No Kisses :: Indian Sex Stories

We were always watched, by mother, father, auntie, uncle, grandma, grandpa, or even brothers and sisters, cousins, and especially by little ones who’d tell.
“Mother! Taj and Naidi are sitting too close!”
Or…
“Why’re you touching your mouths together?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“Then, I’m telli—.”
“That toy you wanted? Still want it?”
“YYYes.”
“Let’s bargain.”
And the bargain would be good, until the toy was given, played with, and broken or tired of. Then—.
“Naidi? Aren’t you always supposed to be THIS distance, with a lot of air between you, as mother and father said?”
“YYYes.”
“Mother!”
I hate little kids, well, at least when I’d love to kiss Taj. His name is Kevin, but he’s called Taj at school and with friends. but my parents hate that.
“It’s racist, Naidi, the boy’s name. He has a fine British name, Kevin.”
“Mother.”
“All right, but only because his family’s impeccable, on both sides; so, your father and I will tolerate him. And you be careful with him, and take your little brother and sister with you everywhere you are with him. Or you can’t go.”
“But you said he’s ‘impeccable’.”
“He is, but also boys from such families can play havoc with a fine, pure girl like you. The little ones go with you EVERYWHERE.”
And they did. Everywhere.
But now Taj and I are long wedded and, FINALLY, can kiss whenever we want to, however long we—.

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