Fence Sitting

Beautiful indian girl . Young hindu woman model  with tatoo mehndi  and kundan jewelry . Traditional Indian costume yellow saree . Indian or Muslim woman covers her face.

“I am sure in my mind”, she felt confident.

‘I am over it”, there is nothing to slip up now.

‘I am going to prove to myself I can see him as any two normal people not having an affair would”, this time would be different.

For six months she had avoided seeing him.  Swatted all the usual booty call texts with ease. Ignore all his hints to see her again. Not even sending a single picture.

Six months, actually five months and twenty-one days but who is counting. She remembered it all too well. She went into that last tryst with a similar resolve but ended up pinned against her car as he took her from behind in the unlit parking lot of big box store.

“That was not all bad”, she would rationalize.

“That was all physical, raw animal instinct. After the trouble I was going through at work and home that was like getting my nails done.”

Surely that did not mean she is falling back into regular sex with him.
“Look, the clear proof is how long I can hold off seeing him. If I am addicted to him, won’t I be running to him and spread my legs?”

“Six months already. Easy. I did not think of sex with him once.”

Today is going to be final crown in overcoming her past mistakes, she thought. For one she is feeling good about things going well at work and relative calm at home. There is nothing to push her over.

Nevertheless she would take multiple precautions. Nothing to tempt or trigger him.

She will meet him in broad daylight.

She will meet him near her work, she won’t risk exposure.

Hair unwashed, messy and tied up. He likes it  when washed, flat ironed and let down.

No jewelry, not even earrings. Slack and blouse with a jacket that hid any curves.

She’d arrive before him at the coffee shop closer to her work, get a coffee and sit down. And when he arrives she’d just wave, not get up, definitely no hug and ask him to get his fix. There is no standing in line together when their arms touch, elbows caress and his big hand support her back then only to become a wrap around her.

None of those.

“Look, I am not even horny. I do not need sex. Not with him.”.

She had her work laptop up, working on a spreadsheet and answering Slack messages that kept popping up. Her holiday coffee drink with seventeen teaspoons of sugar tasted like a dessert. They had the heater way up in the store.

“I am completely on the level. None of those butterflies and I am doing my work, waiting for him. It is getting too hot, I should remove the jacket.”

Her fingers danced over the keyboard, rapidly replying yo messages. Her toned biceps shone under the designer lighting in the coffee shop. With hair pull way back up, her neck seemed to extend additional few inches.

She felt the air move around her with a familiar feeling.

“Hi, Sue”, she heard.

She knew who it was and where he was without looking up.

She bolted from her chair into his arms and buried her face in his broad chest.

Count to Three


Sex between paramours unfolds in its own way, different from sex between other monogamous pairs. The reasons why the affair happens, why it continues or ends are indeed different based on circumstances. But like Tolstoy’s happy families, the pattern of sex, at least in the inception stage, is the same in all affairs. I wish I could stand here and say I have looked at every affair and their sexual acts to make this claim with complete confidence. But you will have to take my word for it. After all I majored in statistics and random sampling is my forte.

First time sex in an affair usually happens when least expected. One does not or cannot plan for it. It usually happens as an inevitability to the preceding events. There is the build up for sure but one can never be sure if one is reading the other right. You make the move, it becomes an irreversible process. No going back to old state regardless of the outcome. This is mainly why one cannot plan for first time sex in any affair. When events unfold, both needs to move forward fast. There is the rush to explore but also the hurry if the other side backed out before consummation. Lot of things happen but get packed into a small time window.

Second time is usually fast follow. After the first time both sides are in disbelief and denial. It could not have happened, could it? There may be some grief but no seven stages. Both quickly they move to acceptance and then to analysis stage.

Did I do it right?

Did I hit all my high notes?

Did I deliver?

Did I signal the other was doing great or was focused inward?

So they decide a do over. Sometimes right away if neither needs a refractory period or at least not more than an hour or so. Of course this is a problem only if at least one of the two in the mix has an organ that goes flaccid right after the climax.

