[fiction] Just Out of Curiosity

“Come on; don’t tell me you’re shy.”

“I’m not shy, okay…but here? Now?”

Yashika looked at Ayaan and sighed. “Why not here?” she asked. “Why’re you so scared?”

“I’m not scared,” Ayaan said. “But what if someone comes in and sees us?”

“No one will come in,” Yashika replied. “They know we’re studying and no one is going to disturb us.”

Ayaan shook his head and thought about what his friend was saying. While a part of him was excited at the proposition in front of him, another part of him was apprehensive, even scared. He wondered if Yashika was fooling with him. What if this is some kind of a joke?

What’s wrong with him? Why doesn’t he say yes? Yashika hadn’t expected it to be so hard to convince Ayaan. She had assumed that he would be delighted to go ahead with what she had in mind.

“Let’s go out for a drive,” Ayaan suggested. “We can do it in my car.”

“No, here is better…I want to be near a washroom,” Yashika said.

This time, Ayaan sighed. “What’s gotten into you suddenly? Why me?”

“Because you’re my good friend, Ayaan,” Yashika told him. “You know I don’t have a boyfriend…and I don’t trust any guy as much as you.”

“Okay, but…why? You just woke up today and decided you wanted to do this?”

“Well, Neha was talking about, she does it…”

“She does?”

“Oh, you’re excited about her doing it, but not about me doing it to you?”

“Of course I’m excited,” Ayaan said. “It would be awesome…you doing it to me would be like a dream…”

“Really?” Yashika asked. “You’ve dreamt about it?”

“Yes, of course,” Ayaan replied. “I mean, not you doing it, but…you know…generally.”

Yashika smiled. “Then let me, na. It’ll be fun. I’ll even lock the door.”

“But why this suddenly…I don’t understand,” Ayaan said.

“I’m just curious,” Yashika said. “Neha says it’s fun…I’m just curious about what it feels like.”

Ayaan thought about it again, and then decided to stop thinking about it. Who knows when I’ll get a chance like this again. He shrugged and said, “Okay.”

“Yaaaayyy!” Yashika jumped up in joy and locked the door, as silently as she could. She stood in front of him, both of them looking at each other.

“So…what next? How do we…you know,” Ayaan asked.

“I guess you can stay in that chair,” Yashika replied. “I’ll come down in front of you.”

Yashika walked over to where Ayaan was sitting. She didn’t want to look into his eyes, but she wondered if he was looking at her. Yashika stole a glance at his face, and saw that he was avoiding looking at her as well. She felt good about that, she didn’t want to be self-conscious.

Ayaan’s eyes were on Yashika’s shorts as she walked towards him. Her t-shirt and her face came in the line of his vision as she kneeled down before him. Ayaan didn’t remember ever being as uncomfortable as he was at that moment. He could feel sweat run down his back. For a moment he wondered if this really was Yashika’s first time as well, she seemed unfazed.

Kneeling between her friend’s legs, Yashika leaned in towards him to open the buckle of his denims. Ayaan helped her pull his denims and underpants down to his knees and closed his eyes when her fingers lightly touched his member. It had taken just a few seconds for him to get stiff.

Yashika could feel Ayaan’s penis throb as she put a hand around it. She looked at it closely, seeing a man’s private part for the first time in her life. It fascinated her. It seemed inhumanly big, the top of it wet and the rest of it as hard as stone. Yashika touched the head of his member with her thumb, and in that instant, Ayaan mumbled, “Oh shit,” as his whole body started to spasm and a white fluid spurted out of his penis.

Caught by surprise, Yashika fell down on her bum as Ayaan, embarrassed, pulled his denims up as best he could and hurried into the washroom. She waited for him to take his own time before he came out, not wanting to embarrass him further. Ayaan looked distraught when he finally opened the washroom door and stepped out. “I’m sorry, Yashika,” he said. “I feel like such a fool.”

