Professor Bose's Unexpected Agenda

Doctor Susmita Bose was a world-class professor of chemical engineering. And her breasts were driving poor Harry bonkers. No woman's set had affected him this way since high-school.

Harry first met Susmita and her husband Chandra at one of Harry's proposal-writing workshops. This trip was for four days, to help them write proposals – hers, his, and joint. Chandra, too was a Chem-E professor - not so successful as Susmita, but that caused them no friction. They were a nice couple, from southern India, in their early thirties, and when walking together on campus they were invariably hand-in-hand, almost child-like. Very attractive, both of them, with the perfect smooth dark-brown skin, pearly white teeth and stunning black hair of their Endo-Dravidian, near-Caucasian ethnicity.

They were small – Chandra roly-poly, a little balding, perhaps 5'4", Susmita not quite five feet, just below shoulder height on Harry, and definitely NOT roly-poly. Susmita wore no makeup, just some faint sandalwood-ish perfume that Harry found enticing, an earring, a nose-jewel, a caste mark on her forehead, her long and very thick hair twisted and rolled into a bun and held with two silver pins. He could easily envision her in an elegant, expensive 8-meter sari.

The Professors Bose had offices side-by-side, and shared this private antechamber. The couple could and often did work together, but each maintained a separate individual line of research. Yesterday the three had worked together writing and editing on Chandra's new solo proposal and two combined proposals – but today the target was purely Susmita's solo effort.

Harry was a bit surprised when he arrived at eight - Susmita was alone. When he inquired, she said in her singsong lilting Indian-English, "Oh, Chandra won't be coming in today, he is being very busy-busy elsewhere, somewhere else! That is a fine thing, you and I will work together, a team of two, we do not need his help on my own separate proposal."

Half an hour into the work, sitting across the table from her was giving him an unexpected – and quite unwanted - hardon. Her breasts were the reason. They were distinctly large for her frame, but although he had certainly noticed them, they'd never before been such a distraction. Yesterday, and each meeting previously, Susmita had worn a high-button blouse, beautifully tailored of colorful silk, and quite prim - and over the basement layer she invariably wore a light cotton jacket. She also wore traditional Indian baggy "pajama" trousers. Elegant materials, but unfortunate choices stylistically. Small she might be, but also disproportionately broad in shoulder and hip, the combination conspired with the cut and drape of her workaday clothing to yield an incorrect impression of being "matronly", somewhat thick-waisted and not particularly curvy. Wrong, indeed, that impression!

Leading to Harry's 'personal problem of the morning' was the initial 'problem'... to wit, today Susmita's top-hamper was strikingly different, a strongly scoop-necked lightweight silk blouse whose neckline drooped down and forward as she sat there.

Repeatedly, the tops of her boobs flashed at him. He tried to keep his imagination under control by concentrating ferociously and working fast. Once or twice during the day he thought that perhaps she noticed his distraction, but if so, she chose not to comment.

So, exactly what it was about her décolletage that disturbed him so? Other than the simple fact of the never-before view? Partly the intriguing, highly erotic depth and darkness of the cleft between them, depths he managed to examine thoroughly several times throughout the day's work. But more than that, it was their shape, the upper halves of near-perfect spheres, convex not concave, unmindful of gravity's tug. That was a condition he was sure he'd never seen on a mature woman – or on any female except a half-developed pubescent. Surely she hadn't already had some sort of a strange, overdone breast augmentation? Susmita certainly didn't seem the type, but then, who could tell?

Enroute once more to the teapot, he stepped past her. She was deep into edit-mode, looking down, concentrating, scribbling. The scribbling made them move, but not wobble. They moved as if three times as solid as they ought to be.

He pondered: every woman understands completely and precisely –and at all times- the view she is providing. He wasn't so crude as to stop and dwell or stare, but his vision was acute, took them in, dipped again into the cleft, seeking the top edge of a bra. To force her tissues into that convexity, any bra would have to be a near-cast-iron pushup, but he saw no signs at all of any external support whatever. No strange folds or bra-induced flexures along the sides, no ripples of badly-placed bags of silicone. A puzzlement, indeed.

