‘Oh,’ she says airily, fingering a fine amber necklace, ‘I think he’s a very gifted teacher. Inspirational.’
‘But what about him?’
‘What about him?’
‘Do you like him?’
‘Of course. He’s a very pleasant man. Kind, thoughtful.’ Either she’s hiding her true feelings or she’s oblivious to his charms, which I can scarcely believe. But I’m clearly not going to get any more out of her, and certainly not without revealing my own feelings for him, so I change the subject.
We end up staying out for dinner, feeling that we should experience something of Goan cuisine beyond what’s on offer at Christopher’s guest house. At a hotel near the market known as Grandpa’s Inn, we find a wonderful restaurant with a veranda and a garden, bursting with old-fashioned charm. For a while I’m able to stop thinking about Christopher and just enjoy Mum’s company and the feeling of being in the real India.
When we’re back at the guest house, however, and once more within Christopher’s domain, thoughts of him take over my mind again. I’m so sure that he’s the one for me. Not necessarily for my whole life – I’m sussed enough to know that at eighteen few people meet a partner who will suit them all their lives, through all the changes and upheavals to come. But sure that he can teach me to relax and let go, to give of myself. Not just because I fancy the pants off him, but because of the yoga techniques in which he’s trained. If anyone can unlock me, it’s him.
I drift off with Christopher’s face in my mind, and wake suddenly, who knows how long later, desperate either to see him or to find out which of the students he chooses to spend his nights with – which of this week’s students, at any rate. This leads me to the realisation that it may not have been any of them I overheard last night: Christopher may have a girlfriend from outside, who came by after we’d all gone to bed. She may be a long-term thing.
I’ve no idea what time it is, but I get up, slip out of our room and tiptoe down the corridor beset by a sense of déjà vu. I’m amazed at my daring, at my obstinacy, but tell myself that these must be proof of my feelings for him, of their seriousness.
I arrive at his door, pause this time, and sure enough my heart sinks to hear a woman’s voice inside. This time I don’t run away, though; this time a kind of horribly jealous curiosity takes hold. I bring one ear to the door, hold my breath and listen closely for a few moments. Against a background of creaking furniture and liquid being poured into a vessel, I can make out certain sentences or fragments of sentences.
‘… find you incredibly attractive …’
‘… too old for you …’
‘… experience that younger women just can’t provide …’
‘… Chris … oh, that’s … oh, don’t stop now …’
My heads reels back, jerks away from the door in shock. I pray I’m mistaken, but even as I do I know that I’m not, that it’s my mother’s voice I heard in there. She’s gone and done it again, only this time she’s gone too far. This time she’s taken my man, the only one who could cure me, the one I know could have made me happy if only we’d been given the chance. But no, she’s barged in there, just as she went storming in with Charles, and then with Abhay, seducing men left, right and centre, acting like some sex-starved maniac. Which is what she is, really. A lonely old woman who hasn’t had any in years and now can’t see a man without throwing herself at him like some floozy.
Mum doesn’t come back all night; I know because I don’t sleep at all. Rage boils inside me. I toss and turn and throw off the sheets, throw open the window to the night air and the mosquitos, gnaw my nails to the quick and even think about going out to find a late bar where I can drink myself into a stupor. When it becomes clear she’ll be out all night, becomes clear that she is not only having sex with him but spending the night in his arms, I have a little weep and then I try to think more rationally. Mum wasn’t the woman in Christopher’s room the first time I went to call: she was asleep in our room when I left. Of course, the first woman might not have been sleeping with Chris, may have been in his room on some kind of legitimate business, but the whole thing seems more than a little dubious. Beneath that caring, mild-mannered exterior is it possible that there lurks a wolf, a cad who sleeps his way through his students on a weekly basis? Even now that he’s in bed with my mum and I’m nauseous with envy and disappointment, I don’t want to believe such a thing of him.
