The blonde couple were pressed against the wall at the end of the carriage. He against the window, she against his back, blank rear wall of the carriage against the right shoulder of each. Surrounding them were dusky men. Some in Dhotis, some in shorts, all in sandals. Most of the men faced the girl, some to press against her, some to merely look. She had a pretty, shapely, figure, and her brief floppy shorts and sleeveless T left little of her charms to be imagined. They were on honeymoon. Dave and Nicci Saunders were their names.
They’d been to see the temple at Maracci, near Mumbai. Now they were trying to get back into town but hadn’t been able to find a taxi, so had taken the train instead.
It was dusk. Light fading fast. The train was shuddering painfully from stop to start, to stop again, along an ancient line. The eyes of the men, all dark, were on hers, clear blue … and on her face, plump lips, clear eyes, neat chin. They wandered over her straw-coloured hair drawn back in a pony-tail. Smooth neck, creamy skin. A very pretty thing. So it was perhaps unsurprising — although it surprised Nicci at the time — when one of those crammed around extended a hand and gently cupped her buttock. Nicci Saunders didn’t know how to react. She couldn’t turn, they were too tightly packed. She could hardly shout out, the noise was already too much, she’d never be heard.
Could she complain to her husband? Object about a hand? What would he do! It would not have a good outcome, she decided, figuring it best to ignore it. Besides, it might be accidental. Then it began to caress her butt, so she knew it wasn’t accidental. But so what? What did that change? How did it harm her, really? Stoically taking the touch she stayed as she was, unobjecting.
This lack of action on her part appeared to embolden the owner of the hand. He was forty-three, a leather parts hawker from south Mumbai. He was married, had three scrawny kids and lived in a corrugated cardboard hut near the railway line. He’d only seen something as lovely as this on a poster for a Hollywood film. But this was real. He’d never touched a Westerner before. Of any age. And never dreamed of having his hands on one as pretty as this. The feel of her in the palm of his hand, did not disappoint. She was firm, exciting, warm. He began to fondle her gently. A firm and shapely buttock.
As the feeling and stroking continued Nicci reinforced, to herself, her original plan: that it was best to act as if nothing was happening. Nothing good could possible come of making a fuss. So she focussed on the back of her husband’s neck, and the collar of his polo shirt, and the flickering countryside out the window beyond, dark with a few distant lights scudding past. She would not make a scene. She would not even acknowledged the feel of the hand, now making an attempt to sneak inside the elastic waistband of her cotton walk shorts. They weren’t there, she repeated her mantra, these fingers of this person behind her, not at all. Besides, she told herself, he’d soon get bored.
But the tips of the stranger’s fingers snuck inside the waistband of her shorts and gently, cautiously, started to stroke the skin of her lower back. Then marginally lower, onto the starting swell of buttocks. She gently took her lip between her teeth, but let it go. No fuss. No trouble. No scene. But the fingers began to grow bolder, touching and stroking her warmth, and skin, as she, uncomplaining, almost acquiescent, resisted the temptation to object.
As a precaution she had pressed her hip against the carriage wall, to prevent the hand from slipping round her front. This may have worked, she felt, for a little later, once the upper portion of her buttock nearest the wall had been extensively explored, the hand withdrew. Nicci breathed an inward sigh of relief. Relaxed a little. Allowed her eyes to wander back among the faces of the dusky men all angled towards her. Eyes she knew to be undressing her — she’d seen these looks before. But then she rebuked herself for such an unworthy thought. On her honeymoon too! She tried a gentle smile at one or two who were nearest and one of them responded by mouthing a kiss. Must have been forty years old, but mouthed her a kiss!
She averted her eyes.
How could he do that? She much younger and clearly with the man in front.
The hand was back!
Back on her hip. Then easing round her waist.
But with her hip pressed hard against the carriage wall there was no way round. Or so she thought. No way round her hip, but her waist was toned and slender, and the fingers of the hand easily insinuated themselves into the space between the carriage wall and waist.
