Sometimes, a photograph is all it takes to trigger that tiny spark of lust.
I didn’t know her, or her name. What I did know was the relentless ache that particular face and body caused me.
The sharp black and white photograph depicted her as leaning against a concrete wall alongside some urban riverside. Towering buildings flanked the other bank, but none were as imposing as the subject of the photograph.
She had to have black hair. A woman like that simply cannot get along with hair of any other color. A suave nonchalance in her stance and a fierce challenge in her kohl-lined eyes, her breasts were bared for any passer-by to look at and drivel over.
The photograph seemed to be clicked in some sort of perverse pin-up style. This was no simpering Jane or coquettish Betty. This was a Vivienne- a wild, lace and leather-clad hussy. A biker bomber dangling carelessly by one finger, a snobbish eyebrow raised at the world, the pose was enough to stagger any man or woman.
My fingers itched to clutch at that short bob of hair; to tangle its sleek coif. My lips burnt to taste those thin rouged lips. Would they warm at my touch? Would I be able to smudge that darkened gash?
Her upturned breasts made my mouth run dry. Barely voluptuous but adequately luscious, her breasts were created to be sucked and pleasured. The brief lace at her snatch hinted at shaven secrets. Framed by garters that seemed to be of fine leather, her thighs glowed with a promise of flesh smooth to the touch.
Would they glow with the same intensity when then clutched at my head working feverishly to rouse her to an expression different from what she reserved for her usual crop of men? Would her heeled boots leave urgent marks on the back of my thighs?
Would her breasts blush where my fingers kneaded them? Would her belly tauten each time she raised herself to meet my every thrust? Would her voice turn huskier when I entered her in one final thrust? Would my mind even register the marks her nails left on my bare back when the time came for her to fling her spasms at my length?
I sighed with an unusual longing for this mesmerizing woman. I simply had to find her. No matter where she was, what she was doing, who she was with, I had to possess her, if only for a few hours.
I would always have the photograph for existence after the lifetime jammed within those few hours.
I thought of peacocks when I first saw him. He was wearing a mesmerizing shade of the deepest, richest blue.
Very few men can do the traditional Indian sherwani justice. It simply demands a tall, well-built frame, wonderfully broad shoulders and a waist that screams for female hands to slink their arms around it.
The silver-eyed hoor who captured my ever-wandering imagination was evidently one of these much-admired few.
The upper garment glimmered the way only rich cloth is capable of glimmering and glittered the way only the very expensive glitter.
I was fascinated. I don’t think he registered my constant gaze.
I was rooted and hooked. My friends tugged at my sleeves. There’s a sale going on in Lace. Let’s go check out those adorable demi-cups we saw the other day!
Not today. You girls carry on. There’s something I need to check out. I’ll meet you’ll later… maybe at the food court? A nod from the brassiere-fanatics was all that registered as I inched my way towards him through the growing throng.
That he was built to make women take a second look and men grudgingly admire was apparent. It was enough to make me pause and take stock of my current options and the infinite possibilities.
I wanted to peel that layer of exotic richness off those broad shoulders. Feel the smooth contours that I knew were hiding beneath them.
I wondered how his lips would feel. Cold, no doubt. But I’m sure I would have been able to warm them up.
He would hold me in turn. Those strong hands and cool fingertips alternatively digging into my waist and lightly caressing the curves towards it’s base.
I would gasp perhaps, or maybe retaliate by pressing closer to him, to feel him swell in a wild rush. A nip at the base of his neck and I might perhaps be able to draw out a rumble in a sexy baritone. Enough to make us both wetter than we already were.
His fingers would rake the length of my back, subtly marking spots his lips and teeth would later kiss and bruise. I would be a bundle of aching nerve endings by then and would try to end it all and take things faster by tugging at his hair and drawing his lips…
Miss? Is there anything in particular you are looking for?
I retraced my steps.
If only mannequins were real men.
