One night we were still in his bed, his sweat on our bodies, he sat up on his elbow. We have to get out of here," he grumbled to himself, "we have to get away. "Away?" Or echoed, following the line of his jaw.
"Where?" I must admit, it was a wicked smile that crossed his face as he said, "Goa." A week, just us, no Zeeshan, no Rohan, no school, just sun, sand and whatever the fuck we want.
It was a heady concept. One week without him and out of this oppressive history.
"When?" My heart was racing, my shoes were tight, I asked.
"Next Monday, when your summer vacation begins," he said. He leaned in his lips touching my ear. But I'm not telling you this is going to be a romantic getaway for two, I'm telling you this is going to be an adventure.
I pulled back to look at him, intrigued. "What sort of adventure?"
"The kind we would continue your education," he purred, his eyes gleaming. "Goa is not only a place for beaches; it's a place for freedom, beautiful people from all over the world looking for a good time, and you, my love, are a beautiful woman who deserves to be looked at by more than two men."
My breath hitched. "What do you think you're saying, Danish?"
"I want to see you shine," he said, his hand gliding over my skin on my stomach, his fingers teasing my sensitive folds, "I want to take you to the beach club, let you walk by there in a tiny bikini, cover barely over your incredible ass, and watch the heads turn when you walk by other men while I watch," he said, "I want to watch you flirt with a handsome stranger in the bar, while I'm in the background."
He was making this whole world our playground.
"So, what would I do and..." My voice shook with excitement as I asked.
"Whatever you want," he said, his voice hypnotic caress. "If you enjoy him, if he makes you laugh, you can invite him back to our hotel room; for a drink; or more."
My eyes widened. "You'd want me to... with another guy? While you're there?"
"No, I wouldn't just want it," he corrected his tone, insistent. "After he's gone, I'm going to fuck you so hard you will forget his name. I'm going to reclaim you over and over, every single day. I'd insist on it. I want to watch. I want to see how another man touches you. I want to see the look on your face when a new cock fills you."
The coming Monday, we reached Goa by flight. Danish had rented an expensive villa, comprising new modern glass and concrete box, perched on a cliff above the Arabian Sea. This was more of a stage than a house, created for us to perform on.
The first night was a tuning night. It was just he and me, and the sound of the waves, rhythmic caress. He didn't experiment. He didn't test. He was very intense in his kiss, intent on reminding us both of the base we had been founded on, with all our evil escapades. There were deep, possessive kisses and slow, grinding thrusts that culminated in us both wrapped up in the white linen sheets; re-anchored in our twisted reality.
After exploring various beaches and playing with fresh water, the second day, we returned back to our villa. The second night was to celebrate the main event.
My 5'5" frame was covered in warm water and his hands were both soft and strong as he assisted me in the shower. As he washed me, using shower gel all over my body, I leaned back against him, and he paid attention to every inch of by body. The steam thickened in the little room, and my fair skin shimmered as he slowly and carefully washed me. He washed me, and then pulled me to the edge of the tub, opening my legs. Nothing could be more intimate than the warm wax, which he applied in strips down my legs. My skin became softer, more at ease with his hands. He was precise, and slowly shaved all the hair off until my legs were smooth to the touch.
After the most personal of parts came the most intimate. His gaze was fixed on my most intimate area as he applied the shaving cream, while he knelt before me. The razor scraped my skin ploughing through each hair until my pussy was completely bald and exposed! His fingers hovered, smoothing over the softness of pussy folds and making me shiver in spite of the warmth of the room.
Once he was satisfied, he assisted with getting me to stand and wrapped me in a soft towel, and escorted me out of the washroom. The sensitivity was increased, each touch sending electric currents through my body.
He then slipped the red silk through my head and it rustled against my newly heightened skin, settling into place. It didn't quite fit the bill - it was only a part of what it could have been, but was an intentional design that left just enough to the imagination, while keeping an elegant, sophisticated appeal. What looked like a halter style dress but with daring modifications was a masterful piece of design. The crimson material created a deep V-neckline that settled around my 34C breasts, tying enough to give the least amount of coverage and highlight the fullness of my breasts. The halter straps tie behind my neck leaving my shoulders and back totally exposed. The diamond pendant is a focal point on my collarbones.