Due to this and other reasons the second time is usually on another day but the motive remains the same. Validating the first time indeed happen. Reaffirming the interest in fucking them. Trying to fix the assumed and real missteps from the first time. More importantly it is also done under the fear that this may be it. This could be last time you get to fuck them for they would sober up and stop this. So any checklists one had before sex quickly gets dropped and the two focus on just fucking what could be the last time.

Now the third time. That is special. It usually happens after a gap in time. The gap is not due to drop in interest but from the confidence gained from the second time. Both are assured by the second time. It is real and happening. Sex is fucking great. There is no risk of this ending abruptly. Now let us plan and make this an event. The cooling off period gives time for both to form a complete pleasure profile of the other. It also gives the confidence to ask the other to do specific things without hesitation.

Yes, you may call me as slut.

Of course I like your tongue exploring my ass.

Just a bit to the left and faster.

So a lot of thinking and planning go into this. The result ends up being great sex for both.

They say no one can forget their first time. The reality is most remember the when, where and who of the first time but not how pleasurable it was. It is the third time that becomes memorable and in most cases our minds will write this as our first.

Happy affairs.

More Jumbled Words


Another Craigslist Ad edition, with replies I received to my postings when they used to allow personals.

I’m intrigued
I’m older
I’m white
I’m experienced
I’m  married


Dear older,
I am overwhelmed

I read you
I am curious
Are you versatile

Dear curious
I am versatile
I can moan
In two languages

I’m Indian, guy
Discretion required
With me
You will let me control
Surrender meekly
Anticipate pain

Dear discrete
I submit
Proof of myself
Writhing in pain
Writing this letter

I like Indian
Not just food
Is it true
Your tongue burns?

It does
It has branded
Many a flesh

I’m the best
I don’t have friends
No females ever
I’m willing
Are you comfortable?


Dear best
I found better


Micro Brew


Their tryst that night would happen in their meeting spot number four, the dim-lit parking lot of a brew house that is unironically named as two initials of  the act describing sucking a cock. When he pulled into the massive parking lot of the brew-house his phone flashed her Whatsapp message.

“I’m close”

His face involuntarily smiled. The words she had used so many times, encouraging him to hold off, hold just a bit longer to time their release. Her naked body would burn hot, her perspiration unable to effectively dissipate the heat from the fire inside her. Her skin would burn. Her lips would brand the places it touched. Her pussy would devour everything that dared to enter her.

His body would beg. Beg for release. Beg to be shown the heaven. She would whisper in his ears,

“I’m close”

He would listen  and obey like the obedient follower of the cult leader. He would find the strength to hold, just a bit longer, for the second time. Her lips would quickly move on, eating his cheeks, neck and nipples. Her left hand clawing into his ass and her right guiding his penis just a bit to hit her sweet spot to maximize her pleasure.

‘I’m close”

He would find the will for the last time.

Sometimes a picture is worth thousand words. Some times two words can tell days of stories, hours of them fucking, all in Ultra High Definition details.

“I’m close”.

He saw her car pull into the spot farthest from his.


Train Arrives


Read Part One here.

Part Two

Radhika (Ra-dee-kaa) lives on the edge of complete control over her world with full knowledge of what she wants, and in a microsecond completely yielding that control when that act promises immense pleasure. She is known in the corporate boardrooms only for her first part, her wheeling and dealing skills from her MBA training that she deploys like magic to crush the balls of competition.

She is now worlds away from those testosterone rich environment, on her sabbatical that took her from New York to Brazil, to her parent’s home country of India. Riding the Maharajah express for the past three days had whetted all her senses. The colors, the folk music, the smell of fields and the taste of spices. Spices have a funny way of pouring gasoline on one’s sexual appetite. She needed some soon, she needed the touch that would simultaneously whet her and quench her. She needed a brown girl now. Not just any but someone that meets her exacting needs. Someone to whom she would submit to.

The last time she had such perfect match and dripping pleasure was in Brazil which now felt like months ago. She remembered the six feet tall Amazon goddess, who stood a foot taller than Radhika, glowing like caramel bubbling at the perfect temperature and a body that would require weeks to explore with her tongue. She was Renata, a Brazilian giant of a girl with big mess of curly hair that framed her head, her sculpted breasts (no, really they were), biceps and thighs that felt like steel fibers, legs that seemed to go on forever and a neat big hot steel rod of a penis.

