by Ladd,Ashley
The next thing she knew, Jon was beside her, helping her to stand. He clutched her soapy form to his now-naked body and sealed her lips with his. Joy ballooned in her chest. It had been so long since she’d felt his decisive mouth or tasted his familiar flavour. She rubbed her breasts against him, smearing herself with his dirt. His rigid nipples poked at her chest. Below, she could feel his cock stiffening again, nudging into the gap between her thighs.
She opened her legs and tilted her pelvis toward him, inviting his entry. Then, all at once, a torrent of warm water poured down on their heads. They broke their kiss, sputtering in the surprise flood. Before they could respond, another bucketful drenched them.
“Anil!” Priscilla turned to find that the native was behind them. He too had shed his clothes. As she watched, he raised a pitcher and poured its contents over his own head.
The shower slicked his dark locks against his skull, emphasising the fine planes of his countenance. Rivulets coursed over his muscled shoulders and down his hairless chest. His skin looked oiled, cinnamon-hued and buttery smooth. Only in his groin did hair grow, in wild black tangles completely different from the golden fur at the base of Jonathan’s cock.
Priscilla’s palms itched with the need to caress that silky, dark skin, to mould Anil’s flat breasts and flick her thumbs across his chocolate-hued nipples. She saw herself kneeling in the puddle at his feet, swallowing his majestic penis. The urge to turn image into reality was overwhelming. Did she dare to act on her desire?
She glanced back at Jon. He too seemed transfixed by the sight of Anil’s glorious nakedness. His cock was fully erect once again. It twitched slightly, in rhythm perhaps with his racing pulse. His hands were clenched at his sides, but as Priscilla watched, he relaxed and began stroking himself. His cock swelled further. She willed him to look away from Anil and meet her gaze, with its unspoken question. He must have felt her thoughts. Their eyes locked, and for a moment Priscilla felt the old connection that they’d had at first, the sense that everything was understood. He nodded slightly, a half-smile playing on his lips.
She beamed her gratitude back at him, then turned back to Anil’s body. Lowering herself to the tiled floor, she grasped the Indian’s cock at the root and stroked it gently. The taut skin sheathing his hardness felt like silk. The bulb was scarcely wider than the shaft and peaked rather than round, like a blunted arrowhead. His foreskin puckered below it. Droplets clung to the tip, perhaps from the shower, perhaps his own secretions. Priscilla’s mouth watered at the sight.
She bent closer and pursed her lips around the bulb, tonguing the slit, sampling his moisture. The taste made her crave more. She opened wide and engulfed him, sucking him deep into her mouth. Anil hummed with pleasure. He laid a light hand on her damp curls, guiding but not forcing her as she slid her mouth along his length. He hardly thrust at all, though the increasing tension in his flesh made it clear that his excitement was peaking. Reaching between his legs, she cupped the velvety sacs hanging there, thrilled to feel them tighten as she brought him closer to the edge.
Her own body was on fire. Her nipples were points of flame, and her clit was a glowing ember that the wetness in her sex could not quench. Juices trickled down her splayed thighs onto the floor. Anil’s hands were on her shoulders now, kneading her flesh as she sucked rhythmically on his. He was nowhere near her sex, yet his touch sent hot shivers through her. She saw herself, skewered by the steely cock sliding in and out of her mouth, and the image nearly sent her into her own climax. She sucked more strongly, nipping at the bulb each time she reached the apex. The native groaned, moments away from coming.
“Pru!” Jon’s voice was low and hoarse with lust, close to her ear. “Don’t let him spend. Don’t waste him. Let’s get to the bedroom.” Confused and dizzy with lust, Priscilla released Anil’s cock and turned to her husband. Jon raised her to her feet and swept her into his arms.
Jon hadn’t carried her since the night of their wedding. Priscilla threw her arms around his neck, glorying in the sensation of his naked body against hers. The strength he had gained in the tea fields was obvious; he lifted her with ease. She would have been happy to stay in his arms forever, but in a moment he had laid her upon the bed. He stood beside her, his eyes burning into her. She felt his fever raging.
Anil watched her from the other side of the bed. But no one touched her.
