tagBDSMRivalry in Indian Dorm Life

Rivalry in Indian Dorm Life

bycowboy109©

My name is Babbita. I am not the subject of observation. However, I have become part of it. I have gone native so to speak. So you must know me. My inclination has first manifested itself at age seven.

I was hiding under a corner bench of a banquet. The grown ups minded their own wedding celebration business and did not pay attention to us kids, especially, because we were beneath the furniture. Nine feet ahead of me were Yamir and Yamika sitting on their behinds with the legs slung sideways. A Western table served as a roof to the childhood play house. The tablecloths were the curtains. Yamika's hot little hands were holding tender Yamir's hands: "Will you marry me, when you grow up?" Bug eyed kiddie eyes looked back on her. After careful consideration of the novel idea, he agreed to marry her. Yamika placed a peck on Yamir's check and slung off. The next boy whom she propositioned was Waman.

I carefully updated my notes on the back of the wedding invitation with a crayon. Then, I drew another line on what I know now as a network diagram. Yamika was a serial bride. Yamir was her seventh groom this afternoon already. Yamika was the first kid to have gotten the idea of asking for marriage promises. From there, other kids copied her. Yamir was growing wiser by the moment, as he turned around to face me. He crawled under the chair between us on his belly. With his big head resting on his arms, he looked at me:

"Will you marry me, when we grow up?"

An ivory tower collapsed then. My enthusiasm for tallying the wedding game collided with the need to muster an action. The action failed me. Yet, Yamir made up for it all by himself. He turned his lips upside down and firmly placed the bundle of wet on my lips. The heroine, yours truly, was further daunted by such impulse and affection. So, I ran crying for my mother's skirt. Thus my first anthropological study ended. The lesson was to better camouflage myself for further studies.

My parents should have realized my anthropological talent, when I pushed my older brother out of the closet as an 18 year old teenager. The darkness of night was outside the windows. The incandescent lamp lighted up the dinner table. Piles of rice were smothered in Dal. I liked my rice like a pyramid with the right side covered in Dal. My older 19 year old brother liked his rice like a volcano with the Dal in the center as lava. My father liked to berate my mother about her duties in the household. He listed out all the things that he wanted her to buy at the grocery store. My mother was waving her index finger in the air higher and higher like a sailplane soaring in a thermal. When my father mentioned rice for the second time, because he hadn't paid attention to his own list, her hand came smashing down on his chest with a shrill 'Kutha.'

After 300 seconds of respectful silence, I announced that I had a presentation. Mother looked at me sternly: "Is this for school or your nonsense?" I assured her that it was a relevant family matter. Her feet walking to the kitchen to fix dessert suggested her disbelief in my words. I started by asserting that a twink described a young-looking, clean-looking, and slender man like my brother, as honorably as he was sitting at the dinner table. My brother helped me to an extra spoonful of rice. Unfortunately, he missed my plate and hit my sari. A bear described heavy-set and bearded male, who appears to be very cuddly. Observing the eye movement in the streets of my brother, he clearly preferred to check out bears. Last week counted 23 glances of more than 3 seconds at a bear. My brother must have gotten very excited, because he accidentally kicked my shins under the table.

Evidently, the fascination for boys had started five months ago, when the cousin from Bombay stayed with us for a weekend. He had shared the room with my brother and me. I had started making fake snoring noises immediately with lights out. It did not take long for the young lads to start a whispered conversation. The cousin was very proud of his male genitalia. They brought their penises out at moonlight to compare. The cousin's seemed long, yet thin. My brother's was more of a stout nature.

They could not trust each other in the weak moonlight. As they did not dare turning on the light and wake me, they took measures on each other with their own hands. There was a discussion about measuring flaccid or stiff, from the back or from the front. They kept taking each others measurements until the cousin said, 'feels good, doesn't it?' A silence had fallen. My brother invited the cousin into his bed to hold each other. Nothing happened that night. I carefully analyzed the bed sheets and the trash can. Father did not seem comforted by this, as he flung two plates off the dinner table, when his fist pounded on it.

