He took a calming breath and deepened it as if he were trying to get a hold of himself again.
I want you," he whispered, a raw honest confession. "More than I ever wanted anything..."
I peered into his ocean blue eyes, and I saw what he said. I saw the loneliness, the longing, the desperate need for connection; I saw it in my own life and in theirs as well. And at that instant, I knew. No more seduction, this time. It was a collision. It was two lost souls meeting on a huge and chaotic beach in Goa.
I whispered, "I want you too" - it was a surrender, a promise, a prayer. The smile was slow in coming and incredible in its purity, a sunrise of pure, unadulterated joy. That was the kind of smile that could fix broken things, and I felt something deep in me, something that I didn't even realize was broken, begin to heal in that moment.
He didn't rush. He was not in a panic to rip his garments. He knelt, and he slowly and gracefully pulled his shirt over his head, behind his neck. It was when I saw him that my breath was taken away. His body was a lovely canvas of lean, sun-tanned muscle, the lines of his abdomen sharp and defined and a thin layer of golden hair winding down to his waistband on the shorts. A fluid strength, not a bulky strength, there was strength in him, it was the body of a man who knew what to do with his body and how to fit it, no man who was vain. He rose and unfastened his pants, letting them fall on the sand. He had no clothes left. He was magnificent. Utterly, breathtakingly magnificent.
He had a long, elegant cock that rose from the nest of golden curls, a perfect and formidable proof of his arousal. Not a fearsome, daunting tool of Alex's, but a beautiful, alive thing with a gentle confident strength.
He knelt down next to me, not on me, but next to me. Looking down at me, his eyes were dark with a desire tempered with great tenderness. With his head to my lips, he kissed me, a gentle kiss, a promise of more. From there, he embarked on his own exploration. His lips were moving down my neck, his teeth biting into the skin of my neck, making me shiver with pleasure. He lowered himself down, his lips smacking my nipples, but now he worshipped them with a passion, his tongue and lips fawning over my hardened nipples, his hands cupping and kneading the soft flesh.
He lowered himself, his lips brushing down the smooth surface of my belly. This time he stuck his tongue in my navel and I couldn't help but let out a soft moan. He laughed, a rich and satisfying chuckle, a soothing and taunting one. He turned, and shifted, down the bed, his wide shoulders pushing me apart. He straddled my legs, his hands on the inside of my thighs, his thumbs rubbing my skin, rubbing my skin up and down.
I was open with him and vulnerable to him in a way that I hadn't been with anybody. A moment of self-consciousness, a glimmer of old insecurities. It was there and he appeared to sense it.
He lifted his gaze up to mine and held it. "You are the most beautiful thing that I have ever seen," he said, in a raw, sincere statement.
Then, he bowed his head. When he touched my pussy lips for the first time, I was amazed! It was not a clumsy and hurried lick. The stroke was a slow one that was deliberate and exploratory. He began at bottom, close to my entrance, and parting my folds with one languid motion of his tongue, tasting me. It was a slow burning fire, not at my body, but in my nerves, everywhere, it was exquisite. He did it again, and again, as each slow lick coiled a new tension in my belly. He was in no hurry. He was enjoying me like a connoisseur drinking a good wine. He touched all folds, all hollows, his tongue a soft wet tool of pure pleasure.
He found my clit, but he didn't attack it. He went around and around it very slowly and with teasing, his touch was so delicate it was almost a torture.
My hands reached his hair, my fingers fumbled in the soft, thick strands. My hips started to move, up to his mouth, a slow restless motion, a silent plea for more. He did just that and, with his tongue playing with my clit again, he upped the ante. Meanwhile, I felt one of his long, slender fingers plunge inside me. He wound it up round, and discovered that particular spot deep in it, and started caressing it in rhythm with his tongue.
A stabbing, pointy, pure, intense feeling shot through me, and I cried out, my back stretching off the sand. His other hand was gripping my hips and his forearm was hard against my body, his mouth never leaving my sex. He added another finger, stretching me, filling me, his tongue licking at my clit, pushing at it with purpose and persistence. It was a feeling of tension that had been building in my stomach that broke, and I felt my orgasm coming like a tidal wave and it rolled over me. It was a screaming, quaking orgasm of pleasure, my body convulsing as I writhed and bucked beneath his skilled lips.
