Heaven knows what made me do it. I had been out with a friend, drinking more than I should have, and I was missing my husband terribly. Perhaps the knowledge that he was away from home had made me horny, craving the one thing I knew I couldn’t have. But none of these things fully explain my actions that night.

It happened during the summer of 2011 and the conference season. At that time of year, academics like my husband and me take advantage of our minimal teaching load to flit from campus to campus under the pretext of exchanging knowledge. That summer, Chris presented at symposia almost weekly to share his Ph.D. research, so with Bristol and Birmingham done, he had travelled to Newcastle that particular week, leaving me at home. Maybe the distance made me miss him more, but even if it did, sending him a dirty photograph was wildly out of character, and I still don’t know what compelled me to do it.

And it was a very dirty photograph. For some reason, I decided against a tasteful nude, something titillating but fundamentally innocent within a happy marriage. Instead, it was one of me propped up on cushions, legs spread, with one hand cupping my breast and the other between my legs. My tongue was even licking my lips in a display of over-the-top lasciviousness. 

With my new smartphone propped up on books and being unused to taking ‘selfies’, as they later became known, it took several attempts to get the photograph right. However, at no point did I think better of the idea. When I had the picture, I sent it almost immediately. Attached was the message, “Missing you. XXX”

I know; it’s no big deal. Most couples have sent each other racy photographs at least once. But we aren’t like most couples, or at least we weren’t back then.

In the first few months of our relationship, even the idea of sex overwhelmed me, and having reached my late twenties still a virgin, I came to my first sexual experience with considerable baggage. Apart from what I had learned at my all-girls school, in science lessons and the schoolyard, my sex education was virtually zero. Sex wasn’t discussed in my home, and if a steamy scene came on television, my mother would immediately switch channels, telling me the programme was ‘unsuitable’ for me to watch. So with nobody to talk to about my sexual feelings and needs, or the ways I discovered to explore and express them, I found myself stuck between curiosity, guilt, and anxiety. And these feelings didn’t go away; instead, they became even more profound the longer they went unchecked.

At eighteen years of age, wishing to see the world, I travelled extensively as a professional dancer with a company based in London. We performed classical Indian dance in Canada, South Africa, Australia, the US, and India; countries where the company had established a good reputation on previous tours. But, on our journeys, the performers were always ruthlessly chaperoned by flint-faced ‘aunties’, who were less concerned with the emotional and sexual development of their charges than they were with replacing a dancer who found herself pregnant. So contact with men was restricted to male dancers within the group, and even then, only in professional contexts.

With no positive male interaction, men became objects of fascination and novelty to me. However, any means of expressing desire or lust were quashed by the unhealthy and repressive environment in which I lived and worked. To all intents and purposes, I was sexless until I walked on stage each night. Only then did the medium of dance allow me to explore my sexuality in its raw, emergent form.

For those few minutes daily, I retook possession of my nascent womanhood, expressing my suppressed sexual desire through Odissi’s complex, structured choreography. Some dances were overtly erotic, others less so, but my performances always celebrated the female mind, body, and spirit in all their intricate beauty. It temporarily made me whole, and the audiences loved it.

For years, that was enough, and besides, by being abroad for long spells, I escaped the pressure to marry that my sisters endured. Of course, my mum would occasionally talk about finding me a husband when I came home, but out of sight was out of mind, which suited me. I didn’t miss what I didn’t know; men barely crossed my mind, and getting married hadn’t even reached the bottom of my priority list, much less the top.

My mindset only changed when my friends started to marry and have children. I began to envy their settled lives and the joy they seemed to find with a husband and family. Of course, my dancing career wouldn’t last forever, and I understood that my single status would become untenable once the touring stopped. But I felt woefully ill-equipped to deal with any attention from the opposite sex, much less build and sustain a happy, meaningful relationship. Nonetheless, with every wedding I attended, or newborn child I held in my arms, my wish to have a normal, comfortable, married lifestyle became increasingly profound.

Eventually, a vast gulf developed between my real life and my life as I wished it to be. I needed a change, so I quit touring aged twenty-three, much to the chagrin of the dance company. And, with my mother’s health declining, I moved back home to look after her, combining my caring duties with studying Dance and Drama at a university in London. 

After starting my degree, my outlook on life slowly altered. Forming new friendships with people of both sexes and many cultures was eye-opening, exciting, and sometimes frightening. At first, I wasn’t sure I could cope as the barriers between me and men suddenly came down. Studying and socialising with guys for the first time, I felt like I had been thrust headlong into a maelstrom of bawdy humour and raging hormones, with rules of engagement I didn’t understand. I tried to learn how to behave around men from my girlfriends, and soon I began to socialise near-normally. However, when guys occasionally asked me out on dates, I used my mother’s illness as an excuse not to go, anxious about where the evening might lead.

So although my mind was slowly beginning to open, my legs remained firmly closed. I tried to stay safe within the orbit of my female friends, and any thoughts I might have had of exploring my sexuality ended the same way they always had; my curiosity led to guilt, and my guilt to anxiety.