However, my brother bought a magazine the next day with his new credit card for his 18th birthday gift. My unimaginative brother hid the magazine under his mattress. I regularly check the typical hiding spots in the house. My brother's first centerfold was Ettore Tosi, an Italian porn stud. The centerfold showed him slouching in a turquoise ottoman. His head hair was short and curly. Warm blue eyes and a soft smile looked straight at the viewer. The chest hair was curly all the way out to the male nipples. The six pack abs were covered in fluffy hair with a thick line of hair running up the middle. His hands were holding down his khakis with an open fly. The penis hung out of the V of the pant fly like the lord's candle. My brother left two cum dribs on the lower right corner. This was his first gay wanking session. Mother was waving the rice pot high in the air. She was completely oblivious that it had contained rice, which was now spilled over her hair, clothes, and the floor.

Obviously, I secretly followed my brother everywhere that week. By Friday, he had set up a date. If I may add, it took quite a bit of skill on my part to follow him for an hour through the busy streets. I was hiding behind the last antiquated red British telephone booth. He sat in a bistro chair made from skinny wood. He was all dapper and even wearing an elegant white hat with a black band. The other young man was rather bear-like. His chest was big. The suit was smooth. My dear father unduly interrupted me by pulling me into the air with both of his hands. I reached for the picture frame behind me. I waved the highlight of my presentation prematurely in the air. It was my brother's wet and first used condom ever framed and preserved to show his children.

My father said that it was for my own protection, when he explained why he locked me in the closet. Obviously, the reaction to my presentation was rather surprising. I had diligently collected all the evidence to paint a rather engaging portrait of my brother's sexual development. At the time, I used the night in the closet to take notes on my brother's coming out night. Later, I noticed the pun of being locked in the closet, when my brother figuratively came out of the closet. I learned about de-closeting being a delicate emotional process. My academic arrogance had cheated me out of observing my brother's coming out.

At the time, my class mates and family simply considered me nosy. I considered myself destined as a prodigy of anthropology. Unfortunately, my high school offered neither anthropology nor journalism. However, the school had Ekanga, our school's handyman. He was a jolly man, who took much joy in watching the teenagers at lunch brake. He'd break up fights and give heart broken girls flowers from the school garden. We'd watch the teenagers scatter around and chatter with each other.

My favorite pastime with Ekanga was making profiles. We'd pick a kid like pocket grabber boy. We nicknamed him that. He had a habit of walking up to a girl and asking her to look over his homework. As the girl would lean over his papers, he would slide clothes pretending to get a better look. Then, he'd put his right hand in his pant pocket and start shifting around the change. When the girl would suspect some kind of oddness in the air and shifted a bit away, he would tell her that he was really scared of the particular teacher. They'd usually keep helping him. The smart ones told him that they'd bring his homework corrected back at the end of break and walked away.

Ekanga and I were curious to find the origin of the boy's behavior. He'd soon graduate with the other eighteen year old boys. So, we made a bet. If I won, he promised to get me into an anthropology college. If he should win, I had to bring him a naked photo of my mother. He was a pervert in some ways and reminded me that college were a much bigger deal than a photo.

The last pocket boy's last girl was a buxom blonde Indian of fair skin. She wore a black net over her hair. Her eye lids were colored blue. Pearls were her ear rings on either side. She wore a tight blue sari. I was nervous to approach her. She gave me a quick hug. A hug is an utter warm feeling that distracts from one's purpose. The girl had not paid much mind to pocket boy. However, when his habit was revealed to her, she squirmed. A plan was laid to find the first girl. They would acquire pocket boy's notebooks. With the help of other girls, they would find the handwriting of the first girl ever to write in his notebooks to help him with homework.

After school, they approached pocket boy. They asked him for a little company until the bus would arrive. It only takes two girls and a boy will do anything. They led him behind the school building to the athletic track. With school out, the area was completely abandoned. They sat down on the grass under a tree. The girl brought out an empty milk bottle from lunch and announced a game of truth or dare. Pocket boy was so excited, that he wiped his palms up and down his thighs. Do boys realize when they drool?

The girl's first spin landed on me. She dared me to kiss her on the lips. That said, she leaned over before I realized, I tasted pink lipstick for the first time. Anthropological side note, lip stick colors cannot be tasted. Her hand reaching for one of my boobs startled me just as much. Her tongue slithered between my lips for a moment. Anthropological side note, this was my first French kiss. She smiled at me with a sparkle.

