The First Time (Love in No Time #1)

by Bitsi Shar

  He is very close. As if to testify to his nearness he lands a palm on to my thigh spreading his fingers over the maximum expanse. I steal a glance at his shapely fingers with nicely trimmed pinkish nails at the ends. Nice! I don’t mind such nice hands on my thigh but that is exactly where I’d like them to stay for now. I need a second, possibly a couple more to breathe normally. I know he has not stopped looking at me all this while, measuring, assessing, tolerating all the visible signs of virgin panic. I can feel the heat emanating from him like a heater has been turned on somewhere in the house. I breathe deeply and turn to him. No words come out because they can’t. His mouth is on me again. In fact, his teeth have gripped my lower lip in a dangerous bite. I feel him bare his teeth as if to bite harder but instantly lets go, instead sucking on the same lip as if to soothe the bite. He is making loud noises as he sucks. My lower body is a pool of liquid.

  Shit! Did I just come from a kiss? What is that? My eyes seem to ask him as he continues his sucking without a care in the world for anything else.

  I am lost.

  I have lost my existence.

  And then he stops. He is up. I am confused.

  No! Why are you stopping now? I scream in my head.

  Take my existence.

  Take it all.

  I am ready to give it to you.

  He smiles at me as if he can actually read everything in my head, in my face. It seems like he is leaving. But he brings us our drinks. I need it, thank you very much.

  I drain it too fast, ending up coughing it all over the pink floral of the table cover. His hand is on my back rubbing me up and down to take away the whoop. I am mortified.

  I escape to the bathroom to hide for a while so I can make sense of everything that is going on in my space—physical and between my ears. I am not long.

  And when I come back to him he is not sitting at the table anymore. I hear music from the TV room. I glance in and see Peter Gabriel singing sledgehammer on MTV and him on the bed legs crossed at the ankles watching, sipping his vodka delicately as if he has all the time in the world. His back is to me so he doesn’t know I am watching him but then he suddenly turns his head and pins me with his gaze.

  “Hi, you ok?” I nod.

  “Sorry, I made myself comfortable. I needed to get off my feet. I have been on an eighteen hour shift since yesterday.” That’s his explanation for remaining seated on my double bed at 6:30 in the evening. There is nothing wrong with the explanation. It is a good one but in the context of what happened in the dining room, it serves an entirely different purpose for him and for me. I sidestep him and make my way to the bamboo chairs at the far end of the room. I sit and fix my eyes on the TV and all the psychedelic colors of MTV. And he knows that I am avoiding him because I hear him snicker. Bastard! He is lounging on my bed, watching my TV, drinking my vodka and he is snickering at me for what? And I suddenly feel him, his heat right next to me. God! He is stealthy. He can make a good stalker, I think to myself. It is kind of amusing yet deeply uncomfortable thought.

  I refuse to look at him as I feel him crouching besides me. He reaches to turn my face to him and then turns my body in between his thighs. My face is now nestled between his palms. I still refuse to look at him. I keep my eyes tightly shut because all this freaking expertise in seduction, I feel unmatched against. I am helpless but crazily enough not freaked out by it. I want him to seduce me and maybe that is what I have been oh-not-so-innocently hinting at with my invites and demeanor. I can’t chicken out now that he has picked up the gauntlet that I have time and again thrown at his feet.

  He tilts my head back with his index finger, forcing me to open my eyes and finally look into his face. He is smiling that knowing smile while his vodka breath is leaving these tiny beads of moisture on my face. I fully expect him to assault my lower lip again but the assault never comes. Then his hands are in my hair. He is tilting my head sideways, his lips find the vein throbbing in my neck that he proceeds to kiss quite wetly. Then he breathes over the wetness. His warm breath cools the wetness and I shiver. He grazes his teeth along the corner of my ear lobe down to my clavicle. I shudder. Now his perfectly manicured beard is making short round circles across the same sensitized space. I am horribly wet now. I feel like I have peed all over myself.

  “Lady, open your eyes.” He breathes close to my lips.

  “Open your eyes, please.” He repeats with some degree of vocal force. I don’t. I can’t seem to open my eyes.

