Miss Gupta of West Bengal Ch. 02

"This feels right," Neha Gupta thought to herself as she lay in bed in her lover Ismail Dadjo's arms. The tall, dark and handsome, forty-something Togolese Muslim stud was everything that she could ever want in a man. Unlike Miss Gupta's late husband Amit, Ismail didn't beat her or berate her, and instead he was charming, passionate, and a kindly man at the end of the day. So what if he works at Loblaw's as a clerk? Money certainly isn't everything.

Ismail stirred in his sleep, and Miss Gupta gently caressed her African Muslim lover's bearded face. Ismail was such a handsome man. He always spoke respectfully of his French ex-wife Josephine and their adult daughter Nicolette, both of whom lived in Paris, France. Ismail was a man of the world, and he treated the women in his life like queens. Miss Gupta prayed for such a man, and at last he was in her life. She was not about to let him go...

Miss Gupta felt pity for numerous women from her country who were married to men who saw them as possessions, and little more. In India, there were still many battles to fight in the war for women's rights. The high divorce rate and skyrocketing rates of domestic abuse in Indian households had a lot to do with clashes between men and women over women's rights in the West. A lot of young Indian women born and raised in America, Canada and the United Kingdom choose to marry non-Indian men, and who could blame them?

"Bitch, you will obey me, I don't care if you make more money than I do, I am your husband," Amit screamed at Neha, during their last argument. That fateful day started ordinarily enough for Neha Gupta and her husband Amit. Neha had come home from her Nursing job at the Civic Hospital. She had several nurses aides working for her in her capacity as head nurse, and most of these young women and men were fellow University of Ottawa alumni. Neha loves her job...and despised her home life.

"Amit, please, not this again, I am sorry if the curry is not to your liking," Neha said softly. After pulling a ten hour shift at the hospital, she came home and cooked for her husband. Amit, who drove a cab for Blue Line Taxi, came home, pissed off after a long day of chauffeuring random people all over the City of Ottawa, Ontario. The short, taciturn, middle-aged Bengali Indian patriarch was already in a foul mood by the time he got home, and his wife's nonchalant behavior didn't do anything to relieve him.

"You're like a lot of women in our community, my dear Neha, you think that because you are more educated and more money then you're better than men, well, in India and everywhere else, men rule, and women serve," Amit said angrily. Neha rolled her eyes but wisely held her tongue. There was no use in arguing with her irate and quarrelsome husband. When Amit got into one of those foul moods, he was likely to get violent and she didn't want that at all.

"Amit, I apologize, I know you had a rough day, so did I, now, please, eat," Neha said softly, and she pulled Amit's chair for him, like the lady of the house is expected to do for her man in their culture. Amit sat down and took another bite of the curry which his wife Neha prepared, and shook his head. When Neha took her place at his right hand side, he looked at her coldly. Neha put on a brave smile, and Amit glared at her. What the fuck was going on inside the tall, fat bitch's head?

"You need to lose weight, Neha, you don't seem to notice it because you're almost six feet tall, but you've gotten bigger and your butt is huge," Amit said coldly. He sipped his drink, and watched as Neha's lovely face twisted with pain. The tall, downright Amazonian gal from West Bengal, India, had always been a proud one. Indeed, Neha was a beauty queen when Amit met her back in India, and she gave up her dreams of modeling to be his wife. Back then, Neha was a proper wife. Moving to the City of Ottawa, Ontario, changed Neha for the worst, as far as Amit was concerned...

"Just eat your food," Neha replied, and when Amit's eyes met hers, he saw a coldness that the Arctic couldn't match. Amit suddenly clutched his chest, and wondered why his ticker was acting up again. He'd gone to the doctor several times and his physician assured him that he was as fit as a fiddle. Yet, for whatever reason, something which Amit ate or drank, or perhaps the stress of his job, caused his heart to experience random pain at random times. Amit dropped his drink, and cried out in pain, for he felt like an icy fist gripped his chest. What the fuck was going on?