18
I DON’T KNOW what possessed me. Sure, I did find Chris attractive, right from the start, but I just assumed he was too young for me and that I wasn’t in with a chance. I’ve never had a younger man before Abhay, and he doesn’t count – stuck out in the desert like that, with a woman’s hand on his thigh in the dark, he had nothing to lose. Chris, on the other hand – Chris is continually surrounded by nubile young things contorting their lovely bodies in front of him. Why choose me over any one of them? I still don’t know. All I know is that when he touched me in yesterday morning’s yoga class, pushed my thigh back into alignment with my torso, it was as if some kind of electric shock ran through me. I let out a little gasp, and our eyes met and I realised that he might be interested in an older woman after all.
It was torture, being away from the guest house for the rest of the day, although I loved the market and enjoyed spending time with my daughter, of course. When she suggested staying out for dinner, I was a little miffed, but reasoned with myself that if anything was going to happen between Chris and me, it wouldn’t be at dinner in front of all the other students. The trick would be to get him alone, and I didn’t see how that might be possible given that the others were always around. And then I remembered what he’d said about borrowing books, and I realised I had the perfect excuse for calling round later that evening, after Nadia had gone to sleep.
As Nadia slowly dozed off in her bed, I lay quietly in my own, softly fingering myself under the sheets. I was so over Charles, so happy to have broken away from him when I did, but the memory of his beautiful cock and the way it felt as it parted my lips and pushed inside me was still there, ripe, almost tangible. Charles, though, was older, and although he’d kept himself fit and lean, his body couldn’t begin to compete with Chris’s. I had high expectations of what would happen if Chris did invite me into his room, if he did acknowledge the electricity that had passed between us.
Afraid I would make myself come if I carried on thinking rather than acting, I climbed out of bed and changed back out of my pyjamas and into a tight yoga top and leggings. I was so much more confident about my body since arriving in India – I had Charles to thank for that too. He had made me feel desirable for the first time in more than two decades, and feeling like an erotic being again seemed to bring on non-stop horniness. I hadn’t realised I was so frustrated, so repressed.
I opened the door quietly, crept along the hallway in the direction of Chris’s room. I had it all worked out in my head, had even looked up, at the guest house’s internet station, the title of the specific book I was going to ask to borrow. I suppose I was nervous, but there was nothing really to lose. If Chris didn’t want me, then I would be sorely disappointed, but at least I would have tried. It’s the not knowing that’s the hardest thing to bear, in my experience; the regrets at what could have been.
I stood outside his door, hoping that he wasn’t asleep. It was getting late. Then I heard a sort of shuffling noise, as if he were walking about inside, and before I could change my mind I lifted my hand and tapped at the door. It opened.
‘You’re here,’ said Chris. ‘I thought you’d come.’ He stood back to let me in.
‘You did?’
‘This morning,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t just me, was it? You felt it too?’
I smiled. ‘Like an electric shock,’ I said shyly.
‘That’s exactly it.’ He stepped forwards, took my hands. ‘I really find you incredibly attractive,’ he said.
I felt myself start to melt. His gaze was direct, probing, as if he were
seeing into every part of me. I felt naked even before I’d started to undress. This was a man, I thought, who could really know a woman. With Charles, it had all been on the surface, physical fireworks that had burnt themselves out quicker than I had thought possible. Chris was something else entirely, and I had the feeling that sex with him was going to take me to another level altogether.
‘I’m … I’m flattered, and surprised,’ I replied at last.
‘You are? Why?’
‘Well, because … I don’t know. I thought I’d be too old for you. You’re surrounded by beautiful young woman all the time and …’
He waved one hand dismissively. ‘Beauty can get boring,’ he said. ‘I look for something else, the sign of a life lived, of experience. An experience that younger women just can’t provide.’
He’d moved his hands up my arms now, to my shoulder and neck. For a few moments he massaged them, applying pressure at certain points.
‘Oh Chris,’ I muttered. ‘That’s so good.’
Then he turned me around, planted kisses around my hair-line while continuing to massage my shoulders from behind.
