The Innocent Pollinator

By Stephen Wart

The Innocent Pollinator has 14 short erotic stories and starts with a young married girl who encourages Stephen Wart to have her. She is named Champa, a flower, originally from tropical America named Plumeria, but now common in India. This flower releases its captivating fragrance at night to lure the Sphinx moths who act as pollinators. That is exactly what Champa does to Stephen Wart who impregnates her and unknowingly saves her marriage. In gratitude her mother pays him back in kind and he impregnates her too.

Then Stephen gets to know his neighbor Kamini, a software geek’s bored wife and impregnates her. Kamini means a woman who is sexually very desirable. She moves out to another city but he sniffs out her trail like a dog following a bitch in heat.

Then we go back in time to Stephen’s younger days when he was lured by the fragrance of Chameli, yet another beautiful flower called Jasmine. And he saves her marriage too. In this case he is living in a haunted house and the ghost creates a situation for them to indulge.

Discover these steamy stories and how our innocent pollinator gets to impregnate the sexy and beautiful females that come into his path.

• Language: English
• Publisher: My Pouty Lips
• Release date: Aug 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476285764

Stephen Wart

Stephen Wart, the author of “The Innocent Pollinator: Erotic Stories from India”, has seduced many women, even before he joined the Indian army as an officer. His sexual adventures picked up steam after he became a Subaltern, and remained active throughout his service life. Even after retiring from the army, more so after his wife died, he stayed very active sexually. He has a keen eye having seen a variety of women and can sniff out the right ones.Providentially, he has a larger than normal phallus and plenty of good luck, with a considerable staying power which drives women crazy. He innocently impregnates every female he seduces, and most of the time, only those who need a child land up into his inviting arms. In almost all cases, their husband are impotent in someway or the other, and they drown their deficiency in alcohol.

Book preview

The Innocent Pollinator

by

Stephen Wart

Edited by Angelicka Wallows

Copyright 2012 My Pouty Lips/Stephen Wart - All Rights Reserved

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be resold or given away. If you would like to share this book with someone, please buy an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Preface

Lure of Champa

The Bored Kamini

Fragrance of Chameli

The Tenant

Discrete

A Demanding Widow

Manju the Beautiful

An Incredible Train Journey

Foursome on the Train

Hitch Hiker

Adventures in the Store

Role Reversal

Ride My Shoulders to the Eighth Floor

Fall and Rise of an Angel

About The Author

Preface

***

The Innocent Pollinator: Erotic Stories from India has 14 short and sexy stories.

Though some people make such a fuss about fucking out of wedlock, in reality the minions who indulge couldn’t care a fig.

Moreover, among the Hindu gods, Krishna was so famous for playing his flute and seducing many lovely dames that he produced a tribe all by himself: if the gods could do it, why couldn’t we, mortal humans?

That is what Stephen Wart does, without being caught in the act, even once. His wife knew all along that he was screwing other females more than her, but she couldn’t pin him down.

Each story starts differently but in essence they are full of steamy sex.

~~*~~

Lure of Champa

***

The door bell rang and I wondered ‘who could be there at this time of the day’. I was alone in my eighth floor flat, in a multistory apartment. It was my manservant’s Sunday-off and the maid had done the dishes and gone. My only son had married and settled in America. My wife died a few months ago. I was not expecting anyone.

I opened the door to find a beautiful young girl standing there. For sometime I could not place her, but I was over whelmed by her beauty. When she asked: Clothes? then I knew she was Champa, whom I had not seen for almost a year. Champa is the daughter of the Dhobi who works from a shack within the four walls of our apartment complex, and irons our machine-washed clothes for a living.

In India, the Dhobi community is one among the lowest rung of the society. They wash everyone’s dirty linen as one of the hierarchical professions, like many others of the Hindu caste system. They still use the old coal-fired heavy irons, as they don’t have the means to buy and operate electrical irons and washing machines, with their monthly bills that only the well-off can afford.

It was the Dhobi’s day to take my laundry for ironing, which I machine-washed the previous night. Earlier, Champa was collecting the clothes every alternate day, and she used to bring them back in the afternoon. Then her younger brother started coming regularly. Out of curiosity, I asked: Where is Champa? I haven’t seen her for many days.

He was blunt: Married off.

As per the Indian arranged-marriage custom, parents find a suitable match from within their caste and community to marry off young boys and girls, as soon as they reach puberty.

Champa had been around when she was in frocks and pig tails. She was a chirpy, bubbly kid and was always dressed in ill fitting clothes which belonged to someone else; old ones given away by some generous resident of the apartments. And if I was late in getting the clothes to the front door, she would scoot-off down the stairs to the next apartment. One day I gave her some toffees and she began to wait for me, and we got along well. After that, whenever I met her in the lift, she would ask with an eager look: Clothes tomorrow? and she would be there all smiles waiting for the toffees.

That day when I saw the grown up Champa, all the past buzzed through my mind. I was looking at her, and she was looking at me with the expectation of some clothes for ironing. Then she blinked her girly eye lashes lined with Kajal -Indian Kohl mascara- and asked again: Clothes?

I found my voice: Champa, what are you doing here?

As if the question was silly, I added: You were married.

When she didn’t reply I assumed: So you are visiting.

She didn’t say anything, but nodded indifferently. I was taken in by her beauty. My mind raced, ‘How much does marriage change little girls? It makes them blossom like the Champa flower.’

