Roshni Ch 05

Roshni 05 -- The Train

When I first met Roshni I had thought her to be indifferent to, or even proud of, her body hair. But what I had taken to be self-assurance and confidence was actually Roshni's way of managing inner doubts that were quite the opposite. Roshni dealt with her fears by facing them daily.

December. Roshni and I had made a trip into the city for some Christmas shopping.

Early summer in Auckland isn't always warm, but is an improvement on winter and for Roshni that was a welcome opportunity. Her outfit for the day was sweetly sexy -- a white sleeveless blouse and black short-shorts, her slender downy brown arms and legs deliciously bare. Her luxuriant black hair was tied in a neat ponytail, flattering her long and graceful neck, the beautiful oval of her face. She wore no jewellery, and simple open-toed sandals.

She looked gorgeous.

As we went from one shop to another I would sometimes drift over to the far side of the store and watch other shoppers; she drew more than her share of glances. Her dark, slender bare arms and her long and toned bare legs seemed to shine, such was the beauty of her youth. At a glance, few would have noticed the fine hairs that softened her limbs, seeing only the perfection of her brown skin and the petite, slender shape of her lean body, her breasts small but deliciously shapely within the confines of the crisp white blouse, her round arse tight and firm within her little black shorts.

From time to time, though, Roshni would give her admirers a glimpse of what I found so sexy; when she reached for an item on a high shelf, or lifted her hands to adjust her ponytail, she bared the dark and hairy treasures of her armpits. Within their deep hollows were brushes of jet-black and dense hair, abundant and lush. The sight would inevitably draw a second look from people; some shocked, some amused, some intrigued, but eyes always drawn to the thick hair in her underarms.

Sometimes she would catch them staring; usually she would meet their gaze with the tiniest smile, her big, dark eyes radiating charm, and make no attempt to lower her arms. That only made her more sexy, and I watched her in admiration and in an almost-constant state of arousal.

In addition to not shaving her underarms -- she had never shaved them in her life -- Roshni never wore deodorant, or even perfume; preferring to stay natural and clean. Inevitably, though, over the course of a day, Roshni would sweat, and the musky fragrance of her body was more alluring than any roll-on.

As we continued our shopping through the afternoon, we passed a clothing store -- young fashion for women. I glanced in through the window and saw, on a shop mannequin, a top that Roshni simply had to wear. It was white, essentially a boob-tube but with a simple shoestring halter strap; it would leave the wearer's shoulders, arms, upper chest and back completely bare in the sexiest way.

"I'm going to buy you that top," I told Roshni. "And I want you to wear it for the rest of the day."

I could see reluctance on her face, in the way her thick eyebrows knotted slightly; the top would probably leave her more naked than she cared to be. But at the same time, it was a challenge to her, and she knew it.

Her pretty, plump lips twisted briefly into an expression of uncertainty, but then she nodded. "Okay."

It was a quick process; I found Roshni's size -- impossibly-small -- and paid for it, then ripped off the tag and told her to get changed. Roshni ducked into a changing booth and emerged a few moments later in the halter top, handing me her discarded white blouse and the bra she had been wearing beneath it.

She was the sexiest sight, and it took my breath away.

Her petite body was hugged divinely by the boob-tube top, its little halter string knotted in a bow at the nape of her neck. Her brown skin looked beautiful and dark aganst the white garment, her long and slender legs left wonderfully bare by those tiny shorts. When she turned and regarded herself in front of the shop mirror, the halogen downlights caught the small mounds of her breasts and highlighted their shape, unsupported but firm. Her nipples poked unmistakeable grape-sized bumps in the fabric. Her body was proportioned like a model. The lights also caught the tiny downy hairs that softened every inch of Roshni's bare skin.

The top was quite short, and, as her little shorts rode relatively low on her slim hips, there was a ten centimetre span of her flat, firm belly now exposed. Curling out over the top of her shorts were a few black pubic hairs, and then the tiny fluffy hairs of her dark little treasure trail, leading up to her belly-button; and even a soft dark fuzz on her belly above it.

"What do you think?" Roshni asked me with a bright smile.

She knew what I thought. She could see the bulge in my pants. But Roshni had other admirers, even the shop assistances were looking on with envy.

"That top looks so good on you!" one remarked.

"Thanks!" Roshni beamed.

