Archive for June, 2010

They always hunted as a pair. That’s what made them such a great team. They’d led UltraMoney Mutual Fund House for sales achieved for the last three years, and yet they publicly admitted that they only did it for the fun of it. They absolutely refused to work without the other; in fact, that had been the reason they’d left their earlier organization. They hardly ever came in to office, yet month-end after month-end posted numbers achieved by the senior-most salesmen in a year’s work. And to think, they were only 22!

I admit it, it drove me nuts. I was good. Dammit, I am good. I post above my numbers nine times out of ten. Hardly a year has gone by when I haven’t overshot my target by a mile. But one fine day, these girls waltz in and take over the whole damn company. To top it off, they refuse promotions, when the entire sales team is practically begging for them to take one. They’re having too much fun to quit, it seems! Too much fun! In sales! I wept that day. The entire sales staff did. Imagine how demoralizing it must be when you haven’t received a single achievement award for three years. Three bloody years. The watches, the I-Pods, the I-Pads, the Ireland trips and whatnot. They take it all.

Some of it is really good work, I admit. They only approach the biggest individual names. Obscure names, unknown industrialists, but when the cheques come in, the monthly premium puts me and my team to shame. This much success? It shouldn’t be possible!

Its not easy to hate them either.  I try, I really do. I try to hate them for their names. Malin and Suvi. What kind of names are those? Do they even have any meaning? Who names their kids Malin and Suvi in the first place? Then I stop and laugh at myself. Here I am, a fairly well-adjusted 29-year old male trying to pick on a couple of kids nearly a decade younger to me for their names, just because they’re better at something than me. I tried to think of some other flaw, an actual flaw this time. Nada. Zilch.  No, no, this wouldn’t work at all.

To make matters worse, they aren’t bad looking either. Now that I think of it, they’re hardly 7 years younger to me. Even lesser if you take exactitudes. You couldn’t call them chalk and cheese, but there are hardly any similarities between the two. I don’t think I’ve seen Malin in anything except western formals. Pants cut just the right way, skirts skimming the knees when she chooses to wear them. She’s thin, reed-like even and seems to be the ‘hepper’ one. If there is a new fashion trend, you can bet she was in its originating party. And she does it all wearing formals. And high heels. Big, circular earrings. And thin kohl-lined eyes. I always thought that your eyes would need to be bigger in order to be beautiful, you know? But I could get used to Malin’s eyes. They suit her face. And really, isn’t that kind of the point of it all? Straight hair, tied at the very top. Her breasts are small; I’d wager my life that they would struggle to fill an A-Cup. Harsh but true, and she knows it. Her breasts aren’t the kind that’ll set tongues wagging amongst guys or induce a drool. But they’re good enough for a mouthful, and isn’t more than that a waste anyway?  Her shirts are always careful to never hide her butt from view. And she has a thin butt too. You know, the ones on girls who are just lucky? Lucky in the sense that they will never, ever have to worry about the eternal female question, “Does my ass look too big in these jeans?” Nope, not Malin. I swear, there are times when I think I could cup both her ass-cheeks with just one hand. And they’d fit quite snugly in there too.

There is just the slightest hint of arrogance on her face, yet you couldn’t ever point it out if you were asked to.  Maybe it’s because of her jawline. She has a beautiful jaw. I don’t know how else to describe it, but even her jaw seems to realize that she isn’t built for curves. It starts off right below her ear, traces the straightest of lines to where her chin starts, takes a 90-degree turn to give shape to her chin and then yet another 90-degree turn to reach the other ear. Malin’s all straight lines and angles, preternaturally beautiful angles, but angles nonetheless.  She shouldn’t be beautiful. And yet she is. You can bet your last rupee that when Malin enters a room, everyone will check her out twice. She’s like a drug you get slowly addicted to; at first you think you’ve seen better, but then as you see her another time, you start thinking maybe not. And in the end, you’re sucked in, no matter what you think.

And she’s sweet, or at least pretends to be. She always comes up to talk to you and has a good word or a cheery greeting to offer. “Hello sir, how are you doing? Bhabhi kaisi hain?”, “Kya ma’am, shopping and all huh? Naya dress khareeda aapne!”, “Kaafi din ho gaye, aapko office mein dekha nahin.” Heh, you’ll see me in office if you ever come to the damn place, I feel like replying. But she seems so genuine, I just smile.

