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Drive

April 24, 2013

She was driving back from college in her dinky little car when she first saw him in the rear-view mirror. He was on a motorcycle, one of those large, “manly”-looking pieces of equipment. She saw brown hair blowing in the wind and a soft, dear face that looked like it could belong to a 16-year old. He caught her looking and before he could smile or acknowledge her in any manner, she quickly looked away.

She’d felt the heat pool in between her legs when he looked right at her. This sudden burst of arousal – it was something that didn’t happen often, but she knew the feeling well enough to try and stare it down and tell it to back off and sit quietly in its corner. It didn’t work. She chanced another quick glance in her mirror. He looked right back. She clenched her thighs together, and her panties grew damp as she creamed all over them.

He should have overtaken her car by now – that beast of a machine he was riding could surely do better than tamely putter along behind her. Anyway, the best part of her everyday commute was over – to reach her house all she had to do now was turn from the highway into a lane a few hundred feet ahead. As it drew nearer, she bit her lip and felt how her nipples scratched against her kurta. She straightened her spine and kept driving straight ahead.

Another look in her mirror and she almost groaned. How could someone with a face like a cherub arouse her so madly? She kept her right hand on the wheel and fumbled for the opening of her salwar with her left. When she found her clitoris, she realized foggily that she’d better give up any pretense of sane driving, and she found a little by-lane to her left where she swerved to a stop under a cluster of trees. A cow sleepily assessed her and she narrowed her eyes back at it. It was mid-day. They were at the outskirts of a small, small town. The roads were deserted.

She’d known he would stop too. And he did. With a growing feeling of dread and incredible lust, she waited for him to come up to her. After a minute or so (which she spent slowly dragging her finger along her inflamed sex from over her panties), she frowned back into the mirror and realized he probably wasn’t going to make the first move. “Idiot”, she thought, “Young, horny idiot”, not quite sure just who she talking about.

She clumsily fixed her dress and got out of the car. He was stopped right there, right behind her car, and she saw his cheeks were flushed red, one hand groping himself through his awesomely tight jeans. She looked pointedly at his hand, which made him pull it back like it’d been burned. She dragged her eyes up to his face and was rewarded with an even darker blush. He was delightful.

“How old are you?”, she asked him sternly, thinking, please, please don’t say 16. “N-n-nineteen”, he stammered, “I’m a junior from college”. “And why are you following me?” “I’m not! I’m just…”, she saw his thighs clench and could see him outlined against the denim he was wearing. “I think you’re so hot”, he said finally. “I… I love how you sit bent forward in the canteen. I think about the way your hips swing when you walk and I don’t even know if you do it on purpose but I think about your hips and your legs and I get so hard. You get me so hard. I know you don’t wear a bra most days. Do you think your breasts are small? I don’t. They’re… they’re not”, he finished lamely and flamed red, but kept looking straight at her.

She closed her eyes as her eyelids suddenly grew very heavy. It’s true, she did think her breasts were too small to merit any kind of confinement, plus she’d always thought her trusty dupatta would be defense enough for anyone who thought otherwise. She looked down now to see it skewed and her nipples poking obscenely through the kurta she was wearing. She reached up and rubbed one nipple with the flat of her thumb. “You’re saying I need to start wearing a bra?”. He smiled shyly. “No”, he said, “that’s not something I would ever say”. She watched as his hand went almost unthinkingly towards his crotch. “Unzip”, she said.

His fly was down faster than she thought was possible and his cock happily sprang out, almost singing with relief. He groaned and she saw him grit his teeth as he gripped himself at the base. It was a nice cock – it had a broad head and girth enough to make a girl giddy. She felt something sticky start to trickle down her leg as a sudden surge of wetness flooded her pussy. Now gently pinching her nipple, she said (in a voice she thought remarkably steady), “Stroke yourself, I want to watch you come.”

His cock twitched. He started to stroke himself then, slowly first and then in earnest. She thought her heart would stop, she’d never been this aroused before. Still looking down at him, she sucked two fingers into her mouth and imagined it was him there instead. He would be so much thicker, he’d fill her mouth so completely. She was imagining his hands in her hair and her mouth stretched around him when she heard a strangled voice say, “Please, let me see your tits”.

She looked at him. His mouth was open, his eyes half-closed. She leaned back against the car and lifted the top of her dress then, twisting her nipples, feeling them grow impossibly hard as she wet them with the fingers that had been in her mouth. His cock, she thought. My god, I want him to rub his cock all over my tits. The thought made her moan out loud and she realized she’d been rhythmically squeezing her thighs around some imaginary source of pleasure. A second later she saw his bike wobble as he gripped one handle so tight his knuckles grew pale. He came just as she realized he was about to come – he came in slow, long spurts that seemed to go on forever, that seemed as if they were being wrenched from some place deep within him. His eyes were squeezed shut and she almost cried looking at him. God, how she wanted him inside her.

