Book of kamasutra
Wow. What response to my stories. Specially my cross-dressing series… All guys and ladies pls read my other stories for more fun. Here are my latest stories of a wife call pinki. So let start the story Three years ago I was a domesticated housewife, a mother of three, and a full-time nurse. I grew up in the Indian culture that clearly defined my role as such. I did everything that was expected of me, even to a fault. But that was three years ago, before I reached the age that scientists tell us women achieve their peak. When mother nature took her course, my sexual organs began rumbling and petitioning my brain that they were being underused and not living up to their potential. I always had a healthy sex drive or at least healthy as described by special doctors: a state of well being in body and mind. But I was limited by my Indian defined role. You see, girls where I came from weren’t supposed to know about the sex act until their husbands taught them. Sure, our mothers gave us the obligatory speech, but it was a rare mom who could get into specifics beyond the “birds and the bees”. My own mother stumbled through her speech so badly that, until I took ninth grade biology, I thought I actually pollinated. My husband, Rahul, god bless his soul, was worse off then me. He was so shy on our honeymoon that I feared my virginity would soon be an albatross around my neck. But some how we fumbled through, him in his knee-high sports socks and me with my carefully chosen negligee barely removed. In the years since, we’d experimented a little, but when I say experimented, I mean in an old-fashioned way: let’s put this on top of this and see what develops. We would kiss, he would tug on a breast, I would stroke his cock a couple of times, he’d get on top of me, and we’d fuck. Frequency was never a problem, but by way of variety… Well let’s just say we had barely surpassed the missionaries. Then along came my prime. I had read about it in all the women’s magazines, knew it was coming, but still underestimated the magnitude of its power. Somewhere along age thirty-two, sirens began whirling, horns started blowing, flags were waving, and I swear, a veritable welcoming parade marched through my genitals, announcing that I was now ready to test the boundaries of my sexual freedom. Never being one to miss a parade, especially one presented with such panache, I whole-heartedly agreed I should test the boundaries. The question now was how to do this, so I hiked myself over to the local barns & noble. I bypassed my usual gardening, cooking, and fiction aisles, and went straight to the erotic and sexual awareness aisle. I expected the seats to be covered in sensuous black velvet. Unfortunately, they were paisley like the seats in the other aisles. I was mildly disappointed. I hesitated at first; another woman was sheepishly perusing a book. She could have been my clone. She held it in her hand, away from her body, and quickly looked from side to side before turning a page. I fancied we were step ford wives about to be discovered-somehow we were the only two who survived the transformation from human into robot. When she spotted me, she looked guiltily down at the book in her hand. I weakly smiled, trying to signal it was ok. Her face blanched. She either thought I was hitting on her, or I was there to show her the error of her ways, or both. She harrumphed and hurriedly stuffed the book back on the shelf. Then with her nose in the air, huffed by me. I giggled and thought, oh well, the ranks of the Indian wives gone amuck had just dropped to one. My curiosity got the best of me so I reached for the book she had hastily returned. It was a book of one hundred sexual positions based on the kama sutra. I haphazardly flipped it open and began to fumble through the pages, gawking at the pictures. Many of them were arousing with their explicit portrayal, others would take the limberness of an Olympic gymnast to accomplish, and a few would require the willpower of a silent monk not to end up in full-blown belly laughs. But all in all, I decided it was a book to take home and share with Rahul. I grabbed the latest Redbook home journal to sex & checkout, and I was on my way. That evening I managed to pawn the kids off onto individual friends and family. So with book in hand and enough leftover romantic flair from watching Rogers and Hammerstein’s “Cinderella” religiously, I proceeded to set the trap for my unsuspecting husband. I washed the sheets, doused them with an extra bit of Downey, lit a few candles, and fixed Rahul’s favorite meal. Rahul was excited, not only because he got to eat country fried steak and mashed potatoes, but he knew we had the evening alone, and would be adding another missionary strike on the bedpost tally. He was completely unaware of the book I’d purchased or my plan to lure him into sexual decadence. After dinner, I bathed, shaved, shampooed, fluffed and powdered till I was a walking commercial for Lancôme. When Rahul came into the bedroom, he found me beneath the covers, attempting a seductive pose. He must have been pleased, because he was already sporting an erection. He slipped into bed and arduously kissed me. Juices were flowing but I wanted a little boost. So I pulled out the book and said, “look what I bought!” He looked at the title in horror, as if the gates of hell had just opened up and Satan himself was yanking us in. “what’s wrong with the way we do things?” he whined at the end of his question so it sounded more like “thiiiiings.” I rushed to reassure him. “nothing is wrong with it honey, but it’s like this: if carrot cake were your favorite dessert and you ate it every day, eventually you might want to try the apple pie, but it wouldn’t mean that carrot cake wasn’t still your favorite.” So he sighed, took the book, and began to thumb through it.