So I was going to screw Mohini Ghosh's husband and ensure she learnt of it.
The next three days at work proved that Mohini Ghosh was not the only bitch around. Not just that, I also realized that you did not have to be married or frustrated to be a bitch. Most women, I have decided, have the capacity to be a bitch. And since there were many bitches around in office – most of them dating someone or the other or definitely eyeing men – there were many more men to sleep with. Now if you force a girl to prove a point, what'a girl to do, ya?
But if you ask me about my priority list and if there was anyone who I wanted to screw – and not just for point proving mind you – there was one. Or two. Sexy Butt, who's name I still don't know and who had somehow managed to evade me after that one time… And now there was Runu Malik. Older, wiser, one of the department heads at work and he has the most amazing salt and pepper hair I had ever seen. To top it all, it was said that Runu had quite the glad eye for pretty girls. And I have said before, that I am pretty. In fact I think I am growing prettier by the day. Earlier there was this very small-town-girl prettiness to me, but now it's becoming sort of a chic-prettiness. Like earlier I was just smart, now I am beginning to be street smart.
I had seen Runu notice me. Not in any obvious way – he was much senior and I was much junior – but each time he passed my desk, he always checked me out. The other day he was coming down the stairs with the CEO of the company and I happened to look up from the chat I was having online… and our eyes met. Despite the fact that it looked as if Runu was having some sort of an important discussion, he stopped long enough to look at me. This time, he pretended to answer his phone. All the while he was ostensibly trying to connect to whoever he was calling, Runu kept looking at me. He never looks at the cleavage or the legs or anywhere else. Even when I wear my belly-button showing tops, Runu always looks at my eyes.
As I looked back at him and he approached my desk, Runu suddenly stopped. He looked at me and said, "There is an office party tomorrow. Why don't you come along as well?"
To be continued...
(Suparna's story appears every Tuesday in Metro Now, New Delhi, Page 33)
Showing posts with label suparna. Show all posts
Showing posts with label suparna. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Married men are trouble
As a rule, I do not involve myself with men who have girlfriends or wives. Both types – with girlfriend, with wife – always have a sob story to tell. They always cry that their wife or girlfriend was making life miserable for them, but they never leave her. That bothers me, I am not used to sharing my men, even if I the man is there for just two weeks. However, all rules, are meant to be broken. Particularly if it involves putting a bitchy woman in her place. And from the look Tall Boy’s girlfriend had given me – the “So you who the hell are you” look – she was a bitch. Only bitches are hostile to people they don’t even know, ya? I had decided, Tall Boy and me were going to have an affair, if it was only just to show Miss Uptight that you should not be rude to strangers.
But as is the case with breaking rules, you break a rule once – even though you say you will never-ever do it – there are always more reasons.. And walking up to me, first thing in the morning at work, was another reason to break my I Don’t Sleep With Attached Men rule. It was Mohini Ghosh, the senior sports correspondent, one of the few women in her times to write on sports. “In her times” is a phrase Mohini Ghosh hates. It constantly reminds her of her close to menopause age and the fact that despite her well-worked-out body, the wrinkles showed and that she was married to one of the hottest men in Indian journalism, who could fly any day. The bright, brilliant, boisterous Sanjoy Singh. He was half Bengali, half Sikh and a complete bastard. The way he could look down the table – and even though you would be wearing a sack for a kurta and a have a nine metre dupatta – his eyes would tell you what his mind (and perhaps his mouth?) were doing to your body. And it does not help your case if you have an expressive face. I have a very expressive face. My teachers called me Drama Queen all my life. And Sanjoy could see on my face what my mind (and perhaps my mouth?) would do in retaliation. So far it had only been that.
Till Mohini Ghosh decided to tell me off for sending her package to the wrong floor. What package? It was a junket she was taking money for, clandestinely. So I was going to screw her husband and ensure she learnt of it.
To be continued…
But as is the case with breaking rules, you break a rule once – even though you say you will never-ever do it – there are always more reasons.. And walking up to me, first thing in the morning at work, was another reason to break my I Don’t Sleep With Attached Men rule. It was Mohini Ghosh, the senior sports correspondent, one of the few women in her times to write on sports. “In her times” is a phrase Mohini Ghosh hates. It constantly reminds her of her close to menopause age and the fact that despite her well-worked-out body, the wrinkles showed and that she was married to one of the hottest men in Indian journalism, who could fly any day. The bright, brilliant, boisterous Sanjoy Singh. He was half Bengali, half Sikh and a complete bastard. The way he could look down the table – and even though you would be wearing a sack for a kurta and a have a nine metre dupatta – his eyes would tell you what his mind (and perhaps his mouth?) were doing to your body. And it does not help your case if you have an expressive face. I have a very expressive face. My teachers called me Drama Queen all my life. And Sanjoy could see on my face what my mind (and perhaps my mouth?) would do in retaliation. So far it had only been that.
