Alloyed

Big Tits

India, 1970s

I switched the fans off and left my office, closing the door behind me. It was 7 PM, and the sun had set just a couple of minutes ago, putting an end to an exceptionally sweltering day — sweltering even by the standards of a regular Indian summer. The heat was even more oppressive inside our makeshift offices, which were basically glorified tin sheds. They sat in the middle of a clearing, atop a small hill which overlooked the vast expanse of the new steelworks. I headed for the parking lot towards my scooter.

The lot, taking after the offices, was just a square of land fenced off with wooden posts and concertina wire. The wire fence, along with an aging watchman, made up the meagre security afforded to vehicles inside. The parking lot wasn’t meant for regular workers, however. It was reserved for upper-management who chose to grace us with their presence once or twice a month. The parking space for people like me was down the hill, about a kilometre away. No watchmen, no fences.

It was only by sweet-talking and bribing the old chowkidar with chai and sweets, then, that I was allowed to bring my scooter here. It was my pride and joy, ordered from Italy with a down-payment which ate up most of half a year’s worth of salary. It then took 9 more months for it to be shipped from Milan to my tiny village which stood in the middle of nowhere, in a predominantly-forested region of central India — all the while bleeding further monthly payments out of my paycheck. My whole neighbourhood celebrated the day the gorgeous, alien-looking yellow machine was delivered to my house. It meant the world to me, a bachelor in his mid-20s.

I gently wheeled The Lamb — my nickname for the Lambretta — out of the lot, raising my hand in a salaam to the chowkidaar. Once outside, I put on my helmet and kick-started the two-stroke motor. I climbed on, and before riding away, allowed my gaze to rest on the vista below the hill. Acres upon acres of land stretched out to the horizon, lit up by the orange sodium-vapour lights of various facilities and workshops which stood inside this industrial complex. To one side, the towering smokestacks of the blast furnace belched black smoke in the night sky. On another, the facility which housed the coking ovens did the same, with its smaller chimneys. Enormous cranes and conveyor belt channels stood marked by their flashing red lights. Diesel locomotives, shunting steel plates from the rolling mill to the depot, ambled slowly on their tracks. The fact that less than two decades ago this area had been nothing more than paddy fields and grassland, seemed fantastical.

Of course, building an entire steelworks from scratch in a remote region of India had needed help. Expert help – from a nation whose industrial complex had been through two world wars, to one which had only gained independence from colonisation a short while after the second of these wars had ended. Russia had sent some of their best men down to India for the job. The engineers as well as executives worked tirelessly to not only build the giant complex, but to educate and train the future workforce, many of whom didn’t even have a college degree. Learning on the job was how most of these men and women had gained their technical skills.

I, on the other hand, had been fortunate enough to have had a college education. About four years ago, I’d heard that the steelworks was hiring lower management staff. I’d applied and been hired as an operations supervisor in the rolling mill. Gaining transferable skills and managerial connections from that role, I’d received a promotion about a year-and-a-half ago, which led me to my current position as construction supervisor for the new coke oven battery. The job was tough, demanding long hours and a fair amount of mobility between sites. But I was eager to learn and didn’t mind that I had to spend most of the day away from my tiny little house. The mess halls and cafes inside the complex provided cheap and decent meals, and my offices, temporary as they were, had air-conditioning.

Tonight, I had a dinner invitation from one of the upper-management staff, Mr. Khabarov. An ageing Russian, he had been among the first executives to fly down from Russia to supervise the planning and construction of the steelworks. Technically, his responsibilities were fulfilled the day the first-ever load of iron was melted in Blast Furnace 1, and he had a return flight ticket to Magnitka waiting at home. Yet, he had chosen to stay, and had even flown his family down soon afterwards. His daughter Olga had grown up here, completing her primary and secondary education in the schools which Mr. Khabarov himself had helped build. The family had adjusted to the rural Indian ways and pace of life. The old man could’ve retired a couple of years ago and enjoyed a hefty pension fund for the rest of his days, but he was still enthusiastic as ever about the steelworks and the city which had grown and flourished under his gaze.

