Chilli Heat

by Carrie Williams

  I glance over at Abhay to find him looking at me. He smiles shyly. There’s nothing commanding to his expression, and I realise that what first turned me on in Charles, the way he decided in a flash what he wanted and set out immediately to get it, brooking no dissension, is exactly what turned me against him in the end. He was calling all the shots and I was his puppet.

  I place my hand on Abhay’s thigh, lower down towards the knee. I don’t want to scare him away, want him to know he can trust me, that I won’t push any further if he doesn’t want me to. He places his hand over mine, lightly, looking down at it and not at my face, and I feel his fingers trembling. Then he seems to come to a decision.

  ‘Not here,’ he says, glancing up at me, head jerking back towards his sleeping brother, and he lets go of my hand while we climb out of the Jeep. Then he walks round the front of it, takes my hand again and leads me over the dunes without a word. For a while we stand kissing, his hands moving lightly over me, flitting over my nipples, erect beneath my flimsy pyjama top, and then I feel an immense need for him inside me and, taking off my top and slipping out of my pyjama bottoms, lower myself to the sand.

  ‘No,’ he utters. ‘Wait.’ I watch as he unties his dhoti and then unfolds it so that it forms a sheet. His thighs are muscled and lean from all the walking and camel-riding; over them rises his cock, bobbing a little, eager for me. I lie down on the dhoti, rub my pussy lips, in a hurry now to feel him within me. It’s only been a couple of days, but already I feel deprived, in need of satisfaction beyond the pleasure my own hand could bring me. Abhay slides into me easily. I raise my buttocks a little, bear downwards to meet his tentative thrusts and welcome him in. In response he slides his hands under my buttocks, lifts them a little higher, then a lot higher, looping them over his shoulders, so that now he’s kneeling and I’m up on my shoulders. The position, which I’ve never tried, allows him to get in really deeply, and also exposes my clitoris to his gaze. He admires it for a moment, then brings one thumb to it, starts brushing it with the pad.

  Suddenly he stops, looks to one side, as if he’s heard something. For a moment he squints into the darkness, one finger over his lips, then he shakes his head as if he was imagining things, or as if whatever it was – I don’t know what kind of animals might roam this desert at night and I’d rather not spook myself by letting my mind dwell on it too much – is of no import. I take advantage of the hiatus to gradually lower my hips to the ground again and turn over. Feeling more assertive than I ever have in my life, I guide Abhay down, so that he’s sitting up, and then I climb aboard him and slot myself down over him. He clutches my buttocks hard as I slide myself up and down his pole, his mouth and tongue on my nipples, kissing, sucking. Then I lean back, my eyes filled with starlight, and, bringing my hand to my clitoris, bring myself to orgasm with him inside me – an act that, in turn, causes him to climax too. As my own carries me away, I sink my teeth into my hand to avoid screaming out into the night and waking the others, or drawing the attention of animals to us. Abhay, when he comes, does so open-throated but silently, head thrown back against the dhoti as his whole body convulses against mine.

  Afterwards we say nothing. What is there to say? This will never happen again and there’s no point in making it out to be anything more than it is. But I already know, as I head back to my makeshift bed on the dune, that I’ll never forget my night in the desert and my taciturn but hot-blooded camel driver.

  17

  I WAKE UP and Mum is beside me again. For a moment I wonder if it was all no more than a dream or me imagining things in the dark strangeness of the desert night. But then I see the telltale sign on her neck, like a little red weal, and I know that it is true – that Mum seduced one of our drivers. Of course, it could be that it was one of them who seduced her, but I can’t imagine it. They both seem quite restrained, and there was certainly no flirting going on over chai or dinner.

  She looks beautiful as she lies there, her hair streaming back over the thin roll-up mattress that Rajesh laid out on the sand for us, and although I still feel a little squeamish about having seen even as much as I did, there are other emotions at play – I’m happy that she’s happy, or is at least having a good time after all those years of near-slavery. I’m envious and resentful too – not only because this was supposed to be my time of discovery, not hers, but at the fact that she seems able to act on her desires and I don’t. In fact, here I seem even less able to act on my desires than I did at home, and part of me is wondering whether that might not be down to Mum’s presence. If I were travelling alone, or with Katie, would I feel freer to follow through on my impulses? Am I held back by the thought that she might find out what I’ve done and disapprove?