But he didn't stop. He didn't even slow down! He kept licking and stroking my fingers and the sensation started, kept building, building till I was crying and a mindless heap of nothing but feeling. As the first wave was starting to recede, another wave started to rise, stronger than the first. I didn't know any more who I was, or even time or anything else, just how much fun he was having for me.
I came again, and again, making each time harder until I was done. When I couldn't take any longer, when I was calling him to stop, he stopped his motions, his tongue would lick one final slow stroke before he lifted his head, licking it lovingly. His face was dripping with my juices, he placed his cheek on my thigh and looked up at me, a slow and satisfied smile on his lips.
I was a wreck. My body was trembling, my skin slick with sweat, my mind a blissful blank. I had never felt so loved, so loved, so loved in all my life. He remained in my thighs for a long time, his cheek against my shivering flesh, his breath a soft caress.
He was giving me time to recover from the exquisite onslaught, letting the aftershocks of my orgasms ripple through me. I could sense him building up his desire, the slow restoration of his energy, however.
He ascended and came to cover me with his body. He was a soft, substantial weight, so comforting. His skin was hot and smooth as a hard landscape against mine, his muscles a hard unyielding landscape. Still glistening, eyes dark and intense, he propped himself up on his elbows, looking down at me. The soft sound of my name on his lips, "Zeenat". He bent his head down to kiss me, and I tasted myself on his tongue, a musky and intimate taste of his devotion.
He moved his hips and I felt the hot hard cock sticking inside my thigh. He was well up and standing, a power, a man with a life of his own. He came between us and inserted himself, his broad head between my legs, leading me to my entrance. He didn't go in. He simply laid it on me, a weight that pressed down on my still tender folds.
He gazed at me, his eyes looking into mine, a silent question for one more permission.
Trembling from the orgasms he had bestowed on me, my body was a compliant vessel. I took hold of his neck and pressed him to my lips, allowing myself into the kiss. It was my answer. My consent. My surrender.
He started to work his dick in through my pussy folds. It was a glorious feel! A slow, stretching pleasure as my body gave in to his. He was a perfect fit, filling me completely, a sense of rightness, of coming home. He pushed in to the hilt and I breathed a gasp not in pain but in full, pure bliss. He allowed me to take a second, just one, to get used to his invasion. After that, he began to pace up. His thrust was slow, measured, as though he was worshiping.
He withdrew nearly all the way back and then pushed in - a long deep blow that caused me to gasp. He wasn't fucking me. He was loving me. He was letting my body get used to him, letting the pleasure grow. My hips began to lift to his thrusts, a silent shout for more; I was still, and my hips lifted.
He saw it, felt it, and his pace increased, but only slightly, his strokes were a little harder, a little deeper. He was still controlling, still leading the way, but he was listening to me, to what I no longer could keep from telling him. He turned again and wrapped his strong arms around my legs and twisted me in half.
This new approach enabled him to go even further, to strike a spot everyone else had missed -- one right in my heart. That was it. This launched the whole incident.
I got my first orgasm during fuck; it was like a freight train. The wave was not one that one might describe as gentle, it was a violent convulsive explosion. I screamed and the sound was raw, guttural, pure, unadulterated ecstasy as my pussy tightened and shivered from his thick and pounding cock. He didn't stop. He didn't slow down at all. He just kept pounding, his relentless beating causing me to open and lengthen my climax, keeping me writhing, crying, and a mess, until I was finally under him.
Then, when the first one was over, another was ever stronger than the preceding. I lost touch with time, with myself, everything but the feeling of being totally in control of this beautiful, perceptive man. He lowered my legs and started to kiss me, his tongue moving in my mouth, his hips going a punishing tempo. The sound of our bodies slapping together, the obscene squelching of my soaked pussy, his guttural groans and my own unrestrained cries was a primal symphony of love and lust. I came again, and again, and again. My number of orgasms were hard to count. They merged into a single huge surge of happiness.
