This is a simple, feel-good love story. It is set in Bangalore, Chennai and Mumbai which are large cities in India. Readers familiar with India's various cultural practices will better appreciate the nuances in the descriptions and dialogues.
The meanings of the very few vernacular words in the story are either explained or will be obvious from the context. They will not take away anything from the story.
This story is around six Literotica pages and for those who do not prefer long tales, you could try reading this over multiple sittings.
I write in British English, and since I am not a native speaker of this language, there will be a few errors. My apologies.
And now for the disclaimers:
This story is a work of fiction and any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is just coincidence.
All characters who indulge in sexual activities in this story are well over 18 years of age.
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A thin film of sweat covered my otherwise naked body. As his sweet-tasting tongue retracted from my mouth, I moved my head a wee bit to my right. His wet lips relinquished their hold on mine leaving a damp trail as they slid down my left cheek. With a soft groan of pleasure, his forehead came to rest on the pillow and the rest of his face settled between my ear and shoulder. His smooth left cheek nestled against my neck.
I held him tightly to me. His muscular chest pressed heavily on my plump 34Ds. Breasts that were a tad big for my typical Indian frame. But from how he had treated them over the last hour or so, there was no doubt that they pleased him.
As my breathing synchronised with his heaving body, I let my brain focus on the parts between my legs. I was conscious of my inner thighs strongly gripping his hips. Talk of an iron hand in a velvet glove but my vaginal lips were squeezing a steel shaft wrapped in smooth silk. The torrential bursts, that he had moments ago released into my innards, were now being supplemented by sporadic spurts as my muscles massaged and milked him.
The cushions, strategically placed beneath me, had provided me that perfect depth of penetration and for him, that ideal angle of attack. His girth and my tightness had resulted in near-simultaneous explosive orgasms for both of us.
We lay like this for quite a while. When I felt his face move, I took my left palm and fingers to the back of his neck and firmly held it there. He muttered something, but his muffled voice was incoherent to my ears.
"Don't move," I whispered. "These are sensations I have not felt in a long time. Let me savour them."
My words obviously pleased him, for I felt him twitch rather vigorously inside me. It triggered yet another moan of ecstasy from me...
My name is Sujata. I am a divorcee. A rather horny one too. It has been four years since my divorce and six since I have let a man touch me intimately. Six years of just fi-vi-di; fingers, vibrators and dildos, to keep me from going insane.
"Why?" You would ask. But that is the way it often is with us Indian women. We would think a thousand times and check a hundred boxes before sleeping with someone. Yet, it would be perfectly normal to make love to a complete stranger whom we married, just because the family or the extended family thought they were the best person to be your spouse.
Thus are marriages often arranged here and so it had been with mine. Thirteen years ago, a distant relative had brought a proposal from a family they knew. His horoscope matched mine to a 'T' which was three-fourths of the job done. That he and his family were well off and he had a master's degree took care of another twenty per cent. We went out for lunch one day. He seemed to like what he saw. I found him smart, handsome, and nice to talk to. And before we knew it, we were married.
The troubles began soon after. He was a little too insecure. If he saw me talking to other men, be they colleagues, the vegetable vendor or a waiter in a restaurant, he accused me of flirting with them. He had his insecurities and they were always on a head-on collision course with my exuberance.
I always bubbled with energy. He remained mostly in a cocoon, but only when it came to me. He was fine with his colleagues, friends, clients and acquaintances. But he wouldn't let me be fine with mine.
We hardly had any shared interests. Come to think of it, he had no great hobbies either. It was just work and TV. I loved singing and was a trained singer. Every song I sang was a duet with some other imagined lover to him. Sex was one way. He got on, he got off. I thought maybe fatherhood could bring about a change in him. But after about a year, with neither of us using protection, when nothing happened, I quietly got back on the pill. I had somehow realised this wasn't going to last and the last thing I wanted was to be saddled with a baby.
It never occurred to him that he could be the problem. His parents and he started passing snide remarks about my womanhood. They concluded that I was barren. I let them believe it. The years rolled on. Finally, after seven years of marriage, I asked for a divorce. He seemed relieved. The process took nearly two years. But I was free.
But was I? Not really. I did not want to flit in and out of relationships. I wasn't sure if sex without some emotional involvement was worth it. I longed to be wooed, loved, cherished, worshipped and doted upon. I kept saying to myself, "My Prince Charming is out there somewhere." And four years have gone by. But right now, I think I know where he is...
It all began around six months ago, with that phone call from my best friend, Sangeeta. I was in Washington DC on work and it was early in the morning. For Sangeeta in Bangalore, it would have been around four in the afternoon. Though we talk to each other at least once every day, Sangeeta rarely calls me when I am travelling abroad, primarily because the differences in time zones don't work out for us.