Later, he watched her from behind as she made tea for them – it was HIS tea, for he had arrived with a four ounce tin of the finest first-flush hand-rolled high mountain silvertip. The gift had impressed the Boses, who found it both thoughtful and appropriate. The view of her bottom as she moved was interesting, suggestions through the fabric of a shape very different from one's first impression. He was reminded of his first girlfriend in high-school, blooming late, suddenly gifted with fine boobs and hiding them carefully beneath baggy sweatshirts.

Five PM, and great progress. Two full days to go on this visit – they would finish in good time, well before the deadlines.

Susmita declared an end to the work day. She stood, looked down at Harry and said "You lived in India, so you told us. Please to tell me Mister Harry, do you like Indian food?"

He nodded: "Certainly. If it's good – the problem is that I had every little minor god's plenty of bad Indian food while living there! If it's good, then I love it. From any region of the subcontinent, in fact. Why do you ask?"

She patted him familiarly on the shoulder, let the hand linger an unnecessary moment. "Because I am a good Indian-food cook, I learned from my Mommy, and you are hereby invited to dinner at our house tonight. I will be cooking – it's one of my most enjoyable pastimes. You are simply going to have to cancel any other arrangements you might have made, such as eating in that terrible restaurant beside your motel! Agreed?"

He could hardly refuse. Whatever she prepared, he said, could be at any level of spice she chose – chef's discretion. However, he told her that he needed some exercise before dinner, having sat all day, and having also missed his early morning yoga.

Her left eyebrow arched and she smiled at him – the first "personal" smile he'd been blessed with, and he was dazzled: it was simply devastating.

"You have some interesting depths about you, Sir Harry – Chandra and I, too, study yoga. Guruji Iyengar's style, perhaps?"

He nodded – it was the classical and most precise style.

A 'close-of-day discussion ensued. It was already dark outside, and drizzling, but a mere mile or so to the motel. For exercise, he would walk to it – he never rented a car here. He wouldn't mind the drizzle or the midwinter early darkness. She would come get him at 6:30. That gave him time for a shower and re-shave, and to put on his good trousers and shirt.

Susmita arrived exactly on time. It was beyond drizzle and into downpour by then. The dome light showed her sitting behind the wheel, barely able to see over the dash, in a long white trench-coat appropriate to the rain. When they arrived at her house, she toggled the garage opener, parked inside. She led him through an office and into the living room. The house was redolent with the scents of complex cookery. She kicked off her sandals, flashing several silver and gold toe-rings, and carefully-done nail polish. He followed her lead, and the thick carpet demanded bare feet, so the socks joined his shoes.

She took his coat, doffed her own. Harry goggled as she turned to hang them – she was totally transformed, spectacular, in a deep blue silk sari, perfectly worn, the nearly transparent material laced with a design in silver. He didn't have to ask if the silver was genuine metal thread – the hang of the fabric told.

Now visible in the lighting, there was something very different about her face, changes since five PM, tiny touches of makeup delicately done. A new, unusual, unidentifiable personal scent, too (perhaps several?), first noticed in the car, still detectable despite the kitchen odors. The entire unfortunate "matronly" aura dissipated instantly like a wisp of fog, blown utterly to smithereens by the way her sari left bare her midriff and back, by her quite unusual thinness from front to rear, with belly muscles clearly showing and not an ounce of fat under her perfect skin. A small gold-mounted jewel in her navel, and the edge of a lower-back tattoo showing over the tuck of the sari didn't hurt. The high neckline of her short-short "shoulders-only" blouse actually showed nothing of her upper chest, the hem fell only just millimeters below the bottom curve of her breasts - the hint of a kind of inverse décolletage was strong. "Where is a floor-mirror when you really needed one?" Harry asked himself, silently.

Her nipples were fingertip sized and clearly, proudly erect beneath the soft, flowing fabric – the material hung from those prominent points as if flung over two adjacent steel coat-hooks. Above the nipples, the fabric lay skin-tight against the still convex top curves. There was no brassiere involved – it would have been obvious - and utterly unnecessary, too.

Knowing that the changes were almost certainly purely for his benefit, he looked openly at her, and then, carefully, carefully, testing all the while, he let his face show his pleasure. When she reacted as he hoped, he murmured "Beautiful! Utterly enchanting!"

She smiled, tee-heed gently and said "You like the sari, then?"