Uncomplainingly, yet disappointed she hadn’t anticipated this, perhaps even taken defensive action — though what that might have been she wasn’t sure — she felt the finger trace a feather light path beneath the overhanging top, around her waist, onto the side of her tummy, then further still, until a finger found the recess of her navel. She tensed. It angled out, and wormed its way inside. She bit her lip. She eased back from her husband lest he feel the intrusion and enquiringly turn, which she couldn’t let happen. No good could come of Dave losing his temper. Which he would, if he knew a stranger was touching his wife this way. But moving her hips from her husband pushed her butt into the groin of the man behind. But what else could she do? He took it as response. Snuggled even closer. She shut it from her mind.
Think of other things! Their wedding night. Only four days ago.
Had Dave found her worth it?
There was a detachment to the feel of a strange man’s fingers gently easing inside the waistband of her walk shorts. The way the fingertips moved. As if not wanting to be obvious, yet keen to get inside and feel her lower down. He’d already felt her skin. Already been inside the waistband. Knew what to expect.
There … the tips of fingers were inside the band. Wriggling further in. Fingers angled downwards towards her pubis, legs, her private parts. She focussed on her husband’s neck. She didn’t want to look around her. Didn’t want to risk another lewdly mouthed kiss from someone she was trying to be pleasant to. She wanted to float above this. These men. Their wants. Wants that so blatantly now involved her.
The fingertips moved towards the lower part of tummy. She found, as they wormed their secret way against her skin, that her knees had pressed together. Her spine had arched, and tensed. As if her mind had no idea what to do, but her body had. When the fingers hit the low-slung band of her Sluggies, they stopped. Mounted the miniscule rise of band that held the brief Sluggies on her hips. Felt to the right. Then back. Then the left. Then back again. Then the fingers curled and the tips retreated, a shade, then nudged their way under the band.
Hoping to signal her dislike of what was happening, Nicci was pushing her elbow back at the stranger behind her, the one who was feeling her, but couldn’t seem to find him. She angled if off to the left, into the carriage, hit something, but what? She didn’t know. But whatever it was it had no effect on the hand, though the hand was having an effect on her.
Fingers softly toying with her pubic hair. After an agonizingly sensitive period of treatment there … they moved on. Found the hood, by now engorged, and hardening clitoris within. Her pelvis surged and pulsed and she experienced a sudden, violent, orgasm. He held her tight. His hand cupped round her mound. One finger between hotly pulsing labia lips — Hers, for God’s sake!
He let her ease down slowly from the orgasm that had just, quite clearly, swept through her — much to his surprise, she guessed. And hers as well! And he’d be right. Nicci Saunders couldn’t believe what had just happened. She couldn’t credit it. That fingers from a none-too clean looking stranger the age of her father, a foreigner to boot — although she liked their temples — had done that. That she had let the hand creep into her panties, play with her pubis, locate then softly caress her clitoris in a way she wasn’t used to. That such a thing had caused her — the whole unlikely scenario, as well as the way the fingers had carefully manipulated her most sensitive place — had made her have an orgasm as powerful as that. More like an erupting volcano than the mediocre shudder she was used to. It filled her with amazement.
She had simply never come so intensely before.
Nor so quickly. Usually she needed foreplay of almost half an hour before she’d be anything like ready to indulge in this sort of thing. Not that she’d had much experience. Before she was married she’d been almost chaste. (Her mother’s biblical influence.) But her reaction to this … this what? … stolen intimacy? And from a complete stranger. Someone she’d never seen before. And would probably never see again. It was just …
She was grateful he let her take time to cool down. Not pushing her at all, although his hand still had possession of her buzzing private parts. It didn’t seem to matter. Almost as if it had its rights. Had produced the ZING, so now could protect it from harm. Or something. Then she started to wonder what others around them might think? She and the Indian behind her were so close to each other, they were practically one. She was leaning into him. He was standing firm, groin and chest tight against her buttocks and back. One arm slipped around her. A hand inside her shorts, the fingers in her panties. But the part that confused her the most, and the part that must have been noticed by those most close, was that SHE WAS ALLOWING IT!