Yes, Radhika has exacting needs. She wants both pleasure organs, in one package, talking of package, the bigger the better. Renata was just that. She (yes her preferred pronoun) delivered Radhika’s needs for burying her face in comforting breasts, begging for permission to suckle them. And match it by mounting and pounding hard her furry pussy and her tiny ass till she cried in pain.

It was not like she never had vanilla man or girl. She would call that getting subpar deal or leaving money on the table using her boardroom parlance. Sometimes you settle. But not on her sabbatical.

Especially not in Rio.

With Renata there was no boardroom Radhika , just a submissive woman craving for pleasure, begging to be fucked. No tailored power suit with heels clicking. Just a naked girl on her knees begging to drink in the pleasure in every possible way. Renata knew her place and the control willingly handed to her.  Renata knew to deliver, especially with her massive candy cane that Radhika could barely cover with her mouth. Radhika would come again and gain before Renata exploded on Radhika’s face covering it with thick slimy cum that dripped into her mouth. She would make Radhika swallow all of it. She willingly would.

That experience now barely a memory in Radhika’s mind. She need to a refill. It was good being fucked for hours by an Amazon goddess, now she wanted someone more of her size, more manageable, still with the same specifications of single package experience. India had many of them to meet her needs. When the train’s valet made the product pitch she closed the deal for him.

“Yes, I know lovely locals boarded the train and stayed between two unannounced stops. Get me someone who can hold a conversation in English, my height and size, breast I can hold in one hand, real long hair and a working penis. Someone who is bossy”.

Valet had heard many asks before but none so specific or stated without hesitation. No worries, he knew exactly whom he would deliver. A quick approval from the demanding passenger when he flashed a few pictures from his phone. As money changed hands, he set in motion events that would get the girl waiting at the station ready to board the train.

The girl who entered her cabin checked every box on the appearances. Just about her height, brown skin that looked toasted a little past golden. Toned arms with lean muscles exposed by her sleeveless blouse. Perfect sized breasts clothed in blouse visible through her transparent sari. Her hair pulled up in a bun, from the size of it it signaled it would fall till her waist when undone. Her face carried an expression that a careless observer would mistake for smile but really a stern expression that signaled she can wield power.

“Nice name Malini, I hope it is true that your penis works as promised for I need you to fuck my brains out before you drop off at the next stop”.

If one was needed, that was the GO word and there definitely was not going to be a safe word. The events would stop only when the train whistle blows as five minute warning to the drop-off stop.

Malini reached back and removed the rosewood pin holding up her bun that was carefully coiffed by parlor didi and shook her head. Her gorgeous straight hair fell down like knives, some in front, most over her back.  Now there was no mistaking the expression on her face for smile.

This is Queen Malini. She is ready to deliver pain and match it perfectly with pleasure.

Queen Malini would reign over her subject for the next two hours.



Mix of Words


Just a collection of some of  words I received and replies I sent when Craigslist was an option. Edited.

Hello Indian Princess,
Word of the wise of older gentleman
Shaved bald and willing
Reply in email?

Hello Willing
I blush when
You addressed me princess
But, the sane one in me
Tells I am no princess
I am just hungry
Ps: I like shaved bald men

Always sex in your mind, lol
Sure and I do too
But I still generate a lot of heat
Not just from mechanical friction
My mind can catch fire too

Sex isn’t just  friction
Eased with lube
It is biochemistry
Have you been taking lunch?
Have you read my fantasy?

I read the Economist
Cover to cover
Can we discuss fiscal policy
Under hotel bed cover
For I am married

Thank you wonk
I am impressed
I have lot to share
Happy to discuss
Laffer curve
When you taste mine

I am missing
Or feel like I’m missing
Things in my life
A person who is flirtatious
Has something extra to offer
Hope yours still works

I assure you
It works


Mirror Me

1(Stock photo, not me)

(Read the previous one here.)

Did I find Malini or did she find me?

Did I create her or did she create me?

Did I become here or she became me?

I have asked these questions many times only to conclude they are true at the same time despite the contradictions. There likely existed a point where one came before the other. Physics tells us it must be that little me when I saw her in that barbershop mirror but can we categorically prove that was the case?

