The Woman

I’m Geeta Sen. Yes, that is my real name. I chose to use it instead of hiding behind a nickname because there is a certain rush I would get in using my real identity. It’s like turning up in a masquerade orgy without a mask.

I was born in Kochi, a sleepy port city. Youngest of three, I was raised in a conservative Nair family, to become a docile, timid and an obedient girl. The values of my culture and the importance of my heritage was imbibed in me from a young age, so it wasn’t surprising that I soon became deeply religious.

As years rolled by, I grew up to be a graceful young woman, one who wears saree with elan, without showing a hint of my cleavage, which by then would have been quite a view had I chosen to show. I would diligently go to college and refrain from flirting and even from the advances of suave men. I would dutifully go to temples looking as elegant and pure as a morning drop. I had sculpted myself an image of an elegant and decorous young woman in the minds of the people around me and my family. Only I knew how lascivious and prurient my mind was.

Beneath all the graceful, timid woman lied a lustful woman, whose fantasies grew stronger and darker as she grew. I was aware how big my breasts were and the power the smooth curves of my body held. I was aware of the lecherous looks of men as I walked and that would make the place between my legs tingle. I knew what wasn’t shown is bound to be more enticing than what wasn’t.

But never once did I yield in. I wanted the first to be my husband and I knew whatever perverse fantasies I had, I’d do it with him. Even the ones that involved other men. Oh, how young and disillusioned I was!

The Wife

And when I turned 21, I married a man of my parents’ choice. I was happy. He was a good looking, well mannered gentleman who ticked all of my boxes to be my ideal partner. Let’s call him K. Menon. I’m not going to reveal his name here. On our wedding night, however, we didn’t consummate our marriage and ended up talking through the night, but the morning after, we ended up having sex. My saree hunched up to the waist, my legs spread open, and my pussy eager and wide, taking his thrusts, holding him close to me. Ah! What a bliss it was!

It soon became a routine. We’d end up having sex almost daily. He seemed to love it and I was insatiable. He was good, no doubt, but I craved for more. Just the normal sex didn’t quell my thirst. But I didn’t know what I wanted. My fantasies grew darker and I resorted to masturbating more often. I wanted to taste him, but my husband thought it would inappropriate to perform a fellatio, and I didn’t want him to think I was improper, so I didn’t push. We’d have sex, but they didn’t have the fervor with which I had imagined it should. It was nice. And that was what kept me questioning. It was nice, not racy not vulgar, not numbing, just nice. I decided that should be how it was to be. After all, it was nice.

I was the perfect daughter, the perfect daughter and the perfect wife. And I liked it, I liked perfection in every aspect of my life, but somehow, my sexual needs had started taking over my functioning. I’d find myself masturbating at noon, in the evening, and sometimes, at night, in the washroom, after I’ve had sex.

A few years later, we had a child and had moved for good to Delhi, I happened realize that it wasn’t sex that I craved but fuck. I realized I wasn’t being fucked by my husband but been made love to. He touches me tenderly and I melt, he holds my breasts with great reverence and I smile and he inserts his penis in my vagina and I moan. Wonderful, one would think, and wonderful it is. In the beginning. After that one would get impatient, and so did I. I wanted him to maul my boobs, I wanted him to choke me and pull my hair, I wanted to see lust in eyes and I wanted his cock- not a penis to make love to- but a cock a big fat cock, to fuck me. But he was a gentleman, and he wouldn’t do anything that would shatter his ‘graceful lady’ image of me, and I was a lady, and no matter how much I screamed in my mind for him to fuck me, I’d coyly moan.

The Whore

When my son turned 6, we moved to a different society and it was there that I first met Abhinay (name changed). He was my husband’s colleague and our new neighbor. He was a married man and he was going to be a father very soon. His wife, Meera, a comely woman with a round face and warm smile, was 6 months pregnant. She and I ended up being really good friends, talking about everything under the sun.

I must confess, I had taken a liking to Abhinay the very instant I met him and that was what set the dominoes in motion. I liked his charismatic personality, his impeccable command over the language and of his vast knowledge on almost all the topics. I also couldn’t stop looking at his good looks and his muscular frame. And when Meera breached the topic of their sex life, I couldn’t help but imagine him naked. And that got me wet. Yes, he wasn’t the first man I fantasized. I’ve fantasized almost all the charming men I’ve met, and I’ve masturbated to them many a times, but to have a man who would compel me to masturbate almost everyday, was my first. And to make things worse, we used to have party at each others house every other week.

Contrary to what you’d think, I never used to blush like a teenager whenever I saw him or even look lovingly when he played with my son in front of my husband. No, my feelings for him was purely carnal. I wanted him. In my bed. Or his. Or anywhere. That was all I cared about him. But every time this emotion receded I would be overwhelmed with guilt, that I was betraying my husband, but that didn’t stop me from fantasizing him. It felt good to feel so dirty.