When he finally stopped shuddering, she set herself to rights and – putting one foot in front of the other – walked towards him. He closed his mouth and gulped but all she did was hand him her handkerchief to help clean the (frankly delicious-looking) mess he’d made. Putting one hand on his shoulder, she reached up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. She lingered longer than was probably right for unmarried couples their age – but she grinned to herself and decided any lookers-on could go straight ahead and put this kiss right. in. context.

He sighed as she slowly pulled away. She smiled up at him before getting back in her car and turning it around to finally go home. She didn’t look back in her mirror this time.

lane is shady in more ways than one

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Summer Lovin’

April 19, 2013
Once a year, every year till I was seventeen (or till my last year of school) our family would take a trip from where my father’s job required us to live in Karnataka to our home town in Uttar Pradesh. This little town was where my parents first met, fell in love and eventually got married, but now there was almost nothing left there of either of their families, everyone from their generation – siblings, cousins –  having moved to bigger cities and richer pasture.
But once a year, all of them would come back here, to this little town in the middle of (most people would agree) nowhere to be with family, to be home. What I looked forward to most, however, was meeting my grandmother. She was the perfect grandma, with a little crazy thrown in for good measure. She could settle arguments between siblings and cousins, cook impossibly delicious meals up to what seemed like fifty five times a day, she was funny, wise and mean (but never in a bad way), partook of a little Old Monk every night before bed and knew all the rudest stories… she was my favorite person in the whole world.
The house she so sweetly ruled over for so many decades was a large one, with a battalion of workers to cater to every need (and whim) of her children and wild, rowdy grandchildren. Some of these workers had fixed working hours – they came and went, but most of them lived on grounds and (so I’m told) had been with us for generations.
Jaffar was our gardener’s son. He was my age, perhaps a little older. Since I was the eldest among my cousins, and by a pretty large margin, I’d spent my summers playing with Jaffar and his friends. Spring to monsoon, every year, we’d spend all our time together – climbing trees, temporarily adopting puppies, eating stolen mangoes and generally being an overall nuisance. As I grew older and the prejudices of my ‘convent-education’ began to grow on me, I started to think of them as clumsy and uncultivated, holding their lack of fancy education against them, judging them as uncouth and somehow vulgar. All of this was exacerbated by puberty and the awkwardness of early adolescence. I was suddenly painfully aware that most of my friends here were boys. The mango trees in our orchard still gave delicious, juicy fruit, but I spent lesser and lesser time outside, choosing to stay in my room with my books, and having fruit for dessert after dinner at the table, as good girls are wont to do.
The rest of the children (eventually, hopefully) forgave me. I don’t think Jaffar ever did. As children we’d been almost inseparable  He used to make me laugh, we’d tell each other our secrets: he was my best friend. And while I was growing up shy – too thin, too geeky, Jaffar was just the opposite. He was tall and lean, bronzed from his hours in the sun, tightly muscled; and he had – with his bright dark eyes and large mouth, a face almost shockingly handsome.
 The last week of every summer we used to have a party, a large, friendly affair with lots of people and a whole lot of food. Every year as we got older, a bunch of us kids were – through some mysterious adult process – ratified as being “okay” enough to drink with the grown-ups and so tonight, under the hawk-eyed surveillance of my mother, I was allowed to get gently sloshed.
When I made my way back to my room it was late and the night had quietened down. I washed my face and opened the window to let some air in.
As the little room swelled with smells of jasmine and summer, I saw, standing with his back to a tree, Jaffar with, good god… a woman? Outside of schoolroom discussions and some amateurish exploration of my own body, I didn’t know too much about sex. I was aware of what went where, so perhaps I did know about “sex”; but I knew nothing of passion, of making love, of gasps and squeezes and muffled moans late at night under scented mango trees.
The woman had her hair tied in a loose bun and as I watched, Jaffar reached out behind her to tug at it, run his fingers through her hair till it opened and flowed, like a river of black silk, to halfway down her bottom. All this while she’d been grasping at him through his loose dhoti, and now that he was quite done with her hair, he unfastened her blouse as fast as his fingers would allow and then she shifted so I could see from my side the heavy hang of her breast – full and ripe and oh so delectable and maybe he felt the same way because a heartbeat later his head was bent down, quite possibly so his tongue and his teeth could say hello and howdoyoudo, but also perhaps so he could simply take a closer look. And then maybe he took her nipple into his mouth because suddenly she gasped and tightened her grip on his hair while her other breast, the one I could see, wobbled and shook in the most delightful consternation.
