Chaos that somehow seems to work, that’s how I’d describe India. You go into a shop, perhaps to buy some silk and you are assailed by eager sales staff who deliver their patter without giving you a chance to draw breath. They offer coffee or tea, show you endless items in which you’ve already told them you have no interest but they are relentless. On the streets you have to avoid potholes, beggars, cows, appallingly parked cars, burning piles of rubbish, other pedestrians who are so busy chattering or looking in shop windows that they walk into you. The roads are packed too; car horns blaring, brightly coloured buses and trucks, tuktuks, motorcycles with entire families aboard. Smells of all sorts assail your nostrils; food, flowers, God alone knows what. Everywhere there is industry, hard work, endless toil.
My friend Mags and I had been there for a week and finally taken a train from Bangalore to Mysore. Mysore was different. Here the streets were wider, cleaner, the people more relaxed, less stressed. We got a cab from the station and were taken to our hotel. It was a colonial relic, thick walled, heavy hardwood and tiles. It was cool and the staff were welcoming but not fawning. Our bags were taken to our rooms and we agreed we’d shower, change and meet in the bar around six for a pre-prandial gin and tonic.
Mags is single, like me, childless like me, we’ll say mature, like me and straight, unlike me. She is also my best friend. In my bad times, my worst times, Mags was there to hold me while I wept, sit with me as I drank far too much and cursed life and love and everything. She was the one who, one day when things were bad had said to me, “If you don’t change, you’ll kill yourself.” She’d poured away the booze I had in my cupboards, slapped my face when I called her a fucking bitch for doing so. She stopped me going out to buy more by standing in the doorway and taking all the abuse I hurled at her.
It was all about love of course. My lover, the one I had hoped would be my life’s companion had left me. It hadn’t been a good leaving, in fact it couldn’t have been much worse.
The scene was the living room of the small house we shared, the living room where a few moments earlier I’d finished giving her an orgasm with my tongue. Wanda, the lover in question, was studying something for work and I had decided to go and have a shower. Naked but for a robe, the one she’d bought me for my birthday and that was transparent, almost, red silk and made me look like a whore but then, for her, sometimes I was, I had returned downstairs and heard one side of a phone call.
“She’s having a shower, darling.” That meant nothing, she called everyone darling. “No, I haven’t told her but I will.” Pause. “I know, I know but I know Nancy’ll go ape and I want to find the right moment.” Another pause. My name, by the way, is Nancy. “Of course I love you, silly.” A moment. “God, yes, that was great. I don’t think I have ever cum so hard. Your fingers work magic.” Pause. “No, darling, not even with her. Look, I’ll sort her out and I’ll come and stay with you tomorrow night and we can decide then.” Pause. “I know I’ve been saying that for months but I will, I promise.”
OK, I know it’s rude to eavesdrop. But would you have done anything different? The words, “Of course I love you, silly,” hit me like a hammer blow. I went into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of wine, then put that to one side and poured myself a fucking great brandy instead. I sat at the kitchen table and thought, tears running down my cheeks.
Wanda’s voice from the doorway, “Brandy? At four in the afternoon?”
I had my back to her. “I don’t think I’ve ever cum so hard,” I said.
“When was that, love?”
“No, darling, not even with her.” My memory is pretty good. “I know I’ve been saying that for months but I will, I promise.”
There were a few cliché moments after that. Cliché numbr one: retaining my dignity as one would expect I turned and hurled the glass of brandy at her. Class, no? Then cliché number two when she said I had misunderstood. Like fuck I had. Cliché number three when I mimicked her saying, “Your fingers work magic,” and chucking something else at her. She leant against the door jamb, arms folded and finally, quietly said she’d been trying to tell me.
If I had lost it before, I totally lost it then. “You sat in my sofa with your legs apart and came all over my face, screaming the fucking house down then, two minutes later, told whoever she is you’d never cum so hard.” Mimicked her again, “No darling, not even with her.” “Fuck off.” She did. I descended into my own version of hell which was mostly located in a bottle and stayed there until Mags, my saintly, patient and loving friend hauled me back despite all the invective and insult I threw at her.
