Objects of Desire

by Roberta Latow

  ‘In legend Eurydice, a dryad, was the wife of Orpheus. Alas, not like Page and me.’

  ‘I don’t know the legend,’ said Sally, completely enchanted by the idea of Jahangir and Page in love.

  He gave Page a knowing look, caressed her hair and told Anoushka, while never taking his eyes from Page, ‘Orpheus was in love with Eurydice when she died of a snake bite. He didn’t want to live without her so he descended to the underworld to recover her, but then lost her forever. You see, he had been stupid, violated the conditions of her release. He turned to look at her before emerging from the underworld.’

  Anoushka was fascinated; by telling the Greek legend, and linking it with Page and himself, Jahangir had revealed himself as yet another lover Page had walked away from, yet another man who could not win her heart. Hervé had told Anoushka that that was part of Page’s seductive charm, the way she enslaved men. When Anoushka had met François Audren, who bought a coin from her, he had spoken of Page in a way that made her understand that he too had loved and lost her. Anoushka had not missed the magnificent black and white photograph in a Fabergé frame he kept on his desk. Three men and how many more? And why couldn’t she give her heart to them? Who was the man who stopped her, isolated her from true love? It had to be a man, Anoushka was certain of that.

  As they rode through the crowded, noisy streets, drenched with oppressive humidity, full of a strange new world of poverty and colour, it was that thought which occupied Anoushka’s mind. Would her friend ever feel close enough to Anoushka to reveal her story, bring it to light, brand it as the past and let it go? She very nearly laughed out loud. The pot calling the kettle black.

  Jahangir did not live in Agra. He kept what he called his Taj Mahal pied à terre there for the times when he wanted to visit the mausoleum or put up guests: fifteen huge, sumptuous rooms in the sixteenth-century fort, the other monumental building in Agra. This city in Uttar Pradesh on the River Jumna had once been the capital of the Mogul Empire and had been ruled by more than one of Jahangir’s ancestors. For that reason he was privileged to live in those rooms. It was there that they were driving to from the airport, and where they would begin their amazing stay in India.

  Jahangir’s friends were not nearly as handsome as their host but made up for their lack of looks by charm and warmth, passionate natures, and their knowledge of how to attract women. To be with Jahangir was to fall under the spell of the sensual excitement he cast. A master at the game of seduction, few could resist him. The three adventuresses did not.

  Anoushka, Page and Sally were dressed in sumptuous but understated white evening gowns at Page’s suggestion. She had been so clever. In London she had told them: ‘I know Jahangir. He will want us to be glamorous, chic, sensuous and exciting, to live up to the Taj Mahal and the evening he will prepare meticulously for us. Not only for him and the Taj but for ourselves we should be visions of shimmering femininity floating through the gardens in the moonlight.’

  To that end they had chosen well. Anoushka was wearing a long white dress, a sheath of crêpe-de-chine with slip straps, and over her shoulders a short cape of the most sheer silk chiffon that finished just above her waist. It was bordered in clear crystal bugle beads. She wore no undergarments and the dress, cut on the bias, followed her form and moved as she moved. With her silvery-coloured blonde hair and soft make up she was perfection, and worthy of the night being prepared for her.

  Sally was adorned in the dress that they had all loved and wanted to buy when the three had gone shopping together. She was the only one small enough to fit into it. A cream-coloured paper taffeta evening dress, its skirt was full and trailed longer at the back showing several inches of ankle in the front. The silk was very nearly as light as air and the entire dress could be crunched up and fitted in the hand. It was a masterpiece of design, cut and dress making. The strapless bodice clung to Sally’s breasts, fitted to the waist as nearly as if it had been a second skin, and round her neck she wore a garland of fresh jasmine blossoms.

  Page’s dress was white, one-shouldered, of crêpe-de-chine, long and slit up the front. It was the most sophisticated of the dresses. Only a woman with confidence and stature could carry it off. It displayed one naked arm and shoulder, leaving the other shoulder partially covered. The dress skimmed her breasts in the front and was cut to expose most of her back to the waist. The single sleeve was wide and fluttered teasingly when she moved her arm.

