My Struggles with Trupti Ch. 01

There I sat, naked and bound to a chair. The rope was tightly bound over my boobs, digging into my nipples, hurting them, making my massive boobs look like four globes instead of two. A rope ran over my crotch too, digging into my labia, rubbing against my clit, creating a painful yet pleasant sensation.

Trupti stood a few feet away from me. Also completely naked. Not completely naked. She was wearing high heels. And she had a knife in her hands. Smiling that manic smile. Her tits, as big as mine, standing confidently taut.

"Why won't you just give in?" she asked, striding close to me, and placing the tip of the knife between my boobs.

"I can't." I say. "I wasn't raised like that."

"That's what's stopping you? How you were raised?" Trupti threw her head back and laughed. She then brought her face close to mine and said, "For fuck's sake. Can't you see we're on the edge of something important here?"

"It's still wrong." I said.

I closed my eyes and struggled to free myself from the restraints. I knew that if I tried hard enough, I could go free. I just wasn't trying hard enough. Maybe if I tried to distract her.

"Wrong, huh?" Trupti said, and threw the knife on the floor. She then held up her right index finger and smiled at me. She decided to distract me.

"No, please don't." I implored.

"You know you like it." she said and bent in the waist in front of me.

"Please..." I said, now feebly, as Trupti's fingers slid under the rope, and found my clit. Accurately. Instantly. The way only she could. The way no one else could.

"You know you want more." she whispered in my ear.

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhh..." I moaned in response to what her fingers were doing.

"You know we have to do this." she said, rubbing faster.

"Mmmmmmmhhhhhhhhhhhh..." I groaned.

"Can't do this without you. I would've done it myself but you know it isn't possible anymore." Trupti said and her fingers went into overdrive.

And I could sense that despite not wanting to, I was about to orgasm. And I would, in all probability, join her in the plan. And help her finish it. Because I did start it with her.

But how did it start?

====

Six months ago. Friday afternoon. I am looking over a Pottery Pen catalog under my desk when Jan walks in.

"Busy, huh?" she cattily says, eyeing the catalog as I stuff it into a drawer.

"Sorry, Jan."

"You're being paid for your time here, you know?" she says, sliding into the chair opposite me.

"Yes, I was just..."

"I don't care what you were just." Jan coldly says. "You need to realize that as women in this field, we have a higher standard to live up to."

"Yes, Jan." I say, staring at my hands.

"Particularly, someone like you, from a foreign country. You should know better than to drool over catalogs during company time."

"Sorry Jan."

Jan shakes her head in disappointment and reaches into her bag.

"Anyway, you have to go to Baltimore tomorrow."

"Tomorrow, Jan? But tomorrow is a Saturday and..."

"And what? It's not like you have a boyfriend or anything." she derisively says. "Go to Baltimore, meet with the Starlight folks, and sell them on our new financial services bundle."

"Ok, Jan." I meekly say.

"Make sure you take a bus. It's just a couple of hours away. No flights or Acela Express."

"But Jan, the travel policy allows me..."

"Doesn't matter what the travel policy allows you. It finally gets counted under my budget. Why do you want to waste an hour getting to La Guardia, then an hour checking in and waiting, then another hour flying to Baltimore when in the same time, a bus can get you there? For a tenth of the price? We all need to tighten our belts."

"But Jan, at least a train will..."

"Don't be such a prissy princess! Take a bus! And stay in a motel this time, not some fancy Marriott. We're still technically in a recession." she admonishes me. "You should embrace austerity. You come from a poor country."

"Jan please... I hate buses..." I say, feeling sick at the thought of being in a bus. "Let me take a train. I don't need the Acela. Even a regular Amtrak will..."

"What's there to hate about buses?"

I just stare at my desk silently, unable to articulate my morbid abhorrence of buses.

"Maybe buses in India are shitty. Buses here are nice. You must take a bus! Show some discipline, for cryin' out loud!"

I feel like saying to her - you bitch, you fly business class and stay in five star hotels whenever you travel. And I am the one who has to talk to all the clients into closure. So why should I have to take a ratty bus and stay in a dingy motel? But instead I say,

"Yes, Jan."