Till Mohini Ghosh decided to tell me off for sending her package to the wrong floor. What package? It was a junket she was taking money for, clandestinely. So I was going to screw her husband and ensure she learnt of it.
To be continued…
Monday, May 14, 2007
Meeting Tall Boy, the absolute dish
"He doesn't use detergent. I do. Want to smell my boxers and take a guess?" said another voice from behind us.
I turned, half-certain, half-hoping that it was Model Boy… but it was someone I had not met before. He was clearly above six feet tall and very, very good looking. I could not talk…he was THAT good looking. A clean-shaven face, broad shoulders and very long, long, strong legs. He was wearing a full-sleeve shirt, faded jeans and had a duffel bag carelessly slung across his shoulders. The bag looked puny on his huge form. His hair was all over the place, dark brown and moppy… and constantly kept falling over his eyes. I had the craziest urge to push it back from his face and then hold his face in my hands and kiss him. I looked at him and wondered if he would pick me up, I was small and he was really tall. And I could see his chest hair peeking from his top most shirt button. It was not too much, just a hint of hair. He had the bushiest eyebrows I had seen and the brownest eyes. He just looked so good that I knew I was standing and staring and I really did not care.
"Can I have my underveer back?" asked Call Centre boy meekly, looking from me to Tall Boy. I held the ugly pieces out to him without moving my eyes off Tall Boy, who too, was staring at me. As Call Centre boy took his undergarments and turned to leave, Tall Boy turned to leave with him. I had to do something, find out his name… I had understood that he was one of the NIIT boys… but why hadn't I seen him before?
"Do you live here?" I asked, breaking all rules of First Communication With Subject of Interest. He stopped in his tracks, turned around deliberately to look at me. "I am your neighbour," he said.
"I have not seen you around," I replied.
"You have not looked hard enough," he said, half-smiling, half-smirking.
And I really, really wanted to kiss him. And tear his clothes apart. And throw him there on the terrace and ride him till late night and into the morning…. I wanted to see is his shoulders were really that wide under that shirt…
"Aren't you coming down, I've been waiting," interfered a petulant voice in my fantasy of Tall Boy. It was a woman, looking from me to Tall Boy and back.
"Meet my girlfriend," said Tall Boy, smiling.
To be continued...
I turned, half-certain, half-hoping that it was Model Boy… but it was someone I had not met before. He was clearly above six feet tall and very, very good looking. I could not talk…he was THAT good looking. A clean-shaven face, broad shoulders and very long, long, strong legs. He was wearing a full-sleeve shirt, faded jeans and had a duffel bag carelessly slung across his shoulders. The bag looked puny on his huge form. His hair was all over the place, dark brown and moppy… and constantly kept falling over his eyes. I had the craziest urge to push it back from his face and then hold his face in my hands and kiss him. I looked at him and wondered if he would pick me up, I was small and he was really tall. And I could see his chest hair peeking from his top most shirt button. It was not too much, just a hint of hair. He had the bushiest eyebrows I had seen and the brownest eyes. He just looked so good that I knew I was standing and staring and I really did not care.
"Can I have my underveer back?" asked Call Centre boy meekly, looking from me to Tall Boy. I held the ugly pieces out to him without moving my eyes off Tall Boy, who too, was staring at me. As Call Centre boy took his undergarments and turned to leave, Tall Boy turned to leave with him. I had to do something, find out his name… I had understood that he was one of the NIIT boys… but why hadn't I seen him before?
"Do you live here?" I asked, breaking all rules of First Communication With Subject of Interest. He stopped in his tracks, turned around deliberately to look at me. "I am your neighbour," he said.
"I have not seen you around," I replied.
"You have not looked hard enough," he said, half-smiling, half-smirking.
And I really, really wanted to kiss him. And tear his clothes apart. And throw him there on the terrace and ride him till late night and into the morning…. I wanted to see is his shoulders were really that wide under that shirt…
"Aren't you coming down, I've been waiting," interfered a petulant voice in my fantasy of Tall Boy. It was a woman, looking from me to Tall Boy and back.
"Meet my girlfriend," said Tall Boy, smiling.
To be continued...
Want to smell my underwear?
However, life has her own surprises and much before I could involve Uncleji with helping me finding Sexy Butt, there was landlord trouble. Now my rented apartment – one big room, a small verandah and a small kitchenette – is on the terrace of my landlord's bungalow. In Delhi, such houses are called 'barsaatis'. I had thought that living on the top most floor would not draw much attention to me and would keep the others out of my hair as well. But…
It had been two weeks that I had been staying at my current pad now. One morning, I got on to the terrace to put out my wet towel and… There were ugly, gray, blue and faded green VIP men's underwear in various stages of elastic-repair that were taking up the entire clothesline. My clothesline. And that too when I was paying for exclusive use of the terrace and the clothesline.