I could see what was coming. Roshni lifted both hands to the string-tie at the nape of her neck, to adjust and refasten the bow. The shop assistant nearly choked as she saw the heavy brushes of black hair in each armpit, the other stifled a giggle; I could tell that both were shocked.

Roshni winked at me and took her time adjusting the string-tie. It was her style to flaunt and flash her hairy underarms in situations like this. She loved the fact that it challenged people's ideals of beauty, but that they couldn't deny her sexiness.

"Come on, Baby -- let's go!"

Roshni had flaunted enough. Moments later we were walking hand-in-hand down Queen Street. Almost everybody noticed her; men and women alike. Some tried quick glances, others just stared, eyes magnetised to Roshni's lithe and taut little body, her brown limbs, her tight little breasts and barely-there butt; the dark trail of hairs leading down below her belly-button, a clue to the abundant pubic bush hidden inside those little shorts. Those who were lucky enough got close enough to see the wheat-field swirls and patterns of fine downy hair on her arms and on her back. Although she had far more fuzz on her body than most women, on Roshni it was beautiful.

From time to time, as we continued our shopping, Roshni would again adjust her hair, or find some other excuse to lift her arm. Even if she put her hands on her hips or rested them on the curve of her butt, people noticed the dense black nest of coarse hair in the deep hollow of her undearm. It was impossible not to, and Roshni struck those poses purely for the reaction she would get -- sometimes shock, sometimes pure and barely-concealed arousal.

Near Vulcan Lane, a couple of businessmen sat on a pedestrian bench watching passers-by. Roshni stopped, only paces from them, and proceeded to untie and re-tie her ponytail, both arms lifted as she did so. Without even realising it, both men stared like kids at a candy store, eyes wide and mouths open. Roshni pretended not to see them, her raised arms presenting the dense, tangled hair in her dark armpits, her small breasts lifted and straining against her little white top, her nipples poking their half-inch nodes in the tight fabric.

I kept my distance, only glancing occasionally, enjoying the show equally myself. But I also knew that in this display was the secret to Roshni's confidence: control. As long as she chose who saw her armpit hair, and for how long, and in what manner, she was okay.

But I suspected that the situation would be very different if the control was no longer hers. Perhaps cruelly, I decided to find out.

I pretended to suddenly notice my watch. "Oh no! Our train leaves from downtown in three minutes!"

Suddenly distracted from the display she was giving the businessmen -- probably to their great disappointment -- Roshni let her arms drop and looked at me. "We're going?"

"Quick, we can still make it!"

I grabbed her hand, and started to run.

In shorts, sandals and such a little top, Roshni had no difficulty running with me, dodging through the crowds along the footpath, her ponytail bobbing up and down as she went. She enjoyed it, although quickly became out of breath: it was about four blocks and we had to run fast to cover the distance.

At Customs Street we jaywalked; Roshni was panting already, but I made her run the last sixty metres or so to Britomart. The foyer clock showed 4:29 -- less than one minute until the train's scheduled departure.

"Quickly!"

I led her in a hurried dash down the escalators into the depths of the station: our train was still on the platform, its doors open, but all the passengers were already inside and the guards hurrying the final few aboard. Roshni was laughing as we cleared the bottom of the escalator and along the platform to the train.

"Oh god, now I'm all sweaty!" she declared as we made it, just in time, in through the doors of the train: the alarm sounded, and the doors closed. But her voice quickly trailed off as she looked through the carriage and realised that it was full.

Every seat was taken; the areas around the doors were already crowded with standing passengers, and the only place for us to stand was further down the carriage, between the seats. Roshni sent me an anxious look, but I shooed her to the nearest free space, at the same time making sure we were well away from any upright handrails. The only handrail was the one that ran overhead.

Now, Roshni looked frantic. I could see she was looking around for a hand-hold lower down; suddenly, in her tiny tight top and her next-to-nothing shorts, she was very much the centre of all the passengers' attention, and all the control had been taken away from her. I could see tiny flashes of sweat in the downy hair down the side of her jawline, and above her lip. There were even sequins of sweat on her bare shoulders and amidst the soft fuzz on her upper back. Roshni was suddenly self-conscious, and sought to fold her arms across her breasts to hide the bumps her nipples poked in her tight top.

With a sudden jolt, the train started away. Roshni stumbled, and instinctively grabbed the overhead handrail.

