Brit Party (29 page)

"Robert Stevens? I know him well. If you can get someone from the village to take him a message, I think I can manage it. What do you say, Priscilla? Shall we make the trip tomorrow, assuming I can influence Mr. Stevens to loan us his car and driver?"

Jonathan felt strange, hearing the native use his wife's Christian name.

"I—I don't know. I'm a bit nervous. I haven't really been out on my own here..."

"You won't be on your own, Pru. I'm sure that Anil will serve as both guide and protector. Look, I'm going to be out all day anyway, making a last push before moving to the southern fields. You should go and enjoy yourself."

"I hate to leave you by yourself, Jonathan. What if there were some accident?"

"I'll have Suresh and Lalida, not to mention the workers. I'll be fine."

"Well—I'm not sure..."

"Let me see if we can get the car,"Anil offered. “We will let the gods decide for us."

Priscilla was silent, but she still looked uncertain. Jonathan rose from the table and circled to her chair, helping her to stand. From behind, he bent, a bit awkwardly, and kissed her cheek. “Go ahead, Pru. I want you to go."

Jonathan could not understand the wild, desperate look she gave him.

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Jonathan threw open the louvered shutters in the bedroom that his father had converted to his office and library. The rain had trailed off during lunch, and now the early afternoon sunshine streamed in. The fresh-washed air smelled of the earth—mown grass, ripe fruit, animal dung. From here, he could see the tea fields a mile away, the rolling land brilliant emerald after its drenching. He caught a hint of movement, a rippling across the hillside, as if the bushes were rustling in the breeze. But the air was still. It was his small army of workers, filing along the ranks of tea plants, carefully plucking only the top buds and leaves.

Why did he care so much about this harvest? His London factories produced machinery, the engines and boilers that were powering the new century. He was no farmer. Somehow, though, it was important that he complete this task, bring this final harvest to a successful conclusion before selling the plantation. A last symbolic effort to win his father's approval, perhaps? But his father had never really disapproved of Jonathan. He had merely been absent when Jonathan needed him.

A knock drew him away from the scene at the window. “Come in,” Jonathan called. Kumar glided in on sandaled feet, his casual native costume an odd contrast with the heavy lawyer's satchel that he set on the desk.

"Am I disturbing you?"

"No, not at all, Please, make yourself comfortable,” Jon gestured at an armchair at the side of the desk.

Kumar seated himself, and began pulling folios of papers out of his case. He did look comfortable, perfectly at ease despite his attire. Jon shrugged off the jacket he had donned for lunch and hung it on his chair back. No cause for formality here.

"So. You said my father had other business interests. I'm a bit surprised. This plantation was all that he ever mentioned in his letters."

"The plantation was his home, the focus of his life. He loved it here. However, he also owned a jute factory, a cotton mill, and several apartment buildings in Calcutta, as well as a pilgrim's hostel in Varanasi."

"A pilgrim's hostel?"

"Your father went to bathe in the Ganges every year."

"You can't be serious! I've heard that it's unbelievably filthy..."

Kumar smiled gently. “Earthly concerns such as hygiene are not a concern of those seeking enlightenment."

Jon snorted his astonishment. “Enlightenment? My father? He was a businessman, not a mystic."

"The two are not necessarily mutually exclusive.” Kumar laid a long-fingered hand on Jon's arm. “India changes people, Jon. It reveals their true natures."

Jon found himself caught in the Indian's beneficent gaze. The man's eyes drew him in more deeply. He searched Kumar's face, trying to understand the odd stirring in his heart and in his loins. The man was bloody beautiful, that was the truth of it, with that noble brow, those liquid brown eyes, that ripe mouth. His height, his broad shoulders, and the muscled curve of his bare forearm were undeniably male, but in his face Jon found something feminine, something exquisitely desirable.

With an effort, Jon tore his eyes away and forced his mind back to business. He reached for a handful of papers. “Let me see the details."

Kumar laid out the first folio in front of Jon. “Here are the accounts for the jute company. As you can see, it has been a moderately profitable enterprise. Last year it cleared forty percent more than in 1917."

The Indian leaned over to point out the relevant figures. Jon couldn't help but notice the man's scent, some spicy, aromatic perfume that made him momentarily light-headed. The scent was somehow familiar. It had the strange and alarming effect of causing Jon's penis to harden.

