Decision Night

You decide you're going to go for smart, but casual. You also learned a long time ago that I really don't see the point in expensive cosmetics and that, perhaps more significantly, I really like you as you are. The long dress will cover you without being too revealing. Later on you might think about wandering around without much on for my benefit, but you're not going to wander round looking like a tart in public.

You hesitate, considering whether to leave your knickers off, and then go for a pair you bought specially, out of town, when you were pretty sure nobody you knew was around, then add the matching bra, tucking firm breasts, nipples already sensitive with anticipation, into their cups, the fabric leaving little to the imagination.

You check in the mirror, running your hands over what are almost half spheres. You can see the tips. It must be possible to see your pussy, even sexual folds, through your knickers. You smile to yourself, feeling sexy. I mentioned something about black lace weeks ago, and it stuck in your mind. The flowing dress goes on, and you struggle briefly with the zip behind your back. You go for smart but laceless shoes. You don't own high heels, and boots don't feel quite right.

I've invited you round for dinner. You know, from experience, that I enjoy a nice restaurant, which never means the pizza option that you have got used to at university, and is more often than not something spicy and exotic, but also that I'm more than competent in the kitchen.

You've also experienced me coming and picking you up. You're not sure what to make of this. In some ways it feels quite old-fashioned, a quaint attitude in a man who's only a few years older than you. In some ways it feels quite good. You've decided it's not about me not wanting you wandering around on your own. You're more than capable of looking after yourself, and I know it. Still, you're going to make your own way.

The air around my place smells, not atypically, like an Indian restaurant, and you know I've been plundering recipes from the cookery books I sent home to myself from Dehradun, books that need a basic grasp of transliterated Hindi to follow. You've seen my bookshelves, and know there are others from cuisines originating all over the world, some from countries I've been, others from places I've yet to visit and that, perhaps, if things go well, you might explore with me.

You've come to appreciate my culinary world tours, and know I can equal, if not beat, most of Edinburgh's takeaways, and not a few restaurants, although we've visited a couple where I admit their trained chef trumps my practice. I can do better than the usual Indian food modified for Europeans found in most takeaways, but I still can't make a decent dosa. You're about on time. You couldn't have made it much earlier, and if I say dinner at 7, I mean be there before 7:15 or risk food not being at its best.

You let yourself in, knowing you're the only person in my life permitted to do this, leaving your shoes by the door. Six weeks after our first kiss, you know I'm interested in you as a person. You know I find you hot and sexy, and I'm not the only man around who feels that way, but I'm still around long after most men would have quit when you didn't jump straight into bed with them. It isn't, you are clear in yourself, some sort of test: it's about finding the right guy.

One bloke, who you had high hopes for -- for less than a week -- gave up amid some nasty commentary about your sex drive. As far as you know, that is healthy, but there's a healthy libido and there's letting the wrong guy into your knickers. I've made no secret of wanting more than kisses and fondling on the sofa, and you've felt, sometimes by accident, sometimes not, my arousal from the closeness of your body. On the other hand, you're shy, which you admit quite happily, and want intimacy as well as sex.

The kitchen is hot. All four rings on the stove are on, and I'm making roti, a wooden spatula in one hand, a damp teacloth on the chopping board. The tava is hot, and you guess the other three pans will contain dhal, probably heavy on the garlic and chillies, and one sabji or another, which might include vegetables you can get in any supermarket, or might not. I'm not afraid of odd green things with no common English name, and will happily wander into any of half a dozen greengrocers and transact business in my elementary Hindi or Urdu. I've been asked a few times if I've known what to do with an odd vegetable. My preferred response is to ask if I look like a gora. The correct answer to this is that yes, I do, but they don't know I learned most of my Indian cookery skills in domestic kitchens and watching practised experts across the subcontinent.

Maybe I'm just as adventurous in bed.

An almost perfectly circular thin round of dough goes on the tava, and I claim my first kiss of the evening, one hand going round your back to stroke gently. A warm shiver goes down your spine, and you relax into me, giving me a full embrace. I'm trying not to get flour on your dress. You ask if you can help, knowing the answer. You're welcome in my house, but I'm territorial about the kitchen. You've helped me cook on more than one occasion, and you know where to find coffee but, if I've started, I'll finish. .

