The Chairman of the Board of Argent Inc. was a bear of a man and had a reputation as a bully. He looked, when he came through the door of the hotel suite, like both. A bear and a bully. Anil, Usha and I bowed. It was the great man’s first time in Singapore. We were staying at the Shangri La Hotel. We had the Moonlight suite. The slide show was set up in the bar alcove, off the dining area. The projector sat on the bar itself, the screen against the opposite wall.
One large easy chair was set out in front of the bar for the great man to sit in. Anil had joked that it looked like a throne. I had shushed him to silence. (Great men have ears, everywhere.)
‘Who’re you,’ he growled at me as he came through the door and we bowed. But his eyes were on Usha.
‘Peter Dunn,’ I told him, holding out my hand. ‘I’m from the Swiss office, Geneva. This is Anil Mhurta. It’s his Spring Collection we’re viewing. This is Usha, his wife.’ Usha was helping us lay out some of the clothes, then she would leave
‘Models?’ he snapped, eyes staying on Usha.
‘Two,’ I responded, beginning to be embarrassed on Anil’s behalf. The poor guy had only been married a matter of weeks, but the chairman’s eyes were all over his wife like greasy hot gravy. If it had not been for this special presentation to the Chairman Anil would still be on his honeymoon. (Usha was a stunner. Whoever got married to her deserved a long honeymoon, in my book.)
‘Let em go,’ the Chairman snapped, his eyes (thankfully) releasing poor Usha. ‘What’s her name?’ he nodded at Usha.
‘Usha,’ I said, repeating what I’d already told him. ‘Usha Mhurta, Anil’s wife,’ I added, pointedly, hoping he heard me this time.
‘Usha can model,’ he said, making for the bar.
Anil’s eyes caught mine. ‘Help!’ they said.
But what could I do? I was finance. I was only here to work out the figures with Anil if the Great Man decided to buy his collection. There were three levels, at least, between me and the Board. Usha just stared. First at the back of the huge man, then at her husband, then — pleadingly — at me. I had to do my bit. ‘Usha’s not really a model,’ I tried, following the Chairman to the bar and wondering if I was about to be cut down to size by this man, with the fearsome reputation.
He ignored me. Choosing instead to throw at Anil, ‘You think your wife looks good enough to model your clothes?’
Anil stared at me. The Chairman reached the bar, turned, and snapped at Anil: ‘Well?’
Anil glanced at Usha. So did I. Voluptuous curves you wanted to hold. Kiss-me quick lips. A secretive fuck-me expression, and huge brown eyes that whispered, Bed! Usha looked well good enough!
‘Of course,’ said Anil, ‘but …’
‘ “But” nothing. If she’s good enough she’s good enough. Usha it is.’ And with that he reached for a bottle of Bourbon. I went to help. Usha’s huge doe-like eyes flitted from husband, to Chairman, to me. But what could I do? I got the tray of ice from the fridge behind the bar.
I was on my second drink. I think we all were, when Usha was off getting changed. The chairman, after spending an age on the clothes set out on the bed, had carefully selected a silver knit silk dress. Both Anil and I breathed a sigh of relief when we saw what he chose. We had half expected him to kit Anil’s gorgeous looking wife in scanty lingerie, or something you could see through, but he didn’t. The dress he chose would cover most of her obvious charms. It was high collared, ankle length, had buttons all the way down the back. (Anil had to slip out for a minute, to help her do them up.) I thought she’d look safe in that — but boy, was I wrong!
When she came through the door the knitted silk had taken on a form-hugging slinkiness which set off her curves to an almost indecent degree. Her earlier suit had shown more leg, but the silk of the dress clung like a second skin to every inch of her. And every inch of her was spectacular! She had her hair drawn back from a lovely face, eyes done up just so. Under the rimless glasses she wore she looked like an innocent girl, but once you got lower — Look out! Down below she exploded into shape like an animal. You wanted to eat her!