"Well—the war...” Jon struggled to retain his composure. “I'm sure that the international situation..."

"Of course, you're right,” Kumar agreed smoothly. If he noticed Jon's discomfiture, he did not show it. “Do you want to see the detailed revenue and expense statements?"

"No, no, I'll take them and look at them later. Just give me the ownership transfer documents for now."

Kumar leaned closer, leafing through the folio until he reached the last page. Jon shrunk away, afraid that the native's body would brush against his own, terrified of his own response if it did.

"Sign here, please,” said Kumar, so close now that Jon could feel his breath. “And initial here, with the date.” Jon followed instruction, giving a sigh of relief when Kumar moved away to put the papers back into the satchel .” The ownership transfer will not be official for at least a month—the English have done what they can, but trying to rationalise Indian bureaucracy is a losing battle—but you can take possession of the factory any time."

Jon tried to slow his racing pulse .” Well, I expect that I'll be occupied here at the plantation for the next two weeks at least."

"Quite so. Well, what would you like to deal with next?"

"Can you give me a moment?” Jon pushed himself back from the desk. “I think need a bit of air; I'm feeling a bit ill.” He turned to the window, gulping in the moist, fragrant air. His cock was still swollen, harder in fact than before. What was going on?

"Can I do anything to help, Jon?” The Indian stood behind him, lips close to Jon's ear. “Should I call Priscilla?"

"No! No, please, don't bother, I'm sure that won't be necessary.” Jon could just imagine Priscilla's reaction, finding his cock wakened by the presence of this native stranger, when he had just turned down the offer of her body. “I'll be fine in just a minute."

Kumar snaked his arms around Jon's body, pulling it back against his own. Jon froze. His cock jerked skyward. “Let me help you, Jon. You are so tense. You need to relax."

One of Kumar's hands stroked Jon's pectorals. Jon's nipples spiked up into tight triggers that shot incredible pleasure through him when touched. The native's other hand reached between Jon's legs to cup the bulk of his erection.

"No,” Jon moaned, but at the same time his engorged cock threatened to explode in response to the intimate caress. Kumar squeezed the rigid organ, and Jon groaned again. Please, I can't..."

Kumar nibbled Jon's earlobe. Sparks flashed down Jon's spine to ignite in his groin .” Why not?” he murmured, his voice rich with encouragement. “Why not allow yourself the release you crave, that you need?"

Nimble brown fingers unbuttoned Jon's trousers. Jon gasped at the first touch of Kumar's bare skin on his own. He slumped back, letting Kumar take his weight as the Indian fondled his aching cock. Jon could feel the hard bulk of Kumar's own erection pressing into his backside. Panic seized him. He had to escape.

At the same time, the rock-hard evidence of the other man's arousal nearly took him over the edge. He leaned against the other man, not daring to move, trying to ignore the insistent tease of Kumar's cock, knowing that with the slightest provocation he would experience the ultimate shame. Yet the humiliating image of his seed shooting out all over Kumar's hand only drove him closer to that extreme.

Kumar slid his thumb back and forth over the exposed and sensitive bulb. Jon gave a strangled cry of pleasure and anguish. “Don't resist it, Jon. Why not enjoy the flesh that the gods have given you?"

"But—it's an abomination. You, me..."

"Perhaps in England. Here we know that male and female are merely two aspects of the One. Turn around now, and I will show you such pleasures that you will not doubt they come from the gods."

Jon could not help himself. Kumar steered him around until the two men were face to face. The Indian fastened his ripe lips on Jon's mouth in a sweet, deep kiss. He crushed Jon's exposed cock to his own groin. Through the thin cotton trousers, Jon could feel the native's rigid cock, duelling with his own.

The heat of the kiss stole Jon's breath. He had never before kissed a man, but now something was loosed in him. He opened his mouth to Kumar's agile tongue, welcoming the foreign sensation of being invaded, savouring the exotic taste of anise and coriander. He wrapped his arms around the Indian's muscled frame. Kumar's light cotton garments were no barrier to sensation. Jon could feel everything—the heat coming off the native's silky skin, the dampness near his armpits and his groin, the stony pillar of flesh rising between his thighs.

