Pristine Love in the Woods

Dedicated to DAB 32697, with respect and veneration

I was too much of a simpleton to be aware of the dainty winsome universe of sapphic love, as I hailed from a conservative, strictly traditionalist village in the hills of Wayanad. I did not abhor boys, but I did not have any attraction toward them. Anyway, my primary concern was higher education and libidinous matters did not bother me at all.

I was goaded to observe the world with a feminist lens only after I reached the university for a doctoral programme. I was goaded and handheld into it by and by, by my hostel mates. It was a long-term progressive process and psychological rehabilitation, in which I had to unlearn the old social mores and entrenched moral barricades. It was a process of emancipation, a process of jerking away the imaginary manacles and the tunnel vision offered by the social straight jacket. The real being in me was reinvented and my assiduously constructed prime and demure façade underwent a classical deconstruction.

On the university campus amidst the verdant rolling hills, many kilometers south of the ancient city of Calicut, there was non-too-visible solidarity of lesbians. Those sisters who needed a sexual release, before the viva voce, before a seminar, after taking a test, after submitting the thesis, after the ordeal of open defense, paired up with those they had a chemistry with. Almost twice a week I had a partner in my bed, a partner that I could synchronize with. These days I am so much addicted to sex that I do not even miss home. I rarely go home and my JRF fellowship is more than enough to keep me going, I do not any more seek financial support from home. nay, oft I support my family.

There is a misconception about sexual orientation. I am not a man trapped in a woman's body. I am a woman, and I am absolutely proud to be one. I am very feminine psychologically and physiologically. I have come to know that my feminine charm has a strong effect on both sexes. I am 5'6'' in height and my natural curves are of the right proportions to be a beauty of sorts. My copious hair cascades down to my midsection like a musically tuned waterfall.

My eyes are strikingly brilliant and eloquent. My nose, believe me, is not blunt, it has a chiseled geometric perfection. And my lips are soft and naturally red. My limbs are long, toned and slender. But my strong asset are my breasts. This 34D pair is an essential eye turner. I am used to men and women furtively straining to get a glimpse.

They are fairly strong and even without a bra, they will not sag even a wee bit. My nipples are prominent and look straight ahead, oft straining to burn through the bra cups. My hips are fairly large to be a match for my bosom.

The brief description of me, given by my choosy bedmate the other day would suffice to define me:

'Bust is at her luscious best

Butt is true a special list

Hip is sweet as morning mist

Twat is a nest of oozing lust.'

Another fallacy is that feminine females look for tomboys and muscular girls for pairing up with. It is nonsense indeed. The girls I am attracted to are luscious and deliciously curved gentle females who have an anatomy similar to that of mine. Some people hold the view that girls are pushed into same-sex exploration, after a debilitating trail of demeaning experiences with boys. I have had no such disasters, in fact, I never ever had an affair with boys. So, I do not anymore subscribe to the traditional false notions. I was more into studies during my college days and romancing had not been my cup of tea. This much would serve as the background for the events I am going to unfold.

It was November 2007, the most beautiful month of the year, when the air becomes silken, and the sun becomes gentle. After the furious rains which last more than six months, the skies will be pure bottomless aquamarine. As usual, I was at the canteen for our subsidized lunch. The hall was fairly packed, and it hummed by the resultant effect of a hundred mouths speaking nonsense while eating. I seated myself in a deep corner and thus I was practically invisible. The atmosphere was slightly smokey with so much steam and heat being generated.

Then I saw her, many of us suspended our jabbering, eating or whatever we were doing, craned up our heads, and ogled. She emerged from the guest room and marched away across the hall in her august glory. She was like a flaring flame of fleeting fire. She must be at least 5'10'', with a halo of coffee coloured hair gracefully falling down to her midsection. It flowed down as a rich and wavy silken hood. Her face was matching with her shirt, pale rose with a slight blush.

Her intelligent forehead had a white marble sheen, and the nose was perfectly Aryan, well-shaped, and commanding respect. The mesmerizing face altogether had the aura of a leader. Her lips had a half smile, that of confidence and self-esteem, which many of us are innocent of. She must be in her mid-thirties, at the zenith of her natural glory.