‘Can you work a projector?’ asked the Chairman of the Board, seeming not to notice how she looked. I closed my mouth.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Not you. The lady,’ snapped the Chairman.
‘I don’t know,’ she stammered, clearly nervous, eyes darting towards the projector that sat on top of the bar. ‘I’ve never tried.’
‘Anil,’ the Chairman shot him a glance that could have been friendly, or threatening, or challenging — it was difficult to figure which. ‘Show your wife how to operate the projector. We can do the slide presentation first, then move on to the clothes.’ With that, he turned to me. Anil and Usha forgotten. ‘So, Dunn,’ he said — I was on last name terms, I noted, unlike Anil and Usha. But in fairness, I hardly looked like Usha. And Usha wasn’t mine! — ‘Talk me through the presentation.’
So I did. We were trying out some new manufacturers for a range of ‘Trendy’ outfits for Summer. All were based in Udder Pradesh, in Southern India, which is where Anil was from. We were trying to sell the Chairman on the idea of expanding into India to take up the slack caused by the recent closure of some Chinese and Philippine factories. Anil, and Usha — whose family was heavily involved, financially, in one of the factories — were here to promote the products. It meant a lot to them. Hence the importance of this meeting.
I finished my spiel. My own position was neutral. If it made financial sense to buy the collection I was all for it, but I didn’t get involved with the products, nor the style, (at which the Chairman considered himself the ultimate expert in any case). The Chairman knocked back his drink, hauled himself from the throne-like chair in front of the bar like a buffalo lurching from a mud hole. The chair was aimed at the screen on the opposite wall, its back to the bar.
‘You ready?’ he snapped at the others, making for the bottle of bourbon.
‘Yes,’ replied Anil turning from the bar. Usha now stood behind it, remote control in hand, projector in front, looking nervous. And stunning!
‘I’ll stand, you sit,’ said the Chairman, pouring himself another drink and having Usha put the bottle back in the shelf behind the bar. Anil stared at me. There was only one chair, the throne. We’d brought through from next door. It was meant for the Chairman. That and a couple of bar stools that hardly looked able to take the great man’s bulk. I tried to help.
‘We though you might like the chair,’ I suggested, half expecting to be ripped to shreds. But he didn’t rip me to shreds.
‘Prefer to stand,’ he said, elbow on the bar. ‘Anil can sit on the chair.’
I gave Anil a shrug. He took the huge chair with its back to the bar. Sank into it.
‘You can comment as we go,’ said the Chairman. ‘Ready when you are.’
And that was that.
I went for the lights, turned them down. Went back and stood at the end of the bar, nursing my drink. Usha flicked on the first slide. Anil started to talk about the clothes on the model in the slide. I took another sip of my drink. ‘Focus’s off,’ said The Chairman. Everyone froze. ‘Talk on,’ he went on, conversationally, no sign of this temper we’d expected. In fact, he sounded relaxed. But the focus looked fine to me. Next thing I know he’s rounding me to get in to the back of the bar. Where Usha was.
Once into the small space behind the bar he towered over Usha like a grizzly bear. She was staring at the apparently ‘out-of-focus’ projector as if it were a snake about to strike. The Chairman, stretching around her, started fiddling with the focus. Little on the screen seemed to change. Usha held still, the control in her hand. Anil prattled on about the dress on the screen and the material it was made of, and the details of the seam work, and the stitching, and the length … etc.
‘Okay,’ said the chairman. Anil started to turn.
‘FACE THE FRONT!’ The Chairman roared, freezing us again. (Now THAT was the Chairman I’d heard about, I thought, holding steady as a rock.) ‘YOUR job, Mister,’ he was addressing the back of Anil’s now quivering head, ‘is to look at the clothes on the screen, and tell me why I should buy them. You can’t do that if you’re looking back here. Capiche?’
‘Yes sir,’ said Anil, ears red, head resolutely pointed at the screen.
‘Right. Go on then.’
I could see Anil swallow. ‘Next slide,’ he said nervously.
Click! There it was, next slide.