After university, I taught Drama and Dance at a High School, but that didn’t give me the satisfaction I gained from professional dancing. It wasn’t applause or acclaim I needed; instead, it was the preparation and anxiety beforehand, all channelled into a few minutes of intense concentration and effort. I needed the adrenaline rush of being in the public gaze, knowing that the line between success and failure was paper thin. And I needed to express myself sexually in a way I understood and was comfortable with, subtly, discreetly, and in front of an audience.

Then, within a year, two things changed, altering my life beyond all recognition. The first was my mother’s death, and the second was meeting my husband.

When Mum died, I found being alone in the empty house difficult, so I began a part-time Master’s degree in Creative Arts in Education. I attended lectures two evenings a week, studying with other people who worked in schools, universities, and the creative arts sector.

My future husband, Chris, wasn’t one of the lead lecturers on the module, but he was a Senior Lecturer within the faculty and oversaw the programme. Occasionally, he would guest-present lectures or cover if a lecturer was absent, but he didn’t deal with our group on a day-to-day basis.

Chris was tall, athletic, and spoke with a Northern Irish accent. I guessed he must be in his mid-thirties, as he was completely bald, having shaved off what remained of his hair, but a neatly trimmed beard revealed that his hair would once have been copper in colour. His ears were misshapen from playing rugby, but nevertheless, I thought Chris was unconventionally handsome. His eyes were kind, and they wrinkled when he smiled.

One evening in June, shortly before the summer recess, our lecturers introduced a module assessment to be completed over the summer. We had to present how then-emerging technologies, such as digital cameras and the Internet, could support us in our professional roles. I decided to demonstrate how video analysis could enhance student self-assessment in dance. I planned to do a short dance routine for my peers before critiquing it using slowed-down video footage. There would also be an interactive element whereby the other students could try simple Indian dance moves before reviewing their work on video, as I had done.

When the presentation evening arrived in October, Chris joined the other lecturers to moderate the assessments. The other students were amused when they arrived to see me in full costume, make-up, and jewellery, from the tahia on my head to the bells around my ankles. But apart from being colourful, my presentation was also fun, informative, and solidly underpinned by theory. So when the assessment results arrived, I was delighted that the lecturers had awarded me a Distinction.

A week or two later, I was surprised to receive an email from Chris. He asked if we could chat after the next evening session, as he said he had a proposal he thought might interest me.

Chris sidled into the room towards the end of the lecture. After we had been dismissed, he said hello, and suggested we go to the Student Union bar to discuss his idea. Immediately, I felt tense, imagining what my mother would have said if she knew I was going into a bar alone with a man I barely knew. But the security staff were locking up the faculty building, and I had little choice but to go and hear what Chris had to say.

Having bought us both a drink, Chris introduced his proposal. 

“Nisha, would you mind giving me a brief précis of your career to date? I’m very interested in your background, particularly your teaching experience.”

I explained that I had always taken classes for younger dance students, had spent five years as a professional dancer, and had progressed to school teaching after university. I saw Chris’s face light up when he learned I was a qualified teacher.

“You may not be aware, Nisha,” he began, “...but the university increasingly attracts students from ethnic minorities - people like you. We are working hard to diversify the content of our programmes to reflect this, but finding talented staff with the skills to teach performance-based undergraduate modules is difficult. Would you be interested in finding out more if I said we might have an opportunity for you? I’ll get more details on what we can offer, but I think it might initially involve teaching across different programmes. Then, once your Masters is conferred, you can teach at postgraduate level too, if you like.”

I was astonished! I was still in my late twenties, and the idea of teaching at a university, while exciting, was something I had never thought would ever be open to someone like me. And working for a man like Chris was appealing too. Unlike my High School’s rude, abrasive, and demanding senior staff, he was calm, sensitive, and consensual in his dealings with staff and students.

When Chris formalised the job offer, I jumped at the opportunity. I gave the school notice and started at the Faculty of Creative Arts after Christmas. It took some adjustment, but I quickly became familiar with the different programmes I taught, and any pressure from the job was nothing compared to the stress of working in a High School.

The university environment was both challenging and nurturing, as was my new boss. As I grappled with my new role, Chris proved to be an approachable, supportive, and demanding team leader. His door was always open if I needed advice, and I relied heavily on his experience in the early days. Although his background was quite different, with photography his creative medium, he could easily apply his skills and knowledge to my very different context, and he was an enormous help to me.

Chris’s unequivocal support, and the liberal university environment, gave me the confidence to express myself in ways I had never imagined possible. Although I always remained professional in my conduct and relationships, teaching adults somehow gave me a similar sexual thrill to dancing. Of course, I expected the hormonal energy between the young students to be high, but I hadn’t expected to experience similar feelings as their teacher.

Although never taking it too far, I began dressing in a much sexier way than I ever had before, and I enjoyed the furtive glances at my breasts or bottom from students of both sexes. As my hemlines rose, my necklines dropped, and I was fascinated by the response my ever-so-risque dress sense often elicited. Occasionally, fellow lecturers would relate light-hearted conversations they had overheard, where my students had dubbed me a ‘LILF’ - a lecturer they would like to fuck - which, when the term was explained to me, was affirming, flattering, and empowering. For the first time, I began to think of myself as a sexual being in my own right. I may still have been a virgin and had never even dated a guy, but my confidence, self-esteem, and contentedness grew.

