CRAVING – A SLUT DEEPTI STORY 1 / page: 159 - Erotic story Collection






deleted




CRAVING – A SLUT DEEPTI STORY 1

* * This is a story inspired and requested by a member, Slut_Deepti (https://xhamster.com/users/slut_deepti). She professes being excited by being exposed, controlled, and humiliated. To add to the elements of exposure and humiliation, the graphics created for this story are indeed her. This story was originally written a few years ago while we were both on a different site. She has encouraged it be posted here as well. We hope you enjoy it. * *

PROLOGUE

This is the story of a mature woman, Deepti Sinha. She lives in the greater metropolitan region of Mumbai, India. She comes from a conservative Indian family and married to a troubled businessman through an arranged marriage, still a common custom in India and other countries in the region. She is a good woman, a good wife, and has made it her goal to create an environment of peace and comfort for her husband. It has been a task that she was predisposed to perform even if the effort seemed under-appreciated.

Deepti is a submissive in personality and nature. The only problem is that she is still unaware of that and wouldn’t know what that is or means if she was aware. All she knows is that her role is to please and serve her husband in much the same way she did when she lived with her parents and family before her arranged marriage. Her natural impulse to please was of primary importance to the man’s family in order that he be freed to concern himself only with his rising career in business. They believed he was a man destined to succeed and bring credit to the family.

Deepti was a virgin at marriage and understood little of the sexual world or its potential. As it turned out, her husband, Prakash, had as little interest in sexual relations as she had knowledge of it. Unfortunately for Deepti, though, the consummation of their marriage and the early years to follow opened something within her that remained frustratingly unfulfilled by an inattentive husband interested more in his business efforts and vices, gambling and drinking, than the significant charms of his wife. And, despite her subtle hints and flirtations, he remained consumed by other things. Being submissive, however, she found it difficult, if not impossible, to express her interest in exploring sex with him.

After 15 years of a c***dless and sexually frustrating marriage, she began to contemplate, fantasize, and imagine what might have been or might be if … The if was something she was not comfortable with. This story is the exploration she innocently began and found difficult to control.

Hidden deep inside Deepti was a desire and need to satisfy and be satisfied in simple ways initially, but in not so simple ways, eventually. But finding the way to satisfy and be satisfied seemed impossible to her. Impossible until her world was opened up before her in a very unexpected way.






deleted




CHAPTER ONE:

I masturbate.

Okay, at the beginning, just saying I would consider masturbating seemed thrilling, even overwhelming sometimes. Good wives didn’t do such things … did they?

I am Deepti Sinha. I am frustrated. I am alone. That by itself is interesting since I am married and not a young, naïve girl who finds herself suddenly in the adult world. I am 35-years-old. I am married to a man who has for years been struggling in the world of business and in controlling his life. Compared to many in India, we still have a comfortable life because of his work and status. But, that is the way of arranged marriages, perhaps. My family was able to provide a suitable dowry to increase my potential status in attracting a husband. In those terms, they thought they did provide for me to rise in comparable status through Prakash and his family. It is not always so easy to know everything that should be known in situations like that.

For a long time, I wondered and blamed myself for my feelings and frustrations. After all, arranged marriages in India have a very high rate of “success”. The divorce rate in Indian arranged marriages is far less than experienced in other industrialized, high-economy countries in the world. I was chosen by his family at the age of 20-years-old after schooling. My prospective husband was already 28 and moving in the business world. He would be considered an attractive and desirable husband for someone of my status, well known, seemingly established in his work, and a secured apartment in the Sunder Nagar district, a suburb of Mumbai. He seemed successful so if there should be a problem it would, therefore, be my blame.

At the time, if he was well known and becoming established in his work, I was the opposite. I was young, naïve, and very uncertain in the world. I was not a strong young woman, but lacking in self-assuredness and confidence. I isolated myself from groups, especially the confident groups. I much preferred my own company. I spoke softly when I did speak but was often not inclined to speak even if I had the chance. I consistently felt a strong urge or need to please and serve others, valuing myself less than those I sought to please. My family recognized these traits in me and took advantage of them while I was at home. It meant, however, that I might not attract a husband based on my own actions.

