Now the game had changed. It wasn't only about looks anymore and fleeting touches. It was about talk and talking, about secret and secrets, about the slow, steady, seduction of a mind.
Meanwhile, I was learning, with Danish's enthusiastic support, that I was a very willing student. It was a turning point when the coffee was offered with Rohan. This game wasn't just in my head anymore, it had a taste, a sound, a texture. And it was my coach, my conspirator Danish, who was drunk on it. Danish was living vicariously and my experiences were stoking the fire in him which was hotter than ever.
One night I told him, "He's getting bolder," and lay beside him with my head on his chest. He accidentally touched the small of my back at a moment when I was getting ready to pass a group of students today after class, just for a second but it felt thrilling.
Danish said nothing for a great while, stroking my hair. I could feel my wheels spinning. At last, he said, in a deep rumbling voice, "He's testing the boundary."
"He is transitioning from mind to body - you backed off."
You did exactly what you're supposed to do, you were the good teacher, the cautious woman. "What about if you weren't?"
I lifted myself up on my elbow to see him. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, what if the next time, you don't pull away? If you let his hand linger, what would happen? If you let him know that his touch isn't scary, what will happen? That it... is of interest to you?"
My breath hitched. That's not the same line, Danish,
He said, "it is," his eyes shining in the dark. "It's just a touch, Zeenat. A hand on your back. Fingers brushing yours. It's nothing. And it's everything. It's the next step. He wants to know if you're just a flirt or if you're a woman who might let him closer. I want you to let him closer. Just a little." He turned on his side and looked down at me as said, "I want you to go to him. Let him touch you. And then I want you to come home and tell me what it felt like. Was his hand warm? Did it make you go chills down your spine? I want to know it all!"
He was so intoxicating, and his logic was warped and irresistible. He did not give me permission to cheat; he was asking me to push myself to the limits of my power and to come back to our bed with the fruits. He was making me his agent of his desire.
It was two days later when the opportunity arose. The rain was falling and the students were standing under the school building's awnings. An armful of books, I was trying to move through the crowd when I stumbled. Rohan was standing right next to him. His hand extended, not only to hold me up, but to secure firmly to my upper arm, his other hand on my waist to prevent me from falling. "Ms. Parveen," he said, "whoa there." The laws of physics are not to be taken lightly. His hand was firm and his touch like a flame in my saree blouse. I could feel the heat of his palm on my waist. I froze for a few moments.
Danish's words rang in my ears: Let his hand stay. I did not stand straight right away, but instead I looked up at him; a breathless laugh on my lips.
"Thank you Rohan, I think I'm still adjusting to gravity." I didn't move. I didn't want his hands to leave my body. I had a feeling of his finger pressing against my skin, of his hands clutched to me as if they were in possession. A flicker of surprise came into his eyes followed by a slow, dawning triumph. He was aware I would allow him. I had overstepped my bounds with him. His thumb made a movement, small yet quite noticeable, traced a circle around my waist before he dropped it off.
The night of that day was charged with electricity in the house. When I went into Danish's room I was shaking with guilt and adrenaline. Pacing like a caged animal, he was waiting. Before I could say anything, he demanded, "Tell me. I explained to him about the mess up, the hands, and the purposeful pause. He watched me while my chest rose and fell quickly, as I spoke. Then, when I reached the section describing where Rohan's thumb is making that little circle, he gave a grumbled grumble.
His hands ripped at my clothes and his mouth claimed mine in a brutal kiss. No prelude and no loving service. This was the original possession of the pure and prime. He gripped my ass and pulled me tight against his erection and growled, "Did you like it?" "Did you like his hands on you?" " Yes," I gasped, the word wrangled from me. "It was... electric." He bit out, "Fuck," and turned me around, his hands again clutched my shoulders.
He pushed me down and I knew what he meant. The saree and petticoat were still gathered around my waist and my knees fell on the ground with a soft thud. He didn't slip off his clothes, he merely let out his cock, which was thick and stiff in front of my eyes. The head was flushed dark, with a bead of moisture at its tip. His musky, manly aroma filled my nostrils. "I'm going to fuck your mouth first," he growled, his voice a deep rumble that reverberated through me. "Then I'm going to do some serious fucking to the point that you forget what it felt like when his hand was on this body."
My heart was pounding on my chest. I'd never done this before; the intense hunger in his eyes made me think no more about it.