And it wasn’t only at work that the change in my outlook manifested itself. Masturbation had always been something I had guiltily enjoyed, but until then, I had done it infrequently. I had usually only touched myself after watching a sexy film or while reading an erotic scene in a book, but suddenly, I needed to do it much more frequently, sometimes more than once a day.

I realised it was no longer erotic fiction that made me wet and horny but my own thoughts, feelings, and fantasies. Upon returning home from university, touching myself would often be the first thing I did as I attempted to release the pent-up frustration generated by the sexually charged atmosphere at work. And it was always Chris who was the subject of my reveries.

But my contentment couldn’t last, or so it seemed. Towards the end of my second year working at the university, Chris announced that he was leaving; another university had offered him a Reader’s position, giving him more time to focus on academic research and progression toward his ultimate goal of a professorship.

It was then that I realised how much of my new-found happiness depended on Chris’s stabilising presence in my life. Of course, I looked up to him professionally - as an incredible teacher and academic, he was everything I aspired to be - but more significantly, he was the first man I had ever felt I could genuinely trust. Having grown up without a father, the approval and support of the other influential men in my life - my dance directors - had always been conditional on what I could give them in return. But Chris was different; he appreciated me as a person with complex feelings, not just someone to deliver course content. My anxiety returned as I contemplated a future without him.

On the day Chris left, at the end of the Summer Term, the staff took him out to a restaurant, and I made sure I sat next to him, which didn’t go unnoticed by my colleagues. What had long been evident to them was something I had never admitted to myself; I was in love but didn’t know how to process the emotions, much less express them. The thought of losing Chris had made me clingy and needy, and although I didn’t realise it then, I had telegraphed my feelings for him to everyone in the department, Chris included.

After dinner, some colleagues decided to take Chris to a pub for drinks and suggested I come along. Tired after a demanding semester and with a long bus journey home, I needed persuading; I wasn’t in a celebratory mood and wanted to be alone with my thoughts. But they were insistent, so I reluctantly joined them at the pub.

Towards the end of the evening, only four of us remained. One of my colleagues suggested we all have a final drink but returned from the bar with only two glasses of wine, one for Chris and one for me. He and the other colleague hurriedly put on their jackets and, having wished Chris well in his new job, departed the pub, leaving us alone.

Initially, being alone in a social situation with a man made me uncomfortable and anxious, even though the man concerned was Chris. But we just chatted about our holiday plans, and Chris told me about a new photography exhibition featuring his work. So when he invited me to join him at the gallery the following day for the exhibition’s launch, I didn’t think twice about accepting, considering it nothing more than an extension of our professional relationship.

My first few dates with Chris were veiled in middle-class cultural curiosity, and it took me a while before I realised they were dates at all. A museum visit followed the trip to the gallery, and then we attended a lecture from a contemporary artist at the Royal Academy. All the time, I was sure Chris wanted nothing more than my companionship since we were both on our own. He never declared any romantic intent and, save for a hand on my back when escorting me through a door, didn’t make physical contact or imply ours was anything other than a platonic friendship. I was comfortable with the idea of such a relationship and enjoyed his company enormously.

But that all changed the night we went to the cinema.

I had told Chris I wanted to see The Day After Tomorrow, and he suggested we go together. Perhaps I was subconsciously steering us towards a proper, romantic date, but I think that would be to credit me with more romantic guile than I then had at my disposal. In my mind, there was still a disconnect between the happy married life I knew I wanted and the steady relationship that would lead me there, and if things were to change, I would need a road map to guide the way toward my happiness.

Little did I realise that Chris was about to give me one.

After two hours of us both frigidly concentrating on the cinema screen, we decided to spend what remained of the evening in a bar. We took a table in a quiet part of the pub and had just ordered drinks when Chris reached across the table and took my hands in his.

“I hope you don’t think me too forward,” he said as my palms quickly became clammy, and my heart raced. “But I’ve wanted to do this for a very long time. Is it okay to hold your hand, Nisha?”

My first instinct was to look around to check nobody I knew was watching. I don’t know if I expected to see one of my mum’s friends, or one of the fearsome ‘aunties’ I had dreaded as a young woman, looking over disapprovingly or choking on their mango juice at my brazenness. But I immediately became self-conscious and embarrassed, even though nobody in the pub had paid Chris’s gesture the slightest bit of attention.

Chris must have anticipated my reaction because he remained calm, reassuring, and soothing as he gently stroked my fingers with his thumb. Even at that early stage, he seemed to understand that I struggled with intimacy and must have realised that my hang-ups were deeply entrenched. He gave me a half-smile and a look that said, “Well, then?”

“Yes,” I heard myself say.

“Good, because over the past year, I’ve grown to think of you as more of a friend than a colleague,” Chris continued. “Although I had to be ‘The Boss’ in the office, now that I no longer work at the university, I hope we can be proper friends, or perhaps, in time, even more than friends?”

