Around India With Leela

[swisssnow]

Hello guys, I am starting a new series. It will be updated as I write it. 

Hope you enjoy!

Leave comments, suggestions, or anything else below. 

[swisssnow]

Leela had never driven with another man since she got married. Sharing space with someone who's not your husband made her uncomfortable. It was like standing in a tightly packed elevator, and Murthy, Amit's best friend, was a large and imposing figure who'd easily brush his pecs against your bare, sweaty back and not take notice of anything. 


He was over six feet, six-two when she'd asked him, with ample and thick hairy arms, well built like a muscular stallion before a race. He wore his work attire, a tight pale pink shirt and khaki trousers that fit without a belt. But he drove slow, almost to a fault—sixty to seventy on an empty highway at midnight. Leela felt a little anxious about herself, her shorts and loose, sleeveless striped top next to a man who might have just walked out of an executive meeting. 

They were good friends, all three of them. Murthy lived by himself at the end of the street, in a cozy little independent house that Leela passed by every morning on the way to the milk store. He worked out in the front yard, lifting dumbbells and pumping push-ups in the open. She'd once stopped to take a photo to show to Amit, to laugh at this crazy man in a veshti and football shorts, only to delete it right before she got home. It was wrong to think the way she felt the moment she saw him on her phone. 

But Leela photographed him again. He had lush, potted roses and didn't mind a bit when she asked him to make "bodybuilder poses" by the plants. It looks cute, she had told him, to which he'd laughed, and she'd clicked a few more snaps before switching off the camera. This, she didn't delete. Nor did she make fun of him to Amit. 

Now he sat there, leisurely cruising through the night, making her skip a beat every time she looked at him sideways or on the mirror. Every look she secretly passed set off a series of wild thoughts that she loved to get lost in and feel doubly guilty at the same time. She saw herself embracing him and not connecting her fingers in the clasp. She'd start laughing, embarrassed and silly, her body smooshed against his bear-like chest, and he'd look down from that high vantage point all confused. 

This was wrong, however. Amit was sick—admitted at Kasturi Das Hospital in his native, and here she sat dreaming and salivating on one of their best friends in the colony. Amit was lanky, but smart—literally a genius in comparison with Murthy. All her double-meaning jokes fluttered away unnoticed, while her silliest questions had him guffawing like a parrot. When did you do your first push-up? Do you have to lift more with those dumbbells with your left hand if your right-handed? Why workout in the open when there are two gyms inside the colony? How thick is your cock? 

The last question she never asked out aloud. She fantasized follow-up questions at a press conference—him standing on the podium, sweating like hell and oily for some reason, and her in the mini-est office skirts and a braless white shirt, two buttons open from top, the third almost bursting out and blinding someone. She'd begin with some easy questions: 

1. How easy is to lift girls compared to those, whatever those are called, things with iron wheels? 
Very easy, he'd answer, covering his crotch with his palms, which looked silly in that torn baniyan and redundant thong she'd given him in her fantasy. 

2. Can you dance?
Of course. I can do salsa and Bharatanatyam—both with partner, since I don't dance alone. 

3. Men should never dance alone, she'd agree. But men are uncultured beasts on the dance floor. Groping, molesting their partners. Do you also slip your hand under their skirts and feel their panty-juice? Do you stare at their cleavage as you slip your hands into their shirts and palm their breasts? The girl might just be riding you, dry humping against your throbbing, untamed cock, and you might just take advantage of her innocence with your wild behavior. Will you pull her by her panty towards you and fondle her gyrating body with your hands, hips, and face? 
Maybe, he'd reply innocently. 

4. So you'd let her wet panty fall on the floor, and rub her clit with your thick fingers while the beats thump on the floor? Or worse, will you kneel down and take the girl's crotch into your mouth and lap her pussy like a starving, rabid dog? Will you let your tongue flick her clit, occasionally licking the whole of her labia, almost like you are drinking the entirety of sex in that wretched position? The whole floor would be watching you give the girl an oral, vaginal massage and gasp, and will you continue to give her pleasure with your hands on her ass, fingers digging into her cheeks? 
I didn't think of it that way, he'll say. 

5. But I am not finished here, Mr. Murthy. No. And then you will stand up and smooch the girl, letting her have a taste of herself in her mouth, while you slide your fingers into her dripping pussy. 
I don't understand the question, he'd say. 

6. The question is whether you will rip her shirt off right there and tear away her skirt and throw it at the onlookers, who are staring at her ravishing, naked body, wishing they were in her place? 
I don't know...

That's  where Leela stopped the interview at most times she conjured it up in the bathroom. She never smelled herself, tasted herself after, since it was wrong, most wrong to think of these things when she's married to a man whose house was five times bigger than Murthy's.  

She saw his eyes fall on her from the mirror. "What's wrong?" he asked, slowing the car. 

fin 1/x