Punjabi Apple Green Silk

It seemed to satisfy him. "Won't be long now," he said encouragingly, unable to turn round. Not feeling the need, perhaps. Dave was big enough and strong enough to turn if he had to. But he was a gentle man. He would not disturb these people who, after all, this country belonged to. "Lean your head against me. Sleep if you want," he said over his shoulder. Which didn't seem a bad idea. Nicci lay her head on his broad shoulders, and just as she did, the train lurched back into life. She closed her eyes.

"You like ... India?" she heard. The question in English. Very close. She opened an eye. It was the one with the beard. The one who had fondled her breast. His face was inches from hers.

"Yes," she replied, being polite.

"Sorry?" came her husband's voice. At which the Indian with the beard angled his head and said to Nicci's husband.

"I was asking your wife how she liked India," he said, in English that sounded refined. Perhaps he was as teacher, Nicci thought, as her husband said something back to him. Something about, "she loves to tell everyone how much she loves this place. She thinks your temples are spectacular." Then she suspected Dave winked at the man. Something he often did, though he knew she disapproved, and he added, "She loves the erotic couplings in the temple art."

Nicci wished he wouldn't say such things. Not to strangers. Were she not already flushed bright red, she knew such a remark would have caused her to blush. Dave liked to tease her in front of others. Her 'prudish upbringing' he called it.

"Is that true?" came the voice. The man with the beard. The teacher, perhaps.

"Sorry," she feigned ignorance at what Dave had just said, preferring not to go down that road. Especially not with someone who had so recently, and casually, fondled her breast.

"You like our sculptures?"

"Very much," she said, for she did.

"The ... erotic ones?" he ventured, softly.

"Go on, honey pie," said Dave, over his shoulder with a chuckle, "Admit you do."

Nicci shrugged, embarrassed, but smiled to the man she now regarded as the teacher, with the beard. "Some of them," she said, seeking a neutral tone.

"Some are beautiful, yes?"

They were, Nicci nodded. "Some ..." she conceded, becoming ever more aware of the movement of the erection in the cleft of her behind. He had his hands on her hips and was gently moving her against him. Too and fro. Forward softly, then back as he eased himself into her. The tip of the erection moved up and down in the cleft, letting her feel the shape of him. She suspected it had to be out of his dhoti, bare against her walk-shorts. How else could she feel it so clearly?

"Do you like also what we ... do?" the teacher with the beard asked next, clearly taking Dave's brief involvement as permission for him to discuss such matters with the wife. His beard lightly tickled the skin of her shoulder as he spoke. That's how close they were.

"You're a teacher, right?" Nicci asked, feeling it would be better if he was.

He inclined his head, graciously. "How perceptive," he said, and struggled his hand from the press of bodies to offer it to her. "Murlu Gupta, lecturer in English at Mumbai Polytechnic, at your service."

Nicci took the hand, intending to shake it. "I'm Nicci, this is my husband, Dave, we're from America," she said.

But instead of shaking the hand, Gupta raised it to his lips.

The hand of the man behind was back at the waist-band of her walk-shorts. The thrusting movement of his erection between her buttocks was becoming more rhythmic, more insistent, more forcing. Mr Gupta had her hand. The other was on her husband's shoulder. She eased her buttocks back, not wanting her husband to feel the movement of her hips, but the man behind may have taken it as permission to proceed -- or perhaps the easy way he was bringing her to climax at will, gave him the right -- for his hands were hack inside the waist-band of her shorts. Both of them this time. One either side. And heading round the front.

The teacher had said something to her. She had missed it. "Sorry," she said. "What did you say?" she asked, becoming flustered. Her inattention, and the cause of her being flustered, was partly the hands, now inside her shorts, returning to the parts between her legs -- and partly way Mr Gupta was kissing the back of her hand. The tip of his tongue was exploring the skin between her fingers, just where they met the knuckle. Was this a local custom? Nicci didn't know. Nor ... a finger was back inside her, she was even slicker than before.

The crotch of her shorts must be damp.

Gupta's dark eyes sparkled as he lifted his mouth from her fingers, though kept her hand in his. "Your love of the erotica in our sculptures we have established you like. I was enquiring whether you liked what we ... do ... equally?"

Do, as in touch me, Nicci found herself wondering as Mr Gupta's face, eyes locked on hers, lowered again to her hand and, turning it over gently, he opened the palm and put his lips there. She felt his tongue, gently tracing tiny circles in her palm. Her fingertips closed lightly on his bearded cheeks. "Well?" his tongue stilled, briefly, and then went back to work, pulling her hand to his mouth.

