"Thhaak, nyakaa shaajthi hob  naa," she said
through her soft giggle, and I didn't quite
understand why she though I was being coy.  Being
coy was not and never has been in my nature -- at
least not when it came to confiding in my friends.
Promila had, by then, earned that privilege, I'm
sure.

"Nyakaa?" I looked at her with genuine puzzlement,
"K no?" I wanted to see in her eyes what she meant
by that? Had she been peeping through the window
last evening as Bidyut was satisfying himself of my
femininity?

"Aami shob shunichi kaal raat  go." Her long
urbanization loosing its hold, her roots closer to
the Bay often endearingly seeped through in her
dialect. I shot a glance at her eyes momentarily
from above the rim of my tea cup. She immediately
lowered her eyelids, the sudden surge of blood into
her fair face betraying her own embarrassment as,
perhaps unwittingly, she had broken the code of
propriety expected of a maid.

I was more intrigued than anything. What could she
have heard last night? Neither of us made any sound
that would have been audible to anybody standing
outside.

"You heard us doing what?" I had to ask.

"I don't know what you did, Sharmi-di, I wouldn't
know, Sharmi-di, I am sorry . . . " she was quite
perceptibly embarrassed at her own indiscretion.

"No, really, tell me . . . I don't mind," I looked
at her squarely and insisted in a tone that, I
hoped, would put her at ease. At the same time, I
was suddenly struck by her raw beauty even as I
prepared myself for a rather embarrassing
revelation.

"Aami to mon  nilaam tomraa kaal khub  kchot mojaa
koirl ," she said with the faintest hint of an wink
and still hanging on to the suggestion of her
dialect. I had no idea why she would have thought
that we had a wild time between ourselves. For all
I could imagine about Bidyut, "wild" was not one of
his attributes, nor would I have categorized that,
which happened the night before, as such; Moreover,
I was sure Promila had no way of imagining him as
one.

"Why did you think that?"

"Well . . . the sounds that you were making . . .
and then . . ." she paused.

"You mean last night?" I finally understood what
she meant by "kaal raat".

"Yes . . . last night . . . I suppose you were
dreaming about Bidyut-da, eh?" She was on a roll .
. . her excitement showing on her face and in her
eyes even as she recalled.

"No!" I said emhatically. I couldn't be any more
assertive than that. As it dawned on me that I must
have been very noisy in my dream, I have to admit
that I might have blushed in embarrassment, even if
it were seemingly the lesser of the two.

"No?" She had already mustered enough courage to be
naughty in her delivery, "I heard your moaning,
Sharmi-di."

	Somehow, suddenly, the "-di" sounded very
incongruous coming out of her. She was perhaps my
own age and we had had become quite free with each
other. From what was about to be revealed, she
might as well drop the formality -- I thought. I
told her so and it didn't take her but a moment to
comply. "Sharmi, aacchhaa," she settled down with
that newfound privilege of hers quite effortlessly.

"You were moaning and groaning . . .. and . . ."
she elaborated further.

"Was I?" what else could I have said?

"Yea, my God, you were making so much noise . . .
like . . . you know . . ." her tentativeness was
amusing at that point.

"Like what?" I suddenly found my ground, "How would
you know, anyway?"

"Aha . . .  aami kochi-taa kina . . . taai,"
lapsing back to her unguarded dialect with a
naughty giggle, she reminded me of her youth.

"I see . . . so you are quite experienced . . . are
you?" I found her lack of sophistication rather
refreshing.

"I had to look in . . ." she avoided my question
and confessed.

"Looked in?"

"Yes, you were doing it . . ." I could tell that
she was both excited and embarrassed as she
mentally recalled what she observed that night.

"Hmmmm . . ." I looked away in my own
embarrassment. I had absolutely no idea how to
react.

	The three of us in that household had dropped
a lot of protocols between ourselves and that
included the occasional plays on word with mildly
sexual undertone, but never had Promila been so
direct in her banter before that morning.

	The strangely  opposing  feelings of  unease
and excitement had my mind fogged. The
embarrassment I ought to have felt at being
discovered in a rare moment of my solo self-
pleasuring was being overcome by a far more
powerful emotion that I had felt but once before in
my life. I was in my early adolescence then. This
was quite different . . . not so much in its effect
as in the involvement of my intellect. It was not
the adolescent passion that had my body all
aquiver, it was a sinful realization that I had had
been the subject of another's voyeuristic delight.

"So . . ." I looked up and at her, "I am sure it
was nothing new to you, Promila!"  I forced those
words to form and uttered them mechanically. I
still found it difficult to converse freely.  I
wished Debi were there. She was far more
comfortable dealing with Promila and, when it came
to sex, she always knew what to say.

"Tobe?" she responded with that single word that
summed up the awkward formality between the two of
us . . . two women in their early twenties
separated per chance by an unwritten social dictum.