Anil resumed his commentary, but his voice had lost its fluency. He was clearly as nervous as hell. Just as his wife was. Movement behind the bar made me flick a sideways glance. The Chairman had an affectionate hand on Usha’s shoulders. I glanced away.
‘ … of the twin-stitched hem,’ said Anil, followed by a lot of other stuff. Then, after he had finished with the slide, ‘Next slide,’ he instructed.
The Chairman’s hand was moving on Usha’s shoulder. A soft caress, it seemed like, though with hands that size it was hardly likely to feel like eiderdown. Usha kept her eyes on the screen, and her attention on the control in her hand, and — I got the feeling — on the back of her husband’s head. The Chairman’s hand left her shoulder and wandered down her back, tripping over buttons as it went. Oops, I thought: the Chairman had clearly noticed how good Usha looked in that dress. Now he was doing a pretty thorough job of checking she was in there. His hand, now at the small of her back, slithered round her waist and eased her more in front of him. Usha’s feet shuffled in the direction he wanted her to go. As if she were a tackled player with a ball, being edged towards the touch line. (The Chairman the toucher in this little game.)
‘Next slide,’ said Anil as his wife, with commendable control, both changed the slide and leant into the Chairman’s embrace. His great head went down to her neck and started to nibble her. She stretched her head out the way to make it easier for him, eyes firmly fixed on the back of her husband’s head. Anil’s commentary was losing its nervousness now that he was into his flow. His tone was becoming almost eager — though not as eager as the Chairman’s hand on his wife. Now it was curled round a buttock, moulding it (eagerly) as if checking to see it was all there, and sufficiently young and firm and shapely.
Usha’s eyes caught mine. ‘Do something,’ they screamed. But what could I do? So I gave her an encouraging smile. ‘Be brave,’ it said. Or something. She returned her attention to the screen, clearly distraught at her situation, and probably disgusted — I’m guessing here — not merely with the Chairman, but me as well. A minute later she changed the slide. Anil carried on talking. His commentary was starting to enthuse, but was anyone listening?
Although my eyes were fixed on the screen, because of the shortness of the bar, and my position at its end, and the angle of where I was in relation to the screen, it was impossible not to be aware of what was happening behind the bar. I tried not to notice, of course, but I couldn’t fail to observe that the broad fingers of the Chairman’s right hand were now toying with a button on Usha’s dress. The one right over her bottom, in fact. I wondered if his toying might open it.
His hand slipped inside. Usha didn’t react, as if her concentration on the screen and her husband’s commentary, and the flawless changing of the slides as he told her to change them, might somehow nullify the fact that this large strange foreigner had his hand inside her dress, and, from the bulging activity within the knitted silver silk, was obviously fondling her buttocks as if it were mounds of particularly delectable dough. Her shoulders moved in response to the hard-working hand on her sensitive parts at the base of her spine.
‘Change slide,’ ordered Anil, now into the swing of his sales-pitch, as the Chairman loosed another button at the back of his pretty wife’s dress. I lifted my eyes to the Chairman’s head where it buried enthusiastically into the pretty wife’s neck, and found to my momentary horror, that he was looking right at me. He had a hand inside her dress, was fondling her panties clad buttocks — or perhaps he was inside those too; his lips were kissing the skin of her neck, just below her ear — and his tongue as well for all I knew; yet here he was, looking straight at me as if he were keeping five balls in the air, and wanted me to see how clever he was!
I didn’t know how to react.
He loosed another button on her dress.
It was as if he was making an announcement: This is me, Chairman of the Board, enjoying the pretty wife of the commentator in the big chair out front. If you were as successful as me, you could do this too. See it and weep!
For some obscure reason I felt I should respond in some way, so, somewhat aimlessly, I nodded at the man. then I looked back to the screen.
The slide changed.
Though in no way trying to spy, I could not but be aware that the pretty projectionist was concentrating, almost as hard as I was, on the new image on the screen in front of her husband. Both of us were gazing, rapt, as her husband told us what to look for, what to take note of, while the Chairman eased her round in front of him, withdrew his hand from whatever it had been engaged in, inside her dress, and began, in businesslike fashion, to open the rest of the buttons that held her dress to her body.