My next spin landed me the boy. Of course, I dared him to give me his notebooks until the next morning. He was all too eager to push me his book bag in exchange for making the next spin. I was the lucky one again. He dared me to show my boobs. The problem was that I was wearing a dress. Lifting up my white knee long dress would mean raising the hemline from my knees up to show my thighs, my panties, my belly, and finally my bra. So, I quickly jumped up, raising and lowering the same second to only exhibit a flash.

The bus honked to spare me further misery. I limped with his book bag hitting against my thigh. In the bus, the girl and I had our own booth. The seat in front of us gave us cover, so that only the bored and gray haired lady on the opposite side of the aisle could make out, what we were doing. Pocket boy's hand writing was a horrible squiggle. All the letters were four levels high and as wide as a pigeon's toe. Yet, every entry was diligently dated. The first girl's corrections were made to an entry about five months ago. The girl was an observing Hindu girl, now sitting at the back of the bus in a chaste sari and sandals. She wore the correct bindi dot on her forehead for her caste, gender, and marital status. The only little personal flair on her was a bear pin marking that she was part of the eighteen year old club. She was occupied reading Bhagavad Gita. We interrupted her middle in the discussion between Arjuna and Krishna, if it were better to forgo action or to act. The hindu girl was consciously upset about the interruption of her religious duty and subconsciously glad to be freed of reading the same well known chapter again.

Hindu girl quickly started telling about her encounter with pocket boy. It was during a class excursion right after her eighteen's birthday. To celebrate the last student in class turning eighteen, the English language teacher had taken them to the first R rated movie: Sin Nombre. Funny enough, the movie was in Spanish with English subtitles. The boys in class thought that the teacher was too stupid. The girls in class thought that the teacher wanted to be hip and had taken them to a movie that showed young love and a bit of skin. Pocket boy had found his way onto the red seat with orange style lines next to Hindu girl.

At first, he had whispered her friendly things in her ear. After a few distractions from the movie, his lips had accidentally touched her ear. She had moved over to the other end of her chair. It was dark. Everyone was quiet to listen to the movie. She did not dare talking. However, when his arm fell over the arm rest onto her side, she told him firmly to keep his arms away from him. Faces started turning toward her. She froze into her seat trying karma yoga tricks to become invisible. Pocket boy's hand came back a few movie scenes later. She told him to put his hands in his pocket and if she saw the brown skin of his hands outside her pocket, she would go to the teacher. Seemingly, it had worked. However, the breathing and body position in his chair suggested something laborsome going on. Only, the next day, when he asked her for help with his homework, had she realized what kind of pocket habit she had taught him.

Hindu girl and blondie decided to teach pocket boy a lesson in reverse eve teasing. They walked to the rear exit, where pocket boy was standing holding onto a pole in the bus. I stayed back to remain the objective observer. Blondie brushed against pocket boy's salwar butt. He was wearing traditional pajama like salwar pants with a draw string. Pocket boy jumped a little up. His head cocked a little back, before it jumped forward, when he comprehended that someone had just touched his behind. Blondie left her hand hanging in the vicinity waiting for the next street corner. As the bus turned, everyone swayed a little to the opposite side, except for blondie's hand, which reached between pocket boy's legs to tweeze his balls briefly. Pocket boy moved forward to hug the bus pole. His gaze turned around to meet Blondie and Hindu girl. Blondie excused her 'accident.'

Hindu girl wagered her move with the next pothole that had everyone jostling. Her fingers went on a sniping mission, pulling the drawstring of his pants. The loose salwar quickly slid down on both sides, exposing the white drawers. Pocket boy was holding his pants center. His shoulders seemed to duck a little, as he hastily secured his prudent dress. The Hindu girl got bold and flicked his nipple through the t-shirt.

The scene is still vivid in front of my eyes. The old ram shackled bus with the chips on the handles, the bright Bangalore sun, and the colorful throng of people outside in the streets. Pocket boy was making his way back in the bus away from the girls. A college girl stood with black 'Blank Noise Project' and jeans. All she wanted to know in the affirmative was, if it was justified and if frog boy was over eighteen. Then, she pushed pocket boy onto a bus bench, sat down next to him, and blocked him from getting out. Blondie and Hindu girl were kneeling on the bench in front of them. Blondie reached over the back rest to pinch his nose closed. As he started breathing through the mouth, Blondie taunted him, 'oh, you are so turned on, you are panting already.'