Swish, yank, tie. There, that ought to secure the boots. The corset would have to do with some of it’s stays undone, until she could find someone else to do the honors (or undo, she snorted in her mind).
The moon was just perfect- an angry red, looking like it had a patch on. You know… the kind of moon that throws bad things in a good light because its light itself is up to no good. Bad line, but that’s what she was full of these days and what people hurled at her day after day.
No more though. Tonight she would do the hurling. Good, self-respecting women who work themselves into a fit ought to get something out of it, at the very least. Now that ought to be made into one of those oft-heard sodden rules of life, she nodded emphatically.
Dressed like a slash of the black night itself, the brown-haired thunderstorm kicked her secret motorbike to life and sped towards the first dive bar she could find.
A couple of seedy bars with seedier man and women later, she stumbled upon the one woman she had hoped to sharpen her nails against someday. It was a good night to make the wretched thing experience that ’someday’. The right woman rubbing herself along the wrong man.
Oh no no no sugar pie, this man is marked out. Maybe I ought to get down to performing some serious territory-marking to stress my point tonight, she thought.
She strode up to the couple at the bar and yanked the wretched woman from the man by her hair. POW! Take that punch bitch. Everyone in the bar stared at the transformed woman who entered the bar tonight, wondering where her pastel dresses had disappeared.
The red-faced, tacky frock-clad hag (okay, she was beautiful, in a non-extraordinary way though) screamed in pain, fit to shrivel the balls of all the men gathered there. Hah! That ought to show the men what ‘actually’ rubs against their lusty loins in such places.
The frock-clad bitch gathered her lousy and minimal wits and took a swing at our girl. Too much drink on the swinger’s part and exceptional (and comparatively sober) reflexes on the opponent’s part tends to result in gravity taking over.
Tramp down, our girl still up. Game over. The bar settled back with disappointment and contempt for the frock-clad trollop. The cat-fight ended too soon in their none-too-honest opinions.
Turning her attention towards the man of the night, our vixen grabbed him by the collar and pulled him to his feet. Yanking him by the hand she strode out of the bar as silently as she walked into it, with each eye in it noting their departure.
The motorbike was parked a good way off, close to the brush nearby. Some sparse trees dotted a land otherwise bristling with bush. Somewhere in the distance, a cougar wailed. For its mate perhaps? She sure wasn’t wailing for her’s tonight.
What you playing at sugar, drawled the fellow. Whatever it is, I like it. I would like it even more if you demonstrated your point at length.
She slapped him, straight and hard. Do not piss me off buster. I’m roaring for a great ripping and I would appreciate it if you would just shut the fuck up and do as I say.
She took out the leather thongs from her back pocket and tied his hands to the tree she had shoved him against.
Hey! What the…mmmf… (You can’t really talk when a hot woman is kissing you like she wants to melt your body and reshape it now, can you?).
She shrugged her denim jacket off, the cold night air instantly perking her up some more. Her butt tautened as she raised one leg to curl around his hip and inched towards his mouth. Grind, nip, bite. The poor sod moaned in frustration.
She unzipped him and he groaned some more.
Come on baby, untie me and let me show you what these hands can do with that fine body of yours.
I said shut (bite) the (bite) fuck (nick) up! And she took him in her cool hands.
They didn’t stay cool for too long.
Stay put buster and beg for me, she ordered as she slowly worked her one hand down his length. The other was engaged in snipping the buttons off his shirt, one by one.
Her hot tongue paid equal and close attention to his nipples and his length. The stays in her lacy corset unraveled a bit more, her ripped skirt climbed higher. Twin hints of pert, pale rounds flashed him a mocking grin.
He groaned some more and clenched his hands harder against the trunk.
What? No wisecracks now? Cat got your tongue? Ha ha… now that’s a nice line to use in this situation.
Stop talking woman and give me more of that hot tongue.
