Chilli Heat

by Carrie Williams

  And so I felt flattered by the way Charles was studying my pussy, relishing the way it was spread wide for him, the way it was responding to his movements. I also, for a time at least, felt a tiny bit self-conscious. The booze was probably wearing off a little by now, and I wasn’t used to being studied in this way, at such close quarters. I have never lavished a lot of attention on my body, since no one else has paid it much notice. I’ve heard of Brazilians, Hollywoods and the like, but I’d be hard-pressed to tell you what they are exactly, and I wondered if Charles was surprised at how unkempt I was ‘down there’. He seems like a man who knew his stuff when it came to bushes. Not that it bothered me, that he was undoubtedly a ladies’ man with a new conquest in every port of call. Like I say, I was surprised and flattered that he had chosen me, and that he was taking such obvious enjoyment in my body.

  We were in beautiful sync now. As he thrust into me, I pushed forwards to meet him and a delicious rhythm built up between us, punctuated by our moans. After a while, he took his hands from my pussy and gripped each of my bum cheeks with one hand, easing them apart, pulling me even more forcefully in towards him each time he thrust, then letting me swing back. As he did so, his fingers crept inwards towards my sphincter, and I felt a ripple of joy run through me as he started playing at my pink frill with his fingertips. Nobody had ever even been near there before and it was intoxicating. I couldn’t even feel embarrassment, the sensation was so incredible. One hand on Charles’s hip, I brought my fingers back to my pussy, jiggled my clit again, and suddenly the moment was near: it became clear that neither of us was going to be able to hold off for much longer.

  I leant back a little further, intensified the pressure of my fingers, and Charles started twitching, losing the rhythm we’d been maintaining as he began to lose control. As I started wailing, feeling myself on the verge of opening up, he pushed one finger into the rosebud of my anus, and I came like I had never come before, with a full-throated scream of joy.

  As the waves of pleasure receded with ever-diminishing contractions, I rode out his own climax, relishing the dig of his nails in the flesh of my buttocks, the grimace of ecstasy on his tanned, handsome face. And then I collapsed down on him on the chair, feeling as if I could sleep for a hundred years.

  The lift doors open and I step inside, astonished and exhilarated by the events of the night.

  7

  THE BAR’S TOILETS are hard to find, squirrelled away in little pods like something out of 2001: A Space Odyssey. Mumbai, with its futuristic bars, its coffee shops selling exotic blends, its hip young things, has so far confounded all my expectations. Of course I knew in advance, from what I’d read, that this is a city of seemingly impossible contradictions, but no travel guide could have prepared me for what I have found. Yet I also know that, so far at least, I’ve seen the place from a privileged perspective. Despite knowing that this is not an ‘authentic’ India but one heavily tinged by Western attitudes and values, I find it seductive, compelling, addictive even. I want this evening to go on and on. I want to find out more about the mysterious Asha and her life, and meet more of the people who populate this chic milieu.

  As I enter one of the pods, unzip my jeans and sit down to pee, I hear noises from the neighbouring cubicle. There’s nothing so odd in that, except that it sounds to me like there are two people in there, two women. Hushed voices speak in a language I don’t understand but assume to be Hindi. At first I think I’m overhearing a spot of recreational drug use, but the words are soon interspersed by little giggles and moans and gasps, and I quickly realise that it’s something far more interesting.

  Standing up but not flushing, I continue listening in for a moment, oddly excited. But then I start to feel self-conscious and hurry out to wash my hands and splash my reddened face with cold water.

  As I’m turning to leave, I hear the pod door open behind me and, although I try hard just to carry on walking and not look back, I can’t help but glance over my shoulder. I’m stunned to see Asha and another raving beauty stepping out, faces aglow.

  ‘Oh hi,’ breathes Asha when she catches sight of me. There’s no trace of embarrassment either in her face or her voice, although they must know I heard something.

  I manage a smile, pull open the door and walk back to the reassuring presence of Manju and Ajit at the bar.