I no longer knew what it was to be in my own body, it was my instrument and he was a master musician, he was playing it with beautiful savageness.
Lastly, he thrust into me one time more, as if he were to come through me--so far into me did he go I felt like he was splitting me apart--and roared out as if it was from the ground itself. I felt his cock thicken up and pulse, then a flood of thick, hot cum was seeping in, a fire of fluid, and a last, intense orgasm assaulted me and I went limp and unconscious.
I was sore, bruised and completely satisfied on the sand. He was lying next to me with his chest heaving, a look of great satisfaction on his face. He stroked my hair and it was tenderly done after the violent beautiful storm, but it was done. He had taken me to the limit he had made me cry out in joy and made me love him so much that it broke me.
I had a slow, blissful smile on my face as I lay there with his cum filled and well used pussy. I was well and truly fucked and this was romantic. And I was more complete than I ever had before.
Gradually, everything began to take shape, but not all at once, but like a welling tide, gently.
The first thing I knew was the weight of Leo's arm--heavy as the soft sand--as it rested on my waist. I had the ache, a tender, deep pain between my thighs, a beautiful, visceral reminder of how thoroughly he had claimed me.
I moved slightly, and his arm hardened of its own accord and drew me in, against his sleeping form. A soft, contented sigh escaped my lips. I felt safe. I felt cherished. I felt... loved.
I remember Danish while in that blissful haze following sex. I opened my eyes, peering at the dunes, and the far away beach. I hadn't seen him since he disappeared from the lounges but he was always in the back of my mind. He was the one responsible for this day, the puppeteer that pulled the strings.
I thought he would be standing behind the palm tree, his eyes sparkling with satisfaction, waiting to get his prize, to "reclaim" me as he so unpleasantly threatened to do. However, there were no dunes to be seen, except for two of us. Slow and stiff I extricated myself from Leo's embrace.
I stumbled upon the pieces of red fabric--the remnants of my past from shame to surrender--and discovered my old bikini. It was on with me, the strings biting into my skin, a reminder of the woman I became.
I walked towards the main beach, footing into the soft sand.
He was there. Sitting at the water's edge, his back to me, against a setting sun, was Danish. His arms were relaxed and his posture appeared contemplative, holding a half full glass of something. He had not yet turned around when I approached but I knew that he knew I was coming.
He was quiet, his voice not as hard as it had been, "Is he asleep?"
"Yes," I said, my voice unfamiliar to my own ears.
For a long time, we stood silent, only the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. I expected to be taunted, but I expected to be leered at, I expected to be told to come to him. But none came.
Finally, Danish said, "He's beautiful."
I was at a loss for words. This wasn't the Danish I knew. Eventually, he turned and in the soft, golden glow of the setting sun, I saw something in his eyes that I had never seen before. It wasn't jealousy. It wasn't anger. It was not love; it was simply lust. It was... curiosity. As if, he was fascinated and curious about something he saw happening -- like a chemical reaction.
"He said, 'I saw. "From the beginning." He gulped down a swallow of his beverage. "I watched him walking towards you, I saw how he looked at you, I saw him walking away from you, I watched him making love to you."
My heart was pounding in my ribcage. "You saw everything?"
"Everything," he confirmed. He had a wry smile playing across his lips. "It was not fucking, Zeenat, I've seen you fuck--he was in awe of you, he was touching you like you were made of glass."
Slowly, he took another sip of his drink. "Not from Rohan, not from me, I've never seen that look at you before!"
There was something in my stomach that made me feel awkward and uncomfortable. "Why didn't you...why didn't you come in? To... reclaim me?" I felt bitter taste in my mouth.
Danish snorted out a grunt of humourlessness. "And do what? Interrupt that?" He shook his head. "There was nothing in there that was not pure and real and love, Zeenat."
He came even closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "Now, don't be mistaken, I loved the show so much, you were awesome, god-like."
He put out a hand, and he softly pushed a hair behind my ear, his hand brotherly, almost like a father's. But I'm not a fool, I know a beautiful, momentary dream when I see one. He gestured with his glass towards the ocean. "He's a tourist, Zeenat, he'll fly back to his life in where he's from, he'll remember it, he'll remember you, he'll remember the beautiful girl he made love to under the Goa sun, he'll remember it fondly, and then he'll move on."
