(Carried forward from http://shomachakraborty.blogspot.in/2013/10/getting-laid.html)
As he followed her lush derriere down the stairs and outside into the warm and crisp coolness of a winter afternoon in Delhi, his mind was already wrapping itself around her supple length.
It had been three long years of living like a hermit. It was not as if he missed his wife. She had run away with his best friend. There was no looking back allowed. She was a bitch. But, he did miss making love to her and cozying-up to a warm human body in chilly winters. He knew what he was missing but, had never made an attempt for gratification. It was too complicated. Women were too complicated and time consuming.
But, here was someone who had been openly inviting him into the honey trap for a month now. So what if she disguised it roughly as attempts at friendship. He knew. Had known all the time. This time he had decided not to take the lead. He did not want to take the lead. He wanted to be lusted after and courted into submission before finally giving in to the desire that was like a living being inside him.
As they walked out in the open, she turned around and they bumped into each other because his mind was wrapped up in thoughts he had not indulged in, in a long time. She felt soft against his hardness and desire flared up from nowhere burning him up. She did not make a move to untangle either.
They stood there for a few seconds tightly pressed against each other as the world passed by. It felt wicked, it felt delicious. The Sun soaked up their passion and stoked it into a warm heat that wanted them to take off their sweaters.
He took off his jacket. She shivered, in a nice, sexy way. He put his jacket around her enveloping her in his masculine deodorant.
She snuggled into it and inhaled deeply his spicy fragrance. She felt her bones melt and sighed. He pulled her closer to him and his left arm snaked around her middle, pulling her closer still.
The smell of spices filled the air, her breath caught in her throat and her knees buckled. The desire was too thick in that instance. It was pulling them into a vortex that was pulling them in so fast that she had to hold on to him for support. He seemed nonchalant but, she could feel the press of his fingers on the small of her back. They were leaving burn marks on her olive skin, of that she was sure.
Somehow, they stumbled on, somehow, their limbs, with a mind of their own were eager to wrap-up against each other. Somehow, their bodies developed a mind all their own and wanted to be tangled-up. When he flagged a cab, the moment of reason was gone forever. Replaced by the moment of lust.
They fell into the cab heaving and sighing. He gave the cabby the address to his apartment and they were off. He sidled up to her, his arm snaking up to the back of her neck. She sighed and turned to him. None got a moment to think before launching at each other's lips. She tasted salt. He savored it, not worrying about whose lip was bleeding or who had bitten whom. They were beyond thoughts, beyond shame, beyond this world. The entire universe could have been fitted into the backseat of the dilapidated cab at that moment in time and they would have not cared if they had to share the tiny space with billions of other human beings.
It was like a fever in their blood. It was lust that they had stoked and kept alive for a long time - for a whole month. Today they knew there would be no holding back.
The taxi stopped at the address he had given and he threw some money at the front seat without looking at the denomination.
"Sa'ab change!"
"Keep it."
The cabby smiled a knowing, smarmy smile that none of them bothered to look at or acknowledge. There was an itch that needed scratching, a pull that needed heeding.
They stumbled up the stairs and he unlocked the door to his flat with a flourish without looking at anything but her. Her breasts heaving with her quick breathless state were making him go mad. He wanted to tear off her clothes and have his own wicked ways with her.
He knew she wanted it as much as he did. His eyes on her bosom did not make her squirm, it made her feel an abandonment that she had felt only a few times before in her life. She was on fire and it had turned into an inferno that refused to be doused. All the parroted advice and years of scanning scary newspaper columns were brushed aside even as he pulled her inside the house and the door closed with a resounding 'thud.' The noise made by the door made the windows shudder, the wall reverberate and the painting of a half-naked woman on the wall changed angles slightly, to rest in a more skewed position.
The woman in the painting peered at them with large, dark and tear-stained eye while vermilion, the color of deepest red, deeper than blood, deeper than rubies, trickled down her forehead into the shadows between the valley of her breasts.
"You made it?"
"No." He was tugging at the straps of her dress, she was halfway down unbuttoning his shirt.
"Who made the painting?" There was no answer as his face was buried deeply into her skin. His lips sliding down the length of her neck and below in one smooth curve.
"Ummmm... you smell lovely."
"I know you love this perfume." The strange and dark lady in the picture was forgotten as his lips found a place and sucked at it first delicately and then with a rough pressure making her forget everything. There was nothing in the cosmos except both of them and darkness. Her hands swept down and then they fell into the couch, their clothes strewn and scattered all over the room.
***
It was only the next afternoon when they woke up properly. Both ravenous yet sleepy. Yesterday and the night in between was a blur.