  At the party at Juhu Beach, it quickly becomes clear that Asha and her friend are not so out of the ordinary. They’re spectacular, of course, but in this environment of young Bollywood stars and hangers-on, they blend in like peacocks in a whole flock of the shimmering creatures, and it’s ‘normal’ people like me who stand out. Yet, although I feel out of place, Manju and Ajit make sure to introduce me to everyone who comes within earshot, and a few others besides, and I drink my fair share of luscious, fruity cocktails and begin to relax and think that this is all rather fun.

  But my eyes keep going back to Asha and Karishma, who flit round the room from group to group, bedazzling all those with whom they come into contact. Even from several metres away, even over the din of the other conversations and over the music, I remain receptive to the brittle tinkle of their laughter. It must rapidly become obvious that I’m obsessed with them, because before too long they start repaying my glances, fluttering their eyelashes at me.

  I try to focus my attention on the crowd I’ve just been introduced to. One of them, Manju has already told me with an unmistakeable note of pride in his voice, is the rising star of Bollywood, Vashu Chopra – a sure-fire heart-throb and leading man for the twenty-first century. We talk as a group, Vashu holding sway, and it’s clear that he shares the others’ high opinion of himself, which is usually an instant turn-off for me. But with his tousled hair, his two-day beard and the cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, he’s also undeniably sexy. He has attitude, and attitude turns me on. He looks like the kind of guy who will lead his career in the direction he wants it to go, rather than be led by it – a kind of Indian Johnny Depp. Perhaps self-assurance is not a bad thing, after all; perhaps it’s just the natural consequence of knowing who you are. I wouldn’t know.

  It’s weird, but after I’ve spent a few moments in his presence, and despite my being in this room oozing with gorgeous, nubile young movie stars and models, Vashu seems to be focusing his attentions on me and, sure enough, before long he’s talking exclusively to me. The rest of the crowd drifts away gradually, into smaller satellite groups, and we’re more or less alone. I quickly get Vashu’s measure: after asking me the regulatory handful of questions about myself and my life in Britain, he uses my comments as a launch pad for a monologue about himself and his experiences during a recent promotional visit to London, where he was photographed by a bunch of prominent men’s magazines. Among other things, he did a big fashion shoot for GQ. Of course, it’s all very impressive and I can’t help but be in thrall to the glamour of his life, as well as flattered that it’s me he’s picked out to hear all this. As much as I find his self-absorption and his swagger off-putting, his bad-boy looks and demeanour keep me by his side, listening in spite of myself. I find myself wondering if tonight is the night, and if I am destined to lose my virginity to a rising Bollywood star.

  Yet as soon as the thought has crossed my mind, I’m thrown into even greater confusion when I glance across the room to find Asha staring at me, blatantly. She’s holding her glass up to her mouth, but over the top of it her eyes twinkle with some kind of mischievous intent. Perhaps she’s just teasing me, reminding me that she knows that I overheard at least some of what was going on between her and Karishma in the loos, and letting me know that she doesn’t care that I heard, that she may even be happy that I did. Or maybe – and perhaps this is no more than wishful thinking on my part – there’s something more to the frankness of her gaze. I remember Carla and her invitation. The problem is, I never know if I’m being invited to participate or just given permission to be an onlooker.

  Sensing my distraction, Vashu has turned awa
y, become embroiled in a conversation with an older, rather distinguished-looking man. I wonder if he’s a director – he has an authoritative air to him. I take the opportunity to turn away from them, to slip unnoticed through the crowd and out into the night. Some fresh air may help me sort out my thoughts.

  Sitting on the beach, I look out at the waves and wonder why it is that I have such trouble working out what it is I want. If only I knew, then I could reach out and get it, take life by the throat. Is it because I’m caught between two cultures, neither wholly one nor the other, not fully at home in either world? Or is it because I’m bisexual, because I don’t know whether to go for boys or girls? Or is it for both of these reasons?