She undressed. Corset, gone. Skirt, down. Bare flesh clothed in nothing but the red moon’s dark light, she stood before him with her legs apart.
Why? So that I’m another notch? No chance honey… I’m not one of the tulips you deflower every second night. You lost that chance anyway.
Maybe I should leave you panting and hanging for once hmm? Leave you tied to this tree, free for the taking of anyone and anything that comes for a late night piss in the brush.
Mmm… is that panic I see in your eyes? Now why don’t you make things sweeter for me and do some interesting begging and pleading?
He didn’t get a chance to. She shoved herself against him and clutching his smooth, shaggy hair began kissing him with a fierce fury.
She was slick with want, there was no doubt about it and he was clearly aching to touch her where she was slickest. It didn’t make things any easier when she showed him how very wet she was.
She growled in his ears. Want that do you? How badly now…
Goddamn you! Show me some mercy here. You have no idea how hot you look to me right about now and how badly I want to touch you.
You want to touch me? Are my rakes and claws and bites not enough to show you I have no mercy to spare tonight?
Sigh. Greedy, greedy man… here.
Sweet mother of fuckin’ Satan! She raised her eyes at the oath he roared as she impaled herself upon him. No time to think when she was being filled fit to tear.
She was either too tight or he was too big. Oh but sweet, sweet fuckin’ sweet feeling, don’t go away yet!
She dug her nails into his waist and clung to it as she rode him standing. She rode till the cold night air crackled around them. She smiled at the thought that she was probably the first woman to take him this way. She smiled at the rush of power that tingled at each spot where her nerves ended.
So this was what it was to have someone at your mercy, to make them crave and want and then take them at your own unhurried pleasure.
She thrust herself upon him more urgently as the feeling grew and spread. Her breasts rising and falling in a steady rhythm as she fought for control over a situation she would rather lose control over. She closed her eyes and got ready to give in.
Suddenly, she felt two hands grab her at the low of her back and lift her.
With a start she saw her captive grinning at her and lowering himself to the ground, lying flat on his back and placing her above him. The wretch had freed himself!
She didn’t wait a second more. Hair tumbling over her shoulders and slashing across her breasts in mad streaks, she rose above him and began riding him more urgently now.
He couldn’t stay still and clutching her by her butt, added his own thrusts to her tempest. Two crude and primal creatures beating against each other with the night as a blanket for their lusts.
She cursed him, scratched his chest, his hands, his legs and arching her back reached behind herself and raked his sack, his groins.
That’s it. There’s only so much a man can take. He roared and gave one last hard thrust, triggering her release on a cry that sounded both angry and pleasing to the ears.
They pressed cruelly against each other at the point that joined them. As though in a bid to get closer than it were humanly possible to do so.
But it was over. She dismounted and without sparing him a glance, put on her clothes while she walked towards her motorbike.
His eyes had the defeat and let’s-start-a-relationship look in them. Her cruel, dismissive grin said it all.
I never liked it when my lovers used the mirrors hanging in my rooms. It always seemed like a violation of my space, of myself. Why wouldn’t they admire or frown over their imperfect faces elsewhere? In the opposite apartment’s window panes perhaps or their own sorry pocket mirrors?
My mirrors belong to me and me alone. They cannot reflect anything other than me and my own body and my own thoughts and passions. They were my greatest critic and ugliest rival.
Each day, I would awaken to a trompe-l’œil ceiling depicting lovers languorously intertwining around each other and submitting to their primal natures. Beautiful, wonderful creatures who didn’t give a damn to the lovers I brought to share my bed. They would writhe in each other’s arms in careless oblivion to the court I would hold in their shadow.
It can be chilling when such beauty is presented as your morning’s first view. It always left me cold and ashamed.
The mirror that hung over my boudoir would then come to my rescue. An intricately haphazard arrangement of glass shards, the mirror hung from across my bed would show me the next beautiful object in my room- Me.
