A story of how I unwittingly managed to fuck all of the women in my best friend's life. Be warned, this is a long story, heavy on panty fetish, masturbation, old-young sex and Indian references. All characters depicted are 18 years and older.
Arun and I grew up together on either side of the same street in a small town in Tamil Nadu, South India. Our fathers worked in the same public sector company, and we lived in similar company-provided accommodations and went to company sponsored pre-school and elementary school. Our lives revolved around the company. But all this changed in the late 80s, when Arun's dad decided to quit the company and get a job in the Gulf. My father followed suit a year later, though we went only as far north as Delhi where he got a job as a consultant.
I was very sad to see Arun leave as we were true friends and friendships forged at that early age remain with you forever. But imagine my surprise when their family decided to move back to India for their higher studies. Arun and his twin sister, Neeta, both enrolled in a prestigious college in near Delhi and had to stay in the hostel. And I joined a local public college for my engineering, and so was able to commute from home.
Our families reconnected after about eight years. Arun and Neeta used to come home together from college during some weekends and for holidays. On these occasions Arun and I spent a lot of time together in each other's houses.
Neeta had turned from a nerdy, toothy, spectacled girl into a raven-haired, doe-eyed, dusky beauty. She was short but was thick and was adept at classical Indian dance styles. I remember watching her practice at home for her recitals. She had a fabulous body. Her belly was flat, her arms well defined, her ankles were shapely, and thighs tight and thick, all thanks to her dancing. When she wore western clothes, her pants and shorts hugged her thighs tightly and her torso bulged from her dresses. Her breasts jiggled up and down when she wore a bra that was slightly loose. They stayed in place when her bra was tight, as when she went to college. Her kameez (when she wore salwar) made a deep V at her neck and I could see her cleavage and the swell of her breasts. Man! I could make out the outline of her bra in front, and the straps at her back without fail every time I saw her. I took great precautions so as to not make it obvious as I ogled her. It was clear that she knew the effect she had on boys and men. I was not sure if she realized I was one of those that fantasized about fucking her.
Not surprisingly, I started fantasizing about her. I genuinely hoped she was a virgin. In my fantasies, Neeta and I lost our virginities to each other - she initiating it and I providing experience from my research and knowledge watching porn. As I jerked off, I visualized us spending lazy Sunday afternoons, naked on my bed and enjoying each other's company and bodies - her legs spread wide and my head between them sucking her clit, licking her cunt from top to bottom and bottom to top, rimming her ass. When it was her turn she would suck my cock for hours, lick my balls and pleasure me by rimming my asshole. Man, what all can a perverted mind think of?!
Arun's mother, whom I called Charu aunty, was a beauty in her own right. The years abroad had treated her well. Though she was the same age as my mother, the similarities stopped there. She was one of the ladies who aged gracefully, perhaps due to her genes as I did not see her working on keeping fit and trim. It may have come naturally to her. While other women developed large bellies and thick flabby arms and swollen, drooping faces and jowls (my mother included), aunty seemed to be able to maintain her figure, her skin tone, her general youthful appearance. I came to know that she did rigorous yoga daily and that was the secret of her youth.
I had many opportunities to notice aunty very closely. She was very curvaceous when seen from behind. She had shapely ass cheeks and wide hips and a smaller waist (which she generously displayed). Her sari always exposed a thin layer of baby fat on her hips, and the material of her blouses did nothing to hide the bra she was wearing and which in turn outlined the shape of her tits. She let down her guard when we were around the house and I had a lot of great and bountiful looks down her blouse. The tops of her boobs almost bounced out of her blouse as she twisted and turned..
Unrelated to all this, I had developed a genuine interest in cooking and I spent a lot of time in my mother's kitchen learning the art of South Indian cooking and other dishes. Charu aunty, though, was not that great of a cook and she had lost some of her touch while abroad. I practiced my skills in her kitchen and used it as a pretext to be near her, gawking at her body, tits and ass, noticing her panty line visible beneath her tight behind, and making up fantastical situations where we would end up fucking, naturally.
Charu aunty also figured in my fantasies during those college days. I made up scenarios where we would have wild sex, with her being the one initiating and taking my virginity. Or sometimes, I would imagine forcing myself on her first and she gradually accepting me and allowing me to pleasure each other. Damn! The things I could do to her if only she was willing. She was certainly being fucked by uncle (Arun's dad). And why not? If I had a wife like her, I would be dipping my dick in her at every opportunity. But uncle had let himself go. He was already balding, spectacled and had a very big paunch, smoked and drank (every quality my father had in equal measure). How would they be fucking? Fuck, I was jealous of Arun's dad!
On many occasions, when Arun and I were the only ones in his house, and he was either taking a bath or a nap or otherwise preoccupied, I would sneak down to where they kept their dirty laundry for the maid to do the washing. Aunty did a good job of separating the women's clothes from the men's. I found that Neeta wore brightly colored panties and bras, whereas aunty used the standard issue white ones. I was convinced this was where my panty fetish developed, and I confess that it has not diminished, but has grown stronger, even in my fifties, now that I am married with children who themselves have married.
From Arun's small room upstairs I could look down out the window and see their clothes line. On many previous occasions when I happened to be in his room, I had chanced upon Neeta's and aunty's clothes drying out in the sun and could clearly make out their underwear. Damn! I always thought how glorious it would be to have one in my hand. To touch and feel them, to smell them. I imagined them cupping their ass cheeks, biting into their cunts. A few times I also saw Neeta reaching behind her and correcting her wedgie as her panties rode up her ass crack. I saw aunty's dress tight against her backside as she went about her housework and made out the faint outline of her undies. Did they wear them to bed? I made up all sorts of plans to get my hands on their underwear. Oh, what would I not do to get them!
Arun was saying, "Hi da, Ramu, just wait for ten minutes. I will take a bath and shave and then we can head out. OK?"
I said, "Fine. I will read this week's SportStar. I missed it."
Ten minutes were more than what I needed. As soon as I heard water running in the bathroom, I dashed downstairs to implement my almost simple plan. I was flush with excitement. Could this be the day I held a girl's panty in my hand? What would it feel like? What would do with it? Smell it, lick it, rub it on my cock, sneak it out of the house. Fuck!
