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Across Rooftops

Sheila assumed that because her building was the tallest in the area no one could really spot her. She had built her house in a style to remind of her Shillong days; that was not so easy considering that this South Indian city was rapidly losing its greenery.

And while the rooms and much of the house was on the ground and first floor, on the second floor she had her room, surrounded by a riotous burst of greenery, shrubs and ornamental plants. It was her refuge. As her son grew into a teenager she found it necessary to meet the needs of her bubbling cauldron of sexuality in different ways than it had been in the past.

Over the years she had a string of lovers. Some dearer to her with whom she spent long, languorous hours when the house was quiet. Others were more to do with her lust unleashed as she took a fancy to a handsome man and devoured him as a special treat. On many of the occasions the quiet of her house was rent apart by the animal bellowing she allowed herself.

In Shillong and in other stations where her husband's job took them, the houses were palatial bungalows. There were rooms which had glasses on all sides overlooking lush forests. There were gas fired heater rooms where, despite the torrential storms that lasted hours, it would be warm and dry. And in that wild weather interruption was no risk. And to the howls of the wind she added the tempestuous shouts of her own delight.

Of her lovers only some could match her vocalisation. They were all fitter and libidinous in their youth: that is why they were chosen by her. Not one of them lacked the stud-like virility she craved, hungered and feasted on. But they were all junior officers of the company in which her husband worked, or fresh managers at banks and other companies for whom her husband's company was a client.

None of the men could ever forget that. Seduced as they had been by Sheila, voluptuous with large breasts and hips in which to sink was a delight, they were all too aware who they were fucking. None of of them never lost sight of the fact of who they were with. She made sure it stayed that way no matter how intimate the moment was; be it how they were being ridden, or were sucking those lovely large breasts, or buried between the thighs and drinking, or ramming hard to tame the unquenchable. She was the wife of a person who could change their careers.

And that is why even if some of them might have wanted to join her in the crescendo, they did not. One had bitten into her shoulder. Another had gripped her breasts so hard they were tender for days after. And of course, one of them had turned her around and been so animal with her that he delighted her no end; except she was too raw for any satiation for a few days and had to content herself with being eaten out.

All of which lay back there in the past, when life was a wild romp in the wilds of the North-East. Those were her hey-days. She was insatiable yet restrained in her voluptuousness. She was raw in her sensuality but she carried it with impeccable social skills. She was never dressed in anything but a saree but she wore it so that the effect on the men around was electric. In the flow of bodies in the cocktail parties many chanced upon her and hoped that tonight would be their night. It never was.

Sheila's eyes were only for virile, stud-like men who were on transferable jobs. Here today for her and gone tomorrow to make space for the next hors-de-oeuvre. And the men who she had flirted with in those parties and reduced to jelly went home and fucked their wives with an imagination and gusto not seen by the wife in a while.

All of that changed when the kids had to receive a more stable education and she shifted to the South. And she created an island for herself in her room on the top floor. But this was her home town, not some remote plantation town. She could not be her real self. She had fashioned herself into a woman who had harnessed the volcano within her very well. There was unlimited sexual energy but it was channelized with class and style. There was a buzz about her; but not that of a slut. Never.

She was not about to drop standards and style and become a slut. Not Sheila.

And so she withdrew and handled her unbridled and seemingly ageless sexuality differently. One could add it to the list of sacrifices a mother makes for her children. Sexuality ranks right there on the top of the list of sacrifices, unacknowledged, unsung and often unrequited.

The idea came to her slowly. But when it did, it gushed forth as a new release for the pent up woman inside her. She loved her plants and shrubs. And she tended them lovingly. It was when she was watering them that she allowed the water to splash on her. It reminded her of the rainy days and nights in Assam when it would pour incessantly. If she had one her toy-boys on her arm, she would carelessly allow the sleeve of her blouse soak, giving him a full view of her damp, dusky skin below. And as the material blotted up the water the wet patch would reach the side of her breast. The handsome man would be lost in drinking in the sight of that heavy breast and lose his mind trying to see more...

