An Indian Romance (Closed)

[DariusD]

Featuring : DariusD as Trace Blackfoot and SinfulLittleOne as Nisha

Setting: An Indian Romance is set in modern India, a place full of ever-changing morals and ideals. While much of India is growing at an explosive pace, with new technologies and interconnectedness with the rest of the world, many of the old ways remain. Hinduism is still the state religion and the caste system, complete with “Princesses” and “Princes” and arranged marriages remains the way of the aristocracy.

Erotic Elements: This story will include no artificial erotic elements.

Fetishes Included: This story builds on the taboo relationship of a white, successful, man whose business is managing underground, illegal, MMA fights, and an Indian princess who happens to be engaged to another noble. There will be no additional erotic elements artificially added, other than some cinematic action and erotic twists.

 

[DariusD]

Trace Blackfoot stood amidst the cacophony and was unstirred. The man, just a bit over six feet, towered over most of those who surrounded the makeshift cage, their brown faces dripping sweat and an eagerness not far removed from the desire for sex. Exhaling through his white, dentist-perfect teeth (that had cost him a small fortune), Trace felt the thrum of the crowd send a jolt of pure adrenaline to his heart and crotch.

This was what he lived for. Too bad he didn’t fight anymore. His body, still taut and as carved now, at thirty-two, as it had been when he’d fought professionally, yearned for the release of it. The purity and passion of impact and white-versus-black. And, to be honest, of annihilating an another opponent in the ring.

“Rama! Rama! Rama!” The crowd roared as a sleek-looking Indian man, his skin light enough to hint at a little Thai in his background, swept through the crowd, past the corrugated chain-link fence and the men Trace hired to guard the arena (and collect ticket prices, along with wagers), and into the central area with Trace.

The arena itself was an oval roughly fifteen feet across, the pocked concrete floor dirty with litter and spittle from the onlookers. Poor phosphorescent illumination sent shadows sweeping the whole affair, revealing the other man – a quiet mirror of the so-called “Rama” who’d just entered the ring.

Trace could tell that it was going to be a good fight. Indian men had a fury in their hearts, a hunger for violence, that he’d seen dying in the states. It was too bad he had plans and couldn’t state. Trace was moving up In the Indian world – political power and maneuvering could mean more revenue, perhaps the chance to go public, so he saw no angle where he did not risk the dangers represented in that, so different, arena.

Handing the small hand microphone off to his personal assistant, a black man who’d traveled with him from the states, Trace flashed a rakish grin. “Take care of things for me, would you Charles? I’ve got to go to some sort of meet and greet at some richy house across town. Apparently some young noble woman is being announced as “available for bidding” or some shit. I need to meet one of my contacts there.”

Charles knew it all already, of course, but he flashed his clearly nervous boss a grin as white as Trace’s and waved him off.

Wearing the sort of suit to make a man as powerful and confident as Trace get noticed, especially in the warrens south of the big city, Trace smothered a rueful grin, the motion pulling at his artfully scruffy cheeks and upper lip, then turned to leave. The crowd, aware of who Trace was, including his impressive history, parted to let the man leave.