Two dozen pairs of eyes locked into the black hairy hollow of Roshni's armpit.

With Roshni's over her head; there was no way she could hide her hairy underarm from her fellow passengers. Jaws dropped, people swapped glances with each other, and I even heard several gasps and giggles as the train gathered speed.

Even I couldn't help but stare. Roshni's slim, brown bare arm raised, the firm ridge of her pectoral creating one flank of the dark ravine in which her untamed thatch of thick black hair grew. Below that, her lifted ribcage: atop it, hugged by the thin fabric of her too-tight top, the slight swelling of her breasts and the unmistakeable nubs of her proud nipples -- that not only poked visible bumps in the fabric, but the darkness of her areolae were quite plain to see. The unforgiving fluorescent lights of the carriage clearly lit the fine fuzz that softened her arms and thighs, glinted off the downy hairs below her navel that led in a thickening trail inside her tight little shorts.

Resigned to her predicament, Roshni fixed her eyes to the floor. She knew that she was the focus of everyone's amusement, reduced by public scrutiny to something of a freakshow, and now all of her school-days' self consciousness returned with a vengeance. Roshni was incapable of blushing, but I could see the droplets of sweat crowding across her brow and I knew that she was profusely embarrassed.

As if the exposure wasn't bad enough, Roshni was still out of breath from her run downtown. As her chest heaved, it only drew more attention to her small breasts and the prominent bumps of her nipples. And then, quite clearly, from the stark, thick brush of hair sprouting from her exposed armpit, a cloudy droplet of sweat slid, following the brown gully of naked skin to the white of her top, leaving a visible trail that glistened under the carriage lights.

And so it was, for the duration of the ride. Roshni standing in the middle of a crowded train in short-shorts and a tiny white halter-top, her arm raised so she could hold onto the handrail, her hairy and now very sweaty armpit offered to her fellow passengers' eyes. What the run had started, Roshni's embarrassment amplified: when Roshni was nervous or embarrassed, she sweated heavily.

Even from where I stood, two metres away, I could clearly see the glistening dewdrops of perspiration amidst the heavy feathers of black hair in Roshni's armpit. Another trickle slid down towards her top. Her upper chest was shining wet. Her throat was gleaming.

Roshni chewed her lip, trying to wish herself out of her predicament; but there was no escaping it. I could hear the whispers of passengers commenting on her -- and the comments weren't kind.

God, that's gross! I heard; and, hasn't she ever heard of a razor? Followed by, what a shame, she's so pretty!

I was sure Roshni could hear the comments, too. Her thick eyebrows were angled down in a half-frown of concentration as she fought to ignore it all, but I knew she could feel the sweat oozing on her skin, and there were quickly-growing half-moons in the fabric of her halter top beneath each arm.

The train jolted and shuddered on its journey, and Roshni was obliged to hold the handrail above her head the entire time. Slowly her expression shifted from desperate embarrassment to total acquiescence; effectively surrendering herself to her embarrassment. Still the sweat came, though, bold streaks of wetness running from the saturated hair in her underarm to the soaked edge of her top.

After a while, her arm tired, Roshni swapped hands. As she lifted her other arm and grasped the handrail overhead, it was to reveal the sweat-matted carpet of her armpit hair; the entire hollow of her underarm was wet with her perspiration. The hairs, where not glued to her armpit with sweat, clung in little black twists and wet curls. The side of her top was visibly wet in a half-moon, and I even thought for a moment that I could smell her, musky and fresh but unmistakable.

I couldn't help smiling; at that moment I felt blessed to have that beautiful woman as my lover. I wondered if these passengers knew that this dark-haired, dark-eyed tawny goddess sucked my cock every morning when we woke; or that I licked the crinkled little star of her arsehole until she shrieked her orgasms into the pillow; or that the sweat that trickled so visibly down the gully of her armpit was mine to drink?

The train eventually pulled up at our station; Roshni couldn't get off the train soon enough, and we hurried home.

"God, that was so embarrassing!" Roshni squealed when we finally arrived home. There were tears in her eyes. "I wanted to curl up and die!" Dropping onto the sofa, she hid her face in her hands, and then said something that surprised me: "I am so turned on!"

So was I.