I break, and flip the roti. I leave it a few seconds, then begin to press it gently around the edges with the damp cloth. It puffs like a poori in hot oil and I remove it carefully with my fingers, tossing it onto a plate in a slightly warmed oven. I learned this from watching guys who do this all day every day on the streets of every town in India. I've tried to teach you how it's done, and you're getting there. You perch on a stool near the stove, wanting to keep me company, feeling warm and cosy just in my presence.

It doesn't take long before dinner is ready. Four more roti take under two minutes each, and I whip up a tarka for the dhal in under five more It looks like I'm going to be eating leftovers for a couple of days, but dhal improves with age, and you know I'm happy enough going through last night's dinner for lunch. Finally, I fry two papad each, served with spiced onions and sweet chutney.

I wash my hands carefully. I've made you giggle a few times when I've told you about forgetting to wash my hands after chopping chillies.

I learned Indian cookery skills from people with a lifetime of practice serving food on the streets of India and in ordinary kitchens belonging to the mothers, and grandmothers, of friends from Pune to Kolkata, but I serve you like a Mughal princess, from warmed copper dishes. Indian pickle is an acquired taste, but one you've come to appreciate, and you serve yourself from little metal bowls on the table. I've made a jug of proper mango lassi, which is just as well, as I meant it when I put chillies in the dhal. The pickle bites as well.

We eat Indian-style, one handed, without cutlery. This isn't Indian food as most Europeans know it, from a supermarket or the similar bland approximations that come from most Indian (or, more usually, Bangladeshi or Pakistani) restaurants in most towns across the UK.. This is Indian food as northern Indians know it, and the intimate connection with food that comes from eating with your right hand brings your mind to the intimate connection you're increasingly considering with me. A warmth in your belly and a dampening in your groin grow as you consider that tonight might be it.

Our previous attentions to each other, usually on a sofa, once on your bed, have left you aroused, even wet and, once alone, you've brought yourself to a climax on many occasions. You suspect I might have done the same, thinking about you as you've been thinking about me. You again wonder what that shaft that you've sometimes brushed, sometimes enjoyed pressing against you through several layers of fabric, will actually feel like as it penetrates your body.

You bring yourself back to the present. I asked you something, and you try to cover it, but guessing, rightly, that I know that the flush to your skin didn't come from my cooking. It's hot, but hot is fine. Hot is what you feel between your legs. Hot and damp.

I clear the table, then bring two bowls of warm water and two small hand towels. You wash your right hand, then dry it, and I withdraw again, returning with a small bowl of sweets. It's not halwa, but you guess there are pistachios and sugar involved somewhere. It comes in flaky layers, and clears your palate. We finish with an orange each.

We adjourn to my lounge settee, and I turn some music on. My musical tastes are as eclectic as my library, world collections plundered, classic rock going back to the golden ages of Floyd, Zep, and Deep Purple, and true Classical music, preferably with a full orchestra. I wouldn't listen to modern pop any more than I'd eat out of a burger joint or read a tabloid paper. I'm not rich, and you know I rent this place, but you don't have to be rich to be refined. Rich doesn't particularly interest you, but you know I have personal standards. You're still not sure if you meet those standards, or even if that is part of my thinking. You know that my judgements of people, and I do make them, tend to be complicated.

We have, in short, some things in common. You learned on scouring my bookshelves that we have a lot more than that to share. I also know how to make decent conversation.

I settle next to you, and you snuggle, inviting my arm around you. I oblige, and you press close. You lean in for a kiss, and thank me for dinner. Your place as soon as your flatmates are gone for the weekend. You look at me hesitantly, then decide to let the rest of the evening go where it takes you. You reach to take my spectacles off, and put them carefully on the coffee table. I'm very short sighted, and have been since childhood, but you don't plan for me to be looking very far away for the rest of the night. You stop, consider, and take charge. You rise. A side light is turned on. The main light is turned off. You close the curtains, and return to my arms. Your heart is pounding, and your belly is getting warmer and warmer. Those lacy knickers are getting wet.