Was she fishing? He nodded, did a tiny little bow, and told her "The sari is beautiful, superb, but what I really like is the contents! And what a magnificent combination. You are a gorgeous woman, Dr Susmita Bose. Stunning!"

She laughed, thanked him, took his arm and said "Time for a little tour of the house? Shall we perhaps start in the kitchen, since dinner is the bait that brought you here to our little nest? Maybe we can find a glass of wine or something."

In the kitchen, a big professional stove, a Wolf, six 30-thousand BTU burners, waiting under a huge exhaust hood – she was a serious cook, all right! Twenty or thirty little dishes of chopped ingredients showed she had already been busy. Big brass pots and skillets on the stove, waiting. She hoped he was going to be hungry. He assured her of it. She identified the ingredients, named the dishes they would become. He knew some of them, others not.

She led him from the kitchen through the living room, upstairs, to see the rest of the house. Going upstairs behind her he asked "Tell me, Susmita, where is Chandra?"

She turned to say "Remember this morning I told you Chandra is busy elsewhere today? Well, the other Doctor Bose is elsewhere all the way into Washington DC for four days of meetings. He left late last night on the red-eye special, quite pleased with himself he was, for finding a very low fare!"

Harry nearly stumbled on the stairs, for neither Bose had hinted at such a trip. His belly did the first of many flips.

On the landing, she took his hand, pushed open the first door. Low lights, cushions, wall coverings, mirrors. An obvious love-nest, highly personal in every respect. Luxurious. The Boses apparently took their love-life seriously. Beside the huge bed, a bookcase full of small cut-crystal bottles and little wooden boxes. In one corner a tiny wisp of incense smoke rose ceilingward – sandalwood and clove. The curl of ash beneath it told of only a half-hour's burn. Another series of belly-flips, and the hairs stood up briefly on the backs of his arms.

She turned and looked speculatively at him, took both his hands into hers, but said nothing.

She waited.

He considered, then finally said, carefully, "Does Chandra have any idea I'm coming to dinner tonight?" It was rhetorical on his part, he was just making noises to get started.

She smiled at him again – dazzled twice! – and laughed. "Of course he knows, you silly man!" A brief very girlish giggle, then "My very dear consultant Harry, do not ever forget that my husband and I are from a vastly different culture than yourself, very different, very, very. I brought you here to seduce you – I hope you can tell, and that it isn't a bad idea?"

She looked at him with a tiny hint of worry, smiled again when his expression made it clear how happy he was to be here – happy, and thoroughly startled. She resumed – "We were raised to feel, we were taught, that sex is a wonderful part of life, it is very special certainly, but not with the level of importance and worry about it that you westerners insist on punishing yourselves with! We treat ourselves, our sexual needs and desires, quite seriously and, we think, pretty rationally. So, of course he knows. We tell one another about it whenever some fancy such as this arises. My imaginings, which I told him in great detail last night, resulted in some very fine and enthusiastic lovemaking, you may believe me!"

She tugged at him. "Come in and see the room, silly man! Nothing in here will bite – unless of course you invite ME to do so! I can be persuaded, sometimes... Or perhaps you might do some biting yourself?"

In the room, she looked up at him and said softly "Perhaps I should introduce you to a very fine custom from my own part of the world. There, when dinner time comes round we often take our dessert first, instead of last. Would you like to try that sequence?"

He was fuddled, but managed to nod. "Certainly. Of course – whatever you suggest!"

"I suggest that tonight our desserts are wrapped up and need to be unwrapped. Would you care to unwrap yours first?" She held her arms out to the sides, stood looking up at him.

The invitation was perfectly clear.

He gulped, nodded, leaned down to begin by kissing her, but she turned her head and said quietly "Not quite yet - kissing, soon, in a few moments. But first, the unwrapping. Only then the tasting of the dessert – then, of course, you will soon be able to taste every part, every little bit, of your dessert. That is, if you are so inclined!"

It was an arch query, testing. He fielded it perfectly with a nod and little grin: "Absolutely everything should be tasted. Preferably more than once."

She tilted her pelvis towards him gently, as if giving an order. He fumbled hopelessly with the sari for ten seconds, then said "Can you take pity on this ignorant western boy, and help a bit?"