The dress wrapped around me, form a complicated design of folds and drapes, which merged around my 26″ waist, where they were held together by a delicate clasp in the shape of a crystal on one side, which was very subtle to cause a certain asymmetry to the eye. The dress went from the waist down to a sweeping A-line outline that ended at the mid-thigh. I knew that the hem of my dress should be cut in a pretty way, and should be of various lengths to create movement as I walked, sometimes showing more of my smooth legs and sometimes concealing them. The back had a bold cutout that extended just above my small of back, offering a tantalising hint of skin.
The quality of the silk was excellent: it was light, but not lightweight and sufficient to hang nicely. It was a deep and rich crimson colour, and in the light, it radiated ruby highlights, but in the shadow, it looked almost black. The fabric was just a bit shiny, accented my pale skin with a glow, particularly around my hips and the roundness of my bum. The strategic use of transparency in the dress made it particularly provocative. The silk was translucent in some lights, such as the backlight, showing my figure and the black lace panties. It was designed to change in response to the light and gait and was sometimes plain and sometimes revealing, but always elegant and bold. The whole of the design was a work of art: enough to intrigue, not quite enough to fully decipher. It was a dress that required confidence to wear and when I looked in the mirror, I was no longer the same woman who had just entered the shower, but someone different, more sophisticated, sensual and powerful.
I had opted for a deep crimson lipstick that was almost black in some lighting, creating a fuller, more sensual look to my lips. The crimson silk was set in sharp contrast to the dark waves of my long hair falling down my back. A fine diamond pendant hung in the dip of my collar bone at my throat that sparkled in the light with each movement. Simple gold bracelets jangled lightly on my wrists, and ruby studs, like the colour of my dress, were in my ears.
I was weak and I was strong, almost naked and in charge. "You're a predator tonight," Zeenat he whispered, his hands running down my hips. "So, a beautiful, crimson predator. And you're going to hunt."
The club he'd picked was made out of cliffs, with multiple levels of pumping bass, flashing neon lights and pretty sweating bodies. It was a place where anonymity was money and desires were easily visible.
We found a secluded table with a view of the dance floor, and Danish continued to pour the martini with each one taking my inhibitions away a little more. I didn't have to aim very hard at my target. He was leaning on a pillar by the edge of the dance floor, a monolith. Tall was not the word for him, he was a giant, and his broad shoulders made his black t-shirt look like a tight skin dress and his skin tone, like polished ebony. He was holding his drink like a man who was holding a rock in a sea of turmoil, an oasis of calm in a storm.
Danish's lips were pressed to my ear, his command a low and excited voice: "Him." The mountain, go ask him to dance.
He was not like the other ones. Beautiful and intense. Rohan was a boy. The man in the club was an animal, a force of nature. This man, this giant, was something else altogether. He was so confident, so sure of himself, that no one was more of a threat than he was in the quietest way.
I was feeling a bit nervous, a bit of the excitement I hadn't felt in months. I finished off my drink; the liquid courage ran down my throat. When I stood, I smoothed my dress, and walked towards him. All the movements were conscious and purposeful and my hips were shaking and my back was straight. I was the one that Danish wanted to be.
I came to a halt beside him, craning my neck up to see his face. "I wondered, would you be dancing the whole night, or were you just waiting until the pillar?" I said with the practiced purr of a smooth and practiced performer.
Slowly, he turned his face, the eyes were a startlingly light, clear brown that seemed to reflect the entire club. He didn't smile right away. He simply glanced my entire body, but he took his time, examining me slowly, from head to toe and back up again. It wasn't lecherous, it was like he was looking at a piece of art. He finally had a smile on his lips, a small smile.
"The song was right up my manatee alley," he said, using that deep baritone voice that resonated through my bones. "And the right partner, anyway I've got both." He set his glass on a table close by and extended a hand that was more than double my own. I put my hand in his, and his closed around it, a warm, firm, and surprisingly gentle grip.
He guided me onto the dance floor as the DJ was about to switch songs from hot techno to deep and sensual R&B, the music that gets you, not just at you. Then he started to sway. I was here to seduce - but I was the one who was hooked. He didn't dance his body; he danced his soul; he could move with power and ease; so smooth for a man of his size.