Her clit throbbed. Her cunt ached, hungry for one of the two magnificent cocks that bobbed on either side of her. She spread her thighs, shamelessly displaying the glistening folds of her swollen sex.
“Please,” she begged . “Please, someone…”
Jon nodded to the Indian . “Guests first, Anil.”
Anil answered not in words but in action. He climbed onto the coverlet and knelt between her legs. He bent and nuzzled her wet cleft, lapping up her juices, setting her whole body trembling. He did not play with her for long, though. He sensed her desperation. Positioning his cock at her entrance, he slowly pushed into her depths.
Priscilla could feel every inch of his taut flesh as it slid across her slippery inner walls. The whole length of him rubbed over her clit, kindling sparks that arced through her. She ground her pelvis against him to increase the pressure, the bead at her centre ready to explode. For long moments, he did not move, giving her time to appreciate all the sensations—the wonderful fullness where she had been empty for so long, the spasms in her clit whenever his cockflesh brushed over it, the pulsing in his shaft, so strong that she was sure it was voluntary and not merely the surge of his blood.
The pleasure grew, ramified, spreading from her sex to all her limbs. Her nipples throbbed, echoing the pulse in her clit. She was dying for someone to touch them. Even as that thought crystallised, she felt a hot mouth fasten wetly on one nipple. She moaned in gratitude as Jon pulled lightly on the rubbery nodule. Each suck, each brush of his agile tongue, made her sex clench around the cock filling it. Each time, the bulk inside her seemed to swell, stretching her wider. Priscilla edged closer to climax, driven by the simple presence of Anil’s cock inside her and Jon’s mouth outside.
Finally, Anil began to thrust. His strokes were still slow, measured, drawing out each sensation, focusing her attention on each nuance of pleasure. Meanwhile, Jon fastened his lips on her other nipple, while massaging the first breast with gentle fingers. She wound her fingers into his hair, urging him on, wanting his teeth now instead of his tongue. He sensed her need, and gave her what she craved, pinching her breast, biting then soothing the sudden pain with hot saliva.
The pleasure grew, inexorable, intensity building to the point where Priscilla was helpless to do anything but moan and shake under the onslaught. Gradually, Anil quickened his pace, as well as his force. Each penetration went deeper. Each left her less time to recover before she was impaled again.
There was no slope to climb. There was no barrier to breach. Without will, without thought, without effort, Priscilla slipped from indescribable pleasure into total ecstasy. Her body simply evaporated. There was nothing but light, wave after wave, washing over her—peace and joy, transcendent and overwhelming. And shimmering in the distance, lapped by the same waves, she sensed two other beacons that she knew were Jon and Anil.
She opened her eyes to find Anil’s handsome face hovering over her. His smile warmed her, rekindling her recently sated desire. The Indian dipped down to brush his lips across hers before rising back on his haunches. His still-rampant cock slipped out of Priscilla’s drenched sex.
The sudden emptiness was almost unbearable . “No! Please…!” she began. But her pleading was cut short by her husband’s passionate kiss.
His mouth still locked to hers, Jonathan straddled her. She arched her back, rubbing her soaked curls against his hardness. He did not tease her. With one jerk of his hips, he sunk his cock into her depths. Her well-lubricated flesh offered no resistance. Priscilla moaned in joy as he began to move. Each thrust woke echoes of her recent climax and drew her inexorabl
y towards a new one.
Jon was fierce, almost desperate, as he speared her again and again. After Anil’s languid fucking, this was what Priscilla craved. Harder, deeper. She wanted him to split her open with his cock. Take me, take all of me. My husband, my lover. In his smouldering eyes, she saw that he sensed or guessed her desires. He slammed his cock into her sex with a force that shook her to the core.
Suddenly he groaned. His rhythm faltered. “Anil…?” In the flickering lantern-light, Priscilla glimpsed the graceful form of the native, standing behind her husband at the foot of the bed. Jon gave another cry, writhing above her. His cock made delicious spirals inside her. Eddies of pleasure swirled in her sex.