The arranged marriage process seemed to be a lesson from my psyche. I was well aware the two families had talked, discussing their c***dren and how our match might benefit us in a suitable combination of types. For his family, that was what was ultimately important; how I could balance his life so his success in business could develop unimpeded. In his family’s mind, I was a good fit for their son. I had no apparent drive to work outside the home. I was already skilled in the duties of taking care of the home, cleaning, cooking and providing a comfortable respite. As they fired questions at me and my family, they could see in my responses a desire to please and serve. How ideal for their son.

Prakash had been a successful jockey. He had won numerous races and had gained a name for himself as a winner. He had been sought after by several trainers and owners for his ability on the track. A freak accident, however, put an end to his racing. He was encouraged into business ventures where his name recognition and self-assured attitude would be beneficial. He attained a lucrative position in real estate broking and also with a firm arranging for horse sales and transportation transactions. That was at the point I was introduced to him. He was a man with regional name recognition and new business ventures that looked to secure his future, and by being married to him, my future as well. My job was to eliminate frustrations and distractions at home so his focus and effort would be spent on the development of his influence. That was the plan.

What was to be completely unexpected, however, was the result of the consummation of our marriage. I had no concept of what sex was. But, I learned three things about sex in our marriage very quickly despite my only exposure to sex being the missionary position in the dark of night, after which time he would fall asleep: Prakash was vanilla, not even French Vanilla; I was chocolate chunk, fudge, caramel, walnut, raspberry supreme; and, I was orgasmic. He thought of sex as an obligation of marriage to produce c***dren. I began thinking of sex as the greatest gift God gave to us humans; my body and mind and soul came alive in fireworks. While his penis would spit at the end, my vagina would be pulsing in spasms seeking more. And, it seemed no matter how quickly he might ejaculate inside me, I could explode in orgasm. But, he never really seemed to notice. I really felt his mind was always on his work … or something else, but not me. My role and purpose were not to be challenging and demanding but to create a peaceful environment.

After five years without c***dren, his family saw the problem: me. Of course. But, he didn’t want us tested. It might not turn out to be me who was the problem. Somewhere in that time, his attitude changed and he began drinking. I didn’t know it until much later, but he began gambling, too. He would become angry to the point I feared some physical retaliation after the few times I asked about the change. The few times I asked about our finances when my housekeeping allowance slowly shrank, I feared his reaction. Over the second five years, the little bit of sex reduced to never and it has now been more than five years that we have not had sex at all.

Somewhere in that time, I stopped caring … about sex with him, that is. I had to care tremendously about angering or offending him, though. I felt like I was a hostage in my own home, an isolated prisoner of sorts. I was isolated from everything. Suddenly, his attitude became almost paranoid and I feared what was happening. He tightly controlled the money, payments, and allowing me only a strict allowance for managing the household. As difficult as it might have seemed, a divorce by either of us would leave me without means of support. Going back home would be a worse disgrace. It was clear to me he wanted only a quiet home to retreat to. Not having c***dren was probably a relief to him, though he would never admit to it to me and certainly not to his parents.

That was how I found myself masturbating on occasions until it became a regular basis. Alone in my bedroom with the apartment door locked and the bedroom door closed and locked. I was terrified of being found out, seen, discovered. Without taking the precaution of a closed and locked bedroom door inside the apartment, my fingers stroking over my vagina had little and no chance of stimulating me. The fear was too great. What if Prakash left work early for some reason? What if … it was silly, but it felt too real, at first.

My fingers were a poor substitute to a penis being thrust into my vagina, but so much better than having nothing at all to give me pleasure, which had been the case for so, so long. My fingers initially slid down my naked body very tentatively as if they weren’t sure what would come of the exploration. They snaked through my short, black pubic hair until they brushed over my clitoris hood, sending a jolt through my body, and finding the lips of my labia. Back then, that was how I thought about my body. Of course, I never had the occasion to verbally use those or any other words for my body. Those were the words I was taught and the only words I knew. When I felt secure behind the locked bedroom door, I marveled at how quickly and easily secretion formed, the labia opened to my touch, and I could penetrate with a finger. Before long I was using two fingers, thrusting them in and out, noticing when my thumb hit on my clitoris how my reaction was magnified, my secretion increased, and a ventured third finger easily inserted. I repeated that scene in my mind and in reality over the time to follow, feeling like I had conquered some barrier in my life.