For a long while we stroke and touch. I untie your hair. I know I can go as far as fondling your breasts and stroking your thighs. Both of us enjoy this but, until tonight, there has been a limit. This limit involves keeping most of our clothes on. You know that I'm sexually much more experienced than you are and suspect I find this frustrating. I've also respected your boundaries and this, ultimately, is what made you sure that, even if I'm not Mr Right, it's time for you to explore more of what it means to be a woman, and I'm the man to help you do that. If it leads to more, well, you'll take that as it comes.

Every thought seems to lead you back to sex.

Tonight I gently run my fingers through your hair. It stimulates your scalp, and my gentle touching relaxes you. My fingertips trace the contours of your face. It doesn't quite tickle, and you attempt to playfully kiss a fingertip as it runs the length of your lips. I move to kiss you instead, my tongue replacing my finger, circling your lips, then slipping inside. You hold me close, feeling the solidity of my body, your hands sensing the strength behind shoulders accustomed to a rucksack that most people think is heavy.

It is solid muscle. There is real power there, power that will swing a hiking pack or fifteen litres of juice, plus the rest of my shopping, onto my back, after first checking for granny standing behind me but, tonight, I seem to be keeping that in check without thinking about it. Tonight is about open hands, fingers, their tips, my lips, my tongue. It feels good in your mouth, and you wonder what it will feel like kissing the parts of your body you have, so far, not allowed me to touch. The wetness between your thighs grows further. It really is time you let me do that.

Sensing your willingness, my roaming hands slip lower, stroking your neck. You have made it perfectly clear in the past that you enjoy this, and know that your hands rubbing my neck can turn me into a pile of jelly. You like having this power over me, and gain confidence from the fact that I will let you do it. You purr like a contented cat. I move on, over your shoulders, and I run my hands over your back just as you are exploring mine. You are sure your body is more delicate than mine, and hope I am enjoying it. With growing confidence you find me moving to the front of your body, my hands stroking the outer edge of your breasts. Even through fabric, this feels very good indeed. I follow the curves, stroking, rather than fondling, although I am welcome to do that.

We break our kissing, and you smile at me. Each of my hands is now holding a breast. I must be able to feel the hardened nipples, as I use a fingertip to circle each areole.

Right now, you are not sure who is seducing whom.

My hands drop lower. I explore your lower abdomen, and you want my hands lower still, but I take them away, returning to your face, and following the contours of your smile. We kiss again, and you lean into me, offering yourself, clasping me against you. You feel my breathing, deep, excited, but controlled.

You want to touch me. One hand moves to my upper thigh. You are not touching my cock, but know you are not too far from it. I smile at you, encouraging you. You lick your lips nervously, and feel the line of my thigh towards my groin. My hands drop again. One moves to stroke a breast. The other traces a flank and follows a thigh to your knee. I look at you, showing some uncertainty. Tonight you are pushing things further than we've usually gone. You want me to touch. You want me to feel. My hand strokes an inner thigh, heading for the wet warmth where it joins the rest of your body, then over, learning more about your body's contours.

Closing the curtains was meant to be a hint but, with one of my hands caressing a breast and the other stroking a thigh, you decide that it's time to move things forward. You break our latest kiss, and deliberately rub one hand briefly over the swelling in my trousers, gaining a moan of approval. For you, this is bold. Both hands then move to my top shirt button. You look at me for permission then, at my encouraging nod, begin to work your way down. Eventually you pull my shirt tails out of my trousers and push the shirt backwards off my shoulders. I halt you, and you pause, wondering what you did wrong, but I just undo the buttons at the cuffs and let you get on with it.

My male body is firmer than yours, and with a bit more hair on the chest, but you've seen much more in photos. I allow you to explore. I get a fair amount of exercise, but don't work out, so my pectoral and abdominal muscles are firm, but not hard. You run your hands over my upper body and I accept your touch.

