The Benefit Season by Nidhi Singh Page B

anything. I keep my hands to myself,
since I have fixed ideas about preserving the novelty of her flesh
till I get to know it on the day I am legitimately allowed to. On
the other hand, no such inhibitions restrain the wild flights my
fancy takes when I am next to the dangerously addictive Monal, who
it seems arches out to me in restless ache and yearning.
    ‘ How come you never told
me about her?’ She asks as if she knows I am thinking of
Monal.
    ‘ There was nothing to
tell. She doesn’t matter. I haven’t, for that matter, told you
about her husband, or Tom, or other people at work
either’.
    ‘ She’s lethal- those
looks, the glint in those eyes, that killing figure, the face-cut.
What’s she- a model?’
    ‘ Yeah, she’s a model
corporate boss- interfering, ruthless and calculating. We get along
fine; she demands, I deliver. It’s a happy equation. You will find
something similar anywhere you go’.
    ‘ You mean I’ll have a
devastatingly handsome boss who will sneak in on us when we’re
having the most important moment of our life and rub his hands
greedily down and up my nape and shoulders and you’ll be okay with
that?’
    I look at the streaking lights flitting
across her pretty face- now clinched like a fist, and see that she
is covetous. I like it. I notice the creamy chest tapering down to
a heaving bosom and I see a storm rising. Her cleavage beckons; oh,
how I hate to put it like that; like a carnal body form whereas it
really is holy flesh carried in the fold of her garment,
consecrating all that bury in it their unsaved eye, nose or tongue.
If at that moment I sip at her founts, for sure the driver will
report to Monal, who I am certain will rise in the front seat to
chastise me with her whips and hot displeasure. Easing Monal out of
my mind, I lean down and brush my lips in the hollow of Aarti’s
pearly neck and deeply inhale her body smells intermingled with
Chanel No 5. She sighs and tilts her head on mine, her peachy
breath quickens and her hand tightens its grip on my thigh. My
tongue forks to the forbidden chasm between her swelling orbs-
sipping of their warm dew. Aarti whispers fiercely in my ears,
‘he’s watching’, and plucks my face out of her chest. She adjusts
her blouse and smiles at me, surprised at my growing insolence.
Having a rock on the third finger has its advantages- it gives you
conjugal rights to the property concerned. No wonder, Indian women,
even the best of them like our Aarti here; all prim and proper one
minute, are ready to fling the locks of their chastity belts open
the moment the first man walks along with the sweet sense of
promise of matrimony. But I intend to take no such advantage of my
girl. I promise not with a finger to flick open the forbidding
blouse to set another eye, nose, or mouth upon the creamy pudding
that reposes within. I shall not steal from myself. I shall covet
not what is already mine. I shall not be caught again with my hand
inside my own till. I…Aarti grabs me by my hair and pulls my face
towards her and plants her lips on mine, kissing me furiously,
before I foreswear any further the knowledge of her flesh. I taste
her cool mouth, the warm juices that break at the tip of my tongue
and the honeyed breath that drapes over my face. She grabs my hand
and places it gently over a taut breast, with a nipple hard and
pointy as a marble- or is it really a sequined embellishment- I
can’t say for sure. As the cab slows to a halt she plucks my tongue
out of her mouth, a vanity mirror out of her purse, a scented
tissue paper out of the vanity box and starts to dab at her face
with it. We have reached her aunt’s place. Her aunt is the younger
sibling to Mr. Khosla. Aarti removes the ring and drops it into her
bra, where it nestles warmly between the two cozies. ‘Break it to
them gently’, she explains. I’m okay with that.
    I rush to get her door, but the cabbie makes
it before me. It’s a nice, sea-facing, little cottage with a