It’s embarrassing to think about now, but after the shock wore off, I started crying. I can only imagine what Chris must have thought as he listened to me unload a stream of consciousness about how I had grown to care so much for him and feared losing him from my life, all delivered through streams of tears and snot. I found myself gripping tightly onto his hand, even as he moved from his seat to sit beside me and hold me, the first time anyone had hugged me for years.

As we left the pub, my emotions swung from the familiar guilt and anxiety to something altogether different. For the first time, I experienced the peculiar warmth of being uniquely special to someone, and although a small part of me still believed it was wrong and wicked to be alone with a man, the warmth spreading through my body was intoxicating and lovely. I wanted to see how far the feelings led me.

When he dropped me home, I thanked Chris for a lovely evening, and he moved to kiss me. I deflected his first attempt, going cheek-to-cheek instead, but he was persistent. With the rain teeming down and held in the arms of a handsome, intelligent man, I felt like the heroine in a Bollywood movie as Chris scooped me up and enveloped me in a long, slow, lingering kiss.

**********

With Chris and me officially in a relationship, the spectre of sex quickly reared its head. Of course, Chris said nothing about it at first, not wishing to put me under pressure he knew I couldn’t cope with, but I knew that soon it would become the elephant in the room, and I would need to be prepared for the conversation when it happened. 

But I wasn’t even sure what my position on sex was and didn’t know how to proceed if and when the opportunity arose. My upbringing had told me sex was somehow shameful and wrong, although it could occasionally be tolerated within a marriage. However, when talking with friends at university much later, I discovered that most people had a much more liberal view of sex and that it was a thing to be enjoyed rather than avoided. Although I wanted the freedom that came with my friends’ more enlightened outlook, the feelings of shame and guilt seemed hard-wired into me, and the thought of actually having sex for the first time filled me with dread.

My sexual experience had been restricted to self-pleasure and my mildly exhibitionist tendencies when dancing or teaching. But neither equipped me for the act itself; feeling sexy inside was one thing, but being sexy for someone else was another thing entirely.

However, the conversation about sex never came. Weeks went by, and although we went out several times each week, Chris never suggested we spend the night together afterward. Sometimes I asked him to come in for a drink after he walked me home, but even if he said yes and we kissed on the sofa, he never attempted to take things further, always respecting my boundaries.

Eventually, though, once I became comfortable with being in a relationship, I gradually became more receptive to the idea of sex. Chris was a very tactile lover, always holding my hand when we were out and cuddling me if we were at home watching a film. With his arms around me, I felt secure and happy, and when he kissed me, I was frequently shocked at how wet I became. I knew I could trust Chris, and as I increasingly drew on his love, support, and care, I found my barriers tumbling, and I wanted nothing more than to give myself to him completely.

Often, immediately after he went home, I would masturbate while thinking of him and berate myself for being so frightened about taking the next step. I understood that sex would move our relationship to a new level of intimacy and that, in time, it would be something I would enjoy. But although I knew sex with Chris was inevitable and desirable, I couldn’t muster the courage to move things forward.

Ultimately, it was my friend Hannah’s wedding that broke the deadlock. I had received the invitation months before, requesting the company of ‘Nisha plus one’, and had long since replied that I would be coming alone. So, having already booked my room at the venue, and with the wedding only a fortnight away, I didn’t think to contact Hannah to see if I could still bring a partner; it was much too late.

But the grapevine was buzzing, and I soon received a call from Hannah. She told me she had heard about my new man and would love Chris to come to the wedding, but she would need to give the final numbers to the hotel the following day.

When we met later, I put the idea to Chris.

“Two weeks’ time, you say? In Gloucestershire? Of course, I’ll come,” he replied, as I knew he would.

“But we need to talk about accommodation. I’ve booked a room, and...”

It was on the tip of my tongue.

“Don’t worry. I’ll find somewhere nearby,” Chris replied cheerily.

“No, listen, Chris. I don’t want that. I want us to... share a room. One room. Together. As a couple.”

It was out there at last, and Chris immediately understood the implications of what I had said.

“But if you’d rather have your own room, I don’t mind,” I said, backtracking. “You can book somewhere else if you like, and...”

Chris put a finger to my lips. “Of course, I want to. It’s what I want more than anything in the world,” he said reassuringly. “I’m honoured that you want me to, and I’m glad you feel ready to... suggest it.”

By kicking the can a further two weeks down the road, I thought I would have time to get my head around the idea of having sex for real. I figured that once it was no longer a hypothetical notion and a date had been set, I would have no choice but to come to terms with the prospect or risk looking foolish and maybe even losing Chris.

In the following two weeks, I had much to think about. Should I wax or trim? What protection should I use? Will I be on my period? What underwear should I buy? What if it’s too painful? I knew I was hugely overthinking it.

But all the answers somehow came to me, sometimes with the help of friends, and I found strategies to deal with my fluctuating emotions. I drew on my experience as a dancer; the gut-wrenching anxiety before a performance had sometimes made me physically sick, but I felt liberated and confident once I was on stage dancing. So why would sex be different? Perhaps, if I were lucky, I would even end the night with the same sense of satisfaction and well-being as when I left the stage at the end of a performance.

