© 2007. All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
* * * * *
LIKE SO MANY NOW IN OUR GROUP, my first sudra lover was a servant, a naukar. I was just past 18 at the time. I was still a virgin which isn’t uncommon at all in Indian society. If anything, it’s the rest of my life that’s been unusual.
Mum had had an horrific accident five or six years earlier that left her pretty much in a vegetative state. Dad seemed devoted to her and to us — I mean he was always there for her, attended to her every need but I suspected he had his affairs. I didn’t resent him for that.
But it was a quiet and gentle life on the whole. We lived in a quiet neighbourhood in those days, me and my parents and younger sister. Home was a nice large ground floor flat with every convenience and gadget, separate bedrooms for my sister and me, and a lovely little garden that was my joy and passion. I’d worked at it since I was 12 and it looked really pretty. Over time I had put in a little rockery and garden lights hidden in the flower borders and lighting the big fragrant jasmine and frangipani trees, a little garden swing. We had a nice stoop or porch, too, where we’d sit in the evening, Dad with his magazines and newspapers, me with a book and Madhu humming to something on her Walkman. Most days we’d bring Mum out in her wheelchair, too, and converse normally with her. That’s what the doctors had advised, so we followed that, trying to include her in our daily lives.
There was very little to disturb us — our neighbours were friendly and kind, and the flat was in a lovely old ground-and-two-floor building with beautiful woodwork and lots of greenery around. It was a sort of private enclave of ten or twelve similar buildings and it felt very safe. It was a good place for a kid to grow up, given the state of the rest of the city.
We had a part-time gardener who came in to do the heavy and tedious work — laying out brick or stone-work, weeding, putting in the flower beds and so on. Raju — short for Rajesh — was lean and tall and dark and had those intense good looks of a Maratha: sharp features, dark eyes and hair, a square, strong jaw. Plus, he wasn’t skinny; he actually had a well-developed physique, broad across the shoulders, a wide, deep chest, muscular arms and thick forearms and the most amazing abs.
I knew because he went through this little ritual before he went to work. Our garden was like an inverted L, with a broad front area before the porch and long narrow stretch that ran along the side of the house all the way to the back where there was a little toolshed. Raju would come in through the wicket gate, latch it behind him, greet whoever was on the porch with a polite namaste with just a little duck of his head and a quick flip of both hands to his chest. He’d ask after Mum. Every single time. Then he’d kick off his battered yet sturdy open-toe sandals and put them neatly together by the steps leading up to the stoop and go around the corner of the house. I knew there was a small wooden strip with clothes pegs on it there — – I usually kept a smock or overalls for when I had to handle paints — – and a while later he’d return with his baggy trousers rolled up to his knees, his shirt off and wearing just a tight sleeveless vest or, sometimes, not even that.
All right, let me be completely honest. He excited me. He really did. I loved his body, smooth and strong and dark, the torso so sexily muscled and quite hairless, and I loved him for his gentleness with my flowers and buds and shrubs and herbs and garden, for his obvious distress when a sapling or cutting did poorly. The garden was as much his pride and joy as it was mine.
Whether it was the nature of his work, or the serenity of our home, or me or just his character I don’t know, but he was a truly gentle, kind and decent soul. I never once heard him raise his voice in anger. He was genuinely sorrowed when someone so much as plucked a flower. “It’s not right,” he’d mutter, shaking his head. “It is just not right.”
How could I not be drawn to him? At times like this, I felt my heart go out to him, for I shared his pain. I wanted to reach out and touch him, to rest my hand on his arm or my head on his chest, just be him and me and our little flowering world. I thought I loved him.
But there was something else too. One look from him and I just felt different, as if some searing heat had pierced me through. My pulse would quicken, there was a rush of blood to my head and, yes, to other parts as well. I suppose I was relatively innocent in those days and didn’t quite know what to make of this sensation. It felt good, yes, but it somehow also just felt right.
I wasn’t totally unaware of what sex involved. No girl is, I guess, in a city, even an Indian city. There are just too many reminders — film stars, models, public outcries, television, magazines. It’s a sexual carpet-bombing. I certainly knew what the relevant parts were meant for and what went where, but then every single girl in my class did, too.
Maybe I knew a little more than most.
Three or four years earlier — not long after Mum came home from several months in a hospital — I stumbled on Dad’s cache of illicitly obtained pornographic magazines. After the first few minutes of shock, I was hooked. I loved the explicit language and I loved the glorious, detailed, leave-nothing-to-the-imagination photographs. I was awed by what I saw — all that cock-sucking and cunt-licking, group sex, those wildly sexy costumes in black leather, the elaborate French kissing, anal sex, the masturbation with dildos and vibrators. I devoured it all, even the ads for live sex shows in places I’d only dreamed of seeing, like Amsterdam, which I’d till then only associated with windmills and tulips. Suddenly there was this whole new world, sleazy and sweaty and inexplicably exciting, totally irresistible.