What if her husband turned, right now, and saw what they were doing?
Saw what she was allowing this stranger to do!
She studied his protective back. Behind which she was firmly lodged. Being protected. Except for the hand that had somehow breached the defence — his defence — her defences. She would have to do something about it, of course. Though perhaps not immediately. Not right now. After all, she could hardly let the man behind know she was aware of where his hand was, she reasoned blandly. And certainly couldn’t indicate to him that it was affecting her in any way, never mind the way it just had.
She wasn’t making any sense.
The afterglow was …
She was slowly regaining her breath. And with it some semblance of composure. She would affect indifference. That was it. She would make him think she was unaware the hand was even there.
Should she close her eyes? Pretend to go to sleep?
But surely, she thought, mulling the problem in her mind, he was already aware of the effect he was having. Who could have failed to notice the shuddering orgasm she’d had. Especially where his hand had been when she had it! She was highly flushed, she knew. Sex always affected her this way. And her breathing was laboured and sharp. And her breasts were heaving. They felt to be twice their normal size — and they weren’t small to begin with!
She kept her eyes down.
The fingers in her panties started moving again. Not hurriedly, but cleverly, sympathetically, avoiding the jangle of her over-perked clit. As if he knew it would be tender, and would remain so for some moments yet. The finger in her labia was surprisingly gentle and soft, relaxing her gently, intimate as hell. Just what she needed now. She didn’t move. Her emotions were in the guy’s hands. She would stop him when matters dictated she must, but that wasn’t now. Now she must conserve her energies, compose herself, remember who she was. She let her eyes drift closed and dropped her forehead on her husband’s back.
“Y’okay, honey,” she heard him murmur back at her.
All she did was nod her head against his shoulder. The last thing Nicci wanted was him looking at her now, the flush she knew was colouring her face, the slightly glazed look she felt sure was in her eyes, the slight shudder that came and went in waves in response to the fingers’ that were, even now, toying quietly with her honey slick pussy.
Being touched like this always made her shudder with pleasure. Even when the touch was her own. Though now she wasn’t sure it was pleasure she was feeling. It was something more earthy, dangerous even. Exciting. And the Indian was doing things better than she ever did. So skilled that the underlying lust leaked through. Her thighs spread wider round the finger’s gentle pressure.
Just as new waves of illicit response started to build, deep down, Nicci started to be concerned at what they were doing. This man and she. Concern at where she was. Concern at how it might be noticed by others. The others all around them. Her husband, she knew, was facing away. Her own tiny movements, now and then, would be masked by the far greater movement of the train, starting and stopping and starting again with jolting regularity. But what of the others? Those all around, who faced her. Those whose eyes, she felt, had already undressed her? Who would equally like to be feeling her like this, their hands against her skin, their flesh against her body. Would others have seen what this bold man was doing? If they did, would they care? Care, if they saw one of their own enjoying her?
Nicci slowly let her eyes drift open and moved them away from the wall and her husband’s broad back, and into the carriage. Mere inches away was the straggly beard of a broadly built man whose eyes were cast down. She had no idea what he could see. Her bare shoulder was against the middle of his chest, her hip against the soft largeness of his stomach, her outer leg touched his knee skin to skin, his copious hair to her smoother leg. Then a shudder of response she couldn’t contained swept over her, she caught her lip in her teeth and started to chew, and her eyes snapped back to the carriage wall.
She noted the ease with which her molester’s fingers were wandering her honey-slick privates. Causing her to pulse and shudder and arch her back. Sighs and groans she held in her mouth, biting down hard on her lip when she must. Somehow, in the press of bodies all around her, she had managed to ease up her arm by the carriage wall and started gnawing on the knuckle of a finger. Was the stranger with the beard who was pressed against her side aware of what was happening? Could he see the hand in her shorts? Could he see the moving fingers within, down between her legs. How her legs were eased apart to give him access. How her knees were slightly bent, her weight against the carriage wall rather than her legs. The look on her face, the glaze in her eyes, the flush on her neck and chest.