No matter what kind of lover shared my bed- accomplished or sorry and no matter what manner of night I would have- energetic or idyllic, I would be the first to arise. Nothing and no one could put a pause in my pattern.
My eyes would open and gaze at the impersonal beauties above me and then fall on the beauty I would see reflected in my jagged mirrors. I would then stretch in joy and a renewed thirst for life.
Smooth skin that glowed with the spent passions of a night that refused to be chased from my rooms, abundantly thick and flowing hair that would be tousled with a lover’s wild clutchings, pouting lips that sometimes held a faint glisten of another’s essence, and very rarely, a purpling bruise were the night and my moods demanding enough. I would take in all of it.
My mirror reflected my power. My mirror held my soul. The old wives tales sometimes do ring true.
My lovers would never witness this early morning ritual of mine. They would usually be to soporific thanks to the previous night’s ministrations. Nyx and I combined, usually had that effect on the weaklings that graced my bed.
But this morning, I woke up to a view that invited my fury and a hesitant arousal.
I saw last night’s subject looking at himself in the mirror. Before I could use my precious shards, I saw him trying to have a glimpse at himself. The very nerve!
He didn’t seem to realize that I was watching him discretely in a growing fury. I was about to rage at him, when he lifted his hand and traced his face in the cold glass. His forefinger moved lower, tracing the firm ridges of his abdominals. I was fascinated. I had never seen a man admire himself like that. My mirror was for someone else’s viewing pleasure today, so I looked on.
His fingers moved downwards, to his dark thatch and stopped. It was then that I became painfully aware of the breath I had held tight.
And suddenly, he turned and looked straight into my eyes.
“What are you looking at Princess? Why have you gone red? And oh look, now pink as well.”
“You worthless man! You dare speak to me so? Get away from my sight!”
“Ah, so many spirited exclamations and such glorious anger! My nakedness delights in the way you look now. Maybe it is time for you to have your turn at the mirror and see what you are today morning yes? I shall move aside.”
I was surprised at what he said and the manner in which he said it. He was supposed to be docile. The men who shared my bed were never strong or bold enough. Before I was halfway to the mirror, I was yanked back to the bed.
I think I hit my head on the sideboard, but I hardly felt that then. What I felt was his kiss or rather the way he ravaged my mouth; a universe apart from the manner in which he had kissed me last night.
Bathed in the glow of last night’s waxing moon he was a man I possessed. Clothed in the new sun’s rays, he was a man bent on possessing my mind and savaging my body. In a burst I cried my satisfaction at him and craved for more in the next instant.
He gave me more. There was no route to his journey of lust. He would bite my lobe one moment and nip me under my breast the next. He would cup my flesh one second and then, in a flash, he would clutch at my thigh with his thin hard fingers. The sun grew hotter and he hurt me harder.
“Do you know that mirror of yours is a thing to be wary of? It showed me my lusts and chalked out my passions for me. I could barely look at myself, for it was showing me things I would rather not do to you.”
“I wonder if you would want me to heed to what your wyrd mirror shows me. I wonder if this is what you do to your lovers each night Princess.”
I didn’t have any answer to that. I was scared for the very first time, but yet I knew that I didn’t want this sweet pain to end. I bit my lips till they bled. I do not know who drew the first blood though, him or me. I just clawed in mad desperation to get him closer to me, to my skin.
Such savagery did not become me. Me of the soft sheets and soft men who thought themselves to be hard won. Me of the gilded cups and lavish apartments and rich furs and multiple titles. I barely recognized myself today morning.
My screams of pain were harsh, unlike the throaty moans I would otherwise sigh. My cries of surrender contrasted with the cries of passion I would usually utter after possessing my men.
This time, I was close to surrendering myself to a man. He knew it.
He looked at me and smiled. “Princess, today I shall break your mirrors forever. I have heard the other men who shared your bed damn it. Yes, gasp not. They know all about your morning rituals.”