But I did more than ogle. I studied the stuff. So I couldn’t have a man. But I could at least dream of one. I read letters and advice columns and paid particular attention to those about how to please men. I read about masturbation and sex toys. Of course I’d masturbated before like the other girls in my class, but it was more exploratory and instinctive, just doing what seemed to feel good coupled with a huge sense of guilt. Now I read about how good it was, and how advisable and how it should be done and I plunged into it with a fervour that bordered on obsession. I had my own bedroom and nobody minded when I aped the positions I’d seen in the magazines (occasionally I stole one and masturbated reading it). I’d be on all fours pretending I was being fucked from behind. I practiced riding a cock. I lay on my back and pictured a lover thrusting into me. Of course I didn’t have any sex toys, so I made do with whatever I could get — and there’s a surprising range of alternatives if you put your mind to it. Which I did, with a great deal of devotion: hairbrush handles, a badminton racquet handle, cucumbers, hard bananas, carrots, peeled bitter gourds.
Things got better. I rummaged deeper into Dad’s closet — he’d forgotten, I think, that there was a complete duplicate set he’d had made for Mum before her illness, and never taken them back or changed the locks. Sure enough, I unearthed a real trove. It turned out that he had a pretty decent collection of sex toys for women. These must have dated back to before Mum’s tumour or perhaps he used them with his girlfriends. Either way, I didn’t care. I was totally on fire as I looked down at the collection in the drawer, each toy neatly set in its own place in a specially made dark velvet jewel-box lining. There were dildos of various shapes and sizes, including several that looked like real cocks. There were vibrators, metal and hard plastic and silicone. There were Ben-Wa balls. There was even a missile-sized ejaculator.
I was ecstatic.
One by one, I tried them all. The vibrators were incredibly and I could barely stop my screams as I came violently again and again, the thing humming and buzzing in my cunt. And ejaculator — it was terrifying in its thickness and length, but I used it anyway, filling it with warm water, then pushing it into my cunt, jerking it feverishly back and forth, running through its multiple speeds and finally hitting the ejaculator button, chewing on a wadded handkerchief to keep my sounds down.
And that wasn’t all. What I found there was a cornucopia of lust. Now movies. Tons of them, all hardcore, on CD and VCD and DVD, all neatly labelled and nestled in zippered CD carry cases. Each had a marking — interracial, group, anal, mixed, desi. We each had a small television and portable CD/DVD player in our rooms, and I began ploughing through the collection. My joy was, I thought, complete. I’d strip naked, arouse myself with a magazine, start masturbating with a dildo or a vibrator, turn on a movie and slip into one wild erotic fantasy after the other. I was that girl being fucked mercilessly by a man, heaving and moaning and sweating, writhing frantically under him. I was there in the orgies, and I was there when three men fucked me together in cunt, mouth and ass simultaneously.
Two things returned with increasing frequency and clarity. The first was that I found myself intensely attracted to dark and black men. I loved their bodies and was awed to a frenzy of lust by the sight of their big cocks.
And Raju entered my most vivid and intense fantasies. He was that man, fucking me demonically from behind. Tossing me on his lap. Making me suck his cock. Cumming in my face.
I learned the language of lust. I learned the words in English and, from the wretched, tacky Indian DVDs, their vernacular equivalents. I practiced using them and found I liked the sound of them. They turned me on and I knew I wanted them said to me.
My sexual pleasure were extraordinary. Intense, exhilarating and like nothing else I knew. But still I thirsted for the real thing, real flesh, a real man.
There was simply nothing I can do. Our society and social circles didn’t permit a girl like me to have sex. I’d just got into college then, where I quickly hitched myself to an attractive and athletic fellow student a year older than me. He had a reputation of being a ladies man and that was my only motivation. I maintained the required charade, waiting for him to make the first though my body and mind screamed for sex. He was very slow off the blocks, and, as it turned out, even I, without any real experience to speak of, could tell that he was totally inexpt. The kissing was messy rather than sexy and the little petting we did involved him squeezing my breasts with more enthusiasm than skill. Parked in a car in a deserted lane late one night, I let him guide my hand to his crotch. I felt a tremble of excitement — I was going to see my first real cock! I loved the thickness and bulge of it and my fingers trembled in his as they closed around the swell in his pants. He pushed his hand up under my skirt. I clamped my thighs together. He persisted, kissed me, squeezed my breasts. I let my thighs part. His hand was in my crotch and now there was no stopping me. I moved my own hand back between his legs and gasped, for he had unzipped and dropped his pants and briefs and, for the first time, I held a real cock. It was beautiful, more alive and tempting than I’d imagined it would be. My panties were at my ankles and my legs were open and he ran a finger up into my cunt and I gasped and flung my head back, tore open my tunic and exposed my breasts to his lips.