So by the time Chris and I set out for Gloucestershire, although I hadn’t entirely made my peace with the idea of losing my virginity, I had compartmentalised my emotions sufficiently that I knew I wouldn’t back out. The last thing I wanted was for the thing that should most bring Chris and me together to be the thing that drove us apart.

The wedding was wonderful, and Hannah and our mutual friends were delighted to see me with a man on my arm at last. Chris was his usual charming self, and I was sternly told by friends on several occasions not to fuck it up. The approval of my friends mattered more than I thought it would, and it was reassuring to know that my decision to be with Chris was the right one.

I tried not to drink too much at the reception, but inevitably, I had more than I should have, partly to celebrate Hannah’s marriage but also to steel myself for what would happen later. Every smutty joke in the Best Man’s speech put me more and more on edge, and although I wasn’t the one getting married, it seemed that all the wedding night jokes were directed at me.

Chris understood my hang-ups and must have known how I was feeling, so he kept checking that I was okay and reassuring me, especially as the end of the evening drew closer. I knew he wouldn’t put me under pressure and that I could back out if it didn’t feel right, so I knew I only had to take things one step at a time. Even if we stopped short of going all the way the first time, it would be a step forward for me just to be in bed with a man or for him to see me naked. So when we eventually said goodbye to the remaining guests and went upstairs to the bedroom, I was still nervous but confident that the evening would be a big step forward for me, whatever happened.

Our bedroom was beautiful, with a large, luxurious bed and a wonderful lake view. The last remnants of daylight were fading, but as I stood at the window gazing at the magnificent vista slowly descending into darkness, I found it calming and tranquil after an emotional and tiring day.

Chris stood behind me, wrapped his strong arms around my waist, and rested his chin on my head. “It’s beautiful when the world slows down and another day is nearly over,” he said wistfully.

I reached back and put my hands on his hips as he nuzzled my neck and lightly kissed me. I don’t know if I was trying to pull him closer or subconsciously ease him away, but after a few moments, I relaxed, telling myself it was okay to enjoy his embrace and that I had nothing to fear, and I gently rested my hands on his.

Feeling Chris’s strong arms tighten around me as he pulled me close, kissing one side of my neck, then the other was arousing, and I could feel myself becoming wet. But, inexperienced as I was, I didn’t know how to respond in kind. I did nothing more than purr with pleasure until I realised that Chris might need my tacit permission before going further, so I moved his hands to my breasts, hoping that was appropriate and sexy.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he said, gently kneading my tiny mounds. 

I was pleased to know I had done the right thing, and when he moved his hands down and turned me around to kiss me, I found out that he was becoming aroused too. The ridge pressing into my stomach was unmistakable.

Needless to say, it was me who killed the moment.

“Sorry. Death breath. Too much food and wine. Do you mind if I clean my teeth? I might take a quick shower, too, if that’s okay?”

Chris rested his forehead on mine and giggled, and I realised I’d fucked up. I had cut him off as he was beginning to enjoy our intimate moment, so I tried to rescue the situation.

“So, perhaps you could help me with my dress?” I said. “The zip is difficult to reach.”

Chris reached behind my neck and pulled the zip down to the small of my back. Then he kissed me again.

I didn’t remove my dress at first. Instead, I reciprocated Chris’s assistance by removing his tie and kissing him. Chris smiled and, turning it into a game, knelt to remove my shoes.

“Your turn,” he said as he stood before me again.

I unfastened Chris’s top shirt button and continued downwards. After untucking his shirt, I removed his cufflinks and put them beside the bed. His eyes smiled at me, and I smiled back, watching him take off his shirt. His chest, arms, and shoulders were beautifully toned, but I was distracted by a large surgical scar on his shoulder.

“Rugby injury,” he said, seeing my reaction. I smiled and gently kissed the scar. 

Perhaps it was the alcohol, the game of removing each other’s clothes, or maybe it was Chris’s calm, sensual approach, but my anxiety levels weren’t as high as I had expected. Wrapped up in my own worries and hang-ups, I hadn’t considered that Chris would be nervous too, and I realised that he was as comfortable with this light-hearted initiation to our lovemaking as I was. By demonstrating his own nervousness, Chris took half my emotional burden onto his shoulders, helping me relax.

Unless Chris was unwise enough to tackle the fascinator securely pinned in my hair, I knew my dress would be the next item to go, so I stood and anticipated Chris’s next move. But instead of removing my dress, he took my hands and looked into my eyes.

“Are you sure?” he asked, squeezing my hands.

I nodded, and he moved behind me, kissing my neck again as he pulled the shoulder straps of my dress down, and I wriggled my arms free. Then, taking a deep breath, I allowed the dress to drop to the floor.

“You look beautiful,” Chris said as I turned to face him, the dress around my ankles. “Absolutely beautiful.”

I knew my coral bra and panties looked nice - they should have done at the price - but Chris seemed transfixed. The thought of undressing in front of a man had always been one of the things that had made me feel most anxious about sex, but as Chris took in my near-naked body, familiar feelings returned to me; the same arousing sensations I had experienced when being admired dancing or teaching at the university. Chris found me as sexy as I did him, and I liked how it made me feel.