Then, I discovered I could discretely mail-order a dildo in another step in finding a way to create a sense of thrill in my otherwise staid life in a desperate attempt to keep those intensifying feelings, thoughts, and needs at bay. It meant I had to scrimp and save from my household allowance, but I finally had enough to order one online. The sexual tension that builds regularly and predictably within me was only freed by my own fingers, then my 6-½ inch jelly rubber, vibrating dildo, which was kind of like a real penis except for the semi-clear soft plastic material and purple color. I giggled at the absurdity, but even buying replacement AA batteries produced a mild, perverted thrill as if the clerk would know the reason for the batteries. Such had become the desperation of my condition.

I started leaving my clothes in the bedroom and doing some chore in another room, all the time my heart racing. If the phone rang, I struggled internally if I could answer it naked or grab something to put on. If the doorbell rang, I would race to the bedroom, slip into a robe and put my hair quickly up, ready to explain I was getting ready to shower to be ready for Prakash. That would always work for our mothers.

But, over time, even that couldn’t satisfy enough. I needed more, craved more. I could always masturbate with my fingers and the dildo and I did regularly. I began needing variety even if it was fantasy. Once I allowed myself into the world of internet porn, I was shocked at what was out there. My little exposure to sex was a very narrow slice of what was possible. I purposely restricted my searches, though. I didn’t need to be tempting myself, too much. I already knew I had high sexual energy, especially compared to Prakash, and I had to manage that. But, an area of arousal that quickly took hold of me was exhibitionism.

My ventures around the apartment naked were thrilling and left me with a sense of risk and danger if somehow I should be caught. The apartment was on the 17th floor and no other building around it obstructed the view to the horizon. I should have felt safe enough being naked inside a locked apartment, but the idea of being in front of the window, even in passing, seemed so daring it made my heart race and send a shiver through my body. The idea of being outside, somewhere in public, even if not immediately around people, and exposed, or partially exposed, or wearing a skirt without panties could make me shake and tingle with delightful anticipation and fantasy. I would look at pictures and read accounts of women in their yards, in parks, in cars, or on balconies while naked and I worked my vagina with my fingers or the dildo and would explode in orgasm. The connection in my mind was immediate. I could generally induce an orgasm through masturbation, but tied to erotic tensions through emotion, imagination, and the psyche created especially powerful ones.

And I learned new words. I read new names for body parts that were foreign to me and my protective upbringing. The words, the names, sent chills through me as I considered them and gave them voice quietly to myself. The words, names seemed so base, crude, and blatant, which somehow made them exciting and stimulating just to think them, say them, and use them for my own body. Words, names that I then vowed would become my own words since I rationally knew I had no reason or condition where I might have to use them verbally in my current existence. Words like ‘cunt’, ‘cunt lips’, ‘clit’, ‘cock’, ‘tits’, and ‘fuck’ became my own words. I used them out loud to myself and used them in my head as I imagined and fantasized.

I began taking particular pleasure and satisfaction in standing naked in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom. I like my body and I found that gazing upon it openly, honestly, and critically gave me a better sense of my naked, real self. Through close evaluation and examination of my image, I saw myself as others might see me if I ever was seen. The thought of someone seeing my body like this thrilled me and made my body tingle, then immediately sent tremors of terror through me. I did not have a lithe, young model type body. I was a woman, a real woman. I liked what I saw even if there wasn’t anyone else to appreciate it, even my own husband who never seemed to even notice me. While searching exhibitionist images on the internet, I was drawn to the frequent image of women who had clean cunts (see, I can say it). On a whim, I decided to shave my own pubic hair, thinking perhaps, in one final effort, that might entice my inattentive husband. He did notice me walking naked through the bedroom, but only to suggest I should consider having something on if I was going to be roaming around. I don’t think he noticed I had shaved. I vowed then, though, I would continue to keep my cunt clean of hair for myself. I liked the feel of it and it was obvious I was the only one interested in the feel of it.