“It’s okay, Ayaan,” she said. Yashika smiled and took him by the hand towards the desk that had their study books strewn on it.

“I just couldn’t control myself,” Ayaan said, unable to make himself look at her.

“It happens, Ayaan,” Yashika said softly. “It’s no big deal; you don’t need to feel bad about it.”

“Really?” he asked, looking up at her sheepishly.

“Yes, really,” Yashika smiled.

Ayaan tried to smile back, but he was too mortified to do so.

“You just sit back and relax. We’ll do it again after some time, we’ve the whole afternoon, after all,” Yashika winked.


[fiction] The Arranged Love

(This was first published in The Writer’s Eye magazine.)

“What? Arranged marriage? Me? No way!”

From surprise and shock, my facial expressions made a sea change to you-gotta-be-kidding-me and forget-about-it.

“What do you mean by no way? You’re never going to marry?” My mother asked me.

“Of course I will marry,” I replied. “I’ll marry someone I love, not someone I am arranged to love.”

“You’re 25 and you still haven’t found a steady love, how much longer do you expect everyone to wait?”

Before I could say something intelligent and rebellious about this being my life and not having anything to do with everyone else, my mother had walked out of my room. But her sarcasm didn’t go unnoticed.

I could understand what my mother felt; in India, questions start getting raised when a 25 years old man is unmarried (for women, the age is 23). Getting their sons and daughters married is the one thing that most parents live for. A big burden gets lifted from their shoulders once their children are ‘settled’. Having seen this situation a number of times in a number of households, I could relate to my mother’s concerns. I myself wanted to marry, but was it my fault that I had been unlucky in love? Every time I went out, cuddling and romancing couples reminded me that I had no one to hold hands with. Heck, I wanted to settle down as well, but an arranged marriage, hell no! I was a copywriter; I was just too cool to get into something uncool like an arranged marriage.

My mother however, and obviously, didn’t feel the same way. Her logic was simple: if by the age of 25 I didn’t have a girlfriend I was going to marry, then I had to start looking at arranged matches. “Let’s at least go and see the girl, you can say no if you don’t like her. If you come to see this girl, I’ll even buy you a packet of Toblerone.” What could I say; I would have done anything for Toblerones. And so, my mother enticed me to see a girl for marriage with chocolates, an irony she didn’t seem to notice.

The date was fixed, the time was decided upon and even before I had polished off the packet of Toblerones, I found myself driving to my prospective wife’s house. My mother was omnipresent by my side and this occasion was one of such high importance that my father had also accompanied us.

The minute we parked outside her building and go out of the car, I felt like a spotlight had been trained on me. Apparently, everyone in the building knew that some guy was coming to see one of their girls. And as that guy walked up to the building entrance, he was scrutinized by at least a couple of dozen heads peeking from balconies and windows.

We were greeted amiably. The girl’s parents and what seemed like her entire family encompassing brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts and of course, the elderly, smiled at me in unison as I got (un)comfortable on the couch. The spotlight had just gotten brighter. Pleasantries were exchanged as the women made their way to the insides of the house and the men sat down with us. I tried my best to look unfazed by the sudden attention while my body started to perspire under everybody’s steady gaze.

“So, son, what do you do?” I realized with a jolt that the question was targeted at me. It had come from the girl’s father.

“Umm… I… I am a copywriter,” I managed to stutter.

“Hmm OK.” The girl’s father said. I assumed that like most people he didn’t have a clue as to what a copywriter did, and thankfully he let it past. Unfortunately, an uncle was more curious.

“Copywriter? What does that mean? Something to do with copyrights and patents and all that?”

In my career as a copywriter, I had found that the hardest thing about the work was explaining it to someone who didn’t belong to advertising. But fortunately, that day I was spared. Our conversation, what little there was of it, was suddenly halted by the presence of the girl I had come to see.

For a moment, the spotlight turned away from me and concentrated on her. But for a moment only. Her family had seen her since childhood; they were more interesting in seeing my reactions after I had seen her, as if I was going to open my mouth and gape or cringe in repulsion. I somehow managed to disappoint them by keeping a straight face with a neutral expression.