It was my turn to remove some of Chris’s clothes, and I decided his shoes and socks should count as one item. I slowly got to my knees and removed them. As I stood, I picked up my dress and draped it on the end of the bed. But as the dress fell, a crimson confetti rose petal drifted from the deep ruching around the neckline, landing in the centre of the starched, white cotton sheets like a small pool of blood.

Chris must have seen the look on my face.

“Hey, why don’t you take that shower?” he said, kissing my head. “It has been a warm day, and I must freshen up too. But you go first.”

I nodded, collected what I needed from my suitcase, and went to the en-suite. The sight of the rose petal had knocked my gathering confidence, and I prayed my deflowering wouldn’t be too painful or messy. I was glad of a few moments alone to collect my thoughts and rebuild my resolve to see the evening through.

After showering, I fixed my make-up and put on the ivory satin camisole set I had bought for the occasion. I thought it was a good compromise between practical and sexy, and as I put it on, the cool satin on my damp skin made my nipples stiffen. I cleaned my teeth and sprayed on some perfume, then took another deep breath and opened the bathroom door.

Chris lay on the sheets as I walked towards the bed, watching me approach. He had closed the curtains and switched on a bedside lamp, and the room had taken on a much more intimate feel. It felt like we were the only two people left in the world.

The mood lighting made Chris’s body look even more toned than before; the warm glow picked out the ridges of his chest and abdomen, and now stripped to his trunks, his firm thighs seemed almost as thick as my waist. 

“You look stunning, Darling,” he said as I nervously sat beside him. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so beautiful.” He leaned over and kissed me.

A knock on the door interrupted our embrace.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I just ordered a bottle of Champagne. I hope that’s okay.”

He got up and went to the door, apparently unconcerned by being in his underwear, and returned carrying a silver tray with a wine cooler and two glasses. Chris put the tray on the desk, poured a glass of Champagne, and handed it to me.

“I’ll only be a few minutes,” he said. “Enjoy your drink.” He kissed me and disappeared into the en-suite. 

Although much more relaxed than I could ever have anticipated, I was glad to top up my alcohol levels to help maintain my unexpected equilibrium. The wine was beautifully chilled, and the bubbles tickled my palate as I took an urgent gulp before closing my eyes and breathing deeply as the cool liquid slipped down my throat. 

I couldn’t believe that after so many years of anxiety, I was finally waiting in bed for a man to come and have sex with me; to relieve me of my virginity and make me a woman. Furthermore, I was patiently awaiting my seduction and not racing for the door as I would have only a few months before. Something had changed, and it wasn’t difficult to work out what. Hearing Chris humming in the shower, I quietly thanked God for gifting me this wonderful man and decided to do everything I could to make him as happy as he made me, starting that night.

Eager not to keep me waiting, Chris kept his shower short, and soon I heard him preparing to return to the bedroom. I finished my Champagne, jumped out of bed, and poured some for Chris. In my nervousness, I over-poured it, and delicate white bubbles surged over the lips of the glass.

Chris emerged in his boxer shorts as I mopped the resultant mess with a tissue. I took the drink and handed it to him.

“Thank you, Darling,” he said, overlooking my clumsiness. “Come on, let’s go to bed.”

We chatted as Chris drank his Champagne, recounting the day’s events and laughing about guests who had consumed too much alcohol and embarrassed themselves. I knew he was trying to relax me, and it was working. With Chris’s arm around me and snuggled into his chest, I felt safe and warm, but I knew that once he finished his drink, the moment would arrive for him to take me.

“That was lovely,” he said, licking his lips as he drained his glass and placed it beside the bed. “But not as tasty as you, my beautiful lady.”

As Chris turned his body towards me, my head slipped from his chest onto the soft, plump pillow, and he nudged himself down the bed until we were lying face-to-face. He moved his hand onto my hip, moving it up and down in short strokes. Again, I felt myself becoming wet.

“You’re absolutely sure?” Chris asked again. 

“Yes,” I replied. “I want to be yours completely, Chris. But let’s take it slowly. And show me how you like to be touched and what you like to do. I want you to teach me how to make love to you.”

“And I want you to teach me, too,” Chris said with a twinkle in his eye. “Don’t hold back; if I’m doing something wrong, tell me. If I’m doing something right, definitely tell me.”

We both laughed, easing the tension further. Already, sex wasn’t how I had imagined it would be. I had imagined it to be all intense looks, pensive longing, and urgent fucking, like in the movies. Instead, it was the man I loved - my best friend - and me discussing how we could best give each other pleasure. I liked that, and it made me feel safe.

“So, what do we do first?” I asked. As soon as the question left my lips, I knew it was a stupid one, but Chris thought about it carefully.

“Well, the first thing we do when having sex is not have sex,” he replied enigmatically. I saw his eyes crinkle into a smile as he kissed me. “Instead, we show each other our love in other ways. Like this....”

Again, he kissed my lips, this time pulling me close in a long, gentle, Champagne-flavoured embrace. I felt Chris’s hand slip from my hips onto the small of my back and the curve of my bottom, and a jolt of electricity seemed to surge the length of my spine. I put my arm around him and rolled onto my back, all the time kissing Chris and enjoying his soft, gentle touches.