And then she was pulling away from him, pushing him away from her, pulling at his dhoti, pushing it down, down, down till it unraveled and pooled at their feet.
I could feel the color rise to my face and the blood rush down to where I had a finger drawing circles around my clitoris – felt it engorge, sweet cherry nubbin. In that first shocked moment when I saw what he looked like… what a man looked like, I couldn’t help but gasp (how would it ever fit!) and before I knew what was happening I saw him look up to where my window was thrown open and where I stood with my own prim little self thrown quite open too. The buttons on my shirt were undone, my bra off-kilter so a nipple was exposed. I’d rucked up my skirt and tucked it around the waistband, pushed my panties hastily to one side and so that is how Jaffar saw me, his bright eyes boring into mine as a semi-nude goddess bobbed up and down on her knees in front of him.
I averted my eyes from his before he could have time to react, and before even I knew what I was doing (maybe even out of some misplaced sense of camaraderie) I raised one heeled foot on to the window ledge, felt my labia lewdly, wetly spread wide open – spread it even wider with the fingers of one hand, in fact – all the while looking at the hypnotic sway of her hair and the sudden, shiny flashes of wet cock and I slowly pushed two fingers into my own waiting wetness. When I did finally dare to look at Jaffar’s face, I saw eyelids grown heavy with lust, saw him grip her hair tight with his fingers and shove himself deep into her mouth, saw him look all the while at the sticky see-saw of my own fingers.
She was starting to squirm and mewl now, her pelvis thrusting up to meet her own fingers and however pleasant this was for all parties involved, he decided that it was time to move on to something even more pleasant and I watched as he disengaged himself, as she shuffled around on her knees at a sign from him and got down on all fours, watched him cup her bottom, squeezing hard, and then saw him start to pull her sari up, gathering large folds of the garment in his hand, slowly and insistently. As he smoothed the sari up over her hips, a little thrill ran through me – she wasn’t wearing any underwear. The sight of her skin, smooth and brown, glowing in the moonlight aroused in him perhaps a lust even stronger than it did in my own precocious self because he was spreading her buttocks wide open with his hands and an aching heartbeat later was sinking himself deep inside her. I heard them groan in unison as I tugged at a nipple while dipping three fingers into my own wetness to spread over my clitoris and started to fuck myself in earnest.
The woman (his woman, I thought jealously) shifted slightly and watching her large breasts jump around obscenely from the force of his loving caused me to shift slightly and open myself even further to his gaze and Jaffar helplessly looked on, even while his hands were gripped around her generous waist and the sounds of their sloppy schlickschlickschlicking filled the night. And then I heard Jaffar groan and he was pulling on her hair as his rhythm faltered as he thrust hard once, twice and seeing his face contorted in that most blissful of agonies made me think oh god he’s coming and that one thought tipped me over so I was slipping, slipping, spiraling down and as I came I could see the woman had her eyes squeezed shut too and was biting her lip to keep from screaming out loud.
When I could listen to sounds beyond the rushing of blood in my ears, I felt the air had grown quiet, so quiet I thought it would eat us all up. I looked at Jaffar and his girl, where they were preparing to leave to wherever (their respective homes, I suppose) – hurriedly dressing and giggling. As he turned to kiss her behind the ear, I caught his eye and managed to not look away for long enough to give a small little wave before I felt the colour rise in my face and I wanted to duck out of sight. He smiled back at me (my god, the sweetest smile) and turned away then, his hand smoothing the sari over his partner’s back.
Back in my room, I threw myself on my bed, feeling not the least bit ashamed. Naughty perhaps, and wonderfully sated. It had been after all the best orgasm of my life… and maybe I was friends with Jaffar again? I grinned to myself. Probably not.
Anyway, we left for home the next day, and my grandmother died that winter. I haven’t had the heart to visit her house since, but maybe someday soon I will. Heaven knows I want to.

Latex Sex

May 1, 2010

Car

April 23, 2010

They did it in a car once. In fact, they did it on the driver’s seat of a brand new Tata Nano – so brand new, in fact, the plastic wrap was still on. Considering what a Tata Nano looks like, I wouldn’t be surprised if this makes you laugh. Later on, they found it funny too.

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.

Smut/Love

April 22, 2010
tags: , ,

A decidedly smutty one-off.

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 her 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.

Charlotte Stein

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