She was wearing a beautiful pink salwaar suit, the one Indian outfit that is both traditional and modern. She sat down across me and placed a tray of Cola and dry fruits on a table between us. Her smile was sweet and for the first time in my life I experienced eyes speaking more than words. I suddenly realized then that the room was unbelievably quiet. Everyone seemed to be waiting for someone else to say something.

Finally, the girl’s mother spoke. “Why don’t the two of you go to a room and talk.” In normal circumstances, no parent would have allowed a hot-blooded male to be alone with their daughter in her bedroom. But obviously, this was different. We were supposed to share a few minutes together, talk what little we could and somehow make a decision. As I followed her to her room, with what seemed like a million eyes on me, I was again reminded why arranged marriages are so stupid.

But then, I was wrong. We talked for about half an hour. “What were you talking for such a long time,” my mother asked me when we were driving back home. I didn’t have an answer for her. I didn’t remember what we had talked about. All I remembered was that I had loved talking to her and I knew that I was wrong about arranged marriages. It doesn’t really matter how you meet the person you love. Some meet through friends and some meet through parents. The important thing is that you have met.

And when you meet through parents, you get a packet of Toblerone as well. Not a bad deal, if you ask me.


[fiction] Following Her On Twitter

He had done this before, it was easy enough. All Vinod had to do was start following her on Twitter; it didn’t matter if he interacted with her or not, didn’t matter if she followed him back. In fact, he liked it better when she didn’t follow him back. He preferred the comfort of anonymity.

Vinod had a very ordinary profile on Twitter, by design. He didn’t want to attract attention to himself; he wanted to be just another profile on a crowded social networking site. She had nearly 2,500 followers; he was just another drop in that sea. She didn’t know he existed, but Vinod knew everything about her. He followed her updates closely; he received her tweets on his mobile phone as well. He knew where she worked, he knew her job profile, he knew who she was close friends with, he knew her favourite hang-outs, he knew the routes she took to work and back home, he knew her favourite colours, the kind of movies she liked watching, the music she listened to, he knew about the anxieties she faced in her relationship with her boyfriend, and quite often, he knew what she was wearing as well.

There wasn’t much Vinod had to do to know such intrinsic details about her and her life. She gave them all out herself on Twitter. She used applications like FourSquare often enough to announce where she was. At other times, she didn’t think twice before making her plans public. It was very easy for Vinod to keep tabs on her.

He hadn’t been as successful with her Facebook profile, though. He had been able to find her out on Facebook, but he she hadn’t accepted his friend request. But since her Profile Pictures album was open, he had taken a close look at her fine features.

Vinod liked her better in real, though. He believed her pictures didn’t do justice to how beautiful she really was. She was sitting a few feet away from him now. This wasn’t the first time that Vinod had been near her in public. He had been around her quite often in the past few days. In fact, he had been at a table near her at this very pub a couple of times earlier. This was her favourite place to drop in after work for a drink with friends. He knew the pattern. She would get off work at around 7pm, take an auto to this pub where she would meet two or three friends and then one of the guys, who Vinod was sure was her boyfriend, would driver her home. On the days when she didn’t come to this pub, she took an auto directly home.

This evening, Vinod knew, she wasn’t going home. This was the day he had been eagerly waiting for. If he ever was going to make a move, it had to be today. He had followed her for nearly five months, waiting for this day to come. Waiting for the right opportunity was paramount for him; he couldn’t afford to be impatient. On the other hand, Vinod didn’t want the opportunity that this evening presented to go away either. It had been eight long months since his last victim; it had been long enough already. Today, she would be his fourth.

Vinod saw her get up and quickly paid his bill. The whiskey he’d been drinking had given him a mild high, just about enough to give him courage to get what he wanted without losing his senses. He followed her white flannel shirt out of the pub, her hair tied in a loose ponytail, her diamond earrings shinning above her long, beautiful neck.