She was in a pair of faded blue jeans and a close-fitting shirt. In fact, the people at the lunch tables turned their heads, because of what they saw in her shirt. I love and adore breasts; I adore plenty of them on campus. I have quite a number of scrumptious pairs always accessible. But this pair regally seated on that proud chest was different. The twin cones were straight looking ahead, anxious to conquer the world. They did not suffer even an iota of sag; indeed, they were the part of her anatomy that walked ahead of the rest of her body. I reasoned that it was her breasts that claimed a major part of her hypnotizing beauty. They had the power to conquer the world and to keep the world in a state of drugged trance, and awed stillness.

She walked like a slice of eternal vernal bloom walking away. She had long and impeccably sculptured legs, legs that vanished into the heavenly clouds of her hips. When she took her bold strides, hanging her laptop bag from her shoulder, her symmetric butts danced to a piece of cosmic music. Continuously sweet streaks of fire shot up in my loins.

Obviously, nobody had any idea what she was. From her looks, she must be from the far north, probably there to deliver a lecture, I guessed. It was none of my business, the only impact she made was that her presence made us once again realize that this world is beautiful, that God has created such walking poems in flesh and blood, that such adorable and charismatic goddesses walked on this lonely earth. Though I cannot act upon it, her high voltage presence had a strong impact on me. Probably it was because of psychological conditioning.

Quite recently I had stumbled on a blessed author on Literotica, DAB32697, and her stories literally swept me away by the heels. Ever since I had been fantasizing about well-stacked mature, commanding women. I found that the lady in question had just walked out from the pages of DAB32697, yet another edition of Dr. Kathryn.

I sauntered to my cabin at the department of Anthropology, almost like a somnambulist. I was not conscious of the heat of the sun, or of the people greeting me. I was drugged, drugged by the presence of an enchanting presence, the presence of the feminine divine.

I had work to do, publish or perish, that was the rule of the game. Research is a treacherous slough, people go mad, people commit suicide, and people just vanish and fade into obscurity, after many years of sleepless nights. Some of them land up in the Himalayas or they join the hermitic groups, abandoning all lures of the world.

My guide, Prof. Sumalatha, who commands great respect in the academic community, has cautioned me. Research should be a one-point program, if you divert into love, movie, and other distraction, you are lost. I was focused, I was resolute, and I was optimistic. I had to finalize a paper on Cholanaikers, a forest-dwelling community in the eastern hills of Kerala.

Suddenly I was summoned to the professor's office. In the morning we had clearly given me the list of activities and I was furiously into the mission. The call came from the blue. I dropped my keyboard, dusted the front of my churidar, and sauntered into her office trotting along the corridor, making the thumping sound of hooves.

When I opened the half door, I was instantly stunned by the presence of the mysterious lady. The impact was profound, obviously, I went pale, and palpitation was audible to everybody. My palms broke into a sweat. The lady looked at me with her killing, laser smile.

I heard vaguely the professor gently telling me as if from another world, 'Maria this is Dr. Neha Singh from JNU, a scholar in anthropology. Dr. Neha, please meet Maria, my student.'

Neha got up and offered her hand, like a somnambulist I offered my hand. I thought I was inserting my clammy hand into a basket of flowers, warm soft, silky and moist. Her fragrance, the sweet perfume that she was wearing, greeted me like an aphrodisiac. To the last of my breath, I would associate lavender perfume with Neha, and the perfume will have a risqué effect on me, induced reflex as we call it.

Professor asked me to take my seat, I did like a robot, oblivious of the realities around me.

'Dr. Neha would like to visit a few Kurumba hamlets in Attappady, and she needs a companion. I wonder whether you could be free to join her. It will be useful; you could be the second author in the international paper she is going to publish.'

To co-author, a paper with Dr. Neha, alone would clear most of the roadblocks on the way to a doctoral degree. Hers is a name that wields respect in academic circles. Her name is ubiquitous in most of the research papers. I smiled like an idiot, in my dizzied state.

'Maria is a shy and demure girl, but you will like her, Dr, Neha,' my guide commented.

