Tea and Spices (An Erotic Novel of Colonial India)

by Lane, Nina

  Her eyes went to Rohan again. She would dearly love to capture his strong, refined features on paper. And then he turned ever so slightly, catching her gaze with his, and the look in his eyes sent a shiver of fear right down her spine.

  “What is she like?”

  Kalindi turned from the window to look at the woman who lay sprawled naked on the cot in the small, one-room apartment. Lota’s body glistened with a light sheen of sweat as she languidly ran a comb through her long, dark hair. The hot, heavy air was redolent of sweat and coconut oil.

  Kalindi lifted her shoulders in a shrug as she thought of the fair, new mistress of the Hawthorne household. Devora Hawthorne had dark brown hair and brown eyes fringed with thick lashes. She also had lovely skin, pure and succulent. “She’s young and quite pretty,” she replied in Hindi. “Very fair.”

  She stretched out on the cot next to Lota, looking down at her own brown arms. Her skin tone had been the bane of her existence. She couldn’t even call herself “wheat-colored” since her skin was darker than wheat. Her entire family worried about being able to find her a suitable husband since men greatly preferred fair women.

  Lota was fair, with tan skin the color of milky tea. She had voluptuous, rounded hips and large breasts that recalled ancient Indian sculptures of goddesses and nymphs. Kalindi loved touching her, loved cupping those full breasts in her hands and teasing the nipples to tight points. She reached out now and rubbed her finger around one of Lota’s aerolae, watching the dark skin crinkle and compress. Lota murmured a low sound of pleasure, lifting her arms above her head so that her body curved in a graceful line.

  “Is she nice?” Lota asked.

  Kalindi shrugged again. “I suppose so. She’s snooty like all the rest of them, but at least she doesn’t seem nasty.”

  “What’s she like with the sahib?”

  “I don’t think they’ve been married long,” Kalindi replied. “I did see him go into the bathroom while she was bathing, so I assume that they’re glad to be with each other physically again.”

  A little rush of jealousy went through her at the thought. The new memsahib was much prettier than Kalindi herself—there was no question about that. But that didn’t mean Kalindi had to like her.

  “Hmm, I wonder what they do together in bed,” Lota mused.

  “The usual, I imagine,” Kalindi said dryly.

  “No, I mean I wonder if they do things that are strange and different.”

  “I doubt it,” Kalindi said. “The sahib never did anything strange or different with me, although he did once want me to take him in the bum.”

  Lota gasped. “And did you?”

  “No, it hurt too much. But he didn’t try and force me.”

  “I wonder if he does that with her.”

  “I don’t know.” Nor did Kalindi really care, at least not when the air was thick with the scent of womanly lust.

  She bent her head and pressed a kiss against Lota’s shoulder, licking up a few salty droplets of perspiration. When she was with Lota, Kalindi didn’t have to worry about men, what they wanted from her or what they expected from her. All she had to do was sink into the fragrant, lush pleasure of the other woman. Their clandestine assignations in the late afternoons were like bright, little jewels in the tedious mediocrity of their daily chores.

  Kalindi slid her palm down the swell of Lota’s belly, rubbing the soft skin until her fingers encountered the crisp hairs of Lota’s mons. Dipping her fingers into the hot fissure between the other woman’s legs, Kalindi thought of how erotic it was to make love to another woman. Pleasuring seemed only a matter of doing, as if they already knew everything there was to know about each other physically.

  Her heart began to pulse with the advent of need, warmth gathering in her sex. She adjusted her position so that she could ease herself between Lota’s thighs. She gazed in rapture at the sight of the moist, spread flower of Lota’s vulva, loving the musky scent that rose from her arousal. Drops of moisture clung to the petals, begging to be swept up with the touch of a tongue.

  Lota propped herself up on the pillows, her expression languid as she gazed at Kalindi. Kalindi knew how much Lota loved to watch herself being pleasured. She stroked her tongue over the crevices of Lota’s sex, her head filled with the scent and taste of the other woman.