I leaned towards him, my mouth gaping slightly. He gripped a hand in my hair, not forcibly, but with a definite command of me, pulling me even closer. His velvety dick head touched my lips and I stuck my tongue out to taste. It was salty, slightly bitter.
He ordered, "take it. All of it." I opened my mouth wide, and swallowed him up. He was way too thick in my mouth, against my tongue. I got a rusty beat, my hand around the stem of what I couldn't take, my head started bobbing.
He moaned, his voice deep and rough, and his hips started to sway, at first lightly, then more forcefully. He demanded: "Look at me, look at me, look at me." His voice was tight with pleasure. I looked up at him; his jaw clenched in ecstasy; his dark eyes burning down at me. I felt a bolt of pure desire hit me right between the legs.
"You're so fucking pretty with my cock in your mouth." His praise spurred me on. I relaxed my throat, pulling him deeper and deeper, trying to not gag when he hit the back of my throat. Tears streamed down my cheeks, but I didn't stop, wanting to give him this, to take all of him. But his fingers tightened in my hair, his thrusts grew faster and more erratic. He was getting my face fucked, and it was so fucking good.
Then, he gave a hard pull and I began to growl, my mouth empty and wanting. He grabbed me and pulled me to my feet, snarling, "Not yet! With one motion, he turned me around and bent me over the edge of the bed. He pulled my saree and petticoat the remainder of the way up round my waist, giving me a full view of the situation. He was hard in me, from behind, one devastating thrust that robbed me of air. I cried out and my fingers clutched the bedsheets. Hard, maybe even violent, as opposed to the slow exploration before, but what I needed. Absolution and reward in one. He punched me in the hips so hard; his fingers dug into my flesh; he grunted so loud that the whole room seemed to echo with it.
Against the relentless beat of his pulse he demanded, "Tell me again. Please tell me how he touched you." As I began to describe it, "his hand... on my waist... so hot... his thumb... circling..." His fingers found my clit and rubbed it too with the same rough urgency. "Like this?" he grumbled. "Will he make you feel like this?"
"No!" I sobbed, my body rocking like he rocked me, "Only YOU, Only YOU can make me feel like this." I exploded with an orgasm so strong and powerful it shook me to my core, leaving me breathless and flustered. Following me over the edge, he grumbled something into my ear, his body crushing mine as he emptied himself into me. There we lay, entangled, breathing back to normal, for a long time. I fell to the ground and he was with me, his touch so gentle now. "You were so brave," he whispered to my forehead, kissing me. So "hot, so hot. I pressed myself up against him and the adrenaline slowly dissipated, replaced by a warm, contented feeling.
The unspoken rule, the sweet game Danish and I tried to keep out of the way of, was about to be broken by the one person. It was a Tuesday when the call was made. Zeeshan. My husband. His voice was distant and familiar over the phone, announcing his return surprise. He will be back home on Friday, for two weeks. Friday. The word fell like a death sentence in the colourful, secret life that I had created.
That night, we were frantic, desperate in our love making. No more was it a game. It was a farewell. He revered me with such passion that he memorised every curve, every response in his mouth and hands. "Still, I'll have you," he panted against me, his voice sharp, raw. "So when he sleeps, when he's taking his shower, I will find you. I will taste you. This will never stop. This will go into hiding."
The house changed when Zeeshan came. The aroma of his perfume filled the air, and he was all around. He was a stranger, he was a man whose name was mine and whose life was mine, but he knew nothing of me anymore. He kissed my cheek, a perfunctory kiss.
"You look good, Zeenat," he said proudly.
I spent that night, my body stiff, in his bed. The smell of Zeeshan was not right, his breathing was too loud, his touch was too violation. When he touched me, his hands assume, I shut my eyes and play along. I curved my back, I cried out, but in my head, Danish's face was before me, Danish's hands to my skin, Danish's name on my lips in the stillness of my mind. It was mechanical, it was a betrayal of my body and my soul. I played a role in my marriage for 15 days and I was a ghost.
However, it was a promise he kept on his word, Danish. Moments were stolen and the house turned into a minefield. It was the next morning when the first opportunity arose. Zeeshan was exhausted and slept till noon. I was making tea in the kitchen when Danish walked up to me. The window was open and the noise of the road was a cover. He didn't speak. All he did was touch my back and his hard dick was poking my butt through my thin nightgown. His hands snaked around and wrapped around my breasts, his thumbs on my nipples making them pebble. I rested my head against his shoulder, giving up. He bit the nape of my neck with a sharp and possessive bite. Then he went away and I stood trembling while the fragrance of his fragrance lingered, beside my husband's coffee odour.
