I signed up for a seminar in the philosophy department on phenomenology. I didn't know anyone there. There was another non-philosopher, a woman from the architecture department named Roshan. She was medium height but seemed taller because of her lean build. She had dark, dramatic eyes with long black lashes, gracefully-arched eyebrows, well-defined cheekbones, a slightly aquiline nose and her skin color was a rich, reddish brown. Roshan spoke with an Anglo-Indian accent and talked with her hands, hands that were long and elegant with clear lacquer on her fingernails. She wore stylish yet casual clothes for a grad student that defined her nicely proportionate curves and largish breasts. After the first day we commiserated about the impenetrable jargon some of the philosophy students used and expressed our insecurity about succeeding in the course. Whatever else graduate schools produce, anxiety is their number one product.
A common practice in graduate seminars is that the students sign up to present on one or more of the readings during the semester and Roshan and I each came to have our turns. Roshan was very nervous about hers but I thought she did a great job. When she had finished, the professor added his comments and clarifications, as was normal for the seminar. What he said didn't seem out of the ordinary to me but it did to Roshan.
I was checking my email about an hour later when I saw a message from Roshan with the subject line "feeling wretched." She felt that she had blown the presentation, and that the professor and other students must think she was an idiot. I responded that I didn't think that at all and asked if she wanted to meet at the café to talk. She responded immediately and half an hour later we were sitting in the shade of an oak tree with hot beverages.
It looked like two buttons had come undone from Roshan's fitted shirt, showing some enticing cleavage from straight on and considerably more when she turned to the side. As Roshan told me her troubles I tried not to be obviously distracted by the swelling tops of her breasts. What I thought was a disproportionate response to the day's seminar made more sense to me as I learned that Roshan, although only 25, had divorced her husband a few months earlier. The marriage had been arranged by their parents in India but the two had never come together emotionally as a couple. Roshan's family was furious with her, adding to her distress and general insecurity.
We got to know each other over the course of the next week, meeting often for coffee or lunch. Roshan was verbally and physically demonstrative, frequently touching my hand, arm, or leg as she spoke with animation. I'm a sucker for affection and I found myself more and more attracted to her, often thinking about the next time I would see her. I invited her to go out for dinner the following Friday and she accepted with enthusiasm. When I picked up Roshan I immediately noticed her eyes. She was wearing thick eyeliner and smoky eye shadow that made her big, bright eyes pop with drama. Then I noticed her outfit: a red silk shirt, unbuttoned to the front clasp of her bra displaying a generous expanse of cleavage, a short, tightly-fitting black skirt emphasizing her curves, and high heels that added definition to her calves—definitely not ordinary campus-wear. I had dressed more nicely than usual and had made reservations at a restaurant with a reputation for cutting-edge food. We ordered a bottle of wine with our meal and proceeded to have a wonderful time, enjoying both the flavors of the inventive dishes before us and each other's company.
Towards the end of the meal, Roshan leaned forward and asked with a breathy voice, "can I tell you something, Liam?"
"I'd love to hear it," I replied.
"My husband didn't know what he was doing, sexually I mean."
"That must have been frustrating," I commiserated.
"It is. I mean it was. I mean it still is," she said, stumbling over her words.
"Is he the only person you've been with," I asked.
"Can you believe it?" Roshan replied. "I really need to catch up."
If her words weren't clear enough, Roshan placed a hand on my arm and I could see both the lust and look of invitation in her eyes. "A guy would be very lucky to help you with that," I said.
Roshan just looked at me, her lips slightly parted. I leaned over and kissed her. Roshan returned my kiss passionately.
"Roshan," I began. "I think you're incredibly beautiful."
"Will you teach me?" she asked timidly.
I kissed her again in answer and then said, "I want you to come back to my place."
Roshan nodded, her chest heaving with heavy breaths indicating her excitement. I paid the check and took her by the hand to my car. On the ride home, Roshan put her head on my shoulder and I placed my right hand on her bare thigh. The John Coltrane CD in my car stereo suggested animal passion and divine transcendence.
I asked Roshan to take a hot tub with me. In a kind of haze she answered, "okay." I pulled the cover off the tub and the steam rose into the air. I approached Roshan and unbuttoned her blouse, then pulled down her skirt. She seemed to be in a kind of trance, standing there in just heels, bra and panties. I pulled off my own clothes then approached Roshan again, kissing her and pressing her body to mine. I unsnapped her bra, and tenderly kissed her full breasts, then pulled her panties down to her ankles. She stepped out of them and stood before me in the moonlight.
Roshan's body was perfect. She was lean, she had nice breasts with dark, pointy nipples, she had a thin waist from which her hips curved out beautifully. I wanted to eat up her long legs which led to her pussy with a wisp of hair at the top. I took off her heels and kissed her lovely feet. I wanted to possess her body and give her every pleasure I could.
In the hot tub we kissed deeply and ran our hands up and down each other's body. "Oh, Liam," she moaned. "I've wanted this, but I didn't even know if it was real."
"Does it feel real?" I asked her.
"Yes, I mean I feel it so strongly, but no, it feels like a dream, like it couldn't be real."
As we kissed I ran my hands up and down Roshan's back and then brought them around to caress her breasts. They felt heavy in my hands and although they stood up firm, they felt very soft and jiggly to touch. "Are they okay? Are they too big?" she asked, not so much fishing for compliments but expressing her insecurity.
