He picked her up from where she was out drinking with her friends. “Quick”, she’d said on the phone, “before I get really drunk and start singing Boyzone songs”. As he led her outside to the line of waiting cars, she looked around… remembering the large, shiny car he’d brought on previous occasion. This time however, his keys unlocked a tiny little yellow thing. Tipsy as she was, she clutched his arm and started to laugh. Loud. He grinned back. “Smallest car on Indian roads, baby.”

(We weren’t able to ascertain the complete veracity of that last, offhand statement but hell, she says, it sure felt that way)

They went first to the beach, sitting barefoot with their toes dug into the sand as they looked out towards the horizon, the only lights those of ships anchored at harbour (“Your father’s up there on one of those”, he joked, “with his cannons trained on me”). All they while they sat there, she had slowly, imperceptibly been raising her loose, knee-length skirt higher, and higher still, but in a manner that made sure (this she says she can only hope is true) no one else could see, so that when she took his hand and placed it on the inside of her thigh – her legs slightly parted, his large, dark hand on her pale thigh, so close to where she’d rather have it, but not quite there – she saw lust crowd his eyes, his eyelids grow heavy. He removed his hand, gently lowered her skirt and then stood up, offering his hand to her. On the long walk back to the car, his hand on her waist slid down to her bum, gently squeezing, and it took all she had to stop from breaking out into the widest of grins.

Back in the car, neither spoke for a very long time. She sat very straight, her legs on tiptoe and spread wide, her skirt raised and tucked around her waist, her fingers drawing wide, loose circles around her clitoris from over her panties. Head tilted back, eyelids heavy, she groaned out loud when she reached further down to slide her panties aside and slip a finger in. The car swerved into a narrow bylane.

Fifteen minutes later, a woman stepped out into her neat, manicured garden to investigate what sounded like a car pulling up outside their house. She saw a tiny automobile parked outside, and that tiny automobile was rocking, rather rhythmically. When further squinting into the dark indeed confirmed her risqué suspicions, she smiled softly to herself and went back inside. Her husband was going to get very lucky that night.

She wants him the way they were together last. In a hot, sweaty town in very, very small smalltown India. On that one single bed, with no fan, and in any case, there was a power cut.

She lies there in his shirt, on his bed, itching to take off her panties, the bed sheet, the shirt – the sun streaming in through the little window, it is so hot. But she also doesn’t want to move, so she lies on her side, sweating lightly, one arm dangling off the bed.

He steps in, shutting the door behind him and strips himself of his boxers as she watches, one eye lazily shut. He is glorious naked, and in bed. So… sure of everything he does. He sits at the edge of the bed and starts to draw circles with his fingers on her feet – her sole, her ankle, moving lightly up her calf. Her interest is piqued –  his certainly is, she notices, and laughs out loud. He looks up at her from where he is now licking her calf and smiles. And she loves him then, when he ignores her protests and gently spreads her legs apart to lick, starting at her thighs and moving closer and closer till he is lapping at her wetness, stroking her in slow, firm circles and then faster and faster till she’s bucking and writhing and holding his head down, clutching at fistfuls of his hair – and biting her knuckles to keep from crying out loud.

He holds his fingers out to her lips, and she dutifully licks. The whole of Krishnagar knows when you come, he says. There’s trace of a grin in his voice, and she is indignant. She cannot possibly be that loud. But just then, she can never really hear herself except as if from really far away. In that instant, her whole world narrows down to him – his hands and his lips and his teeth and his tongue. Oh, his tongue.

She would like to stay like that forever then, sated and drowsy and still so wet – nay, wetter than possibly ever before, as delicious little aftershocks course through her. She bends his head down to hers to kiss him, and can taste herself on his tongue, so warm and tangy. But he has other plans. He is hard, and must take as good as he gives.

His friends have come to visit him, from Bombay. Such good friends. They have come to see him, because this town is dreary and life begins to get lonely, and because they love him. And they are outside, just outside this door (of frankly dubious quality), talking or eating or watching some match or all three at the same time, who cares.

But she feels decidedly wanton, thinking about his friends watching her, hearing her, when he orders her to get on all fours and spreads her knees apart. Further, and further still. He’s rubbing her now, spreading her juices (that she has quite liberally provided him with), pushing his finger in. One, and then two. She moans, and maybe she is too loud. Be quiet, he tells her, they’ll hear you. And so she buries her face in a pillow, and he’s still fucking her with two fingers. But it isn’t enough – she remembers how it is to have him in her, and she squirms a little, trying to make him give her what she wants so bad.

His fingers slip out of her, and she can feel herself dripping, dripping onto… You’ve ruined the covers, he says, and his voice is low. He’s running his hands down her back, and then down to her ass and all the while she can feel him, so hard and hot, brushing the inside of her thigh. He spanks her then, lightly first, and then harder, and then loud and hard till she cries into the pillow. He doesn’t seem very concerned any more about his friends being able to hear, because he spanks her again, and again and again till she is crying out loud and so on edge that she can feel tears come to her eyes.

And just like that, without warning or precedent, he rams into her. He is hard and fast and oh-so-deep, but it isn’t hard enough or fast enough for either of them and then he has her hair in his hands, pulling at her, riding her like you would a wild horse and she is coming, shaking madly, clenching around him… and she can suddenly take no more. She slumps down – too deep, too much, she manage to say in between breaths. (Only later does he tell her how much it turned him on, hearing her say that. But just then they are all about the action.)

His answer is a low growl and then he pushes into her again and she’s grinning in her head and thinking, someone’s at the end of their tether. His hands are on her hips now and as he picks up pace, she is surprised to discover it still feels sinfully good. I can never have my fill of this man, she thinks, and then laughs at the horrid pun.

She can tell he’s close now. He’s making noises that seem to come from deep in his throat, and his hands on her hips are sure to leave marks.

And then he pumps into her once, twice, thrusting so hard she skittered a foot away. He’s grunting out loud and his grip could crack walnuts, but she is luxuriating in how this is making me feel. Really, don’t laugh. Luxuriating. She loves him then, always, forever.

And she loves him when he slumps down… still not resting his whole weight on her. And a long while later when they’re facing each other and still sweaty and tired and so marvellously content, she pushes his sweat-slicked hair away from his forehead and kisses him. In that hot, sweaty room in namelesstown with no fan and no power, she finds that she has fallen in love.