  “Now, Lady.” There is no brooking argument with what sounds more like a threat, less like a command. I open my eyes and his lips immediately cover mine in a hard kiss quickly, forcefully. And once its done, we sit there looking at each other as if this is our first time, our only time.

  And suddenly he stands up and says the most bizarre thing in that moment, “Sorry, baby, I have to go. You have had enough fun for the evening.” He smirks!

  “You are going?” I croak. What was all this seduction game then? The seduction is not complete—or did he not write the same memo to himself? I am just getting started in all sorts of ways and he is going!!

  “Why, Ms. Sharma, are you asking me to stay albeit in an oblique way?”

  That is the question, isn’t it? Do I want him to stay? Yes! But only scream this in my head. But my scared irrational-rational part is not so sure, which in other words means I want him to decide for us. So “I don’t know” is all I can manage to spout in my confused state.

  “Well, if you don’t know then I mustn’t either and leave you to figure it all out for us. And I sincerely hope that you will figure it all out for our sake. And be warned too, Ms. Sharma, when and if you decide in our favor and consequently call me back to your lovely home, I hope you will be prepared for what is to happen. I will not promise gentlemanly behavior then. Every seduction has a goal and a conclusion. I hope we can find ours.” And delivers all this with a degree of intensity that infuses a deep truth into his threat-promise.

  He pats my cheek in this avuncular way that belies his previous delivery of and about hot stuff. He hauls himself to his feet using my thighs as a squeezable leverage. How freaking convenient and hot at the same time! And now he just stands there, looking down at me. After a few hundred beats (of my heart against my ribs), he holds out his hand. I take it and he pulls me up holding my body close to his—finally we make contact of the substantial kind. I can feel a bulge at my abdomen. And as I stand enclosed in his body, the bulge seems to grow. I step back involuntarily. He chuckles! He actually chuckles at my reaction knowing exactly what he is doing to me. He continues to hold my hand as he leads me through to the living room. He buckles up his bag all the while holding me with the other.

  He pulls me with him to the front door as if he is intending to take me with him to wherever he is going. At the door, he turns around, kisses my mouth hard, then kisses the hand he is still holding in his, turns around, unlocks the door and without another glance lets himself out. I lock the door behind him and then rush to the living room to see him kick-start his scooter. He wears his helmet and all the while I watch him watching the glass doors as if fully expecting me to be watching him leave. I think I can see a small smirk play on his lips. And then in a filigree of black exhaust smoke he is gone. I am suddenly aware of other things—bird chatter in the Neem tree across the street, the heaviness of the heat in the darkness that is descending into the evening, a car horn here and there, some undecipherable chatter of nearby neighbors, a dog barking in the distance. This tells me how oblivious to everything I become in his presence and that is a scary thing, forget the good or the bad. As I walk back to the bedroom where the TV is still on, I feel my whole body uncoil. I breathe in and out to let go of the muscle tension. I hear Madhuri Dixit sing about her wildly beating heart, almost bursting through her barely together stringed blouse. I feel the same. Even if it is not my heart that is trying to bust through, some new emotion certainly is.

  I know I affected him but I can only feel what I
feel and I feel a lot. It is all (un) settling in my stomach, knees, feet, and even the tips of the nails of my feet. I don’t have a clue as to what to do with myself. Maybe pleasuring myself will do it? But this would make sense only if I could forget the hands that traveled to different spots on my body. Damn! This is all so frustrating. Shower should do it. Yes, I need a hot/cold shower to deal. As I crawl into bed an hour later all red skin and warm, I pray for a dreamless night. But I know no prayers would stop my sub conscience from returning to him via my dreams. This would seem my way of requiting in a semi-conscious state what was left incomplete in a conscious one. His gift lies on my side table, catching a spot of the moonlight filtering in and the silver twinkles like a certain set of black eyes I know. I know I am smiling as I fall into an exhausted sleep.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The bracelets are the first things I see when I wake up the next morning. I smile and then pout. But what happened to “I want you as my present now?” No quid pro quo? He is no gentleman, we know. He knows how to hold, tug, bite, pull in all the right discrete places leading to indiscrete sensations.