His thumb was on the small of my back, his other on my hand, a steady warmth, a slow hypnotic rhythm of his thumb on my knuckles. I wanted to do my part, to push him, to make myself the seductress, but I was denied, and he was a little bit shrewd. He would spin me around and then pull me back in, into a perfect graceful position.
He was the leader and I found myself, to my surprise, loving the following. The hunt was over. It was I that was getting caught. He leaned down, his face close to mine. "You're a terrible dancer," he whispered in my ear, his breath hot on my skin. His tone was teasing, and friendly, not insulting.
"I tried to get your attention," I said, my voice barely heard over the music.
"You had it all along," he whispered. "From the first time you walked over the room, you glimmer as brightly as all these lights."
He was no longer moving, but just holding me in the middle of the swaying crowd. The world left behind and we were left in a cosmos of moving sounds and colours. He lifted his free hand and softly pressed a loose hair into the back of my ear. My fingers traced the line of his jaw, his fingers lingered.
He whispered, "You have very good eyes. "They seem to have read a thousand stories." I was speechless. But this wasn't part of the plan. The idea was not one of raw lust, of aggressive proposition. There was only this, this romantic attention that was exquisite. My carefully crafted persona, the predator, was beginning to fall, to be replaced by the woman underneath, to be the one who was desperate to be seen.
Then he kissed me; it was not a conquering or passionate kiss. This was a discovery kiss. His lips were soft and full, and his questioning, not commanding my lips. It was a slow and gentle exploration, impossibly tender. He sampled mint and something in him that was just uniquely, intoxicating. His tongue moved to my lips, he was silently asking, I let him in. The kiss deepened, and began a slow, sensual dance of its own. Not about fucking, it was about connection. It was the most romantic, soul stirring kiss that I ever had in my life.
He was reprieved, a little further away now, his head leaning against mine, eyes closed. My name," he whispered, his name as if it were a holy gift. "My name is Alex." I breathed back, "Zeenat."
He kissed me again. And again. Each was a leisurely romance. My face was in his hands, his thumbs rubbing my cheeks. He kissed my eyelids and nose and the corner of my mouth. I cried tears of joy at the tenderness with which he worshipped me.
I felt Danish's gaze on me across the room, as hot as a load of bricks, but for the first time, it seemed like it was in the past.
In Alex' arms on this dance floor, I was totally, totally lost!
The song has evolved, but so have Alex. He simply held me, in his massive loving arms, and danced to a new beat, as if it was a suggestion. I was soaking up him like a sponge. The smell of his skin, his body, soft explorative kisses that were rewriting all the rules I knew. Not the lust for the deal I'd been accustomed to. It was different, that was something else, something much more hazardous.
Then he withdrew, his light brown eyes looking at mine. "Let's get some air," his voice a deep, intimate rumble. He took my hand once more, and I followed him off the dance floor, through the crowd, onto a wide-open terrace, with an ocean view, under the light of the moon.
My skin was so warm in the heat and the night air was so cool. Music was no longer heard, but only the sound of the waves beating against the rock face below. He didn't speak. He only took me to the stone railing and stood behind me, his huge arms around my waist, dragging me toward his chest. We were standing there in silence and going on and on looking at the sea. His chin was on top of my head and I could feel his heart beat soothingly against my back. "He's a fortunate man," he said ever so quietly.
My body stiffened. I was so caught up in my life that I forgot Danish for a few wonderful hours. I didn't remember Zeeshan. I had just been a woman being courted by a handsome guy. The reminder was like getting drenched in cold reality. "He's not my husband," I whispered, telling just the half-truth and hiding the fact that he is brother of my life partner.
He turned me around to face him in the embrace of his gentle hands. His eyes fixed on me, not judging, but curious.
"He's not? He's watching you like you're the most precious thing in his world, and like he's afraid that he'll lose you to someone else." His perception was unnerving. He saw everything.
I squawked out, "He's... complicated."
"Aren't we all?" he murmured, with a smile on his face. He gently cupped the skin of my cheek with his thumb, lifted his hand. "Oh, I don't care about him right now, Zeenat, I don't. Right now, all I see are you."