Her eyebrows, I noted — it was not something I could miss — were now arched a good inch above the delicate frameless spectacles that perched on her pretty nose. The eyebrows were arched with astonishment. Astonishment that she should have a job to do, change the slides, and her husband should have a job to do, explain the slides, and yet the one for whom all this job-like industry was being expended, was more interested in opening her dress, and feeling her body.
Soon the dress was open, flapping loose on either side of her delectable shoulders, and the Chairman’s lips were at the base of her neck. His groin was pressed against her buttocks. She was wearing a thong, I noted: another something it was impossible to miss. It was red, and brief. Her buttocks were enticingly bare.
I tried to focus my attention on the slide. (I did. I really did.) But with all the activity taking place a mere foot from my side, it was difficult. The Chairman leaned back, licked his lips and let his eyes roam the newly unveiled view of his pretty projectionist’s back. (I have to say, it looked damn good.) Usha’s legs were long and smooth — held tightly together, I noted. The buttocks were pert and firm. The waist was slim, the back smooth, the shoulders square, arms over the bar, controls for the projector clutched tightly and protectively in both slender hands. Her eyebrows had returned to a position of ‘at ease’. Or resigned acquiescence for the moment, perhaps?
I wondered what was happening in her mind. She no longer bothered to look at me. Deciding, I suppose, that I was much too much a spineless employee of the Great Man, (who had just unbuttoned her dress, kissed her back, and fondled her buttocks,) than a gentleman whom she might expect to rush to the aid of a young married woman in distress. (Like her.) And I suppose, in this summation, sad to say, she was probably right.
The Chairman, as if overcome by the extravagance of choice revealed by his opening of her dress, shook his head, put both his hands on the full round mounds of her buttocks, and started to caressed them with relish.
‘Next slide,’ said Anil.
His wife squeezed the control clutched tightly in her hands as the Chairman squeezed her buttocks, clutched equally tightly in his. The slide changed. The Chairman leant forward and kissed her on the smooth skin of her back, just above a slim red bra-strap. Then he started to suck the strap. As he did his hands took on greater urgency. Pressing and kneading and squeezing her. Forcing her up against the bar, then to one side, then the other, then pulling her back into him. She went with the moves, neither resisting nor encouraging. Just being there. The object, as it were. The object of the Chairman’s now clearly aroused, ‘requirements’.
A broad hand snaked out from between the two now tightly conjoined bodies — him around her like a spoon around an egg — and snaked into the gap between the folds of her dress and the curve of her side, and disappeared into her dress-draped front. Movement under knit silk folds showed activity over a breast, a breast already shown within the silk knit of the fastened dress to be both plump and shapely. Usha’s eyebrows leapt again. Two more astonished arches over the top of the neat rimless glasses she continued to wear with such school-teacher grace. (For that’s what she was, when not helping her husband sell clothes.) I closed my mouth.
‘Next slide …’
Usha pressed the button, her torso squirmed, the eyebrows curled, the lashes fluttered briefly, and then the next slide came on. ‘This outfit …’ Anil started, lecture status firmed, as his wife’s mouth opened, then closed, and furrows appeared on her brow. Both the Chairman’s hands were round her front, over breast, across stomach, down towards legs. It was difficult to tell what was where, with the folds of the dress now copiously draped around her front. But there was activity.
Activity intimated both by the movement I could see beneath knitted silk, and the emotions at play on her face. Usha was not unaffected by all that was going on. All that was touched, caressed, and squeezed and roughly groped. Nor did she know how to cope with it all. A hand that fondles a breast as eagerly as this large man was fondling hers, must have some effect (if anything I’d read about women was true — and some of it, surely, must be).