Since no one had bothered to ask me about the use of my clothesline, I decided to take things – in this case the underwear – in my hands. As I took the offending pieces of undergarments off my clothesline, and neatly folded them and kept on the chair on the terrace, I heard someone chuckle. I turned around – half expecting and hoping it was the model dude – and came face to… top of the head with one of the four boys' who were my neighbours. Since he was all decked up in a shirt, trousers and tie and yet looked ready to fall asleep at 8 am in the morning, I deduced it was the call center guy coming back from his night shift.
"Those are our underveer," Call Centre Boy said, his pronunciation screaming he was a typical spineless man… does not look into your eyes when talking, but has trouble keeping his eyes off your breasts. The fact that my wet hair – hanging down my left side – were dripping over my left breast, which now had an erect nipple, were making matters tougher. His visible discomfort and yet his visible effort to not be caught out while he stared at my breasts, made the whole scenario rather funny. I decided to tease him a little.
"These are your undies?" I asked, while slowly beginning to fondle the flimsy garments. His breathing visibly increased. He nodded his head."So what detergent do you use?" I asked, stopping short of sniffing the garment…"He doesn't use detergent. I do. Want to smell my boxers and take a guess?" said another voice from behind us.
To be continued…
Monday, April 30, 2007
All about office affairs
I did not see Sexy Butt after that and since I had no idea who he was or what floor he was on, there was no way of finding out. So while I kept a lookout for him, I concentrated on the people that were around me. Strangely, the Anonymous Caller had started leaving jokes on the voice mail at my extension. The same nice voice and jokes, all delivered in a deadpan tone but with solid punch lines. One day, as I laughed at the latest joke, Anonymous Caller, well, called.
"You look really nice when you throw your head back and laugh…it's worth sending you those jokes, just to see you laugh," said he and hung up, as usual. Though I was really intrigued as to who the Anonymous Caller could be – he had a very sexy voice – I decided to wait it out. If he was taking the trouble to leave jokes but was not bothered about meeting… well, two could play the game.
I had always thought that office environments were very serious. I had seen my Father go for his government job at a particular hour and return home at a specified time. Socialising was with your colony people or family, and definitely not with your colleagues. Coming to Delhi and joining the media house I was working for changed my perspective about the working environment for sure. Most people walked in at whatever time they were supposed to… and left at strange hours. Often, I saw many just lounging in the canteen or the Smoking Area, even after their work was over. I used to wonder earlier why people never seemed in a hurry to go back home. And then I realised… they were having much more fun away from home!
The first week, I made three friends: Moona Microphone, Robby the Player and Uncleji. Moona – I figured within five minutes of her talking – was the office gossip, the one person who had the most boring life and therefore needed to talk about everyone else. I knew she would be important if I had to get a hang of the place before the place got a hang of me. Robby was the guy who hit on every other girl, without success. He had potential and since he had been very sweet to me, I had decided to teach him stuff… in my free time. And of course Uncleji, he was the admin guy who was supposed to help us out with everything. My first mission with him was finding Sexy Butt.
To be continued…Every Tuesday
(Published in Metro Now, New Delhi, May 1, 2007)
"You look really nice when you throw your head back and laugh…it's worth sending you those jokes, just to see you laugh," said he and hung up, as usual. Though I was really intrigued as to who the Anonymous Caller could be – he had a very sexy voice – I decided to wait it out. If he was taking the trouble to leave jokes but was not bothered about meeting… well, two could play the game.
I had always thought that office environments were very serious. I had seen my Father go for his government job at a particular hour and return home at a specified time. Socialising was with your colony people or family, and definitely not with your colleagues. Coming to Delhi and joining the media house I was working for changed my perspective about the working environment for sure. Most people walked in at whatever time they were supposed to… and left at strange hours. Often, I saw many just lounging in the canteen or the Smoking Area, even after their work was over. I used to wonder earlier why people never seemed in a hurry to go back home. And then I realised… they were having much more fun away from home!
The first week, I made three friends: Moona Microphone, Robby the Player and Uncleji. Moona – I figured within five minutes of her talking – was the office gossip, the one person who had the most boring life and therefore needed to talk about everyone else. I knew she would be important if I had to get a hang of the place before the place got a hang of me. Robby was the guy who hit on every other girl, without success. He had potential and since he had been very sweet to me, I had decided to teach him stuff… in my free time. And of course Uncleji, he was the admin guy who was supposed to help us out with everything. My first mission with him was finding Sexy Butt.
To be continued…Every Tuesday
(Published in Metro Now, New Delhi, May 1, 2007)
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
This is work, butt seriously
My job involves meeting a lot of people, from almost all walks of life. I am the liaising point between my colleagues and those who might be interested in working with us. From important phone calls, to material that comes in through post, to who's using the office phone to do personal talk and who's sleeping with whom, I know it all.