The couch suddenly felt squishy and there was hardly any space for the two of them to adjust and it was hot, too hot. She opened her eyes and saw him sleeping next to her. She stared for several moments. There was nothing, She felt nothing. She looked up to see the woman in the paining and she was staring at her with dead, mocking eyes, the vermilion streaking down her forehead. Her lips, curved in a slight cynical smile as if saying, "been there done that."
Next to her, he stirred and then opened his eyes. She turned her eyes to his and they looked at each other aghast. As if trying to convey a silent message, 'this far and no further.'
The lingering smell of their mutual lust made the room smell rancid. They disentangled themselves and each moved to the other corner of the couch fast. She dragged the light covering with her to cover herself. He turned away, averting his eyes to give her privacy.
He picked up a discarded cushion from the floor and using it to hide his nudity got up and walked towards a door that she presumed would be the bedroom.
Quickly she snatched the scattered pile of clothes from the floor and after disentangling hers from the melee, got dressed in record time. He came in just as she was buttoning-up the her dress and coughed to let her know that she was not alone.
She whirled around and saw him dressed in a fresh jeans and T-shirt. His hair was smooth and in place and his face was as unreadable as that of an ancient pharaoh in a stone cast.
Averting his gaze she quickly looked up. The face from the portrait stared back at her. Its eyes were mocking and gaze empty. The curve of the lips was contemptuous.
Following her eyes he looked upon the painting as well.
"That's a self portrait of my ex-wife."
She looked at him quickly. He was still staring at the woman in the picture. Her eyes followed the path of his Adam's Apple. He swallowed hard, thrice and then turned slowly to look at her. She was looking strangely at him. His face was contorted with a mix of several emotions. The most prominent were anger and anguish. He gave her a smile that was more pathetic than victorious. She turned to leave when he spoke up. "Dipa, I put in my papers day before yesterday. I'm moving to Canada."
She heaved a sigh of relief and opened the main door. Then, she turned around one last time to take in fully the room she had spent her last 24 hours in. It was bare except for the painting and the couch. The walls were painted a dark shade of red and the paint was peeling in places to reveal a pale cream. The couch where she had spent the better part of her stay was larger than a sofa and very spacious. Perhaps he was used to sleeping away from the bedroom even when they were married.
She looked at the man who was absorbed in the painting and shrugged her shoulders. His house was actually edgy and no doubt his blog posts were romantic. There was room for only one queen in this kingdom because the seat was taken even in her absence.
This sudden realization made her turn and move out of the house with a spring in her steps. She left the door ajar because the house needed to breath. It was too claustrophobic inside.
As he followed her lush derriere down the stairs and outside into the warm and crisp coolness of a winter afternoon in Delhi, his mind was already wrapping itself around her supple length.
It had been three long years of living like a hermit. It was not as if he missed his wife. She had run away with his best friend. There was no looking back allowed. She was a bitch. But, he did miss making love to her and cozying-up to a warm human body in chilly winters. He knew what he was missing but, had never made an attempt for gratification. It was too complicated. Women were too complicated and time consuming.
But, here was someone who had been openly inviting him into the honey trap for a month now. So what if she disguised it roughly as attempts at friendship. He knew. Had known all the time. This time he had decided not to take the lead. He did not want to take the lead. He wanted to be lusted after and courted into submission before finally giving in to the desire that was like a living being inside him.
As they walked out in the open, she turned around and they bumped into each other because his mind was wrapped up in thoughts he had not indulged in, in a long time. She felt soft against his hardness and desire flared up from nowhere burning him up. She did not make a move to untangle either.
They stood there for a few seconds tightly pressed against each other as the world passed by. It felt wicked, it felt delicious. The Sun soaked up their passion and stoked it into a warm heat that wanted them to take off their sweaters.
He took off his jacket. She shivered, in a nice, sexy way. He put his jacket around her enveloping her in his masculine deodorant.
She snuggled into it and inhaled deeply his spicy fragrance. She felt her bones melt and sighed. He pulled her closer to him and his left arm snaked around her middle, pulling her closer still.
The smell of spices filled the air, her breath caught in her throat and her knees buckled. The desire was too thick in that instance. It was pulling them into a vortex that was pulling them in so fast that she had to hold on to him for support. He seemed nonchalant but, she could feel the press of his fingers on the small of her back. They were leaving burn marks on her olive skin, of that she was sure.
Somehow, they stumbled on, somehow, their limbs, with a mind of their own were eager to wrap-up against each other. Somehow, their bodies developed a mind all their own and wanted to be tangled-up. When he flagged a cab, the moment of reason was gone forever. Replaced by the moment of lust.
They fell into the cab heaving and sighing. He gave the cabby the address to his apartment and they were off. He sidled up to her, his arm snaking up to the back of her neck. She sighed and turned to him. None got a moment to think before launching at each other's lips. She tasted salt. He savored it, not worrying about whose lip was bleeding or who had bitten whom. They were beyond thoughts, beyond shame, beyond this world. The entire universe could have been fitted into the backseat of the dilapidated cab at that moment in time and they would have not cared if they had to share the tiny space with billions of other human beings.