Jan pushes the Starlight file towards me, gets up, and walks away. After she leaves, I wait for a few minutes. Then defiantly reach for the Pottery Pen catalog. And order some new sheets for my bedroom. And then, I immerse myself in the Starlight file.

Is this why I slogged through high school and then college in India? Worked extra hard to get into an American grad school with full funding, because my parents couldn't afford to pay the full tuition? Got a job on Wall Street? To be pushed around by another woman, who kept implying all the time how, by being Indian, I was somehow inferior to her Caucasian self?

---

Later that night. In the event hall of a Ramada in Iselin, NJ. I am decked up in my newest salwar kameez, and wearing jewelry that my mom left me. My hair is in a braid like it usually is. I am not as trendily dressed as some of the other women here.

Yet another Indian singles mixer. I have no illusions of meeting anyone with any real future with me. I am here just for the fun of it. To see their jaws drop at my answer to their very inappropriate question, "So what is your salary?". Indian men, even if they have grown up in America and American accents, are usually not ready for women who earn more than them. Which is why I try to assert my professional success.

Usually I am diffident and meek around people I know, like Jan or my relatives or even the very few people who consider me a friend. But in front of these strangers, I find myself able to be a lot more assertive, blase, even a little cruel sometimes.

This mixer has a speed-dating type thing set up. I am seated on a chair in front of a dinky table, with men spending a couple of minutes at each table. With all of them, it's the same story. I assert my success. They squirm. They ask if I cook. I say no. They ask me about my family. I tell them my parents are dead. They spend a minute more and then feel saved by the bell.

And then HE sits down. My heart sinks. Where did he come from?

"Hi. Nice to see you again." he says politely. "I am Malay."

"Hello." I say, nodding my head.

"Remember me?"

"No!" I say a little too defiantly.

"You're not really here to meet a prospective groom are you?" he asks, with a smile on his face.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I have seen you in so many of these events all over the country. In California, Chicago, Houston, Dallas, Seattle, Miami, and even Phoenix."

"So?" I defiantly say.

He flashes me a charming smile.

"So, it means you are just like me. A tourist. Here for the fun of it. To make other Indians squirm. I have seen how guys look after they meet you."

"Oh yeah?" I argue back. "And how about the girls who meet you? They look like they've seen a ghost."

"I am not denying that. I just want you to admit it." he says. "Like you've just admitted that you've noticed me too."

"I admitted nothing." I say and fold my hands. And I sit leaning back.

He flashes me another smile, and says

"I am based out of New York. I get the feeling you are too. Here's my card if you want to meet some time." he slides a card across the table. And I look at it. Malay Singhal. Works for a top media firm.

"Ok." I say.

"What's your number?" he asks.

I stare at him. Then I tell him. And then add,

"But don't call me. Ever."

"Sure. That's why you gave me your number." he smiles, saving it in his cellphone.

I sit there glaring at him. He sits there smiling at me. For what seems like ages. The bell rings. He moves to the next table. And another guy replaces him.

This guy, Malay, he is not there to find a match. Neither am I. But I find it offensive to see someone else like me. He ruined everything. He ruined the illusion. He ruined the fun.

"Hello, Myself Romesh Mehta. Motel owner in Hastings, Nebraska. Your good name please?" I am shaken out of my reverie. Ah yes, this guy uses the phrase "your good name". Perfect!

I flash him an evil smile. And set about freaking him out.

-----

This is what my life has been reduced to. Yes, I have a 6-figure income job at a reputed Wall Street firm. But it comes at the expense of long hours in the office, and most weekends spent traveling to random locations to sell clients the services of our firm. Something my boss Jan should do. Something I should make Jan do. Maybe complain to her boss, who is also a woman. But I am too insecure about my career to do that. I am too much of a wimp to do that.

Socially, I was always handicapped. My late parents, may god have mercy on their souls, were the textbook definition of "old-fashioned 20th century Indian middle class". Any contact with boys was shunned. But I was expected to do well academically. My dad was not happy to just have me coast through school and marry me off. As his only daughter, he expected all the achievements of me that he would expect from a son. But I was placed under social restrictions no son would ever have to face.

After slogging my ass off in school, I made it to a decent American public university in the Midwest for grad school. Some boys, Indian and otherwise, did hit on me. I tried to stave off their advances, in the name of focusing on my career, as dad always taught me to.