I’d met Mr. Khabarov when he drove down to our shed half a year ago. I’d been Escort bayan awestruck at the sight of him getting down from his car, unchauffeured, wearing simple khakis. His tanned skin made him look no different from a fair-complexioned North Indian. He had smiled warmly at the chowkidar and greeted us all in Hindi. Hierarchically, he was three rungs up the organisational chain, yet none of us felt uncomfortable or held at gunpoint as we did while being around other people of his stature. He’d wanted to meet the on-site engineers and supervisors working on what he called his final pet project before he retired. We’d given him a tour of the site, me being appointed the guide as I could converse the best among the team in English. Satisfied with what he saw, he’d asked a couple of us to remain in touch with him over the duration of the project. Now, with the foundational work completed, he’d invited us over for some drinks and a get-together at a gentlemen’s club.

I knew he liked game meat from the surrounding forest, so I’d asked a couple of villagers to go hunting and prepare a curry from the captured game. I got home, took a quick shower and changed into a khaki evening suit I’d borrowed from a colleague for the occasion. I collected the curry casserole from the villagers and headed to the club. Again, taking great care to park The Lamb in a discreet spot, I headed inside to find the invitees deep in various conversations around the bar. The lounge, booked out for the event, was lit dimly in ambient lighting. Dated Bollywood music played softly in the background. I caught Mr. Khabarov’s eye and was greeted with a warm handshake.

“Kaise ho? You’ve been working late hours today, I believe.” He boomed.

“Bahut acchha, janaab. Sorry to keep you waiting. I hope this can make up for it.” I fished the casserole out of the plastic bag I’d been carrying it in and presented the contents to him. His face lit up.

“Wild Bison? It must be my lucky day.”

He clapped me on the back and asked me to deliver it to the kitchen, from where they would serve it to the guests.

“And before you go…” He thrust a drink in my hand. “You’ll like this. It’s mulled wine. I and my family made this at home by ourselves.”

I thanked him and headed out of the lounge, for the kitchens. I passed the adjacent indoor tennis courts on the way. Under the floodlights, a woman was practicing her serves. I glanced at her and walked on. In the kitchen, I handed the head chef the casserole, with express instructions to serve the only meatiest bits to Mr. Khabarov. On my way back, I glanced at the lone tennis player again. A flicker of recognition made me pause.

Is that… Olga Khabarova?

I peered at the figure, who was dressed in a navy blue tee-shirt and a pleated white skirt. As she turned and walked to the side of the court after a serve, I got a clear look at her face. It was Olga. Last I heard, she was attending university in the USSR. Saint Petersburg. I didn’t know she was back in town. It’s not like we were personally acquainted, either. The only time I’d ever see her was at the year-end employee dinners she used to accompany her father to. She had still been in high school then. But she was definitely grown up now.

Her tall, lithe body cut a striking figure on the otherwise empty court. Her shirt hugged her torso tightly. The muscles in her back undulated as she raised the racquet and brought it smashing down on the ball. Her skirt ended just above her knee, but the hem rode a few inches up her shapely thighs every time she served. She concentrated on the ball as it flew up, timing her response and grunting as her racquet hit the ball with a gunshot-like explosion – and sent it off to the other end of the court. I was getting hot under the collar. Sipping my drink, I watched her intently for the next five minutes while kneeling against a column. With a powerful grunt, she served her last ball of the evening. Walking to one of the benches, she wiped the sweat off her face with a towel. Then she picked up her hefty sports bag and started walking towards the changing rooms. I took that as a cue to head back to the lounge.

Back inside, I saw the wait staff setting up the buffet table. Dinner would be served soon. I went around the lounge, greeting colleagues and engaging in polite chit-chat here and there. I was distracted, though. The vision of Olga kept replaying in my mind. I saw her father on one corner of the room, being accosted by a gaggle of young upstarts eager to gain favour with him. I felt like I should join them. I started walking towards the group, but my steps were halted — again — at the sight of Olga, who had just walked into the room. She looked around, quickly taking in the people who didn’t seem to have noticed her entry. Then she walked to the bar and ordered a drink. Sitting down on one of the barstools, she swivelled to face the lounge and crossed her legs.

She was still wearing her tennis clothes from earlier. Her white canvas-shoed feet bounced lightly to the music, Bayan escort which had now been switched to something more contemporary. Tambourine and dhol beats floated across the room. The hippie boom of the 1960s had leaked into Bollywood music productions. The staples of Indian classical music — the Sitar and tabla were being employed in popular songs in a way that classical composers could never have dreamed of — nor approved. The music itself seemed to come from, and bring with it, a thick haze of incense. Olga closed her eyes and leaned back, perching her elbows on the bar counter behind her.