And so she allowed the garden hose to splash on her, wetting her so that the saree clung to her ankles. The cool wet garment on her skin thrilled her. As she walked in back to her room she would slowly pull up the saree and her petticoat within, in a slow sensuous dance, allowing the cloth to make her wet further up her legs. And then flopping back on her bean bag , she rested her feet up, one on a table and the other on the bed.

Lying spread like that she might massage her own breasts, in large round movements. Squeezing them and feeling out the nipples as they ached for the voracious sucking of a restless man. Sometimes she ripped open her blouse to milk her own teats. The feverish pitch rose and inevitably Sheila would end up stroking her pubis hard. A handy hairbrush handle, her own sensitive fingers, dipping in, mimicking the hard stroking of a penis, thumbing her clit... and at the height of that self arousal a moan of deprivation.

The brush handle did not throb from within. The hand that probed her lacked the variety in texture that another's hand brought. The thrusting was not accompanied by the comforting weight of a man hovering over her. If her hands were stroking her, there was no way to stroke her bubbling breast tips. There were no ankles to wrap her own ankles around.

The thrusting and stroking became more frantic as she ached for more and more and more. And then when it came she thrashed, screaming or shouting if she needed to. On occasions there were muffled sobs, on other occasion whoops of delight as she relived a particular moment with a particular lover of her past.

Her orgasm flooded over, she accepted it gratefully, allowing her body all the heaving and thrashing it needed. And when it all subsided she might lie there for hours, staring at the sky or the clouds or merely enjoying the cool kisses of the breeze; which wafted around her like a surprised youth chancing upon this sensuous, delectable woman. In her satiation, her contentedness was complete. The ache for another's hand at the height of her release-seeking passion had subsided and was completely replaced by happiness. There was a certain elegance and convenience in being by yourself. There was less to do afterward, and one could luxuriate in the moment.

The pattern repeated. There were obvious variations. And as the number of instances when she went uninterrupted rose, a certain carelessness crept in. Obviously, no one could see her. This was her own private pleasure garden.

She was wrong. Sham spotted her only because his mother insisted that he climb atop the tank which was completely inaccessible on the top floor, to see if it had filled up. That was when he noticed Sheila.

She was hosing herself directly on her chest. She allowed the water to splash on her neck and then flow down sensuously. The water soaked her blouse and ran between those breasts like a great river flowing in a large mountainous valley.

Sheila enjoyed the way the water filled her cleavage then crested around her mounds and then flowed lower down her body. The water surrounded, teased, caressed and chilled her breasts but it could not build up enough to touch those nipples. The slopes of the breasts that it sought to conquer gave way to the flow of the body. The build up in the cleavage spilled over. Like a teasing lover, despite its cold touch, the water maddened Sheila with heat for her nipples to be touched. They rose up as if in protest, strong and protruding, asking for their share of the caresses.

Sheila ached to pinch her nipples but did not want the water flow on her body to stop. Sham watched with the mad arousal of a virgin as in an inspired moment, she held the hose between her knees allowing it to spout water upwards on her thighs. It soaked the saree completely and the garment's colour was overcome by the shade of the dusky brown skin it meant to conceal. Sham lay down on the concrete tank to avoid being spotted, trapping his hard erection against the hard surface below.

Sheila cupped her hands and lifted her breasts, squeezing them as her fingers advanced upon the nipples. The water now became a teasing lover at her thighs and pubis. The fingers found their target and Sheila squeezed hard. She shivered and unknown to either of them, her shiver was matched by his.

For the nineteen-year old Sham this was the first time he had ever seen a woman in a sexual act of any kind. Here was an aunty in his neighbourhood, fully clothed but wet, stimulating her own self.

He watched breathlessly as Sheila explored herself further. Surrounded by all her lovely shrubs she felt the need to make love to herself in their midst. She lifted one leg onto the edge of one of the large pots. Her legs spread wide, she slipped the hose under the saree hoisting it as far up as needed.
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