I had to kiss her, and the way she pushed her tongue inside my mouth betrayed her arousal. As I kissed her on the sofa, Roshni raised both her arms, cupping her own elbows with her hands so that she locked her arms above her head. Straight away, I could smell the nervous sweat in her armpits, more aromatic than any other. It was the scent of a goddess.

Roshni's dark lips were parted and swollen with arousal as I broke from the kiss and plunged my face into the humid hollow of her right armpit. The thick hair felt like hot, wet wool. I breathed it deeply, feeling the heat of her underarm on my nose and mouth, drawing in the slightly acidic smell of her sweat. Roshni sighed and shuddered,

This close, I could see the intimate detail of Roshni's armpit; each individual hair, black and thick, growing distinctly in two directions; one clump following her upper arm, the other tapering down the gully between her pectoral and deltoid muscles. Below, the gentle ravine of muscle was streaked with her free-running sweat, ending in the white of her brand-new halter top now soaked in a huge circle below her raised arm.

I had to taste her; gently I put out my tongue and touched it to the hot skin below her armpit, licking along the wet line of sweat. It tasted salty-sour, the most arousing taste imaginable. Roshni moaned at the sensation.

"Taste me, drink me," she pleaded.

I nuzzled up through the thick heavy bush of her armpit hair, a soft wet brush spreading its musky scent over my face, my tongue diving into the intimate depths of her underam to taste her. Roshni groaned again, squirming her hips, her arousal growing by the second. She arched her back, her arms still clamped together above her head to bare the hairy dark hollows of her armpits, her nipples straining through the damp fabric of her halter top.

I tongue-kissed the hairy nest of Roshni's armpit, searching out each salty droplet of her precious sweat, then sucked the thick hairs into my mouth, drawing out the pungent flavours of her body, worshipping and savouring her divine juices. Roshni sighed and moaned with her pleasure, her chin lifted, her fingers gripped her elbows keeping her arms up. When I shifted to her other armpit, she gave a soft cry of arousal, urging me to drink her perspiration and suck the thick tufted hair for its aromatic nectar.

While I drank the secretions of her armpits, my hands explored Roshni's petite slender body; the bones of her hips, up over the softly-furred plain of her belly, feeling the firm corrugations of her ribcage and the tiny swells of her breasts. Through the fabric of her top I toyed with the swollen stubs of Roshni's nipples.

I tongued and teased Roshni's armpit as if it was her pussy, kissing and sucking on the sensitive skin and drawing her sweat from every pore, and it had the same effect on her: her back was arched, her moans deepening as her arousal swelled. When I sucked her thick armpit hair into my mouth and tugged gently, then licked through the intimate creases of her underarm, searching out the last droplets of her divine sweat, Roshni's orgasm finally hit, and she lifted her hips from the sofa, crying out in pleasure, driven to orgasm by the mere attentions of my tongue in her sensitive armpits.

Roshni was spent, but I was still aroused as hell. Her tight, hairy brown little body demanded exploration from head to toe, from the long soft hairs on the back of her neck and down the side of her face, to her pale-soled feet.

"Turn over, Baby," I told her.

Roshni rolled onto her stomach, resting her head on her arms so that I could explore her. I lifted aside her ponytail and kissed the back of her neck; the fluffy dark hairs that grew there were soft and long, dwindling to the thick fuzz that followed the length of her spine. Fine little hairs even curled over the thin halter-string of her top. I grasped one end of the string with my teeth and tugged; the knot slid free and the string tie fell away, leaving her neck and upper back completely exposed.

Roshni's shoulder blades and back were covered in a soft fuzzy down, and I kissed her warm peach-like skin, getting more and more turned on. Roshni sighed and squirmed under my kisses. Her pert little butt pressed into me, her bare thighs rubbing against each other as her arousal returned.

I turned Roshni over again, and eased her top up over her head. Her little ribcage, the stark ridges of each delicate bone beneath her soft brown skin, her tiny pert breasts with their dark thimble-sized nipples were bared to me. I took one into my mouth, a warm and firm nub that was rubbery to suck on. Roshni groaned.

I feasted on her breasts until each was wet, then kissed my way down the fluffy little trail of her sternum to her navel, where thickening hairs led from her belly button down to those cute little shorts. I kissed and nipped at her belly, kissing the little spider-trail hair. My fingers eased over the top of her shorts and began to draw them downwards; Roshni lifted her hips to help me.