The pallu fans the air that passes from over her curvy mountaineous bossoms and brings to me the tasteful fragrance of a matured, aged, and ever lasting fragrance of feminity that fires up the energetic testosterones making my blood rush to the you-know-what-part and pumps heat, strength and hardness into it.
The pallu goes over her shoulder and is pinned to the blouse. At the shoulders is there a sea of skin- bare, bordered by the terrains of the folds of her saree and a blouse far away from her neck. A bridge of her bra strap runs parallel to the coastline. The strap is too tight. Probably they dont make bras this big anymore. The taut strap sinks into her body demonstrating how her body is ready to spill.
A strong salty musk fills my nostrils as i look at shiny beads of sweat trickling down the meaty bossom and get seeped at the edge of her blouse. Those sweat beads complement perfectly the black pearls of her mangalsutra and assumes the shape of her curves. A locket dangles in front of her driving our attention to the tasteful cleavage at the juncture of the fleshy spheres full of the eternal juice of survival and life. She is so lost in her household chores, she doesnt notice the first hook of her blouse has lost attachment leaving those precious assets vulnerable to view. If you ask me, she probably doesnt care.
The view is interrupted as she fixes her pallu from her shoulder to all over her chest. All it does is to make me realise the enormousity of them as it hugs her jugs tightly. The boobs are covered, but all the supple territory of her belly is left almost naked as the saree runs down from her chest across her belly and wrapped around her behind. Folds of flesh are the elegant boundaries in this territory. Each region between the folds is emanating an odour intoxicating. The muscles and the fat spill out in curves, as if seeking to get even just a bit closer to my grasp. The capital of this territory is her navel.
The saree that covers her behind, does a good job at covering it. But my woman cant be bound in loose wraps. The layers of saree that cover her ass flaunt them even more magnficently as layers of silk embrace layer of skin. Huge rounds of cellulite bulge much higher than her thighs. When she walks, they sway like a timelapse of sand-dunes forming and wiggling and getting back to where they were. The saree wrapped around her waistline, her tiny waist is the valley of spring between hills on her body. The saree falls off her waist and hips down all the way to above her heels. I look along her legs to the ankle. The bells on her anklet ring as she steps towards me.