He fixed his gaze on me and his face grew as hard as a brick, the familiar calculating Danish rising to the surface. But you're not temporary, you're here. You're with me, and this little adventure, this... this is just a chapter, not the whole story.
He bent down his head and brushed my forehead, a tender, possessive touch of lips. "Pack your things, we're going! Now!"
He faced away and walked back to the chairs in the lounge area, leaving me on the water's edge. I'd watched the endless sea and the sun, a bleeding hole on the horizon.
He was right. Beauty is the only impossible dream that Leo was. But this was my reality: Danish. And the truth was that the dream was ended.
The air grew still. The waves receded, the laughter of people on the beach became hushed.
Over me there fell a shadow that was long and dark in the fading orange light. I knew who it was. I could sense him, and it was terrifying and welcome at the same time.
"Zeenat." His voice. Stronger than I recalled, a low resonant rumble that resonated through the sand, up my spine.
I turned sluggishly, and my heart beat like a crazed bird on my ribs. He was only a few feet away, a block of a man in the midst of the fiery sky. He wore only a simple pair of linen pants; his chest was bare, the polished ebony of his skin glowing in the twilight. He was not gazing on the sea. He was staring at me. His light brown eyes, so clear and perceptive, held a universe of questions and his face was a mask of unreadable calm.
My breath hitched. "Alex... I... I thought you'd left.
" He said, "I was waiting for you", his eyes never wavering. His eyes flickered over my shoulder, towards the lounge chairs where Danish was now gathering our things. Then his eyes looked at me again and I saw a glimmer of comprehension, a dawning of a hideous reality.
He took a step closer. He said quietly, "I saw you."
My blood ran cold. He'd witnessed Danish's possessive kiss, his whispered command. He was familiar with the transaction. He had witnessed my surrender. The moment before I was able to stammer out a defence, another voice, smooth as sun-warmed honey, cut through the tension.
"She's worth waiting for, isn't she?" Leo. He walked out of the dunes, and his golden hair caught the last rays of the sun, and a lazy, confident smile on his lips. He stood there with his body relaxed, looking into the situation with an unsettling calmness, but with his eyes open and his body laid bare, save for his shorts. Not possessively, but as if he were occupying my place, his hand resting gently on the small of my back, he walked to my side. The touch was a silence, a calm and comforting force that made my legs feel less like they're about to crack.
I was now in the middle of a triangle. The corrupt architect, Danish, watching on the periphery, with predatory curiosity. The romantic ideal, Alex, his face was a mask of hurt and confusion. And Leo, the sensual explorer, a centring force at my side.
I managed to say, "this is... complicated..." which was an understatement.
Danish laughed, a laugh without humour. Walking confidently and efficiently, he set our bags on the sand and approached us. He wasn't angry. He was intrigued. This was not a scene that he had written, but a scene that he wanted to direct. "My native language is complicated," he said, his eyes flicking back and forth among the three of us, a collector looking at strange specimens.
He paused in front of me, turned to see Leo then to Alex's massive figure. As he gazed at Leo, the artist remarked: "The artist..." "And the mountain." He looked at Alex. Both you and he have a very good sense of design.
Alex's jaw tightened. "Who are you?" he growled, his voice low warning.
Danish responded in a smooth way and his eyes never strayed from mine, "The man who knows her better than anyone." He touched me and, to my surprise, he gently wiped sand from my face. His touch was not the possessive, but softer, almost... fond. I know all of her lines in her story, all of her fears, all of her desires.
A little, just a bit, Leo's hand was clinging to my back. "And here we are to write a new chapter," he said in a calm but firm tone. One in which she isn't your character, but the one with her own story.
Danish's face turned a slow and evil smile. It was the smile that I recognized, the smile that foretold the blissful, evil discovery. "Oh, I like that," he purred. His eyes were full of true and grudging admiration for Alex as he looked from Leo to him.
