'Careful of the grass. You don't want to scratch those pretty legs of yours.'
She wanted to kick him in the balls. But then she thought against. She strutted off ahead, not paying heed to his remarks, and crouched low and whipped out a pair of binoculars. 'There it is! The Egret! Are you taking a photo?' She turned around, just in time to see him shift his gaze from her bottom to the direction she was pointing in. Exasperated, she shouted out 'For God's sake Rohan! Behave like a professional!'. Rohan chuckled, stroking his stubble, 'Its difficult to focus when nature throws so many beautiful things in your path.' Tara scowled and faced ahead, but inside she felt an odd kind of flush.
Tara usually enjoyed her job as a travel writer. He backpacking experience and writing skill landed her a great job with a travel magazine, which she executed with aplomb. By 27, she was an indispensable member of the editorial board and was responsible for many of the magazine's best articles. But she balked at the idea of her latest project -- a jungle assignment in Central India. Not because she didn't like the place, but because of the photographer she'd have to work with -- Rohan Varma.
To Tara, Rohan was vileness incarnate. He turned up at work drunk, picked up brawls outside office, flirted shamelessly with her, often commenting on her clothes and expressing his desire to see fewer of them. A 38 year old divorcee, Tara often pitied his ex-wife, whoever it may have been. To her exasperation, Rohan exercised a different kind of influence on Tara's female friends. They found him irresistible -- his wayward behaviour, his powerful physique, his dishevelled half-undone shirts, his overconfident drawl, his unabashed flirtation and his handsome face with its salt and pepper beard. She merely found him too lazy to groom himself properly, and dreaded working with the lout who, she was sure, would be letching at her endlessly throughout.
But Tara had to grudgingly agree that Rohan was brilliant. His photography had won him many accolades, and despite her disapproval of the man himself, Tara was in awe of his technical skill. Despite herself, she never made a push to disentangle their professional careers. Resentfully, she consented, and packed her bags and left for Bandhavgarh National Park with the man she so despised.
Rohan began at the airport itself, admiring Tara's modest salwaar kameez with a 'Nothing like traditional attire to show off India's famed curves.' Tara scowled and replied 'Well atleast one of us has to look presentable to our hosts, and you're clearly not interested in that activity.'
The following two days were excruciating for Tara -- Rohan stared at her lewdly, passed inappropriate remarks and made overt innuendos. At night he'd offer her to sleep with him. He was straight out of a romance novel -- an overconfident playboy. But at the end of the day when the reviewed their work, she would find herself praising his photographs. For his part, Rohan would also drop his misdemeanour and speak with a true passion.
On day three, things took an interesting turn.
While heading back from the jungle, Tara and Rohan took a stop at a small tea stall to have a quick bite. Tara was dressed in jungle attire -- khaki shorts and a photographer's jacket, her body glistening in sweat. She was worried about Rohan ogling her, but then she figured he'd ogle her even if she wore ten sweaters, and never bothered. However, she did forget the effect her womanliness had on other men. No sooner had she had a glass of water when a guy on bike drew up close to her, pinched her butt and wolf whistled, calling out to her 'Want some man cream to drink as well? It'll satiate any thirst you have my pretty.'
Before Tara could react, however, Rohan had snarled and pounced on the yokel. He thrashed him bad, while his victim blindly flayed his arms to protect himself. All the while Rohan kept shouting at the miscreant. 'You bloody cunt! In the heat, are you? How about I cut off your puny dick and stick it up you godforsaken ass? Take that you motherfucker!'
Tara was in shock. She pulled Rohan back along with the teastall owners, while the bike guy quickly scampered. Rohan was still glowering five minutes later when he'd been served a second glass of tea. Tara walked up to him timidly. 'Thank you... But I wish you didn't make that scene...'
'Bloody motherfucker... If you hadn't stopped me I'd have beat him to pulp...'
'But he just letched at me... even you do that...'
'There's a difference... I admire your beauty... I don't go around asking you to suck my cock or give me a fuck.'