  The men were dressed in white linen suits: Armani, Ralph Lauren, a Savile Row tailor for Jahangir. They had travelled in an entourage of three cars. When they arrived at the Taj Mahal it was after ten in the evening and all was shrouded in darkness. They were ushered through the gardens to their feast by servants carrying lanterns and dressed in the livery Jahangir’s family had always used: white turban and jacket with plum and red intertwined sashes, trousers of midnight blue.

  It was mysterious, an adventure. They had no idea what to expect, what they might see, what experience was about to take them over. But the sense of expectation was dizzyingly exciting. They were there in the centre of the gardens, in the exact spot where Jahangir wanted them to be when the white, nearly full moon inched its way across the sky towards the Taj Mahal. The building loomed majestically in the dark, its towers and domes silhouetted against the blackness of the night.

  They drank champagne and settled themselves round one of the garden pools in comfortable chairs that had been brought in for the occasion, and nibbled by candlelight on Indian delicacies: bite-sized filo parcels filled with spiced shrimp and curried crab, duck, the flesh from tiny succulent birds.

  Moonlight brushed an edge of the Taj Mahal from ground to sky, and the building suddenly sprang to life. As the moonlight inched itself slowly across the façade of the building, Jahangir had their lights extinguished. The party stood in the darkened garden and watched in awe as the Taj Mahal rose from the shadows of the night. Sounds of the sitar, running water, crickets, the muffled noise of a sleeping city somewhere off in the distance. The sweet scent of flowers. No one spoke, all too mesmerised by the regal beauty of the Taj.

  The façade remained bathed in moonlight for quite some time. It was as if the moon had found something remarkable to embrace and, having done so, could not move on. There was an order for the lanterns to be lit once again and the party walked through the gardens to another place that had been prepared for them by their host. Their white figures looked in the darkness like so many ghosts floating through time and space to pay homage to love.

  At the very foot of the building, now lit from above by the moon and lanterns from below, they sat and listened to the haunting sound of the sitar and watched the dancing girl perform for them in the moonlight with the pristine white marble entrance to the Taj Mahal as a back drop.

  The sensuality of the night, the place, enveloped them all. The heavy scent of flowers and the aroma of Indian spices from the food being prepared in braziers, the oppressive heat and humidity, and the taste of dust, the exotic power and beauty tantalised the senses and wrapped itself around the party, drawing them into a world of erotic pleasure. Jahangir took Page by the hand and led her to his friend, the Maharaja, who placed an arm round Page and, tilting her chin up to the light of the moon, kissed her lightly on the lips. When Jahangir approached Anoushka her heart raced. He kissed her on the cheek and led her to Alexander Maar, the English poet. Finally he plucked Sally for himself as easily as he might have picked a rose from the bush she was standing beside.

  The moon moved on and the Taj Mahal began once again to fade away into the night. The drama of the occasion was almost unbearable. But there was more to come. As the building slipped back into the night, a soft warm light glowed from within the Taj Mahal.

  The party mounted the stairs and entered the Taj where a small army of Jahangir’s household were just lighting the last of thousands of candles before silently slipping out of the building.

  A table had been set in one of the halls, and there they dined
while listening to the haunting sound of the sitar echoing through the marble rooms. The dancer performed and a poet recited sixteenth-century Mogul love poems. The guests came to life, conversation flourished, laughter rang through the halls, and all were lost to the idea of romantic love.

  At last Jahangir rose from the table and announced that it was time to go. They left the mausoleum following him through the gardens. Dawn was breaking and at just the right moment he stopped and insisted that they turn round for a last look at Shah Jahan’s gift to the world. The smile on his face gave away his intended surprise. They were seeing yet one last image of the Taj in all its splendour.

  The sun was just rising in the sky turning the dawn light a bright pink. The Taj was bathed an exquisite shade of rose, from that to a golden yellow, and then finally a crystalline white.

