The Curiosity of Kamaljit

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Anal

Author’s note: This is the first story I’ve posted to this site in some years, but since I long ago forgot my old password, I’m using a new but related name.

All characters are at least 18 years old. This is pure fiction, although as with most of my stories, it draws on personal experience. All background described is both real, and accurate.

The story stands as it is, but is intended as part of a longer work, some of which has been written. Your response to it will in part help determine whether it continues.

Embedded dialogue is used, instead of quotation marks. This gives dialogue more reality in my view. It is standard in much French and modern Scots and Australian fiction, and is used by such literary giants as Cormac McCarthy, so should present no problem to literate US readers. This is after all ‘Literotica’, not ‘Porn for the illiterate’.

All comments, however critical, are very welcome, as are personal messages. It helps me write better if I know how readers find my work.

*****

He eased himself back to consider the girl more carefully. And think about the question she had unexpectedly asked him. Kamaljit had been volunteering in the charity shop for some months, but until May it had only been at weekends; she was a final year school student, and had been working hard for her exams, hoping to gain admission to the university course she wanted. Now exams and schooldays were over, so she was a more frequent volunteer. This was the third shift on which they’d worked together.

She was slight, newly eighteen, short and slender. Beautiful in ways for which he had no appropriate words in either English or Scots. Like many other women with origins in the Indian subcontinent, her face was slightly hirsute, a fact of which she seemed unhappily self-conscious. Almost every time he looked her in the eye, her hand rose automatically to cover the few wee black hairs on her upper lip. He didn’t understand this; she was just lovely, in ways only girls of Indian heritage can be.

He glanced at the book before him which had occasioned her question: ‘Helen knew that Trocchi was an almost forgotten author from the nineteen-fifties, and despite his surname, firmly in the Scots literary tradition. He was delighted to have found this rare treasure of erotica on the shelves of the Oxfam second-hand bookshop on the edge of Glasgow University’s large campus. And was disconcerted by Kamaljit’s question.

She’d heard of Trocchi from her literature teacher; wanted to know what the book was about. The till was quiet; a few folks were browsing the shelves, so right now there was no reason he couldn’t answer her, although a diversion would have been welcome to him. He really didn’t want to get into a discussion about erotic literature with an exquisitely attractive Asian teenager many years his junior. So he dissembled:

– It’s about… a girl’s first sexual explorations. I bought it because it’s both unique, and something of a rarity, and I’m interested in Scottish literature.

Then he had a thought… Kamaljit’s an intellectual and most attractive girl, drawn to literature, and at an age of burning curiosity about sexual matters:

– If you’re curious about it, do you want to borrow it? I won’t read it for another week or so. It’s less than a couple of hundred pages, so it won’t take you long.

Her hand rose to cover her lip, but neither hand nor her darker skin could conceal the blush which suffused her face. And this time, her upper arm rose so he could see the wisps of black hair at her oxter – she was wearing a sleeveless top on a day uncharacteristically warm for the west of Scotland:

– Oh… could I really? Borrow it? – Her voice faltered – It… does sound… interesting. Her voice was educated Glasgow Scots, with barely a trace of the characteristic Indian accent to which he was accustomed; most of the Asians he’d met before were first generation immigrants.

– Sure, put it in your bag now if you want, so you don’t forget it?

But at that moment she was distracted by a customer asking a question, so the book remained on the shelf behind the counter where he’d placed it. Then they were both busy; it was Saturday, and the West End Festival had started, so there were plenty of customers. They barely had a chance to speak until the shop closed, and they were waiting for the manager to clear the till. Kamaljit was fixing her voluminous dark hair ready to go when he remembered the book. He picked it up, and when her hair was sorted to her satisfaction, he handed it to her:

– Don’t forget this!

She glanced at the manager, but the woman was by now preoccupied with the till:

– Oh… thank you Sandy. See you next week.

Her blush was just delightful. He hoped she would indeed find the book interesting. And arousing.