  Wait, how does he know to do all that? Or rather who has he been doing this to? An insidious thought has entered my mind, hooking into its flesh form. He cannot be reading about what to do to a woman and then using me as his experimental bitch? Now I am beyond curious. I need to know more. But I am not calling him to ask. I hope he will call so I can insert my query into the conversation then. And as if on cue and quite scaringly so, the phone starts ringing in the living room. It rings for the tenth time (yes, I am counting) when I reach it. As I breathe a hello into it, I glance at the clock on the wall. It says 9:30 a.m. I panic thinking that I am late for office again. And then realize its Saturday. And also realize that no one has countered my hello with their own. So I say another hello and of course it’s him—the mister of my sensation from my yesterday.

  “Hi back. How are you?”

  “Sorry, if I woke you. I waited an hour before calling just so I wasn’t cutting into your beauty sleep.”

  “Uh-no, I am fine. Why are you calling, Mr.?”

  “Why? Why do you think, Ms. Sharma? Was I the only one in the room yesterday?” His voice is tinged with surprise and hurt now, I think. I am rendered silent.

  “So what are you up to today?” he asks as a way probably to distract me into finding my speech capabilities.

  “Why? So you could come around and finish what you started?” I think I snap. Gosh! What is wrong with me? I am not starting on a good mood today.

  “I would like to very much—come over and finish what we started yesterday.” His voice has dropped and become a little husky. Shit! Now what?

  “Yes?” He prods quietly but urgently.

  “Uh—I have plans today.”

  “Cancel, please.”

  “No!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I am meeting a friend for lunch. I cannot postpone it anymore without offending her out of my life.”

  “Hmmm, yes I guess we cannot offend friends but its okay to keep likely boyfriends from seeing you for every good reason in the world.”

  “So how is tomorrow?” He asks without letting me respond to his attempt at sarcasm earlier.

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you call me tomorrow and find out?” I challenge.

  He laughs and accepts the challenge by saying, “Ok, I will call, Ms. Sharma. I guess this is how you want to play this. But know this—I am patient to a point but persistent. Yours is a losing battle against me because I do know that you like me and are willing. I just need to pursue the length of that willingness.”

  Did he just say “length” of my willingness? Hmmmm!

  “Sir, I am not playing with you. I am a simple girl trying to make a living in this hostile town.”

  “Flirting are we Ms. Sharma?” “But keep this up and you know very well what is bound to happen sooner than later!” I can hear him smiling, the smug bastard.

  “You have a good day, Sir.” I counter in my most acerbic voice.

  “Oh! I will Ms. Sharma, I will. I will be spending it in my room with just thoughts of you invading my brain and everything I know I want to do to you when the opportunity arises!”

  I drop the phone! It dangles next to my knees for a good thirty seconds before I pull it back up and up to my ear. He has hung up. Damn! I really have lost control of all this now. To the logical me, this is irritating. To my girly self, however, this feels strangely dangerous and exciting at the same time. Now what my brother or family would think about our clandestine trysts, I didn’t even want to know.

  Speaking of my brother, his birthday is tomorrow so I need to be home. Okay, that’s a good plan, I think to myself. Just get home and be with family. This might help me take stock of the situation from a different yet more personal location. I need to cancel with Jaya again but I am sure she will understand what I need to do and why I need to do this urgently. I call Jaya. She is of course not happy but of course she understands. She is Jaya. She is a good friend. I don’t call my mother about coming home. I leave it as surprise for her though I know she knows that I will get my ass home for my brother’s birthday. Otherwise there was hell to pay in the form of my mother never letting go of that one time when I did not show up for an important family event. She would never let me live it down.

  So there I was at my brother’s birthday party that included only the four family members. But the cake my mother ordered, a layered one of chocolate and vanilla, was big enough for a party of fifteen! We might as well invite the neighbors and their families to the party so we can finish the cake. I can’t resist so I take a swipe of the icing with my index finger and put it in my mouth. I know its bad manners but I couldn’t resist and my mother knows it too and she couldn’t resist slapping my hand as her way of reprimanding me. I don’t care.