“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck!” I heard him gasp as he sucked on my breasts and masturbated me wildly, thrusting his finger in and out of my cunt.
I held his wrist with one hand, the other clamped around his cock, jerking it eagerly.
“Take it in your mouth! Do it!” he gasped.
It was what I’d been waiting for. Without a moment’s hesitation, I bent my head over his lap and began the first of more blow jobs than I can count. It was heavenly. At last, at long last! I couldn’t get enough of it. I loved the smell and the tang of it and I sucked it eagerly, used my tongue as I’d read I should do. He moaned and gasped, moving my head up and down over his lap while his finger continued running in and out of my cunt though from behind now. My cunt was in hapless contractions on his cock and I heard my own muffled moans and gasps. He came violently … right into my mouth. I gagged on it momentarily but, within seconds, I was holding his cum in my mouth, rolling it around my mouth, swallowing it and discovering that I thoroughly enjoyed it. He gasped in awe as I licked his cock clean, swallowing his cum.
“Now me,” I murmured and sprawled back in my seat and spread my legs. “C’mon! Do it! Hard!”
He groaned again in excitement and began finger-fucking me furiously. I gasped and cried out, thrashing on the seat, my hips bucking and heaving feverishly, clenching his head and pulling it to my breasts. My orgasm was like nothing I’d experienced, thunderous and explosive, leaving me trembling and drained.
It was good — better than silicone, at any rate, but it clearly wasn’t the real thing. He wasn’t man enough, didn’t have enough experience. We repeated the petting frequently and even progressed to complete oral sex, cock-sucking and cunt-licking in my bedroom in the afternoons while dad was at work, Madhu at school, the servants at their siesta and my mother’s nurse snoozing in a rocker. We fought to keep it quiet and I think it was harder for me than for him, but we got away with it, and often. He begged for more, kept saying he wanted to sleep with me and make love to me. I didn’t. I didn’t want to make love or sleep with him or have sex with him. Or anyone else for that matter. I just wanted to be fucked, animal, physical, no emotional commitment, pure carnality. I put him off saying we couldn’t chance it, not till I’d seen a gynaecologist. The risk of him knocking me up scared him enough to keep him quiet for a while.
And then there was still Raju, still in my dreams, still entering me slowly and taking me again and again, night after night after night.
WE WERE WORKING in the garden late one evening when the fire started. The old lady on the second floor above us screamed. We jumped up. Smoke trickled from the window over our garden. It grew thicker and darker as we watched. There was a pandemonium like I’ve never seen. The first floor servants rushed out to the balcony, ours into the garden, dad and Madhu and Raju and I and the nurse were at Mum’s wheelchair, easing it down off the porch, someone screaming to someone else to call the firemen. They came, and surprisingly soon, a big red fire truck running through the enclave’s narrow lane, winging three or four cars, jerking to a halt outside the building, unreeling hoses. Two firemen ran up the stairs and brought the old couple down a little later. The hoses played out and jets of water arched over the building. Our servants raced into our house, slamming windows and doors shut, trying to prevent too much internal damage. We huddled together on the lane outside the garden fence, clear of the firemen and the engine. My heart was in my mouth. Tiles began to crash off the sloping roof. Two or three smashed into my rockery. A burnt timber creaked and swung loose and cleaved through my frangipani.
“My garden!” I cried, starting forward.
A solid hand caught my arm and pulled me back.
“Let it be.” His voice was soft and steady.
“But the garden, Raju! All our work!”
“The garden can be rebuilt. This is a question of someone’s life. Someone’s home. Calm down. Don’t move.”
I looked at him. He’d never spoken to me like that before. We were at the very back of the crowd, our backs to the wall of a disused garage across the lane. He let go my arm. His hand slid down to my hand. His fingers laced through mine. I felt as if a jolt of electricity had run through me. Suddenly I lost all fear, all care, all concern. I flushed. My fingers tightened in his. He squeezed my hand reassuringly. Oh god. I watched the apartment burn, saw my garden devastated. I wanted to turn and bury my face in his chest, I didn’t want to see this. I edged closer to him. His hand slipped out of mine and moved around my waist. I pressed my hip to his, moved my arm around his waist. His hand moved down, over my butt. I bit my lower lip. I was wearing loose shorts, and they were very short. I felt his fingers below my buttocks. Oh god, oh god. My cunt had began to seep. My breasts felt heavy and I could feel my nipples standing out. I hardly saw what was happening any longer. I seemed to be in a different world, distanced from everything before me.