‘Next …’ said Anil, sounding like a General, (as his troops were being liberally mauled behind enemy lines). His shapely troop changed the slide at the exact same moment as the Chairman chose to unfasten her bra. It was clearly front-fastening. I only became aware of what had happened when the taught red line across her smooth chocolate coloured skin around the back suddenly lurched, then hung in a lazy (and clearly redundant) loop. His hands were cupping her breasts devoid of cover. The were feeling — I suddenly realised –pretty Usha’s naked breasts in a manner so thoroughly intimate, and personal, that in all probability he was the only person to have done so, since her marriage — other than Anil, that is. Since the start of their courtship, in fact.
That could have been years.
Yet here she was now — when her breasts, she would no doubt have imagined, had been given over, exclusively, to Anil — with this large (very large) foreign stranger, using them as intimately as Anil ever had, with no permission granted whatsoever — other than the permission (she must be thinking) that she was apparently granting, by letting him continue to arouse her.
Was she being aroused?
I glanced, searchingly, at her profile. Above her neat glasses her eyebrows were all at sea. One twisted up, the other angled down. Her eyes were closed. Tightly closed. Squeezed shut, in fact!
‘Next slide …’
The eyes flipped guiltily open. Looked vague. Disturbed. Filled, in fact, with unease. She pressed the button. Watched the screen. Saw the change. Then opened her mouth, and gasped. Then closed her eyes again. The Chairman was now caressing all the parts of her I couldn’t see beneath her dress around her front. But it was clearly having some effect. I glanced at her feet. They were apart, and had a large size thirteen loafer between them. And a big bent knee was high between hers. Hers seemed weak, but it hardly mattered, he had her so firmly moulded against him she could have lifted her feet from the floor and she would not have dropped an inch. Other than onto his thigh between her legs, snugly ensconced, high up, between her own.
The silk knit dress dropped off a shoulder. Her shoulder gleamed, beguilingly, in the reflected light from the screen where a model, dressed in one of Anil’s creations against a backdrop of the Taj Mahal, was elegantly posed. Anil waxed (lyrical) about both, while one of his wife’s slender hands abandoned, briefly, the projector control, and returned the dress to its perilous hold on her shoulder. She pressed the control for the next wanted slide. She adjusted her glasses on her neat little nose … then her eyes snapped suddenly shut. Her lips gaped open, as if she was about to say something important, but had forgotten what it was, so was holding her mouth at the ready in case she remembered.
Her dress departed her shoulder again. The other shoulder, this time. She replaced it again. Changed the slide again. Closed her eyes again. This time with an audible groan. She arched her back. The Chairman’s lips were on her skin. The skin at the side of the neck. His mouth was wide, tasting and kissing and licking her there, which caused her eyes to stay tight closed. Her back slowly curled and her pelvis flared and her body eased out of the folds of her dress, curled in her nakedness into his groin. Then the curl reversed, and her back slowly arched, and her head drifted back, next to his.
I noted, in the brief period when her cover was gone, that she had a large and greedily active hand between her legs. As the curl reversed, the hand still there — still greedy, still active — she groaned a second time. More loudly than the first.
I shot a glance at Anil. His head seemed to flick to the side, as if seeking peripheral vision, then just as quickly flicked back to the front. Had he seen? Had he seen that his wife was unusually close to another man? That the other man was unusually close to his wife? That the dress she had modelled so accommodatingly was draped in copious folds more round her front, than her back? That the man’s hands were (clearly) up to no good in the folds of said dress? Her dress left her shoulder again, but this time she didn’t do anything. She left it as it was. (Perhaps she hadn’t noticed?)
The sound of the Chairman’s breathing had risen to something close to a steam train climbing an unusually demanding incline. Like up the side of a mountain. One in five. One in four. One in three. As he lifted his face from the young wife of the young man in the chair to his front, who was trying to sell him his wares, (though not, I think, his wife,) he ran his huge hands up her back to her shoulders, then over them, then lovingly around them, then returned them down each side to the upthrust buttocks spread around his single upthrust thigh. He opened his mouth and loudly gasped and his eyes caught mine. The focus wasn’t there any more. The only focus was her. That and mounting emotions (I suppose).