It was like a fever in their blood. It was lust that they had stoked and kept alive for a long time - for a whole month. Today they knew there would be no holding back.
The taxi stopped at the address he had given and he threw some money at the front seat without looking at the denomination.
"Sa'ab change!"
"Keep it."
The cabby smiled a knowing, smarmy smile that none of them bothered to look at or acknowledge. There was an itch that needed scratching, a pull that needed heeding.
They stumbled up the stairs and he unlocked the door to his flat with a flourish without looking at anything but her. Her breasts heaving with her quick breathless state were making him go mad. He wanted to tear off her clothes and have his own wicked ways with her.
He knew she wanted it as much as he did. His eyes on her bosom did not make her squirm, it made her feel an abandonment that she had felt only a few times before in her life. She was on fire and it had turned into an inferno that refused to be doused. All the parroted advice and years of scanning scary newspaper columns were brushed aside even as he pulled her inside the house and the door closed with a resounding 'thud.' The noise made by the door made the windows shudder, the wall reverberate and the painting of a half-naked woman on the wall changed angles slightly, to rest in a more skewed position.
The woman in the painting peered at them with large, dark and tear-stained eye while vermilion, the color of deepest red, deeper than blood, deeper than rubies, trickled down her forehead into the shadows between the valley of her breasts.
"You made it?"
"No." He was tugging at the straps of her dress, she was halfway down unbuttoning his shirt.
"Who made the painting?" There was no answer as his face was buried deeply into her skin. His lips sliding down the length of her neck and below in one smooth curve.
"Ummmm... you smell lovely."
"I know you love this perfume." The strange and dark lady in the picture was forgotten as his lips found a place and sucked at it first delicately and then with a rough pressure making her forget everything. There was nothing in the cosmos except both of them and darkness. Her hands swept down and then they fell into the couch, their clothes strewn and scattered all over the room.
***
It was only the next afternoon when they woke up properly. Both ravenous yet sleepy. Yesterday and the night in between was a blur.
The couch suddenly felt squishy and there was hardly any space for the two of them to adjust and it was hot, too hot. She opened her eyes and saw him sleeping next to her. She stared for several moments. There was nothing, She felt nothing. She looked up to see the woman in the paining and she was staring at her with dead, mocking eyes, the vermilion streaking down her forehead. Her lips, curved in a slight cynical smile as if saying, "been there done that."
Next to her, he stirred and then opened his eyes. She turned her eyes to his and they looked at each other aghast. As if trying to convey a silent message, 'this far and no further.'
The lingering smell of their mutual lust made the room smell rancid. They disentangled themselves and each moved to the other corner of the couch fast. She dragged the light covering with her to cover herself. He turned away, averting his eyes to give her privacy.
He picked up a discarded cushion from the floor and using it to hide his nudity got up and walked towards a door that she presumed would be the bedroom.
Quickly she snatched the scattered pile of clothes from the floor and after disentangling hers from the melee, got dressed in record time. He came in just as she was buttoning-up the her dress and coughed to let her know that she was not alone.
She whirled around and saw him dressed in a fresh jeans and T-shirt. His hair was smooth and in place and his face was as unreadable as that of an ancient pharaoh in a stone cast.
Averting his gaze she quickly looked up. The face from the portrait stared back at her. Its eyes were mocking and gaze empty. The curve of the lips was contemptuous.
Following her eyes he looked upon the painting as well.
"That's a self portrait of my ex-wife."
She looked at him quickly. He was still staring at the woman in the picture. Her eyes followed the path of his Adam's Apple. He swallowed hard, thrice and then turned slowly to look at her. She was looking strangely at him. His face was contorted with a mix of several emotions. The most prominent were anger and anguish. He gave her a smile that was more pathetic than victorious. She turned to leave when he spoke up. "Dipa, I put in my papers day before yesterday. I'm moving to Canada."
She heaved a sigh of relief and opened the main door. Then, she turned around one last time to take in fully the room she had spent her last 24 hours in. It was bare except for the painting and the couch. The walls were painted a dark shade of red and the paint was peeling in places to reveal a pale cream. The couch where she had spent the better part of her stay was larger than a sofa and very spacious. Perhaps he was used to sleeping away from the bedroom even when they were married.
She looked at the man who was absorbed in the painting and shrugged her shoulders. His house was actually edgy and no doubt his blog posts were romantic. There was room for only one queen in this kingdom because the seat was taken even in her absence.
This sudden realization made her turn and move out of the house with a spring in her steps. She left the door ajar because the house needed to breath. It was too claustrophobic inside.
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