She wriggled her hips slightly two or three times, and the entire assemblage magically slipped down to puddle on the floor about her ankles, leaving her naked except for the midi-blouse covering her breasts. No underwear marks. A navel-jewel glinted. There wasn't a single hair on her entire body below the angle of her chin. Long, dark expanses of perfect skin, taut. A high, pronounced mons with its central cleft fading into the darkness between her thighs – and at the innermost limit of vision in the cleft, a glitter of more gold. Harry whistled appreciatively, stood immobile as she reached for the top.

Her breasts sprang into view. Improbably large, improbably solid, preternaturally hemispherical. Nipples literally the size and shape of small raspberries, each twice-pierced, top-to-bottom and left-right, a fine braided gold wire threaded through in both directions, then wrapped round and round the nipple's base, just tightly enough to dent the surface in order to retain position, the wire's miniscule facets glittering in beautiful contrast with the near-black areolas. And not a trace had been visible through the fabric, a most genteel and understated approach. Her breasts were oddly directed, too, the nipples atop their areolas seemed to point straight forward, not aimed out on lines diverging radially from her spine the way of all other breasts he had encountered. And the hemispheres seemed set on her chest extraordinarily high, almost as if their upper edges were hung from her collarbones, with much of their mass and volume on the sides. He had seen such breasts, combined with her shoulders and hips, only in ancient Indian erotic sculptures, pictures from abandoned temples, the idealized women cut from the living rock of the walls.

He had always dismissed the statues as artists' imaginings, exaggerations and distortions, artistic license. Clearly he had been wrong!

"It is now my turn to unwrap my own dessert, don't you think?"

She was expert – his shirt joined her sari quickly, likewise his trousers – the belt held no mystery at all for her. Inside his snow-white jockeys, his cock was at full stand, the underwear taut with its presence. She knelt before him, hands on the elastic, and rolled them down. His cock sprang into view, freed, independently alive, bouncing gently to his pulse. Her face lit up when she saw it, saw that he was completely shaved, like herself. She helped him step out of the shorts, studied him, then stood and let her hands trail delicately up the fronts of his thighs, around his sac, circling the base of the shaft. With her tiny hand wrapped snugly round him, she looked up and said softly "Such a special and unusual surprise! A genuinely cultured man. You have no idea, Sir Harry, how nice it is for a change not to face the usual masculine crow's-nest of hair. You being shaved is a much nicer and much more personal gift than even your lovely tea!"

Her fingers investigated the entire pubis, studying. She murmured "You are very, very smooth – an excellent job of shaving. Your skin is unusually fine in texture down here, Sir Harry, very much like a baby's bottom! I like it. And you might notice that we now have three important things in common – tea, yoga, and this shaving of our sexual areas. I wonder what else we will find of common interest?"

She squeezed him, he pulsed himself in her hand.

She continued, her fingertips exploring, "Such a beautiful lingam you have – it seems quite proud and very certain of itself, the way it stands here at attention between us. It has a most wonderful curvature, a most beautifully colored and shaped helmet. A nice size, too: significantly larger than I am accustomed to these days – and a bit of extra size can be a very nice thing, if combined with some talent. Plus..." Her fingertips explored the head gently "... you are circumcised, a very unusual thing in our society back home, something I am not at all familiar with, and which I have always thought both strange and extremely arousing. You are making of yourself a most special gift to me, and for that I thank you most sincerely!"

She reached for his free hand and placed it softly to palm her mons: "Here – compare! See if I have done as well as you at this business of shaving."

He took his time, explored carefully, slowly, thoroughly. She had certainly equaled him in skill, he told her. She was gasping gently by then and gave no sign of having heard the compliment.

Her head raised slightly – it seemed like an invitation to begin, so he cupped his hands beneath her arms, thumb-balls over her nipples, and lifted her effortlessly up to kiss. It lasted until his arms quivered and he had to set her back down.

She stood there, his lingam in her hand still, as he muttered "It's time to begin the first round of the tasting, don't you think?" He dropped to his knees beside her, explored her as she stood enjoying. His tongue checked out the undercurve of her breasts, his face testing their overall texture and finding them just as impossibly solid to the touch as they appeared to the eye. Her slow squirming as he nursed, gold wire against his tongue, told him he was doing well.