The crowd grew larger as more people joined to watch the spectacle. The firemen asked the tenants for a bribe to rescue their valuables. There was screaming and cursing. Two firemen ran up the stairs and began throwing stuff out of the window. Into my garden. I didn’t care. Raju had moved behind me now. The crowd in front of us pushed us back against the rolling shutter of the closed garage. Raju’s hands were on my waist now, both of them. I pressed my butt back against him. His hands moved up the legs of my shorts, under my panties. I squirmed my butt in his crotch. The bulge felt huge. Magically, his fingers had crawled up and around, under my panties, to my cunt-lips. I felt his fingertip at my cunt. I bit my lower lip, chewing back a moan. My feet shuffled apart, of their own accord. His knuckle pressed between my cunt-lips to my clit, began massaging it. My legs trembled. My hand dropped behind me to his crotch, and I squeezed the bulge between his legs. He grunted thickly. I pressed my free hand over his in my crotch. Suddenly his fingers were with mine in his crotch, moving it into his pants. My fingers closed around his cock. I went rigid with shock. It was huge, bigger by far than my boyfriend’s, massively thick, enormously long. It felt rigid like iron and throbbed hot and angry in my hand. I jerked it eagerly. He grunted heavily behind me. His finger moved faster between my legs.
With a soft gasp, I pulled free. “Not here,” I murmured. “Not now. Tomorrow afternoon. Come early.”
My cunt tingling, on the verge of an orgasm, I lurched away from him and into the crowd.
Later, Dad said we’d been very lucky, there’d been no damage except to the top floor, and even that hadn’t been quite so bad. The old couple’s son and daughter-in-law came and took them home. We went through the house, looking for damage. There wasn’t much, just some water through a window in one room, a damaged planter here, things like that. The electricals worked.
That night, lying in bed, I masturbated feverishly, using the ejaculator, moaning at the flickering sight of a hardcore movie on the TV screen where a big black man was furiously fucking a slender young brunette, impaling her repeatedly on his impossible cock. I came again and again and each time I closed my eyes it was Raju, Raju, Raju … his cock inside me … in my mouth … in my cunt … between my breasts … even up my ass … and his cum, stinging and hot and thick in my mouth and in my cunt …
I GOT HOME EARLY the next day, telling my boyfriend I had a headache and needed sleep. They all knew about the fire, so he didn’t insist. Dad was at work, Madhu at school and was going to be late at a play practice. The cook had taken off, the maid was fast asleep. Mum and her nurse napped quietly in her room.
I went into my bedroom and changed quickly, putting on shorts and a loose T-shirt that curved to my body, wearing no underclothes. I sat on the bed and waited, not knowing whether he’d come through the front door or the rear entrance, not knowing if he’d come at all, just waiting.
A sound on my windowpane. Raju, outside the window, in the garden, beckoning, pointing to the toolshed. I nodded and slipped out of the room. My heart was in my mouth. I looked into Mum’s room as I passed. The nurse was stirring. Time for Mum’s medication.
“Hi,” I said, from the door, standing with my arms crossed so she couldn’t see I wasn’t wearing a bra. “Is she okay?”
“Tired today, I think,” the nurse said softly. “I think last night was a big strain.”
“Poor thing. Anything I can do?”
“No, it’s okay. I’m here. Are you going out?”
“Not out, no. Just to the garden. Want to start cleaning up.”
“Oh my, yes, of course. You poor dear. It’s pretty bad, isn’t it?”
“I don’t even want to think about it. It’s going to take us months and months. I don’t even know if we have everything we need. Tools and such, I mean. I’m going to have to look into our toolshed and see what we have and what we don’t and what we need to get.”
“Raju’s coming to help?”
“Yes. In fact, he’s here already. I asked him to come early. Can’t do it on my own.”
“He’s a good man. He’ll make it right.”
I smiled. “I hope so. Well, here’s the bright side — at least this way we’ve got an excuse to correct the mistakes we made!”
She laughed softly. “That’s the spirit, child! Never give up hope.”
“No,” I said, not looking at Mum. “Never.”
THE GARDEN LOOKED like it had been hit by a typhoon. There was very little left. I couldn’t bear to look at it. I kicked over some stones, shoved a broken timber and tiles aside, went around slowly, headed for the toolshed.
It was dark and dank inside. It smelled of sweat and rags and unwashed cloth. I took a deep breath. This is how I wanted it. Sleazy and sweaty and hard.