Neha smiled, like a vernal dawn, I stole a look at her beautiful teeth, the pearly teeth looked like the fresh pebbles of hail, which fall in April.

'So, Maria, as you are willing to come away with me, do pick your necessary things and get ready, tonight we will stay at Mannarkad, and early in the morning we will proceed to the hills.' She said condescendingly. Her words rolled out like well-polished rubies. The words had clarity and morphological charm. It was perhaps like the temple bells, rung at the height of a mesmerizing ritual. The words, like arrows, seemed to shoot straight into my soul.

So, we were going to Attappady, certainly an anthropologist's paradise. For many centuries it has been the natural habitat of three distinct tribal communities, Irulas, Mudigas, and Kurumbas. The territory is divided into two distinct climatic regions separated by the Kavunidcal ridgeline. The eastern half is in the Rainshadow region and thus a quasi-xeric zone. The treeless windswept hills are peopled by Irulas on either side of the Mannarkad- Coimbatore highway. Irulas have come to close contact with the mainstream community, and they are still struggling with a grave identity crisis. Mudugas live in the hills, and they have some degree of contact with the mainstream communities.

But Kurumbas are much different. They are far deep in the thick and mysterious forests with little contact with the outside world. I was going to explore an enchanting world with a goddess who would protect me, come what me, with her redeeming hands. I was thrilled and tremors swept past me when I stormed away to my hostel to collect my things. I kissed my right hand, the hand that was blessed by her touch. It still had the lingering fragrance of her handwash.

The car floated its way on Calicut- Palakkad highway, there was heavy traffic. Ancient palm trees and jackfruit trees hemmed the highway. In between, one could see areca nut trees shooting into the heavens like flag poles. All coconut orchards had a beautiful house facing the road, a result of the remittances from abroad. Neha reclined on the back seat and drifted into a slumber. She had traveled all the way from Delhi by air in the morning.

I sat close by and thus I had a chance to feast on her beautiful build. She had removed her shoes and socks to relax and opened a button on her shirt. Her copious flood of hair with a strong metallic sheen cushioned her head. Her face radiated energy in her sleep. I strained to steal furtive glances into her shirt. I could see the outline of her bra, and the luscious swell above the cups. A mesmerizing heat seemed to come from those shining hemispheres. The bra watched the colour of her shirt, pale rose. When she was deep lost in her dreamless sleep, I got a little bolder and tilted my head to catch a better profile of the breasts. The cups were proudly and passionately hugging the perfectly shaped wonders. If I try a bit more, I could get a glimpse of the nipples, the zenith of female perfection.

Pretending to fall asleep, I got a bit more closer and squinted into the interior. A streak of swooning passion washed past me; I saw it. Her mouth-watering nipples were erect. Erect! My panties were steaming. This was the fortune of a lifetime. I experienced my breasts squirming inside my bra, my nipples were trying to find a way to burn out and take a look into their counterparts wrapped in layers of expensive cotton. My fragrance filled the cabin, fortunately, she was asleep. The sleeping beauty of Punjab had me under her spell!

The Punjab is a melting pot of races and cultures. It was the place where Persians, Greeks, Macedonians, Romans, Huns, West Asians, Turkish tribes, and many other cultures clashed and conquered. Thus, the local population had the features and history of all those conquering nations, with the Persian influence pronounced in physical features, language and culture. Though less obvious, the Greek blood and cultural influence are a strong presence in the region. In fact, for many centuries, the Greek language was the official language of royalty. Even today, one can see many edicts on stone slabs in Greek. So, one my side, separated by a few inches, was seated a happy blend of Greek and Persian blood. The union of two rival classical cultures.

We reached a posh hotel at Mannarkad, the nearest town from Attappady. The day was dying into blushing dusk. She dismissed the tourist taxi and we walked to the hotel lobby. The young charming lady at the reception bowed to us and smiled. She received us cordially and politely, the men and women seated there looked at her with their adoring eyes. She politely accompanied us to our double room on the fifth floor. She helped us switch on the lights and opened the door to the toilet to show us the facilities. The settings were luxurious and spic and span. I deposited my things on one of the beds and sat down to remove my shoes. At last, we were in our private enchanting world.

