Although this can be read as a stand-alone story, a greater background appreciation of Dr Martin and his methods can be obtained by reading the series.
This is the second film I discovered in the used desk sourced from maintenance as part of my contract to write a fluff piece about the Chancellor of Monash University so that he could receive a government-issued honorary title. The files in the desk were supposedly written by some past department head, a certain Dr. Graham Martin who purportedly was a former head of Asian studies and moonlighted for the Government and these files were supposedly a record of his activities. I say supposedly as it was pure porn and couldn't be true. As were all the rest of the files. It was better than Literotica, or any sites on the web for sex stories.
Detailed research on my part (see Chapter 2) supported the view a Dr Graham Martin had existed with a career that matched the timelines of the files and the writing in the files had a 97.89% correlation to the writing style of his diary, "A Treatise on Asian women - A life devoted to fucking Asian women and watching their sexfights" (See Chapter 1). Further proof above that in Chapter 2 is the Taylor Llorente of London desk and filing cabinet that I found these files in is mentioned in this story. I leave it up to you to believe in their veracity.
The second file I am posting is about Aparajita Patel and her son Amir and the late Dr. Martin had it classified as Indian Hot Curry.
It was ten years before COVID-19 decimated the number of overseas students attending Australian institutions. It was the start of the Indian invasion seeking permanent residence via lax Government-approved study courses. Covid was unwelcome not because of the health risks but because we charged overseas students fees two times that of locals and that income had dried up. It was so profitable before COVID that I started my own my own independent college, the Graham Monash Institute which took students who did not satisfy the real Monash University that employed me, standards. Surely it was up to the applicant to know Graham Monash Institute and Monash University institutions were not the same. Of course, it helped that I had a large part to play in deciding if a prospective student's standards were acceptable at the University or be diverted to the Institute where all fees went to me.
However, some investigative reporter was pursuing the idea that Tertiary institutions were, for want of a better word, lowering the level of diligence in marking overseas students' efforts: i.e., handing out degrees for money, just like the ones I had purchased from overseas, the latest of which was being embossed on my door in gold as I write this. We had to look like we cared, so a few examples would be made, and the evidence presented before any official enquiries progressed too far. I thought about ten would be a good number.
I looked up from the Taylor Llorente of London office furniture brochure I was perusing, most of which was expensive and definitely worth importing I thought, and faced Aparajita and her nineteen-year-old son Amir who was studying some course that sounded impressive but was actually useless in the real world. His mother was about forty-three and was I suppose what you would call an "Indian aunty" if you were searching the net for porn. Don't ask how I know.
She was full-breasted and broad-hipped, probably had a figure of 42D 40 42 with a round face featuring Kohl-enhanced eyes and the obligatory red bindi dot on her forehead. She was like a lot of southern Indians, darker skinned and was dressed in a blue sari with a lighter blue blouse top stretched across her tits. It was however made of cotton, not silk and she wore little jewellery, just a plain mangala sutra necklace to show she was married: signs that the family had scraped and saved to get Amir studying overseas. She had accompanied Amir to look after her spoilt, probably ungrateful son.
I was barely listening to Amir as he wailed, "I am not doing the cheating, Sahib. Amir is never doing such a bad thing." I had never had an Indian woman as the flood of Indian students had just commenced and was imagining her nude and mentally comparing her with Phoung, my latest Vietnamese woman. It was like chalk and cheese: they were both mid-forties but Phoung was sexily dressed, slim, trim, taut and small and firm titted while the woman before me was, how to put it kindly, curvy, voluptuous and soft and very plainly dressed with zero flesh showing at her upper body, midriff or ankles.
Still, I love a challenge, so I cut off Amir's protestations. I knew he was guilty as I had sent him the answers he had plagiarized. It was quite a money earner for me. I had all the students' email addresses and had written both the question and the answer, and so anonymous spam-type messages advertising essay writing would appear in their inboxes. Like most of the students, Amir had responded and paid for the service of answering a mid-semester assignment. I dismissed him from the room telling him I had to discuss this serious matter with his mother.
Now I have to admit I am no longer the poster pin-up boy I was in the 70s. What I had lost in hair had been more than replaced by weight, especially in my belly. My new teeth implants, although they were whiter than George Clooney's in the Nespresso ads gave me the appearance of a predatory shark. But I still had the power and the ruthlessness to implement it. Though I didn't need to I threw down the evidence on my desk and exaggerated slightly inferring jail time, an immediate departure from Australia with a passport marked never to return. Tears flowed down her face. It was time. I looked worried and said, "Of course, I am sympathetic, especially as you seem a nice person and want to help you, but how?"
The tears flowed in greater quantities as she sobbed heavily causing her large tits to wobble. "We are very poor. All our savings went for educating my Amir." At least she understood I wanted something from her. I pursed my lips trying to look as though I was racking my brains for a solution." Perhaps I could make an exception for you," I said in a kind, fatherly manner.
Hope flooded her eyes and face. Emphasizing certain words, I spoke slowly and deliberately, "You know, TIT for tat, you RUB my back and I'll RUB yours. I need to have a CLOSER CONNECTION to Indian culture, and I would LOVE TO EAT INDIAN."
It worked as she smiled and nodded her head in agreement. "Yes, I could clean your house and cook some meals for you." I almost beat my head on the desk but instead picked up a 15th-century edition of The Kama Sutra, in the original Sanskrit and beautifully illustrated as I was shifting my ill-gotten gains into gold and rarities. "I was thinking more like this."
She turned her head away in horror. "I am being married for years before and be rest assured I am always of chaste nature."
I stood up to say the interview was over, but she wailed and cried again and said, "You is full to the brim of evil and is being a bad man very much, but I am presenting my body for your use for my son's future." I took that as, yes, I could fuck her.
That afternoon to my surprise as I thought she would have second thoughts and I would have to find someone else, she returned, and I escorted her to, and unlocked the door to the Muslim prayer room. It was funded by the Government due to multi-racial inclusion and I had it furnished in the same style as "The Daily Planet", Melbourne's most famous brothel at that time where I had picked up a lot of fixtures cheaply when it was redecorated. A pity that there were no Muslims here at the Graham Monash Institute to use it, although I had found better uses for it.