"Focus on studying hard and building a great career. These crucial years will never come back." my dad would lecture me every week. "Boys and romance and marriage will happen in its own time. I will find you the perfect man. Leave that to me. You just keep your focus on studies."

But eventually, one guy broke through. He was perfect for me. Smart, reasonably good looking, from a decent family, and a very nice person. He was the one I lost my virginity to, on a second hand mattress on the floor of his bedroom in an apartment he shared with 3 other Indian grad students. We were the perfect couple. Our future was set. Or so we thought. Or so I thought.

We weren't from the same caste, but I didn't expect that to be a problem for a guy like him. How wrong I was! His parents wanted him to marry a girl from their caste. And from a rich family. One whose parents owned several businesses that he could inherit. What hurt me the most was, he didn't even put up a token fight against them. Abandoned me as soon as they raised a stink. And moved on with ease. Married the girl his parents chose and posted pictures of him beaming with her on Facebook. As if all I ever meant to him was a fuck buddy, a welcome distraction while he completed his Masters program.

I thanked my stars I hadn't mustered up the courage to tell my parents about him. They were happy I had finished my Masters. Got a job in New York City, the business capital of the world. And then, a week before they were about to visit me in the US to attend my graduation, they were in a bus that slammed into a truck on the highway. And that was that.

I went back to India. Cremated what was left of them. Sold off what little property they owned. Spent some token time with relatives who had never been too close to us anyway. Took whatever money was left, and came back to America. Moved to New York City. Started my job. That is, started doing Jan's work for her. And focused on filling my tiny upper west side apartment with Pottery Pen stuff.

I tried dating. Meeting men through acquaintances, through friends, some from work, and even some from online dating sites and apps. Some Indian, some non-Indian. But as a 24 year old with no prior dating experience at it, I always struck out. It's not like I was ugly. I mean, yeah, I didn't wear make-up, didn't wear the trendiest clothes, and I did braid my hair for convenience. I knew I was not ugly. But looks didn't matter. What did me in was my awkwardness. I did not possess the flirting skills an average NY woman possesses. I would usually clam up. And guys never really went past a couple of dates. There were a couple of awkward booty calls but that was it.

Which is why I resorted to these Indian singles mixers all over the US. My job required me to travel everywhere anyway. And Jan was always inconsiderate enough to schedule my travel on weekends and make me take cheaper red-eye flights that I had to wait for till late at night. So I would look up what the latest Indian events, or the latest Indian singles mixers were. And attend them. A way to spend my evenings in unknown cities.

The first few times, I was genuinely looking for a good match. But after a couple of those mixers I realized they were filled with 2nd or 3rd generation dorks, who were looking for an arcane idea of what an Indian wife should be. Career? What's the need for that? Do you cook? How about laundry? How soon would you like to have kids? They didn't want a wife. They wanted a maid with a womb.

Disillusioned, I started treating these mixers as sport. Instead of trying to find someone, I started focusing on freaking the guys out. And it provided me with some comfort. Some recreation, apart from my Pottery Pen shopping. I was usually very diffident, but my pent up aggression and frustration at the world found an outlet in these mixers. If there was an Indian singles mixer happening around me, I was there. And I never thought anyone noticed. Until Malay. Whom I had also seen around all over the country. Whom I also knew to be in a similar game.

From now on, I decided, if I see Malay, I would sneak out of the event early.

====

Sunday night. The Baltimore deal is almost through. I only need to send them a confirmatory fax. Such dinosaurs, still hung up on fax. I am waiting downtown for the bus back to New York. It's an hour before departure time so I decide to do some window shopping. I walk into a designer clothing store, feeling decidedly frumpy in my loose business casuals. I admire the low cut evening wear and cocktail dresses. Look longingly at the skirts and tops.

The sales girl is hovering around to see if I need any help. I need help, but not the kind she can give me. I am severely conscious about my body. I am not fat or anything. I just don't feel sexy. I never have. I could get into one of these dresses. I am just not sure I could carry it off. I look around for a while and then leave the store.

