The Story continues, as it had appeared originally, in this repost.  There are some corrections, and modifications, though:

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I was away during the holidays.  I had to take a trip after that.  So, I have not been able to stick to my original schedule of finishing the touches on this one.  I had intended to post the entire part 12, but could only finish half of it.  So the next part will appear soon as 'Part 13'.  I promise.  I have about fifty letters that I must reply to, and I hope you will bear with me if I did not respond to all of them at once.  Those that sent me letters of reproach, I urge you to please refrain from reading 'My Story' or any subsequent one that I may post.  Nobody held a gun to your head, and asked you to read this.  Obviously the "Female, and Indian" part befuddled those that never imagined that "sex" is not an exclusively male urge among Indians!  BTW, no, I believe none of us make money writing here.  I, like many others, write erotica (not "smuts") for pleasure.  Appreciation from the reader is our reward.

 Please write at <[email protected]> with (sensible, not moral) comments, and corrections.

WARNING: Do not proceed beyond this "warning" if you are not a mature person, and/or are offended by explicit written descriptions of sexual encounters (narrated by an "Indian Woman")!

© All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.

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My Story (Part 12) by Sharmila Sanyal.

      We were to stay at my aunt's for four more days.  Sanjay was acting a little different since that night's self-gratification.  The next morning, when he woke me up, he seemed more up-beat than usual.  I had smiled at him, and he seemed to have looked at my eyes a little longer than necessary.  I took it as an attempt at finding out if I knew. I played along, and behaved quite normally with him. That is not to say that I wasn't feeling rather lightheaded every time the previous night's incident surfaced in my mind.

      In spite of myself, I was helplessly in a state of mild arousal all day.  What — one may wonder — is a 'mild arousal?'  I am finding it rather impossible to describe the state.  I walked around with a constant wetness between my legs and with a very sensitive feeling all over my body that translated into goose bumps at the slightest breeze.  I smiled when smiled to; I talked when needed; but my mind was filled with the sensation of Sanju's hardness against my knee.

      Chhordi's mother-in-law wouldn't let us leave without having lunch, and so we ended up staying till the sun went down.  I was exhausted from all the talking, and socializing the whole day; but, I liked Subhash-da's family.  They were very unpretentious, educated people that didn't have to stand on any ceremonies.  They were the kind of people that made you feel as if you have known them your entire life.  The brother, Sudeep, and the sister, Mithu, were in their early twenties. They were very intelligent and witty.  So, we became quite friendly, and Mithu took extra care to make us all feel at home as long as we were there.  We bid good-bye with the customary promises to see each other at the earliest opportunity.

      That night, I excused myself from supper, and went to bed very early.  I was exhausted from the unresolved excitement I had been carrying around.  I could have relieved that while taking the shower, but some weird sense of morality, at fantasizing about Sanju's privates, kept me from seeking the gratification I so urgently needed.  Unbelievable as it might sound, I fell asleep as soon as I hit the bed, and slept like a log till the next morning.

      Almost everybody left the following morning.  My two brothers also had to get back to Calcutta for something, and they took off right after lunch.

      A little later, I found myself wandering down the verandah on the upper floor, and towards the room in the corner.  I knew it was Sanjay's.  My brothers had been sharing it with him.

      I swear there was absolutely no forethought to it.  I was feeling lazy after a heavy lunch, and wanted to find a quiet room to try and lie down for a while.  My room was on the same floor but the guests that stayed with me were preparing to leave, and were packing their luggage.  I did not find the thought of hanging around them and making conversation very appealing.  The sky was overcast, and it was drizzling; otherwise, it would have been a perfect afternoon to be lounging by the pond.  It was messy downstairs.  The servants, cooks, and the ladies were still running around in an apparent attempt at bringing things back in order.  So, I sought a logical refuge upstairs.

      It was rather unmindfully, I must say, that I entered Sanjay's room.  The door was open, and there was nobody inside.  His bed, neatly made up, was against the wall to my right.  His study desk, with a pile of books, stood against the far wall under the window.  A clothes-rack, and a couple of bookshelves took up most of the left wall.  In comparison to the other rooms in that house, his was of rather modest dimensions.  Although he definitely had help from the house maids, I could tell that he was quite a tidy lad for his age — especially when I mentally compared his den with that of my two brothers!  I was impressed.

      The window was open, and the moist air filled the room.  I felt rather relaxed as I sat down on his bed, and grabbed one of his books from his study table.  It was Rabindranath Tagore's 'Shéshér Kobitaa'.  I had read it a number of times before, and it is still one of my most favorites among his vast repertoire of works.  I was further impressed by Sanjay's taste in literature when I looked at his bookshelves, and found them stacked with literary works from Shakespeare to Henry Miller, and from Bankim Chatterjee to such contemporary Bengali writers as Samaresh Basu, and Muztaba Ali.