I had to leave.
I did. I left.
I left and walked around Anil, saying, as I passed in front of him, ‘Please carry on, Anil.’ His expression was curious, with perhaps a dash of concern. It seemed to ask, Is something wrong? So I added, momentarily blocking the slide show, ‘You’re doing just fine, Anil.’
Then I moved into the lounge room of the suite, found the music control, and turned it on. The hard base thump of a rock group filled the room. I returned to the alcove where the bar was, deciding I would sit on the arm of Anil’s chair and see if I could help from there. (Help, by stopping him looking behind him. Help, by preventing him seeing what was being done to his lovely young wife.) When perched on the arm of his overstuffed chair, I whispered to Anil, ‘The Chairman likes music backing. Just speak more loudly.’ He glanced at me mid-spiel, then nodded, then raised his voice. ‘And the stitching …’ he rambled on.
Then I heard, ‘Dunn!’
I jumped. That’s me. The speaker was my Chairman.
‘I’ll have that other whiskey now,’ he said in a gravely voice in which emotion was heavily present, and I knew what emotion it was.
Bull elephant emotion!
I got off the arm of the chair, leaning towards Anil as I did and patting his arm, and whispering, ‘Just keep going. You’re doing great.’ Then I rose and went to the bar. I had to stretch for the bottle of bourbon. It was back on the shelf behind the bar. Behind the Chairman. Behind Usha. (Who was in front of the Chairman, if you are the sort of reader to whom geography is important). I had to stretch behind the Chairman to get the whiskey bottle. The Chairman’s mouth was on Usha’s ear at the time. Whispering sweet nothings, I imagine — certainly whispering something — as his large and eager hands continued their assault on the girl.
I had the bottle in my hand. I knelt on the floor just round the back of the bar to open the fridge to get the ice for the Chairman’s drink, and as I did a slim and tentative female hand dropped below the surface of the bar, crept nervously behind her, and snaked into a space which suddenly appeared between them.
Off on an errand, clearly.
I got the ice and closed the fridge and rose. Her hand was trapped in the warmth between her buttocks, and the Chairman’s ample groin. Neither were still any more. Then her other hand, in response, it seemed, to more whispered ‘nothings’ in her ear, left the projector controls, and snuck around her other shapely side. It also went into the warmth between her shapely buttocks, and the Chairman’s ample groin. Which is when I understood what was going on. She was servicing his member. He’d told her to let the thing out. The ‘nothings’ were instructions. ‘Get my ample cock out of my breeches, you tempting young Indian filly.’ And she was doing as she was told.
‘Next …’ snapped Anil.
Pregnant pause. His projectionist was otherwise engaged. Her hands were engaged with the Chairman. The honoured guest. And (clearly) hadn’t yet completed their task. I rose from the fridge, deposited the appropriately iced and watered Bourbon on the bar by the grappling couple, picked up the controls from the bar, where she’d left it, and pressed the appropriate button.
The slide changed.
‘This next dress is one of the most dramatic in our Summer collection,’ said Anil, by way of explanation, as his wife’s tender hands, (I had straightened at the end of the bar and could see what they were up to,) drew an extremely fat and long, and what looked to be painfully erect, penis — and I’m talking elephantine proportions here — from the Chairman’s pin striped trousers, and froze. Her facial expression said it all. Shit a brick! This is HUGE! Then she started to stroke it.
‘Next …’ came the instruction from the front, after she’d stoked it pretty much every way you could. I was about to press the button myself when one of the pretty projectionist’s hands came back atop the bar, gently took the control from my grasp, and pressed the button. The slide changed. The hand stayed where it was, on the bar, lightly holding the control, while the other, still busily active, stayed where it was, round the back, with the Chairman’s … thing.
Now it was the Chairman’s eyes that had closed.
