This can be read and enjoyed as a stand-alone story, but deeper character depth and the effects of the plots, rivalries, twists and turns of Asma's sexual journey will be found by reading the entire series.
Perhaps there was some Iran blood in her from way back in the past as her skin was on the lighter side compared to many other Pakistanis. She was a tall 5ft 7, had a longer face than many of the Indians over the border which was highlighted with dark memorising eyes and prominent eyebrows. Her nose was sharp and gave her an aristocratic look. She had nicely shaped 34B tits, a slightly rounded belly and a womanly arse that was still quite firm. Moreover, like most women from the subcontinent she had a full mat of pubic hair though now it was shaved into a luxurious, black, thick triangle. Attractive for her age? Yes, but it did not matter with her husband's lack of interest in her.
It was good for the children. It gave them opportunities but not for her husband Afsar. Due to his age and being wedded to the old ways, he didn't want to change, didn't want to work. He sat back and accepted the Government fortnightly handout paid directly into his bank account and enjoyed his cheap government subsidised housing. He was a traditionalist. A woman's place was in the housekeeping it clean and feeding him. Each night after eating he left the house to go to the coffee and hookah shop where he and his male friends opinionated how western society was corrupting their children, taking away a father's authority and status.
And in sex, he was a traditionalist. A wife was for producing children, and once she was pregnant nothing further happened under the sheets until another child was needed. It was now 12 years since they had last fucked, if you could call the 5 minutes it took that of which 3 minutes was him undressing. A short missionary union till he came with no thought of her needs. His real pleasure had been the whores he visited regularly back home, and many of her friends had told her he was a frequent visitor of the hairdresser and massage shops here. I bet the Vietnamese women get it every night, and probably also outside their marriages, she thought.
And she was so horny these days. Her Vietnamese university friend, Ai, at the low, ranked Victoria University where they both attended (or lose their Govt. benefits as a Govt ploy to reduce the published unemployment figures), had introduced her to lesbian sex, sexfighting and semi-nude beauty contests. Then she had had incredible sex with her 18-year-old son Fahad and his 11 inches. But he now had the hots for Ai's daughter Vy and was at school or her house when Afsar was absent from this house. Furthermore, a tiff had arisen between Ai and Asma as Ai blamed Asma for their loss in their first sexfight.
Asma looked at the computer. Her 52-year-old husband Afsar had left it switched on in his more than his usual hurry to meet his cronies at the coffee/hookah premises for their daily talkfest. Due to his age and being wedded to the old Pakistani ways, he still embraced and didn't want to change, didn't want to work. She knew it was "his" computer. It was not her place to look, just as it was not her place to question his decisions. He was the patriarch of their family. He was God. His spoken words were the family's commands. The Vietnamese women had changed their thinking after arriving as refugees. Would she? She shuddered at the thought but knew she had already taken some steps to do so. The family had arrived 4 years ago by the traditional route. They had saved their money, bought a flight to Indonesia, made contact with the people smugglers, destroyed their passports, paid the money for a seat on a fishing boat, been intercepted by the Australian navy and taken for processing at Christmas Island which was closer to Indonesia than Australia but gave them sanctuary and finally, processing for entry to Australia.
She imagined her tallish body not constrained and hidden by layers of traditional, voluminous, fully covering black clothing, but flaunted and displayed like the Vietnamese women she had seen at the Footscray market or driving their 4WDs. The thought offended most Pakistanis and both her deceased father and Afsar were extremely traditional Pakistani Muslims. The Vietnamese women wore extreme high heels, short, tight dresses that brazenly paraded not only their lower legs but their thighs as well. Instead of draped loosely in layers like hers, their garments were moulded to their skin, and if you looked carefully, you could see the outline of their thong disappearing into their arse crack or the shape and sometimes even the colours of their nipples. Not only the young ones like her daughters but women of a similar age or even 15 years older than her openly exhibited their bodies. This was unacceptable to Pakistani men.
She sat down at the computer and moved the mouse. A slideshow began of women dressed in the skimpiest, most revealing lingerie possible. Was this her husband's computer? The man who, as they originally came from the conservative tradition-bound northwest city of Peshawar, in the Khyber Pakhtunkhwa province, demanded she wear full head-to-toe black burqa. Under her black burqa, she had to wear a long firaq which reached from her shoulders to mid-calf and baggy partug pants. At least her Vietnamese friend from Victoria University, Ai, had encouraged and persuaded her to dress as she did at Uni and when they went out together; tight short skirts or dresses, high heels, provocative lingerie hidden at her house so Asma could change there before attending University or going shopping. Her mind wandered, comparing her new lingerie to that on the screen before her.
Perhaps there was some Iran blood in her from way back in the past as her skin was on the lighter side compared to many other Pakistanis. She was a tall 5ft 7, had a longer face than many of the Indians over the border which was highlighted with dark memorising eyes and prominent eyebrows. Her nose was sharp and gave her an aristocratic look. She had nicely shaped 34 tits, a slightly rounded belly and a womanly arse that was still firm. Moreover, like most women from the subcontinent, she had a full mat of pubic hair but at Ai's suggestion, she had trimmed it to a small, year 2000 porn star triangle so it did not protrude from her minuscule thongs. Attractive for her age? Yes, but it did not matter with her husband's lack of interest in her.
She flicked through the images mentally noticing that what Ai had guided her to select and then Ai had purchased for her was sexier and more sensual than those images. She clicked on the hangout chat open in the taskbar and read the chat. It was Baheela from the hairdressing salon. "Hairdressing salon," she snorted to herself. "Part-time brothel is what it should be called," and the slut Baheela was the owner. She read on and smiled. Baheela was calling Afsar perverted, depraved and abnormal for wanting her to wear lingerie like that and that he was no longer welcome there even if he paid triple.
Was this her husband? The Afsar she knew was a traditionalist. A wife was for producing children, and once she was pregnant nothing further happened under the sheets until another child was needed. It was now 15 years since they had last fucked, if you could call the 5 minutes it took of which 3 minutes was him undressing. A short missionary union till he came with no thought of her needs. His real pleasure had been the whores he visited regularly back home, and many of her friends had told her he was a frequent visitor of the hairdresser and massage shops here, and this proved it. I bet the Vietnamese women get it every night, and probably also outside their marriages, she thought.
She was no longer getting cock from her 18-year-old son Fahad whom she had noticed spying on her and masturbating and then seduced him like a Japanese JAV video stepmother. It was true he had a good 11 inches of cock and being a teenager could sometimes come 3 times in 3 hours. But the thrill of getting cock and fucking her son had diminished as she found him too emotionally immature and clingy and lacking in imagination. His cock in her hole missionary was the extent of his desire. Now he was obsessed by Ai's skinny 18-year-old daughter and she couldn't even get his 11 inches. She thought of her husband and mentally compared his cock to their sons. Not as long, being only 9 inches but its girth: her husband's meat was far, far thicker than her sons. It was considerably thicker than a beer can and had several lead pencil-thick veins standing out on the shaft which ended in a thick bulbous helmet far wider than the shaft. Pity he didn't want to use it on her. She wondered if the Pakistani 20-year-old they were sponsoring as a niece, but actually to be a second wife for Afsar would be able to take it fully.