The days became a frantic and sensual series of routines. When Zeeshan would go to market, I'd see Danish in the living room, pushing me to my knees and his fingers in my hair, fucking my mouth with a desperate, silent urgency. While Zeeshan was in the shower, Danish used to sneak into our bedroom, close the door, and lift my sari off of me, press me down the back of the door, and then hold his hand over my mouth to muffle my screams.
These were stolen, frantic and even more intoxicating encounters. It was a fine aphrodisiac that there was always the possibility of being captured. But the game with Rohan ratcheted up, as Danish whispered encouragement in our stolen moments.
One day, when Zeeshan was busy with a business call in the other room, Danish whispered to me in my ear, "Text him. Say Hi to him". I was shaking with fear as I composed the message. Rohan's reply was almost instantaneous.
"I can see the light in your eyes when you talk about black holes, it's... distracting." I showed this reply of Rohan to Danish and he grinned. "Okay, tell him that you're free for a few hours tomorrow afternoon, and tell him to meet you at the cafe, which is near the school."
I protested weakly and said, "But Zeeshan is home." Danish was well aware of his brother's whereabouts, as he said, "He's going to the club with his friends. You'll have three hours, go, be Zeenat, the one who meets boys for coffee."
The following day, I was lying. I explained to Zeeshan that I was going out for lunch with an old female colleague. It was a bitter taste in my mouth, but more exciting and edgy.
Rohan was there at the cafe waiting for me. This time it was without hesitation. While I was seated, he took my hand, his thumb stroking my knuckles. "I always hope you'll come," he confessed.
We talked, but it was a thin disguise of what really mattered: The pull that was between us. He told me that he couldn't get me out of his mind. He remembered my appearance when I was teaching about a complicated idea and how I moved my sari when I walked. He was sketching a portrait of himself and of me that was both known and totally new. "I gotta admit this," he said, leaning forward, with his voice low. "I don't just see you as a teacher, I see you as a beautiful lady, and when I close my eyes, it drives me crazy."
My heart pounded in my chest. This was the time. The next line. I remembered what Danish said: See what you do when you know you can touch him back.
I stretched out my hand and placed it on his. His fingers were at work, trying to move in surprise, his skin was warm. I whispered, "I know the feeling." He widened his eyes, and then his eyes darkened, and with that hunger, the same as mine. He turned his hand over and took my fingers in his. This was the first occasion. The touch was innocent, simple and more scandalous and exciting than anything I ever engaged in with Danish in secret. It was a touch of light, a touch of the world.
Zeeshan was still out when I arrived home. And and I found Danish. I didn't have to say anything. He knew what was on my face. He said, "He held your hands in his hand." It wasn't a question but a fact. I nodded; I could not breathe. "Tell me," he urged, his voice tight and filled with some feeling I could not name--jealousy, pride, lust. I gave a detailed description of what happened, how it felt, what was in Rohan's eyes. As I spoke, Danish walked towards me, his eyes blazing. He didn't kiss me. Then he just stood there for a moment before he tore the front of my blouse and the buttons all fell to the ground. He pushed me on the bed, not gently, but urgently, desperately. "He touched you," he growled, his hands ripping into my clothes. He lifted my petticoat, pulled my panty and thrusted his penis into me without any preamble, his thrusts being hard and angry. "You are not his. You are mine. You are mine." His words were a brand, his possession a punishment, a reward. It was not pain that caused me to cry, it was the painful ecstasy of being wanted so much, the centre of such a storm I had led.
My life was in two worlds. I had to go with my husband's brother in the dark and a boy, who quickly turned into a man, in the light.
Then, Danish drove into me again, claiming me once more and I knew with terrifying clarity that I was not playing a game. I was getting into the game. Zeeshan's visit had come to a state of duality: tense and thrilling. My nights were theatre, a mechanical marital duty, I closed my eyes and made the illusion that the body under my arm was Danish. My days and the stolen moments in them were full of a terrible, exciting life. All of this fed the growing fire within me, when Zeeshan's back was turned, there were the secret texts with Rohan, fleeting electrifying touches in the school corridor, and frantic, desperate encounters with Danish.