He was there already. I could sense him, smell him, that musky, woody smell I’d have known anywhere. The door shut behind me. I heard the click of a latch. Suddenly I felt very nervous and unsure of myself. There was hollow in the pit of my stomach. My pulse raced.
“Is there a light in here?” I murmured softly.
A click and a single bulb in the far corner, dim and yellow came on. Raju stood there, shirtless, barefoot, wearing only his pants. I looked around quickly. He’d created a small space for us. Dragged in the low sleeper-wood trestle table we’d set up against the far wall to hold planters and turned it into a makeshift bed, laid a tarp over it and some empty gunnybags for a mattress, rolled up some more for a pillow. It looked like a sacrificial altar. It aroused me. I saw myself sprawled on it, naked, sweating, moaning, thrashing under his dark body, drowning his heat into mine.
He stepped forward out of the shadow and came up to me. Bent his head to mine. I lifted my face to his. His lips were firm and dry. I felt mine open under his. His tongue slipped slowly into my mouth. His hands were on my waist, moving up under my T-shirt.
I broke the kiss. Ran my hands down his beautiful body, tracing the contours of his muscles with my fingertips, paused with my hands together below his navel, at the clasp of his trousers. His hands were up under my T-shirt now, cupping my breasts. They felt heavy and swollen and my nipples were out hard.
“What is it?” He sounded tense and anxious.
I shook my head. “Nothing.”
He leaned forward to kiss me again. I pulled back. “Raju.”
“What?” There was more than a hint of frustration and annoyance now. Good.
“Please. I …”
“What is it, baby?” he said, very gently. “Scared?”
I shook my head. “No. Not scared. Raju … I … I want this … I want this very much … but, it’s only that …”
“I … I don’t want you to make love to me, Raju. I don’t even want you to have sex with me, or sleep with me.”
“What? What d’you mean?”
“I … I mean that … Raju … I want you to fuck me. I mean, really fuck me. Hard. I want to be fucked.” In the verncular, it sounded unbelievably obscene, and very sexy.
He stared at me. For a second I thought I’d gone too far, ruined it. Then he smiled, hugely, his strong, even teeth flashing in the darkness, creasing his handsome, clean-shaven features. “I know. And that is exactly what I intend to do. Why do you think I even tried that stunt last night? I know about you.”
“Yes, about you. This isn’t the first time I’ve come here early. Or stayed late. I’ve seen you. Using those silly … things … watching those movies … seen what you do. Yeah, I know. I’ve heard you say my name. Even when you’re with him … whatisname … sucking his cock or having him lick your chuth … it’s me you want. I know that. And I want you. To fuck you.” He grinned, his thumbs now flicking my quivering nipples back and forth. “Did you really think I was going to make love to you? No way! No fucking way!”
IT WAS THE MOST GLORIOUS hour of my life. Raju fucked me and fucked me and fucked me till I was a sweating, whimpering, moaning mass of trembling limbs. I denied him nothing, and he demanded everything, and more.
His entire mien changed. He seemed to become — I don’t know how to put this — godlike. His body straightened, there was a swagger in him, he seemed to radiate power and control and dominance.
“You like sucking cock, right? C’mon, then … now suck mine!”
I’d already undone his trousers and now, with a soft moan, shuddering at his words, I sank to my knees in front of my servant. His cock was incredible. Still limp, it was seven inches long, perhaps more, incredibly thick, dark and long and ridged with veins. I jerked it quickly. It stiffened and lengthened and thickened and I drew back the foreskin to expose the bulbous head. Lovingly, I swept my tongue over it. He gasped, his hands on my head, and pulled my face into his crotch. I heard myself groan as I took his cock deep into my mouth and started sucking it eagerly, savouring the musky tang of it on my tongue, lapping the dewdrop beads of his pre-cum gunk. He fucked my face for what seemed a very long time — much longer, in fact, than my boyfriend had ever been able to do. My excitement mounted steadily. I pulled my T-shirt up under my arms, fondling and caressing and lifting and squeezing my swollen breasts, tugging at my rigid nipples.
Finally, he pushed my head back, smiled down at me. “You’re good,” he said. “Very good. Especially for someone your age. Lots of practice, eh?”
