All characters are above 18 and this story is a work of fiction. It is based on real events woven together into a story. With names and other details changed.
Ch-4) Perks of being rich
Six months in Delhi. A year and a half since the feud my orthodox religious dad--I still felt fucking grateful that my family was out of my life. No guilt, no gods and no family to answer to. Just adrenaline and self-actualization. Exactly how I liked it.
I called the firm managing my funds and the number felt unreal to my young mind: 36 crores. It had grown without me doing a thing. I cashed out three, paid the sixty-lakh tax on income without blinking, and armed with the 2.4 crore my 19-year-old ass walked into the Audi showroom. The sixty lakhs SUV was fire red, a bold declaration that I was moving ahead with my life.
I was done pretending to be poor. Done with remorse. I deeply regretted the life I had taken but it was time to move ahead. I rented a designer 2BHK in CR Park--forty thousand a month, polished floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, a private parking spot below. The kind of place that said I've arrived.
It became easier to pick girls, needless to say that. I fucked a girl from biology --Tanya's friend. Then I fucked a local girl from the park near my building, who'd glanced from me to my car while jogging and smiled a slow, knowing smile. The Audi did half the work; I just showed up.
I slept with Pooja on Thursdays. Early morning arrivals, late afternoon exits. She'd skip class, slip into my bed, and we'd lose the day naked skin-to-skin. No weed, no drinks--just her and the sun through the blinds. She hated the smell of smoke, so I'd step onto the balcony like a penitent. Once, we fucked five times between dawn and dusk (my personal record at that time) --doggy, missionary, cowgirl, against the kitchen counter, on the sofa with some bad reality TV humming in the background. Though I had to spend the next day in bed as I felt super tired and de-motivated. She rimmed me every time we met like a ritual. We tried BDSM ropes once, knots clumsy, her wrists bound to the headboard. It was novel, but empty. I felt nothing deeper than friction.
Tuesdays were for being a couple--movie dates, bars, cafes. I bought her clothes without labels, expensive but silent, so she could wear them at home without questions. No LV's or Gucci's. Her thongs and lingerie lived in my drawer; her aunt was too pious to take them home.
Tanya was different. We fucked between classes. If we could. Whenever we could. Specially the weekends which we spent naked and high. She saw other guys; I saw other girls. It was understood. Our friendship grew in the spaces between--CR Park was a minute's drive from our college, so we could dash home, undress, finish, and be back before the next lecture. No strings, just fun and convenience.
Payal was always on call. And Anchal was coming to meet soon--all the way from Bangalore, planning a week in my bed before going home. She had convinced to me meet her for the last time. I had surprises waiting. The kind you don't talk about.
Life was a series of openings. Of bodies and holes and mornings after. And for now, that was enough.
I landed in Delhi on January 8th, my skin still burnt from Phuket's sun, my body heavy with the memory of other people's warmth. Saurabh and I had spent ten lakhs over seven days, burning cash like incense at the altar of our own hunger. Every day was a buffet of flesh.
Our rhythm was extremely decadent. We'd wake at eleven, drift down from our five-star hotel rooms into the bleaching light, and let the day begin with cold Changs and buttery omelets. Afternoons were for foot massages that melted our spines. Then the beach--a slow bake under rented umbrellas watching women in string bikinis trace the shoreline--the world narrowing to the hiss of waves and the sweat on a bottle.
By four, we'd retreat into the cave of our rooms, curtains drawn against the world, and fall into a thick, air-conditioned sleep. We woke not to alarms but to a hungry demand between the legs.
The massage parlors we favored felt less like a business and more like a temple. It smelled of lemongrass and sandalwood oil, and the women moved like water over stone. We never went to cheap places. For five thousand baht each, they gave us a worship. Two girls per man. And the girls looked like models, bodies like polished marble, eyes that held yours while their mouths got to work.
They started with their lips--an open-mouthed soft kisses that made me let go. Then began the slow descent of kisses and flicking tongues that moved with agonizing deliberateness. Lips brushed over my nipples before a hot, wet mouth took one, sucking gently while a tongue circled the other. The journey continued south over the plane of my stomach, their mouths leaving it wet. They paid reverent attention to the sensitive skin of my inner thighs, before finally, as one, they converged on my erect cock.