Suvi’s the antithesis of Malin, if you could put it that way. Perhaps antithesis is not the right word, because they’re not complete opposites of each other, but different enough to make you wonder how they got close in the first place. The first, and frankly, the only word that comes to my mind whenever I see her is ‘Motorboat‘. Minus the yelling and the face, and plus my cock. Yeah, that’s about it. In a nearly decade-long career, I don’t think I’ve been as afraid of a co-employee as I am of Suvi. I just don’t know how long my self-control will last while talking to her. Sure, Malin was hot, hotter than Suvi in the conventional sense of the word, but to me she was a distant second. Suvi had the most incredibly round set of jugs I have ever seen in my life, and it takes every single ounce of self-control that I have to concentrate on my work when she’s in the general vicinity. For as God is my witness, there’s nothing I’d love more than to stare at those incredible breasts all day long.

I’m fairly friendly with Malin, but Suvi? I’ve had a one-on-one conversation with her twice. In three years. Because while I may not love my job all that much, I definitely don’t feel upto being sacked for sexual harassment of a co-worker. Or beaten up. Or arrested. You get the point.

She’s short, way shorter than me. And I’m just an average 5’9″ Indian male. And plump. No, not Manisha Koirala plump. She was normal, with an average figure. I guess its just the fact that she’s constantly in Malin’s company, that leads to her being labeled plump. But she had the love handles. And my personal little kink? The slightest of love handles. Not the kind that jump out of shirts or make people wonder if those people do or do not have mirrors in their houses, but just the ones that hint at a stretching of the fabric.  And she had this annoying, ANNOYING habit of leaving the top-most button of her shirt open.

While Malin is seemingly uncomfortable with the attention her sexuality brings and tries to tone it down subtly, Suvi is as in-your-face as you could get. Hair open, never tied down. She knew she has the boobs and the figure and she flaunts it. Every single piece of clothing that she owns is meant to emphasize her breasts. Even in office. They aren’t necessarily tight, you see. They’re just well, emphatic. The female office staff hate her. She knows that too, and I don’t think she gives a damn. And she’s curvy. Her breasts are just the final exclamation point on the curve-fest her body is. Full cheeks, fleshy jowls. Un-skinny arms, the thighs of an athlete. If I didn’t know better, I’d have bet she was the inspiration for the new Beetle ads. She has a great ass too. The firmness of youth imbibed, they never sag. For that matter, neither do her boobs. As Monica’s Mom said, Everything is still pointing up.

What definitely pointed up whenever these two made an appearance in office was the dick of each and every single guy present. Public Appearances became slime-fests. It’d have been hilarious to see grown men fighting each other to get a word in to these young girls, if it hadn’t been so disgusting. It was a curious experience to watch them together. Malin, aware of the attention, pretending to wish away its existence by hiding beneath a thin veneer of the girl-next-door attitude with people she could bear, and with a healthy dose of impertinence and arrogance with those she couldn’t. Suvi, even more aware of the attention, soaking it all in and talking, testing, teasing. As I said, chalk-and-cheese? Not so much. Mayo-and mustard, probably.

Now if only I could figure out what made them so damn successful, maybe I could jack off to them without feeling so bloody pathetic about it.

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You have it, I want it

I have it, you want it

For some its drinking piss, for others eating shit

Lick my balls, that’s what you are, Terribly unfit

Suck my ass, bite your nipple

Why should it rhyme, cunt-ass bitch?

Hurts so bad, feels so good,

Cock, cunt, pussy juice

Drink, drink, so sweet

Lick till your throat goes dry

Suck, nipple like rubber,

Teeth on teeth, limestone knock

Nails against boards, screech screech

Asshole’s sweet, the pleasant surprise

Not that, but my finger up it

Hurts so bad, feels so good

Cock on throat

Gagged, gagged, puke

Still not out, not cumming yet

Drag the hair, pull, pull, pull

Enter below, behind from, hard

Scream, squeal, cry

A thousand tears, but you don’t want me to stop

Thrust, I cry, you cry

Cum, Cum and pee

I love thee

So Help Me God..

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Traveling is a pain. Traveling in buses in India is an even bigger pain. And a journey in afore-mentioned buses for any time more than an hour is absolute torture. However, sometimes a very simple game can make this journey a lot more fun, and for some time at least, infinitely more bearable. Its a dirty, dirty game, the kind I’m sure you’ll all like. And what’s more, it can be played on any form of public transportation! You probably played it sometime too; its a little game I call ‘The Fantasy Fuck’.