      I walked over to the shelves, and started looking at the titles.  I was picking some out at random, and putting them back when on one of the bottom shelves - sandwiched between the complete works of Shakespeare, and the unabridged Chamber's - I chanced upon a small stack of smaller books that didn't quite fit the bill.  They stood out by their size — however diminutive — and appearance.  Unlike the other books on the shelves, they had newspaper covers.  Hands shaking, I took the bunch out, my sixth sense already having made me aware of their subject.  I had started to breathe heavy even as I glanced back at the door, and opened one of them!

      It was a Bengali book, and my sixth sense was right on the money.  I glanced through the pages, and opened the next one.  It was a similar one, describing, in rather raw details, the encounter between the master of the house, and the maid.  My head had started to reel already.  I think it had more to do with the knowledge that the books were for Sanjay's pleasure than with their contents.  The tension in my body, held over from the day before, returned with double the intensity.  I felt the surge down below... between my legs.  Assuredly, it wasn't a mild arousal!  I was skimming through the raunchy stories, and imagining the adolescent owner of the books engaged in masturbation while reading the very same ones...

      It was most certainly not a mild arousal!  Thinking about Sanjay reading those books and masturbating, mixed with my experience a couple of nights ago, had really fired up my imagination.  In my sexual fantasyland, where the concept of inhibition is non-existent, I was playing with myself as he looked on.

      I am not sure how long I had been just standing there flipping through them — and dripping — when a figure appeared at the doorway.  I was standing slightly at an angle with my back toward the door, but I sensed the presence, and froze.

"Shona-di!" It was Sanjay!

       So, I froze, rudely brought back to the real world by that "Shona-di".

      Once the initial stupor had passed, I turned, and faced the doorway — the collection of books still in hand, of course.

"Oh... Sanju... I was just..." I stammered out a few words.

"What? Which are...? Oh Shona-di... you should not be looking at those books!" Sanjay, clad only in a towel across his loin that covered him from his waist to the knees, looked quite embarrassed as he spoke stepping into his room.  He had just had a shower.  I did not see him around during lunch, and thought he might have gone somewhere.  He had. And he was in the bathroom when we were having lunch.

"No? Why?" I asked in a detached voice... I had to buy some time to get my bearing back.

"Those are... those are..." Sanjay stepped closer, and tried to grab them from me.  "Please," he said, "give them back to me."

      I could smell the soap on him.  I had, of course, seen his bare torso before; that is not something a girl gets excited about in India... I think.  It is not against any social etiquette for boys his age to go around sans chemise.  But, predictably enough, I was feeling a familiar tingling in my brain seeing him like that.

"Why can't I see them?" I swung my hand, that was holding the books, behind me, and asked in a demanding tone.

      He stood about, and inch from me as his right hand reached around - rather instinctively - in an attempt to grab the books again.  It was too close.  My chest touched his..., and a spark shot through my already vulnerable body.  I held my breath for an instant, and pushed him away with my free hand.  He stumbled back a few steps towards the bed, his legs hitting the edge of his cot, making him sit down.

      The towel parted somewhat, exposing the fare skin of one of his thighs.  I tried to reason with myself that what I was experiencing was wrong... totally wrong.  Not only was he my first cousin, he was three years younger.

      He was looking at me with quite a perplexed expression.  I guess he was trying to gauge the situation.  Here I was — the object of his lust — standing a few feet from him with a bunch of books that he used for his own private pleasure, and I wasn't looking distressed at all.

      I am not sure if he sensed my excitement; but, as my gaze quite involuntarily drifted towards the parted towel, I had to look away immediately.  He was showing an obvious sign of arousal... the towel was not lying flat across his lap anymore!  In spite of myself, I had to chance another quick glance in that general direction, and, I swear, I saw the towel heave a few times.

'What's next?  What should I be doing now? Should I leave, and pretend that I didn't become a part of this, or should I surrender to my prurient impulse?' I was debating in my head — a head, by then rather hypoxic.

"Have you seen the inside of those books?" Sanjay broke the few seconds of silence.

"Eh...?" again I bought some time to compose my thoughts with that monosyllabic response.

"Did you... read them?" He asked.

"Well... a little bit." I tried to sound matter-of-fact as I struggled to look away from his lap.

"OK... you don't have to read any more." Sanjay said as he stood up from the bed.  He shouldn't have.  Strange how a very simple action — somebody standing up — can be so fateful!

+++++++++++++ End Part 12

(To be Continued)