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I was surprised at how turned on I was beginning to feel by the situation. It was obvious that he was staring at my bum and pussy, his hands massaging the bottom of my cheeks and tops of thighs, opening them up each time his hands rubbed across them. I adjusted myself so that I slightly opened my legs to give him a better view. I felt him rub up my legs and then touch my pussy lightly with the tips of his fingers from front to back, testing the water to gauge my reaction. When he realised. Now he laid in her bed, shivering and sweating with the worst of his illness about to be over.His large muscled frame filled the entire bed forcing her to move to another room even though he babbled like a baby when the fever took him. Not that she would have shared the bed with him anyway. She had to maintain a a strong sense of propriety as his guardian and as a single woman of 36.She sat in the parlor of her tiny civil service bungalow and stared at the insects hurling themselves at the. Now let me explain her figure, she always used to wear saree and very well groomed, she had brown complexion she did have huge boobs.She was very friendly, jovial and we both used to get along well with each other.Then I slowly got to know about her family, she had two school going kids and she was a divorcee and she was working to help her kids go to school.Since she was from Bangalore she knew Kannada and I used to ask her to teach me sometimes. Then one day I asked her the reason for her. Not real memories. Just luke-warm breezes of artificially remembered happiness. They were long gone feelings of being well... well... being... Then there was the voice.It was a throaty female voice. It seemed to use words, even sentences. But they were like a foreign language to him. Like when you can't know where one word ends and a new one begins.Yet, he knew their meaning. As he knew the meaning of what he saw. The words and the pictures seemed glued to his soul. Or even better: grafted on.
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