Authors Note:
This is my first story submission to Literotica. I intend my stories to be edgy and written from a female perspective. I have placed it in the NonConsent/Reluctance category for obvious reasons.
The author does not endorse or approve of any or all of the actions, nor any of the views or perspectives depicted in this work of fiction. All characters in this story are fictional.
This is purely a work of fiction. Real life is much more terrifying and traumatic.
--------
"These women who go on and on about sexual harassment because someone cat-called them on the street...It's so funny really...such a fuss about nothing at all."
"So you don't think it's a big deal?" he replied.
We had completed our dinner and were enjoying a liqueur. He - let's call him A - was on a visit to Sri Lanka and had messaged me saying he wanted to meet me about something confidential. I had liked him on the occasions in the past when he had visited Colombo from India. He was also the husband of a good friend of mine.
"No, not at all. In an office environment, men will always make jokes and make passes. That's not enough reason to go to court. I'm really surprised at these Western women. It's mostly just harmless flirting, that's all. And of course we women know how to handle it. Always have. No, it's not a big deal."
When we had met that evening, it had turned out that what he meant by "confidential" had to do with some business contacts of mine he wanted to meet. I'm pretty active on the Colombo social and business/political circuits, so it would be no problem for me. I was just a little disappointed, because I had dressed up a little, in tight black high waist trousers, topped with a long printed sheer shirt that showed more than a hint of cleavage above the black bralette underneath and subtly outlined the curves of my ass from the back. I'm forty-four, but I knew could pass for at least ten years younger.
He was nicely dressed in a dark green linen shirt, perfect for the warm March evening just like my outfit. He was thinly built, but had a handsome face and very nice eyes below hair that was just about starting to gray at the temples but was still full at forty-eight years. He was very intelligent and had a sense of humor, which rounded off the already distinguished personality that had propelled him to success at an international company. I knew I had wanted to fuck him from the day I had first met him, but he was my friend's husband. And she was more important than him as a friend, she being very successful in her own right and who had helped me a lot in my profession as the head of my own advertising agency in Colombo. I had never been able to decide who I wanted more between my legs, she or he.
He had asked, out of a sense of obligation I thought, about my husband. I had replied that he was away travelling in Europe. His wife knew that my husband was bisexual, and that we were both rather free in our interpretations of social morality. She knew that my husband knew I played the field when he traveled, including as one of the mistresses of an important government minister, and that he was okay with it. But Sri Lanka is a pretty tolerant place, and no one raised any eyebrows at something that was considered so normal. What I didn't know was how much of all this my friend had told her husband, who was now regarding me speculatively across the table. I had noticed his face tighten a little when he asked about my husband, and hadn't liked it.
"Maybe it's all just media hype. Or money" he suggested. " You'd know better of course."
"Of course it is" I agreed. "I mean, come on. I know some of those New York women who publish these self righteous articles. They're no gilded angels, I can tell you."
"You mean they've not been above using their, uh, femininity, to get ahead?" he laughed.
I raised an eyebrow.
"Are you saying you never knew?" I smiled.
And it was then that I felt it, His shoe, touching mine ever so lightly under the table.
I didn't draw my own foot away. Inside, I was giggling. First he gets me alone to dinner on the pretext of discussing something confidential. Then he tries to play footsie with me like an adolescent schoolboy, when we both knew I was a good friend of his wife. Did he think what I'd just said about New York women was some kind of signal? For some reason, the devil took hold of me then that evening, and I decided to shock him a little, just to see how he reacted. I pretended to ignore his foot, and chose my words carefully when I spoke.
"I grew up in the Caribbean, you know."
"No, I didn't." he admitted, seeming a little nettled but still polite at this change of topic.
"Yes. Now, the Caribbean has quite a rape culture, as it's called, as you might know." and I raised an eyebrow. I was pleased to see that his eyes had become more alert and his breath seemed to come a little faster. He didn't say anything however. I continued in the same voice, as though we were discussing politics.
"Yes, it's very well known and very common. All the young girls, the moment they become teenagers are told to be careful when they go out. Of course they all discuss it between themselves and everybody knows what to expect. So we ask the older girls, and they all say, look, it's going to happen, so just be ready for it and get over it when it's over."
He looked a little shaken.
"Yes, just get over it. So yes, many of the girls do get raped, but they don't let it affect them. They grow up, get married, have kids, the same as any other woman. That's what I feel like telling these women creating all this hype about sexual harassment, just get over it. It's not such a big deal, as the older girls would say."
"Rape is no big deal?" he asked, now genuinely shocked. "What about the violence, the bodily harm, the trauma? That's the same as some dirty joke and a feel up in an office?"
I liked him because he was willing to talk like that.
"Rape is always a huge deal, but I'm saying that women are much stronger than most men think. Those delicate darlings complaining about men pinching their butts are making all women out to be weak and helpless."
"I thought you were a feminist" he said, still looking shocked.
"I am a feminist." I replied. "I'm just not the weak, droopy kind, that's all. I am equal to men in all ways, thank you very much. I don't need to be treated with kid gloves."
He was silent for a while. I was glad that I had unnerved him a little. He deserved that after trying to play footsie with me. I waited for his next question. He looked as though he was thinking about something, but couldn't summon up the nerve to say it.
"Shall we pay up and leave?" I suggested.
I insisted on paying the bill. You're my guest in this country, I told him, but what I really meant was that I owe you no favors now. As we were getting up to leave, he finally got the obvious question off his chest.
"Did you also..err, you know..were you also...?" he started to say.
"Yes, I was." I said, and then some unknown impulse, maybe the wine and the liqueur, made me blurt on.
"Would you like to hear about it?"
He looked as though he had swallowed a toad.
"If you'd like to." he finally managed.
I wanted to tell him I didn't need a father confessor after the footsie, but another thought occurred to me.
"Look, I don't feel comfortable talking about it inside here." I said instead." This restaurant opens out onto the beach. Why don't we go for a walk out there? We can take off our shoes and carry them. But I'll tell you only on one condition. You are never to tell your wife. She's very militant about these things and will insist on going public all over the place with it. I don't need that in my job and over here, you understand."