Shanti was one of the few women in his life whom Kamesh did not deliberately set out to seduce.Their affair was surprisingly spontaneous and, later, it seemed remarkable that it had not happened sooner.She was a born slut who fucked men at her convenience and need, a contemporary.
It was in the midst of a particularly brutal divorce wrangle, piquantly on a charge of adultery, that they became lovers.He was at her house late that night, working over the papers for the next day's trial. She lived alone in a sprawling old top-floor flat in a quiet, tree-shaded lane in a suburban neighbourhood once affluent and prestigious, now slowly going to seed.
She had one husband who was more a man-servant, impotent Sridhar.
It was a two-bedroom apartment with a large terrace and and the doors of the bedroom were wide open.
A fan whirred overhead. Kamesh sat in a comfortable wicker armchair, papers on his lap, files scattered over the floor, his half-moon glasses on his nose, utterly absorbed. Shanti sat cross-legged on the bed, checking cases from a huge pile of books at the foot of the bed.
She glanced up at him, and her heart skipped a beat. He was so handsome, with that hard, yet gentle face, those sharp, piercing, yet infinitely tender, dark brown eyes, the square jaw, the hard nose, the lean looks, the immensely powerful body. She took in the breadth of his shoulders, the astoundingly savage V of his torso, the strength in his arms and legs. Her body tingled as she stripped him mentally. His shirt was open low now and she noticed that his chest was broad and hard and deeply cleaved and quite hairless.
His hips were high, the waist narrow, and she noticed, looking down the V of his shirt, that his belly was hairless too, and hard as a washboard. There was not a roll of fat in it as he bent over the papers on his lap. She could even see his small, dark, prominent nipples, stretched wide apart on either side of his massive chest. Feeling intensely horny, she returned to her books.
A few weeks earlier, she had jettisoned her last lover, a sturdy eighteen-year old with unusually impressive sexual skills, when he proposed marriage. She wanted no such ties in her life, not yet anyway. In her typically gentle fashion, she fucked the youth relentlessly till he was drained and then quietly ended the relationship.
He left with a smile, no regrets and a standing over to return to her bed whenever he liked.
Since then, she had fucked her father in law Arjun and his brother Ramesh, to sate her powerful sexual appetite.
They were good, but she craved variety; someone younger, stronger, better.
Desperate, she had taken two of the sons of Ramesh, Barman and Chandru, as lovers. They fucked her superbly, but their visits were far too irregular to be satisfactory. Kamesh finished with the papers. He stacked them neatly and, tying them into their folder, tossed it aside with a sigh. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes wearily.
"Okay, that's it. Enough." he muttered.
She shut her book in relief. She hadn't his capacity or endurance. She smiled at him.
"Thank god," she said.
"What for?"
"I thought you'd never finish."
"I haven't," he chuckled. "Just wait till tomorrow!"
He rose to go and she had to quell her disappointment. She got up off the bed.
"Okay, *ciao* love, see you tomorrow," he murmured.
"Kamesh. Wait."
She put her hand on his arm and he turned. Her face was turned up to his, and their eyes locked. He felt a sudden jolt hit him as he looked at her. She was quite lovely. Her hair was dark and silky with a superb sweep and a wave, parted slightly to one side, framing her firm-chinned, oval face. Her nose was a tad beaky, but on her it was perfect. Her lips were full, yet delicate, and she had a bright, alluring smile. Her eyes were dark, lined delicately with *kajal*. She had a good line to her jaw. Her skin was tawny, like wheat, and she had a few delectable beauty spots on one side, and an inter interesting little scar near her left eye.
Her fingers and toes were shapely.
Her body was short and slight, yet slender and well-filled. Her breasts were high and firm, the belly tender and flat, though not hard, the hips nicely widened, the legs and arms smooth. She was wearing a simple *churidar* and *kurta* outfit of some semi-synthetic material that clung to her curves like film.
Their eyes locked. They were standing very close. Her lips parted slightly. He could see the white of her perfect teeth. She felt her body flush with excitement.
His head bent to hers. Her lips parted, and he felt her breath warm and sweet on his face. Their lips met, brushed, fleeting, then met again, in a long, delicate kiss. He drew her lip between his and sucked and gently she slid her tongue out between his lips, probing his mouth. Her arms wound about his thick shoulders, fingers entwining in his hair. Her body smelled musky with the sweat of the day, his was tacky and manly.
His hands slid up from her waist to her breasts. He felt them swell and grow hot and turgid in his hands. He squeezed gently, rolling the fleshy mounds in his hands, and her nipples, stubby and hard, popped out hard through the thin cloth. He realised that she didn't have a bra on. He flipped open the buttons of her *kurta*. They went down low, almost to her waist and he pulled it wide. Her breasts were perfect: large and firm, with a nice thrust and slope and a good cleavage. He slid his hands under her blouse and she arched her head, eyes fluttering shut, gasping softly as his expert hands caressed her nipples.
"Shanti ..."
"What," she murmured.
