Bombay Fuck
Chapter 1

Copyright© 2017 by uksnowy

Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - We ate Indian last weekend and I was sorry to see that for a long time now Bombay Duck has been off the menu. It was a pungent smelling dried fish that tasted deliciously, a starter dish, bit like that other Far Eastern delicacy Durian best described as...turpentine and onions, garnished with a gym sock. It can be smelled from yards away. urgh!. I also watch some Indian porn recently and one of the ladies dining was so much like one of the so called Aunties in Indian porn.

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   Fiction   Interracial   Black Female   White Male   Anal Sex   Analingus   Oral Sex   Petting   Hairy   Indian Erotica  

IT capital of the world – India?? No way, but it seems to be the place where you end up if you call the help line for computers, net work service providers and the like. I was in Mumbai for the company I was CEO UK because we’d been having a lot of troubles technically. We were well on the way to getting those sorted and I was along not just for the ride, but there were loads of issues and complaints from our customers about having to explain in straightforward English and being on the phone to some one who didn’t have our mother tongue as first language.

We were ensconced in the plush Hyatt Regency on the Sahar Airport Road, our local office wasn’t far and the three of us could walk or taxi, depending on the time of day, the oppressive heat, traffic, vehicular or foot and both are manic at all times. Ruth Madic and Ethen Graves were my colleagues, Ethen a mere slip of a boy at 24 and Ruth my age, 61. She was an old hand at the hard ship trouble spots like India, also Saudi Arabia, very hard compared to India and reflected in salaries. He is a superb IT technician, where as Ruth is a person technician being head of HR or personnel as it used to be termed.

For all her predilection for coverall clothing wherever she was and I’ve travelled to Florida, Helsinki and Lusaka for instancewith her, she never seemed to sweat. She is of medium build, 5’4”, size 12 clothing, pear shaped and tiny feet, Ruth excels in her work in any environment. Her dense wiry grey hair goes nicely with her pale complexion and is what I would call a bouffant style and closely fringes her face, again suggesting a closed hemmed in outlook and certainly appearance. Working she wears, almost frivolous for her, large framed bright red framed spectacles.

I’ve never shagged Ruth but would like to and I have guesses maybe she bats for the other side, as at formal big dressy functions at home when partners are usually invited, there is never a man at her side. She has outstanding taste on clothes, especially evening wear.

“So you’ve got some lined up me to interview Ruth?” I asked at breakfast. We were at the buffet and I was going for a full English as a change from scrambled eggs with onions, tomatoes, red chilli green chillies and topped with fresh coriander. And flat bread. Ruth glanced with horror at my plate as the chef thrust it at me, with beef bacon, with an ill disguised expression of disgust. She told me there were three applicants for secretary and one for reception. I was to see them all as the final arbiter and appointments were all sorted for the morning. We transferred to the office suite in Peddar Road.

I did a load of stuff and phone calls, sacked a bloke who had stolen petty cash, read emails, replied, checked our website and popped outside to the corridor where the applicants were demurely sitting for our meeting. Ruth had suggested her choice for each post, but knew I would decide, after all they wouldn’t be working directly with me in Europe and I was the boss.

I gestured to the first one, the receptionist, less important of the two vacancies but decided to get the easier interview out of the way. The slim, small girl rose and sheepishly rustled into the lounge area of my suite as I held the door open. Her vivid green, yellow and red sari made on hell of a noise suggesting it was brand new just for the interview. Her hair wasn’t full in body and was of course dense black, styled loosely but smart, falling across her shoulders. Her Sari was beautiful, draped over one shoulder and under it she wore a sort of under blouse with close fitting sleeves. Her skin was a gorgeous dusky mid brown tone, down past her small but obvious tits. She wore owl like metal glasses. Her name was Pooja Jain and she was 16. Damned attractive, just what we needed at the front desk.

“Miss Ruth seems to think you can do the job Pooja,” I suggested. “What is your motive?” She went on about family, needing the money, paying brother’s university fees, all the time twisting a row of beads hung round her swan like neck where they dangled down to her lap. Her fingers were nicely manicured, strong looking. I leafed through Ruth’s paperwork and notes, glancing at Pooja’s delicate animated features and the lovely expressions formed by her spectacular lips which curved like rose buds. I couldn’t see any caste marks anywhere on her charming young face. She had the right qualifications from school and college, but I have seen many certificates forged, especially in this part of the world. I read about her family. Mum and Dad, he was a guard on the suburban railway. Four brothers, six sisters and her grandparents who all lived together in the same slum of Dharavi. I told her I knew the area, having toured it as part of my acquaintance with the city. Fucking bleak existence if you ask me.

At one point in the several silences in the interview, she shifted and brought her slender lower limbs into view, shod in delicate gold trimmed flat sandals and I wondered if it was a play to tempt my judgement. It might have worked once upon a time, but she had the job and I was satisfied, telling her so and enjoying the look of sheer gratitude on her teenage face. Pooja left. I made some notes, again reverting to the computer - checking, reporting and answering business, then stepped out to the corridor again.