  I lie back on the sand, staring up at the constellations, trying to play a game with myself. Who, in an ideal world, would be my sexual partner of choice? Would it be a hot blonde girl like Carla, or a dark beauty like Asha? Or would it be a boy, and if so would it be a white, lank-haired rocker, someone like Taylor Hawkins out of the Foo Fighters, or a Hindi heart-throb, one with a little bite – a Hrithik Roshan or a John Abraham, or even a less self-centred version of Vashu Chopra? Of course, I’m aware that I don’t actually have to choose, that I could enjoy all of these. But at times I feel frozen, unable to act or to make the simplest of decisions, and I feel that my sexual disorientation is at the heart of this and needs to be tackled. It’s not as if I want to settle down and get married and have kids, although I haven’t ruled that out for the future. I’d just like to stop feeling so dispersed, to cease this habit of starting off down one avenue and then halting, becoming paralysed by the thought that I ought to have taken another.

  After a while, my ruminations are interrupted by the sound of voices and, sitting up, I look over my shoulder and see Asha walking in my direction. She doesn’t seem to have seen me, and she’s not alone. She’s not with Karishma this time either, but with another girl I can’t see too well in the pale moonlight. Asha’s leading the way, holding the other girl’s hand as she leads her out towards the water.

  I watch, entranced, scarcely daring to breathe in case their awareness of my presence breaks the spell. Asha leads her friend to the shoreline, and for a few minutes they stand looking out over the Arabian Sea, hand in hand, talking in low voices. Then Asha turns to the other girl, brushes her hair back from her face with both hands, and moves in for a kiss. The other girl responds voraciously, and my stomach somersaults as I watch them eat at each other’s face like starving things. It’s hard to believe that Asha has already had a girl-ration not an hour ago. With their hands they are pulling at each other’s clothes, and I moan as I see items fall to the sand around them. Though the moon is on the wane, I can see the sheen of their nutmeg-brown flesh as it is revealed piece by piece.

  The girl, whose hair is cropped relatively short around the skull but has a long fringe, is naked first; Asha’s still got her skinny jeans on, though she’s shucked off her wedge-heeled sandals. Her breasts are pert and lovely, seeming to rise up to meet the girl’s. With one hand she’s reaching between the other girl’s legs, palpating her mound. And then she moves backwards, dragging the girl further up the beach towards where I’m sitting. Letting herself fall back onto the sand, she pulls the girl down on top of herself, then slithers out of her jeans. The girl falls upon Asha hungrily, sucking noisily at her tits as she delves between her legs.

  I’m clutching my own snatch, pressing my fingers against my clit as I watch them thrash about on the sand, emitting low guttural sounds of pleasure, like the growls of playful bear cubs, issuing instructions to each other that I don’t understand. Then Asha flips the girl over onto her back and takes her turn on top, and I watch as they grind their mounds together, grasping at each other’s tits. I’d do anything to see the look on Asha’s face as she comes, but her hair hangs down forwards over her face.

  Suddenly they’re climaxing together, and I’m rubbing furiously at my own clit, all the while trying to ward off an orgasm in order not to give my presence away. Asha is bucking on top of her friend and, as she achieves ecstasy, she rears up. As I’d hoped, she flicks her hair back and I see the contortions of her incredible face.

  She falls away from the other girl, lies panting on her back. The girl is either embarrassed or in a hurry for some reason, perhaps anxious not to be caught out by a boyfriend waiting indoors, because she gets up quickly and hurries down to the shoreline to retrieve her clothes.

  Asha is clearly in no rush. She stays where she is, and after a while I’m convinced she’s asleep and dare to stand up and walk down to where she lies. In the milky moonlight I look down at her firm faultless body, and I tingle when I see, below the little tuft of her Brazilian, what looks to be a real diamond sparkling amidst her still-swollen labia – she’s pierced. In spite of what I know to be right, I fall to my knees beside her, reach my hand towards her snatch. I haven’t brought myself to orgasm yet, but I feel that I wouldn’t need to if I touched her, that my cunt would catch fire. But she stirs, lets out a little sigh, her eyes still closed, and I bottle out, take my hand away and stand up.