"You, the mountain, you look upon a goddess to be worshipped, you find a pure and romantic love, you want to protect her, you want to cherish her." He then turned his gaze on Leo. "And you, the artist, you see a canvas that's to be explored, a sensual, passionate discovery, you want to please her."
At last, he turned his gaze to mine, his eyes gleaming with a sinister triumph. "And you? I see the predator, I see the slut, I see the woman who wants the darkness, as much as the light, I want to push her, break her, own her."
Danish added, "What if we use our resources together? What if we are to give her everything?" Unbelieving and dangerous and exciting was the silence that followed.
The world had turned upside down. Three men. Three very strong types of love, all for me. It was insane. It was impossible. This was the most terrifying and exciting offer that I ever had. I studied his eyes, Alex's eyes, full of hope and wounded; I studied his eyes, Leo's; he was calm; he was assessing; I studied his eyes, Danish's; dark, promising. I was in the middle of all the storm. And I knew, and knew, I knew I didn't want to leave it. I wanted to give in to it. Everyone was waiting, waiting with bated breath. They were the three points of a triangle; I was the trembling space in between them that was electrified.
The final dips of sunlight stoked the sky into a stroke of violent pink and deep purple, a reflection of the impossible beauty that was the chaos of the sand. I first saw Alex, my eyes fixated. A slow but horrified understanding was replacing the hurt in his eyes. He had a preconceived notion of absolutes, definite lines. This was a murky, a chaotic, a violation of all those things that he cherished in his romantic ideals. This is what he said, a rumble of disbelief. "She's not... she's not one to be shared."
Danish smiled, a slow predatory curve of his lips. "Isn't she?" he replied with a smoothness. "Or is she a woman so complex, so magnificent, that one man's love could never be enough to contain her?"
"That is the question Zeenat: Can you hold all three without breaking?"
They were now all eyeing me. Their gazes weighed on me like a physical force like a stripping bare. Danish's challenge, Leo's question and Alex's desperate plea. This was my choice. Not for them but for me. Or to receive their love, whatever its broken, warring shapes, or to return to the primitive simplicity, the stifling reality of which I was familiar.
I took a deep, shivering breath, the air filled with salt, sun and my own growing desire. I remembered Danish's dark, possessive teaching, I remembered Alex's soul stirring tenderness, I remembered Leo's patient, worshipful exploring. Both of them had revealed to me parts of me I was not aware.
My voice was a thread, "I..." I straightened my throat, and looked at each of them one by one, letting the truth be known in their eyes, "do not want to select."
"So, you can leave, back to your black and white reality, or you can remain here and learn to love in colour." Then he turned his gaze towards Leo. "And you, artist. Is the viewer or do you want to grab your brush?"
First, it was Alex. He came at me in a big stride and was very large and imposing. He glanced down at me and his light brown eyes were all a tumult of love and pain and an ache that was desperate. He did not bother to glance at the others. He only saw me. "If this is what you want," he said in a deep, strained rumble, "then I will give it to you." He touched me and his hand was as tender as a butterfly's. His thumb caressed my skin gently and slowly. "I will worship you Zeenat, I will be your safe harbour, your anchor, I swear."
And there was Leo, on my left side. He took my hand and interlaced his fingers into mine. "And I will search you," he replied, "and I will find you. Every inch of your body, Every corner of your soul. I will be your pleasure, your discovery. I will show you how to love yourself through my eyes."
My knees knit together with their declarations; I couldn't think of anything else but them.
Just before I was about to fall, I found two pairs of hands to hold me up. Alex's firm, solid, strong grip on my arm, and Leo's solid, supportive grip on my waist. Danish was next. He put himself in the way of me and the sunset, and his shadow was a dark and exciting stream. He didn't provide comfort or safety. He offered truth. "And I," he growled low in a possessive way, sending a shiver of pure and unadulterated lust through me. "I will be your darkness and your freedom, I will push you beyond all of your limits, I will be the one who will make you scream." He leaned his face near to mine and his lips touched my ear and his voice was a dirty, suggestive mumble.
He withdrew and the three of them were standing around me, a circle of power, of protection, of possession.
Take her to the villa," said Danish, using no argument. "It's just a night, and it's just a beginning, A girl's education.