  All evening Anoushka’s partner Alexander had been charming but reserved with her. He was tall and slim, lanky-looking and boyish in appearance. He was many years younger than Anoushka. There was a sensitivity about him, a vulnerable quality that she liked but which seemed not at all sexy to her. For sex she would have chosen Jahangir not Alexander Maar – until he stepped up behind her and, placing his hands on her shoulders, pulled her gently back against him.

  They were standing together in her room, the light dim, since the windows were shuttered against the oppressive heat. It was a large and beautiful room, deep within the massive fort, cool and heavy with the scent of jasmine. A room that was sumptuous and sensual. The soft white walls were hung with dozens of mirrors all in wide decorative frames inlaid in mother of pearl and ivory. The chairs were sixteenth-century ivory pieces carved by great artisans and covered in white and silver silk brocade. The chest of drawers was inlaid with ivory flowers and rose cut diamonds, banded in silver and inlaid with mother of pearl. Cut crystal chandeliers, large and dramatic, hung from the carved and painted ceiling. Everywhere were vases of white flowers: orchids, and lilies, and long-stemmed roses. And in the centre of the room stood a fourposter bed of carved ivory draped with the sheerest of white silk.

  He kissed the nape of her neck and removed the short diaphanous cape from her shoulders, kissing her first on one shoulder and then the other. A shiver of excitement went right to the core of Anoushka’s erotic being. He licked a small place on her shoulder with the tip of his tongue and she closed her eyes and sighed. A signal for him to speak. ‘If for only this night you will give yourself to me completely, let me possess you as Shah Jahan possessed his wife, I promise you will not be sorry. We can pretend we’re great lovers for all eternity and act out our love accordingly.’

  His hand lingered on her shoulder and she covered it with hers and told him, ‘Yes.’ Her heart was racing at the very prospect of being loved like that. She repeated, ‘Yes.’

  After such a night at the Taj Mahal, Anoushka yearned for sexual oblivion. They hardly knew each other but what Alexander proposed could not be missed.

  With great finesse he unzipped her dress and slipped the slender shoestring straps off her shoulders. The gown fell to the floor, ‘Oh, yes,’ he told her, admiration in his husky voice. He kissed her back and licked a trail of kisses down her spine to the crack between the cheeks of her bottom. He slipped one arm round her and caressed her breasts. With the other he reached beneath her and found the warm slit waiting for his caresses. He fondled her breasts and the soft pink flesh of her cunt lips and probed deeper with searching fingers, hoping to give them both the sexual pleasure they were so eager for.

  Anoushka could sense his hunger for her and leaned back that little bit more into him. He bit into her shoulder and sucked her flesh into his mouth. She turned round and Alexander saw her naked breasts and her provocative nipples, the stunningly sensuous body he had imagined, revealed to him in all its glory. The triangular patch of blonde pubic hair commanded his attention. He lowered his lips to it and sucked the mound beneath into his mouth. And then, taking her in his arms, he kissed her passionately. He nibbled at her lips and whispered words of love between kisses while he removed his jacket.

  Anoushka sensed an urgency in him as strong as her own. She helped him, tearing at his shirt. He unbuckled his belt and she helped him off with his trousers. In the dim light they saw reflections of themselves in the many mirrors round the room. So sensual, the many reflections of their nakedness and togetherness, the aura of sex. It added a certain air of depravity that excited their passion to come together.

  ‘I love you. You’re the passion of my life. I want to die in sexual bliss with you, many times, again and again, and always to rise again to give you love and more lust and to draw from you orgasm after orgasm. I want you spent with come.’

  Heady sentiments although they knew it was pretence, but it was what was called for and sounded wonderful and Anoushka played her rôle, imagining herself to be loved as no other woman had ever been loved.

  ‘I love you, my life, my heart,’ she told him, and opened her cunt lips with her own fingers and spread them as far apart as she could so that he might see what she offered was real and for him. He raised her up off the floor by her waist and thrust her upon his rock hard, pulsating phallus. She watched his massively erect penis inch its way into her cunt.

