Indian Lusty Stories: Rhea's Goa Flashback

Rhea still remembered the night in Goa that had started like something out of the Indian lusty stories she had once read in secret, rain hammering the beach house roof, Kabir standing in the doorway with his shirt stuck to his chest, and her deciding, in one breathless second, that she was done pretending she did not want him. That memory had lived in her for two years, and now, in a bright Mumbai studio, Kabir was standing in front of her again, holding a camera, pretending he did not remember either.

Rhea was twenty nine, an ad filmmaker in Mumbai, and Kabir was thirty two, the cinematographer she had worked with on that Goa shoot. Two years ago they had been professional, careful, and completely dishonest with each other. The shoot had ended, they had gone back to their own cities, and neither had ever sent the message they had both typed a dozen times. Now a new campaign had thrown them together again, and the first day on set felt like a fuse burning down.

On the second day of the shoot, during a lighting break, Kabir came to stand beside her at the monitor. "You still look at a frame the same way," he said. "And you still stand too close when you say things like that," Rhea replied. He did not move away. "Goa taught me that standing close is the only honest thing I ever did," he said quietly, and Rhea felt her pulse jump into her throat. She turned to him and said, "Then stop pretending, Kabir. We both know what that night was."

That evening, after wrap, Kabir walked her to her car, and Rhea did something she had wanted to do for two years. She took his hand, pulled him into the empty stairwell of the studio building, and kissed him hard against the concrete wall. The kiss was hungry, desperate, two years of unsent messages pouring into it. Kabir lifted her against the wall, his hands under her thighs, and Rhea wrapped her legs around his waist, laughing breathlessly against his mouth.

"My flat, twenty minutes," she whispered. "No more waiting." Kabir drove like a man possessed, and the moment her flat door closed behind them, he pushed her back against it and kissed her neck, her throat, the hollow above her collarbone. Rhea pulled his shirt over his head and ran her nails down his bare back, and Kabir groaned into her hair.

On the bed, Kabir undressed her slowly, as if he had rehearsed it for two years, which in a way he had. He kissed her breasts through her bra first, then took the bra off and took one nipple into his mouth, rolling it with his tongue while his hand kneaded the other breast. Rhea arched up, her fingers tangled in his hair, and whispered, "Do not stop, Kabir, not tonight."

Rhea pushed him back and unbuckled his jeans, freeing his cock, hard, thick, and throbbing in her hand. "You have no idea how many times I imagined this," she said, and took him into her mouth, slow and deep, her tongue circling the tip. Kabir gripped the bedsheet and swore softly, and Rhea looked up at him with her eyes full of mischief before taking him deeper.

Then Kabir pulled her up, turned her onto her back, and spread her legs. He looked at her, wet and open and waiting, and then he buried his face between her thighs. His tongue moved inside her with a rhythm that made her hips rise off the bed, and Rhea grabbed a pillow and pressed it over her own face to muffle her moans. "Kabir," she gasped, "inside me, now."

He positioned himself at her entrance and pushed in slowly, inch by inch, until he was fully inside her. Rhea cried out, her body stretching around him, and then he began to move, deep and steady, each thrust making the bed creak. Her hands clawed at his back, her legs locked around his waist, and every thrust pushed her closer to the edge she had been circling for two years.

When she came, her whole body shook, her pussy clenching hard around his cock, and her cry was loud enough that Kabir covered her mouth with his hand, laughing. He kept thrusting through her climax, faster now, and then he came too, spilling deep inside her with a groan that sounded like relief. They lay tangled in the sheets, sweating, breathing hard, and Rhea said, "Two years, Kabir. Never again."

The next morning on set, the crew noticed something different about them, the way they stood closer, the way they laughed at nothing. During a break, Kabir whispered to her, "Tonight, my place." Rhea smiled and said, "Your place, my rules." That night at his flat, she took charge completely, pushing him onto the bed and riding him slowly, teasing him by stopping every time he got close, until he begged her, and then she let him finish inside her with her forehead pressed to his.

Over the following weeks, their affair became the worst kept secret on the set, whispered about by the crew, denied by both of them with straight faces. One night in the studio after everyone had left, Kabir bent her over the editing desk, her skirt pushed up around her waist, and took her from behind while the monitors glowed around them. Rhea bit her own hand to stay quiet, and when she came, her legs gave way and Kabir had to hold her up.

Another night, in her flat, Rhea blindfolded Kabir with her own scarf and spent an hour exploring his body with her mouth, slowly, deliberately, until he was shaking and begging. Then she straddled him and rode him in the dark, guided only by touch, and the trust of that night changed something between them. Afterward, lying in the dark, Kabir said, "I do not want this to be just a campaign fling." Rhea took his hand and said, "Then do not let it be one."

Before the wrap party, there was one more night that neither of them would forget. The shoot had moved outdoors for a night sequence, and after the last take, Kabir found Rhea alone by the lighting rig, watching the crew pack up. He took her hand and led her to the empty set, a fake living room built for the ad, with a sofa and warm lamps. "One scene that is not in the script," he whispered, and pushed her gently onto the sofa.

On that sofa, under the set lights, Kabir undressed her piece by piece, kissing every inch of skin he uncovered, while Rhea whispered directions at him like a director, "Slower, there, yes, right there." When he finally entered her, she wrapped her legs around him and pulled him deep, and the sofa creaked in rhythm with their movements. A security guard passed by the set door and paused, but neither of them stopped, and when Rhea came, she bit down on Kabir's shoulder to keep from crying out.

Another afternoon, Rhea surprised Kabir at his flat with no warning, wearing nothing under her trench coat. She opened the coat at his door, and Kabir stared for a full ten seconds before pulling her inside and slamming the door. He took her right there in the hallway, against the wall, her coat falling open around them, and then again in the shower, where the hot water ran over both of them while he held her up with her legs around his waist.

One weekend, they drove out of the city to a hilltop resort, just the two of them, no crew, no cameras. In the resort room, with the valley spread out below the window, Rhea rode Kabir slowly for what felt like hours, stopping to kiss him, to whisper in his ear, to make him wait. When he finally begged her to finish, she did, and they collapsed together, laughing, as the sun set over the hills.

The next morning at the resort, Kabir woke her with kisses down her back, and took her from behind while she was still half asleep, her face pressed into the pillow, her body soft and willing. "This is how I want to wake up every day," he murmured, and Rhea, still drowsy, replied, "Then do not sleep anywhere else." They stayed in bed until checkout, and drove back to Mumbai holding hands like teenagers.

Back in Mumbai, Rhea's flat became their unofficial headquarters. Kabir left a toothbrush there, then a shirt, then a whole drawer. One night, cooking dinner together, Rhea smeared chocolate on Kabir's chest and licked it off slowly, and dinner burned while they ended up on the kitchen floor, laughing, sticky, and tangled in each other. "We are terrible at cooking," Kabir said, "but excellent at everything else."

The campaign wrapped with a party, and at the party Kabir pulled Rhea aside and showed her his phone. He had booked a weekend in Goa, the same beach house, two years later. "This time," he said, "we finish what we started properly." Rhea laughed and kissed him right there, in front of everyone, and for once she did not care who saw. The crew cheered, someone wolf whistled, and Rhea thought that some stories really do get a second draft.

That weekend in Goa, in the same room where it had all begun, rain hammering the roof again, Kabir undressed her by the open window and made love to her slowly, facing her, looking into her eyes, as if he wanted to memorize every second. Rhea held his face in her hands and whispered, "This is the version I wanted all along." And when they both came together, wrapped in each other as the rain fell outside, Rhea knew the flashback was finally over, and the real story had begun.