She lowered her eyes, easing herself from her husband, so she might see what her bearded neighbour might see — and saw to her horror, that he couldn’t fail! Even she could see the dark arm that curled around her hip and disappeared into the lowered top of her hiking shorts. Even she could make out the bulge of the wrist where it bend out the front of her shorts, and the movement of the fingers where they fondled and caressed her lower down, between her legs. She closed her eyes, and eased herself against her husband more.
“Soon be back at the hotel, don’t worry, my pet,” she heard his voice assure her. As she was about to respond in some way the man behind hers other arm came round her other side — the side where the bearded onlooker stood! — and pulled her even closer to his groin. As she felt it being positioned between her buttocks she forgot about responding to her husband. Then the man at her back started grinding a his stiff erection in the cleft of her behind. The groping in her panties grew stronger, much more in time with the thrusts.
They were moving in unison now, she and him. All other heads were shaking and vibrating in time with the movement of the train, but the two of them, up the end of the carriage, were moving to a different rhythm. A rhythm which their faces must surely give away. A rhythm that had intercourse as guide. She squeezed her eyes closed and let herself be rocked back and forth. Why didn’t she stop what was happening? Why couldn’t she stop pumping juice and emotions hard into his hand.
She felt like a pony, riding the hand as if it were offering food. Her pubis the nose, nuzzling the hand, hungrily searching for more, seeing that she hadn’t missed any! The fingers egged her on, as the harder erection eased up, and down, and up, and down, in the cleft of her angled-back ass. What was she most keen to give him? Her ass to screw, or her pussy to fondle. She really didn’t know any more.
To mask her gasps, and prevent the spate of her trembling from being telegraphed to husband Dave, she had eased away from him but in so doing her neighbour, the one with the beard and the down-cast eyes, could not fail to see what was happening. As she looked at the top of his head, and felt his eyes as they roamed the dishevelment at the front of her shorts, and the forearm where it disappeared into the top of her shorts, the head rose up, and the darkest, deepest, eyes she thought she’d ever seen, met hers.
How should she look?
How should she appear?
But there was nothing to say. She knew that he knew. Knew he’d seen what the man behind her was doing with his groin against her back. And what he was doing with his hands around her front. She knew, too, that he’d noted what she was doing about it — namely, nothing — and how it was affecting her — namely a hell of a lot!
She was aroused. Wildly, uncontrollably, aroused. By a stranger.
IN A BLOODY TRAIN!
She wanted to drop her eyes from the compelling gaze of this second stranger, but didn’t know how. She was no longer the innocent visitor to this man’s country. She was much more than that. She was involved. Sexually involved with his country — a man, a member of its race, at least.
She felt like a missionary who had fallen from grace and now lived in sin in a foreign land. As if she should be punished for her sins. As if she should be used as a form of atonement for her sins. So when the stranger brought a hand up between them, and turned it towards her, and slipped it between her husband and her, she didn’t even think to object. As it closed over one of her breasts, she didn’t think to protest, or even try to push it away. She kept her eyes on his, and let him caress her breast. And then she climaxed a second time. Trembling and shaking and arching her back with a firm hard snap that hurt.
What the hell was she doing?
Her mouth wide open, face angled up to the ceiling, expression a tortured grimace, she silently climaxed in a series of mountainous waves, and just as she did, the whole train shuddered to a halt.
Silence. But for the sound of her gasping for breath, so it seemed, and the shaking completion of climax.
“You okay, honey?” she heard from the shoulders to which her head had dropped.
“Fine. I’m fine,” she said, a catch in her voice, her knees and thighs rolling tightly against each, trapping the fingers between her legs, prolonging the waves and the surging mind-numbing sensations that pulsed through her, that made her feel like a huge sparkling ball of tingling nerves. God, what a feeling that was! Unable to still the feelings she let out a long low groan as her thighs thrust tightly again … then again … then gently spread.