The Indian finally broke the kiss. Before Jon could sigh his regret, Kumar had slipped to the floor, kneeling in front of the Englishman. Before Jon could think about propriety or shame, Kumar had sucked Jon's cock into his mouth.

Wetness, heat, pressure—the sensations were incoherent but overwhelming. Jon threw back his head and howled as he rammed his cock down Kumar's throat. His seed gushed into the other man's mouth; he felt new pleasures as the man swallowed, then opened wide for more.

Like an earthquake, the climax was followed by weaker aftershocks. Finally, Jon collapsed to his knees, totally spent. Kumar had to hold his shoulders to keep him from sinking onto the floor.

"I—um—you,” Jon began, trying to reclaim the sanity that had so precipitously deserted him.

"Hush,” whispered Kumar, kissing him lightly and leaving a distinctive bitter aftertaste on Jon's lips. “Don't think about it. Just enjoy.” He pulled the Englishman to his breast, cradling him gently. “Don't worry, Jonathan. All will be well."

All at once there was a frantic knocking. “Sir! Sir! Do you need help? I heard a scream."

Jon scrambled to his feet. He grabbed his jacket to hide his bare, drooping penis .” Never mind, Lalida.” The servant's broad, dark face appeared at the half-open door. “I managed to slam my finger in the desk drawer, but don't worry, I'm fine.” The woman looked dubious, but she nodded.

"Very well, Sir. Will you take afternoon tea on the porch, as usual?"

"Yes, that would be excellent, thank you. In about twenty minutes. You might want to let Mrs. Archer know."

"Ah, Madam went out walking, Sir, about half an hour ago. She said that you should not wait for her to have your tea."

Walking? That was an unusual thing for Priscilla to do. Normally she spent afternoons indoors, reading or handling correspondence, and walked after tea when the weather was cooler. On the other hand, she had not been herself at lunch. Perhaps she had felt a need for some air.

Perhaps they were both suffering from some kind of fever that was affecting their senses and their judgement.

"Alright, then.” Jon was desperate for some privacy so that he could put himself back together, but the servant remained stubbornly in the doorway. “Is there something else, Lalida?"

"Yes, Sir. The boy came back from the Resident's compound. He says that the Resident will send his driver with the car tomorrow morning at ten."

Jon glanced at Anil Kumar, who grinned with just the slightest hint of cockiness .” It seems, Jon, that the gods have smiled.” Anil gestured at the pile of papers. “Should we see if we can get through these before tea?"

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Priscilla woke before dawn from dreams that she could not recall. They must have been concerned with sex, given the stickiness she felt between her thighs. Whatever the content, they had not brought her satisfaction. The bud at her centre throbbed, demanding stimulation. She was aching, hungry and empty.

She stole a look at Jonathan, curled up on his side next to her. For once, he was not tossing about and moaning. With his knees pulled up and his fist curled under his chin, he looked peaceful and young, his worries erased by sleep. His tousled blond curls and the cupid's bow mouth below his silly little moustache made him seem like some innocent youth pretending to be a man.

As if he sensed her attention even in his sleep, he sighed and shifted onto his back. Priscilla wanted to throw her body on top of his, to mash her breasts against his chest, to feel his strong arms encircling her. She noticed that his pyjama bottoms formed a tell-tale peak at his groin. Some dream image had aroused him. She imagined what it would be like to loose his cock from his clothing, to scatter light kisses over the swollen bulb, to wake him with the heat of her mouth engulfing him. Perhaps that was what he was dreaming of, her swallowing him as she used to in the early days, when she could drive him crazy with her lips and tongue.

The picture was vivid enough to make her sex throb with new hunger. One move, one touch, and she could make her vision real. But something held her back. She remembered Jon's coldness the previous morning. It was not she whom he desired. Whatever his dreams, it seemed that they did not include her.

With tears in her eyes, she turned her back on his tempting form and sought solace in sleep.

It was past nine when Priscilla woke again. Jonathan's side of the bed was empty. Unexpected sunlight filtered through the slats in the shutters; normally at this hour it should be raining. She felt groggy and lazy. She even contemplated going back to sleep. Then she remembered the planned excursion to the temple.