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MAJOR MISSING
It is Valentines week and Gauri is quite frustrated with the way people are exchanging hugs, kisses and chocolates around her ... Some of her friends are lying to their family members to meet their boyfriends and What is Gauri doing? She is away from her husband. Trying to live normally ... Trying to have a routine ... Which in itself is a task unbearable ... A day without Omkara is unbearable and which special day is coming up? Of course ... Valentines day. A day of love without her beloved. Will it be? Will it be not?
REMINISCENCE
There exists a man, a delightfully masculine creature with a boyish grin and a wonderful sense of play about him. A real man's man if you will. Gauri has rarely afforded the opportunity to not touch him, to run the tips of her fingers across the coarse dark hair that covers his strong forearms. She is oft denied the pleasure and passion of his kisses, remembering them instead in the dreams of her days and the loneliness of her nights.
She remembers every moment of their intense love making very well, though it's been some time, not by choice, but the realities of life exist. The taste of him, the touch of him, the smell of her man, Her love, the memories come back to her time and again.
Yet, despite the distance, she feels his presence, his essence every day. His voice makes her weak-kneed and tongue-tied. His words distract her , leave her dripping, squirming and on the verge of coming. Late afternoon teasing phone calls in between the lectures are the guiltiest of pleasures. She listens to him recounting the desire to have him alone, backed up against the wall, large and masculine hands wandering, exploring the naughty lace beneath her hiked up dresses. Swallow hard, appear collected and say little to give herself away. The constraints of just listening and the inability to respond with anything other than a hard swallow and taut peaks stiffening beneath her clothes make her ache with want and heady frustration. His gentle brand of seduction makes her close her eyes, toss her head back and sigh with pleasure. And oh the dreams: they leave her tangled in the bed sheets, breathless and reaching for him in the darkest hour of the night. The morning after taste of frustration and futility cloying to the palate, as he is not really hers to have in the moment.
She had laid in bed with him, sweat dripping from their bodies exhausted from making love, felt him running down the inside of her thighs. She had closed her eyes and imagined him towering over her, fitting his hips to hers and sliding deep inside her womanhood. She had fallen in love, over and over again, with the sound of his orgasm. That husky throaty, nearly primeval groan in her ear as he leaned in close all tensed up, one last thrust deep inside her soul and unleashed a torrent of heat into her. For a moment nothing existed outside the two of them. She loves the fact that she can inspire in him, what he commands of her. She had clenched and had spasms for him, upon his demand, with three fingers buried deep inside her, the sound of his voice and the power of his words drenching her mind in a kind of mental orgasm.
This man and her? They have met in the middle of an even playing field. Bent their heads together in silent prayer for one another, felt the energy flow from one to another. She would like to think she knows what makes him tick. She would like to think she knows what he is thinking sometimes even before he knows. Perhaps that's just feminine arrogance speaking out of turn, but she does know what gets his attention and what gets him off. He can play her body like a finely tuned instrument and he knows her mind as if it were his own, because she bravely stretched out both, gloriously naked, before him like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon.
She shares her secrets with this man. Her hopes, dreams, fears, he hears them all. There is nothing she could not tell him. She excitedly hears his innermost thoughts too. Each and every day this man, who has become as much a part of her existence as her right arm, is there for her in some form. He stokes her mind, her ego, her soul as much as he gently, teasingly strokes her flesh. She is his for the taking. This much he knows is true.
This man she rarely has the pleasure of touching is the most skilled lover anyone can ever have. The back of his hand will always briefly slide up the slope of her stomach and will leave her all aflutter. The tips of his fingers running down the side of her cheek have been her undoing on more than one occasion. He has held her hips and slid his hard length into her from behind the way he knows she likes it. She often closed her eyes, ducked her head, arched her back and screamed out his name as she has always felt him touch the very heart of her. He has held her tight as she fell and she has hungrily tasted all he has to give. He has whispered to her in that low and slow drawl, "give it to me baby" and she has loved to. It's the voice that gets her off just closing her eyes and concentrating on each syllable, every delightful image he spins for her.
Yes... there is indeed a man who's voice and words leaving her dripping, aching, wanting for more.
Bindi
Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi 2
Jodha Akbar