All you need to have for this game is a member of the opposite sex traveling along with you. And your imagination, of course. How else are you going to partake in carnal pleasures, you naughty prick? Right, so now that we’ve established that you have a decently dirty imagination and a suitable companion, we start. And no, it’s not what you’re thinking (spoiler:actually, it kinda is!). The Game doesn’t simply consist of you imagining your cock inside her pussy, don’t be so daft maan!

Step 1: You have to plan/imagine your way into her pants, with as much detail as you can muster.

Step 2: Go to Step 1.

Hah, you snortled in disgust, didn’t you? Oh you did? Fuck you then. I said with as much detail as you can muster. And that is harder than it sounds. And much more arousing too. You can shake a limp cock dry within seconds or you can take your sweet time to work towards Krakatoa. If you prefer the first, send your bitch to me. She’ll thank you later.

Let’s give it a whirl, shall we? I seem to recollect one of my 3/4-hour trips sharing the last seat of the bus with a particularly attired young lady with a nose ring. (Sidebar: I love nose rings. Absolutely adore them. Add shoulder-length-boy-cut-type hairstyle and you’ve got yourself a walking, gibbering, (slightly leaky?) erection ladies!) Getting back to the point, she was wearing a green kurti on a pair of black jeans, both hugging her body in a way that taunted the imagination. Taunted, no more, but may be a fraction less because let’s face it; there is no dearth of orkutiyas/fraaands/perverts in India, and although I might not be an esteemed member of the first two, I do have an amazingly one-track mind. Although I have  ceaselessly attempted to perfect the art of one-glance-take-it-all-in, I fear I might not be as perfect as I assume myself to be, although in my defense, I will say that sometimes the ladies are so beautiful that they beg a second glance. (Editor’s note: Too many commas, some inappropriate, others not so much) Did that make sense? Or am I just trying to overcompensate my extreme normal averogisity with this desperate lame-ass attempt to be the ‘Blaidd Drwg’ ? Who knows, and frankly my dear, who cares?

As an aside (of which I partake too many) always, always smile at the girl/lady/woman once. It is preferable to complete this phase of the exercise prior to beginning the fantasy. Timings include while trying to slide into the seat next to her, giving her a view of an ass that may or may not be larger than hers, getting down from the bus for the invariable pee-break, where in order to achieve the result mentioned in the following line, you must never, ever look constipated. Make it short, make it sweet, do not give her time to think on it. She will invariably smile back, thus providing you with intimate little details for your fertile imagination fields to grow boob-bearing plants later. The spread of the lips, a necessary ingredient for imagining the exact amount of stretch while she’s playing the pied piper. Or swallowing the pipe. The crinkle of the eyes. Necessary for imagining the choke. When you go in too deep. And please, don’t be a novice and think she’ll take it all on the first try. Unless you’re exceptionally unendowed, she’ll choke the first time. But then she’ll smile, and try again. The smile, the crinkle and the stretch. See?

As yet another aside, the best place for such a fantasy is on the night trips in the upper-tier seat of III AC compartments of those long-distance trains. You can comfortably jack off at night, without a care in the world. Not the side-berth, because those seats are lower. They’re more dangerous, but also more thrilling, because there is always the chance of getting caught. And most dangerous place? I was going to type on the last seat of a bus, but that is probably safer than one of the middle seats, and at night they turn off the lights, so I guess that’s as dangerous as any. Public parks? But you forget the point of the game, you have to be traveling and the woman has to be in your line of sight, for some time at least. Although I strongly encourage not actually staring/watching the lady while in the process of the act. Though if you wish to, I really can’t do anything about it, can I? The object here is fantasy not perversion, although who defines that is a question I do not wish to tackle right now.

Right, back to the lady. Green Kurti, Black Jeans. Nose Ring. *Swoon*. Oh, we covered that, did we? Right. So we were sitting on opposite ends of the last seat, on a eveninger from Blah to Bleh. I struggle to keep in mind that I’m explaining the game to you non-commenting, probably non-existent readers. So right then, we’ve seen the clothes. What next?

Next is in fact, a series of posts that have sprung to my mind, where we cover, in detail:

1. The right type of undergarments

2. The importance of a right setting

3. The (im)proper positions involved

4. Actual contact, is it worth it?

5. Any other chapters/appendices, as may be necessary.

P.S.: Tried to get all the abov done in a single 1000-worder, but it seemed to grow and grow (Heh, i smiled after writing. I’m not a teenager. Physically, at least) Various parts have been written at various points, so if the language seems disconcertingly jarring, (a) it probably is and (b) I apologize. Next part comes up when? God knows, but I doubt if he’s gonna tell ya. See ya when I see ya.

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