All at once, he yelled and rammed his cock deeper. He began to thrust again, but with a wild, irregular beat that left her breathless and confused. What was happening? Jon’s head was thrown back, his back arched, his face a mask of tortured ecstasy. Behind him, Anil moved back and forth, with a measured pace much slower than Jon’s frantic strokes. It was too dim for Priscilla to read the Indian’s face, but she could clearly see his dark fingers, clutching at the pale flesh of her husband’s hips.
No! It can’t be…! Priscilla knew that her Jon, her masterful, masculine Jonathan, couldn’t possibly be a sodomite. Yet there was no other explanation for the way he jerked and spasmed inside her, for the whimpers that escaped his clenched mouth on each of Anil’s forward strokes. The damnedly seductive native had his cock embedded in Jon’s arse and was fucking him, even as Jon was fucking her.
The lustful image was far beyond her most obscene daydreams. She couldn’t help herself. She saw Jon’s splayed white buttocks, held apart by dusky hands. She envisioned how Anil’s smooth brown rod would stretch her husband’s rear hole as it disappeared into his body. Jon had never taken her anally, but her own rear twitched and trembled as she imagined the sensations of being pierced in that most secret and shameful of places, of being opened and filled beyond bearing by Jon’s unyielding hardness. Or by Anil’s.
The pictures that her mind conjured swept her body away. She convulsed under Jon’s weight, twisting and shaking as orgasm shook her. Through the fog of pleasure, she heard Jon’s howl and felt the heat of his spend flooding over her tissues. The luscious sensation triggered another climax, liquid and seething, coursing through her body like molten gold. Finally, Anil called out in some foreign tongue as he came, his last thrusts forcing Jon’s still rigid penis back into her depths.
* * * *
The reek of kerosene brought Priscilla back to her senses. The lamp on the bedside table was burning low. She shifted the weight of Jon’s body off to the side. He did not wake. She leaned over to turn off the lantern valve, and velvet night closed around her.
Gradually her eyes adjusted. There was a huddled shape on the carpet next to the bed.
“Anil?” she whispered. The shape stirred. “Come up onto the bed with us.”
Almost silent, the Indian rose and stretched out beside her, opposite from Jon’s sleeping form. His aura of sandalwood enfolded her. His sticky cock brushed against her thigh, kindling a brief flare of desire that she was too tired to acknowledge.
On the other side of her, Jon stretched and murmured in his sleep. “Pru…” She turned to him and wrapped one arm around him. He snuggled against her breasts. Behind her she felt Anil turning and moulding his body to hers.
Exhausted, overwhelmed, awed, she sank back into sleep.
Chapter Seven
Priscilla woke to the hiss of the rain pelting the bushes outside her window. She was alone amid tangled sheets, surrounded by the scents of musk, sandalwood and semen.
She remembered. She blushed. Still, she felt so satisfied and content that she could muster very little shame. She stretched and her sore muscles protested, but it seemed that no amount of pain could dilute her joy.
Where was Jon? Where was Anil? She was suddenly eager to see her lovers. As she belted her dressing gown around her waist, she marvelled at how little embarrassment she felt. Indeed, her most noticeable emotion was her steadily rising desire.
She found Jon on the veranda, drinking tea and gazing out at the silvery hills. “Pru, darling!” He enfolded her in his arms and kissed her. She could feel his heart beating through the thin fabric of her wrap. His mouth had a faint taste of anise.
He wore an open-necked white shirt and dark trousers. His feet were bare. He looked young, healthy, relaxed and incredibly virile.
“Where is Anil?” Priscilla asked, then immediately realised her error. What if Jon was jealous? What if he thought that she cared more for the exotic native lawyer than she did for her own husband?
Jonathan, however, merely smiled. “He left early this morning. He thought that we might appreciate having some time alone.”
Priscilla felt a stab of loss. Her dismay must have showed on her face, because Jon laughed. “Don’t worry. He told me that he’d come back soon.”
Now Priscilla felt a bit jealous. Had Jon and Anil been together, before the Indian had departed? Without her? “Did you have a chance to talk to him? About—last night?”