I studied Usha’s face. She might have been sitting at a lecture in college, raptly paying attention to the lecturer, finding the subject fascinating. A little ridge on her brow. Eyes open, deeply attentive. Lips held lightly together. Face unconcerned. Yet here she was, expertly stroking the Chairman’s prick. A stranger’s penis. A penis she clearly regarded, judging from her initial reaction on taking it into her hands, as far too big. Far too big, at any rate, for anyone other that — I am guessing here — the Chairman of the Board.
Or an elephant.
The elephant opened his eyes. He turned to me and raised an eyebrow as if to say, Fuck me, this little cutie is hot as hell! Then his hands came out from wherever they’d been, doing whatever they’d been doing, and went, as if on a mission, to Usha’s pretty hips. I had to watch. I had to watch as his broad fingers burrowed into the tight cleft of her buttocks, coming out with a strip of red, and drew the thong off her hips. It lay on the pinstripe of his upthrust thigh like a fragile strip of seaweed. Colourful seaweed. The upthrust thigh disappeared. Thrust down. Strong hands grabbed her shapely hips and pulled them back, which arched her back. She thrust her buttock towards him as he covered her back and whispered, urgently, into her ear. I watched as her delicate hand moved the bulbous tip of his rampant prick to the soft-lipped opening between her legs.
The tip disappeared. Her eyes snapped shut. Her fingers flopped on the bar, dropping the control as her hips thrust back. At him. The thick mammoth shaft started to slither inside her. She gasped. The music next door was hard driving rock, the lyrics demanding, Wanting and Needing and ‘Feeling her body encase him’.
Usha, by now, had encased a pretty fair part of the Chairman. Far from all, but a pretty fair bit. Back it came, slick with the juice of the projectionist. Then, with a movement that seemed to be just as much her thrusting back, as him driving forward, the huge ramrod prick disappeared again, this time further in. Much further in. But still lots to go! It took eight careful thrusts of this sort, in the end more from her than from him, to seat the great monster to the hilt.
I was now in charge of changing slides, as Usha was into something else, (or something else was into Usha). Her eyes tight shut and her mouth wide open, her breath was like gasps of a gale. Usha was transported. She was in another country, most of it now between her legs! Big and fat and hard and moving in and out of her in a manner that was clearly arousing if the copious juices on the skin of the prick were a guide, if the gasps and moans that escaped from her lips were a guide, if the way she clenched her hands in fists and arched her back and flared her thighs and ground her buttocks hard and hot and fast against his thrusts, was any guide. She cried out loudly, once, then twice, a pause, and then,
‘Next slide …’
How could he not have heard?
I changed the slide. Usha was giving out small tight cries like a fast express train tripping over points. Tight cries that came from within her with an edge of passion so sharp it cut into the room and announced: animals at war. Serious war. (Seriously animals.) Usha cried again, face arched grandly to the ceiling, shuddering in time with her hips that thrust and writhed and seemed to bite out stridently behind her. As if her rear-ward bucking buttocks were the head of a hungry animal, tearing into its prey. Ripping out the innards. Mouthing the bugger to death. Another cry.
Usha’s face was disfigured in a mask of lust. Eyes, partly open, with pupils gone. Innocence let out to play. Wifely decorum out for the count. This was a show of emotion whose roots were deep in her genitals. Genitals hard at work.
‘Ngraaah …’ she groaned, and groaned again in the clear firm clutch of a wave of orgasmic peaks that shook every inch of her body. Her legs were rippling with effort, thrust hard back and apart as her hips rode hard on him — and he as hard in her — and the sound of the rutting pair threatened to bring down the roof, and probably not help her marriage! Like the clash of the finale of a particularly lively Mahler Symphony, nature and power and the glory of all, the huge bull elephant, with a sudden electrifying jolt and thrust, then hold, as deeply inside her as it was possible to get, his eyes and face tight closed, transported to a world elsewhere, and then, with the slightest rolling and tightening of thighs, and the calm contented visage of his great bear-like face, one could feel, as much as sense, that from the end of his rampant cock great streams of sperm where hungrily streaming into the very centre of the writhing Usha’s soul.
