This is a story about the beginnings of an unexpected and incredibly exciting affair, I enjoyed with Mrs Neeta Seth, the mother of my girlfriend, Mira. I had been going steady with Mira for nearly two years when the events described in this story took place. Mira and I had met at university in New Delhi studying on the same journalism programme.
We were both twenty-one and living with our parents at the time, as most young people in India tend to do till they marry or move away for work. This lack of having one's own place also means that young lovers in India struggle to find safe and private spaces to be intimate. It was therefore a matter of great good fortune that Mira's home was quite close to the university and freely available to us.
Both her parents worked, her father heading an accountancy firm, and Mrs Seth as a Mathematics teacher at a private school. They were both away till late afternoon throughout the working week. Mira and I had the house to ourselves and spent many happy and lazy afternoons making love and hanging out.
Mira was not a classical beauty but very pretty. She had long black hair, beautiful olive skin, lovely brown eyes, and a full mouth with sullen but very kissable lips. Her 5'7 body was lush and curvy, big droopy breasts capped with large dark nipples that I loved to chew on, and broad heavy hips, I grabbed and squeezed luxuriously when making love to her. She had a full bush of thick black pubic hair which covered her plump pussy lips. I loved carefully parting the curtain of her dark brown vulval flesh to lick at her quivering pink insides.
While I always enjoyed our love-making, I felt that Mira was at times a bit too passive. She didn't much enjoy giving blowjobs and I was often left wishing that she sucked my cock for longer and with more enthusiasm and pleasure. I also hoped that at some point she would relent and agree to having anal sex- my big fantasy fetish. Despite these minor resentments, making love to Mira in the house she shared with her parents gave me a special thrill; there was a certain illicitness to it that made everything more intense.
The house was built on two floors; the ground floor with the living room, kitchen, and en-suite bedroom of Mira's parents, and the first floor with Mira's en-suite bedroom where we made love, showered, and relaxed together. On these afternoons, there was always a delicious undercurrent of tension- the possibility that one of her parents could return early and catch us in the middle of our love-making or as we lounged about naked.
At times, we did have to hurriedly cut our love-making short and put on our clothes as we heard a door opening. On most of these occasions it was Mira's mother, Mrs Seth, returning from her work early. Mrs Seth, Neeta, was in her late forties and in many ways, an older, mature version of her daughter.
Her complexion was fairer and her face more classically beautiful- big expressive black eyes, an elegant nose, and a beautifully sensual mouth with full lips. She had long black hair that she wore tied up in a bun. Like her daughter, she was 5'7 and had a full curvy body. Her breasts and hips were rounder, fuller, with the heaviness of maturity but still firm and shapely. She clearly took very good care of herself and I secretly wondered if Mira would age so well.
I could however only get a fleeting sense of the full sensuality of Mrs Seth's body always encountering her dressed in the cotton sarees she wore for work; these were always in sober shades of blue or great, draped elegantly but conservatively, always covering the pale flesh of her bare mid-riff and the thin cotton blouses that sheathed the incredible mounds of her breasts. Upon first meeting her, I had joked with Mira that I would have certainly developed a love for Mathematics if I'd had a teacher as delicious as Mrs Seth. Mira had made a face and not bothered with a response.
Mrs Seth or "Neeta Aunty" as I called her (in the manner that mothers' of one's friends are invariably referred to in India), always returned tired and sweaty from her work. The nearly year-round heat of Delhi and the tiredness of her work meant that she could summon little enthusiasm to greet me and Mira when she happened to 'interrupt' our afternoons. She also had a sternness of manner that came as part of her role at work as a high-school teacher. I did not see her smile very often; her beautiful face was almost always tired or tautly drawn with tension that she struggled to shake off.
Overall, while she was always polite, I never felt any real warmth or affection on her part towards me. This did not bother me very much; her lack of engagement meant less effort on my part to make conversation or appear interested in her work and life. It also made it easier for me and Mira to retreat back to the first floor bedroom for some further furtive fun. I did not know it then but things were going to change in a dramatic way in the relationship between me and Neeta Aunty.
The events unfolded with a frantic mid-morning phone call I received from Mira. She had recently moved away to the US for a fine arts degree. We had been carrying on with our relationship but the long-distance, different time zones, and most importantly, the impossibility of any real physical intimacy was putting a big strain on things. I was now 23, working as a magazine journalist, and also planning a move to the US or UK for PhD study.
The phone call from Mira was unexpected as we usually caught up over Skype or other internet messaging platforms; phone calls were expensive and rare. I could tell immediately that something was wrong. She told me that her father had suffered a heart attack and was in the hospital undergoing an operation. Neeta Aunty was in the hospital with him. Friends and relatives were with her to provide support but Ania was desperate for me to visit the hospital and reassure her that things were ok with her father.
"Of course, I would do everything I can," I said and rushed to the hospital.
When I entered the waiting room, I saw Neeta Aunty with a huge look of worry on her face, sitting in a corner with a couple of people beside her, who I presumed were friends or relatives. She had clearly left home in a hurry- she had no make-up on, her hair was roughly pulled back into a knot, and she was dressed in a fleece jacket, pyjamas, and running shoes.
I felt very sorry for her and Mira and paused for a moment to think about what I should say and do. Immediately as she saw me, she stood up, rushed towards me and pulled me into a desperate hug. I was surprised by the intensity of her reaction. I think she was just really glad to see a familiar and friendly face in her moment of suffering. She held me for several minutes and I gently stroked her back trying to offer what comfort I could, telling her everything would be alright.
Even after letting me go, she held on to my hand for a long time and we sat together awaiting news of Mr Seth's condition. Eventually, the doctors informed us that things were ok and that Mr Seth would recover in time. As Neeta calmed down, I left her in the company of some relatives, and phoned Mira to let her know the good news.
Something changed in these few hours I had spent with Neeta in the hospital. While I did recall the softness and warmth of her body pressed against me and the heat of her hand in mine afterwards, there was nothing really sexual in the physical contact that occurred between us in this moment of grief and suffering. It however created a familial bond between us, a familiarity and intimacy that had been missing before in our relationship.
The support I provided to Neeta in this moment of crisis and in the weeks of Mr Seth's recovery which followed meant that the she and her husband truly began to appreciate and accept me as a 'partner' to their daughter, a member of their family, a kind of 'son' to them, or more accurately, the to-be 'son-in-law'. This emerging familial intimacy proved to be the fuel of the sexual tension that was soon to emerge between Neeta and me.
A couple of months later, once Mr Seth had recovered from his heart attack, Neeta invited me for a family dinner, an informal celebration of Mr Seth's recovery. It was also a kind of farewell meal for me, as I was to shortly leave for England to start PhD study. We left together from their house with dusk falling, Mr Seth sitting up front with the driver and Neeta and I sitting in the back seat.
There was something different about Neeta on that evening. I had sensed it immediately when I saw how she was dressed. She wore a striking powder-blue saree made out of georgette, a silky sheer fabric, very different to the cotton sarees I was used to seeing her in. She was also wearing it much lower on her waist than her usual style.