The first day I was not sure what to wear, so I wore the safest option when in doubt: tight, blue, faded jeans and a collared, white, fitted shirt. I prefer button-down shirts to tee shirts when coming to work. You can look professional and yet sexy at the same time. So the first day I had men coming down from various floors in the building just to check me out. It is quite obvious when men do that: they have a habit of checking out women in groups. Then when I walked into the canteen for my first meal, everyone just stopped ordering food and gaped at me. Where there are men giving attention to one woman, there are going to be women who are jealous of that woman. That's what happened at office too. Even without doing a thing myself, the women at work were giving me strange vibes. I can't help if I am sexy and they are not, ya?
And the most interesting thing happened: someone kept calling from different extension numbers. He had a very nice voice. He first asked my name, then welcomed me on joining, then said that if I had any problems at work, I should ask him and he would sort it out for me. But he did not leave his name. However, I have an inkling as to who it might be. Either the much-married, but definitely cute, HR manager or it's one of the technical support boys I was introduced too. Somehow the tech boys always get this very glazed look in their eyes whenever they are introduced to a girl.. or maybe it's too much programming.
As I was attending to another call and sipping water from a paper cup… the cup tipped and all the water spilled on my shirt.
"Your shirt is transparent," announced a voice and as I looked up, I was staring into the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen on a man. "I am sorry, I was not staring at you… but you are the first person one sees on entering office," with that he walked away leaving me staring at his rather shapely butt.
To be continued…
The first day I was not sure what to wear, so I wore the safest option when in doubt: tight, blue, faded jeans and a collared, white, fitted shirt. I prefer button-down shirts to tee shirts when coming to work. You can look professional and yet sexy at the same time. So the first day I had men coming down from various floors in the building just to check me out. It is quite obvious when men do that: they have a habit of checking out women in groups. Then when I walked into the canteen for my first meal, everyone just stopped ordering food and gaped at me. Where there are men giving attention to one woman, there are going to be women who are jealous of that woman. That's what happened at office too. Even without doing a thing myself, the women at work were giving me strange vibes. I can't help if I am sexy and they are not, ya?
And the most interesting thing happened: someone kept calling from different extension numbers. He had a very nice voice. He first asked my name, then welcomed me on joining, then said that if I had any problems at work, I should ask him and he would sort it out for me. But he did not leave his name. However, I have an inkling as to who it might be. Either the much-married, but definitely cute, HR manager or it's one of the technical support boys I was introduced too. Somehow the tech boys always get this very glazed look in their eyes whenever they are introduced to a girl.. or maybe it's too much programming.
As I was attending to another call and sipping water from a paper cup… the cup tipped and all the water spilled on my shirt.
"Your shirt is transparent," announced a voice and as I looked up, I was staring into the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen on a man. "I am sorry, I was not staring at you… but you are the first person one sees on entering office," with that he walked away leaving me staring at his rather shapely butt.
To be continued…
Monday, April 16, 2007
Love thy neighbour!
For the last six months now, I have been taking in Delhi: the sites, sounds, shenanigans and the people. And so far, things have been promising. Despite the initial hitch in finding a house, things have worked out fine for me. Especially since Delhi likes women who are fair, pretty and busty.
I first realized Delhi's fascination with big breasts – more than that of the men in my small town – when I went house hunting. The first day I was in a tight spaghetti top and jeans and from the broker to the prospective landlords, everyone just looked at my chest while talking. However, I didn't find a room that I liked enough. And then some of the landlords were a bit too keen on renting out their space to me. Now, had they been young and good looking, I might have thought over things. But old geezers scratching their balls through their Patiala salwars is not my idea of interesting. Even the easiest of girls doesn't sleep around with every man, ya?
The next day, I wore a transparent, fitting salwar-kameez with a big dupatta. I had decided that if it was a house I really wanted, I would let the dupatta just hang as a scarf; and if it were old men I didn't like, the dupatta would remain draped like a good girl. I found the place I wanted in Lajpat Nagar. It's a third floor flat, with one small room and a small balcony that looks onto a playground. The locality is dinghy, but my neighbours are four boys. Two are studying at NIIT, one is an aspiring model and the fourth works at a call center. And all four have offered to help me with 'anything' at all.
As I was house hunting and I had come up to my current place with the broker, I saw one of the boys – I learnt he was the model later – come out on to the balcony to dry his towel on the railing. He was bare-chested and wearing boxers and had the widest chest I have ever seen. The hair on his chest was evenly distributed: some in the center, slightly spreading to the side and then tapering down into the waistband of his boxers rather tantalizingly. As I had stood there taking him in, he put the towel out and saw me looking at him. He didn't look away but instead stretched, keeping his eyes on me. His arms bulged and his chest expanded further and I knew I wanted the house. Really badly.
To be continued...
I first realized Delhi's fascination with big breasts – more than that of the men in my small town – when I went house hunting. The first day I was in a tight spaghetti top and jeans and from the broker to the prospective landlords, everyone just looked at my chest while talking. However, I didn't find a room that I liked enough. And then some of the landlords were a bit too keen on renting out their space to me. Now, had they been young and good looking, I might have thought over things. But old geezers scratching their balls through their Patiala salwars is not my idea of interesting. Even the easiest of girls doesn't sleep around with every man, ya?