He swept me up to my feet, kissing me, bending his head to my breasts. I arched, clutching his head, caressing his back, moaning as his teeth and tongue worked my aching nipples. Then I was on my back on the bed and he was slithering down my body, pausing over my breasts to suckle on them again, then moving lower and lower. He peeled my shorts open and pulled them off. I lay unashamed before the naukar, and wantonly opened my legs for him. He smiled, and ran the flat of his palm lovingly over my cunt. I shuddered, arching, bending my legs and spreading them even wider. His tongue rippled through my cunt and I cried out, my fingers clenching his dark, thick hair. His tongue was heavy and thick and it flickered serpentine up and down my cunt-lips and into the wet flesh within. I felt him draw my clit outward, whip it sharply with his tongue, draw it tenderly between his lips and the breath shot from my throat and I arched, my mouth tearing open in a soundless cry. Instantly, he had run a thick finger up deep into my cunt, all the way to the knuckle, and started finger-fucking me rapidly while his tongue continued its torment. I thrashed frantically on that makeshift bed, flinging my head this way and that, moaning, calling his name, crying yes, yes, yes oh god yes! My hips bucked up and down under his face. I felt my breasts bouncing and then I heard myself begging him in a cracked voice, begging and pleading with him to fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.
He was infinitely gentle with me despite everything I said. He rose over me, between my legs. I felt his cock burning at my cunt-lips.
“It might hurt,” he whispered, his tongue sweeping between my lips.
“I don’t care,” I gasped. “I want it! C’mon, Raju! Put it in! Fuck me! Take me!”
“I need you to relax completely. You must want it inside you. Really want it.”
“I do!” I moaned. “I do, I do, I do!”
I’d never felt anything like it. His cock-head popped into my cunt. I gasped and stiffened, tensing. His cock-head felt huge, stretching my cunt-lips wide open, searing in my flesh.
But months and months of masturbation, all those dildos and vibrators and cucumbers and gourds — it paid off. The lust and arousal surged through my body and my hips arched and I felt myself opening wider in welcome. His cock slid smoothly into me like a hot knife. My back cambered violently and my mouth tore open. Instantly, he clamped his hand over my mouth, stifling my scream as the breath shot from my throat. My head was flung back, my neck craned. His cock throbbed angrily in my cunt. It felt like a white hot poker had been plunged into my viscera. It was impossibly big, much too big, I thought he’d surely tear me in two and rip right out of my throat. I couldn’t breathe. I gasped for air, fighting his hand on my mouth, my fingers taut under his chest.
“Not hurting?” he whispered into my ear.
I moaned, panting, shook my head. It felt good, incredibly good, much, much better than I’d imagined it would be. My hips and loins seemed to have acquired a life of their own. I felt myself moving under him, pushing up against him, drawing him deeper into me. He smiled down at me, kissed me gently … and began to fuck me.
I felt dizzy. It was beautiful, just beyond words what I felt. I clung to him on that narrow makeshift bed, heaving under him, my mind screaming in joy. I was being fucked, properly fucked, finally, at long last, I had a cock up my cunt and oh god, it felt good, so good and it was his, his, Raju’s, just what I wanted.
He was incredibly good. Gently, he guided me, coaching me to match my movements to his. He moved gently at first with shallow strokes, just inching back and forth, not thrusting really, just sliding slightly in and out till I’d got used to the sensation — and it was exquisite.
I clung to him and spread my legs wider to bring him in deeper and lifted them behind his thighs. His strokes became longer and I gasped and cried out, heaving and jerking eagerly under him, kissing him feverishly, my fingers digging into the thick muscles in his shoulders. My body rocked and jerked under his and I felt my swollen breasts bouncing heavily. He bent his head to my aching nipples and I gasped and cried out softly again, arching, clenching his head, going yes yes yes and ohhh uhh hanh uhh yes oh god yes.
He fucked me, and he taught me the language of lust, murmuring softly, telling me to use the words, encouraging me as I did, hesitantly at first for this was the first time I’d used such language with anyone else. But it sounded good, sleazy and sexy and erotic and I loved the sound of it in my ears and off my tongue and, most of all, the fire in his eyes when he heard me say them to him.
He moved faster still, with strokes that were longer, faster, deeper. I cried out, my head whipping from side to side, my head flung back, my features twisted in a grimace of lust and arousal. My body rocked and heaved under his, my hips bucking eagerly up and down in time to his thrusts. My breasts were swollen and they bounced as we moved faster and faster, sweat splintering off our bodies.
I was now quite beyond words, my senses overwhelmed by the ferocity of the sensations in my body. My orgasm neared like a looming, unstoppable thundercloud, lingered, and then, without warming, crashed through me like a hurricane.
My orgasms have always come from somewhere deep in my belly and send my cunt into palpitations and convulsions. There is fire in my breasts and nipples and my tongue feels heavy and my knees weaken; my cunt-lips feel swollen and, even as my cunt goes into its convulsions, it feels infinitely deeper and wetter. If, at this moment, my lover touches my buttocks or presses his finger to my anus, my orgasm redoubles in intensity. My nipples are so stiff and over-sensitized and my areols so enlarged and inflamed by now that the slightest touch sends jolts of electricity down to my toes. If there’s a tongue in my mouth or lick behind an ear, I quiver in heightened tension. All coherent thought has left me now and I am weightless and yet infinitely leaden, my mind is empty yet more alive; I am distanced yet in the midst of it; everything around me is simultaneously without anchor, floating, and yet crystal clear, every action is in the slowest possible motion, no detail is lost.