They worshipped it. One girl, her eyes never leaving mine, took my cock into her hot mouth, her tongue swirling on the slit before she sank down, taking me deep into her throat. I could feel the rhythmic contraction of her muscles as she swallowed around me. Simultaneously, the other girl nuzzled and licked my balls, rolling each one in her mouth before her tongue dipped lower, tracing the sensitive seam behind. Then it pushed further--a probing point of meat that pressed against my delicate asshole circling, then breaching with inexorable pressure. My back arched violently off the table at the dual attack--the sucking on my cock and the filthy penetration behind. The sensation was overwhelmingly exquisite.
This was the true happy ending; a symphony of skilled mouth work and intimate rimming that had me fulfilled each time. Only then, when I was primed with their saliva and dizzy with lust, did one of them, roll a condom down my length with her mouth. She then straddled me, sinking down in one smooth glide that forced my primal instincts forth. She rode me, milking me with a practiced rhythm. The other girl would capture my mouth in a deep kiss, her fingers pinching and playing with my nipples. The world dissolved into a vortex of sensation--the pussy around my cock, the sharp pleasure-pain on my chest, the taste tongue and my hands on the smooth skin--until I Came in waves, my hips jerking as I emptied myself inside the rubber sheath.
Afterward, in the ultimate act of service, they cleaned me. Not with cloths or water, but with their tongues. One girl lapped the cum from my cock with slow, cat-like strokes, while the second attended to my balls and muscle of my asshole, their tongues thorough. It was final ritual tasting of shared sin that left me filled with a strange, dark reverence.
A scalding shower later, we'd hit the Walking Street, our bodies afresh. We always ate at some pizza place or a burger joint. Cheese part of the decadent plan. Then, the Gogo bars. As weed was still illegal back then we stuck to alcohol in the foreign land.
Here, Saurabh and I would part with a wordless nod--each free to drown in his own chosen flavor of flesh every night.
My throne was a corner booth. My sceptre, a skyline of empty bottles on the table. My subjects, at least three girls whose names I never learned, whose stories were written in ink on their skin.
I'd buy them overpriced soda--their "lady drinks"--and they'd begin their public affections. It started as a slow but always became something far more intimate. Under the pulsating lights, they shed their sequined bikinis with languid slowness: first the top, letting small, perfect breasts sway free, nipples hardened in the air-conditioned chill. Then the bottom, peeled down slender hips to reveal the shaved delta beneath.
Finally, they'd settle--one on each thigh, a third straddling my lap, her bare lips pressing directly against the fabric of my shorts. Her dampness seeping through.
My hands moved over them without hesitation. My right palm cupped a breast, feeling its cushiness, rolling the stiffened nipple until she gasped into me. My left slid down another's back, over the curve of her ass as I bent her forward, ass-cheeks spread. There I would bare her tight pink asshole--a forbidden fruit for the whole club to see. In the noise-swallowing din, I'd leaned close, and press a pussy-slicked finger against it. She'd tense, her asshole tightening before pushing back taking the finger inside that clenching hole.
They' d laugh then, and begin to move. One grinding her bare pussy in deliberate circles against my cock. The friction was exquisite--each stroke building a fire in me. While two sat on my either side squishing into me. I'd let my head fall back, my fingers still working inside one while she rode the heel of my hand, frantic. My other hand pinching and tugging at the other's nipples.
People watched--other men, other girls--and their stares were like petrol to my fire. And I kept the shots coming in to stop the manager from raising any complaints.
But it was their tattoos that transfixed me the most. These were not cheap ink. They were masterpieces. Intricate histories etched on bodies. On one, a delicate serpent around a ribcage, its forked tongue aimed at a dark nipple. Another bore open buds of cherry blossom spilling across her shoulder blade, petals so delicate I kissed along their edges. The third, the one in my lap, carried a full-back tapestry: a goddess arched in pleasure, her mouth open in a silent scream, the lines flowing over the curves of her spine and ass.
I'd bend her over my knee, the pounding music and faint lighting my companions. The girl faced the crowd. I faced the exquisite ink. I ran my tongue slowly along the black lines of ink--tasting salt, jasmine, and the permanence of her story. I followed the serpent's path with my lips, across her waist, until my mouth closed over her nipple, sucking it deeply, my fingers soaked inside her
And right there, in the open, under the strobe lights and the gaze of strangers, I'd finger them to climaxes, their bodies in my lap and at my command. Each night the same play but different women and bars.