The next day, I wore a transparent, fitting salwar-kameez with a big dupatta. I had decided that if it was a house I really wanted, I would let the dupatta just hang as a scarf; and if it were old men I didn't like, the dupatta would remain draped like a good girl. I found the place I wanted in Lajpat Nagar. It's a third floor flat, with one small room and a small balcony that looks onto a playground. The locality is dinghy, but my neighbours are four boys. Two are studying at NIIT, one is an aspiring model and the fourth works at a call center. And all four have offered to help me with 'anything' at all.
As I was house hunting and I had come up to my current place with the broker, I saw one of the boys – I learnt he was the model later – come out on to the balcony to dry his towel on the railing. He was bare-chested and wearing boxers and had the widest chest I have ever seen. The hair on his chest was evenly distributed: some in the center, slightly spreading to the side and then tapering down into the waistband of his boxers rather tantalizingly. As I had stood there taking him in, he put the towel out and saw me looking at him. He didn't look away but instead stretched, keeping his eyes on me. His arms bulged and his chest expanded further and I knew I wanted the house. Really badly.
To be continued...
Monday, April 9, 2007
Hear Delhi, here I come...
As I looked at Army Man checking out my lacy bra, the train gave a sudden jolt… and I was rudely awakened from my dream. There was Army Man across me, with his legs entwined in mine and fast asleep. I realized that while I had been dreaming about him, I did not like Army Man. There was just something about him that was vaguely disturbing. Usually, that would have excited me. But with the last two experiences I had had, I let this chance pass. After all, I was going to the city with capital opportunities. Both Punjabi and Jat men were known for their aggression and I hoped it was not just on the roads…
With some difficulty, I extricated my legs from between those of Army Man’s and climbed onto my upper berth, deciding not to descend for the rest of the journey. All this while, Army Man did not move a muscle. As he slept with his legs spread and stretched out on the seat, his short rose up tantalizingly. I almost remained sitting, waiting for the garment to give me a peek at what lay beneath… However, I was forced to avert my gaze as Army Man squirmed in his sleep and I was afraid he’d wake up and catch me staring at his crotch; this time for real.
The early morning coach-composure was broken by someone screaming, “Saddi Dilli aa gayi, chalo, chalo,” and whole families of people started lining up at the coach door. It never made sense why people were in a rush to get off when it was supposed to be a train’s last station: it was not going to chug away! As I got off my perch, Army Man was folding his toiletries in his towel, while his bedding lay on the seat, already neatly folded. He was wearing crisply, creased clothes and had even shaved. It was 6 am as the train rolled on to the platform and I wondered what kind of discipline could force a person to shave that early in the morning… that too when on a train. Even women would go around with shaggy eyebrows and a moustache if they had to wax or tweeze everyday, ya?
My first view of Delhi… was a lot of Sardarjis – in various shapes and sizes - on the platform. For a minute I panicked that I had gotten off at Amritsar; and then I saw the board: ‘Welcome to Hazrat Nizamuddin’, with the picture of a smiling old lady in a bun, a white cotton sari and a namaste, greeting everyone.
With some difficulty, I extricated my legs from between those of Army Man’s and climbed onto my upper berth, deciding not to descend for the rest of the journey. All this while, Army Man did not move a muscle. As he slept with his legs spread and stretched out on the seat, his short rose up tantalizingly. I almost remained sitting, waiting for the garment to give me a peek at what lay beneath… However, I was forced to avert my gaze as Army Man squirmed in his sleep and I was afraid he’d wake up and catch me staring at his crotch; this time for real.
The early morning coach-composure was broken by someone screaming, “Saddi Dilli aa gayi, chalo, chalo,” and whole families of people started lining up at the coach door. It never made sense why people were in a rush to get off when it was supposed to be a train’s last station: it was not going to chug away! As I got off my perch, Army Man was folding his toiletries in his towel, while his bedding lay on the seat, already neatly folded. He was wearing crisply, creased clothes and had even shaved. It was 6 am as the train rolled on to the platform and I wondered what kind of discipline could force a person to shave that early in the morning… that too when on a train. Even women would go around with shaggy eyebrows and a moustache if they had to wax or tweeze everyday, ya?
My first view of Delhi… was a lot of Sardarjis – in various shapes and sizes - on the platform. For a minute I panicked that I had gotten off at Amritsar; and then I saw the board: ‘Welcome to Hazrat Nizamuddin’, with the picture of a smiling old lady in a bun, a white cotton sari and a namaste, greeting everyone.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Easy cum and easy go?
As we stood there hugging, Ticket Checker's breathing intensified and the movie reached its climax. Before it 'The End' flashed on screen, he quickly led me out of the box into the still-deserted exit stairway and led me to a small door that said 'Staff Only'. We went inside, the room smelt of old newspapers, dust and rat poo with a few round cans with film spools lying abandoned.
