Rubbed Raw (46 page)

He went to Mathilde in the middle of the room, gazing at the proffered ass, loosening his pants, undoing his shirt. He laid his hot hand on the white skin, and thought he detected a color change, a flush. A little heat wave recorded on her ass. Robert stroked her gently, and then as his desire grew, he plied the flesh with his hands, making it jiggle, assessing the power and softness about to engulf his now violently hard prick. Mathilde snorted out a tiny laugh as she lost her balance, staggering in front of him, still bent forward, reaching out to steady herself with her hands. Offering herself up to him.

A drop of liquid spattered the hardwood floor between his feet. He let his hand move over Mathilde’s thigh, finally allowing himself the luxury of her pussy—Lise’s hand covered his at this, his favorite moment. A new surge of blood, a muscle spasm flexed him when he realized the splash at his feet was from Mathilde’s literally dripping cunt. He traced a snail-thin trail of wetness up the inside of Mathilde’s leg, Lise pressed tight behind him, small “mmmm”s of pleasure issuing from her mouth and from Mathilde, who was pushing back against his arm with need. His and Lise’s fingers dipped into Mathilde simultaneously, and they each began stroking her lips with unique rhythms of want. Robert began swaying gently back and forth in the rocking of fuck, his cock beating a slow tempo on Mathilde’s ass, Lise naked behind him, pressed up against his back. His fingers stroked over Lise’s fingers, over Mathilde’s slick sex, over her gaping, hungry hole. Mathilde whimpered a little every time his fingers paused at the entrance to her deepest self. He teased her, dipping first his fingers, then the head of his penis into her folds; stroking his shaft along her lips, under Lise’s hand, against her clitoris in tiny circles. Her clit was swollen and throbbing. Then, holding onto her hips, he let Lise’s hand guide him inside Mathilde, and thrust into her, her swallowing cunt rippling along his shaft as he was gulped deeper inside, every inch of his cock embraced.

Lise was humping up against him now. He could just feel her hand as it twirled around her own cunt, brushing his buttocks as she stroked herself into orgasm. Her breasts slid against his skin as she pounded into him, one hand in the stroking fucking he was serving Mathilde, the other in her own pussy. She would slip the masturbating hand between the cheeks of his ass or over his balls occasionally, smearing him with her thick lubricant. As he began heaving faster and harder into Mathilde, Lise racked with pleasure behind him, squealing with her first orgasm.

The air hit his back like cool water as she left him, moving around in front of him, positioning herself under Mathilde’s head. Robert looked into Lise’s face, flushed and damp, her hair a wild mass behind her. She smiled at him thickly, slightly—another spasming pump of cum-hunger dragged at his dick like it was being sucked up from inside him. He loved watching women eat Lise’s pussy.

Robert pulled Mathilde back, rolling her hips, his cock slurping out of her grabbing grasp loiteringly. He watched as his slime-shiny prick pulled out, Mathilde’s cunt lips clinging to it like grapevines, and disappeared again, the delicious feeling of his cockhead pushing open vacuum-tight spongy spaces, caressed by this wet, engulfing cradle of life and desire. He bent himself over her and folded his arm down around Mathilde’s hip, and began petting her lips and her mound, fingering her clitoris in light, upward strokes. Mathilde gasped when he touched a spot just under her pubic bone and to the side of her clit; he planted his middle finger there and began the expert twirl Lise had shown him. He cocked his head, listening to Mathilde’s muffled yowling, and lifted his eyes to Lise’s face, easing into a slow pump.

He watched Lise pull her knees up to her chest, rubbing her breasts with the tops of her thighs, pushing her pouting sex out between the backsides of her legs. The musky, dark smell of her twat wafted around his head like a veil. He asked Mathilde to pull her hair back. He told her he wanted to see it, so lovely. With one pink hand clutching her yellow hair at the nape of her neck, Mathilde angled her head slightly against Lise’s olive thigh and glanced at him over her downy cheek, out of the side of her eye. She smiled very sweetly, Robert thought. He brought her hips back sharply onto his pelvis, impaling her, and she gasped. He smiled back.