'Let me wash away to dust of the road. Would you like to have dinner here? We could go to a good eating place if you want,' she looked at me.

I was ready for anything as long as she was with me.

'Do we have to discuss the project?' I pretended to be very academic.

'Indeed, we have to. Yes, let us stay put. Let me fresh up and take an energizing bath,' she sashayed to the bathroom. Now the toilet fittings will feast on the artistic perfection of her anatomy. The one who can worship the beauty cannot see it and the ones who cannot worship it can see it.

Neha emerged from the toilet after half an hour. She had switched to pink-coloured silk pajamas. The top hugged her bust as best as it could. The pants outlined her delicious legs. She settled into one of the cushioned chairs and stretched her wet strands of hair, to air dry it. I proceeded to the bathroom to take bath and freshen up. Her aroma lingered in the room, like invisible steam. I undressed, my pussy was slick and oily, and my lips were swollen and twitching.

My breasts were standing out and furiously erect, impatiently demanding a view of the pair of breasts have been furtively feasting on. My right hand snaked into my steaming pussy and my left hand on its own went to my breasts. My finger dived into a pool of viscous nectar. I came instantly, it was a great relief. I was now in a position to discuss Attappady with an academic bent. Otherwise, how could I have sat in her presence and listened to her?

My Goddess, in the meantime, had prepared steaming black coffee and spread some papers on the table as a prelude to the discussion. Her laptop was on. When she lasciviously reclined on the chair, I could see the nipples jutting out. She had put on a new bra. She seemed to be dress conscious and very bothered about cleanliness. I took a sip of the coffee she had prepared for us. The warm aromatic potion spread its charm to the roof of my mouth and down the dark alimentary canal. I was ready to take on the world.

Attappady is a hilly region adjoining the world-famous Nilgiris region, the elevation ranges from 3000 to 6000 feet above MSL. Hence, year around, it has a salubrious climate. Attappady means the land of leaches, which is utterly true. In the wet season, the blood-sucking leaches are more numerous and aggressive. Just like leaches, from the late 19th century onwards, settlers had been pouring into this Shangri-la in thousands. They grabbed the fertile river basins on the Bhavani and Shiruvani and pushed the vulnerable and defenseless Irulas into the dry and desolate desert areas. Most of the tribal women were pushed into prostitution or forced slavery and over the decades the racial purity was gone.

After independence in 1947, numerous government organizations and foreign-funded NGOs poured in to develop the tribal communities. But the definition of development is a serious issue. Can you develop a peaceful community, having its own music, rhythm, and a time-tested lifestyle perfectly synchronized with the imperatives of nature? Development is the universal aspiration of every community in the world. It is by far a process of emulation. The less fortunate societies try to ape the facilities and comforts enjoyed by the better-off societies and communities.

Good roads, power supply, water supply, income generation facilities that know no bounds, and high living standards are the moderate aspirations of most of the communities. However, even in the midst of such opulence people need not have to be happy and satisfied. The busy life in the cities fraught with challenges and competition leaves many people sick and sleepless neurotics. Hence development does not necessarily mean replicating Bombay or Bangalore in the pristine tribal habitats tucked deep in the Sylvan mansions.

Affluence is not development. Rich people do not always make successful people. Most people burdened by impressive academic qualifications do not live a beautiful life. Rich physical paraphernalia and access to all types of comforts and knowledge do not make people happy and pleased with themselves in the broader time scale.

A developed person is one who does not carry a black hole inside him. He is the one who bears the burden of life lightly and gracefully, the one who shares the light inside him with all around. He is not nagged by wants. He is the person, who is satisfied with what he has and what he is endowed with, receiving the vicissitudes of life with poise and unruffled inner peace. Instead of haggard-looking hungry individuals, people should have their inner peace and share it with the world without.

Hence developed community is the one that provides the physical and cultural environment to bring out the best in each individual and weed out the worst in him. By developing a community, it should be provided with the right political cultural, and social climate to help the individuals blossom into creative and developed personalities fearing nothing and caring for all forms of life. It is indeed a long-term process in which a great deal of psychological and cultural rehabilitation is needed.