She hugged her friends outside the pub and hailed an auto. Vinod didn’t care if her boyfriend dropped her off or not today, it would have no bearing on what he intended to do. He kick-started his scooter and got behind the auto she had taken. The traffic was heavy enough to allow him to follow the auto without being conspicuous.

Two intersections later, when the auto stopped at a red light, Vinod steered his scooter into a lane on the left side. Ordinarily, her auto would have also taken that left turn. But not today evening, Vinod knew she wasn’t heading home. She had told a friend about her plans explicitly on Twitter, and he had read those tweets.

Vinod knew she was heading to the railway station. Her family was going to meet her there; they were going away on a 5-day vacation. This was the opportunity that Vinod was looking forward to. He had begun to lose hope when he had finally read her tweets about her family going away. She had been one of his prime targets on Twitter; it was her family that made her so. An upper middle class family, living in a nice bungalow in a quiet residential area, hers was the kind of household that a thief looked to pilfer.

It was just perfect for Vinod. One raid at her place and he would have enough to live lavishly for at least a year. By the time his family would come back and inform the police, he would be in another state. The theft would be investigated, but without any leads, the police and the family would eventually give up. By that time, he would have created a new profile on Twitter, and found out his next target. With thousands of people, maybe even more, joining social networking sites every month, Vinod knew he would never run short of victims.

Social networking was a revolution in more ways than one. It was a great way for people to share their thoughts, interact and make friends. Social networking was a revolution for Vinod as well; it was the safest way for him to pick targets to steal from.


[fiction] Outside The Trial Rooms

“Come on, get up! We’re going shopping,” my wife declared.

“Umm, huh? What?” I somehow managed.

“Come on,” she continued, pulling the bed covers off me. “I just talked to Yesha; we’ve been invited to a cocktail dinner tonight.”

“So?” I asked, trying to make sense of my suddenly hazy world.

“So? What do you mean so?” She asked. She didn’t have a proper dress and we had to go buy one, I was told.

“What do you mean by proper dress?” I asked, wide awake now and at my argumentative best. “You already have a hundred dresses, why don’t you just wear one of those?”

This time she said ‘huh?’ I could sense the irritation in her voice and got up quietly. If she said she said she needed a new dress, she needed a new dress. Who was I to question such a simple fact? I went into the bathroom to freshen up. When I came out, the bed was made and a pair of denims and a t-shirt was laid out for me to wear. It was then that I noticed that she was already dressed and ready to go. Well, I thought, this was a first: my wife dressed and ready before me. Under her stern stare, I got dressed myself and out we went, headed to the nearest shopping mall.

The Gallops Mall is in the outskirts of Ahmedabad; home to the likes of Lewis, Lee, Mango, and many others. A biggie store, Lifestyle occupies two floors of the Gallops Mall and has more shopping space than I have ever wanted to go through. My wife of course, can’t get enough of it. We don’t get Victoria’s Secret out here, she often complains. Ironically, for once, I too have the same complain.

So, in we went inside Lifestyle and up we went to the Ladies Western Wear section on the first floor. This is where the ladies turn into cats on a hot tin roof: jumping from one section to another. My wife’s earnestly looking at a red top of some kind (please don’t ask me to explain what kind, I wouldn’t know its kind anyway) when she suddenly notices a black skirt a little far away. The red top is discarded ruthlessly and the black skirt is swiped up as if it’s the last black skirt in the world. But wait, she frowns; the black skirt isn’t really as good as it seemed from a distance. It is dumped with the same intensity with which it was picked up. Then from the corner of her eye, she noticed something to her left. It was a blue corset that brought a big smile on her face. She held it front of her and strutted around a mirror. The blue corset went into the shopping basket, to be tried on later. Soon, a pile of clothes were added to the overflowing shopping basket. And where was I all this while? Who do you think was holding the shopping basket!