  I don’t say anything when she wakes up, but as we pack up our little camp and load it into the Jeep while Rajesh feeds and waters the camels in readiness for the ride back to Jaisalmer, I catch a look exchanged between Mum and Abhay that tells me all I need to know about what happened last night. At least, it wasn’t Rajesh. I’ve that to be grateful for.

  Our combined journeys down to Goa, via Delhi, take a couple of days despite our catching an ‘express’ train, and so I agree to go first class. Mum may be sprightly for her age – in fact, a bit of a goer, as it turns out – but the second-class accommodation seems a little basic to me. In any case, I hardly feel that I’m selling out by giving Indian Railways a little more of our cash. It’s hardly Hilton that’s profiting from me.

  I wasn’t at all keen on coming to Goa because of its association with hippies and rave parties but also because it’s now full of package holidayers too, but as soon as Mum got involved with this trip she was keen to meet a colleague of her yoga teacher, Christopher Mulholland, who runs a beach-side retreat in the state. But now that I’m here, I’m really rather glad I agreed. I’ve never done yoga before, to my shame, but sitting with Christopher – Chris as he insists we call him – in the kitchen of his old Portuguese house-cum-studio in southern Calangute, my hopes are awakened that practising it will help me to achieve a degree of mental peace and clarity that will put an end to my inner turmoil and confusion. As well as resulting in better physical health through the alleviation of postural/structural problems, Chris explains as he pours from a pot of wild fennel tea, the Iyengar yoga that he teaches can help to release emotional tensions, which facilitates deeper self-knowledge and hence greater self-confidence.

  It helps, too, that Chris is drop-dead gorgeous. He must be in his early thirties, roughly midway between Mum’s and my ages, and simply oozes charisma in an indefinable way. I suppose that’s what charisma is, really: a mysterious extra something that you can’t quite put your finger on. He’s tall and quite willowy, without being overly skinny, and you can tell even from his everyday movements – the way he stretches up to a high shelf for the tin of tea, the way he bends to tie an errant shoelace – that he is incredibly limber. His hair, which he keeps tied back in a short ponytail, is prematurely greying, but that only seems to make him even more attractive, lend him an authority and dignity beyond his age. His face is serious and pensive, as befits his beliefs and morals, yet there’s a twinkle to his eyes, a kind of mischief flitting behind them, as if just waiting for the opportunity to show its face.

  I feel, too, that he’s a soulmate. He talks to us passionately about the huge environmental problems that exist here too, which, again, include water shortages through overdevelopment, combined with over-fishing and iron-ore mining. He doesn’t take offence when I ask him if he doesn’t feel implicated in all of this by attracting tourists to the region to take part in his workshops, but merely sighs, leans back in his chair, frowning slightly.

  ‘I’ll confess,’ he says, ‘that I have had my qualms, my sleepless nights, about the whole issue. But I came here as a hippy, a long long time ago, before much of what you see today existed. Yes, I took my fair share of psychedelic drugs, danced under the full moon, acted like your stereotypical arsehole under the guise of being a free s
pirit. But that got boring more quickly than you’d think. I wanted to stay. Who wouldn’t? But I realised that I needed to be part of the community and to give something to it. So I went up to Pune to train in Iyengar yoga, and then I came back and set up here. I haven’t showed you round yet,’ he goes on, ‘but I’m serious about the environment. All the water used here is recycled, the lights and showers are solar-powered and there are eco-loos. The guest rooms are furnished with a mixture of colonial antiques and items made locally from sustainable bamboo, the carpets are made of natural coir and there’s no air-con – you open your window if you want some air. Oh, and the food is all organic and veggie.’