Questions aside, those brief moments every month were the greatest times of my life, separating reality and being Malini and looking at her beauty. For whatever reasons she saw me and I saw her only in that fading mirror in the dingy crowded barbershop. The moment I sit in the big chair and felt the cape around me, she appeared, filling my heart with joy. And sometimes filling my penis as well, if you can understand how I could be aroused at myself. Yes, it had happened and I would be embarrassed when the barber removed the cape and I had to step down with a  bulge in my tiny shorts.

With that our tryst ended. I was back to being the same me, only with the memory of her, being her and her beauty. And sometimes with an erection which won’t subside until I helped it. I would bike home as fast as I could and run to the small facial mirror in the bathroom hoping she would have reached home with me.  Alas, no such luck. I had tried other mirrors in the house including the dressing mirror in my parents room. She seemed to be stuck to that one mirror.

My biggest fear then was I would forget her face, worse she would forget me. I would wish that I could go by the shop to see her in between my monthly ritual. I never did and I was not sure if she would have appeared. Before I sit down in that chair I would make a mental note to study her fully, observe every detail and commit to memory so I could go home and write that down (I am no sketch artist). But the moment I saw her I became her so who was supposed to take notes?If only she stepped out of that one mirror and became me. I would settle if I could see her in other mirrors. Her oval dark eyes filled with longing. Her full lips that seemed to about to talk but never did. Her long brown neck that showed the movements when she swallowed. Her hair, her beautiful, thick, long hair flowing over her shoulder and vanishing behind her back.  “Wait”, you say pointing out that I do seem to remember the details despite what I just wrote before. That is why I started this with a set of contradictions. How can I tell what happened and didn’t or which happened before the other?The important thing to note was it would be years when I had my own room with my fading mirror and some privacy she came to me. Same as I remembered. She was me.I was her.She is me. I am her.


Close Call

Screenshot_2018-12-15 Baba Sen the Cosmic Barber Haircut to a cute British girl - YouTube

I look forward to Sundays, more so for the first Sunday of new month. It is not because of the present day but because of the experiences of many a first Sundays from my past. Many years, many months, many first Sundays, many a memories and mainly many a fantasies I built for myself during those days. It all happened and happened so on those particular days because that was when my strict father would send me to get my haircut. Haircut is a fancy word really if you consider that it was clippers running wild in random motion. Nevertheless, I loved every thing about it. The build up to the Sunday, the bike ride to the tiny barbershop with two chairs, the wait seeing other men and boys taking their turns and finally my turn to sit.

That dingy and dirty barbershop, lit by fluorescent lights, chairs with the faux leather peeling off, the messy counter and the stained sink in the corner were not the most glamorous beauty shop to feel good about or excited about. That was exactly how I felt even in my teen years as I discovered myself, my sexuality and my yearnings. That one barbershop that I would never step into now and may trigger nothing in anyone’s mind was a sanctuary, nay a dream factory for me.

It was the place that I stepped into another world. A world where I was not a lanky bumbling teen boy getting buzzed to a shapeless cut. It was the world where I was whom I wanted to be, Malini. The switch happened when it was my turn to jump into the chair, a chair so big that I occupied only a tiny area and when the white cotton cloth goes over me as the cape the reel starts rolling.

Everything would fit into place in my mind. The shop around me would vanish. Others waiting for their turn would vanish. The boy in my chair, completely draped in white cape except for the head would vanish. There were only the barber, the fading mirror in front of the chair and her in the mirror.

She was and is Malini.

She would appear instantly in the mirror staring back into the life on this side. Her eyes never really focused on any one thing. She was just happy to be there in world in the mirror. A woman brimming with feminine beauty, full lips, long flowing black hair.

She would sit without  speaking  nothing. In fact, the world around her was all silent. Her gaze after a sweep left to right would settle into one spot. The gaze was devoid of any strong emotions, if any I could only describe it as a sense of content as if saying she was happy to be her and happy in who she was.

I loved her the first time she ever showed up in my mirror. I loved her ever since. Yes you correctly observe here that it was my own mental construction or a projection of the girl inside me on to the mirror. You are correct and wrong. Yes I created her but she also just appeared. I was her. She was me. She became me and I am still trying to become her.