And thus, less than an hour after I was safely cuddled up in bed, I found myself standing outside the trail rooms of a clothing store. However, apparently, I wasn’t alone. An elderly gentleman of about 50 was hanging around as well. A young stud, probably in his late teens, was playing with his mobile phone. And another guy of about my age completed our little group of idlers. Young Stud glanced at me, the new entrant, and went back to whatever he was doing on his mobile. (I often wonder how people used to pass time before mobile phones became such a common commodity. I still wonder.) Guy-my-age seemed preoccupied with something; he looked the most irritated of us all. And Uncle looked the most uncomfortable. I wondered why Uncle looked so ill at ease; he must have had years of experience doing this: waiting outside a trial room!

Young Stud’s girlfriend was the first to emerge out of the trial rooms. And business suddenly picked up. Young Stud’s girlfriend was a sexy Young Babe who had come shopping for mini skirts… woo-hoo! Guy-my-age had all of sudden regained all the interest in life, I was trying to act nonchalant while trying to attempt quick glances and Uncle looked more ill at ease than ever before. Young Babe, with never-ending legs, was displaying a denim mini skirt to her boyfriend. She stood facing him first (which incidentally was facing us as well), then turned around for a view from behind. With her back to us, she turned her face around and asked Young Stud, “What do you think?” Awesome is what I thought. “Is allright,” is what he said. He didn’t approve of the skirt, that seemed dumb to me, but a part of my devilish mind started to like his decision. Young Stud didn’t like this skirt that meant she would have to try on more, meaning we would get a few more shows. Yippee! But quite often, happiness is short lived. I hadn’t even finished my thoughts when Young Babe said, “So I guess we’ll go with that red one I tried earlier.”

Thankfully, Uncle’s Aunty wasn’t trying out any mini skirts. She didn’t even come out to show Uncle what she was trying on. From the bundle of clothes she discarded, it looked like she didn’t get what she sought. Business returned to normal with just Guy-my-age and I left outside the trial rooms. He nodded at me; I acknowledged his nod with a smile. “Hi, I am Vishal,” he introduced himself. “Hi Vishal, Saurin here,” I said. So Vishal and I started talking. Where do you live? What do you do? And other such basics were exchanged. Vishal happened to be a website designer. We, the two creatives, found common ground and the conversation flowed. I was quite surprised at how easily Vishal talked to a stranger. I had never been able to open up so easily to someone I didn’t know and Vishal’s conversational abilities impressed me.

Meanwhile, my wife tried on a couple of dresses and had come out to show me how they looked. She was taking her time but for once, I didn’t mind. I had someone to talk to and wasn’t getting bored. After a few minutes, I noticed that so far no one had ventured out of the trial rooms to ask Vishal for his opinion. His wife or girlfriend seemed to be deciding things by herself and seemed to be taking a lot of time at that. I was about to ask him about his partner when my wife came out with cute black number on.

“How does it look?” she asked.

“It’s lovely,” I replied. And it really was. It was a short black off-shoulder dress, one the very firsts that I really really liked.

“Which one do you like more?” she asked. “This one or the burgundy one?”

“The burgundy one… you mean the one with the gold belt?”

“Yes, isn’t that nice too?”

“Yeah, that’s a nice dress as well. But somehow, I like this black one more.”

“Oh!” she said and turned towards a mirror. She checked out the dress again, I am sure for the zillionth time. First from the left, then from the right (wouldn’t that look the same?), then from the back and once again, from the front.

“I like the burgundy one more,” she declared.

“I like this one,” I declared.

“We’ll buy the burgundy one,” came her final declaration.

We? It was her decision and somehow, I was made party to it. I wondered why I was even asked which dress I liked in the first place.

My wife went back in and I was joined again by Vishal. “So,” he said, “you guys must be leaving now.”

“Yeah, thankfully,” I replied.

“Can we exchange numbers?” he asked.

I was a bit taken aback; had never exchanged numbers with a guy at a shopping mall. But I didn’t want to sound rude so I passed on my mobile phone number to him.