"What 'then'?" I couldn't suppress a smile while
repeating her very open ended word delivered with
an interrogatory inflection to put me on the spot.

"You don't have to be embarrassed about it, Sharmi-
di . . ." she said by way of reassuring me. I
reminded her of the redundancy of the "-di", and
she smiled a shy smile. At that instant I remember
thinking of the idiot that left her for another
woman. Promila had confided in us about the very
short marriage, that lasted about a year, to one of
the men in her village. In their society, the men
rarely think twice before wandering off.  Promila,
for her part, was guilty of not having brought
forth any issue within the year. So, when her
"husband" left her for a supposedly more fertile
pasture, she was left alone to fend for herself. As
is often the case, she found herself in the city
working as a maid. Without any formal education
beyond the eighth grade, anything beyond that would
be an improbable proposition.  She was bright and
witty and her sunny disposition enhanced her
country girl beauty. With a figure that would have
given any centerfold a run for her money, she could
have any man at her beck and call. I hadn't asked
her if she had a man in her life, but assumed she
didn't. She lived with a distant aunt and her
family in a nearby slum in a one-room accomodation.
It would have been quite improbable for her to be
able to indulge, I thought. I was wrong, but that
would be another story!

"I am not . . . really," I tried to sound in
command of the situation.

	Increasingly, the thought of her watching me
masturbating in my sleep was making me feel
something. The early morning's exhausting and
satisfying self-gratification notwithstanding, I
became aware of the distinct little tingling in my
already swollen labia and inside of me . . . there
the wetness slowly, but surely, building up like a
river in monsoon, ready to sweep away everything
along its shores.

	I looked up again at her and found her staring
intently at me. Her countenance betraying her own
state of excitement, she lowered her eyes and
blushed. "Raag kor chho, go?" she asked in almost a
whisper, her large eyelids still guarding her
beautiful eyes.

"Naa . . . Naaaah . . ." I tried my best to sound
reassuring, but my voice -- through the schism
between my brain and my body -- failed to establish
that there was really nothing that I could be angry
about.  That morning, I could not say much more. I
just threw a forced smile at Promila and went to my
room with my cup of tea.

As I sat down on my bed I looked at the door and,
through the opening between the door frame and the
curtain, caught a glimpse of Promila cleaning up
the table. I suddenly realized that probably more
than anything, I was afraid that she would find out
about my dream!

++++

You are late today!" Bidyut's voice startled me at
the bus stop. I was indeed held back at the college
studying Pathology with a few friends that evening,
and was waiting at the bus stop in front of the
movie theater to catch my ride. Harrison Road was
as busy as always and one literally had to shout to
be heard.

"Oh!" I was surprised to see Bidyut. It was not our
usual meeting day, "Tumi j ?"

"Why?" he was visibly amused at my unpreparedness,
"You expecting somebody else?"

"No . . . No . . . whom would I be waiting for?" I
said, trying to sound hurt.

"I don't know . . ."

"Don't be silly," I grabbed his hand to reassure,
"there isn't anybody else!" And I sounded funny to
myself, trying to assure somebody who least needed
it. "So, what are you doing here?" I asked,
"Harrison Road isn't your usual beat!"

"Uh . . . Uh . . . Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi
Road!" and with that attempt at humor, Bidyut
laughed aloud. It was so unlike him that I wondered
about his state of mind.

"Right, I am used more to "Harrison" than "Gandhi".
My entire extended family never call it anything
other than Harrison Road, and so there . . ."
letting his hand go, I stamped my foot in mock
defiance and looked up at him. He was smiling.

"Will we get together this week at your place?" he
asked almost abruptly.

"Sure, why not," I responded, "when?"

"Whenever Debi is away," he said, confounding me
with a devilish smirk. Till that evening, I had
never seen this side of him.

"Oh my! Bidyut!" I said and I didn't have to even
feign surprise, "I never knew you could be so . . .
so . . ."

"Naughty?" he completed my sentence.

"Yes . . ." I almost stammered back. I must say I
was also amused at his directness. I suppose the
physical intimacy that he encountrered with me a
few nights back had done a number on him. What was
even more amusing was that I had thought that night
that he hadn't the slightest inkling that I knew
what had happened. To me, it was an episode that,
in all probability, would not be brought up in any
discussion with Bidyut ever.

"So?" Bidyut egged on.  So, he knew that I knew
that . . . oh well, you get the idea.

"Oh, Bidyut, you are incorrigible!" I was starting
to feel a little uncomfortable by then, "Do you
suppose I can pack Debi up every weekend?" It is
not often that I am caught off-guard, but that
evening's little myth-shattering disclosure
certainly qualified as one such occassion.

"I suppose you are right," he held my hand --
another first for the seemingly matter-of-fact
Bidyut. I couldn't recall that he had ever taken my
hand in his unless I put it there. I remember
thinking to myself -- maybe not in so many words --
that I had created a monster.