A much bulkier female rose and sashayed past me, giving me a waft of body and some obscure perfume, it was a horrible mixture. Her name was Arundhati Bhattacharya, age 54 and a deeply focussed mature, well educated woman. I read the copious notes Ruth had collated. Fascinating CV, oil companies, Tata steel subsidiaries, Microsoft (for six weeks), she’d done the big names and had great references. “So ... er Arundh...” “Please Mr Richard, call me Arun,” she interjected firmly, her voice low and modulated. Her sari was gold and silver coloured with wide stripe of silver grey through it. One shoulder was semi bare, and I could see sleeved blouse in dark grey. The material swathed her bosom, a not inconsiderable bosom, down to once again gold motif one inch heel sandals. A bright red Bindi spot between her strong untrimmed eyebrows stated her religion and caste.

I thought of the river Arun back home in Sussex, where my thirty three foot Chris cruiser is moored. The water way is wide, deep and with sensuous curves like Mrs Bhattacharya. She watched me read with a fixed concentrated expression, falsely smiling every time I looked at her. Her background was discussed, her education briefly coming in to play but I knew Ruth had all this and cut her short. I reckoned we could do worse and decided to see the others telling her she could leave.

In came the next in line, similar build, age and stature as Arun. Her name was Kaushiki Chakraborty but immediately she told me to use Shiki to address her. Again a Bindi mark was apparent, but I surmised her Sari wasn’t as good quality material, being thinner. It was pea green with black motifs round the edges. A purple under garment was visible and so was bare skin above the gathered waist band which housed many folds of the yards and yards of Sari I guessed she had laboriously put together. One wrist jangled and sparkled with a mass of bangles.

Her background was solid without being so upmarket company wise as Arun’s and she was much easier to be with, defying a quite hard featured face with deep set hooded eyes and a lot of bags under her charcoal eyes. Shiki’s front top teeth were not nicely aligned, but it somehow enhanced her smile, which was permanent.

“That’s a lovely Sari Shiki “ I told her, as she relaxed into the wooden arm chair. “Thanks you sir, it’s my best, not the best ... you know,” she replied demurely, still smiling as she tidied some of the folds across her knees. It was then I saw her black stilettos, surprising me. “Cost it unimportant if you like it and it suits you, which it does.” She nodded. “Always amazes me when I see them and so many of course. The amount of material that is in them, staggering and such lovely colour combinations. That green and your skin are made for each other,” I gushed. “God knows how you Indian ladies manage in this heat and all that sort of wrapping round your bodies.”

“The heat, we are used to and we’re brought up with our sarees,” she murmured, sitting higher and preening, her silky black locks which hung over one shoulder, nearly to her waist. “My girlfriend is mystified how you wear them,” I chuckled. So was I as a matter of fact. “I mean getting them on, must take ages and complicated?” “Is your girlfriend here ... er Mrs Madic? I could show...” “Good heavens no, don’t let her hear you say that. She’ll tell you she’s old enough to be my mother,” I chortled. “So is your girlfriend here? I could show her,” said Shiki, after apologising for her minor gaffe. “You know, how I put this on.”

“No she’s not, “ I answered simply. My girl friend Marilyn is a stunning 18yr old, short sighted blonde who wears enormous designer spectacles always towards the tip of her slightly hooked nose. Being a natural blonde, therefore pigeon holed by a lot of folk to have marked down as a gold digger, after my wealth through inheritance and rising to the top in my self made business ventures. I couldn’t give a fuck, she’s stunning, wears the most seductive revealing, not too much clothing and adores the expensive jewellery I pile on her. When she enters a room on my arm, everyone’s and that is everyone’s eyes swivel to take her sexiness in and I know in some cases, they are thinking how the fuck does that ordinary looking old git pull a young sexy bird like her? It does my ego a real treat and I thrive on ego. She meets all my needs, doesn’t nag and takes my cock in three holes with many tricks and add ons. “It’s always fascinated me anyway.” “I could show you if you like sir.” What the fuck? “There’s no need to go to all that trouble, we’ve had the interview and I’ve made my decision.” “It is no trouble,” she stated, getting to her feet and swinging the material off her shoulder and standing with it draped over her arm. “See?” Kaushiki stood in front of my desk with a thick, dusky almost grey dark tan, sumptuously prominent roll of bare midriff sandwiched between the purple, bust hugging halter top and her waist band. She rotated swiftly, her bare skin enticingly provocative with two matching fleshy creases on her sides below the edge of the top and her waistband which had it’s own secret life tucked under another roll of flesh. Shiki was a typical middle age local. She swept her long lustrous locks to one side.

I glanced at the wall clock behind her, thinking I’d like to see more of this voluptuous 55 year old Indian housewife and probably aunty as they all seem to be known as. But this wasn’t the proper place. “Gorgeous,” I murmured, standing and stepping round the desk, making an obvious and exaggerated reach for a buzzer and pressing it. I helped to scoop up her Sari and she placed it back in the proper position, smoothing it neatly. “Look Shiki, you’ve got the job, Ruth ... Ruth here will sort things out,” I stated as Ruth entered and nodded getting my message, not noticing me slip my card into Shiki’s hand. She was escorted out and I walked to the window and enjoyed the fifth floor view across the shambling, rambling metropolis.

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