A still came over the pair. Eyes closed. Lips apart. Drained and sated expressions on both their shining faces. Shining from the sprinkled perspirations. Shining from the effort both had made. Shining from completion of the deed.
I clicked the next slide.
‘The bodice here …’ said Anil, but his voice sounded far away.
As if he had lost interest in the collection.
I wondered what he knew? From the corner of my eye I saw the Chairman’s flaccid member, the slippery sheen of her arousal all over the crinkly surface of the thing, slip out of her.
‘Another whiskey would be nice,’ he said to me, turning her around and with a broad hand on the crown of her head pushing her onto her knees. I reached for the bottle, and his glass, and crouched to the fridge beneath the bar for the ice, in time to see her take his softening penis into her mouth, and start to clean it with her lips and tongue. Her eyes, now open on mine, and only two inches away, seemed to say: ‘Don’t stare at me. He wants a whiskey. Give him one.’
So I did. I rose. Put some whiskey and ice in his glass and, as she rose too, I handed the glass to him. He nodded his thanks. Or nodded, at least. Though perhaps he was nodding to her, to say that she’d done all right. Maybe he was nodding to both of us, to say we’d both done all right. He stepped past me. Usha repossessed the projector control and when the next request of, ‘Next slide please,’ came, she changed the slide, then turned her back to me. (Pointedly, I thought.)
Her back was bare within the open curtain of her dress. It was smooth and glistened with sweat. It was blotched deep red here and there where he’d gripped her too hard. The loose strap of her bra trailed down one side. Her scarlet thong was round an ankle. There was a trickle of semen, and juices, leaking from her private parts. They looked swollen, pronounced; crimson inside lips of reddish-brown. She seemed to flick her shoulders at me. As if she knew I was looking at her. Lusting after her as all men might, at what was left after the Chairman had had his way. Showing she didn’t care. That I was no threat. I was not a Chairman.
Nor as large, perhaps?
‘And the stitching …’ Anil was chuntering on.
The Chairman, one hand zipping himself up as the other took his drink to his mouth, was out in the open now, perched on a bar stool, eyes on the screen.
Usha flicked her shoulders at me again, and I suddenly realised what she wanted. She could not button up the back of her dress and wanted me to help her. So I did. Dabbing parts of her, here and there — she didn’t object — with a tissue from a box beneath the bar. Feeling a dangerous frisson of excitement slither along my arm as my fingers eased her front-fastening bra over hot plump breasts that had recently been aroused. (Were they still?) My fingers brushed a rock-hard nipple, and before I could contain myself I had a heavy mound of Usha overflowing in my hand. I squeezed it. Once. Then I fastened the bra and brought my hands away. She didn’t react.
As well for me.
I reached to her ankle, opened the vacant leg of her thong and watched her neat foot come off the floor and into the vacant loop. I eased the thong up her leg. I put my hand over her naked pudenda before the thong, gently felt its length. She didn’t object. She didn’t move, at least. I tentatively joined two fingers together in the shape of an interesting shaft, and slipped them into her. She didn’t move, or shift, or say a word. Inside her it was sticky and hot and intimately soft. I moved my fingers inside her, gentle as stroking a cat. She changed the slide and arched her back, slightly, as her pelvis dropped onto my hand . Enough of this, I though, reluctantly slipping my fingers out of her, replacing her thong, then drawing the curtains of her dress across her back and starting to button her up.
‘Interesting,’ said the Chairman moving to the chair that held Anil. Anil looked up. I closed button number five of his wife’s silk dress, then number six. ‘But I don’t think it’s for me,’ he said, then turned to me. I was on button number eight, but trying to pay attention to the Chairman as well. ‘We’ll see some others tomorrow, Dunn?’ he said. Meaning, as I closed button number ten of the projectionist’s dress, that we would meet some other producers, and see what they had to offer. ‘Of course,’ I said, fastening the last button of Usha’s dress, as the Chairman bid us good-night, and Anil rose, and Usha bit her lip.