In spite of myself, I was pleased . . . immensely
pleased.

"Oh, don't be discouraged, Doctor, I will parcel
her off to her in laws this coming Friday again!" I
said with a deliberate mischief in my voice, and
gave his hand a meaningful squeeze, "How does that
sound?" It later puzzled me that he never wondered
about my ability to "parcel off" Debi at "our"
convenience.

"Sounds good," he responded with somewhat of a
restrained enthusiasm . . . perhaps suddenly
apprehensive of his untethered emotions. Then he
looked at his watch and excused himself in favor of
an elderly patient in the neighborhood. We
exchanged composed glances and I saw him briskly
disappear into the crowd.

The bus, bursting at its joints, pulled up and
spewed out the passengers like a pressure cooker
exhausting built up steam. I was lucky and found a
seat in the still crowded vehicle. Settling down
between two rather well-fed housewives who, by
their appearances, betrayed their western Indian
origin of mercantile persuasion, I finally could
ponder upon the possibilities for the following
Friday. Bidyut obviously loosened up since we last
met. It was only a couple of nights earlier when he
couldn't leave our flat fast enough . . . and they
call us fickle! Obviously he liked what he got!

Having tried his utmost to take in exactly as many
fares as had escaped the hull, the conductor
finally heeded the not-so-friendly utterances of
the sweaty, exhausted passengers eager to reach
their homes.  I sighed in relief.

I couldn't possibly have described my dream to
Bidyut.

I looked up and smiled at the young man standing in
front of me. He smiled back confidently, blissfully
ignorant that I knew the reason for the bulge in
front of his pants. I arranged my aanchal a little
better to indulge. I could swear that I detected a
direct response almost at my eye level. I was in my
prurient mood already, the gentle throbbing having
started at the junction of my thighs. I looked
forward to a relaxing night with Debi. I wished I
could make the crowd --save the young man in front
of me -- disappear. There would be the two of us .
. . complete strangers tearing at our clothes and
feeding on each other. God! I was bad, I thought to
myself. I looked up and smiled again, and he turned
his head away as if in pain.

The trip was not too long and I just remained
seated till the last moment. I was wet, and the
crotch of my panties felt wet . . . almost like
those rare occasions when I would be unprepared for
my period. By the time we passed Sealdah, the bus
was almost "empty". At my stop, I hurried down the
steps and looked up from the street at the window.
The poor guy was still staring at me. I smiled and
waited till the bus left. I wished that the bus was
too crowded for me to have found a seat.

I was horny, extremely horny, that evening and
spared little effort to let my cousin in on it. She
was lying on her bed with a book and Promila was
finishing up her days' chores, as I reached home.

"You are late!" Promila said as she opened the door
for me.

"I know, I had things to do at the hospital," I
smiled and replied. She was looking tired.

I went straight to Debi's room and closed the door.
We had never revealed our physical intimacy to
Promila, and I wouldn't -- not in a sober mind. I
sat beside Debi on the bed, bent down and kissed
her passionately. She looked surprised as I pulled
my face away from hers. We had the unspoken
understanding.

"What's the case now?" she looked at me quizzically
after we broke our kiss off, wiping the saliva off
her glistening lips with the corner of her saaree.

"Oh, nothing really," I steadied my voice as I
struggled to suppress my impassioned state of mind.
"What are your plans  for the next Friday?" I
couldn't help asking right at that moment.

"Nothing, why?" Debi's eyes were intent on mine,
trying to see the inside of my brain.

"Well, he wants to be alone with me again."

"Oh?" she responded with some doubt in her voice,
"I could go away again, if that's what you want."

"It's up to you, I didn't commit, you know."

"That's all right, Sharmi, let's see if he is any
better this time," and with that she started
laughing. She already looked good enough to eat and
her laughter made her even more sexy.

"God, I am horny," I confessed.

"Already?" she said through her laugh, "In
anticipation?"

I paused before I answered, "That . . . and then
there was this guy in the bus," I said and bent
down to kiss her on the valley of her breasts when
suddenly Promila pushed the door open . . .

"Bordi . . ." that's what she called Debi, "I . .
."

I shot up and looked towards the door. Promila
stood there with an utterly embarrassed expression
on her face.

"Promila?" Debi sat up on the bed and asked in a
very calm voice, as if to dissipate the sudden
tension in the room. I wasn't sure how to handle
the situation, except that I should follow Debi's
cue and act normal.

"Naa . . . maan  . . .  khon khaab ?" she quickly
asked. A loaded question as far as I was concerned.
I was indeed ready to eat . . . surely . . . but
not what Promila had in the kitchen.

Debi and I exchanged glances and Debi sat up
laughing. I realised that that was her way of
making light of whatever Promila would have had
fancied. I followed her lead with my nervous
titter.

++++++


End Part 23 (to be continued)


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