For those twenty odd minutes when the barber in this side of mirror spritzed, combed, and buzzed to stubble I would enjoy the beauty of the girl in me. I would feel the thick silky hair flowing down the back. I would feel the lips quivering ever so slightly. I would stare without blinking her sweet smooth face.

Then it would end when the barber would abruptly remove my cape and ask me to get out of chair. I was never unhappy when the end came. I was happy I saw her. I was happy I got to be her for those brief moments. I looked forward to seeing her again in the next few weeks.

Every month, for twenty minutes I got to see her. Every time the memories would grow another layer and become stronger.

Until one day she stepped outside the mirror and became me.


Whistle Blows

Screenshot_2018-12-14 THE MOST BEAUTIFUL INDIAN WOMAN - YouTube

The crowd around her that night was more than other nights. Must be the peak season with more Westerners riding the Maharajah express. Most came in groups of three four, chaperoned by a mama, must be their handler. The groups chatted, teased each other and laughed. A few like Malini were by themselves, they all chose to keep it to themselves. All in all about thirty men, women, both and neither waited to deliver their wares, themselves. Malini saw a few of the regulars, no words were exchanged just an acknowledgement signaled through their eyes without moving facial muscles. Delivering the highest level of pleasure or pain required more than just prepping your body, her mind needed to focus, talking depleted mental energy.

She was one of the few who spoke impeccable English and some French. This moved her up in preference tiers. But she was also a mix of genders, a hijra in the vernacular of the local folks, with supple and thin feminine body, ass, titties and a working penis. That reduced her appeal to select few. The boys were the most demanded, both the bottoms and tops. Perhaps the western palette liked the spicy penis and sugary brown ass of those men. Then came the girls in the next tier, straight up all natural girls to eat a tired old white man’s penis. She and her class  was at the last rung, a few tourists who wanted some of this and some of that. The Golidlocks choice for men, so far it had only been men for Malini.

Prepping the body was no easy task either. The women and women like her needed most time and effort. A cottage industry of a cluster of parlors popped up in the town they lived to meet just this need. Top down trickle down economics did work. An economic boom in the Western countries made people flush with cash to travel east to India to blow their money on luxurious tourist train and on some flesh. Those who got a share of the dollars and euros were more than happy to spend some of it to support their business, consider it cost of goods sold. The town people with skills could still make a honest living by running beauty parlor for these sex workers who rode the night train.

There was an unspoken rule of segregation among beauty parlors. There were two serving cis women and one serving hijras. Her usual parlor didi (sister) knew her well and her routine for these evenings. Malini never learned her name despite sitting in her chair several times a week, she was just didi even though the two looked the same age.  Didi knew what to do and do quickly, getting her favorite client ready for their train ride. Wash her natural long thick hair in the sink, conditioner with jasmine scent and blown dry. Parlor didi chose the style for the evening and Malini let her for she was thankful someone else made these small decisions for her. That evening did had done her hair in a top bun, hair pulled up and rolled into massive bun that sat just offset from top of her head. This exposed Malini’s long brown neck which did cleaned up with tweezers to make it smooth as granite. All this and makeup took a good part of the hour. By the time Malini changed to pink tissue sari with burnt orange blouse and matching petticoat the bus pulled up to take all those beautiful flesh to the flesh market.

Until that night.

Phones started buzzing in random sequence among the waiting crowd. Their work orders started coming in from the valets in the approach Maharajah Express, valets who had vetted the customer, found their likes, proposed an offering and made a match. First came the message on train car with cabin number and what is expected. Then the payment confirmation.  They all would board the train when it made its first unannounced stop and get down at the second where the same bus that dropped them would be waiting to drive back to town. She had her client and was ready to board the train as it came to a stop in silence.

There were two many first times waiting for Malini that night. First time with another brown person and not a westerner. First time with a woman, cis or trans. First time she would feel this was not just a job. First time she would orgasm in a way she had never done before.

