Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, NonConsensual, Rape, Blackmail, Cheating, Cuckold, Rough, Torture, Interracial, White Male, Slow,
Desc: Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - A tale about Page 3 lifestyles and relationships set in Bombay, India, in the late Nineties.
She was in the loo when she got the call. She would think about that later and wonder at the absurdity of it. Your live-in boyfriend of two and a half years calls to tell you he's moving out, and you're in the loo.
She'd had a really bad day. The Sensex was down 134 points and clients were screaming for help. God alone knew what she was doing in stock analysis during a recession. She'd been reasonably happy back in Merchant Banking. But no, she'd wanted to move up, up, up. Fast, fast, fast. So when Sriram had told her she had the option to shift, she'd jumped at it. But that was way back in 1996, when stock analysis was, like, the most happening career of the millennium; before the Asian recession, before Hemant. Before the magic disappeared.
"I think we both need the space," he said on her mobile, while she stood before the mirror in the loo, staring at her reflection. That bone-thin woman from IT came in, glanced at her without any surprise -- these crazy stock analysts -- and went into a stall.
"Hemant," she heard herself say. "Why don't we sleep on it? I'll call you in the morning and we'll talk about it some more." There was a five-second burst of crackling silence on the Ericcson, as if she'd said the very thing he'd been dreading.
"Um, Merl, maybe I haven't got through to you yet. What I'm trying to say is, let's not keep in touch for a while. Okay?"
She fought off a sudden unexpected moment of panic. "You mean, I shouldn't even call you?"
"I'm probably going to change my simcard."
And that was it. The punchline that punched the breath out of her. 'I'm probably going to change my simcard.' The ultimate insult of the Nineties. I don't want to even talk to you on the phone, so, like, I'm changing my number, okay? Don't hassle me. Get lost.
She hung up a minute later, not really knowing what she'd said after that. The stall door opened behind her and that tech nerd came out and started washing her hands, touching up her lipstick. Suvarna, her name was, she remembered now.
"You're crying," Suvarna had commented matter-of-factly. As if she was pointing out a cockroach.
And that was when the mirror had turned all blurry.
Bye-Bye in a Bathroom, she thought to herself as she exited the office foyer and walked across the parking lot. That's a great title for a farewell song. I Lost My Love In The Loo was another. Or maybe even Flush Him Down: The Fifty-first Way To Lose Your Lover. Like that really way-out scene in Trainspotting when Ewan McGregor...
Hey. Hang on a second here. You're starting to leak again, woman. Get a grip. If not yourself, at least think about your mascara. She fumbled with the latch of a Santro for a few minutes before remembering that she owned a Zen. She managed to make it to her car, insert key in lock and then insert self in vehicle without further mishap. But by then, the dribble at the corner of her eyes had turned into a full-blown monsoon shower.
She let it all out. Nothing like a good cry. Or even a bad one. Flush Him Out, the scared little-girl voice in her mind sang hysterically. She knew the anger would come eventually. But right now, just let it rain, let it rain, let it rain...
When it was over, she yanked handfuls of tissue from the box on the dashboard, mopping up. A car honked behind her, pulling out, and as she glanced up at the rearview mirror, she caught sight of herself. Not a bad face, huh? Not bad at all for 29. Pretty good, in fact. She had the kind of clean-cut looks that belonged vaguely to an older generation, a generation too seedha-sadha for today's chaloo times. Too seedha-sadha for cowardly boyfriends who don't have the decency to even dump you in person, they do it on the phone when you're in the loo.
Bye-bye in a bathroom, my darling's flushed away...
She tried to repair some of the damage but her eyes stayed weepy. There was a gleam there which caught the headlights of a passing car and seemed almost animalistic in intensity. The anger was coming. Due to hit any minute soon. Her phone beeped to remind her that it was time for her gym session.
Suddenly, the whole Nineties charade -- working out thrice a week to stay in shape, watching every calorie, working like a manic ant all week to blow up a fortune on the weekend -- suddenly none of it made sense anymore. I mean, look at my figure. This is not a bad bod. Better than Kajol, miles ahead of Manisha, good enough to make Karishma sniff. And just a couple of weeks back, when she'd put on that new Victoria's Secret underwire bra and lace panties, Hemant had said she could have taken the Gladrags Megamodels contest in a wink. Not ramp model material, like the girls on fashion TV, those sticks with knobs -- they weren't even worth censoring -- but full-bodied and filled-out. All in all, pretty good. Good enough to make Hemant look twice - and keep looking - every time she pulled off her clothes. Good enough to have made him beg her some mornings to skip work and just stay in bed with him. Good enough to make him say a dozen times over the last two years: "Any man that would pass this up, isn't a man."
But he left anyway.
She decided that she needed to do something to keep from cracking up completely. Like maybe go to 3 Flights Up and hit the dance floor, shake down a couple of strawberry daiquiris, chill. No, scratch that. She was in no shape to hit the town tonight. Besides, at any of her regular hangouts, there was always the danger of running into Hemant. She had no desire to play the Pathetic Victim.
Better to pick up a DVD from the library. Something mindless, with explosions and guns and Mel Gibson. Maybe even two DVDs. Or half a dozen. Hell, it was Saturday night. But just the thought of going back home, seeing the apartment without him, without his things, made her want to cringe.
But where else could she go? What else could she do? She was single and too busy to really have friends, close friends at least. And it was Saturday night in Bombay.
She reached into her purse to pull out her compact, to try and repair some of the damage. Her fingers encountered something. She pulled it out and looked at it disinterestedly, assuming it was some junkmail. It was actually. But then she looked at it more closely.
It was an invitation card. She had no clue who had put it into her purse but she knew she hadn't. She opened it, turned it over, turned it around. The card was glossy four-colour black. There was an address on the back, just four words, Krishna Mills, Upper Worli.
Inside, at the very bottom of the right-hand page, in very small print, was a name followed by a single sentence.
"S I N C I T Y
Be all you dare to be."