“By the way, where’s your wife or girlfriend?” I asked. “She’s been in the trial rooms for long. Aren’t you concerned?”

“Oh, I am not here with anyone,” Vishal replied.


“Well, actually, I was here to shop for myself and then I saw you…”

I couldn’t make sense of that. “So?” I asked him.

“So, I came to talk to you.”

Again, couldn’t make sense of that either. “Why?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t know how to tell you,” Vishal stammered. “I think I have fallen in love with you.”

“Huh? What?” Had I heard right, I wondered. Was he really saying what he was saying?

“Hey, you wife’s here,” he said, beckoning towards the trial rooms. “I’ll leave now. But do call me, or I’ll call you. Would like to go out with you sometime.”

I still couldn’t believe my ears. I kept looking at Vishal walking away from me. I think my mouth was wide open and my face must have been frozen in a state of shock.

My wife was now standing beside me. “What happened to you?” she asked. “You don’t have to be upset because we are not buying the dress you liked.”

“Oh, it’s not that,” I said, finally coming out of the jolt that had hit me.  “I’ve just been hit on!”

“What!” Now she seemed to be stunned.

“Yeah,” I said, laughing. “I have been hit on for the first time in my life, and that too by a guy!”


[fiction] Seeing Red

Everything was red about that day.

Their college was celebrating Rose Day. It was the 14th of February, but Valentine’s Day was something that the administration weren’t comfortable promoting. Rose Day, it was, hence.

Tarun had come prepared. He sat on his bike, amid a world of fellow youngsters giving and receiving red roses. He waited. He saw one of his classmates shyly accept a red rose and a heart-shaped greeting card from a guy he didn’t know. He held a similar-looking card in his hand, but with it, he had a bunch of red roses to give. Not one, a bunch. That made him smile. He looked towards the college gates once again, and waited.

Mansi had made Tarun see red on the first day of college. She had sauntered into the classroom; a red top complimenting red sandals, blue denims amidst them. Mansi had bowled Tarun over in that first moment itself. In a cartoon equivalent of that moment, red hearts would’ve flown out of Tarun’s eyes.

But what flew by were the months. Every time Tarun saw Mansi, and he made sure he saw her a lot, he fell in love more and more. The red colour of love took over his being. The new bike he bought, he bought it in red; he wore a red shirt for the first time in his adult life; he even bought a pair of red sneakers. Everywhere he looked, he saw red. The exact shade of red Mansi had worn on the first day of college had become his favourite colour.

But despite his ever-growing love for her, Tarun couldn’t muster up the courage to tell her he loved her. That day, he planned to change that.

He waited for her a while longer; when she didn’t show up, Tarun decided to see if she was in the college canteen. With the card in one hand, the bunch of roses in the other, Tarun walked towards the canteen. She was there; he saw Mansi from a distance and quickened his pace.

She was wearing red; it was the same top she was wearing when he had first seen her. He smiled, maybe that was a sign. But before he could think about that any more, what he saw made him stop in his tracks. Just as he entered the canteen, Mansi hugged the guy she’d been talking with. She held in her a hand a bunch of roses, similar to what Tarun had brought to give her. She had a big smile on her face. Tarun watched, anguished, as that guy held onto Mansi for a little longer than a simple friend would hug another friend.

Once again, Mansi had made Tarun see red.


[fiction] Let’s Dress Each Other Up

Spent, you roll yourself from on top of her to beside her. You lay together on the bed, both of you breathing heavily. A minute later, once you’re sure your heart won’t explode, you turn and look at her. She’s looking at you as well; her lips that were locked with yours a bit earlier are curved in a smile. A few strands of hair fall loosely across the side of her face, she brushes them away with her hand as she props herself up on one arm.