She checked the cabin number again before pushing it open, it was left unlatched as the valets had instructed. It was a spacious deluxe one for a single person. The same arrangement as so many she had been in except more spacious. Sitting near the window, with head leaned against the glass was a gorgeous caramel goddess. She had no makeup, just a clean washed face. Big glasses perched on her nose, her hair un-brushed or messy from day of traveling hung loose and fell just below her shoulders and stopped short of touching her breasts. She was in a clean cotton shirt, two top buttons undone showing her black bra supporting her enormous bosom. Her colorful skirt, she must have bought it when the train stopped at Jaipur, hung to her ankles that were adorned with silver ankles. Her feet was bare taking a breather from day of locked in walking shoes.

“Hello, welcome”, she called out, Her voice and English seemed accent free, her face smiled big when she spoke the words. “I am Radhika”, she pronounced it like most westerners would, “Ra-dee-Kaa” , and not its Indian pronunciation of, “Raaa-dhi-ka”.

“Come have a seat”, she pointed to the spot next to her on the recently made bed.

“What is your name hon?”, she removed her glasses and carefully stowed it in its case that read LV.  Malini was no shy girl, you don’t make a living by being shy. “I am Ma-Lee-nee”, she always westernized her name instead of, “Maa-li-ni”. She sat where Radhika pointed and deposited her purse in the shelf built into the wall.

The train started moving, she could see a few people left out on the platform, the unlucky few with were unpicked. The train quickly left the station and started moving in steady speed. It was in no hurry to reach its next way point.

“Nice name Malini, I hope it is true that your penis works as promised for I need you to fuck my brains out before you drop off at the next stop”.


Subscription Renewal


Mina sat in front of her dressing mirror for the first time in seven years. That was when she lost her status in the society and became a widow.  With the loss of her husband she had lost the right to wear the dot in her forehead. That was not the only thing, it was frowned upon for widows to glam up. Nothing but white sari, no makeup, no lipstick and no hairdos. With his life, they expected the woman’s life to end as well.

She lived true to the rules. Her wardrobe reduced to all white. Her dressing table never sat at. Her hair that was stylishly coiffed and colored was ignored and allowed to grow untamed and show the abundance of silver. She wore her it rolled up in a unremarkable bun.

For seven years she played the role of an ascetic, the part of forever grieving widow. All her senses and appetite suppressed. Suppressed, but never gone.

It was a never ending denial, until now.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror. She had aged more than seven years demanded. Her face showed bags under eyes, crowfeet and blisters in her lips. Her eyes seemed to flicker with a bit of hope but seemed to be told by her mind to not get its hopes high.

Her lips, these can’t her hers? She picked up her last used lipstick from the draw. The color seemed to have faded from age, heat and moisture. It was all she had. She wondered is she knew how to apply it. She did as she elegantly traced her lips. The warmth in her lips brought back some color to the stick and made her lips suddenly come to life. It was as if the thin veneer needed to be removed and a simple coating did just that.

The girl in the mirror looked happier. Far happier than the one who came into view just minutes ago. She traced a finger over her face, around her lips, nose and her cheek. She saw the transformation unfolding, a face coming to life, with a crown of silvery strands.

She reached back and let her hair down, loosened it with both hands until it fell over her shoulders. How long has it grown. She reach back and felt her hair below her midback. There was no more style left in them, they hung like a hastily cut and hung curtain.

She picked up an hair brush that had lost a few bristles, that’d have to do. She pulled forward over her left shoulder a shock of hair and gently brushed it. Just like the lips, a simple caress from brush livened her hair as the silver took on a different kind of shine.

One  stroke down the length.



Something had changed in the past few days. She felt her smile more often. She felt the butterflies waking up in her stomach. She felt her palms sweat frequently. She felt a happy tune run in her mind. She could not suppress her flowing feelings any longer. However frowned upon it was, it did not matter any longer. She wanted to be held. She wanted to be played with. She wanted her lips to be bitten until they bled. She wanted to feel the warm tongue caress her pussy. She wanted it all.

The bell rang.

Already? This was way too earlier than she had expected.

She abruptly stood up. She thought of wiping of the lipstick and tying her hair back. She did neither. She wanted to be seen like this. She wanted to say she is still capable of giving and receiving pleasure.

She wanted to say to the girl waiting behind the door, “I am yours”.

Time for renewal.

Time for her pussy to be eaten.

Time for her to eat pussy.

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