Next, I browse around in a book store, a cute chocolate shop and an antique store. The next store I see brings me to a standstill. It's an adult bookstore with neon silhouettes of naked women. I have heard about these places. Seen them all over Manhattan, especially in the touristy areas. Never had the courage to go into one. But this time, curiosity gets the better of me. I open the door and walk in.

There's a middle aged lady behind the counter and a young black man stocking the shelves. Neither of them casts me a second glance. It is a big breakthrough for me to cast off years of conservative upbringing and walk into this Gomorrah, but for them, I am just another customer.

Doing my best to not be too scandalized, I look at the wares they have on offer. Nudie magazines and videos, with buxom naked women on the covers. God, how can these women be so comfortable naked and on display? Even when I was sleeping with a guy, I preferred to have the lights off. I browse some more. Dildos and vibrators. Lingerie, some of it edible. Whips, handcuffs, creams of various kind. All kinds of toys I have only read about but never seen up close. And then more dildos.

I start wondering about how dildos are made. Do they cast molds from actual penises? Do guys get hard and stick their penises into plaster of paris? Or does someone sculpt them independently? Is there a production line for them? What material works best? Is there such a thing as an artisan handmade dildo? I wonder how the pay is. That'll be an interesting line of work. Designing and selling dildos. Sounds more fun than selling financial services.

Some of the stuff intrigues me. I consider buying a dildo and a vibrator. I even take one of each off the shelf. But then the thought of actually plonking them down in front of another person, signaling I need those aids...it sounds too much for my middle class Indian sensibilities to bear. I put them back. Maybe I can order them online later. I still feel a little conflicted though. Why am I so ashamed of buying this stuff right here? Maybe I should. I reach for the toys again, when there's a sound of the door opening. Reflexively, I pull my hand back.

It's a woman about my age, carrying a couple of pink bags. She looks brown, maybe Hispanic. She confidently strides up to the aisle I am standing in and picks up an assortment of goods, including dildos, vibrators, handcuffs, and a lot of other stuff I can't even look at without blushing. She sees me staring at her, nods, and walks to the register. I slowly head towards the door myself. As the clerk is ringing her up, I walk out the door.

I see the bus is now here. I head for it, heart pounding. I think about delaying boarding till the last minute but then decide to just get it over with. Soon I am inside on an aisle seat. Half the bus is empty. The window seat next to me is empty.

This is the first time I have been in a bus since my parents died in one. On the way here, I had taken the Amtrak at my own expense. But I can't afford to keep doing that even with my salary, if Jan isn't going to reimburse it anymore. I need to get used to being in buses.

My heart is about ready to jump through my chest. I keep having visions of how my parents' remains looked after the accident. How mangled and twisted the bus chassis was in the pictures. That smell of human flesh being cooked with butter in the crematorium seems to waft back from my memory bank. That acute awareness of how utterly alone I am in this world now. I am praying for my parents' souls.

I am also praying for the seat next to me to be empty. So I can sit comfortably, maybe stretch out and sleep when the bus gets going. Not exactly sleep. Close my eyes and rest them.

Sleep has been hard to come by ever since mom and dad died. I keep popping Advil PM pills at night, but even that doesn't help sometimes. In fact today, I have been without sleep for almost 48 hours straight. So I am hoping the motion of the bus will put me to sleep for the 4 hours it takes to get to New York.

I keep staring at the trickle of people walking down the aisle, hoping none of them will sit next to me.

An older gentleman stops next to me, shoves his bag into the overhead bin, and then sits in the row behind me. Phew, dodged a bullet. A few more people walk by. The trickle of people ends. Yes, I smile, two seats to myself.

Just as I am celebrating my spatial conquest, I see her again. The woman from the adult bookstore. She strides in through the door. Glides down the aisle. Heads turn. And why wouldn't they? She looks gorgeous. Her thick silky black hair flowing down her shoulders. Definitely a Latina, I decide from her confident body language and easy way of dressing sexy. Her cleavage suggestively peeping through her tank top. And her smooth mocha legs visible under her short skirt. She moves with the grace of a tigress hunting for her prey.

She smiles at a few people as she walks down the aisle. And then she stops, right next to my row. Puts one dainty pink bag in the overhead compartment. And slides past me to sit down on the window seat next to me. Flashes me a smile, and then examines the window carefully, and checks out the red handle on it..