The Brave Pedestrian

It is like a song that is sung in the dark. Her voice, rising, falling, rising higher Like waves, like the sea And his low voice as he urges her on. He delights in her cries, And she... She delights in herself, in free-falling Away from herself Into herself Hurtling backwards in the soft darkness Towards herself, arms and legs outspread. And she cries out in longing and the Joy of meeting And he responds to her song With his rhythm, Causing the waves in her belly, In her entire being. Waves that collapse upon themselves In a froth of pleasure And a high note through clenched teeth that trails Into silence And makes itself one with the night. Naked limbs softly twine and intertwine all night Warm brown flesh caressing luxurious cool white flesh Now in sleep, now in wakefulness... Silken smoothness pressed against creamy softness Dripping pleasure slowly like a burning candle all night Melting down but not quite going out before dawn. The song continues to play in the silence And ne...

[Friendship, love and trust have many meanings. This is an erotic story about all those beautiful emotions.] He lay awake in bed, waiting for her to finish her kitchen winding-up chores and join him. By the time she came in and began undressing for bed, he was very nearly asleep. With drowsy eyes, he gazed at her taking off her saree. She had grown a bit plump of late, but it only made him love her more. "There is more of you to hug now than when I married you," he sighed, wrapping his arms and legs around her in the dim light of the bedlamp. "This is sheer luxury!" She reciprocated by kissing him, and then turned around, determined to fall asleep quickly. Tomorrow was another tough day ahead, and she would have to cook a full formal lunch, keeping in mind his guest. Not just the daal-chaval that she made on days when she was feeling tired. "Turn off the lights, please," she said sleepily. "Not yet," he breathed in her ear. "Let me ...

[Friendship, love and trust have many meanings. This story is about one of these meanings.] He lay awake in bed, waiting for her to finish her kitchen winding-up chores and join him. By the time she came in and began undressing for bed, he was very nearly asleep. With drowsy eyes, he gazed at her taking off her saree. She had grown a bit plump of late, but it only made him love her more. "There is more of you to hug now than when I married you," he sighed, wrapping his arms and legs around her in the dim light of the bedlamp. "This is sheer luxury!" She reciprocated by kissing him, and then turned around, determined to fall asleep quickly. Tomorrow was another tough day ahead, and she would have to cook a full formal lunch, keeping in mind his guest. Not just the daal-chaval that she made on days when she was feeling tired. "Turn off the lights, please," she said sleepily. "Not yet," he breathed in her ear. "Let me enjoy looking at...

May 29, 2006: A couple of days ago, I posted a blog raising uncomfortable questions about why so many guys fantasized about their wives making love to some guy — boss, buddy etc. Why was such evolutionarily counterproductive behaviour as offering your own wife on a platter to some other dude such a tantalizing thought? Why was cuckold fantasy such a popular genre, was the question I raised.  My touchstone is that unless a form of behaviour had evolutionary value, or at any rate had survival value, that would have died out, thanks to natural selection. After sleeping over the problem for a couple of days, I finally have it figured out.  (Yeah, right! At this rate, you should elect me President of Planet Earth, because within a couple of years, I’ll come up with solutions to all problems, including global warming and the hole in the ozone layer!) And while I’m at it, let me hazard a comment on how gay behaviour among bo...

…was pressing the blunt heavy chopper to his throat unnecessarily hard, grinding it into adam’s apple. “Die, you filthy monk! You lying dirty bastard! You betrayed the trust with which I sent my wife to prostrate before you… swine! Now you die!” he was screaming into his ear. Guru Vaastava wished his disciples would learn to express even anger in a gentle whisper. A trickle of blood soaked the saffron cloth on his chest. His mind was numb from the sudden attack of this obedient disciple, Ramana, in the dead of night. Oh yes, he remembered Ramana’s wife… how could he not remember those perfectly-formed white thighs? How could he forget the look of surprised pleasure in her eyes? He remembered how he had bid her to lie on her back in the prayer room, in front of the black stone linga that she had so lovingly rubbed with sandalwood. Under the stony gaze of the hooded serpent, he had gently caressed her toes and feet as she lay whimpering in passion… caressed her calf-muscles with a c...