The hand slipped away. Just as the hand on her breast had. Concerned, perhaps, that in the still of the stationary train the husband might turn. Or others nearby might notice. Or she herself might scream out accusingly. But when she next spoke, she could hardly hear herself. “The train … stopping,” she tried to say, but hardly any sound came out. The hand was out of her shorts. The erection was still between her buttocks. She felt it best not to move. Not now. She cleared her throat. “The train stopping … alarmed me,” Nicci said to her husband’s back, wondering if that might explain whatever he thought he had heard, or felt.
It seemed to satisfy him. “Won’t be long now,” he said encouragingly, unable to turn round. Not feeling the need, perhaps. Dave was big enough and strong enough to turn if he had to. But he was a gentle man. He would not disturb these people who, after all, this country belonged to. “Lean your head against me. Sleep if you want,” he said over his shoulder. Which didn’t seem a bad idea. Nicci lay her head on his broad shoulders, and just as she did, the train lurched back into life. She closed her eyes.
“You like … India?” she heard. The question in English. Very close. She opened an eye. It was the one with the beard. The one who had fondled her breast. His face was inches from hers.
“Yes,” she replied, being polite.
“Sorry?” came her husband’s voice. At which the Indian with the beard angled his head and said to Nicci’s husband.
“I was asking your wife how she liked India,” he said, in English that sounded refined. Perhaps he was as teacher, Nicci thought, as her husband said something back to him. Something about, “she loves to tell everyone how much she loves this place. She thinks your temples are spectacular.” Then she suspected Dave winked at the man. Something he often did, though he knew she disapproved, and he added, “She loves the erotic couplings in the temple art.”
Nicci wished he wouldn’t say such things. Not to strangers. Were she not already flushed bright red, she knew such a remark would have caused her to blush. Dave liked to tease her in front of others. Her ‘prudish upbringing’ he called it.
“Is that true?” came the voice. The man with the beard. The teacher, perhaps.
“Sorry,” she feigned ignorance at what Dave had just said, preferring not to go down that road. Especially not with someone who had so recently, and casually, fondled her breast.
“You like our sculptures?”
“Very much,” she said, for she did.
“The … erotic ones?” he ventured, softly.
“Go on, honey pie,” said Dave, over his shoulder with a chuckle, “Admit you do.”
Nicci shrugged, embarrassed, but smiled to the man she now regarded as the teacher, with the beard. “Some of them,” she said, seeking a neutral tone.
“Some are beautiful, yes?”
They were, Nicci nodded. “Some …” she conceded, becoming ever more aware of the movement of the erection in the cleft of her behind. He had his hands on her hips and was gently moving her against him. Too and fro. Forward softly, then back as he eased himself into her. The tip of the erection moved up and down in the cleft, letting her feel the shape of him. She suspected it had to be out of his dhoti, bare against her walk-shorts. How else could she feel it so clearly?
“Do you like also what we … do?” the teacher with the beard asked next, clearly taking Dave’s brief involvement as permission for him to discuss such matters with the wife. His beard lightly tickled the skin of her shoulder as he spoke. That’s how close they were.
“You’re a teacher, right?” Nicci asked, feeling it would be better if he was.
He inclined his head, graciously. “How perceptive,” he said, and struggled his hand from the press of bodies to offer it to her. “Murlu Gupta, lecturer in English at Mumbai Polytechnic, at your service.”
Nicci took the hand, intending to shake it. “I’m Nicci, this is my husband, Dave, we’re from America,” she said.
But instead of shaking the hand, Gupta raised it to his lips.
The hand of the man behind was back at the waist-band of her walk-shorts. The thrusting movement of his erection between her buttocks was becoming more rhythmic, more insistent, more forcing. Mr Gupta had her hand. The other was on her husband’s shoulder. She eased her buttocks back, not wanting her husband to feel the movement of her hips, but the man behind may have taken it as permission to proceed — or perhaps the easy way he was bringing her to climax at will, gave him the right — for his hands were hack inside the waist-band of her shorts. Both of them this time. One either side. And heading round the front.