  I take another swipe at the cake with my index finger before quickly turning away to get some plates and forks for everyone. And I run smack into a familiar chest. What the fuck? What is he doing here? This is a family thing. Since when did he become family? Of course! My brother invited him. The two cannot live without each other. He is at my parents’ place almost every evening! So it cannot be the cake that brought him here. Even though I could go anywhere and do anything to get a piece of this cake.

  “Ms. Sharma, how nice to see you. I hardly ever see you anymore.” His hands are holding mine quite firmly and he has that smile on his face like he knows my most terrible secrets. (I just have one secret—him! But let’s not tell him that, the arrogant fool!).

  “Good, thank you!” I say without meaning a word and then exaggeratedly shake off his hands to sidestep him. I need to get those plates and forks out before everyone just decides to eat the cake using their fingers. I need to keep my hands busy and my brain fucking functioning to solve the world’s hunger problem if I had any chance of surviving the evening with him in my parents’ home. Damn! Why is he here? Well, the “why” is inconsequential since he is here and he is not leaving with his pound or rather piece of cake. All my good intentions of coming home to re-evaluate my situation at Vasant Kunj vis-à-vis the man in question are now safely buried. By appearing in my safe space, the epitome of warm and fuzzy and familiar, he was making me feel nervous and tight in all manner of speaking—from my grey matter to my vagina. I don’t need to feel this way at home. It just doesn’t feel right. It feels wrong, even sacrilegious.

  Really? My functioning brain mocks me. Okay, maybe I am a drama queen. I have of course masturbated in my room multiple times. So this talk of inappropriateness is a little hypocritical. So I tell myself to not go there. But pleasuring oneself leaves no tell tale sign. It is as if it doesn’t exist. But the presence of someone who wants to pleasure you under the threat of a family member finding this out comes with fear of penalties—of being reprimanded, even grounded. And I was afraid that he would push the boundaries in this forbidden/ forbidding zone to dangerous levels.


  So I keep clear of his proximity. I just need to eat my cake and then excuse myself. Maybe I could get some writing done too. I have grabbed the plates and forks by now. I avoid his eyes as I return to the cake. Everyone sings the boy his song and then my mother proceeds to slice up sizeable portions of the cake for all present, including him. I again avoid his eyes as I hand him his plate of diabetic concoction.

  I know his gaze has not wavered from me since he walked in. Damn him! I take my plate and mumble a quick “excuse me” before escaping upstairs to my room. I close the door, plonk on the bed, and heave a big sigh. I take a few more breaths all the while looking at my cake and how it would feel in my mouth once I can breathe normally.

  I pick up my fork and there is a knock on my door. Shit! I know it is him even though I don’t know for a fact. I know he has followed me upstairs. Maybe, I decide, if I keep really still he will leave me alone. I think for thirty seconds I even stopped breathing to make sure that any uninvited guest left exactly in that state. I think I could have waited for another thirty seconds before digging into my cake. The steel spoon against the ceramic plate was the giveaway sound. The knock returned. It was louder this time, tinged possibly with some degree of impatience. I have to open the door before the knocking alerts my family and one or more come investigating the source. I leave my piece of heaven on the bed and nervously smoothen out the crease on my bed linen. I am stalling. I walk slowly to the door, cracking it open hoping that it is my dog buddy wanting in. But it is him. He is holding his cake in one hand and his other hand is resting casually against the doorframe. Of course he is smiling—when doesn’t he? My instinct is to bang the door on his face, enough to wipe away his smugness. But he preempts me and lodges his Nike sneakered foot between the door and its frame. I squeeze out of sheer perversity, seeing him wince without letting go of either his smile or his foot in the door frame. I immediately feel like a bitch and release the door. He immediately takes advantage and cracks the door open wider to walk in first and then casually lay himself down on my bed! I don’t know whether to shut the door to my room or to let it remain open. I don't which would make me look and feel less guilty. But him lying on my bed like it is his undercuts the logic of deciding between a closed and an open bedroom door. It looks bad either way. Nevertheless, I shut the door. I couldn’t trust him to keep his hands to himself and I couldn’t trust my family to keep to themselves and let us be. I knew that someone would come snooping at some point. In a party of six, two missing party-attenders are not hard to miss. I wanted to know why he is here in my parents’ house for a private family-only birthday party, especially if my brother didn’t invite him.