That first orgasm with Raju was unlike anything I’d known before. The heat in my body was intense, searing. My body was out of control: my back arched, my cunt clamped down, the contractions ferocious and seemingly endless, the breath shot from my throat, my head arched way back, my mouth tore open. I went rigid, almost catatonic. Later, he told me that my fingers had nearly torn the skin in his biceps. On and on it went, longer and fiercer and more intense than any orgasm I’d ever had, and all the while he kept moving rhythmically in and out of me, slower than before, but moving all the same. It only intensified my orgasm. I gasped for air, panting, heaving, going uhh uhhhh uhhh uhhhh uhhh. Finally, it began to ebb. I moaned and felt my body sink, weightless and impossibly heavy. My limbs shook. Still moving slowly in and out of me, he smiled down and kissed me lightly.
“Finished?” he murmured.
“Oh god, Raju,” I moaned. “Oh god, oh god, oh god …” I realized he hadn’t come himself. “Raju …,” I began but he shushed me gently, shook his head.
“Not this time,” he said.
“Oh god, no, Raju, no! Please! You must! I want it! I want to feel it!”
“Listen to me, love. You’re not ready for it.”
“I am! I want it! I want your cum inside me!”
“No. You’ve no protection. Neither have I. We can’t take such a chance. You’re too young for this, if something happens.”
I moaned, genuinely upset. “At least let me suck you!” I begged. “You can come in my mouth!”
He chuckled softly. “You really are incredible,” he said. “Yes, that would be good.”
He drew out of me and made to turn on his back on the plank. I wasn’t having any of it.
“Not like that,” I said. I sat up, and suddenly felt incredibly good, filled with a blinding lightness of being, and somehow still extremely aroused, as if I could have had yet another orgasm in just a few minutes. In the weeks and months ahead, I’d learn to recognize the feeling; but till that day I’d never had multiple orgasms and didn’t know more than just a feeling of being intensely alive. “I want you to stand. I want to be like this,” I continued, and slipped to my knees before him.
I knelt before him, going back on my legs folded under my butt, my head lifted lovingly up to watch his expression as I took his cock deep in my mouth and sucked it. My wanton tongue knew what to do, and its ways were already cunning and wicked. He gasped and moaned, his head flung back, his hands on my head moving it to and fro between his legs. His orgasm neared and he grunted and groaned and gasped, staccato. I sucked harder, jerking the thick shaft rapidly, rocking my head back and forth. I heard his despairing moan and, instantly, opened my mouth wide under his cock. The cum shot from the slit in its head into my eager, open mouth, spattered my face and eyelids and hair, dribbled down my cheeks and between my breasts. I groaned as each jet hit me and tried to take what I could in my mouth. I swallowed his cum, moaning, smiling slavishly up at him so he could see me doing it, licked it off my lips and fingertips, massaged it lovingly into my breasts. Slowly, I took his cock in my mouth again. He groaned and dropped to the floor before me. I flung my arms around him and we kissed. The cum smeared from my body to his.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured. “And incredibly bloody sexy.”
I smiled. “Fuck me again.” Slowly, I dragged my tongue through the cleft in his chest, sexily lapping at the streaming sweat. He caressed my head and face tenderly.
He laughed. “Not so soon. But soon enough. Go on, go get cleaned up.”
I shook my head. “No, I won’t. I want to be like this. With your cum on my skin. It feels good. It feels very sexy.”
He grinned, flashing his white teeth in the darkness. “Okay, have it your way. But tomorrow …,”
“Tomorrow, you will fuck me again. Harder and longer. That’s an order.”
“Oh no, no, my dear. Nothing of the kind. Tomorrow you have to see a doctor and get something done for protection.”
He was right of course, particularly if we wanted to go bareback. “But I can’t see my doctor,” I cried. “She’ll tell my dad!”
“I know. That’s why I want you to see someone else.”
“I have a name. Very good, very reliable. You’ll do that?”
“What a question. Of course I will, Raju. Of course I will. You think I want to miss out on this?” I squeezed his now limp but still big cock affectionately. I giggled. “You’re not getting away that lightly!”
WE DRESSED AND WENT OUT to the devastated garden and, as I looked around, I thought to myself how wonderful it would be if he could fuck me here, in the open air one day. My body tingled still from his touch. I’d wiped the cum off my face, licked what I could, rubbed the rest into my skin and I could still smell him on me, his sweat and cum, even on my face and lips. It was still sticky between my breasts. I let it be. The sweat would hide it.