So, here we were in Mysore. Separate rooms but together, not a couple but a pair.
I had a shower and relished the warm water cascading through my hair and over my body, cleansing the sweat of the day. I walked into the bedroom from the shower, a towel around my waist and stood by the open window looking out over the lush gardens with the pool, blue in the evening sun, trees like something out of the Jungle Book, grass freshly watered and exotic flowers in well-ordered borders. I watched a woman dive gracefully into the pool, barely a splash as she entered the water. She surfaced and languidly and efficiently swam several lengths before easing herself, seemingly effortlessly, out of the water to sit on the pool’s edge. She was wearing a black one-piece which contrasted with her short blonde hair and well tanned and toned body. Her breasts were high and firm.
I turned and dressed, dried by the early evening warmth and donned a long, pale blue skirt and a white silk camisole; sandals that were fresh and clean, not those I’d worn during the day. I looked out of my window again but she’d disappeared.
Mags was waiting for me in the garden bar. She’d freshened up too and looked, as always, fresh and healthy, her auburn hair pulled back into a lustrous, loose ponytail. She was wearing a long skirt too; far better, I’d advised her, to wear long and keep the mosquitoes away. We talked about our plans for the following day: the zoo, the Sultan’s palace and a lot of people watching from the little cafes and bars along the wide boulevards. Drinking gin and tonic (my problem with drink had resolved itself into a cautious friendship) we chattered away until I saw over Mags’s shoulder the swimmer. Now wearing a pair of loose dark blue trousers with a long white shirt that was almost a dress, a long necklace of large red beads dangled between those tits. Closer to her now I could see she had sparkling blue eyes. Fucking gorgeous and about forty.
“I strongly suspect a good-looking woman has arrived.”
Shaking myself mentally, I smiled and apologised. “You’re right, sorry.”
To my horror Mags turned and looked and smiled at the blonde. Without turning back she said, “I can see why you’d lose concentration!”
“Mags!”
She turned back and summoned a waiter to order two more drinks. She shuffled her seat so she could see me and the swimmer who had now removed a book from a canvas bag she’d been carrying and started to read. “Hmm,” mused Mags. “Looks like she’s on her own don’t you think?”
“Or her husbands having a shower and will be along shortly.”
“Five hundred rupees say your wrong.” That was Mags. She loved a bet. So I accepted the bet.
We ate at our table as the evening light turned to dusk and then to night and little twinkling lights lit the walls and hedges that surrounded the garden bar. ‘Jessica’ as Mags had named the swimmer (she always does that) had remained alone and read all through her meal. She drank only water. She had a way of pushing her hair back behind one ear and she read quickly, totally focused. I wasn’t watching of course.
As ‘Jessica’ walked past us, having left her book on her table, Mags said to her, “You forgot your book.”
She smiled. “Just nipping to the loo but thanks.”
“Are you here alone?”
“Yes – a couple of weeks to myself.”
“Join us for coffee when you come back?”
“I’d love to.”
I watched her bum as wandered off. “What did you do that for?”
“Just being friendly.”
Mags was a friendly soul it’s true but she’d never invited anyone to join us before. I couldn’t question her further because ‘Jessica’ came back and introduced herself as Isabelle.
“Nice to meet you,” said Mags. “Nancy here dubbed you ‘Jessica’ – she always does that.”
“You do?” Isabelle looked at me questioningly and I took my eyes from her to give Mags a look that, I hoped, would freeze her blood. She did that sweet smile of hers.
“Sometimes. It’s a sort of game we play. Any way, tell us about your trip.”
Isabelle was a Police Officer and, like us, from the UK. She’d decided to take a year out and travel. This was her last few days in India before having to go home near London and back to work. She told us about the places she’d seen, adventures she’d had. She was looking forward to getting back ‘in harness’ as she put it and, when she said that she seemed to look rather deeply into my eyes. ‘Harness,’ I thought to myself. Is she sending smoke signals?
Mags suddenly grabbed her bag and, pleading a mild headache and sleepiness, made her excuses. I said I’d go up with her but she said no, that I should stay and enjoy the late evening with Isabelle.