I was addicted to the game of control. The game of money. And the guilty pleasure of public view.
If I found someone attractive, I would take them to my hotel. My rule was absolute: always take two girls home. It wasn't greed. It was a point of self-love--a refusal to deny myself anything. In my hotel room, with the neon glow of Patong bleeding through the blinds, I became a conductor of flesh, orchestrating my desires until dawn greyed the sky.
When the bars yielded no worthy devotees, I sought the upscale clubs--caverns pulsing with an international herd. Here, it wasn't always about sex. One night, I spent three hours playing snooker with British lads, enjoying the fun of competition. But always by 2 AM, the primal hunger returned.
I'd called an agency. Ten thousand baht.
Like on my first night there when two European girls were at my door at night.
We showered first-- as is customary in this transaction. The blonde, sank to her knees under the spray without a word, her mouth parted, pink tongue on my cock. I fisted her hair and pulled her up. "Not yet." I didn't want to waste the peak. I'd already cum once that night in a fit of urgency. This needed slow buildup.
On the bed, we became a single organism. The blonde crawled between my legs and took my cock, not into her mouth, but deep into her throat. Her lips formed a tight seal at the base, swallowing rhythmically. The redhead's tongue traced a path lower--over my balls, along the sensitive seam of my perineum, venturing deeper between my ass cheeks to probe the tight ring of muscle there with circling skill. I stood over them, a king on a throne of sensation. Feeling not only pleasure, but a cold power too.
Then they laid me down. Their mouths became twin flames, licking and sucking my chest, my stomach and the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. It was a feast where I was both diner and dish. They worked in tandem, one sucking into my neck while the other's hand closed around my eager cock, stroking in time with the flick of her tongue against my nipple.
Then I orchestrated my desires.
I had them kneel side by side on the rumpled sheets, backs arched, heads down, ass-cheeks opened. I paid extra for photographs. I took picture not of their faces, but of the vulnerable curve of their spines, the parted ass-cheeks, the wet holes within. My own personal collection of flesh that I had claimed.
Then the real fun began. I took the blonde from behind, pussy around my cock, while my fingers worked the redhead into a convincing performance "Lick me," I ordered the redhead, my voice demanding. She obeyed without hesitation, lapping at where my body met the blonde's. We moved like a machine--bed, then the balcony railing with the city lights sprawling below us, then the cold tile on the floor, and finally the plush sofa. A marathon of positions. A checklist of my darkest fantasies made real: her on her back, legs hooked over my shoulders; her bent over the minibar, her mouth on the other; a tangle of flesh where I couldn't tell whose sweat was whose.
And I did this every day.
Twenty-two girls in seven days.
But this trip was more than a tally. It was my first real exposure to a world beyond India's moral borders. My mind stretched each day, accommodating new perspectives, new freedoms and new truths about life. I finally understood what Tanya meant: Real life is outside India.
I tried, every night, to connect with someone who wasn't for sale. I'd talk, dance, laugh--had pretty decent conversations with people but I never found anyone for physical pleasure. Nights always ended the same: a transaction and bodies at my command. Asian masseuses, Gogo girls or European escorts.
Until the last day, or second last day depending on how you see it.
It was on night of 6th that I met Dianne. Swedish, with sea-green eyes and sun-browned skin the same shade as mine. We met at a bar, and something clicked. We talked about everything--communist jokes, Germany's past, Spanish curse words. Her friends watched us as we sat immersed in ourselves, a bubble of two in the noisy crowd.
"Want to get some air?" I asked. "Walk a bit?"
She smiled. "Yes."
Just like that, my fortunes changed.
I felt a flicker of nerves--a first for me in a long time. The games I knew didn't apply with her. She was from a culture very different than my own. She wore white shorts, and through the thin fabric, I could trace the outline of her black thong (the thing with white clothes is that they inadvertently tell the secret of what is underneath it). Her top was a loose, brown, hippie-cut thing, sleeves long, with soft fabric
We moved from a burger joint to another bar, but the conversation never broke. It was as if the outside world had faded to static. It wasn't just her face--though it was a good one--it was her mind. For the first time, I'd met a woman who could match me thought for thought. We spoke of Bob Marley, Rastafarians and the failed promises of communism, of Viking sagas and sexual histories, of existential dread and absurd hope. She knew things. Most women I'd known back home talked of society, Bollywood, and fragile feelings. This was different. This was a real conversation.