Standing in front of the mirror, that was where I saw my hand, between my thighs lightly stroking my hairless cunt lips. My thighs were slightly spread as I removed my hand and gazed at the cunt lips protruding and visible between my legs. Another thing I noticed on the internet was the wide variety of the cunts on women. Some were hidden, only a slit visible. Others, like mine, showed the lips hanging below. I found them to be especially erotic and sensual, teasingly visible. I thought they teased my eyes to look at them, calling attention to them and I wondered how others would react if they saw them. The idea sent a shiver through my entire body.

I am already a 35-years-old Indian woman and I still feel so innocent and naïve in many ways. I am 5’ 4” tall, 140 pounds, which I am still pleased puts me in the upper-normal range by BMI standards according to my doctor. I have 36-C cup bust and my full tits hang and naturally separate. I have noticed when I am on my hands and knees cleaning under some living room table, my tits hang down and swing with my movement. I liked that, too. So, I need support for them, not only for them to stand out with an enhanced cleavage but also to control a natural bounce that would otherwise be evident and I imagined walking braless in a blouse down the street. My nipples are prominent with the slightest bit of arousal, even mental. My nipples become very erect and obvious, easily poking at the material of blouses, tee-shirts, and dresses, even poking through bra material, if aroused. My ass, though, … my ass … hmmm … might be best described as full, but nicely full, I think. My ass gives my body a wonderfully curvaceous look. As I turn to consider my ass more, I have to smile. It is a nice feature of my body, a full, shapely ass that can make skirts swing when I walk. It seems to me an ass that would attract attention, but sadly, only if they care.

My straight, black hair is lustrous and extends onto my back. It is layered cut and easily coiffed to be full and cascade over my shoulders. In a soft breeze from the nearby ocean, the edges will lift up and away. My skin is light Indian-brown, my nipples and areola are dark brown. My eyes are dark but will shine when I am excited and happy.

Sexual tension could be created merely by thinking about erotic ventures into the public while I masturbated safely at home. I enjoyed using the mirror for that, too. I would stand before the mirror with my fingers playing over my body, pulling at my nipples, sliding a finger into my cunt, or pulling on the exposed lips between my legs. All the while I would be thinking about what I could do if I dared while seeing my body as someone else might. I could also see how my body reacted to the stimulation, both mental and physical, my nipples tightening into protruding nubs, my cunt becoming slippery with my juices, those protruding lips glistening with my wetness as my fingers exit. A shiver would roll up the length of my body from the soles of my bare feet through my cunt and clit to my nipples and tits to the top of my head. And, every time I felt that I wanted more.

Prakash was normally at the office working all day, our home was large and roomy (fortunate in a city of 22 million people) but easily maintained. It meant I was left with time if I wanted it. I decided I was going to do something … something to feel different about my condition.

Normally, I like to wear traditional Indian style like a churidar kurta or even a saree given the situation. I wear skirts and dress, jeans, and capris’ sometimes, too. When I went shopping or strolling in the neighborhood for a tea and paan at a favorite shop, I almost always wore a churidar kurta. The saree was more elaborate for a casual activity. Churidars are tightly fitting trousers worn by women in South Asia. They are loose fitting at the hips and narrow more quickly to the ankle so that contours of the leg are revealed. The kurta is a loose shirt falling either just above or somewhere below the knees. Most of mine are just above the knees. My first venture outside the apartment daring to dress more daringly was to not wear any underwear underneath my churidar and kurta. The outfit completely conceals the body except for the neck, head, and arms depending on the sleeves. The fact that I moved around the shops without bra or panties was not discernible to anyone around me. Perhaps they might detect my tits bouncing or jiggling under the stylized fabric, but it would not be obvious. The effect was on me more than on anyone else. I knew … I KNEW … I was not completely dressed as was my norm. I could feel my tits sway, bounce, and jiggle. I could feel my nipples rubbing on the fabric, tantalizing them with the friction and making that tingling feeling that moved to my brain and my cunt, which was made even wetter than normal. And, despite knowing nobody could tell, I still became nervous when someone’s gaze would pause on me and I wondered if somehow they could tell.