‘Chris … oh, that’s … oh, don’t stop now …’
I pulled up my yoga top and brought my hands to my breasts. The nipples were hard little nuts of arousal. Leaning back into Chris, who continued to kiss and palpate my shoulders expertly, I plucked at my nipples with my fingertips, feeling as if I were in danger of falling backwards in space and that the delicious pain I was inflicting on myself was the only thing tethering me to the Earth. Then, gently but assertively, Chris took me by the shoulders, turned me around and guided me over to a chaise-longue positioned beneath his window. He lay me down against it and stood over me for a moment, pensive, then he helped me out of my top and my leggings.
‘You have astonishing skin for your age,’ he said. ‘You’re radiant.’
I wanted to tell him that I was flushing with desire for him, that until I came to India I felt grey and old, as crumpled as a used paper bag. But instead I decided to keep my mouth shut and revel in his compliments, in the fact that a forty-something like me could arouse a fit younger man like him, one who could take his pick of younger, sexier women.
‘How do you want me?’ I said.
He smiled and said, ‘What’s the hurry?’ Turning back to his bureau, he chose from amid a number of little brown bottles with white labels attached, then knelt beside me and unscrewed the lid.
‘What’s that?’ I asked him.
‘Ayurvedic oil,’ he said, pouring some of the unctuous golden liquid into the cupped palm of one hand, then putting the bottle on the floor and rubbing his hands together until both were coated with it.
‘What’s in it?’
‘Oh, heaps of stuff. Sesame oil, asparagus, Indian nightshade, sandalwood, cardamom, musk root … the list goes on.’
‘What will it do to me?’
‘It’ll tone your skin and muscles, and it’ll also alleviate symptoms of vayu: nervousness, insomnia, depression and anxiety.’
‘I don’t have any of those.’
‘I’m not saying you do, Val. But everyone can benefit from a boost to their overall strength, skin health, intelligence and digestion. From overall rejuvenation.’
‘I guess so.’
I was lying on my back, legs slightly apart, and he remained fully clothed. He placed his oily hands on my belly, rested them there for a moment, eyes half closed, as if assessing something, feeling for something inside me. Then he began massaging my belly with long, slow, sweeping movements, using only his fingertips in the lightest, featheriest of touches. I felt the same electrical charge as when he touched me in the yoga studio. Part of me just wanted to open my legs wider and invite him into me, but what he was doing to me with his hands was so gorgeous, so new to me, that I knew it would be folly to speed things up. I had to find it in myself to delay the sex, no matter how earth shattering it promised to be.
After a while he rolled me over on the chaise-longue, asked me if I was comfortable, and began to locate my pressure points – marmas, he told me they were called – and to focus on those, occasionally also using techniques he described as thumbing and cupping. The latter involved him cupping one hand over the other so as to achieve strong pressure; he concentrated on my lower back while using this technique, saying it would improve my circulation. Thumbing, meanwhile, which focused on my shoulder blades, was good for my lungs and for releasing overall pressure.
It was interesting listening to him explain the philosophies and aims of Ayurveda as he moved his hands around my body; his voice was like an extra hand in some ways, caressing me, ironing out my kinks and areas of tension I hadn’t even known existed. After a while I even forgot about the sex and just submitted to the pressure of his fingers on my back, then my arms, my legs, my feet and finally my head.
Then he stopped. I remained still, belly down, face to one side with eyes closed, wondering what was going to happen next. Here I was naked before him, slick with fragrant oils, still wet for him. Surely that wasn’t it? Surely he didn’t expect me to just stand up, thank him, get dressed again and leave?
His hand made its presence felt between my legs: two fingers slipped inside me, and I realised he was checking if I was ready for him. I knelt up, impaling myself firmly on his fingers, and rested my arms on the end of the chaise-longue. He took his hand away, put his arms around my waist and lifted me into a standing position from behind, so that my bum was up in the air and my arms hung down, my hands touching the floor. His own waist was sandwiched by my lower thighs, by the muscles just above my knees.