I could feel the dampness in the gusset of my satin cami knickers, but I knew I wasn’t the only one becoming aroused. Chris’s ridge was thick and hard against my thigh as he leaned in to kiss me, and it felt strange but gratifying that it was me having that effect on him. And when his hands moved further, first to my breasts and then to my inner thigh, I could tell he was ready for more.

I took his hand and laid it on my belly, under my top, inviting him to explore my breasts in the flesh for the first time. It tickled as he slid his hand up my abdomen, and I giggled. Realising bolder strokes were needed, he put his hand firmly on my breast, massaging it first, then teasing my stiff nipple between his finger and thumb.

I had no idea my nipples were so sensitive and broke away from Chris’s kiss to enjoy the sensations coursing through my body. Seeing how much pleasure this gave me, he pushed up my top, exposing my breasts to him for the first time. One of the moments I had feared the most passed almost unnoticed as he moved to kiss and lick my breasts, eliciting even more joyous sensations, and I even found myself gently stroking his ridge with the back of my hand.

Chris let out a moan of pleasure at my first tentative strokes, and realising my hand was clamped between his body and mine, he shifted position slightly, freeing my hand and allowing me to explore further. I rubbed his length with my palm and fingertips, astonished at how long, thick, and hard his cock was, and wondered how I could possibly take it inside me. I hadn’t yet progressed to using toys when masturbating and had never taken anything inside me, much less something as huge as this. But with Chris continuing to suck, lick and tease my nipples, my concerns were drowned out by the waves of pleasure surging through my squirming body.

Eventually, Chris raised his head from my breasts and smiled at me, looking down as my hand rubbed his thick ridge.

“Should I take these off?” he asked, reaching down to remove his boxer shorts.

I smiled and nodded. I was glad he would be naked first.

As he propped himself up on his elbow, facing me, I was shocked at how long and thick he was. Perhaps the fact that he was closely shaven made his cock look longer, but now without his kisses and nibbles to distract me, I began to wonder how I could possibly accommodate him.

Perhaps Chris understood my anxiety because he lay back on the bed, saying, “The way you touched me before was lovely. Why not do it again?” Knowing I had never seen a real cock before, much less handled one, he must have understood how daunting his above-average size was and figured that familiarity with his cock might lessen my concerns. I turned onto my side, reached out, and took his length in my hand.

The first thing I remember thinking was how small my hand looked, with my fingers barely able to close around Chris’s girth. As I began moving my hand up and down his length, I was intrigued by how his foreskin retracted with my downward pumps. I moved my hand to his glans, and a contented moan told me this was the most sensitive part. When I tightened my grip, his slit began oozing clear drops of pre-cum onto my fingers.

“Oh, that feels amazing,” he whispered.

I rose to my knees and knelt beside Chris. Seeing how much pleasure I was giving him made me want to do it more, and with one hand cupping his ball sack, I began to find a rhythm. Chris opened his legs wider, enjoying my gentle squeezes of his scrotum as I gripped the top of his shaft and started to pump harder.

Chris put his hand on top of mine. “That feels incredible, but it almost feels too good. If you carry on, you’ll make me cum, and I want to give you much more pleasure before that happens. Do you think you’re ready to get out of your clothes?”

I wasn’t ready, but I nodded. I was embarrassed at how wet I had become and was concerned that Chris would find my thick juices disgusting, but I pulled my cami top over my head, put it beside me on the bed, and reached for my knickers’ waistband.

“Why not let me do that?” Chris suggested. “Lie back and let me unwrap you.”

I knew that as soon as he pulled off my knickers, Chris would see the glistening wetness around my inner thighs, but unsure and embarrassed as I was, I decided to follow his lead. He was much more experienced than me, and I didn’t want to look foolish. As he rose to his knees and gripped my waistband, his cock seemed longer and thicker than ever as it jutted between his legs.

As soon as Chris had pulled off my knickers, I quickly closed my legs and lay motionless as Chris took in my nakedness. I had never felt as exposed, even when dancing in front of thousands of people.

“You look absolutely gorgeous!” he said, giving me the reassurance he knew I needed. “Simply stunning!”

He lay beside me, took me in his arms, and kissed me deeply. I loved the warmth as our naked bodies became entwined, and I felt his hand moving freely across my skin. A strange feeling of pride began to swell inside me. I was naked with a man for the first time! I had already overcome one of my greatest fears, and it was… nice. Chris hadn’t laughed at my imperfections or criticised how I looked. Instead, he loved me for who I was, and I loved him for it.

Chris got to his knees and began kissing me more fervently. He swung his leg over my body, straddling me before kissing me again.

“Lie back and close your eyes,” he said. “Trust me.”

I did as Chris asked, immediately feeling his kisses go lower. First, he kissed and licked my neck and shoulders, then he moved further down, taking my nipples in his mouth again and making me squirm. I thought Chris would stop there, but he kept shuffling backward, and I felt the bristles of his beard reach my navel as he continued downwards. Soon, he was kissing and licking the soft skin above my shaved pubic mound. My legs were still clamped firmly shut, but I suddenly felt Chris’s arms gently trying to prise them apart.