Tara stood in silence. Rohan was true. He'd never once, in a million indecent remarks, expressed anything more sinister than how attractive she looked. He'd never touched her. Rohan was a brute, but a well behaved one.
'Come on. Lets head back. I need to change into something new. The asshole tore my shirt.'
Tara nodded and went back to their jeep. They drove back to their resort in silence and returned to their rooms for a bit of rest before dinner. Tara decided to take a bath, and as she lay soaking in the tub, her thoughts returned to the teaside brawl. Rohan's anger and strength had surprised her. She'd never had a man defending her, and that alone gave her an odd sense of thrill. She recalled Rohan punching the miscreant, his strong arms flexing with each blow, his torn shirt revealing his sculpted torso and chest, covered in lithe, dark hair. She recalled his chiselled face with his salt and pepper beard and messy, cropped hair. She could hear him abusing in his deep voice, the veins flashing on his neck and arms, his body covered in mud and sweat.
To her own surprise, she felt herself getting moist. She couldn't believe it herself, but Rohan was actually turning her on. Him with all his crass behaviour and unruly thug fights was making her feel hot and horny, and all because the lout had defended her pride. She got up from the tub and decided to take a shower in the open-air cubicle, to douse her passions. But, to no avail, she found herself playing with the handheld showerhead, directing the jet of water to her folds. The trickling of water on her clitoris was weakening her and she trembled as waves of pleasure built up inside of her. Her other hand furiously worked her pussy, slipping a finger inside and rubbing her to greater pleasure. As she lost control, she started moaning, incoherently screaming 'Roooohaaaaannnnnn.... oooooohhhhhh.... fuckkkkk me..... you thug.... maul meeee withhhh your strong hands..... fuckkkkk meeeee....'Within a minute, she had collapsed to the floor as a violent orgasm shook her while the warm shower continued to drip all over her body.
Gathering herself, she slowly walked back to her room, her pussy still moist, and looked at herself in the mirror. She had a letchworthy physique, an ex had even asked her 'Don't you turn yourself on?', and in all honesty, she did. She was built like an amazon -- tall and slender, but with full breasts and a shapely bottom. She had a Polynesian tattoo inked on the side of her torso -- a geometric pattern. Her face was round with luscious lips and black, almond shaped eyes. Her dark hair was cut short but added to her sexuality -- to her it exemplified her sense of liberation.
She spent several minutes looking at herself and remembering Rohan's comments. She looked at the ass that Rohan thought was exceptionally firm and shapely. Breasts which were like succulent melons. Her gorgeous face. Her sinuous, curvy legs. The feeling of pleasure returned within her as she visualized Rohan there with her, admiring her naked body, and she decided that there was no point in dressing up. She got to bed and fingered herself to another orgasm.
When consciousness came back to her, she lay in shock. She had masturbated to the thoughts of Rohan -- the man she despised. She tried to push out thoughts of his attractiveness by telling herself he was a dirty old letch even if he did impress you by beating up that pervert. But unbidding, thoughts of Rohan in his torn shirt with his animal magnetism came floating into her head.
A knock on the door broke her reverie.
'Hey Tara... Its dinner time, but I wanted to talk before we went to the clubhouse...'
Tara cursed herself and shouted 'In a minute!' and quickly threw on a skimpy t-shirt and shorts and ran to open the door. The sight made her break a sweat.
Rohan was in a clean T-shirt, presumably nightwear. It was tight and did nothing to hide his Adonis like physique. His shorts were loose and lanky, and he wore flip flops. His arms, big and strong as ever led down to hands tucked in his pockets. The chiselled, rugged face had a bandage on the forehead, a souvenir from the day's scuffle. She almost forgot to let him in.
'I came to apologize for my behaviour. Today's and past. I know I behave like a drunken lout with you and give you hell with my perverted speech. I'm sorry. It'll never happen again.'
'Its alright... I was mean to you too... after all you got into a fight for my sake, and I must be thankful for that.' And involuntarily, she reached out and rubbed his arm, feeling the solid muscle beneath. Then realizing what she was doing, she quickly pulled her arm back and offered to go for dinner.