The teacher had said something to her. She had missed it. “Sorry,” she said. “What did you say?” she asked, becoming flustered. Her inattention, and the cause of her being flustered, was partly the hands, now inside her shorts, returning to the parts between her legs — and partly way Mr Gupta was kissing the back of her hand. The tip of his tongue was exploring the skin between her fingers, just where they met the knuckle. Was this a local custom? Nicci didn’t know. Nor … a finger was back inside her, she was even slicker than before.
The crotch of her shorts must be damp.
Gupta’s dark eyes sparkled as he lifted his mouth from her fingers, though kept her hand in his. “Your love of the erotica in our sculptures we have established you like. I was enquiring whether you liked what we … do … equally?”
Do, as in touch me, Nicci found herself wondering as Mr Gupta’s face, eyes locked on hers, lowered again to her hand and, turning it over gently, he opened the palm and put his lips there. She felt his tongue, gently tracing tiny circles in her palm. Her fingertips closed lightly on his bearded cheeks. “Well?” his tongue stilled, briefly, and then went back to work, pulling her hand to his mouth.
“I …” Nicci didn’t know what to say. A hand was stroking her pubic hair, putting pressure on her pubis, drawing the skin from her clitoris, pressuring the shaft, causing her hips to squirm and her back to arch as she caught a low groan deep down in her throat and prevented her eyes from closing. “I think … yes, sometimes,” she said, not sure why she had said it. By he mere act of talking was she giving them permission to paw her and kiss her like this? Some Freudian slip that inadvertently gave the impression of wanting what she knew she couldn’t possibly want. Not from them. Not here. Not now. Not like this.
Mr Gupta took one of his two hands from around hers, angled the hand to his nose and then — to her astonishment — took two of her straightened fingers, and slipped them into his mouth. Nicci was more stunned than anything else, at first, but as the tongue started rolling round and in between her fingers, and her fingers became more aware of where they were, inside a stranger’s mouth, and the hand inside her panties extended two fingers and eased them into her, while the other worked on her clitoris, she felt her knees give way and her shoulder lurch against the carriage wall.
It was a sense of being lost. Of not knowing what to do. As if she had been pulled into some dream where nothing was as it should be, and didn’t know how to get out of it, but was fascinated, too, by the myriad effects it was having on parts of her she never knew existed.
“When you see an embrace in one of our temple statues, a man’s arms round the woman’s globes, her hands around his yoni, do you not yearn to be treated like that?” The question was a whisper. Gupta’s mouth was touching her ear. Her hand was at the side of his face. Her other hand was clutching the top of her husband’s shoulder. The pressure of the man behind, his erection working in the cleft of her buttocks, quietly insistent. His fondling fingers between her legs, her mind in a hazy dream-like daze, not knowing whether she should be stopping this, bringing it back to normalcy with a resounding Thwack!, or whether she did nothing, continued to drift, like this. There was something … nutmeg? … in Gupta’s breath.
“To be held, like this,” came the whisper from the teacher with the cultured accent, and the beard, as her thighs seemed to gape, almost inviting the fingers to go deeper, deeper into her. Her eyes had closed. Her breast — she felt it now — there was a hand back around it. Fingertips softly stroking the bare skin that peeked above her low-cut top. The palm that held the rest of the breast in a caring way and gently fondled. She rolled her head on her husband’s back. She felt the responsive push.
You’ll be fine, he seemed to be telling her.
But did he know from what?
“We believe …” Mr Gupta, the teacher, went on, explaining in a whisper — his lips touching the whorls of her ear as he spoke — what their erotic motifs were all about and as he spoke, his voice growing deeper, more timbre as he became more and more explicit in all he told her, he worked his hand inside her top, and then inside her bra, until the skin of her breast seemed to sizzle. Her breast itself ready to explode.