We went to work in the garden and, sure enough, before long both of us were filthy and sweaty and tired. Dad and Madhu came home and marvelled at how much we’d been able to do. At least it looked tidy, even if it wasn’t anything nearing pretty.
“God, got tons to do still,” I groaned, wiping the sweat off my brow with my forearm, pulling off my thick rubber garden gloves. “Don’t know what I’d have done without Raju.”
Dad smiled. “Yes, he’s been a gem.” In ways you wouldn’t believe, Dad, I thought to myself silently. “I’ll give him a good bonus, I think.” Yes, you do that. For services rendered.
“I’m going to have to order more stuff for the garden, Dad,” I said. “It’ll cost a bit.”
“Darling, order whatever you want, just send me the bills. Or I’ll give you cash, you use that and then tell me if you need more. Whatever you like.”
“Thanks, Dad!” I cried happily. “It’ll be faster with the cash. And less expensive.” And will pay for the doctor, too. Though of course I didn’t say that.
THE GYNAECOLOGIST RAJU SENT ME TO was actually very good. I was hesitant at first because it was a guy, but what choice did I have? He didn’t ask any awkward questions, laid out the options and recommended oral contraceptives. I bought the drugs with his prescription and my father’s garden money. I had to wait a couple of days — more because Dad and Madhu were home over the weekend — and the waiting seemed endless. I was restless and jumpy and in almost constant state of arousal. It didn’t help that I had three mercury-weighted Ben-Wa balls rolling around inside me, incessantly massaging my clit every time I moved my legs.
We continued working the garden. My every movement seemed to arouse and inflame me more. I knelt by a flower bed, turning over the soil and imagined myself like this with Raju fucking me from behind. I narrowly avoided moaning out loud. Madhu, working beside me, didn’t notice.
Finally the weekend passed. Monday afternoon saw me and Raju back in the shed, fucking wildly. This time he let me mount him and ride his cock and I bucked happily up and down on it, never wanting it to end.
“Babes, I have an idea,” he said as we lay together, me on top of him, the sweat pouring off our bodies.
“Instead of this damned hole, why can’t we be someplace else? And anyway, the garden will soon be done. Or done enough for me not to be needed here early every day.”
“Okay,” I said slowly. “So what are you suggesting? Inside the house, in my room? What if someone sees us? And what reason could I give to have you in the bedroom?”
“Well maybe not that. At least not when everyone’s around.”
“Would you agree to a hotel?”
I lifted myself and looked down at him. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. I know a good place. It’s not far. Very quiet. They don’t even advertise the hotel. Rent by the hour.”
“Is it clean? Safe? No cops and such?”
“Totally. I know the guy whose father owns it. He’ll cut me a deal. Shall we try it?”
Of course we did, and from the first I loved it. Raju was right. It was in a quiet lane off a main road about 15 minutes’ walk from home, on the second floor of an old wooden building with lots of busy shops and vendors at the street level. There was a grimy restaurant. I met him there and we had a cup of tea. Then he got up, paid, nodded to the proprietor and we went through a side door and down a long narrow corridor to the back of the building and up two flights of dimly lit rickety wooden stairs. The second floor had been reconditioned into a warren of cubicles with wooden partitions. Each was just big enough to hold a low, firm double bed, a wooden table and chair. There was a plastic wastebin in one corner, two fluorescent tube-lights on the wall, a creaking ceiling fan. There was bottled water and an ice bucket and two glasses on a small table by the bed. The little white tiled bathroom en-suite had a loo, a tap, a bucket and mug, a washbasin. No hot water, I noticed. The bed had no linen, just a cheap sheet flung across it and the mattresses were covered in plastic, as were the pillows under the garish pillow cases. But at least it was clean.
Anxiously, Raju asked if it was okay. I needn’t worry about the sound carrying to the next room, he said. That was the one thing done properly. But there were other rooms, he said, if I didn’t like this one, bigger rooms with more furniture and air conditioning and better appointed. We could take one of those if I wanted, but they were more expensive.
I didn’t care. I loved the feel of this, the cheap, tacky, sleazy air about the whole thing. It felt sexy and whorish. I turned to face him and pulled open the top five buttons of my shirt and lifted my breasts to him. No bra.
“You came down the street like that?” he gasped, his eyes wide.
“No panties either,” I grinned, flipping my skirt up over my hips. “No, silly, I took a taxi. I’m not that crazy.”
“Sometimes I wonder,” he grinned, stepping forward, peeling off his shirt and reaching for me.
* * * * *
Comments are, of course, welcome.
This story is copyright © Mixoscopist, 2007.