Ticket Checker pulled me inside the room and shut the door with a clang. It was really dark and the thought of rats over my sandaled feet were giving me the creeps. Ticket Checker tried to pull me close, I pushed him away and said I needed some sort of a light first…
I could sense Ticket Checker's haste as he began fumbling in the dark. A 'click' later, a weak bulb came on and though it was not pitch black anymore, I could barely see. Ticket Checker lunged, caught my face in his hands and started kissing it all over. Ticket Checker pushed me into the wall, crushing me with his weight as he continued kissing me and rubbing his entire body against mine.
As I kissed him back, I realized Ticket Checker had managed to hitch my skirt up to my waist and we were standing against each other, joined at the hip… He was wearing jeans and as he rubbed himself on me, I felt the denim scratch the soft skin on my inner thigh. I asked Ticket Checker to control himself, but he only intensified his rubbing… And then there was a sudden "Ah" and Ticket Checker stopped moving and fell against me; I thought he had a heart attack or something. But he was alive… with a little wet patch in the front of his trousers. He looked at me, and looked away. I pushed him away, pulled my skirt down and left, shutting the door behind me with a clang.
To be continued…
Ticket Checker pulled me inside the room and shut the door with a clang. It was really dark and the thought of rats over my sandaled feet were giving me the creeps. Ticket Checker tried to pull me close, I pushed him away and said I needed some sort of a light first…
I could sense Ticket Checker's haste as he began fumbling in the dark. A 'click' later, a weak bulb came on and though it was not pitch black anymore, I could barely see. Ticket Checker lunged, caught my face in his hands and started kissing it all over. Ticket Checker pushed me into the wall, crushing me with his weight as he continued kissing me and rubbing his entire body against mine.
As I kissed him back, I realized Ticket Checker had managed to hitch my skirt up to my waist and we were standing against each other, joined at the hip… He was wearing jeans and as he rubbed himself on me, I felt the denim scratch the soft skin on my inner thigh. I asked Ticket Checker to control himself, but he only intensified his rubbing… And then there was a sudden "Ah" and Ticket Checker stopped moving and fell against me; I thought he had a heart attack or something. But he was alive… with a little wet patch in the front of his trousers. He looked at me, and looked away. I pushed him away, pulled my skirt down and left, shutting the door behind me with a clang.
To be continued…
Wednesday, March 7, 2007
Not a bad a girl…
As I pointed to Motorcycle Man, the Ticket Checker puffed his chest and seemed to stand taller. The Hurt-Girl Look always makes men think they are John Abraham and they all start standing tall and looking very important. As Ticket Checker puffed up, Motorcycle Man seemed to wake up from his libido-generated lunacy and stood up as well.
"She is my girlfriend," announced Motorcycle Man, with both men standing nose-to-nose. I instantly denied it and even managed some tears to show how absolutely horrified I was with the idea. I don't know if Ticket Checker really believed me, but with the attention he was giving to my still-heaving breasts, I was sure he would choose to believe me.
"You are disturbing the movie," Ticket Checker addressed Motorcycle Man and pointed to the exit. Motorcycle Man scowled and left without arguing… he had seen two of the theatre chowkidars standing next to the exit, looking eager for a fight. I thanked my willpower for not giving in to Motorcycle Man's advances. He just wasn't man enough.
"Popcorn? Softdrink? Enjoying the movie madame?" asked Ticket Checker, who was now alone with me, the guards having mysteriously vanished. The whistling crowd had settled they saw Motorcycle Man leaving. I made a great show of straightening my clothes and looking distressed, and sat on the chair's armrest chair with tears brimming in my eyes. That seemed to really alarm Ticket Checker, who I noticed looked very young, but not that young either. "Can I do anything for you?" he asked, his eyes darting from my eyes to my mouth to my breasts to my eyes… I put my hand on my chest, as if to calm myself – his eyes followed – and told him I felt very unclean and cheap. I asked him if he thought I was a bad girl; and held his hand, as if looking for assurance. He held on tighter and vehemently shook his head.
I then touched my mouth – his eyes followed – and asked if there were any bite marks. He said no. I pulled down the neck of the top I was wearing, with just a bit of my cleavage showing, and asked him if there were any marks. He looked. I cried louder and squeezed his hand; he pulled me and hugged me. I could feel him go hard down there… I was not a bad girl, just that he looked a good boy.
To be continued…
"She is my girlfriend," announced Motorcycle Man, with both men standing nose-to-nose. I instantly denied it and even managed some tears to show how absolutely horrified I was with the idea. I don't know if Ticket Checker really believed me, but with the attention he was giving to my still-heaving breasts, I was sure he would choose to believe me.
"You are disturbing the movie," Ticket Checker addressed Motorcycle Man and pointed to the exit. Motorcycle Man scowled and left without arguing… he had seen two of the theatre chowkidars standing next to the exit, looking eager for a fight. I thanked my willpower for not giving in to Motorcycle Man's advances. He just wasn't man enough.