“… would you like that?” came a question at the end.
All Nicci could do, was give a faint “Yes,” and lightly nod her head against her husband’s back ,for she could think of no other reaction. Her breast was now naked in Gupta’s hand, prisoner to his clever caresses. Her knickers and shorts were off her hips and part way to her knees. Two skilful hands were deep between her legs, wallowing in the lashings of discharge she seemed to be pumping incessantly from her arousal. And now, she felt, against the skin of inner leg, the searching head of penis. The same that knew her cleft so well? Or was she handed over to a friend? A sharing act of kindness, to a fellow.
They were driving her emotions up the wall. She was groaning and giving out sighs and moans all the while now. Eyes tight closed, although she still listened to her teacher, as she felt what he was doing to her body, encouraging her fantasies to be as one with the mystical sculptures that aroused and excited her so.
“The secret is to give yourself over to those who appreciate you most. One day one, another another, some days a number. To feel the need. Let the desire from them fuel the pleasure to you. The more the first, the greater the second. Believe me, let go,” came the whispered encouragement from her teacher. His tongue following the advice into the whorls of her ear, then deeper as it probed the entrance, breath and suggestiveness arousing her more.
She would ignore what they were doing, she decided.
She would not be taken in by their words, or their acts, or what they were doing to her.
She would pretend it was having no effect.
They would soon grow tired.
“Aaaargh!” she gasped, as the tip of a penis entered her and her nipple was roughly tweaked.
“You okay?” came an alarmed enquiry from in front.
Alarmed at the yelp she had made.
Alarmed at the high-pitched cry that had escaped her lips as the hard head of penis broke though her defences, and was now moving into her. So hungry. Lusting. Needful. So silky …
“Ngaaar!” she gasped as it eased ever further inside her.
But the only thought she had in mind, as her pussy purred and breasts were tweaked and squeezed to distraction, was to stop her husband’s concern — to stop him from turning round.
“I’m fine,” she gasped, a touch too loud, opening her eyes, seeing her husband’s head striving to turn around.
She moved her hand to the side of his head. Held it there.
“Had a bad dream,” she said, the first thing that came to her mind, a mind overflowing with what she was enduring, the feelings coursing through her, frazzling her discretion, burning her resolve, driving her conception of self along dim lit temple walls. Then up them!
“Dream,” she said again, feeling her husband relax.
She made a sound like a yawn, then “Ngaaaargh!” she gasped, as the yoni in her vagina entered to the hilt. Her husband was as thick as this, but not as long or clever. Soon she started keening to the thrusts.
“You’re a lousy singer,” her husband remarked as she tried to turn the keening into some sort of a song. Then Gupta took it up, pretending to sing along. Little tuneful grunts in time with the thrusts that he saw I was getting from behind. Cleverly timing them to the power of the pressure he put on my breasts as he turned my top towards him, and started devouring my breasts with his mouth. My bra and my top round my neck, my shoulders square against the carriage wall, my back twisted left, my pelvis cocked back at an angle. My eyes were closed, my mind in turmoil. I was being fucked against a carriage wall by someone who’s face I had yet to see, my naked breasts being hotly devoured by a teacher, my husband next to me none the wiser of what was going on, and a dozen male Indians were watching!
The third organism was the biggest yet. It was a hay maker. A star burst. A Krakatoa of all orgasms! And made me weep.
By now I was red, and soft, and swollen where women get swollen when aroused to much and engaged too long. I was covered in a sheen of sweat and so moist in my pussy it was running down my legs.
It would be uncharitable to insist that what happened next was a conspiracy against us — against my husband and me, by the Indian men on the train. But at the time, it seemed it was. The swell of bodies, not unlike water in a dam, ebbed and flowed and weaved. The Indian faces seemed to change position, move about, first one would be here, then there. Then another. Then another still. Some of them seemed to take charge of my husband, in a way. Engaging him in conversation. Joking with him. Asking him questions about Oregon — which Dave would always respond to, being as proud of the place as he is. And all the while, as he was otherwise engaged — or so it seemed to me — others of the group would use me, in ways that they clearly enjoyed, in ways that I seemed unable to resist.