  Tense with excitement, Anoushka whimpered at being taken like that by this young poet. A man rampant, taking possession of an open and willing, more than ready cunt – she thought it one of the most beautiful sights in the world. She wrapped her legs round his waist and held on that way in a tight grip, bending backward so that he might penetrate deeper, so that she might feel the full force of his lust for her. His hands on her hips he moved her on and off his penis while hungrily sucking on her breasts. He walked round the room with her like that and they looked at themselves in the various mirrors. It incited lust and pride, a love of themselves as erotic souls living out their fantasy.

  She was surprised how very sexual a man he was, how ardent he could be, the sexual control he had over himself – she hadn’t been ready for that in him. At first he was subtle in taking possession of her, almost delicate in the way he used his lips, his mouth, his penis. His penetrations were slow, exquisite, deep. His withdrawals tantalisingly sexy. He created a symphony of fucking, the rhythm increasing with the passion until the beat was a crescendo of lust for cunt and love. His violent passion had built slowly but now it took them over and excited Anoushka to come. She felt his body tense while she was coming. He kissed her and bit into her lips and mouth and told her between kisses, ‘Next time hold your breath for as long as you can just before you come. The pleasure will treble. Your orgasm will be so intense you’ll want to die in it.’

  He took her to the bed and there leaned her over it. Clasping her by the waist, he took her from behind. She crawled on to the bed on her knees and raised her bottom. She felt his genitals slap against her cunt lips as he fucked her and more pleasure, more excitement took them over. He was at that point of animal lust when love vanishes and violent love-hate fucking reigns supreme. His fucking now was reminiscent of Robert’s. She could drive him to that very same state. Anoushka squeezed hard with the muscles of her cunt and gripped Alexander. She created a rhythm of pressure and release that was as seductive as it was pleasurable for a man. It drove both of them closer to a state of sexual ecstasy. Anoushka took an even more sexually aggressive role now, and all their acts of love and lust began all over again for them.

  Alexander withdrew from her. Gathering her in his arms he told her, ‘You’re fantastic. How poor I would have been had I not had this intimate few hours with you. I’m so grateful to have loved you, if only for this short time. If I were to die now in your arms, I would have lived a full and rewarding life, Anoushka.’

  She wanted to weep for joy. To be loved like that. In all the years with Robert he had never made her feel as this young man did. There were more kisses and words of praise for her. His hunger for her was like an aphrodisiac. She came, and came again, and then lost track of her many orgasms. Sh
e had never been a woman ashamed of her lust or her ability to come as often as she did when she was in flagrante delecto. Quite the contrary, she was proud of her erotic soul, her ability to give herself up to lust and a man so completely.

  She slipped on top of Alexander and he had her that way, raising and lowering her on his penis. Completely lost in lust, she never heard the door open or close. She was leaning over him, her breasts swaying over his face, his mouth catching them first one then the other to suck on, when she felt another pair of hands caress her bottom, another pair of lips kissing her back, another penis placed between the cheeks of her bottom. She came in a tidal wave of come, so intense she called out in a scream of pure pleasure.

  ‘Hold your breath for as long as you can, make your body rigid and then when you’re on the edge let go, collapse into sexual ecstasy. You’ll have the ride of a lifetime.’

  She did as she was told and during that time felt the coolness of a silky smooth cream between the cheeks of her bottom and in that tight secret place, then caresses and probings. But as intensely exciting as these new sensations and those created by Alexander were, she held on to her breath, held back her moment of orgasm for as long as she could. Then Alexander called out, ‘Now! Come with me, now.’ And they did. All three died in the arms of the god Eros, their god for the night. It was sex lost in the madness of ecstasy, pure sexual bliss.

  Anoushka lost track of her orgasms and just before she submitted to exhaustion and a deep sleep that was more like slipping into a coma, felt the flow of warm luscious sperm and a strange peace and contentment.

  When she awakened she was lying clasped in Alexander’s arms. She kissed him awake. His first words were, ‘I have never had a more exciting woman. I will always love you for giving yourself to me so completely.’ He kissed her with passion and a love that was genuine. She watched his penis come alive again and, lying on their sides facing each other, he draped her leg over his hip and entered her. He throbbed with lust for her and told her, ‘To die inside a woman, Anoushka. What more can a man ask for?’