Your confidence grows at this and you move lower. You want to know what the rest of me feels like, so you undo the button and clip holding up my trousers, the usual semi-formals I wear everywhere but a muddy footpath or the garden, then unzip me, your hand within millimetres of my hardened cock. As you move to pull off my trousers it strains at my dark blue boxer shorts, and you can see a little skin where it is trying to push aside the fabric above the button. You decide to ignore it for a little while, and pull off my socks. At last you have a better idea of what I look like.

My legs are hairy and made of defined muscle. You know I spend a lot of time walking, much of it with a rucksack, and imagine I could kick like an angry mule. My body, however, is heading for being all yours, and you're confident that you won't be on the wrong end of any violence from it. You explore gently, kneeling in front of me, almost worshipfully. I certainly won't discourage that, at least provided it doesn't go too far. Finally, you reach the last bit of clothing I have on. You take a lack of discouragement as encouraging, and pull at the waistband, stretching it taught to get at the contents, and allowing my hardened shaft to fall free.

You gasp. It looks like it's well over fifteen centimetres long, maybe closer to twenty, and it's thick, and rigid, and engorged with blood you can see in the veins. You swallow, nervously. You're not quite so sure, now, that you want that inside you. Surely it's got to hurt. Then you remember your reading. It might hurt, a bit, the first time, but the female body is designed to handle it. You reach for it with both hands. The foreskin that you learned about in your curious reading is missing, showing a tip a similar colour to your own nipples, and there is a tube that seems to run just under the skin on the underside.

You explore it with your fingers. It feels almost spongy against the rigidity of the shaft. That, at least, matches your knowledge of human male anatomy. You stroke it, and my moans tell you that I'm enjoying it, so you lean forward to rub it against your cheek and kiss it. It bobs as you play with it, and you decide it's not so scary after all. You breathe in my musky scent, which reminds you that I am, basically another mammal, communicating my arousal through my sweat. It makes you more excited. You wonder if you're doing the same for me.

I lean forward, and tell you that fair's fair, and it's my turn, if it's OK with you. You stand, looking shy again, and I stand in front of you, take you in my arms, and kiss you gently. You are nervous. You have guarded your virginity against several men who have wanted it, until much later than your classmates at school, and have chosen to give it to me, What if I find you unattractive, or too inexperienced? What if I hurt you?

You hold my firm male body, and feel my erection pressing against your groin. I find the zip fastening your dress and run the tag slowly down the length of your spine. I pull fabric from your shoulders and the dress falls to the floor. I step away to look at you, a wow of appreciation escaping my lips. You don't know if it's your near-naked body, the bra that shows hardened pink nipples under black lace, the equally translucent knickers that show the fur of your pussy, or a combination of all three that is doing it for me. You know men are very visual creatures, and I seem to like your body. You hear my breathing quicken to match yours.

My hands reach to cup your breasts. I stroke them through the lacy fabric, and bend slightly to kiss the bare flesh of your cleavage. You have the impression I really want to touch them, feel them, fondle them. I leave them alone, and kneel in front of you. My arms encircle you, and I begin to kiss your flat tummy, licking it gently with my tongue and blowing air over the damp skin, stimulating you. Surely I have to realise just how wet you are getting? I glance up, and smile at you, making sure you have no objection. You smile back, and the tip of your tongue traces your top lip.

My head drops lower and my hands move from your back to your bum. I begin kissing you just above the line of your knickers while I stroke your buttocks, partly on thin fabric, partly on bare skin, which is getting more and more sensitive every minute. You hold my head, and stroke my hair. You want to be naked for me, to give yourself to me.

I rise, and you almost feel disappointed. You want me to kiss you where you are most sensitive. Instead I kiss you gently on the lips. My hands caress your breasts, nails stimulating the skin. You want the bra off. You want my hands on bare skin, and wish I would get on with it. I find your nipples through the lace, and rub gently with a fingertip, like you stroke yourself in bed alone at night. I realise the bra fastens from the front, and I unclip it, allowing them to fall free. I kiss you again, and slide the bra off your shoulders, allowing it to fall. I break, and look at you.