I came three times more, or maybe four. The same number of times as the number of men who entered me. Made love to me. Had congress with me. However you want to put it. Fucked me, I suppose. But I kissed so many more than that. Deep, passionate, tongue bathing sessions of kissing that just went on and on and on and on. Finished with one, another mouth was there, wanting some of me as well.
I gave up trying to identify the fragrances, the spices involved — not the sort of thing we use in Oregon — the tastes. Some had bad breath, but it didn’t seem to matter. It was part of the variety, part of the differences, part of the NUMBER OF MEN that were into me. Excited by me. Excited with me. Excited me!
My mouth and my lips and my tongue were an attraction for those Indian men in the carriage far greater than I had ever imagined they would be, on any group of men. But if these parts of me were a hit, they were nothing to my torso, breasts and everything below. I lost count of how many mouths went over the skin of my lower parts, or how many mouths suckled my nipples, or how many hands wanted to feel me — my boobs, my waist, by pussy, my bum, my legs. Some even worked on my feet. None tried to enter my anus, is the only thing that I came away with, other than the mind-numbing after-shock of having been so aroused, for so long, by so many people, and in such a bizarre place. The lights kept going off — had I mentioned that?
When we finally arrived at the Mumbai station, Once called Victoria, now Chhatrapati Shivaji, I was well down the carriage from Dave, on the floor, with five of six mouths on me, heaven knows how many hands, and a youthful prick inside, doing its best. Or worse. But it was good enough, at that stage. Our arrival was when everyone became helpful. Assisting Dave from the carriage with assurances that I was fine, being shown — I don’t know, something or other — as the young man completed his session with me and I, now something of a star, did not disappoint, by climaxing wildly, like the Mumbai Calcutta express, which was the parallel drawn by someone who I think was a tailor, for he gave me a length of beautiful apple green silk
A group of men collected the various bits and pieces of my clothing, located by yet another group of willing men from various places in the carriage where they had been discarded, or removed, and put them into a blue cotton bag someone offered. My second sneaker was found in a luggage rack, though I’ve no idea how it got there. To cover my nakedness, they wrapped me in the length of apple green silk that I was assured was finest Punjabi. It was wrapped around me in the manner of a sari. They pronounced me ‘A Princess’ and then, in procession with all these men around me, re-united me with my husband on the station platform.
If I considered the fact of being naked under my apple green silk, and how I would explain this to my husband, I clearly didn’t do it very thoroughly. I have no idea what Dave thought of it all. But he reacted well to the cheers as I emerged in procession with all these strange men. He even returned the compliment when all of them clapped. We left the station like that, with cheers and clapping in our wake.
“What was that all about,” Dave asked, when we stood on the pavement outside, waiting for a taxi.
“I have no idea,” I said, then pointed. “There’s a taxi, let’s take that.”
But Dave had turned. He was looking toward a crowd of excited men now exiting the station, overflowing onto the pavement. The taxi drew up, behind it an open lorry. Dave smiled at the faces around him, clapped again to indicate friendliness in response to theirs, which may not have been the brightest thing to do. He ended up in a crowd of jostling cheerful men in the taxi, while a row of willing hands above were attempting to pull me into the lorry, and another row of equally willing hands below were pushing me.
I think I shouted, objecting, to Dave. I think he did much the same, to me. But they were all so friendly, so willing, so wanting to help, that our half-hearted objections soon stilled. Besides, I’m not sure we could be heard above the noise of the crowd. They would take us to ‘The Best Hotel in Town’ someone said, and we were off, Dave with my clothes in the blue cotton bag. I turned to the group in the back of the truck. How many were there. A hundred? Which is when everyone’s attention shifted. To what was inside …
The length of Punjabi, apple green silk.