  “Oh!” Lota’s hips bucked upward at the first touch of Kalindi’s tongue. She cupped her full breasts in her hands, plucking at her nipples with long, tapered fingers. “Yes, like that. Lick me just like that.”

  Kalindi opened her mouth and drank fully of Lota’s taste. The flavor of Lota on the surface of her tongue was an aphrodisiac like no other. Squirming, Kalindi rubbed her own sex against the rough sheets of the cot, her bottom thrusting as she tried to ease the increasing pressure in her loins. She hooked her hands underneath Lota’s rounded thighs, pushing her legs farther apart. With a moan, Kalindi pushed her tongue deep into the other woman’s body. Thrusting a hand between her thighs, she began to frantically manipulate her own core, giving a muffled cry when a web of vibrations shuddered through her body. Seconds later, Lota pushed her hips fully against Kalindi’s face, screaming out her own pleasure. Kalindi’s tongue worked industriously to lick up the copious fluids of Lota’s sex.

  She pulled herself up the length of Lota’s body, allowing their sweat-slickened breasts to press together as she bestowed a long, wet kiss on the other woman. Lota drew on Kalindi’s tongue to taste the flavor of her own nectar. With a sigh of pleasure, Kalindi sank down next to Lota, letting the heat of the afternoon cover them like a canopy.

  “Are we still going to be able to do this with the new memsahib there?” Lota asked.

  Kalindi nuzzled her face against Lota’s damp shoulder. “I don’t see why not. Particularly if she goes off for tea in the afternoons like they all do.”

  “Well, they never seem to care what we do in our personal lives as long as we carry out our duties,” Lota pointed out.

  “No. They never ask.”

  “They haven’t asked you to be the memsahib’s maid, have they?” Lota asked.

  “No, no one has said anything. I don’t know if she wants one, but I’m sure that Rohan would have said something if that was the case.”

  “Did you ever tell the sahib that you and I are lovers?” Lota murmured.

  Surprised, Kalindi shook her head. “No, of course not. I would never tell him that.”

  “Why? Do you think he would dismiss us?”

  Kalindi chuckled. “No, I think he would ask to join in.”

  ***

  CHAPTER TWO

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Devora shook hands with the major, a short, rather dumpy older man with a shock of gray hair and a bushy beard. Gerald had told her that Major Cuthbert had a penchant for collecting insects, and he peered at Devora now as if she were some sort of rare specimen.

  “Gerald tells me you’ve just arrived in India,” Major Cuthbert said. “You’ve still got that fair, English complexion, haven’t you?”

  “I suppose I do.” Devora crushed a yawn between her teeth and tried to focus on the major. She felt as if she were back attending one of her aunt’s tea parties, a scenario in which she had to act as polite and demure as possible.

  She glanced around the vast, green lawn of the Thompsons’ garden, which included both a Victorian gazebo and a porch swing. Men and women dressed in casual-but-elegant suits and dresses stood around with glasses of wine and martinis, acting as if they weren’t in the middle of one of the most complex and exotic countries. Only the presence of Indians, both as servants and guests, served as a reminder of their colonial situation.

  “Excuse me, Major, but I want to introduce Devora to some of the other women.” Mrs. Thompson, a busty, older woman with an air of total confidence about her, glided down from the steps of the bungalow to Devora’s side. She bestowed a sweet smile upon the major before grasping Devora’s arm and hauling her away.

  “So how do you like
our little district?” Mrs. Thompson asked.

  “I think it’s wonderful,” Devora replied. “India, I mean.”

  “Yes, well, you’ll get over that,” Mrs. Thompson said with a chuckle. “Thank heavens we’ve been able to recreate a bit of England here. Have you been to our club yet? We have a number of cricket games there.”

  “No, not yet. I’m just starting to meet people.”

  “Well, I must warn you that you need to be careful of some of these women,” Mrs. Thompson said in a conspiratorial tone. “For instance, Marcia Smithton is notorious for attempting to steal other women’s husbands.”

  She nodded meaningfully towards an attractive, dark-haired woman sitting on the porch swing. “Be careful of her.”