Then he kissed me again! His lips moved slowly and deliberately in passion, and I melted into him, my arms around his neck, my fingers furrowing into the short, soft hair at his nape. I felt the need, it was a strong and contained energy that lay just under his calm surface, but it was tempered with something tender, that was undoing me. Finally, we parted and both of us were panting. His eyes were closed, his forehead pressed against mine.
"I do not do this," he said in a choked voice. "I don't do this, ever, but with you I can't seem to stop."
I said, "then don't stop". He pulled me into a secluded soft chair in a dark corner of the terrace, where the other few couples were scattered. We sat and he took my shoulder in his arm. We didn't talk. We just kissed. Slow, deep and languorous kisses that never end. My body was his playground, but not one that was into his greedy demands.
He explored me with a sense of wonder, tracing my hip, my thigh, saying, "What shape is it that I am touching!" It was the most intimate and romantic thing I'd ever been a part of with a stranger.
Time passed and I no longer knew how many hours had gone by. The outside world was no longer a reality. The only thing that was there was the moon and the sea and the soft and captivating way that Alex was taking over my soul. Then came a soft cough which broke the spell. We looked up. There stood Danish, casual menace, hands in his pockets, a small smile on his face that never managed to make its way to his eyes. "Is the fun going well, my love?" he asked, his voice light.
Alex tightly wrapped me, his arm protecting me from the rest of the world. He gazed at me, his eyes asking a question. I said "Danish" with a shaky voice. Danish walked into closer proximity; his eyes fixed on Alex. He was trying to gauge him, figuring out someone else to prey upon.
"I hope you're taking good care of her," Danish said, his voice tinged with a faint and ominous threat. "She's very special."
So, I was struck again by the size of Alex as he stood. He merely glared at him, his expression placid. "She is," he said, his voice solid as a rock. "And I'll do that until I'm blue in the face," he says.
Danish's smile widened. The smile was unadulterated - pure, unadulterated triumph. He had prepared us and his main performer had taken us to a scene he had not prepared us for. He'd wanted me to be a slut and I was a romantic heroine and it was even more intoxicating.
Danish replied, "I'm in the villa by the cliffs. The one with the private gate. Why don't you both... come back for a nightcap?" It was a challenge. An invitation. A test. Then he lowered his gaze to look at me, searching. He saw fear, he saw conflict and he saw the desperate and undeniable desire in my face. He got to see what was really going on with my complicated life and he didn't flee. He merely nodded slowly, and gave his eyes a quick glance at Danish. Alex was firm, "I'd be delighted."
The walk back to the Villa was a silent and surreal march. I was in-between men, a fragile bridge between two forces. Danish was slightly in front, his body exuding a sense of confidence and predation that crowned him the master of his realm. Alex walked next to me, hand on my shoulder, a comforting presence in the midst of the storm. There was a charged energy between them, a combination of Danish's possessive curiosity, and Alex's calm, protective presence.
The villa was a leading example of glass and stone, subtly illuminated by light fixtures creatively placed around the interior. There was a cool air on us, and the air was filled with the scent of the jasmine that blooms at night, which grew along the walls. We visited the spacious living room, the walls of which were all glass, providing an all-roundly wonderful view across to the ocean under the lights of the moon, and then up onto the massive, private deck. "Whiskey?" Already behind the bar carved into a dark wood panel was Danish asking. Alex said, "Please," with a deep rumbling voice.
He led me to a big sized deep sofa in the outdoor, his hand did not let go from my back. We were seated, the soft cushions resting comfortably against our bodies, the soft sounds of the waves gently lapping against the shore below. Three glasses came back full, Danish with the amber liquid. He gave them to us and then sat in a chair across from us, not next to me. He was making a space, a stage. It was he who was listening.
"To unexpected encounters," said Danish, holding up his glass in a toast. Yet his gaze was upon me, and he saw all things, all things he had created, all things he had set in motion. We drank quietly for a moment. There was a warm spreading comfort in the alcohol, but it was Alex's presence that was intoxicating. Then he placed his glass on table and took my hand in his. He didn't speak. His light brown eyes looked down at me in the moon light and his expression was serious. He placed my hand to his lips and gave a gentle lingering kiss to my hand. This was the most tender gesture I have ever seen without any mixing of an ulterior motive and I felt my heart bleed for him. Gradually he turned my hand over, and began to trace the lines that ran across my palm, his finger delicate as a touch of air.