“Today, I shall show you what it is to let go of your soul forever and revel in that freedom. Fight me if you will. But fight me well. You shall no longer be in any cold glass’s thrall and neither shall you hold any other man in thrall.”
I gave in on a sigh. A sigh I never knew existed for people like me. Perhaps this was bliss and beauty and everything my mind sought. Perhaps it was a dying night’s dream.
Perhaps it was neither but just a part of my soul that was towering above me, making cruel sweet love to me.
Aah… what did I care! I was replete and touched by a man I would remember forever. Proud Princesses sometimes needed more than a prince that would fight demons for them. Love and lust and life were for the taking weren’t they?
I never thought about men the same way again. Neither did I sigh wistfully at the surreal beauty above me again. My mirrors were replaced as well.
By him.
I was waiting for the train to arrive at Churchgate station earlier this evening.
A hard day at work fixing someone else’s network security issues tends to pummel the mind into oblivion. It irked that the end to this particular day had me staring uncomprehendingly at some new starlet on the movie posters at the station. Another day and time would have had me ogling along with the hundred odd men on the platform who do the same day after day.
It was then that I noticed her. Or rather, her perfume. It brought to mind a parcel I had once received from Uncle Glen for my eleventh birthday. The parcel contained a rather spiffy set of Hot Wheels cars. Every kid in my family and in my neighborhood wished for at least one Hot Wheels car back then.
Now it might seem odd that a woman should smell so. But please understand that back then, to my eleven-year-old mind the parcel containing the shiny cars was a parcel holding something I desired with a fierce longing. Just like this particular girl/woman.
I tried to locate the source of that scent and stood up to wander around in search of it. I knew without a doubt that it belonged to a woman and thankfully, I was not disappointed.
The girl-woman was standing with her hand firmly clasped in someone else’s. Her lover was holding her very close.
You can always make out couples who are lovers. They are comfortable with each other. Like they share more than tame hand clasps. Like they know each contour of the other’s body and would simply slide a hand here, a touch there at any place in the world and then, on an afterthought remember to notice that the person next to them is stealing a look at their intimacy.
The look on my face was the look of a man denied his one spectacular want.
I tried to look away, but yet kept myself close. When the train arrived, I stepped into the over-crowded and over-putrid male compartment. The reader might feel over-happy to know that the scent followed me in here as well.
The crush in the local trains makes it impossible to stand comfortably. What is misguidedly termed the Gent’s Compartment makes it even worse. When I realized my right side was pressed to her back, I forgot all about comfort.
If I turned my hand a certain way, my palm would contour the swell of her right hind. If I tilted my head at a certain angle, her head would fit the hollow of my neck. If I shifted my legs a certain way, she would know the effect she was having on me.
At Charni Road, she realized the effect she was having on me.
I was sweating by then. Her lover, while nothing to look at and hardly coming up to my ears looked like he was besotted enough to defend her until he was boxed unconscious for it.
I hardly cared. I would have gladly boxed him. She was moving closer into me. I hardly believed it.
Her scent got stronger. She wriggled a bit (or maybe the crowd pushed her, I wasn’t paying attention) and my front was so close to her back that it was driving me rabid with lust.
Thankfully, her man was tuned in to his iPod with his back to someone else’s and our increasingly heated exchange passed unnoticed. We were as alone and intimate as we could possibly hope to be in a train.
The train braked and she and I were, for ten heart-thudding seconds wriggling flushly against each other trying to readjust our selves. I needed to touch someone and slake my want. Mine, her’s, whatever I could lay my hands on.
Instead I clenched my jaw and tried to focus on the poster for some pain relieving balm on the compartment walls. Oh yes, I could have certainly done with a dab of it at that particular moment.
What happened next nearly ripped me apart.
I felt tiny but firm fingers sliding against my swell. Cupping me, outlining my ridge. Hesitating, yet adventurous. Up until then, I was very certain that my self-control would never desert me. I wasn’t that cocky anymore.