When I reached the apartment, I quickly checked the time and determined I had just enough time before I needed to clean up and begin making dinner. Just enough time … I dashed to the bedroom, already pulling the kurta over my head and hopping out of the churidar. Those two actions left me naked and I giggled out loud. I pawed through my underwear drawer for the dildo and turned it to the high setting as I collapsed to the bed, jamming it into my soaking cunt. My orgasm was almost too quick, but it shook my body with a delicious deliverance of pleasure.

A variant of the same would play out several more times, each time delivering to me the intended thrill from my secret exhibitionistic efforts. The first time I gathered the courage to go out into the public with a skirt and no panties, I wore a bra under my buttoned, short-sleeved blouse. The breeze coming in from the nearby sea wafted up my bare legs to my naked cunt, making me tingle before I was more than a couple blocks from home. Again, nobody I encountered or passed by could possibly know I wasn’t wearing panties, but the feeling of my cunt in the open air was stirring my body with sensations I couldn’t believe. As I sat on a park bench, surrounded by other people going about their day, I became so wet I feared there might be a squishing sound if I moved.

When I got home after that, I played out the same dash to the bedroom to masturbate. This time, though, the dildo was waiting for me under my pillow. Even that caused my heart to pound as I approached the apartment door fearing the off-chance that Prakash left his beloved work office early. But, as exciting as that was and finally thrusting the dildo into my soaked cunt and my fingers pinching my prominent nipples, what I really wanted, and what I envisioned, was to be masturbating outside in the open air. I wanted to orgasm in the open air. Masturbating at home continued to be nice, but there was a new drive inside of me, a new desire, a new craving now that burned and demanded to consume me. I wanted to combine exhibitionism with masturbation.

But, I had to be careful. As much as I wanted these experiences, I had to be careful. The risks were real and terrifying. I couldn’t afford to be seen and possibly found out. The humiliation would be devastating and would likely end the marriage that was all I had for security, even if it was now scarcely more than a sham of convenience, anyway. If my marriage came apart, it would likely also put me in disgrace and alienate me from my family. I had to be careful. I had no skills but to take care of a husband … to please and serve. I had to be careful. At 35-years-old and disgraced, what would become of me?

I wanted the experiences.

No, I had to be careful. If I was caught and punished, I would be alone. I would be ostracized. I would be left with nothing. Even if Prakash had kept my dowry separate for me, my family might take it back as further punishment and ‘righteous’ banishment. How could I risk all of that? Was anything worth risking all that? Was sexual gratification really worth all that?

The honest, soulful, heartfelt answer to those questions was never really in doubt. The risks were real, not imaginary. I had no doubt based on the troubling temperament of Prakash or on the cultural view of his parents and mine, what the reaction would be. But, there was also no doubt of the feeling, the need building inside me that needed release. If I could manage it, control it, and guard against the dangers, then this could work.

It may very well have been a case of being able to talk yourself into any outcome you desire, but I became set on my path of experiencing what I now felt I needed and that had to be somewhere outside and still private. I saw my solution during a drive with Prakash and his parents, though I didn’t realize it at the time. We were traveling on the Western Express Highway and passed the entrance to Sanjay Gandhi National Park. I commented to Prakash that we should go back there for some hiking. It was something we had done a few times in the early years, but even then, he had shown little real interest in such activity and I felt it was something he put up with to appease me. Although I brought it up to him, I had little expectation that he would have any interest. The look I received from his mother confirmed my expectations. But it wasn’t until I was standing at the living room window of our apartment that I knew it was the solution. Our apartment is the 17th floor of our building was to the west of the park in Sundar Nagar, a district immediately west of the Sanjay Gandhi Park. I was standing in front of the window in my robe after a shower as I prepared for Prakash’s return. There was no surrounding building nearly as tall as the elevation of our apartment, giving me an unobstructed view of the Sanjay Gandhi Park in the near distance. My eyes focused on the park as my hand slipped into the fold of my robe and I idly stroked my protruding cunt lips, my mind humming with the quiet arousal I so easily generated.