  “I will.” Devora’s gaze traveled to several of the Indian men, many of whom were dressed in military uniforms made all the more intriguing by their turbans. “Who are the Indians you’ve invited here?”

  “Oh, they often work with my husband or hold some office here in the state,” Mrs. Thompson explained, waving her bejeweled hand in the air. “We don’t really associate with Indians, but we occasionally like to stay on good terms with those of the upper-class. Politics, you know. Some of them report to the maharaja, so we try and treat them well.”

  “The maharaja?”

  “Yes, he’s the ruling prince of Varitsar, which is a small, free state right next to this one. He lives in a palace there. Quite a luxurious place, if I do say so myself. He often hosts very lavish dinner parties. Bit of a show off, I think. Trying to prove that he’s as good, if not better, than the British.”

  “Is that the only socializing he does?” Devora asked.

  “Yes, as far as I know. He’s an odd figure.” Mrs. Thompson’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Rumor has it that his wife committed suicide last year because she couldn’t stand to be subjected to his strange desires.”

  A jolt of shock shuddered through Devora’s body. She stared at Mrs. Thompson. “You’re joking.”

  Mrs. Thompson pressed her lips together and shook her head. “I most certainly am not. I’m not surprised, though. Indian men have very hot blood. You must be careful of them, particularly the servants. There have been, shall we say, incidents with them.”

  Devora frowned. “What kind of incidents?”

  “Sexual incidents,” Mrs. Thompson hissed. “They get terribly excited around English women, and sometimes they simply can’t restrain themselves. I think it must have something to do with all the spicy food they eat, not to mention all those erotic sculptures constantly influencing them. They’re a very lascivious people.”

  Devora thought of the restrained, regal Rohan and had to bite her lip to keep from smiling. As far as she could tell, the man didn’t have a lascivious bone in his body. In fact, she wasn’t even certain he had any emotions whatsoever.

  “I’ll be careful,” she assured Mrs. Thompson.

  Nodding her head with satisfaction over having carried out her cautionary duties, Mrs. Thompson led Devora around and introduced her to several of the other women. The women looked the newest member of the community up and down, scrutinizing everything from her clothing to her fingernails before deciding that, as Gerald’s wife, she would have to do.

  “I’ll leave you all to get acquainted,” Mrs. Thompson trilled, wafting off in the direction of her bungalow.

  Devora smiled at Adele and Louise, both of whom were wearing the latest fashionable clothing and fanning themselves. “How long have you been in India?”

  Adele, a tall, elegant blonde, rolled her eyes dramatically. “Too long. Hideous place. Hot and too many bugs.”

  “Don’t listen to her,” Louise told Devora. “India is a fascinating country, heat and bugs notwithstanding.”

  Devora decided that she liked Louise better than Adele. Louise had a mop of reddish curls and blue eyes that seemed touched with the slightest sense of anxiety. However, she also appeared to be much friendlier.

  “So, what do you do for entertainment around here?” Devora asked.

  “We have bridge parties every Thursday and sometimes we go on picnics on the weekend,” Adele said. “Other than that, it’s parties and keeping an eye on the servants.”

  “Are there any local sites?” Devora asked. “I do quite a bit of drawing and painting, so I would love to see some temples and sculptures.”

  Both Adele and Louise laughed suddenly. Devora looked from one to the other.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “The most well-known local temples are in Khajuraho,” Louise explained. Two spots of color bloomed on her cheeks. “They’re extremely…um, explicit temples and sculptures.”

  “Oh.” Devora was intrigued in spite of herself. “Have you been there?”

  “Heavens no!” Adele said, her eyes widening in shock. “I hear the sculptures are just disgusting, what with women spread out all over the place and engaged in really filthy activities.”

  “Well, there must be a reason for that,” Devora said. “The Indians can’t have built such temples just for the fun of it.”

  “Of course not,” Adele said. She took a dainty sip of white wine. “I’m sure it’s for religious reasons or whatever, but you do have to wonder about a country that would put that kind of image on their religious structures. I mean, can you imagine a Christian church with sculptures of people fucking?”

