- Sharmi
Do you people who talk about culture still do so after seeing ten women writhing over three men, with three women surrounding a single man's penis, all while completely naked? If so, then you are hypocrites. In the early days, I had some interest in participating, but not anymore. I just enjoy watching. There's a word for this… oh… voyeurism. Most days, I simply hold a Bacardi or vodka and enjoy the heat generated by the rubbing of bodies. Listening to everyone's ragged breaths, the varied moans and groans, the cries of “Come on… come on… give me more,” “Fuck me,” “Why is everyone with her?” is a kind of sexual experience in itself.
Each of them earns over a lakh of rupees. Some have assets worth crores.
The three "studs" who were there worked tirelessly all night, switching partners, tiring, working again, tiring again, and barely even registered the women writhing on them in their drunkenness and exhaustion.
To outsiders, it might seem exciting and fun. Ten people at once might be something you fantasize about in a wet dream, or something to brag about. But it's incredibly hard work. If sex becomes work, devoid of feeling, especially when women are in control, a man's ego is shattered. I first met Rajan at that private party in ECR.
See that woman over there with only a band around her neck, sitting on a man's face? That's Shobana. She introduced me to this group. But even before all this, I was already well-versed in sex. You might have seen me. In small commercials and at the entrances of big parties, I would stand in traditional dress, welcoming people with a wide smile. You couldn't have missed me.
“Sharmi, you have such long legs!”
“How can they be so perfectly shaped, fitting just right in the palm of a hand, yet so firm? It’s mesmerizing.”
“Sometimes you look just like Asin, Sharmi.”
“Even now, I can’t look you directly in the eyes.”
“Is that a waist? How can it have such a curve? Bend over a little.”
“I’d like to eat your pussy, Sharmi.”
About fifteen years ago, you would have seen the MD of that company—the one that had its hand in every business in every corner of Tamil Nadu: timeshare, finance, teak, courier, real estate—many times on TV. I am his only daughter. Before this, my father was just a cinema PRO, and my mother was a group dancer from Andhra.
“Sharmi’s birth changed everything for me.”
“Don’t believe it, Sharmi. That’s exactly what he said when he married me… back then, it was me… now, it’s you.”
I never understood how the cool wind that hit my face when my father sped down Beach Road at night on his TVS50, with me and my mother on the back, as I yelled, “Go faster… go faster!” transformed into the cool air of a car’s AC a few years later. But the mother and father who were with me on the TVS were no longer there in the car. The car’s AC was pleasant enough, though.
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