The Woman

I’m Geeta Sen. Yes, that is my real name. I chose to use it instead of hiding behind a nickname because there is a certain rush I would get in using my real identity. It’s like turning up in a masquerade orgy without a mask.

I was born in Kochi, a sleepy port city. Youngest of three, I was raised in a conservative Nair family, to become a docile, timid, and obedient girl. The values of my culture and the importance of my heritage were imbibed in me from a young age, so it wasn’t surprising that I soon became deeply religious.

As years rolled by, I grew up to be a graceful young woman, one who wears a saree with elan, without showing a hint of my cleavage, which by then would have been quite a view had I chosen to show it. I would diligently go to college and refrain from flirting and even from the advances of suave men. I would dutifully go to temples looking as elegant and pure as a morning dewdrop. I had sculpted myself an image of an elegant and decorous young woman in the minds of the people around me and my family. Only I knew how lascivious and prurient my mind was.

Beneath all the graceful, timid woman lay a lustful woman, whose fantasies grew stronger and darker as she grew. I was aware of how big my breasts were and the power the smooth curves of my body held. I was aware of the lecherous looks of men as I walked, and that would make the place between my legs tingle. I knew what wasn’t shown was bound to be more enticing than what wasn’t.

But never once did I yield in. I wanted the first to be my husband, and I knew whatever perverse fantasies I had, I’d do it with him. Even the ones that involved other men. Oh, how young and disillusioned I was!

The Wife

And when I turned 21, I married a man of my parents’ choice. I was happy. He was a good-looking, well-mannered gentleman who ticked all of my boxes to be my ideal partner. Let’s call him K. Menon. I’m not going to reveal his name here. On our wedding night, however, we didn’t consummate our marriage and ended up talking through the night, but the morning after, we ended up having sex. My saree hunched up to the waist, my legs spread open, and my pussy eager and wide, taking his thrusts, holding him close to me. Ah! What a bliss it was!

It soon became a routine. We’d end up having sex almost daily. He seemed to love it, and I was insatiable. He was good, no doubt, but I craved for more. Just the normal sex didn’t quell my thirst. But I didn’t know what I wanted. My fantasies grew darker, and I resorted to masturbating more often. I wanted to taste him, but my husband thought it would be inappropriate to perform a fellatio, and I didn’t want him to think I was improper, so I didn’t push. We’d have sex, but they didn’t have the fervour with which I had imagined it should. It was nice. And that was what kept me questioning. It was nice, not racy, not vulgar, not numbing, just nice. I decided that should be how it was to be. After all, it was nice.