We walked the kilometer to my hotel without ever discussing it. The decision hung in the air, understood. In the elevator, she grew quiet, a slight tension in her shoulders. We didn't rush to the bed. Instead, we stood for hours on the balcony, smoking her weed and my tobacco, the night air wrapping around us. Our talk slowly turned to silence, and our silence to closeness. We hugged, and then, finally, we kissed.
Her lips were chapped. She was a terrible kisser--all eager, clumsy pressure. Not what I'd expected from a European. I'd built them up in my head as effortless and fluent in the language of touch. My bias shattered against the reality of her. I guess our biases and prejudices are nothing but just that.
And yet.
My heart beat hard against my ribs anyway. There was an honesty in her clumsiness that was more disarming than any skill. We kissed until the clumsiness softened, then fell asleep together, spooning as the humid Phuket air drifted through the open window. We were tired. It was 4 a.m. We chose sleep over sex. (A lie. I was painfully hard, aching for fucking sex. But she was tired, and the decision to sleep was made.)
We woke to sunlight flooding the eighth-floor room. I ordered breakfast--pita, hummus, shakshuka--and we ate slowly. By two, we were on the beach, dropping onto rented chairs under a umbrella. She'd picked up clothes at her hostel along the way and she changed into a simple black bikini. Nothing scandalous. It covered exactly half her ass (I measured).
The sea stretched out before us, blue and endless, and for a while, we just sat there, not talking, not needing to. The heat was a warm heavy blanket. We drank beer and listened to the beach's lazy symphony--the crash and pull of waves, the distant laughter, the low hum of a world at ease. I drifted to sleep, lulled by the sun and the sound, when her hand touched my arm.
"Come swim."
I couldn't swim but we waded in until the waves broke against our chests, stealing kisses in the salty spray, laughing as the water rocked us. It was simple fun. We'd retreat to our chairs, sip beer, let the sun dry our skin, then go back in after an hour. No wonder she was so beautifully tanned--she'd been living like this for two months. A third-year economics student on a gap year, travelling the world between hostels, weed, and strangers. I envied her freedom. I'd wasted a year and a half drowning in a guilt. *Yes, I made a mistake. I was a fool, a stupid 17-year-old arrogant prick when I got into the accident high on coke. *
I didn't tell her that. I gave her the clean version: no family apart from a maternal uncle, dead parents, an inheritance that bought comfort but no purpose. A life of partying with no fucking clue what lay beneath it. I admitted I was still naïve. That I wanted to learn how to live. I wanted to understand myself and this life.
She came from a very different culture: a family farm, a rural dairy, a tidy Christian neighborhood in Sweden. She wanted to be a top economist, work in international affairs. We laughed at how useless I was at math and science, how my brain only lit up for history, geography, the messy philosophies of dead men. I felt ashamed of my low morals, of how I didn't see humans as humans (a part of our cultural indoctrination seeped in social hierarchy and the over-population I guess.) She on the other hand felt pure.
As we left the beach, heading toward a 7-Eleven for something sweet, the question slipped out. "Dianne, stay tonight. With me. I leave tomorrow."
"What time is your flight?" Her face gave nothing away.
"11 AM from Phuket. Then two hours of layover in Bangkok. Then Delhi." The clock was ticking.
She had fifteen days left here. I had one.
"I'll stay," she said, casual. "I like you."
Back in the hotel room, I couldn't wait. The door clicked shut and I pushed her against it, my mouth on her. The kiss was all tongue and saliva. Her hands caught my shirt, then she broke away, laughing, grabbing a towel. "Shower first. I'm sandy there."
I followed her into the bathroom, our clothes falling on the marble floor.
We were naked in seconds. Our bodies aligned with a startling symmetry--same height, my hard cock pressing insistently against her lower belly, chest to breast. My hands gripped her firm, rounded ass, fingers digging into sun-warmed skin. There was a need to consume her.
