Saroja had never felt this uncomfortable ever before with Sundar around the house. The young man had come visiting his aunt and uncle, ostensibly on a college vacation. To his parents it did not seem like an unusual request. The twenty-year boy had been visiting his aunt's since his childhood and spent many of his vacations there. Those were usually during long summer vacations.
But this time, Sundar had gone there, even though he had very few days off. And yet, no one thought anything of it.
But Saroja knew better. Several months ago, Sundar, his brother Gopi- both her nephews -- had two unexpected sexual encounters with their aunt whom they loving called "Manni" (for sister-in-law; though strictly speaking she was their aunt).
In those episodes, Gopi had stolen a march on Sundar. While Sundar had to be content with the vigorous jacking-off his manni gave him, Gopi had actually got to fuck her. Even today, when Sundar lay on his bedding roll trying to sleep, the image of Gopi kneeling behind his beloved Saroja Manni haunted him. He had fucked her like an animal and she had enjoyed it like one.
He knew. Her moans and groans and the way she had fisted him conveyed her extreme pleasure. And yet, he felt he could have loved his manni more than anyone else. Before, when he masturbated thinking of her, it was sheer fantasy, pleasure and illicit beyond dreams. Now when he masturbated, it was always an agonizing scream in his throat as he came, that it was not he who filled her that evening in the bullock cart.
It became an obsession. If she did it twice, if she did it to his brother and to her own brother-in-law, then she could go some more distance. He fantasized about how he might do it. And where. And when. The kitchen? At night? When uncle was away at work? And how to leave his brother behind, for traditionally, they had always traveled to his aunt's together? Sundar's seething jealousy slowly resulted in a cooling of his relationship with his brother. In fact, Sundar had nothing on his mind nowadays other than Saroja's breasts, her soft thighs and the heaven he could experience lying with her, inside her.
It was that obsession which Saroja spotted instantly as the young man arrived at her doorstep having come in by the morning train. She was in her nightgown and his eyes seemed to be piercing through to see if she was wearing any under garments. The normally relaxed and casual Saroja felt compelled to throw a dupatta (a thin chiffon veil) around her shoulders. She knew that the arms of her nightgown were so lowcut that her breasts could be seen below the armpit. And all the bending and leaning during the course of housework....
"No," she decided. Her face flushed at the thought of all the randy things she had done during that marriage trip. "Weddings are like that," she rationalized it to herself. The atmosphere was always flirtatious bordering on libertine. Yet, three uninitiated men, first in turns then simultaneously, shamelessly baring herself in different ways -- she had gone too far. And now look at Sundar. Crazed. Obsessed. "No. What I did, is in the past. I could justify that -- but anything further from here cannot be. It would be wrong," Saroja was decided and determined.
They sat at the breakfast table. Arvind, Saroja's husband knew nothing of his wife's new found dimension to the fondness for his family. They were having breakfast and Arvind was ready to leave for work. Saroja was now dressed in the traditional saree and blouse, having bathed before entering the kitchen to cook.
"Your father called to say you aren't doing too well at your college. Look, you have very high scores from the previous semesters, don't let this one semester drag you down," said Arvind to Sundar.
"Mm," grunted Sundar.
"What kind of reply is that? Did you bring any books along?" asked Arvind. Though he was the young man's uncle, the age difference was a lot lesser than one would imagine. Sundar's father frequently had Arvind help him with handling the boys.
Sundar shook his head in the negative. No, he had not brought any books. (He actually had, but didn't want to tell his uncle that he had, to avoid studying.)
"Look, this won't do," Arvind scolded the young man who nodded his head dumbly. Suddenly Arvind felt sorry for the kid. "What is the big thing I have achieved with all the pressure I went though in my studies?" he wondered. "At least let these kids enjoy. Enough of preaching."
"Ok, now that he is here and without books, let him have a relaxed time," he told Saroja. "Promise me you will go back and study like before?" asked Arvind.
Sundar nodded. The only thing he wanted was for his uncle to go. He wanted to be alone with the woman of his dreams- Saroja manni. Could he get her to show him her breasts again? The first time it was all-too hurried and the second time there was not nearly enough light. Moreover, she was on her knees, her breasts were swaying below. He had touched them and felt them. But he had not had enough of them. They had felt nice and full; he wanted to try squeeze them, milk them and suck them.
Arvind shook his head as he came down the stairs and found the young man still at the table staring vacantly. He could not have known than in his mind's eye Sundar was seeking out Arvind's wife's breasts.
"Pamper the boy!" called out Arvind to Saroja as he left for his day's work. Saroja had avoided sitting at the table after Arvind had gone up.
She came to the door of the kitchen and leaned on the door and watched the sullen youth at the table. Behind her the maid was washing vessels making clanging noises.
"What is wrong?" Saroja asked, taking care to spread the upper part of her saree cloth wide enough to cover her chest and midriff completely. A saree is worn with a petticoat and blouse. What might seem like a very modest dress is actually extremely sexy, and especially so if the woman who is wearing it wants it to be so. The midriff between the petticoat and the blouse, sometimes exposing the navel and the soft curve of the belly is alluring. And the blouse can leave nothing to imagination, if it was tightly cut, or with a low neckline, struggling to contain full, heavy breasts and you could also have the tailor make them practically backless.
Saroja was conscious that blouse she was wearing was a bit tight. Indian women tend to wear their older clothes around the house, even if they are ill-fitting. But Saroja, extremely self-conscious about her sexual aggression from the marriage season was regretting her choice of blouse at this precise moment.
Sundar didn't reply. He just shook his head. What he wanted to say, he couldn't. He wanted her to just take him in her arms and soothe him, break out his tension, and let him bury his head in her breasts while she took him in between her warm inviting legs. How was he to say all that?
"Have you really allowed your marks to slip?" she asked. He nodded, yes.
"Then how are you going to get into your MS program?" she asked. No reply.
Saroja almost knew for sure what the matter was but she didn't want to acknowledge it. In her mind she had blocked it out. She was in denial.