‘The wheelbarrow position,’ said Chris, and I felt the tip of his cock hover around my pussy, teasing it. I wondered how he could hold himself back. I was half crazy with the need to have him within me. I pushed on my hands, trying to strain back and up onto him, but he had a will of iron, resisting my movement. I closed my eyes, swooning with desire. And then all at once he pushed himself inside me, reaching round and pressing my clitoris at the same time, and it was as if I was flooded with a kind of blinding holy light. I didn’t come, or at least not genitally, but it was as if my brain itself was orgasming, and I cried out.
Chris stood me up, one hand on the side of my head, the other arm looped under one of my arms, binding me to him, with that second hand clasped over my breast. I felt the smooth skin of his chest on my back.
‘The bodyguard,’ he whispered, close to my ear, his breath hot on my skin. For all his control, his composure, his breathing was coming in saccades now, as if it were an effort not to come. His cock was still deep inside me. The position didn’t allow for much thrusting but it was intense – similar to doggy-style but more intimate, since I was partially turned side on to him and our faces were close.
As if sensing that I liked the latter aspect, Chris now pulled out of me, to turn me around to face him. With one hand he eased up one of my legs, which I bent at the knee, and kept hold of it, re-inserting his cock. This allowed for greater movement in and out, and I discovered that by holding onto his shoulder with one hand, I could stimulate my clitoris with the other. I was finding it hard not to rise to orgasm when Chris pulled out again.
‘Let’s see just how flexible all this yoga has made you,’ he said, and he lifted my leg up further. To my surprise, it kept on going all the way up to his shoulder, where he rested it. He pushed back inside me, and the sensation was greater still. This time I didn’t need to masturbate my clitoris, as it was pressed up against Chris’s lower belly and stimulated by his thrusts as well as contact with his skin.
‘The dancer,’ he breathed. ‘I thought you could do it. Well done. I told you all that yoga would come in handy.’
As it became obvious that neither of us could hold off for too much longer, Chris lifted my leg and brought it back down to his waist. Placing one hand under each of my buttocks, he then lifted me up so that both of my legs folded around his waist. I wrapped my arms around his neck, and for a m
oment we kissed, deeply, exploring each other’s mouth with our tongues, voraciously. When we pulled apart for breath, with his hands still cupping my buttocks and his cock still deep within me, he began walking across the room. I squeezed as hard as I could with the walls of my pussy. Then, unable to go any further, he lowered me slowly to the floor, onto a flokati rug, and started banging away at me so hard, I saw stars. It was as if all of his self-control had evaporated in one second and some primeval need had overcome him, making him almost animalistic. His excitement excited me, and I yelped and thrashed my way to orgasm beneath him, clinging on as if by letting go I would sink and never resurface. He came a few seconds later, head pulled up and away from me, teeth gritted as if in pain.
Rolling off me onto his back, he lay panting on the floor.
‘That was incredible,’ I said, turning onto my side, placing my hand on his chest, sweeping it down to his belly and back. He groaned a little in agreement but didn’t open his eyes. I stood up, crossed the room to his bathroom and took a shower, douching myself vigorously. My clitoris still quivered a little with the aftershock, as if the sex had not numbed it but only made it even more sensitive. I teased at it with my fingers, pressed my fingers into my hole. I could do it again, I thought; already, I wanted him again.
Walking back into his bedroom-cum-study, I saw that he was still on the floor. His breathing was deep and regular, but I didn’t think that he was asleep – he had crossed his hands over his belly. Now, keeping his eyes closed, he sat up and assumed the lotus position. He was meditating.
I climbed into his bed and rested my head against the pillow. I didn’t want to leave yet, and I didn’t want to break into his meditation either. Unsure how long he intended to go on for, I thought I might as well get some sleep. Horny I may still have been, but I was tired too. All this rampant sex was starting to catch up with me. I closed my eyes and let myself drift away.
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