Jon sat down and poured her a cup of tea. He waited until she had settled in her chair before continuing. “A bit. Anil helped me to understand. To accept. He told me some surprising things about my father…”
Priscilla felt her brow knot into a frown. His father? All at once it was Jonathan who looked worried. “I know that last night must have been something of a shock for you. I hope that it won’t change anything between us—our marriage, I mean. I still love you—I want you—more than ever. I’m not queer, you know. Anil is just—well, special.”
Priscilla reached across the table to take his hand . “He certainly is. But I do think that things have changed.”
“Don’t, please! Don’t tell me that you want to divorce me!”
“Divorce? Hardly!” Deliberately, she let her muslin gown slip open, giving him a glimpse of her breasts. Jon raised his hand, as if to reach for her, but dropped it as the door squeaked behind them. Priscilla did not move.
Lalida held the baby they had rescued. The boy had been bathed and diapered, and seemed highly content with himself. He babbled and shook his pudgy fists at Priscilla.
“Oh! Let me have him for a moment!” The child settled into her arms as if he belonged there. “Have you any news about his family, Lalida?”
“His mother just arrived from the south, for the picking season. So he has no relatives in the our village. They have sent word to her home village. We will know soon if anyone claims him.” Lalida took the baby back and rocked him. “Poor thing. Most families have more than enough mouths to feed.”
The servant stopped on her way back into the house . “More tea, Madam?”
“No, thank you, Lalida. We’re fine.”
“Why don’t you take some food up to the village?” Jon added. “The mud covered most of the gardens. The people must be hungry. We’ve got plenty of rice and vegetables. Bring them a few of our chickens, too.”
“Yes, Sir. I will do that. I’m sure that they will be grateful.” Lalida disappeared, taking the child with her.
Priscilla and Jon sat silent, each searching the other’s face.
“Jon, do you think—if there’s no one else…?”
“The child?” She nodded. “Maybe. We’ll see. We need to think about what would be best for him. It would be hard for a dark-skinned child like him, back in England.”
“Here in India, on the other hand…” Excited, Priscilla leaned forward. Her robe gapped open, baring her tightening nipples to Jon’s eager gaze.
“Yes. You’re quite right.” Jon pushed his chair away from the table and brushed the crumbs off his lap. “After the harvest, we might think about whether we really want to sell this place after all.”
“The harvest? Are you going out to the fields?” All Priscilla’s joy drained away.
“Hardly.” Her husband picked her up and cradled her. A tidal wave of delight
crashed over her.
Jon fondled her exposed breast. His touch rekindled her fever. She felt it burning in his flesh, too. “I’m taking you off to bed. Unless, of course, you object?”
He carried her into the bungalow, not needing an answer.
About the Author
I became addicted to words at an early age. I began reading when I was four. I wrote my first story at five years old and my first poem at seven. Since then, I've written plays, tutorials, marketing brochures, software specifications, self-help books, press releases, a five-hundred page dissertation, and of course, erotica. I'm the author of four erotic novels and two short story collections. I also edited the ground breaking anthology SACRED EXCHANGE, which explores the spiritual aspects of BDSM relationships, and the massive collection CREAM: THE BEST OF THE EROTIC READERS AND WRITERS ASSOCIATION. My short stories have appeared in more than two dozen print collections edited by erotica luminaries such as M. Christian, Maxim Jakubowski, Mitzi Szereto, Rachel Kramer Bussel, and Alison Tyler. In my so-called spare time, I also review books and films for the Erotica Readers and Writers Association (www.erotica-readers.com) and Erotica Revealed (www.eroticarevealed.com), and feature as a Celebrity Author at Custom Erotica Source (www.customeroticasource.com).
My lifelong interests in sex and the written word became serenditipitously entwined nine years ago when I read my first Black Lace book by Portia da Costa. Her work inspired me to take my fantasies out of the closet (and the private email files) and expose them to the world. The rest, as they say, is history (although granted, no more than a minor footnote!)
I've always loved traveling; my husband seduced me in a Burmese restaurant by telling me tales of his foreign adventures. Since then I have visited every continent except Australia, although I still have a long travel wish list. Currently I live with him and our two exceptional felines in Southeast Asia, where I pursue an alternative career that is completely unrelated to my creative writing.