Then they got the invitation. It was a formal, cream colour card which was sent to school. Rohan's parents were celebrating their wedding anniversary with a big party. It was a beautiful event and the invitation was sent to me and my family. I thought, "Oh my gosh," a party. With Zeeshan. And Danish. And Rohan. Everyone in the same space. It was an unfortunate accident in the making.
On that same night, I displayed the card to Danish as he was in the garden, smoking a cigarette. The light from the moon threw harsh shadows on his face. The beautiful lettering gave him pause and a slow, menacing smile came to his lips. "Oh, this is just great," he said softly. "This is the next level...."
"Danish are you crazy?" I hissed, taking the card back. "I can't go. We can't go. What if Zeeshan sees... anything?"
He said, puffing on his cigarette, the glowing tip a fiery point in the darkness, "Zeeshan will be unaware. He'll be shaking hands, talking business, he won't see a thing." He lowered his head, lowered his voice. "But I will. And Rohan will. And you will."
He put the cigarette out and placed my hands in his. "It's not a disaster, Zeenat, it's an opportunity. It's a stage. You're going to walk in there on Zeeshan's arm, the perfect wife. But... I want you to test the limits in plain sight."
"What do you mean?" I breathed, my heart pounding a mix of fear and excitement. When Zeeshan is busy with a friend or when he's immersed in the real estate discussion - that's when you'll find Rohan - I want you to dance with him.
"Dance?" I asked shockingly.
"Yes, a slow dance in the middle of the crowd, where everyone could see, but no one's looking." His eyes were fierce, burning in mine. "As you're dancing, I want you to move your hands around, I want you to press your body against his and I want you to look at him like you look at me when you're alone, I want to see if he has the balls to take you."
I was taken aback at how bold the action was. "Too much Danish... too much."
"No," he said, his voice strong and his hands clenching mine. "It's not enough, I want to see it. I want to watch you with him, I want to see you be the slut I'm training you to be right in front of your husband, it will be the most erotic thing I've ever seen."
Glittering lights, mellow music and the clinking of glasses made the party a head-spinning experience. Zeeshan, for one thing, was the charming socialite, who surrounded me with his arm, and introduced me to his business associates. I did my bit, the dutiful, loving wife. My eyes were looking around the room, searching, and then I saw him. Rohan. He was a devastating sight in some dark suit, with a perfectly coiffed hair. I spotted him in the throng of people and a bolt of electricity jolted through me. He barely nodded, almost as if he were saying it to himself, as if he knew something we didn't.
Soon, Zeeshan was swept up by a corpulent individual wishing to discuss shipping matters, as Danish predicted. "Darling," he said with a pat on my hand as if he were not doing anything. "Business." This was my cue.
I felt my heart pounding against my ribs and I was a bit shivering in my hands holding a glass of juice as I walked through the crowd. Rohan met me. "Was I to expect you to get away, he asked in a low caress? "You look breathtaking."
I said, "I felt I was in another world, I admit." He said, "Let me make you feel at home" and without waiting for a reply, he took my glass and put it down and guided me to the dance floor.
A romantic song with a slow tempo was playing. He had his hand on the small of my back one hand, and his other hand on my hand. This time it was not the same place he had touched on when I fell down, but this time it was deliberate and public. We swayed for a while and then we stood straight again. Every contact point between us I was highly conscious of. And then I recalled another challenge from Danish. I took a breath. I let my body be relaxed, mold it to his. I heard him take a sharp breath. Sliding my hand up his back, up his shoulder, my fingers in his soft hair at the back of his neck. My eyes were glaring, my mouth opened slightly as I stared him down.
With his eyes black with desire, he breathed, "Zeenat. What are you doing?
"To really enjoy the dance," I whispered, eyes widening, lips forming a smile. I came closer, and my hips were in sync with his, as he made his undeniable presence known. I could sense his reaction - his hard ridge against me under the layers of clothes. This was a sensational and exciting announcement.
His grip on my back increased, he was pulling me too close. With his thumb he traced small circles on my back, as I described to Danish. His eyes lowered to my lips. He was going to kiss me, Here, in the middle of the party. And then I felt it. Eyes on me, eyes on me. I looked over to my right, and there he was. Danish. Drinking from a glass while leaning on a pillar in front of us. He wasn't angry. He wasn't jealous. He was transfixed - his eyes and his face, pure, unadulterated lust and pride. He was watching his creation dancing. I got a tremendous boost of courage at the sight. I put my whole mind on Rohan.