Her fingers continued their tame yet potent exploration and I found myself returning the favor/torture.
I realized a newfound appreciation for those lousy garments called salwar kameezes. The high slits for the top, the low worn pyjamas, the sumptuous material, all served to hide my exploring fingers.
At Bandra, I cupped her and surreptitiously drew her closer. I wanted to dip my head and breathe in her strange scent and break apart completely, but I restrained myself. This would have to do for now.
A few moments stolen from her lover were all I had to keep my nerves at a simmer and I seized it and milked it, so to speak, for what it was worth.
I got down at Andheri with a saunter in my step and a grin on my face. I stepped off the last step and ignored the girl-woman looking towards me with an expectant smile on her face.
Oh, but the anger made her look so very stunning. I shook my head in pity and carried on home.
The rains were usually a good time to sit near the porthole-shaped window.
It was quite large in diameter, stretching from the floor to halfway up the ceiling. Set into unpainted stone walls, it appeared for someone on my side of the wall like a picture frame for the world outside.
When it rained I would drag my chair and table and fountain pens and yellow papers and settle for a spot of writing while occasionally glancing at the world fall to pieces outside.
I never liked the rains much.
The gloom made me think too much, they made me drink to forget the cold, they made me listen to Ella Fitzgerald for far too long, they made my ink-scrawled papers wet.
It is common knowledge to keep papers with writing in ink on them far away from water. But the damp somehow got to them and spoiled my crisp flourishes. It vexed me no end when that happened.
You couldn’t hope for warmth in a large loft with stone walls and a gigantic circular window as open to the elements as a newly born pup, newly abandoned. One reason why I made sure the blanket was never folded and the brandy was always within reach.
Nana (grandma, now dead), must surely have taken more than a nip or two while ensconced on the fluffed-up futon with one of her boyfriends. I was simply carrying on the tradition.
The blue-mantled icon on the left wall could ignore it, like always.
Of course, I never had much use for either blanket nor brandy when he stepped in for a spell.
The poor man would visit me at my loft in a forgotten but absolutely real part of Bandra all the way from his penthouse in Kemps Corner. While he lived in a rich man’s house, I had inherited mine from nana.
He refused to use daddy’s spanking new Porsche (a birthday gift) and would instead ride his second-hand Yamaha YBX (oh the pride of the rebel rich son!) come rain or shine to my loft.
It didn’t matter to me as long as I didn’t have to make that journey.
He would enter the old stone tower I call home, dripping water on my wooden floors. He would then proceed to strip and reach for the towel in one smooth move, all the while crying out his indignance at Mamma Nature for her dark-eyed, leaking clouds.
I would watch him from my seat near my window crying out my gratitude at Mamma Nature for her wild-eyed son. I would watch this fine specimen of male flesh drying himself on my rugs like he belonged here. Yes, men like him do seem to have it all.
For an Indian, he looked remarkable. Wheatish skin, a black over-long thatch of hair, a narrow waist (daddy owned a gym somewhere Southside, of course he used it!), buttocks that could very well have been sculpted in marble, thighs that led on to shanks that made the mouth water when bared for the eyes to see. He was my very own Shiva.
I was far from being his Parvati.
A messy bun indifferently fixed with Mom’s vintage red coral stick, papa’s (grandpa, also dead) old fisherman sweater worn over naked nothingness, Betty Boop woolen socks that Assumption had once knitted haphazardly for me and ink-stained fingers that usually had a big ring or two made by me in a fit of boredom on them.
I was his imperfectly pictured princess, as he would sometimes say after a warm more-than-good morning in bed.
He would never dry himself thoroughly. He left some of the cold rain water on his skin for me to dry up.
He would slip in cold hands under my sweater and make me gasp in shock and cry in an excess of sensation. He would rub me all over underneath, turning my warm body to butter-laden toast.
The pure water would evaporate off his skin and salty water would begin to sheen on mine.