His diary wasn’t so busy during the next few days that he could forget about the engaging girl’s literary-sexual interests. escort ataşehir When she returned the book to him, he wanted to be able to discuss it with her, should she so wish. So one evening, he borrowed a copy from a friend. And immersed himself in it. Wondering as he read, and became aroused, what effect it was having on his new young Sikh friend. Would it get her cunt wet? It was very brutal in places. But that had been the life of the girl the strange author had sought to portray.

Well, she had it now; if it aroused her, it aroused her… He was certain, from her face, forearms, and his brief glimpse of the oxter growth, that her cunt was delightfully, blackly hairy. His cock rose at the thought of her driven by what she read, to play with her black bush and the beautiful cunt it concealed. He knew his thoughts were inappropriate, and this excited him further.

*****

He didn’t share another shift with her till the following Saturday. She was already there when he arrived; having hung her wet rain-jacket in the staff area she was fussing with her hair. She blushed when he entered, and was uncharacteristically nervous when he joined her at the till to start their shift. He understood why; she was embarrassed that he knew she had been reading erotica. The best thing he could do was behave normally. There was no reason between them why he should appear in any way concerned.

Maybe the normality of his behaviour reassured her. After more than an hour during which they had both been dealing with customers, she relaxed with him. Then the custom thinned, and when they were both, for the first time that afternoon, free for a wee while, he started chatting. But very deliberately not about the book. He was of course most interested in the effect it had had on her, but he wasn’t going to ask about that. Yet. So he enquired about when she expected to have her exam results, which would determine whether she had gained a place on the university course she wanted. He knew that was the question weighing most heavily on her mind.

She smiled broadly, no doubt relieved that he didn’t mention the book. Explained that she’d sat most of her Highers in her fifth year, and was only waiting on the results of the one she had just completed at the end of her sixth year. She only needed a ‘B’ pass in it to have her entry to Glasgow University in September confirmed; even in the arts faculty it had fairly stringent entry requirements. It was, after all, the fourth-oldest university in the English-speaking world. And yes, she responded to his question, she was fairly confident she’d get the pass she needed; she already had five ‘A’s. So she wasn’t biting her nails.

He liked her ability and self-confidence; glanced at her minimally be-jewelled hands, and smiled his confirmation:

– Aye, so I see. Just as well, your hands are most elegant.

She blushed at his words. It was the first time this distinguished looking older man had commented on her appearance in any way, and she was proud of his flattering but innocent comment. And glad she’d showed him her palms, with fingers curled over so he could see her nails; she knew there were dark hairs on the backs of her hands.

When shop business allowed it, they chatted easily for the rest of the afternoon. Or rather, he encouraged her to chat about her aspirations. She wanted a good degree in English since, as she explained, once India became the second largest economy in the world after China, British English, the only language which united all educated Indians, would once again become one of the most important world languages. And though she was Scots-born and Scots-spoken, and had only briefly visited relatives in India twice, she intended to ‘return’ to India to live once she graduated. She wanted to be part of its rise to again become a great world power, centuries after the British Empire had eclipsed its last period of global pre-eminence. He was more than impressed by her shrewd intelligence, understanding of the pattern of world economic growth, and her endearing patriotism. And despite his burning curiosity about how the book had affected her, was very glad they had something else of mutual interest to discuss.

The intermittent June rain when they started their shift had by mid-afternoon become a downpour, and both the busy street outside, and the shop, soon emptied of people. By four thirty, they were the only folk in the shop, with still an hour before closing. They had no problems finding things to natter about, without mentioning the elephant in the space between them. When the last customer then had exited into the rain, she turned to him with a wide, if slightly nervous, smile:

– Sandy, I’m so glad we had time to chat about other things. I was nervous about seeing you this afternoon, because I didn’t know how to talk to you about the book you kindly lent me last week. I wanted to but… I knew it would be difficult. But now that we’ve kadıköy escort bayan had a political discussion, and I know you’re a decent man… well, that makes it a bit easier for me to discuss… sexual matters… with you.

– Ach Kamaljit, I was nervous too. I read it a long time ago, and knew that you’re about the age Helen was when she started her – he hesitated, wondering how open he should be, and decided to go for it – her exploration of her sexual needs. It would be hard enough to discuss with any attractive teenage girl, but I’m very aware that though I have met a few Sikhs in Glasgow, I know little about your culture. So aye, I was nervous too… and thank you for thinking me a decent man. I hope I am.

She shivered at the knowledge that he found her attractive:

– It’s obvious from our discussion that you think about world politics and economics in an intelligent way Sandy. And you wouldn’t be volunteering for Oxfam if you didn’t care about folks, would you?

– Um, guilty as charged, madame…

– And please don’t worry about our culture. It celebrates sex. Where did the Kama Sutra come from, and how long ago? Have you read it Sandy?

Shit, she was no blushing sexual violet, this girl:

– Aye, I’ve read it. But I had the impression from most Asian girls I’ve met…

– Sandy, I’m sure you know as well as I do that most people of Asian heritage in Scotland are Muslims. Most Pakistanis, Bangladeshis, and Indians are ethnically related… but culturally there is a huge divide between Muslims and those of other faiths. Especially Muslims of Pakistani heritage, who are dominant here. And culture includes sexual customs, does it not?

He was too polite to let his jaw drop in amazement. But this girl was certainly upsetting the stereotype of Asian Scots he had lived with. Humbled, he managed:

– Aye, of course, culture includes attitudes to sexuality, and a lot of other things…

Three late customers entered, coats dripping. One had a long involved question about literature. Sandy referred her to Kamaljit, and the two girls moved towards the literature shelves, deep in conversation. He was glad he had time to consider what next to say to her about the novel; she had surprised him in her sexually open introduction to the subject. He most certainly knew the Kama Sutra, and was glad she did too.

He discovered how determined she was to renew the conversation. The shop had closed and the manager started reckoning the takings; they were about to leave:

– Um, Sandy…

She was hesitant again.

– Aye lassie?

– We didn’t finish our conversation about that book. Do you have time for a coffee? There’s quite a nice place round the corner…

– I know it. Happily it’s better than Starbucks. And yes, I’d love a coffee with you, Kamaljit.

Standing behind her in the queue for coffee, he realised that she was wearing a very short skirt today; her dress was normally modest, sometimes traditional. With it she wore stockings in which her young legs looked incredibly sexy. Then she was away with her brimming mug, and he was facing the server, ordering his cappuchino.

When he turned, coffee in hand, she was seated in a quiet corner, well away from the busy tables. Had removed her rain jacket. Her skirt was short enough for him to see that her slim legs bore thigh-highs… was she, it flashed momentarily through his mind, deliberately sitting to ensure he could see the bare skin above the stocking tops? Girls know how to sit. Fuck. She couldn’t be flirting with him? Nah, Kamaljit was too sweet and innocent to do that.

When he had removed his goretex and was seated, the book lay on the table between them. With several post-it notes sticking out from the pages. She was indeed a serious student of literature. As he stirred the sugar into his cup, Kamaljit coughed slightly, and began what became a fairly coherent disquisition on ‘Helen & Desire’. The care behind the author’s understanding of sexual experience for the girl. Unlike his near contemporary Henry Miller, he had seriously tried to present it from the female point of view. She reached for the book, flicked it open at one of her post-it notes… and read. The chosen passage had struck Sandy forcibly when he read it a few days ago… and had aroused him, although it was a description of the state of the girl’s mind, and not an intentionally stimulating description of the sexual act. But the writing! He was watching her eyes as she read, and when she finished said:

– How interesting that you should choose a passage which stuck in my mind too. Precisely because, as best I understand it, he gets inside the girl’s mind pretty well… or appears in my male understanding to do so.

Her face lit up with excitement:

– Exactly! I told you I knew from our political discussion that you’re an understanding man. Now I have proof! And you’re right. He gets into the girl’s mind escort bostancı perfectly. Or at least, he gets into mine…

– I’m not sure you have proof of anything Kamaljit. Other perhaps than that you and I may sometimes think along similar lines? But I must say, I’m curious that you chose that passage. The heroine spoke that at the end of her explorations… well as far as the book has an end. That’s another of its literary weaknesses in the view of most critics; that it’s really unfinished business, and not a complete novel. But it was certainly after she had deliberately sought out a wide variety of sometimes brutal sexual experiences; and evolved what one might call a very unusual personal philosophy of sex. Certainly unusual for a girl sixty years ago. I’m most intrigued, since you said the author got inside your mind, that you appear to share her sexual interests?

He made a point of looking directly in her face as he uttered the last sentence. She held his gaze steadily, a smile glowing from her eyes, and playing round her mouth. She nodded in agreement. All her earlier embarrassment had evaporated:

– Please understand, Sandy, that… I do not have her personal sexual experience. But I’ve read a great deal, and as I suggested to you earlier, Indian culture is deeply imbued with honest and open sexuality. Which Helen encapsulates, or at least Trocchi has her encapsulate. There is profound honesty there; not something I expected to find about sex in Scottish culture.

He sat back, pondering his next move. This was turning into an intellectually sexual game of chess, and she was for all her young years a challenging person with whom to play. So. He’d be mean, and move a castle to shock her:

– So Kamaljit, as you were reading the novel, did you become sexually aroused? Was your cunt wet?

No delicate hand to her upper lip this time. She blushed deeply, bowing her head so the long black hair obscured her face. Remained silent for a few moments, then raised her head, blush fading, and tossed her glowing mane back, smiling:

– Of course I was aroused. She glanced round, lowering her voice so only Sandy could hear:

– I had to… deal with it. Several times. I’ve read the whole book a few times… in the privacy of my bedroom. Naked. So I could… assuage my arousal. I loved it. I’m so glad you found it, otherwise I wouldn’t know of its existence. Thank you for helping me to discover what I need Sandy.

Then her deep blush returned, and her head bowed again. Sandy was astounded at her directness. And the unmistakeable invitation in it. He knew the next move it required; coughed to get her attention. She had to understand that he wanted her:

– Kamaljit, I’m so sorry. I had no right to ask you that. But I needed to know. Please forgive my prurience.

But even as he said that he was imagining this sweet girl, whom he now knew was highly-sexed, masturbating. Then as he glanced down momentarily, he became aware that she’d parted her legs wide. And his brief glance revealed no panties under the short skirt. Just alluring darkness between her upper thighs.

When she looked up, there was unrestrained lust in her eyes. His hopes leapt. Another move was required of him:

– Kamaljit, would you like to move this discussion somewhere more private? My flat’s only a few minutes walk from here.

He watched her eyes carefully as she hesitated…the lust glowing there yet. His cock surged.

– Um… I’d sort of made arrangements with some of my friends for tonight. Didn’t you know Saturdays party night? But the arrangements were a wee bit imprecise. Let me pop outside to phone? Won’t be a tick…

He turned to watch her back as she walked, hips now distinctly swinging, to the door. And was aware of the throbbing in his breeks. He turned back to the table, adjusted himself, and started on poet Edwin Morgan’s introduction to the novel, which he hadn’t bothered reading in his friend’s copy earlier. As to whether anything might happen between them tonight – well, that was entirely up to Kamaljit. But it would be a shame if he was unable to explore the girl behind the lustful gaze of a few minutes ago. Her eyes said she craved a fucking.

She was back, shrilly girlish, in a couple of minutes:

– Something’s come up, and a couple of my pals can’t make it tonight. So now I’m free as a bird…

She couldn’t keep the glee from her voice as she clapped her hands above her head, and a few other patrons looked her way. She clutched her hands to her mouth, an expression of mock-alarm on her face:

– You sure you want to spend time with a disreputable hussy like me? But she was grinning as she said it. And the lust remained in her eyes.

– After that lovely display, there’s nothing I’d rather do…please forgive me…

And he rose to hold her close, and plant a brief kiss on her mouth. He hadn’t time to think about it, just had to kiss her.

– Now it’s my turn to ask: are you sure you want to spend time in private with a dirty old man like me?

She exploded in laughter, extended her hand to him, and led him from the cafe, still giggling.

Outside, she appeared a bit calmer. So he ventured:

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Bir cevap yazın