"Popcorn? Softdrink? Enjoying the movie madame?" asked Ticket Checker, who was now alone with me, the guards having mysteriously vanished. The whistling crowd had settled they saw Motorcycle Man leaving. I made a great show of straightening my clothes and looking distressed, and sat on the chair's armrest chair with tears brimming in my eyes. That seemed to really alarm Ticket Checker, who I noticed looked very young, but not that young either. "Can I do anything for you?" he asked, his eyes darting from my eyes to my mouth to my breasts to my eyes… I put my hand on my chest, as if to calm myself – his eyes followed – and told him I felt very unclean and cheap. I asked him if he thought I was a bad girl; and held his hand, as if looking for assurance. He held on tighter and vehemently shook his head.
I then touched my mouth – his eyes followed – and asked if there were any bite marks. He said no. I pulled down the neck of the top I was wearing, with just a bit of my cleavage showing, and asked him if there were any marks. He looked. I cried louder and squeezed his hand; he pulled me and hugged me. I could feel him go hard down there… I was not a bad girl, just that he looked a good boy.
To be continued…
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Get your tongue out of my mouth, am kissing you goodbye
As the whistling increased in the theatre, Motorcycle Man's tongue and fingers both got more insistent. In his ill-controlled enthusiasm, Motorcycle Man's tongue was now getting into places it didn't need to… like my ear, into my nostrils; he was even eating my hair! I was worried the gum in his mouth would get stuck to my hair. The more I tried to keep my mouth shut — to keep his tongue out — the more he seemed to pant and try harder. When he finally couldn't get past the barrier of my sealed lips, he decided to distract me… by increasing the hand activity under my skirt.
Now had it been hand activity that I liked, I could have let it continue… but he was pinching me! Motorcycle Man was proving to be absolutely different from what I had thought he would be. He had looked mysterious and in control and oh-so-sexy from atop his bike, in that covering-his-face black helmet. But now… he was like Shakti Kapoor in a rape scene in some C-grade movie. And no girl wants to be a heroine in a C-grade movie, ya? The moment I realized that Motorcycle Man's hand was under my skirt, at the juncture of my legs, I did the next best thing possible…. I trapped his hand by clenching my thighs real hard.
"Oho, don't be shy my Little Suppu," he cajoled, again pinching me in an attempt to make me unlock my thighs. I couldn't dare scream out for fear that the moment I opened my mouth, he would jam his tongue inside. I so wanted to slap him: I hated anyone calling me Suppu, what a horrible name. I was on the verge of losing it with Motorcycle Man when he suddenly stopped. I had my eyes closed. When I opened them it was to find the ticket-checker staring at us, the torch-light shining in our faces. And I was stunned. The ticket-checker was a rather good looking, rather young man.
"What's happening here?" he asked, staring at my heaving bosom — I was panting — and my exposed thigh and legs. I have always known when a man is too busy looking at me to be thinking straight. I gave my best Hurt Girl Look and pointed at a very disgruntled Motorcycle Man. "I am alone and he is bothering me," I said, deciding at that moment that the Ticket Checker definitely did not look bad at all. In fact he looked very, very good…
To be continued...
Now had it been hand activity that I liked, I could have let it continue… but he was pinching me! Motorcycle Man was proving to be absolutely different from what I had thought he would be. He had looked mysterious and in control and oh-so-sexy from atop his bike, in that covering-his-face black helmet. But now… he was like Shakti Kapoor in a rape scene in some C-grade movie. And no girl wants to be a heroine in a C-grade movie, ya? The moment I realized that Motorcycle Man's hand was under my skirt, at the juncture of my legs, I did the next best thing possible…. I trapped his hand by clenching my thighs real hard.
"Oho, don't be shy my Little Suppu," he cajoled, again pinching me in an attempt to make me unlock my thighs. I couldn't dare scream out for fear that the moment I opened my mouth, he would jam his tongue inside. I so wanted to slap him: I hated anyone calling me Suppu, what a horrible name. I was on the verge of losing it with Motorcycle Man when he suddenly stopped. I had my eyes closed. When I opened them it was to find the ticket-checker staring at us, the torch-light shining in our faces. And I was stunned. The ticket-checker was a rather good looking, rather young man.
"What's happening here?" he asked, staring at my heaving bosom — I was panting — and my exposed thigh and legs. I have always known when a man is too busy looking at me to be thinking straight. I gave my best Hurt Girl Look and pointed at a very disgruntled Motorcycle Man. "I am alone and he is bothering me," I said, deciding at that moment that the Ticket Checker definitely did not look bad at all. In fact he looked very, very good…
To be continued...
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Time for some kissy-pressy...
For the next two days, I did not see Motorcycle Man. I wondered if something bad had happened to him...