My eyes scanned her dusky beauty. Her large eyes were shapely and prominent because of the Kajal. She had an aquiline nose and a jaw beset with sensuous lips, which remained pressed together with that ‘mind-my-own-business’ attitude of her caste, that ekes out a living on a day to day basis.

Her hair was jet black and tied in a single plat, unlike the pig tail of her girly days. Her neck was long and slender. Looking down at her bosom, I saw her orange-size breasts tucked in under the pink-colored cotton shirt. She was not wearing a bra, as most females of her community can’t afford a new one, unless some generous lady gave away hers, if the size fitted. They were small lemons when I last saw her a year ago. Now the nipples were pushing the shirt up and looked very sexy. Since I last saw her, the figure had become somewhat like a coke bottle, and the pelvis was shaping up well. Her rump was well shaped, but her butt did not appear to be prominent yet. ‘A bit of kneading and massaging would do wonders there’, my mind said. She was dressed in a pink Punjabi dress called Salwar-Kameez – a loose pajama-like garment and a loose fitting shirt. The Dupatta – a stole-like cloth which is part of this dress, and is used for covering the bosom as well as the head – hung loosely from her slender neck, as if she was not interested in covering her oranges, which otherwise would have been hidden as per Indian norms of modesty.

The pink color added to the strong sex appeal exuding from her body. I was envious of the man married to Champa. Driven by her sex appeal, my mind had sent a signal to my meat-shaft, ‘Hey, old-cock! Wake up man! Here is something interesting.’

My poor-old-shaft had not had any sex since my wife fell ill and died. She knew about my numerous sex adventures. I had harvested many soils, plowing them to fertility. I used to wonder why God gave me such a demanding cock. Perhaps because my ancestors were believed to have been sailors from England, who had visited many ports, before they finally settled in Calcutta, and married native brown skinned woman. I am told that few English women could not survive the long sea travel around the southern tip of Africa, before the Suez Canal opened in mid 19th century. Therefore, employees of the East India Company were encouraged to take Indian wives. In fact, historically, the first Europeans to take on Indian wives were the Portuguese, followed by the French. Then the English followed in their footsteps. Therefore, I am an Anglo-Indian, or a dingo, or a fifty-fifty, of mixed blood, as my Indian army colleagues often teased me.

My cock had already made a tent of my trouser, and I could see Champa’s eyes fall on it. When she looked back at me, her eyes were wide open on seeing my burning desire. Then she shifted weight from one leg to the other. Lo and behold, her bra-less oranges moved sideways, and jingled for a short while before settling into a new position.

She caught me scanning her bosom, and her eyes briefly glanced down at her oranges, and then fell upon my cock-tent again. I took the lead to suggest: Why don’t you come in and take the clothes?

She did not want to come in so I brought two shirts. I was hoping that she would come back with the ironed clothes later in the day – as she had always done in the past – rather than her brother or one of the parents.

I asked: Want some toffees?

She smiled. I also smiled and brought a few.

Giving them to her I whispered: Now you are grown up and become so very beautiful that I can’t believe my eyes.

She gave me another smile and turned around for the lift. Those few steps she took to the lift made her little butt churn-up more desire in me. Just before entering, she looked back over her shoulders and smiled. She kept her eyes upon me as she stood in the lift waiting for the door to slide shut.

I closed the front door and leaned against it wondering, ‘I can’t believe it. Champa-the-lass has triggered my carnal desires? Well, well! I can see some openings coming up.’

It was an ideal Sunday with no-one around to bother us. The lift serviced only one more flat opposite mine on the eighth floor, and I had not seen any activity of my neighbors. Perhaps they were out for the weekend.

The afternoon came and my ears were tuned to the door bell. And to make it worst, when I thought of Champa’s sex appeal, my meat-shaft would stand up waiting. Then, at last, the door bell rang. I put a fistful of toffees in my trouser pocket and opened the door. Champa was there with my ironed shirts resting on her outstretched forearms. I slid both my forearms in between hers with the excuse to lift the clothes, but with an ulterior motive to touch her bosom. I had always done something like this with females who aroused my carnal desires. The discrete touch had always worked, helped to lower their guard and to bring them around. I had been very lucky because there was only one woman who didn’t like it. Others never objected.

As my hands went-in between her forearms her oranges snuggled into my palms. They were very soft and filled my hands most gratifyingly. I pressed them gently and Champa did something which most sex-desirous females do: look around to see that no-one was spying. Champa looked over her shoulder at the door of the opposite apartment, and then she quickly glanced toward the staircase. There was no-one there and the decks were clear. I had seen all those discrete signs.

I let one hand rest below the clothes while my palm still held the other breasts. I slipped the free hand around her slim waist and gave a gentle pull. She did not resist and slid toward me. As she came closer, I planted a gentle kiss on her left cheek. She did not take offense.

I pulled her through the door and slammed it shut with my left foot. Then I pushed her against the door and planted a kiss on her lips. She held her lips shut tight. I was surprised. My mind said: ‘Perhaps, she didn’t know how to kiss’.

I whispered: Open your lips a little bit.

She did and I grabbed her lower lip and sucked it. After that I grabbed her upper lip, and she did the same to me. Champa was learning fast.

By then, my ironed shirts were tossed on the nearby sofa, and both my hands were free. I slid one hand down to her hips and felt her body. She was in real shape.

After the preliminaries were done, my hands slipped under her shirt from the bottom, and caressed her belly. She was clearly in rapture: