My Young Indian Lover – Part 3
Maid Servant
Submit Report This story is part of the My Young Indian Lover series This is part 3 of my story. Whenever my teenage Indian gardener came around, we didn’t get our clothes off straight away. We still got on with the gardening, though only for as long as we could keep our hands off one another. I remember one time. We were working in the greenhouse. It was a very hot, still, sultry day, and the greenhouse was like a sauna. He was stripped down to his shorts and I was in a very thin, strappy, low-cut dress that was clinging to my curves. As we worked, we chatted. That was one of the really lovely things about him. It wasn’t just about the sex, he was really nice to be with and to talk to. He was telling me about his family, and especially about his grandmother. She seemed to dote on him and used to tell him what a lovely young man he was going to be, and how they’d have to find him a nice girl to marry so he could start his own family. I said, “I bet you know some nice Indian girls already. I see them around. There are some real beauties.” “But, madam,” he answered, “I don’t want a nice Indian girl. None of them have beautiful white bodies like yours.” He was losing his shyness with me, which wasn’t surprising, after what had already happened between us. I said, “I wonder what your grandmother would say about me if she knew I was spreading my legs for you?” He looked at me, a bit nervously. He didn’t say anything, but I knew he’d thought of something. “You know, don’t you?” I said. “Tell me. Tell me what she’d say?” “Oh, madam”, he said, “I don’t want to offend you.” I put down what I was doing and went over to him. I took his face in my hands and kissed him. “Darling,” I said, “Just tell me. I won’t be offended. Promise. Tell me. I want to know.” He hesitated. Then I leaned into him, pressing a breast against him. I felt his heart beating fast. “Tell me.” Then he said, very shyly, “She would say you are a bitch, madam, for doing the things you do with me.” When he spoke that word, it set something off inside me. A thrill went through me. ‘Enough gardening for today,’ I thought. I could tell he was aroused, too. I thought, “It excites you to say that to me, doesn’t it?” Then I started to run my hands over his chest and shoulders. “A bitch?” I said. “Me, a bitch? Well, perhaps my husband would say the same. And tell me the truth, haven’t you ever thought of me that way?” He didn’t reply. I went on. “I’ll tell you a secret. I’ve thought of myself like that. And you know what? I like it. It excites me. Aren’t you a lucky young man, having your own hot, willing bitch to play with?” He was breathing faster now, and his heart was pounding. I put my arms around him, pressing my breasts against his chest. “Your bitch. Say it.” He didn’t reply, but his fingers dug into my back. Then I bit him on the shoulder quite hard. “Say it.” He whispered, very low, urgently, “My bitch.” “Your white bitch.” (Bite) “Oh, madam. My white bitch.” “Your hot white bitch.” (Bite. Bite.) “My hot white bitch.” And then he kissed me hard, one hand behind my head, forcing my mouth onto his. The other hand was on my bottom, pressing my belly into his groin, onto the swelling of his already hard sex. I was suddenly desperate. Then I pulled away from him, knelt down, tore his shorts open, dragged them down his legs, and forced his long, dark rod deep into my mouth. At the first taste of it, sweaty, and salty, I started to salivate, I was dribbling all over him. I could hardly believe it. I, a married white woman, kneeling in the dirt, my mouth stuffed full of a teenage Indian boy’s dark cock. Then I thought to myself, “You bitch. You cock-hungry, cock-sucking bitch.” Then I sucked and mouthed him as hard as I could for a few seconds. Then I let go and stood up. I pulled one arm out of its shoulder strap and pulled the top of the dress down to expose one bare breast, the same on the other side. The dress was clinging to me, soaked in sweat, and I had to pull and tug to get it down over my hips. I heard a seam rip, got it off, and kicked it aside. I wore nothing underneath. His eyes were burning with lust. Naked, I stood in front of him. Naked, I turned my back to him and got down on my knees and elbows, my breasts down in the dirt of the floor. My thighs were wide, my hips raised, everything wide open for him. “Please,” I begged, “Please, this bitch is in heat. She needs to be mounted. Mount her, now. Fuck her. Fuck the bitch.” “Yes,” he gasped, hoarsely. “Yes, yes.” He came down over me, his hands in the dirt on either side, his chest and belly against my back. For a moment, I felt the end of his rod sliding around my lips, and then it found my wet hole, and Ahhhh! It was in me, thrusting deep, pushing through my tight muscles, driving and driving into me again and again. We were dog and bitch, joined at the sex, he was mounting me, fast and hard, over and over, with no stopping, and no mercy. Then he drove in one more time and stayed deep, crying out, as he emptied himself, so far that surely he was filling my womb. He came out of me, gasping, and knelt behind me. I started to get up but he put a hand on my back, pushing me down again. “Stay there, bitch,” he said. “I haven’t finished yet.” Rough fingers ran over my back and shoulders, down under my belly, smearing the sweat with dirt. He groped at my chest, pressing and squeezing my dirty breasts in his dirty, beautiful hands. Something trickled down my thigh. Then he was on me again, and I braced myself as his cock speared me once more. He fucked me strongly again, calling me his bitch, his white bitch, his fuck-bitch. I knew this was just for him. Now he was using me, fucking his bitch’s body just to slake his own lust.