  I listen to him talk, nodding approvingly, and feel like I might be falling in love. What I know for certain is that were Chris to make a pass at me, all hesitancy would fall away from me, that I would do whatever he asked of me and more, that I would give myself to him without holding anything back. The knowledge that I’ve met such a person at last thrills me enormously; I’m afraid, of course, but it’s a kind of delicious terror at what’s in store, an overwhelming sense of anticipation and pure bodily longing.

  Chris is looking at Mum. ‘Val, I know you said you’d stay only a day or two, but if you don’t have immediate plans to be elsewhere, there are a couple of places left on this week’s course. I had two ladies cancel at late notice. I won’t charge you, of course – it’s on me.’ He smiles, and I feel light-headed. ‘Although you will have to pitch in, as everybody does, with the cooking and other chores.’

  Mum looks at me. ‘What do you think?’ she asks, and I can tell by the excited look on her face that she really wants to do this. She’s been doing yoga for a couple of years back in Sheffield, and has told me how great it makes her feel, both physically and mentally. It strikes me now, looking at her so relaxed, that it might not be a coincidence that she started practising yoga not so long before things fell apart between her and Dad. Did the yoga bring her mental clarity, awakening her to the possibilities to which domestic routine had deadened her for 25 years?

  ‘I’m game,’ I say with a smile, ‘if you are.’

  Chris claps his hands and stands up. ‘Great,’ he says. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I have to check my internet bookings and deal with other mundane matters. But I’ll see you ladies later for dinner with the other guests.’

  We start early the next day, with meditation on the beach to greet the rising sun, followed by a yoga session in the cool studio with its cow-dung floor. Conversation at dinner last night was dominated by a couple of American women, who monopolised Christopher’s attention, and I’m eager to see him again, to be able to just admire his magnificent physique as he talks us through the moves in his slow, measured, calming voice. From time to time he does the rounds of the space, checking our alignments, whispering encouragement, sometimes nudging people into a slightly better position with a light touch of his hand. I find myself purposefully positioning my leg or arm a little askew in the hope that I will be the recipient of one of his touches, but I never am. It crosses my mind that the other students – all women – may be employing the same strategy in order to win his attention.

  Afterwards we breakfast in the courtyard, cross-legged on low-level cushions, blue kingfishers perching on the branches of the trees overhead. We feast on the freshest, sweetest payaya and watermelon, tiny bananas, home-made muesli with curd made from local buffalo milk and organic coffee and masala chai. I try to catch Christopher’s eye several times as I eat, to let him know, more than anything, my profound admiration for his values and the way he has chosen to live his life. But as in the yoga studio, he remains somewhat aloof, without losing any of his friendliness. I tell myself that he’s just being professional, that it would be out of order for him to show any favouritism towards his guests just because he has a personal connection to a couple of them, and a tenuous one at that.

  But this reserve only serves to enflame me further, and I’m glad when Mum tells me that she’s going for a stroll up the beach, giving me an opportunity to sneak back to our room for a wank. Rolling around on the bed, my hand between my legs, three fingers inside myself, I close my eyes and imagine it’s Christopher who’s pleasuring me, Christopher with his thoughtful green eyes, his guiding hands easing me into the correct position for orgasm. When I picture in my mind’s eye his lithe, supple body between my thighs, imagine the feel of his mouth on my breasts, I swoon back and start coming, beginning slowly but building up until I wonder if I’ll be able to stand it.

  Afterwards, showering, I whistle with a cheerfulness I haven’t felt in a long time. Christopher, I tell myself, is the man to unlock me from my inhibitions and sexual confusion. And tonight, after we’ve all eaten and retired to our rooms, when Mum has fallen asleep, I intend to creep to his room and persuade him of that fact.

  It’s 11 p.m. and the house is silent. I’ve been almost frantic with anticipation, but dinner – a South Indian buffet of channa masala with mint, vegetable bhaji, lemon rice and hot home-made breads – went on forever, and then Mum took hours to go to sleep. She, too, is a fan of Christopher’s teaching and has borrowed a book from him that she was insistent on reading in bed.