Left to ourselves, Isabelle ordered a brandy for herself and a scotch for me and we carried on chatting away.
“Are you and Mags an item, Nancy?”
“Not in the traditional sense.” She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, no, I mean she’s my absolute best mate but Mags isn’t like me.”
“Like you how?” Before I could answer she said, “Because you’re like me?” Her hand touched mine. “I can always tell.” Buggered if I can, I thought to myself but I left my hand there under hers.
“So how come you’re travelling alone?”
“It’s true I decided to take a year out but it wasn’t work that I wanted to get away from. My ex-girlfriend dumped me for a man, a Detective Inspector in fact. At least she had the grace to tell me before she got involved with him.” More than Wanda had, I thought but I didn’t say anything. This was her moment for telling her tale. “So I did the decent thing and said goodbye and good luck and then applied for a year out as soon as I could. So, here I am.”
Her hand had never left mine. There was one of those moments that don’t happen in real life as often as they do in stories. We just sat looking at each other and then she stood, still holding my hand and I stood too and we walked together through the garden to the heavy mahogany staircase which we climbed side by side, no words, until we reached her floor and I expected her to kiss me goodnight but instead she held my hand tighter and led me to her room. Inside, she kissed me.
“I’ve been wanting to do that all night. I knew you were watching me.” I didn’t deny it. She kissed me again and this time it last, lingered and her hand came to my breast, my nipples hard against the silk. She lifted her long necklace so it went over and behind my head which felt curiously like some form of bondage, the best form, the sexiest form and our kiss resumed, her hand pulling my camisole from my skirt and sliding beneath it first to cup my tit then to roll my aching nipple between her fingers. All I could do was stroke her arse through the cotton of her trousers and relish the moment.
Disappointingly, she stopped kissing me. “Will you stay or do you want to go to your room?”
“I’d like to stay.” My hands went to the buttons on her shirt and opened them. I revealed a soft, white bra that held her tits, larger than mine, loosely and made her nipples somehow more attractive, sexier. I couldn’t resist leaning down to kiss them as she stroked my hair. Then she deftly pulled my camisole over my head and held me to her. We kissed again, hands roaming and I unclipped that bra and there they were, pale in the sparse light and topped with darker nipples. My sandals kicked off, I felt her unzip the waistband of my skirt and it fell at my feet, leaving me naked but for the cool silk knickers, like little shorts with wide legs that I’d bought in a shop in Bangalore. She cupped them, her fingers moving just a little as if enjoying the fabric’s feel. That may have been projection because I sure as hell was.
“You’re damp.” No surprise there. She undid her trousers and they slid down her legs. “Christ but I’ve been wanting this.”
“With anyone?”
“With the right anyone. Get on the bed.” I did and she did too, lying beside me, facing me, both of us lying on one side as our mouth met and she guided my hand to her cunt, lifting her knee to make herself available. We kissed and I stroked her for a while, then I guided my finger into her and felt her little gasp of pleasure as I did so.
“Will Mags mind?”
“No. Shut up.”
She grinned and suddenly slipped down the bed forcing my finger to relinquish her and her intent became clear as she pulled my knees apart and up and she descended onto me, her mouth covering me then her tongue playing a rhapsody over my lips, my clit and my cunt. Travelling with Mags I had not really thought about sex much apart from the odd finger dip at night but now, oh God, now I was thinking about it. I stroked her hair as she worked me to a frenzy then shifted again to straddle my face and lean back down so that her gorgeous cunt was over me and I was beneath her. We stayed like that, licking, cherishing, exploring until she, needing something else, moved so we were both half sitting, legs entwined, cunts kissing then grinding as her hands and mine played with the others tits and mouths and pretty much anything we could reach.
My orgasm, at least the first, was quick, noisy and utterly breathtaking. It didn’t stop me continuing to grind against her though and I was rewarded first with her climax and almost immediately my second, a little but delicious repeat of the first.
We lay together, feeling the warm night air softly brushing our skin, occasionally kissing and talking until passion returned and we were hungry enough to resume.
Mags slept better than I that night.