My papers forgotten, the ink drying up, my hair messing up some more, the brandy forgotten… the world would continue its crash and boom outside while we began our own wild symphony inside.
He would carry me to my warm blankets and I would sink into them while he would settle in me and we would cry together at that welcome comfort we both craved so much.
My tears would be for the warmth I relentlessly sought but rarely found. His would be for the warmth he sought in me and never found in his Italian outfitted home.
It was a day created for pleasure.
It was also a day created to know my charmer better.
All I knew about his latest whereabouts was that there was a high chance he would be where I would be later in the day. Highly optimistic and severely charged, I began preparing myself.
3.00 pm: A hot scrub-down with the French Vanilla wash and a shave all over. No news from him.
4.00 pm: Procastination. Between a curve-hugging red number and a colorful high-belted affair and also between whether to call him up and make definite plans, or not.
5.oo pm: The hobo stuffed with the colorful confection and spare lingerie and a decision to keep it a surprise fortified further with spiced black tea.
6.00 pm: On the train to town. The itch to call him tamped down and mild success with the stirring hormones realized.
7.00 pm: Picked up the friend and plans made to pick up more friends.
8.00 pm: Plans go awry. Urge to call it off and go my own merry way stifled.
9.00 pm: The group dissipates. Only the friend and me now.
10.oo pm: Dinner with the friend at a popular dine out.
11.00 pm: First hell hole entered. A cursory glance. He is not there. Many more men instead.
I tried letting go of the tension that had me in an unwanted grip throughout the evening at the club.
The club was not as wild as I had expected. The women were pretty but not stunning enough for my taste. The men were passable. Searching for sensational minds and bodies in that place was pointless and so a gin & tonic later, I left with the friend.
My day of pleasure and night of bliss was fast slipping through my fingers and in a deploringly desperate attempt they inched towards the cell phone, only to find the battery on its last breath.
I truly lost hope then.
However, I was with a good person and the night had an entire hour to feed intoxication down our throats so we hit a lounge known for the risqué clientele and edgy music.
I look around. I knew he came to this place often and I had a faint hope he would patronize it that night. Careful manipulation on my part had us under that particular roof.
Meeting him under it was another matter altogether. Serendipity could only get you that far.
My disappointment had completely worn off the gin and I felt like vodka on the rocks. I had to lean to get the bartender’s attention over the bar rail.
With utter bravado and a complete disregard for the short hem, I leaned forward. (As the friend later pointed out) I drew more than the bartender’s attention with my fervent stretch.
All I knew was, I leaned enough to draw the attentions of a hot hand. At that precise moment, I was looking at the bartender and one look at my widened eyes; he gasped the glass out of his hand.
My friend took one look at the man behind me and sidled away to catch her prey.
I drew back and slid down his length in a belated gasp. He always towered over me and slipping into his braced arms was like sinking into a spectacularly silken bed. Make that a silken bed wafting off Chivas from each hidden fold.
With one hand beneath my skirt he drew me closer in a harsh grip. I gasped yet again. From the thrill, from the suddenness, I cared less if any lucky soul heard it.
He nipped me on the throat and in a harsh growl barked, “Why did you not say tonight would find me bumping into you here? In this place, with just another woman accompanying you to this rover-eyed hell hole?” He pressed his length against my back and dug in closer to my warmth. Shake. “Answer me.”
I did not answer him. Instead, I stayed right there, allowing my relief at finding him slip past my lips on a sigh. Letting me feel his heat through the combined denim and lycra on our bodies.
I stole a glance upwards and saw him tighten his jaw. He looked down at me, his eyes mirroring the glazed look in mine and he half-dragged me toward the alcove-rich inner room of the club.
He asked me again, “Why did you not tell me you would be here?” I answered, “I was not really sure about me. Or about you for that matter.” I took a deep breath, “I wanted to be certain this heat burned both ways. That it burned enough to make it worth my while to explore it further.”