She turned on the shower. Cool water cascaded over us as I began sucking on her nipple. It was already hard. I circled it slowly, then sucked, drawing a sharp gasp from her lips. I could taste the sunscreen. Then I moved down, pausing to dip my tongue into the shallow well of her navel before moving lower. In the stark bathroom light, she was completely bare. Her lips were tucked neatly inward--her cunt a smooth slit in her skin.
As she spread her legs, I knelt on the wet tile and with my thumbs, I parted her lips. My mouth found her clit. She tasted of nothing but clean skin and faint musk.
Her hips jerked. "Oh, god..."
I lapped at it slowly at first--broad, flat strokes with the width of my tongue. Then I sealed my lips around it, creating a vacuum, a trick I'd perfected long ago. No girl and I mean no girl can resist it. A deep lick, then suction, then a slow, deliberate clockwise flick with the very tip of tongue. As the pressure builds up in her and you feel she is ready to cum, just start flicking the clit in one direction at fixed rhythm. Never change the rhythm--it's the steady, repeated pressure that unravels the mind, that coaxes the body to let go.
And so, I didn't let up. As the pressure built inside her--as her breathing grew began and her thighs began to tremble--I settled into a fixed, unyielding rhythm. Flick, flick, flick. Steady. Incessant.
And she came. After five unbroken minutes, her thighs clamped around my head, shaking, locking me in place. I then turned her around, bent her at the waist, and ran my tongue from her clit to the top, pausing only to completely taste her other opening.
She gasped, jumping at the intrusion. "No more--wait. Let me do you."
I stood, and she knelt. Her mouth was willing but unskilled--more like she was trying to hold a mango seed than give a blowjob. It wasn't the skilled artistry I was used to back home, but it was earnest. I looked down at the blonde crown of her head bobbing slowly. She never once licked my balls, let alone anything further. Amateur.
But it was okay. She was the first girl I had proper conversations with. First girl to tickle my soul if not my balls.
Gently, I guided her mouth off me and drew her up. She giggled as I kissed her, tasting myself on her lips. Then I bent her over, her hands gripping the shower knobs, her back arched. Without any more foreplay, I entered her pussy. She was warm against the cool water streaming down her spine.
I kept a steady rhythm, one hand on her hip, the other against the tile. Water pooled in the hollow of her lower back, and I watched it tremble with each thrust. Our breathing grew faster, as our bodies heated up. Just as I felt the pressure rising, I pulled out and came on the bathroom floor between our feet.
She let out a dissatisfied moan.
"You already came once today," I said, my breathing still heavy. "Don't look at me like that. I've been staring at you in that bikini all afternoon. I had balls filled to the brim." I defended myself for cuming in under 3 minutes.
She laughed cutting through the tension. Then, without breaking eye contact, she slid her fingers between her own legs, finishing what I'd started. I just stood in the corner, watching her, the cigarette between my fingers forgotten. Our gazes held, until her body tensed and a shudder ran through her. Only then did I step forward, the cigarette extinguished under the stream of water, and kiss her--a taste of final physical closeness.
We dressed in the humid aftermath. My skin was several shades darker from the sun, except for the stark, pale path where my shorts had been--a mark of the vacation etched onto my body.
I didn't know what connected me to Diane, not really. It wasn't something I could name. I'd never felt it with anyone back home. It wasn't that Indian women weren't intelligent--many were brilliant. But their worlds often felt... curated. Sheltered from a certain raw, unforgiving reality of life that Dianne seemed to understand. Probably because she came from a society where men and women were equal. Or maybe she was just a fellow nerd who'd read the same books. At nineteen, I didn't need to analyze it. I just knew it was the first genuine human connection I'd ever made.
I took her WhatsApp number. I added her on Facebook. (This was still 2012, after all.)
We spent our last evening in a dimly lit bar, Spanish guitar and lazy jazz weaving through the clink of glasses. We made love twice more before dawn--slowly the first time, with a kind of lovemaking sweetness, and fiercely the second, as if we could outrun the morning departure.
She stood outside the hotel in the hazy light, waiting to say goodbye as Saurabh and I threw our bags into the taxi. I kissed her once, lightly, on the mouth--an end to a beautiful encounter. Then the car door closed, and Phuket began to blur past the window.
And that was how I spent the first eight days of January 2012.