The park was rumored to be a place where young lovers would go in order to find quiet and hidden locations for being together. The Park was heavily used for hiking, picnics, and exploring by individuals, families, and groups. But, inside a park of 40 square miles, semi-private spaces had to be easy to find. I raised my hand absently to my tit and fondled it as the potential took hold as a real possibility. Not even when the belt of the robe fell open from the movements of my hand did I realize I now stood in front of the window fully exposed to the outside. When I did, I quickly pulled the robe closed and stepped back until I could no longer see a building below, but the thrill and excitement of the moment left me with chills and that tingling that was becoming more and more familiar.

I had done it accidentally, could I do it purposely, also? In the days after that moment at the window, I became slightly more brazen within the confines of the apartment. I would be naked and boldly walk up to the window, looking nervously, like a mouse in the open after a large shadow passed over it. I saw buildings, but all were below, well below. Nobody could see me, could they? If they could see someone in the window, could they possibly know I was naked? I convinced myself they couldn’t … almost. I could stand there for minutes, then I would step back. When I did, though, I rushed back to the bedroom and satisfied myself with fingers or dildo. Over the next days, my time in front of the window became longer and longer until I stood there with the dildo in my cunt set to high vibration. The first time I managed to stay there long enough, I had to brace myself against the window glass as I orgasmed. Again, proving to myself the power of other stimulation. Risk of exhibitionism was a great stimulation.

I professed to Prakash a desire to become more fit for him. It was an approach that fed into his ego. The compliant wife that I was doing something extra just for him. He was pleased but had little interest in the details. He was comfortable in the soft physical life of the office, a soft and comfortable life that had transformed him from the trim, fit jockey to an overweight, soft-looking man. He saw no reason why my interest in the activity should suggest he take it up, as well, despite the fact that he was no taller than me, but at least 50 pounds heavier, pounds that were no longer muscle. Of course, I knew that would be the case. I told him I was intending to taking up hiking in the park, which was easily accessed. He accepted it absently, offering the kind of distracted encouragement an adult might give to a c***d. It was no surprise to me, I am fully aware of my station in the relationship.

My first time in the park laid exposed all that I hadn’t considered in my planning and anticipation. I wore jeans and tee-shirt over a bra and panties with running shoes for the walking. I started my walk from a common stop and followed the well-marked and used trail. At the same time I was beginning my walk, several other groups had just left or were preparing to depart. I found myself in the midst of a large group of people separated by the natural inclination of groups to allow space between themselves. In a city of 22 million people, the opportunity to separate yourself from others is a powerful force. But, because of those 22 million other people, others are always curious about those around them. In many ways, all those people are non-existent, you just go about your business. In other ways, though, you never really can ignore that they are around you. It is a societal conditioning to ignore others while being aware.

In my case, I became very uncomfortable. It wasn’t due to anything they did or caused, it was wholly my imagination and self-consciousness. It took me a couple trips to the Park just to find a location and time when I could safely feel isolated enough to try my illicit fantasy. When I finally was able, I found a rise a short walk away from the path taken by most visitors. The rise afforded a sightline to give me the confidence of isolation and enough shrubs, bushes, and small trees for hiding. I successfully worked up my nerve to lower my jeans and panties to my knees. I stroked my cunt with my fingers, while nervously listening to every sound around me. I marveled at how much sound there is when it is quiet. Even across the distance to the path, I heard others walking, laughing, talking, even some arguing. I heard movement in bushes nearby when it was only the breeze moving branching. I heard sharp sounds like twigs and sticks breaking, sure someone was going to walk into my hiding place but finding nothing when I looked. One time when I awkwardly knelt up to look, I spied a dog moving through the brush in the near distance.

I returned home frustrated, even angry at myself. The first few times delivered no erotic pleasure or satisfaction. I was too nervous and aware to relax and feel the stimulation I was seeking.