Her body turns towards you, you admire it once again. You’ve traveled the length and breadth of her numerous times, you’ve been up close and personal with her smoothness and softness on more occasions than you can remember, but her beauty still holds you in awe. She’s not perfect, but then, you don’t want her to be. You like her just the way she is: Real. Her breasts, though, are so perfect, they’re almost unreal. But you know they’re as real as they’re proudly firm and perfectly round. No sag at all, you tell yourself as she moves herself closer to you.

“That was great, wasn’t it?” She asks.

“It always is,” you reply.

“Hahaha! You’ve always been good with words…always saying the right things.”

“And I always mean what I say, especially with you,” you smile.

You touch her face as she leans down to kiss you. Your lips don’t meet as passionately and urgently as they had some time back, but this time, the kiss is more about love than lust.

“Guess I’ll get dressed now, the dinner’s not going to cook itself,” she says, sitting up on the bed.

“Wait,” you reach out for her hand to stop her, “I’ve an idea, let’s try something different.”

“Now? Can’t we do it later…maybe after dinner? I’m hungry.”

“No…what I have in mind is something we can do only now.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Let’s dress each other up.”

“Huh?” She asks, raising her brows.

“You know how we undress each other before sex? Let’s do the opposite of that and dress each other up now, after we have had sex,” you explain.

She looks at you with questioning eyes. She seems confused, but she’s smiling a bit. “Okay,” she shrugs.

You take her hand and guide her off the bed with yourself. The two of you look at the articles of clothing strewn all over the floor and laugh. You’re unsure about where to begin, and then you notice her yellow knickers. If that came out last, it has to get on first, you decide. You take her panties and kneel down before her. With her most private part right before your eyes, you momentarily forget about what you were doing. You can see her wetness, you inhale in her arousal. You feel the need to touch her, get closer and lick her, but your reverie is broken when she places her hands on your shoulders and raises a leg. You open out her knickers, she guides both of her legs through it and you raise it over her hips.

She smiles and goes down on her knees before you. You look down at her, in a position that she’s been in before, albeit for a different reason. You wonder if she’ll notice you’re semi-hard. Putting on her panties had got you excited, and you feel your manhood twitch in arousal as you look down at her. You notice that she isn’t looking up at you anymore; she seems to be looking at what’s in front of her. You feel your manhood rising under her gaze. You can see your underpants in her hands, but you don’t want her to put them on for you. And she doesn’t. You let out a sigh as her hand circles around your throbbing member.

Sometime later, you lie down on the bed once again and pick up your phone to order in some food.


[fiction] One Tight Slap


Ranvir slammed his hands on the car’s bonnet as he screamed out in frustration. He kicked the car’s tyre, hit the bonnet again, not caring about leaving behind dents. It wasn’t his car, after all. It was a friend’s car; he’d just been using it to make out with a girl.

The girl? Niharika had left. She had stormed out of the car just a couple of minutes back, pulling her halter top up, which, when she got out of the car, was bunched around her waist. As she walked briskly back to the pub, adjusting the straps of her top back in place, Niharika heard the guy she’d just been with scream out. She didn’t care, he deserved it. He deserved being left alone with a boner; he deserved the whack she’d given him on his face before she left. Her right hand was clutched into an angry fist, her animal-print bra dangled from her left hand.

“Fuck, man! How can I be so dumb? Shit, man! Shit, shit, shit!” Ranvir was talking to no one else but himself. His boner wasn’t there anymore; it’d gone with her slap. His fly was still open, though. She had unzipped it herself, with her pretty little fingers, nails painted pink; while he kissed her pretty pink lips, painted red that night.

Her lipstick wasn’t there anymore; it’d been eaten away by the boy who’d been all over her face and neck a few minutes back. Niharika looked at herself in the washroom mirror. Her hair was messed up, but thankfully, her eye-shadow wasn’t. She didn’t wear much else in the form of make-up; her flawless skin didn’t require her to. Niharika pulled out a tissue from the dispenser, wiped off what little of her lipstick Ranvir had not eaten away and hand-brushed her hair back into place.