My vision tunnelled until I saw nothing except her, spot-lit by a single overhead lamp which cast shadows on her face and body. She seemed half-concealed behind a black veil, which contrasted her features in a way to accentuate some and only hint at others. Her skin was covered in a slight sheen of sweat everywhere but her face. Her whole being appeared mysterious… and inviting.

I gulped the remaining wine and walked up to her, propelled by a curious force. On any other day, I would’ve been content to just look at her face and admire her beauty from afar. But this night was different. I believe the wine was having its effect.

“Hello Olga. I didn’t know you were back in town.” I ventured.

She opened her eyes and smiled at me, in the vacillating manner when one doesn’t know whom they’re speaking to but need to be polite.

“We haven’t met before. I… remember you from when you were little, attending the year-end dinners with your father.” I tried to ease her uncertainty. “I’m sorry, I should introduce myself.”

I told her my name and extended my hand. She shook it.

“Nice to meet you.”

“When did you return from the USSR?”

“It’s been about two weeks. The university is on summer break right now. I decided to come back as it had been about two years since I left. Also, I couldn’t bear missing another mango season.” She smirked. She still had a South Asian lilt to her accent, interspersed with what I took to be hints of eastern European. The longer she spent back in the USSR, the more pronounced that accent would become. I imagined it was better for her that way — a young girl who looks every bit European but speaks English with an Indian accent would no doubt stand out among her peers, right when people of her age are trying their best to fit in. And Olga definitely must have felt singled out most of her life, growing up in my town. I broke out of this train of thought and tried to prevent a lull from falling in the conversation.

“I don’t imagine one finds many mangoes in those parts.”

She laughed. “No, one doesn’t.”

“How long are you going to be staying here?”

“Just till the end of this week. After that I’m off to a hill station in the north-east. I love this town, but I still haven’t gotten used to this unforgiving heat after spending so long a time in the colder latitudes.”

“You’re brave for facing the cold. I can’t imagine anything colder than 10 degrees Celsius.”

“Spoken like a true central Indian.” She winked.

Her drink arrived. She saw the empty glass in my hand and asked me what I was drinking. I told her it was the mulled wine her parents brewed at home.

“That’s what they’ve been up to while I was away. To be honest, it tastes horrible.”

“What are you drinking, then?”

“Something slightly less horrible. Rum.”

“Old Monk?”

“What else?” she said, leaning in and peering at me in a fake quizzical manner. I laughed.

“I’m sure the Soviet Union has better spirits.”

“Yes it does, but nothing that you can find in this bar. Also, if my father caught me drinking anything that looks like vodka, he’ll have me hung.”

“But…”

“- I know, but it’s true. In my opinion, banning vodka from our house is probably the most anti-nationalist thing he does.”

“Right after leaving the said nation.”

“Mama says he’s had bitter experiences with it in the past.”

“I can’t imagine Mr. Khabarov as a rampaging drunk.”

Olga grinned.

“I guess we’ll never know.”

We chatted for a bit after that. Olga kept making a face ever time she took a sip of the rum. Old Monk is basically cheap, industrial-strength alcohol. A staple in the hands of the poor drunkard. After the next quarter-hour she slammed her glass down. The blue-black liquid sloshed inside.

“God I wish I was sipping on a Zubrowka right now. I can’t bear drinking this disgusting tar anymore.”

I couldn’t bear to watch her lovely face contort in a grimace anymore.

“If you can’t be seen drinking vodka here, why don’t we leave and grab a bottle from the theka close by?”

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to miss dinner.”

I blurted out a lie. “I’m not hungry anyway. I had something to eat before I came here.”

“Okay then!” Her face lit up.

We quietly left the lounge and headed for the parking lot. She seemed a bit taken aback by the sight of an Italian scooter on Indian Escort land (as many had, before her).

“So I’m not the only one with expensive, exotic inclinations, huh?” she said, eyeing The Lamb.

I smiled and kick-started the motor. The bright headlamp came on with a roar of the engine behind it. I climbed on and steadied the scooter with my legs. Olga grabbed my shoulder for support before heaving one long leg over the back seat. I offered her my helmet.