On a subsequent visit, I convinced myself the location I used was indeed safe and protected. I talked to myself in a mantra sort of encouragement that I would relax, I would enjoy, and I would experience the outdoor orgasm I desperately sought. And, I was successful. I not only used my fingers in my wet cunt, but I was able to extract the dildo from my little backpack and hungrily drive it in and out. I was nearing climax on the dildo when I again heard voices on the path below me. This time, however, the sounds of people in the vicinity was a stimulation and I came strongly. I began crying out and clamped my hand over my mouth, muffling the escaping sound.

I heard a woman ask if anyone else heard something and my excitement surged more. They apparently stopped and listened, but then moved on. It convinced me that my location was hidden, but perhaps still a little too close to the path.

The next visit was a startling experience that would take me almost a week to recover from. I was again masturbating with my jeans and panties pushed down below my knees. I was further up the hill from the path and I felt a little safer. I was losing myself in the arousal being brought by the dildo driven deep in my cunt and my fingers working over my clit. I moved the fingers from my clit to push my tee-shirt and bra up over my tits to use my fingers on my very erect nipples. I felt in heaven, my cunt inflamed, my clit engorged and extremely sensitive, my nipples were aching from the pinching and twisting of my self-inflicted torture of them. Far overhead was a large hawk gracefully soaring on the warm thermals and I might not have cared except for the similar sensation I was feeling. My body was in the throes of sensual, erotic stimulation that was rising by the moment and the soaring of the bird was how my body felt.

Just then, everything changed when I felt something wet and long slide over my cunt. I almost didn’t connect that it wasn’t part of me as I crashed into orgasm. The wet touch on my cunt was too delicious and it extended my orgasm, even as the dildo fell from my drooling hole. When I finally opened my glazed eyes, I found a dog and screamed. I immediately clamped my hands over my mouth in fear of being heard, but quickly recovered enough to move one hand to cover my exposed cunt. The dog, however, was dutifully sitting and watching me with the look of a pet having been chastened.

I stared at the dog for a moment but my mind was having difficulty processing what had just happened. The dog did not look like any of the strays I had seen around Mumbai or even in the Park. Those dogs are unkempt, malnourished, and dirty. This dog looked cared for and groomed. This dog was someone’s pet. Besides, it had a collar. Then, the obvious crossed my mind. Or, if not the obvious, my worst fear. I stumbled to my knees and searched the surrounding landscape. I was expecting to find the owner of this dog about to step through the brush or duck under the branches of the trees to discover me.

I awkwardly gained my feet and pull my panties and jeans up my legs. As I crouch under the branches from my hiding space, the dog followed me and happily sat when I told it to. I was again scanning everywhere looking for someone that might be investigating my scream or an owner looking for its dog. I discovered neither. When I started moving in the direction of the path, the dog again moved to follow. I firmly told it to sit and stay as I retreated from it. I looked to the direction of the path, then back to the dog. It was gone. I found it running up the slope. I left quickly. If the owner was up there, I didn’t really want to see him or her … or them to see me.

Besides, my heart wouldn’t stop racing. I was disgusted by the act the dog pushed onto me. I was still fearful of somehow it being discovered. But … as I walked along the path … the way my heart was racing …

* * CHAPTER 2 will follow * *

New Story:

NEXT PAGE:

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188 189 190 191 192 193 194 195 196 197 198 199 200 201 202 203 204 205 206 207 208 209 210 211 212 213 214 215 216 217 218 219 220 221 222 223 224 225 226 227 228 229 230 231 232 233 234 235 236 237 238 239 240 241 242 243 244 245 246 247 248 249 250 251 252 253 254 255 256 257 258 259 260 261 262 263 264 265 266 267 268 269 270 271 272 273 274 275 276 277 278 279 280 281 282 283 284 285 286 287 288 289 290 291 292 293 294 295 296 297 298 299 300 301 302 303 304 305 306 307 308 309 310 311 312 313 314 315 316 317 318 319 320 321 322 323 324 325 326 327 328 329 330 331 332 333 334 335 336 337 338 339 340 341 342 343 344 345 346 347 348 349 350 351 352 353 354 355 356 357 358 359 360 361 362 363 364 365 366 367 368 369 370 371 372 373 374 375 376 377 378 379 380 381 382