  “Oh, Adele, don’t say such things,” Louise muttered.

  “I’m just pointing out how hideous it all is,” Adele replied. “This country is so bloody uncivilized.”

  Devora didn’t bother telling the two women that she herself would be very interested in seeing the Khajuraho temples. Instead, she murmured some polite words about seeing the women at one of their Bridge Thursdays. She went in search of Gerald, hoping that she could convince him to return home. She was still worn-out from her travels, and she certainly wasn’t in the mood for arguing about the merits of India. Particularly since she still had to discover them for herself.

  She went into the Thompson’s bungalow to freshen up a little. Their place was much larger than Devora and Gerald’s, including a dining room with a table big enough for at least eight people. Devora walked down a small hallway, stopping in her tracks at the sound of panting and grunting. A moment passed before she registered what, exactly, the noises sounded like.

  She couldn’t help grinning. She told herself to turn around and walk back outside, but her voyeuristic instincts got the better of her. Silently she stepped forward, peering around the corner.

  Her eyes widened at the sight before her. Mrs. Thompson, for all her decorum, was pushed with her back against the wall and her legs wrapped around the thrusting hips of none other than Major Cuthbert. Mrs. Thompson’s skirt was hiked clear up to her waist, giving Devora a view of her fleshy cunt and the thick, pistoning stalk of the major’s penis.

  Devora clamped a hand over her mouth, trying to prevent herself from bursting out laughing. The major’s face was red with exertion, grunts issuing from his mouth in a steady stream as he thrust away to his heart’s content. And to Mrs. Thompson’s content too, from the looks of things. Her eyes were closed, her entire body jerking rhythmically against the wall as she moaned in rapture.

  So much for lascivious Indians, Devora thought, chuckling silently to herself as she moved away and left Mrs. Thompson and the major to their lusty copulations. She walked back outside and found Gerald talking to an Indian man with a thick, black beard and piercing dark eyes.

  “Ah, there you are, love.” Gerald held out his hand solicitously to greet Devora. “Are you having a good time?”

  “Yes, I’ve been enjoying myself. It looks as if others are enjoying themselves as well.”

  “This is Ram Banerjee, from Calcutta,” Gerald said. “He’s here on business.”

  Devora exchanged pleasantries with the friendly man before she and Gerald said their good-byes and began walking back home.

  “Have you heard of this princ
e of Varitsar?” Devora asked as they walked down the street lined with trees and bungalows. “Mrs. Thompson was telling me about him.”

  “Oh, yes, the maharaja,” Gerald said. “I’ve met him once at a dinner party. Rather stoic fellow. Friendly, but a bit reserved.”

  Devora eyed her husband assessingly for a moment. “What about the Khajuraho temples?” she asked. “I’ve heard they’re very interesting.”

  To her amusement, Gerald glanced away uncomfortably. “Some people have gone there out of curiosity, but I hear it’s quite filthy. Not the sort of thing a British lady should see. Mrs. Thompson will know of some other temples that are far more suitable.”

  Devora thought back to just how unladylike Mrs. Thompson had been acting when the major was screwing her against the wall. She stifled a giggle.

  “I’m sure she will.”

  “Did you meet some nice people?” Gerald asked. “I’d hate for you to get bored here, but the ladies always have some sort of activity going on.”

  “Oh, yes, it looks as if I’ll have plenty to do.”

  Rohan was waiting at the top of the bungalow steps for them, giving Devora cause to wonder what the man did when she and Gerald weren’t around. She knew that the women servants took care of the cleaning and cooking, so heaven only knew how Rohan occupied his time. As they passed him in the doorway, Devora made the mistake of glancing at him again. He returned her gaze unflinchingly and without expression, but Devora still couldn’t prevent the shiver that rippled over her skin.

  “I don’t like him,” she told Gerald after they had ensconced themselves in the privacy of their bedroom.

  “Who?” Gerald tugged absently at his tie and went to pour himself a small glass of water from the pitcher on the dresser.

  Devora stripped off her dress and hung it in the chiffarobe. “Your servant. Rohan.”