The hot in Hot Times

The sex in the Goa book is difficult to think about at the moment because I’m engaged in writing another one, and this one is nowhere near as explicit. With the Goa book, I wanted the sex to be warts–n-all real (vaginal warts? No; not that real). I am certain that none of it is gratuitous and that all of it advances the plot. Well, anyway, here’s a taster:

“The sign outside the shop read:

‘Shafi Arts: Manufacturers, Exporters & Dealers in: Kashmir Handknotted Carpits, Chainstitch rugs, Jewellery, Old Coppet, Silver, Tanka and others goods. We accept American Express, Dinners Club etc’

The gentle breeze touching the Rajasthani scarves which danced beside the sign also ruffled the silky hair of the handsome shopkeeper.

Shafi did not get up when Lee entered but nodded his head as if he had been expecting her. He called his assistant to bring tea. Lee could feel his eyes on her as she walked around the mini-emporium, picking up and examining the eye-catching items on sale: copies of miniatures from the Moghul era, pipes for smoking hashish and opium, chunks of turquoise from Ladakh, Buddhist prints depicting ‘The Wheel of Life’, statues of the Hindu gods, delicately-embroidered shawls and papier maché boxes. It was a long time before either of them spoke.

“You know I only came in because you didn’t hassle me like the others,” she ventured at last.
“You are most welcome,” he replied, salaaming her and bowing.
“This is pretty,” she said, indicating a silver ring with a mood stone set into it.
His hand swept from his forehead to where the ring was reposing in a glass case next to the counter. He slipped it onto her finger, twisting it with his own slender brown ones.
“It will change colour to how you feel every time,” he explained, gripping her hand. “It’s yours. Take it.”
“Alexandrite,” she said, examining the ring and avoiding his eyes. His hand was still holding hers against his chest. “Well, imitation Alexandrite, but who’s counting?” She made a feeble attempt to remove her hand. “I used to work for a jeweller. But why should that interest you?”
“Take also any other thing you see in my shop that you like.”
The air was charged with sexual tension, broken by the arrival of the tea. Lee pulled her hand away.
“I will wear it for a short time, anyway,” she said. She caught the delicate aroma of Persian Roses from the cups, reminding her of samovars made by other young, handsome men in the mountains of Iran, Kashmir and Afghanistan. She leaned across the counter and kissed Shafi’s parted lips, dusky pink and indented like the bow of Arjuna, the hunter. Her heart seemed to stop mid-beat but her cunt was pounding. He looked at the front of her tiger print shorts as if he could see the throbbing and, with an expression of pain, lifted his kurta, showing the hard-on through extended folds of his loose-fitting salwar.
“Shafi,” she managed to blurt out at last, “I – I have been watching you. I find I can’t stop thinking about you.”
“And me too, I can’t.” He sighed. “Aaah. Last night I dreamed we were together in Paradise.”
“What were we doing?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
“Everything,” he responded with similar hoarseness. “Shadows of people were all around us, watching.” His voice became matter-of-fact. “These are shameful thoughts for a Muslim, you know,” he said.
“I don’t care.”
“And me too, I don’t.”
“I want you inside me, now,” said Lee in a trembling voice. She had read the line in a book once and had waited for just such an opportunity to use it. He glided over to the door and leaned on it to close it, then dragged across a wooden bench to keep it closed.
“I can help you.” He pronounced it: ‘hellup’.
“Make you come.”
He took firm hold of her hand and guided her astride the bench where he leaned over her and started rubbing the heel of his hand against her clitoris. The shorts were not tight. The only tightness was inside her as he slid his fingers in and moved them up and down, achingly slowly, his face so close to hers she could have dived into his eyes through the electrically-charged ether between the two of them. Then, without warning, he straightened up, withdrew his digits and leapt off the bench,
By the time the customers managed to get the door open, Shafi and Lee were in their places on opposite sides of the counter, discussing the merits of a sandalwood elephant god.
“You will come back tonight?” he whispered.
“Of course,” she replied and fled to the beach, warm and wet between the thighs.”


About lindabanana

Retired university lecturer, former world traveller, now working part time as an academic examiner and gradually morphing into full-time creative worker: writing and crafts
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