Mathilde slowly pushed her tongue between Lise’s cum-drenched nether lips, parting them, peeling them apart like a nut shell. Robert knew that languorous, half-lidded feeling, wanting to lick sex like a dog, long strokes of the tongue loyally lapping pussy. Mathilde salivated and sprayed like citrus, juicing Lise’s cunt to an even gaudier sheen. Lise gasped and arched, splaying her legs, pushing herself up into Mathilde’s eating mouth. Almost as if he had telepathically communicated it, Mathilde acted Robert’s fever to suck, lipped Lise’s clitoris into her mouth and began tongueing her to orgasm, plunging her mouth into Lise’s hole, bringing it back up again to tease at the button, fucking with her tongue.

Robert squeezed Mathilde’s clit between two fingers, tweaking in earnest. Mathilde bumped her head against Lise’s thigh, slack-jawed and oblivious at the moment of her impending pleasure. Lise grabbed Mathilde’s head and held her, crooning to her to cum. Robert rocked his penis deep inside her, thrusting up against the pelvic crib, into his cupping hand kneading her cunt. Squeezing it, extruding the orgasm from inside of her—Robert watched a brief string of spit drool down onto Mathilde’s back from his lip and sucked it in under his teeth. Then he felt the compressing ripple, the wave begin, spreading out from Mathilde’s deepest center, cumming and cumming, gumming his prick ever inward like a toothless maw; and the fast gush of her spending washing his balls and hips in spurts. A squirter.

That urgent yank pulled at him again from inside, the preciousness of a woman’s orgasm manifesting itself physically making his head spin in the near-nausea of sentimentality. Gripped with new desire, he pulled out of her cunt, looking down at her delicious bottom, proffered at the altar of his passion. The purple, puckered asshole glistened up at him, slick and inviting, the promise of almost unbearable heat and pressure from that forbidden portal luring him.

He looked into Lise’s face, his eyes caressing the length of her body, settling on the blond head buried with renewed vigor in ready pussy . He gently began probing his hungry head against Mathilde’s anus, a question, a request. She pushed back at him. An answer. An eager reply.

Robert spit in his palm and rubbed the gooey mass over the head of his cock, and fed his prick into Mathilde, stretching her, slowly, excruciatingly, pushing forward into her ass as she groaned, her whimpers muffled by labia. He began fucking in earnest, pushing in, pulling out, feeling that sweetest burning crest in his bowels. Robert staved himself into honeyed, round buttocks, hinging his arms out in an effort to pull Mathilde ever farther down onto the pounding piston of his extended carnal appetite. His fingers pockmarked her ass, leaving impressions like they would in pliant dough, pulling her into the shape that best conformed to his need. And all the time, he watched her give Lise head, Lise’s face contorted in ecstasy, Lise’s nipples bright and rigid, Lise bucking her hips high as she started to cum. Mathilde’s red mouth in almost-profile, showing him. Mathilde’s red red tongue, plumbing, torturing Lise’s clit, lapping inner lips, fucking and plunging, stroking and teasing, and then, blessing her with release, engulfing the clitoris like a penis and sucking Lise off until she came, rocketing, clenching, cumming, cumming. He could feel it rising in himself now, undeniable, unrequited. Deeper, deeper into that hot hole, a purging and a burning, the muscle at the entrance to her ass bearing down, impossibly close now, yanking, rutting, exploding, exploding, great huge gobs of himself shooting up from down in him, drawing his balls up against his body, spurting, his head thrown back in mad delirium.

Continued in:

Patsy arrived after a long journey on ship from London. I was already in school. She was blonde and had a beautiful face with two rosy cheeks. She wore a lacy, peach-coloured dress which had little flowers on it. A pair of white shoes and a sapphire stone necklace made completed the picture. Her eyes closed when she was put to sleep and opened when she was sat up. Her hands and legs moved when I wanted to move them. She was the last of the dolls I had in my collection, but all of the others were made in India. Patsy wore a stamp under her foot–
Made in England
.

After Patsy came, my life become full once again; combing Patsy’s hair, brushing the fringe, bathing her once a week, changing her clothes. Patsy wore delicate lacy panties as well and had her own toiletries; a brush, soap and a napkin, which served as a towel. She always wore socks and shoes, whether she was awake or asleep. She even had a milk bottle and she lived on nothing else, no food at all. But I would sometimes remember to share my chocolate with her. Otherwise, she remained miraculously the same weight. During the night, I would first put her to sleep on my bed and then I would sleep beside her, place my arms over her and go to sleep.