  I’m just turning away when I feel her hand on my ankle. ‘Stay,’ she murmurs, her voice even huskier than before. But I’m too afraid. The moment has passed, as the moment always passes, and I’ve lost my nerve.

  I head inside, ask Manju to call me a cab. He gives me his telephone number, tells me to call whenever I’m next in town. I thank him for everything and promise that I will.

  As I’m about to walk out of the door, Vashu catches me up, expresses surprise that I’m leaving. ‘The night is still so young,’ he says, and for a moment I’m tempted, really tempted. Not only am I furious with myself for turning down Asha, I’m also afraid that I’ll be kicking myself later on, when I realise what I could have had with Vashu. Something about him, perhaps his self-confidence, tells me he’s unbelievable in bed.

  Then I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, and he shrugs and turns back into the room, probably on the scent of a fresh conquest. I’m not under any illusions that I would have been anything more than that to him. And probably to Asha too – she’s clearly a woman of immense appetites, and I’d have been merely one more notch on her metaphorical bedpost. But that doesn’t stop me, as I ride back into central Mumbai, from clutching at my snatch and wondering what might have been.

  8

  NADIA’S NOT IN our room, but when I venture down to reception and ask a few discreet questions, I find out that she’s not reported me missing after all. The girl at the desk tells me she went out late morning, caught a rickshaw outside after requesting one of the free maps that they hand out here. She’s obviously decided to do a spot of sightseeing, and who can blame her, though it is strange that she wasn’t more concerned about where I might be.

  I shrug, head upstairs, deciding to wait in the room rather than venture out myself. Truth be told, I’m more than a little sore – I haven’t seen this kind of action in a very long time, not since before Ravi, and I don’t feel I could do much walking around.

  Upstairs, I settle on my bed to read one of the glossy magazines left on our coffee table. At once I find myself studying the male models with the eye of a would-be connoisseur, running my finger over bodies on paper, assessing how they might be in bed, what they might do to me, what it would be like to be with a man like that. Not that Charles is in any way wanting – he may be in his latter fifties, but his body is firm and honed, well looked after. And he has the benefit of decades of experience. Which is probably why everything he did to me hit the spot so exactly.

  I thrust one hand down my knickers, thinking of Charles and what he did to me, but still flicking through the pages with the other, looking at the array of male flesh, imagining it against my own skin. I rub gently, aware I’ve already overdone it, yet addicted, it seems, to the pleasures to which Charles has reawakened me, to the potential that has lain dormant for so long, unable to be sated for more than an hour or two. The tide rises inside me, inexorable,
and I lie back and cast aside the magazine, legs spread.

  The telephone rings. Still rubbing at my lips with my fingers, I reach out my free hand and answer.

  ‘Val, it’s Charles,’ comes the now familiar drawl. It’s as if he’s tuning into my thoughts, to my need.

  ‘Hi, Charles.’ I keep up the pressure.

  There’s a short silence on the other end of the line, then, ‘Are you OK? What are you doing?’

  I don’t know what it is about this man but he brings out a wantonness in me I hadn’t even known existed. ‘I’m playing with myself,’ I say, without hesitation.

  For once I sense him caught off guard, stuck for words. Then he says, ‘And what are you thinking about?’

  ‘You,’ I breathe. ‘You fucking me, harder and harder, with your beautiful big dick.’

  I close my eyes. In my mind I see him parting my buttocks again, his fingers sinking into my flesh. I moan. ‘Oh fuck,’ I say, ‘I’m going to come. Oh, Charles, I’m … oh, oh.’

  A moan at the end of the line echoes my own, and I know he has brought himself to a climax too. The very thought of him sitting at his marble desk with his cock in his hand, jerking himself off as he listens to me, makes me come again, almost before the first climax has died away. I fall back onto the bed, receiver still pressed against my ear, listening to him pant, waiting for him to say something, anything, to break the spell, to bring us back to something approaching normality.