  Now, as I slip down the hallway towards Christopher’s room, the only sound is that of my heart thudding in my chest, and I have to ask myself what the hell I think I’m doing. What am I going to say to him when he opens the door? What pretext am I going to drum up to account for my disturbing him late at night? Should I come out with it – tell him I’m there because I want him, feel that I can’t live another moment without him? Or shall I pretend I need to talk to him about some aspect of yoga and then, once ensconced in his room, try to seduce him? You’d have thought I’d have worked all this out in my head while I was waiting for Mum to turn in, but the truth is that I was too terrified to think about it, that I dithered and faffed and avoided the issue of how exactly I was going to go about achieving my aim.

  I’d have been wasting my time anyway, as it turns out. As I arrive at his door and raise my hand to knock, still not knowing what I’m going to say, deciding to play it by ear, I hear the tinkle of female laughter from inside, accompanying that of Christopher. Scared that I’m going to be caught standing here, looking like a fool, I flee, running on tiptoe back down the corridor. Entering my own room like a thief, I undress in the darkness and climb into my single bed beside Mum’s. My disappointment is as bitter as the darkest chocolate.

  It’s infernal, the next day, waking up and knowing I can’t have him. Infernal seeing his beautiful body, his noble face, in the yoga studio – watching him demonstrate the positions, his cock bulging magnificently in his tight Lycra shorts – and knowing that someone else has a claim to him. And of course the irony is that this morning he does touch me, does come up behind me to tweak me, adjust me, correct my alignment, and I melt inside while willing him so hard to stop taunting me. When he walks away, it’s as if my body still bears the traces of his touch, like bruises, or like fluorescent handprints. I feel marked, and deeply unsatisfied. I have no appetite for breakfast; I want only to go back to my room and masturbate while I still feel the ghost of his hands on me. But I don’t, because I know it will make me feel worse – empty inside, and even more cheated of the thing I most want in the world.

  At breakfast, nibbling at a piece of fruit, I look around at the other women in my group, trying to catch a glance, a gesture, that might indicate to me who it was that I surprised in Christopher’s room. None of them are supermodels, but none of them are yoga novices like me, and they all have firm, fit, well-looked-after bodies. They treat themselves well, eat well, and it shows in their fine, glowing complexions. None are what you’d call unattractive, and I realise with a shock that what I thought to be my major asset – my youth – counts for nothing in such company. There’s no reason that Christopher would choose me over any of them. To him, I’m probably just a silly schoolgirl.

  I keep a lookout for a sign, but it doesn’t take long to
twig on to the fact that all of the students – and there are a good dozen – are flirting with him to a greater or lesser degree, and that includes my own mother. Some are better at it, more subtle, than others. The two Americans, who I had actually assumed to be lesbians, are puffing out their ample chests, being overly jokey and girly, pathetically desperate for Christopher’s attention. He’s not playing ball, sharing himself around everyone judiciously, generously, fairly, giving a little of his time to everyone, responding to questions but taking care not to get so embroiled in a conversation with any one person that he’s at risk of ignoring the others. But everyone, I’m certain of it, is responding to his charisma in some way, letting him know they’re up for it if he is. I’m left with the impression that it could have been any one of them in his room last night. Or more than one, it occurs to me, and I shoot a spiteful glare at the Americans. They look just the sort who would try to get him involved in a threesome.

  I try not to be cross that Mum’s flirting too. She’s not making a fool of herself as the Americans are, just twirling her hair absently around one finger and looking at Christopher a bit glassy-eyed, as if she’s been hypnotised. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe she’s not even flirting but just spaced out by our second morning of meditation and yoga. But I don’t think so; there’s definitely a funny look to her face, and why not? Why should she, out of all of us, remain immune to Christopher’s charms? On the other hand, having seen how she’s behaved recently, having witnessed the flowering of her appetites, I wonder if I shouldn’t warn her not to try her luck with him, since he’s already having an affair?

  The opportunity presents itself that afternoon, when we take a taxi up to the famous weekly fleamarket at Anjuna. There, while we’re browsing the stalls of T-shirts, sarongs, jewellery, carvings, chillums and spices and admiring the tribal women in all their finery, our talk turns to Christopher and his classes, and I ask Mum what she thinks of him.