“But you’re driving!”

“If anything happens to you, Mr. Khabarov will have me hung from the tallest smokestack in the steelworks.”

She acquiesced and put it on. I revved the engine hard a few times before rumbling out of the lot. Thinking back, I hadn’t done that in a long while. It seemed like such a roguish thing to do, reserved for reckless adolescents.

I sped along on the road, overtaking lorry drivers who were only allowed to use the town’s roads at night. Olga wrapped her hands around my waist and leaned into me as she tried to talk over the noise of the motor and the rushing wind. Her firm, ample breasts pressed up against my back. I felt a stirring in my loins I hadn’t felt in a long while.

*******************************************************************

I hadn’t been in this close contact with a woman since my visit to a seedy, run down dance bar in Mumbai a couple of years ago. There, the dolled-up, sari-wearing dancers writhed and gyrated to haunting tunes, for the benefit of lecherous patrons. I had only happened to step into the place to celebrate the graduation of a friend. He had arrived at my place half-drunk, suggested we go to a bar for drinks, but had cautiously omitted mentioning the kind of bar he meant. Once inside, as soon as I realised the goings-on in the place, I had wanted to leave immediately — more out of embarrassment than anything else. But my friend persuaded me to stay for just one round of drinks. No sooner had we taken a seat with our drinks that we were descended upon by a couple of dancer girls. Pirouetting and posing suggestively in front of and around us, they offered a private dance for the two of us. Before I could say anything, my friend was stuffing banknotes into both their sari-waists.

The music changed at that exact moment and a new performer walked on the stage next to us. But both my and my friend’s eyes were fixed on the individual woman in front of us. Bucking and shaking her hips, the dancer directed my gaze on the different parts of her body. First her hip, then her bare stomach, out to her open and flailing arms before turning around and hypnotically swaying her spine to the music. Every part of her body seemed alive. Her back rippled and flexed sensuously, the skin naked under her flimsy sleeveless blouse which seemed to be barely held together by two bits of strings knotted in a bow. Her sides gradually widened out to her hips on which her sari was perched precariously low, with no visible undergarments underneath. She turned around again and started circling my chair, running her hands all over my torso, mouthing obscenities in my ear which conjured strange yet stimulating fantasies in my mind. Her perfume, smoky like her kajal and eye-shadow, seeped into my nostrils and invaded my lungs. Her heavy brass jewellery shined dimly under the red ambient lights and jangled against the tops of her breasts.

After circling around me a few times, she stopped with her back facing me. Her arms lay poised above her head, body engaged in serpentine writhing. She slowly brought her hands down, running them down her sides. Then back up they went, till they reached the knot behind her back. With a simple pull of the string, the knot came undone, and the cloth peeled away from her skin. Her hands reached around her front and cupped her breasts, holding the blouse in place. She turned to face me and teased me this way for a bit, before sliding her hands up her chest to grab the sides of her neck. The blouse, unsupported, slid slowly off her breasts and onto the floor, with me fixatedly following its descent. Before I could bring my eyes back to the dancer’s naked breasts, she grinned and covered them up with her elbows.

Circling behind me again, she knelt down and ran her hands slowly down my chest to my belt buckle. Her bare breasts brushed against the back of my neck. They felt warm, firm. The bulge in my trousers hadn’t gone unnoticed, and she stroked her hands around the outside of my erection. Her palms never fully enveloped my manhood, but the sides of her hands serviced me to full vigour in no time. I leaned back and grunted, breathing in her scent. She slowly straightened and walked back around to face me. Her long hair fell over her pert orbs. This time, she climbed on top of me and thrust them in my face. Her torso swayed from side to side, brushing them wantonly against my nose and mouth. My hands rose and ran up her body, from her hips to the outside of her breasts, before cupping them. The dancer moaned and arched her back. I rubbed and squeezed the flesh and felt her nipples harden between my fingers. She grabbed the sides of my head and ground her waist into me. I felt the warmth between her legs, through the chiffon of her sari and the cotton of my trousers. I’d never been as aroused as I was right then.

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Bir yanıt yazın

E-posta adresiniz yayınlanmayacak. Gerekli alanlar * ile işaretlenmişlerdir