While Ranvir yanked a pack of smokes out of his denims to calm himself down, Niharika had made her way into one of the stalls in the washroom. While Ranvir pulled his Zippo out and lit a cigarette, Niharika pushed her top down and looked at her breasts, cupping them with her hands. “Fucking asshole,” she muttered, still seething. “Why do I always end up with the biggest jerks?” She wondered aloud, putting her bra on.

“Why do I always mess things up with hot babes?” Ranvir wondered aloud, shaking his head, at himself. He stubbed the cigarette out under his shoe, and walked back inside the pub. As he walked in, showing the bouncer at the door the stamp on his right wrist, Ranvir nearly bumped into Niharika. She was coming out of the ladies’ loo; she saw him stop in his tracks and gave him a look that was so icy it could have done more damage to the Titanic than that infamous iceberg had done.

“Niharika, listen,” Ranvir called out. “Listen, I’m sorry I…”

“Just shut up, okay?” Niharika cut him off. “I don’t want to hear anything you have to say.”

She walked away. He cussed himself under his breath, and walked into the pub behind her.

“Hey, babe, we didn’t expect to see you back?” Niharika’s friend, Payal said.

Niharika didn’t say anything to her. She asked her other friend, Shruti to please get her a drink.

Meanwhile, Ranvir’s pals were surprised to see him back so soon. They were eager to know what had happened, and how much had happened. But Ranvir wasn’t in the mood to talk.

Niharika wasn’t either. “Did you guys do it?” Payal asked, even so. “No,” Niharika replied.

Again, Ranvir’s pals were surprised when he told them he hadn’t done it with the girl. “What did you do then?” they asked. “We kissed,” Ranvir told them, to which they asked, “That’s it?”

Things had started out well, Niharika told Payal and Shruti. They had got into the car’s backseat, started kissing. He was a good kisser; she was lost for a bit. He had started to feel her up, but she didn’t mind. His hand running up her arm, lightly massaging her thigh, it felt good. Real good, she told her friends.

Her lips were soft and supple; Ranvir elaborated for his pals, her skin was smooth. When she didn’t resist his hands on her arm and thigh, he moved to the front of her top and placed his palm on her breast. He squeezed her breast softly, she moaned into his mouth.

Niharika told her friends that he wasn’t harsh, he was gentle. She broke the kiss and leaned back when his hands found her breast. His lips moved to her neck, his hand kept kneading her breast softly. It felt awesome, she told them.

Ranvir wasn’t sure how to describe the feeling of kissing her neck, he told his pals he loved the smell, feel, and taste of her. He was getting hard by then; he wanted to take things further. He took one of her hands in his, and placed it over the fly of his denims.

He seemed big, Niharika said. He got bigger as she rubbed her palm over the front of his denims. Unzipping his fly wasn’t easy, but she managed after a couple of tugs. As her hand went in, his hand went to the strap of her top. She cupped his manhood over his boxers; he pulled her top down to expose her bra.

It was a sexy, animal-print bra, Ranvir explained, something like a tiger’s skin. Her hand was massaging his fully-erect member; things were getting uncomfortable for him. He kissed her on the neck again, and unclasped her bra with surprising ease.

“He removed your bra?” Shruti cooed. “Wow, you reached that far!” Payal wanted to know something else, “Did you pull his thing out of his boxers?” Niharika shook her head; she didn’t, she said.

Ranvir’s pals were waiting for him to tell them more. When he didn’t, they prodded him, only to be told, “That’s it.” They were aghast. “Why? What went wrong?’ they demanded. Ranvir wondered if he should tell them she’d slapped him.

“You slapped him? Why?” Payal and Shruti asked, together. “He laughed,” Niharika told them. He had chuckled at the sight of her breasts. “They’re so small, he said,” Niharika told her friends.

That comment had come out of Ranvir’s mouth unintended, much like the slight chuckle, but it had prompted Niharika into slapping him. And then she’d pushed the door open, and jumped out, leaving him behind, flabbergasted.