"Neha, help me, call an ambulance," Amit cried out as he fell to the floor, and when he did, his wife Neha Gupta stood over him. She stood there, smiling, and held her cell phone in her hand. The last thing Amit saw was the cold look in his wife's eyes. Amit Gupta was taken to the hospital, and although doctors tried their best to save him, he died of a heart attack. The couple's sons Sujan and Banerjee came home from Vancouver, British Columbia, for their father's funeral. Miss Gupta insisted on having her poor husband Amit cremated, and she kept his ashes in an urn in the basement of their Nepean townhouse.

Miss Gupta smiled in the dark, pleased to finally be free to live her life her way. The week before, Ismail took her to the City of Montreal, Quebec. They stayed at a nice hotel, visited Montreal's museums, malls and bars, and then returned to Ottawa with some wonderful memories. Ismail was generous and charming and a wonderful lover, and Miss Gupta couldn't get enough of him. African Muslim men are something else, if Ismail Dadjo of the Togolese nation is any indication...

"Hey gorgeous," Ismail murmured, and he took Miss Gupta's hand and brought it to his lips. Miss Gupta blushed, and then kissed Ismail passionately. She reached for him in the dark, playfully tugging on his chest hairs, and he kissed her forehead and lips. When Miss Gupta felt Ismail's hands on her breasts, she sighed happily. Ismail began sucking on Miss Gupta's breasts while fingering her wet, hairy pussy. In the wee hours of the morning, they began making love...

"Can't get enough of me, huh?" Miss Gupta said, laughing, as Ismail put her on all fours and caressed her big Indian booty. Ismail spread her thick ass cheeks wide open and slid his tongue in there. Miss Gupta moaned deeply as Ismail began eating her ass. At the same time, he fingered her pussy. The Togolese Muslim brother definitely knew how to pleasure the female form, and Miss Gupta was like putty in his knowing hands. She surrendered to him, and he showed her what he was made of...

"You're my queen," Ismail told Miss Gupta as he made love to her. After Ismail gave her warm, tight booty hole a tongue bath, Miss Gupta grabbed his big dark dick and sucked him until he was hard as a rock. All the passion she never felt for her abusive husband Amit came to the surface, and Miss Gupta gave herself to Ismail without holding back. When Ismail came, Miss Gupta drank his masculine seed and smiled up at him. Ismail kissed Miss Gupta passionately, and they continued with their wanton fun...

"I am yours, my African king," Miss Gupta told Ismail as she offered him that which she'd never given her late husband Amit. Ismail smiled, marveling as the tall, voluptuous Bengali Indian Amazon got on all fours and spread her big ass for him. He took some lotion and smeared it on his member and on her backdoor. With a swift thrust, Ismail entered Miss Gupta's ass. Gripping her wide hips, he began fucking her with slow, deep strokes. Ismail wanted to make love to Miss Gupta's ass, and so he did...

"Just like that," Ismail whispered as he worked his dick into Miss Gupta's ass hole. The curvaceous Indian MILF's big beautiful butt bounced as he fucked her. Miss Gupta's ass hole was warm and tight, just the way Ismail liked them. He took his sweet time as he fucked her, and they enjoyed this special moment together. Miss Gupta took Ismail's big dark dick up her ass like a champ, savoring the experience. They fucked like this for some time, then took a break.

"I want to be with you always," Miss Gupta told Ismail, who kissed her and nodded, thanking his lucky stars for her. Ismail had a whole day of activities planned for his favorite lady. He loved Haitian cuisine and wanted to take Miss Gupta to his favorite Creole restaurant in the east end of Ottawa. After that, perhaps they would take a yoga class together, or learn tribal African dancing. Ismail couldn't get enough of Miss Gupta, the mysterious Indian beauty who took his heart. He sensed there was a hidden darkness in her, but the same could be said for any woman, any human being. Ismail is through living in the past, for his future lies with Miss Gupta.