He looked away. His hands now spanned my waist, bunching the dress, un-bunching it, creasing its flimsy perfection in a tensely rhythmic motion. The music continued its wildly abstract beat, my heart continued skipping every second one.
A minute later, I forgot all that. All I could feel was the jagged pulse that ran under my fingers at his throat. The slide of his lips against mine. The bulge in his tight-denims that fit into my depression. My breasts pressed in an ache against his broad chest. We couldn’t get any closer and we moaned in synchronized pity at that.
I hadn’t had anything underneath the skirt of my dress and he quickly exclaimed that discovery on a husky groan. He slipped his forefinger into me. I cried out my displeasure. He slipped in two and I broke on a half-moan. He turned us and pressed my front against the inside of our private niche. He pulled down the scalloped edge of my neck. I felt the cold stone of the white-washed wall tingle against my skin. He placed me so that it pressed against my twin points of pleasure.
With two fingers tingling against my own walls, he then whispered, “Did I ever tell you what was it I thought when I first read your words?” I shook my head. “I thought, if the heat poured off her words onto the cold screen of my netbook and melted my mind, what would it be like when it poured off this woman’s skin and I held her in my arms while it did?”
Husky-voiced I asked, “What is it like?”
In answer, he licked the bottom of my earlobe, dug in deeper and said, “I am burning. Inside out, all I can feel is a powerful need. My mind already worships yours. When you walked in through that door this evening, all I could think about was the griping urge to whisk you off and worship the body that decorates the mind as well.”
“Here is a niche for the woman who is giving me my new religion, here is your devotee and here we are, alone.”
I shuddered in satisfaction and some amount of surprise at those words. Five minutes later, I shuddered in a spectacular mix of spent passion and victorious delight.
I met my pleasure for the first time that night.
Ask a girl about shoes and you will be treated to either a discourse on footwear or a haiku on the topic or simply a smile similar to one reserved for a favorite lover.
Shoes are essential.
To look good, to stick to the ground beneath your feet, to trample over a male ego, to feel comfort or experience discomfort. You simply cannot rule shoes out of your life.
I feel shoes have a bit of the soul of the wearer trapped in them.
No pair of shoes will look the same when worn on two different pairs of feet. I resent it when I share my shoes with someone else and feel extremely uncomfortable whenever I slip into shoes belonging to another.
But today, I slipped it into a pair of shoes that belonged to the man. I slipped into them and I felt his heat scorch my bare feet.
I liked it.
I remembered his feet. Not big and clumsy like most men’s. Small, stubby, supple and always clean. He would take good care of them.
I once remember licking chocolate off them. Another time, I licked them bare. Once, I slipped them into my warmth.
And just like the last time, the warmth slowly spread over my flesh. Flushed my skin. Tingled me where I wanted most to feel the singe.
I wanted to rip off my house cloak and lay down on the cotton sheets and feel his length flush alongside me. I wanted to slide up him and stick close to him. I wanted slip his toe into me and feel the stubby wriggle.
At times it would draw out delighted giggles from my throat. Most times it would make me moan my pleasures in a rising staccato of gasps.
Svelte calf to muscular thighs. Smooth skin to coarse skin. Cold flesh to warm flesh.
I wanted to feel a million different things only he had the power to make me feel.
But the broom was in my hands, adding another calluse to the assortment my palms already sported. My one mundane reminder of my less-than-mortal life.
One last look at his shoes and I took his warmth with me to my room. Goodbye broom, I want to be a goddess for a few minutes more.
Creating this blog itself has been a cathartic experience for me. For someone so out there in the online world, it has been difficult controlling the urge to use the moniker I have been using for the past few years on all my online indentities. Breaking out from a comfort zone has usually been a rather painful process for me.
I finally managed to break free though and now that I have accomplished this much, I think I should hope that very few who know me otherwise don’t figure out the real me. Nonetheless, it certainly would be thrilling to see how long this lasts.