"Do you want to touch my breast?" "No, no, no!" "Are you saying that my breasts are saggy, old, and ugly?" "No, no, no, they are wonderful!" The Blank Noise girl grabbed his hand and put it on her boob. With the other hand, she felt for his crotch. "Are you getting hard?" Pocket boy jumped back in the seat. It seemed that he tried to disappear in the fold between the seat upholstery and the backrest. "Oh, that's not doing it for you, how about this?" Blank Noise put his hand from her boob inside of her jeans to feel her front. Blondie still leaning over the backrest raised her top to shower her yellow bra into pocket boy's face. "Oh, you love those, don't you?"

Hindu girl kicked of a sandal. She pulled her sari up, so that she could reach the leg across the backrest. She pushed the balls of her foot over his eye. "Kiss my feet, kiss my feet" Blank Noise girl let go of his hand on her boob to run her finger nails on his throat as a thread. He started kissing the balls of her foot. The Hindu girl giggled with enjoyment. "We got a hard one, pull his salwar off," called the Blank Noise girl. The Hindu girl came around the seat. She squatted down and bent over Blank Noise girl's sneakers to reach the ankle of pocket boy's salwar. She pulled them down. His drawers stuck to the tightly tied drawstrings. She grabbed them and his sandals. She followed the instructions on the window to push in case of emergency. The window flapped open. The drawers, salwar, and sandals flew out into the street among the chaos of two stroke mopeds. With this, the older women at the back of the bus started shooing away the sole two men.

Pocket boy was sitting there in his t-shirt, naked underneath, with his penis hard in Blank Noise girl's hand. He was sitting there with lust in his penis and panic in his head. The girls commanded him to dance. He was unmoved until Hindu girl's hand slapped down on his face and left a red mark: "We want entertainment, too." He stood up. He started moving his hips in circles. "Spank your ass, make us wet." He spanked himself. "Show us your ass. Pull your cheeks to the side." He did as ordered and revealed the pink of his anus. The girls started poking around in it. He was fire red in the face. He started struggling against them.

Blank Noise girl asked the Hindu girl for her Sari. A Sari is a long piece of fabric that is wrapped around the body a few times. She wore a modest bra and panties that covered half her thigh underneath. She had never been that naked in public. Yet, she merely looked like a Western tourist. She unwrapped the Sari from her body. Blank Noise girl tied pocket boy's wrist behind his back and his ankles together. Then, she tied the ankles behind his back to his shoulders in a hog tie. He was lying on his stomach across both seats of the bus bench. She scooted towards the aisle, lowered her jeans and ordered him 'eat!' Her arms reached behind her to rest on the seat opposite the aisle. Her feet wrapped around his body. Her pelvis pushed into his face. Blondie spanked his naked butt over the backrest and cheered 'eat her well.'

A mere minute later, the Blank Noise girl pushed him off. She partly untied him to take off his t-shirt and throw it out into the streets. Now completely naked, her lips went down on his rod until he was firm again. She straddled him with space in between, so that she could stroke his cock. She pushed one of her breast free of clothes into his mouth. He quickly came and soiled himself on his belly. So, he was sitting naked and drenched in his own cum in a public bus, completely exposed and denigrated.

The girls tied pocket boy naked in the aisle. His butt was facing forward. His hip was tied to one pole. His arms were tied to two poles further behind, so that he was bending forward. They painted with pink lip stick on his thigh and ass: "Eve teasing is bad. Please, teach me just how bad." The girls ran of at the next stop, leaving him exposed and at the mercy of anyone. I stayed on the bus to observe.

The first person to approach him was an old man with gray hair and a neat shirt and pleated pants. He was walking with a wooden cane. It was one of those canes made of wood of the same diameter with a 180 degree curve on top. He reached the curved part of the cane between pocket boy's legs. Then, he looped it over his penis and pulled back gently to probe the standing power of the still erect member. Satisfied, he pulled the wooden walking stick back. He tried to insert the handle of the stick into pocket boy's ass. Yet, pocket boy was an anal virgin. So, he let go. He cupped pocket boys balls with his hands to say good bye.

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