“Trust me,” he said again.

As I opened my legs, the cool evening air on my hot sex betrayed my wetness. I knew my pussy and thighs would be thick with my juices, and I waited for a cry of disgust from Chris. But the cry never came. All he said was, “God, you’re so beautiful.”

Immediately, I felt his tongue exploring my pussy. I knew about oral sex but had imagined it was something unusual, niche or even kinky. I certainly hadn’t expected to experience it so early in our lovemaking. But, with my eyes closed and Chris gently kissing and licking my pussy and upper thighs, the sensations were so new and incredible I rested my hands on his head and allowed the waves of pleasure to consume me. My guilty, furtive masturbation sessions had never felt as good, and although I was still too wound up to reach orgasm, the emotional release as I put my pleasure in Chris’s hands was orgasmic in itself. I didn’t need to tell him what to do; my thrashing body spelt out to him exactly what I liked, and by the time he came up for air, I was panting and aching for more.

But the look in Chris’s eye told me that the moment of my deflowering was finally upon us. My mind was a torrent of emotions, tumbling and crashing into one another like a river in full flood. I knew it was what I wanted, what I needed more than anything, but still, part of me was holding back. But I remembered Chris’s words - trust me - and I opened my knees wider and parted my lips with two fingers.

Chris kneeled between my legs. His cock was now seeping hard, and I knew how desperate he must be to ejaculate. I found that, for once, I was so concerned about giving him the pleasure he sought that my own fears and worries had become secondary. 

Chris lined up his cock at my opening.

Initially, nothing happened. I felt Chris’s cock between my fingers and it pressing against me, and for a moment, I was unsure if he had penetrated me or not. Then I yelped as I felt a hot, quick pain, and Chris immediately stopped pushing.

“You okay, Darling?” he asked as I started panting like a woman in labour until the pain began to subside. Eventually, I nodded, but Chris seemed unsure. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

Again, Chris began to push inside me. It was still painful, but less than before, and I tried to relax to allow him inside. Soon the pain was joined by a massive pressure as he began to fill me up, and I gasped as I felt him get ever deeper. I realised my fingernails were digging into his back and brought my arms up, crossing them behind his neck.

“Is that okay?” Chris asked, and I nodded. I couldn’t believe I had Chris inside me, but when he took his weight on his elbows and kissed me, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. He stopped pushing; instead, we lay in a long embrace as my body relaxed around his, my stress hormones dissipated, and I felt a rush of serotonin flow through me.

Gathering confidence, I wrapped my legs around Chris’s back and immediately felt him slip deeper inside me. I quickly drew a breath, expecting a second wave of pain, but it didn’t come. I smiled up at Chris and said, “It feels wonderful.”

“It feels wonderful to me, too,” he replied, and we giggled and kissed, imagining ourselves naughty teenagers.

Chris began to thrust inside me very slowly. Sometimes it was a little uncomfortable; other times, it felt like I needed to pee, but before long, the relief of overcoming years of anxiety caused my whole body to relax, and I began to enjoy it. Looking up at my handsome man as he gently, tenderly made love to me gave me an overwhelming feeling of completeness, and I didn’t want him to stop.

But soon, Chris’s face became agitated and strained, and I knew he couldn’t hold back much longer.

“I’m going to cum,” he eventually cried, and gripping him firmly with my heels, I kept him securely inside me as he grunted his wetness into me in a series of short, jabbing thrusts. He dropped his head, panting furiously as his crisis continued, and I took his face in my hands, kissing his forehead and nursing him through his finish.

There was a moment of stillness when he stopped and recovered his strength. Eventually, we looked each other in the eye. I don’t know who smiled first, but soon we were both grinning at one another. I could feel the pressure inside me lessen as he became flaccid, and soon he started giggling as he felt himself involuntarily withdraw. That set me off too, and by the time he pulled out and I dripped a thick, wet stream of blood-flecked semen onto the sheets, we were both doubled-up and roaring with laughter.

**********

It would be wrong to say that all my hang-ups around sex immediately disappeared. Sometimes I could still hear the ghost of my mum telling me how wicked I was and that I should have waited until marriage, like a good Indian girl. And even when, several years later, Chris and I became husband and wife, the feeling that sex was dirty and wrong didn’t leave me altogether.

But Chris was every bit as good a teacher in the bedroom as he had been in the classroom. My confidence quickly grew, and soon I initiated increasingly imaginative sex acts, often surprising Chris with their kinkiness. None more so than my unexpected photograph in the summer of 2011.

Chris later told me that he had left his phone in his hotel room and was socialising in a bar when my message arrived. When he didn’t instantly reply, I thought he might have been shocked at his wife’s wanton behaviour and might be angry. It was with some relief that when I looked at my phone the following morning, there was a message from him.

‘Wow! Someone has come a long way since our first night together in Gloucestershire! But you know, I think we can improve the lighting, and if I bring the digital SLR home tonight, we can get much better quality from a higher pixel count. What do you think? I love you, and I can’t wait to see you later. XXX’ A winking emoji accompanied the message.

I smiled and went to look out my sluttiest, most revealing underwear.