As I walked towards college, I noticed a man standing near the gate, next to a black, jeep. He was wearing all denim, had short-cropped black hair and he stood there looking at me. As I neared the gate, he began approaching me and stopped at just about an arm's length.
"Tum bahut sundar ho, Suparna," he said (You are very pretty) and gave me an envelope. There was something dangerously thrilling about this unsmiling stranger who knew my name. I did not say a word and took the envelope. He walked back to the jeep and drove off. On his passenger seat was a black Thunderbird helmet. The Motorcycle Man! Where had he been?
The envelope had a neatly folded letter, written in red ink. It was more of a note:
Suparna, as promised, 9 pm show, Raja Hindustani, will pick you up from your colony gate. Wear a skirt.
PS: Last two days, my bike was right behind your rickshaw.
We had the corner two seats in the corner box on the balcony. We called those the Sex Seats in college. There were goose-bumps on my naked legs, I could feel the shivers rising up my sandaled toes, tickling behind the back of my knees, going straight up to the centre of my groin. The AC was fully on though. There was no one in the box yet. He came back with the popcorn and juice. Thank god, I did not like colas. It's the bubbles... No girl wants to be burping on a date, ya?
He sat on my right. As the trailers began, he put his arms around my shoulder and pulled me close. He didn't even pretend to put it on the backrest first! As the first song started, he began playing with my left ear, pulling at the lobe, pinching it, his fingers stroking my neck. I crossed my legs tightly, the heat slowly began stirring inside me. As the first song started, he turned and ran a warm tongue, from my neck up to my jaw, nibbling at my jaw. I was alarmed, what if the ticket-checker came?
I realised his hand was right under my... left armpit. His fingers dug into my flesh, I gasped out loud, he bit my neck. "Don't leave a mark," I said, mortified.
"I want to," he replied, his voice thick with lust, his lips moving from my neck, seeking my mouth.
"But you can't," I tried to turn my face away, "I have to go back home."
He laughed loudly, caught my chin, turned my face and kissed me hard.
As I walked towards college, I noticed a man standing near the gate, next to a black, jeep. He was wearing all denim, had short-cropped black hair and he stood there looking at me. As I neared the gate, he began approaching me and stopped at just about an arm's length.
"Tum bahut sundar ho, Suparna," he said (You are very pretty) and gave me an envelope. There was something dangerously thrilling about this unsmiling stranger who knew my name. I did not say a word and took the envelope. He walked back to the jeep and drove off. On his passenger seat was a black Thunderbird helmet. The Motorcycle Man! Where had he been?
The envelope had a neatly folded letter, written in red ink. It was more of a note:
Suparna, as promised, 9 pm show, Raja Hindustani, will pick you up from your colony gate. Wear a skirt.
PS: Last two days, my bike was right behind your rickshaw.
We had the corner two seats in the corner box on the balcony. We called those the Sex Seats in college. There were goose-bumps on my naked legs, I could feel the shivers rising up my sandaled toes, tickling behind the back of my knees, going straight up to the centre of my groin. The AC was fully on though. There was no one in the box yet. He came back with the popcorn and juice. Thank god, I did not like colas. It's the bubbles... No girl wants to be burping on a date, ya?
He sat on my right. As the trailers began, he put his arms around my shoulder and pulled me close. He didn't even pretend to put it on the backrest first! As the first song started, he began playing with my left ear, pulling at the lobe, pinching it, his fingers stroking my neck. I crossed my legs tightly, the heat slowly began stirring inside me. As the first song started, he turned and ran a warm tongue, from my neck up to my jaw, nibbling at my jaw. I was alarmed, what if the ticket-checker came?
I realised his hand was right under my... left armpit. His fingers dug into my flesh, I gasped out loud, he bit my neck. "Don't leave a mark," I said, mortified.
"I want to," he replied, his voice thick with lust, his lips moving from my neck, seeking my mouth.
"But you can't," I tried to turn my face away, "I have to go back home."
He laughed loudly, caught my chin, turned my face and kissed me hard.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Single, mingle, what?
Like the many familiar strangers you recognise daily on your way from home to work, perhaps even smile at... but who you would never speak to in a lifetime. Like that man on the bike at the red light every morning. You could only see his eyes from under his black Thunderbird helmet, with his denim jeans stretched tautly across his footballer-legs and those perfectly shaped calves that always seemed to ask me just run my hands over them. Each day at the Sadar Bazar redlight for two years of college, he would stop his bike waiting for the light to turn green, adjusting his sideview mirrors to look at me sitting on the rickshaw, waiting for the green as well. He preferred wearing denim shirts too, a particularly faded blue, almost the blue of the Marlboro man. I don't think he smoked for most small-town studs on bikes always lit a cigarette if they saw a pretty girl checking them out. I am very pretty.
With that he drove past, jumping the still-red light. I had not moved. I had noticed his forearms were nicely hairy and wondered if his chest was hairy too. I would soon find out, perhaps...
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