It was exactly in the same way my
mashi
, my maternal aunt, slept with me. She replaced herself in my life by sending me Patsy from London. She knew my weakness for dolls. She treated me like her doll; one you could play with or do anything with, but one which would never rebel or speak about what you did.

Her wish, nay, my innocent wish, came true as she bid a tearful goodbye to me in a yellow and black taxi that would drive her to the airport where she would embark for England. I stood, three feet high, by the taxi window and smiled in the knowledge that she would bring me my doll. Only when the taxi sped away did I begin to feel a hollow in the house; a deep, vacant space that grew bigger and bigger. When would she return? Days, then months, passed until Patsy arrived. Slowly, the gap filled. I had found my doll, just as she had left hers behind.

My mashi and I were special to each other I knew, because we did something, no-one knew about.

The night is not so dark and quiet, but in my house, it is late. Perhaps only 9:30 p.m., but all are under their quilts in bed. I rarely sleep with my mother. I am told that she is unwell and needs to sleep alone. I sleep on the large bed with my mashi. We have a reason to do that as well. We are involved in a game we play together under the quilt–a game where I always pretend I am asleep. I am aware that we are treading in forbidden waters. And this is what that makes it all the more exciting.

My mashi takes my hands and places them on her breast, voluptuous, smooth and soft. Then she takes my hand and rubs it gently around her breast, around and around. I hear her breath getting shorter and shorter and then she lifts my face to hers and her breath envelopes my mind forever. Her lips suck at mine. It is a strange feeling, but I play dead. I pretend I am asleep, but really, I am fully awake with my eyes closed.

It happens every night; this, our secret game. In the morning, I forget what happened in the night, but only till it starts again.

Mine was a dollhouse. Lots of inmates fell all over me, but my mashi was very special to me, not only because of the games we played by night, but also because of what she meant to me during the day.

She was academically brilliant, tall, dusky, vivacious, bohemian, exciting and full of life. I remember, during her college days, she went off to Kolkata. Before she went, she would pick one poem from Rabindranath Tagore’s
Sanchayeeta
and ask me to memorize it by heart. She would want to hear it when she returned. I would spend a lot of time listening to the poem being read out to me, over and over again, till I could remember it completely. When she returned from Kolkata, I would proudly recite the poem without mistakes or prompting.

“That’s my doll!” That exclamation from her was all I wanted. She was so important to me.

For a long time, she and I lived all by ourselves in the house of dolls. There were dolls made out of saris with painted faces and there were dolls which were plastic. They had a house of their own, and they all stared out of it day and night, watching the goings-on of our house.

My dollhouse gave me unconditional acceptance, love and joy. It was a love so powerful that it taught me to be always surrendered to the force of love. It was a house that structured my mind, my thoughts and gave me reasons to believe that intellectual pursuits are the highest ones in life.

However, deep in the recesses of its high ideals laid unresolved issues which were shrouded in silence. Like my game with my mashi. Playing doll was a way of life.

I saw different forms of silences in that house–silence as a communication breakdown, silence as a powerful and loud language of communication without the use of the spoken words, silence as a weapon of violence, silence as a weapon of destruction. Above all, there was the silence of the dolls—the observers of all forms of treatment, whether that treatment came from love or from anger. They spoke nothing. They never hit back or failed to listen to me. They were like stones.

I spoke to my dolls always. They were my best friends, my alter egos. But I am not sure if I ever told them about what happened under the quilt every night. Like the inmates of the house of dolls, I too learned to put things away. “Under the quilt! Shove everything under the quilt!” The silences followed me through my life, except when I spoke to myself in the mirror.

“I held Patsy to my lips today,” I said to myself in the mirror. “She did not kiss me back.”

“Hush! Walls have ears and pillars have toes. They may go and tell someone,” replied my image back to me.

My lips were sealed ever since.

Shortly after that, I went to boarding school. Patsy accompanied me there as well.

At boarding school, I heard that our matron also did those things with a visitor who came in the night. I told Patsy, “See, it’s not only you and me who play doll. There are others, too.”