"I ..." Nicci didn't know what to say. A hand was stroking her pubic hair, putting pressure on her pubis, drawing the skin from her clitoris, pressuring the shaft, causing her hips to squirm and her back to arch as she caught a low groan deep down in her throat and prevented her eyes from closing. "I think ... yes, sometimes," she said, not sure why she had said it. By he mere act of talking was she giving them permission to paw her and kiss her like this? Some Freudian slip that inadvertently gave the impression of wanting what she knew she couldn't possibly want. Not from them. Not here. Not now. Not like this.

Mr Gupta took one of his two hands from around hers, angled the hand to his nose and then -- to her astonishment -- took two of her straightened fingers, and slipped them into his mouth. Nicci was more stunned than anything else, at first, but as the tongue started rolling round and in between her fingers, and her fingers became more aware of where they were, inside a stranger's mouth, and the hand inside her panties extended two fingers and eased them into her, while the other worked on her clitoris, she felt her knees give way and her shoulder lurch against the carriage wall.

It was a sense of being lost. Of not knowing what to do. As if she had been pulled into some dream where nothing was as it should be, and didn't know how to get out of it, but was fascinated, too, by the myriad effects it was having on parts of her she never knew existed.

"When you see an embrace in one of our temple statues, a man's arms round the woman's globes, her hands around his yoni, do you not yearn to be treated like that?" The question was a whisper. Gupta's mouth was touching her ear. Her hand was at the side of his face. Her other hand was clutching the top of her husband's shoulder. The pressure of the man behind, his erection working in the cleft of her buttocks, quietly insistent. His fondling fingers between her legs, her mind in a hazy dream-like daze, not knowing whether she should be stopping this, bringing it back to normalcy with a resounding Thwack!, or whether she did nothing, continued to drift, like this. There was something ... nutmeg? ... in Gupta's breath.

"To be held, like this," came the whisper from the teacher with the cultured accent, and the beard, as her thighs seemed to gape, almost inviting the fingers to go deeper, deeper into her. Her eyes had closed. Her breast -- she felt it now -- there was a hand back around it. Fingertips softly stroking the bare skin that peeked above her low-cut top. The palm that held the rest of the breast in a caring way and gently fondled. She rolled her head on her husband's back. She felt the responsive push.

You'll be fine, he seemed to be telling her.

But did he know from what?

"We believe ..." Mr Gupta, the teacher, went on, explaining in a whisper -- his lips touching the whorls of her ear as he spoke -- what their erotic motifs were all about and as he spoke, his voice growing deeper, more timbre as he became more and more explicit in all he told her, he worked his hand inside her top, and then inside her bra, until the skin of her breast seemed to sizzle. Her breast itself ready to explode.

"... would you like that?" came a question at the end.

All Nicci could do, was give a faint "Yes," and lightly nod her head against her husband's back ,for she could think of no other reaction. Her breast was now naked in Gupta's hand, prisoner to his clever caresses. Her knickers and shorts were off her hips and part way to her knees. Two skilful hands were deep between her legs, wallowing in the lashings of discharge she seemed to be pumping incessantly from her arousal. And now, she felt, against the skin of inner leg, the searching head of penis. The same that knew her cleft so well? Or was she handed over to a friend? A sharing act of kindness, to a fellow.

They were driving her emotions up the wall. She was groaning and giving out sighs and moans all the while now. Eyes tight closed, although she still listened to her teacher, as she felt what he was doing to her body, encouraging her fantasies to be as one with the mystical sculptures that aroused and excited her so.

"The secret is to give yourself over to those who appreciate you most. One day one, another another, some days a number. To feel the need. Let the desire from them fuel the pleasure to you. The more the first, the greater the second. Believe me, let go," came the whispered encouragement from her teacher. His tongue following the advice into the whorls of her ear, then deeper as it probed the entrance, breath and suggestiveness arousing her more.

She would ignore what they were doing, she decided.

She would not be taken in by their words, or their acts, or what they were doing to her.

She would pretend it was having no effect.

They would soon grow tired.

"Aaaargh!" she gasped, as the tip of a penis entered her and her nipple was roughly tweaked.

"You okay?" came an alarmed enquiry from in front.

Dave!

Alarmed at the yelp she had made.

Alarmed at the high-pitched cry that had escaped her lips as the hard head of penis broke though her defences, and was now moving into her. So hungry. Lusting. Needful. So silky ...

"Ngaaar!" she gasped as it eased ever further inside her.

But the only thought she had in mind, as her pussy purred and breasts were tweaked and squeezed to distraction, was to stop her husband's concern -- to stop him from turning round.

"I'm fine," she gasped, a touch too loud, opening her eyes, seeing her husband's head striving to turn around.

She moved her hand to the side of his head. Held it there.

"Had a bad dream," she said, the first thing that came to her mind, a mind overflowing with what she was enduring, the feelings coursing through her, frazzling her discretion, burning her resolve, driving her conception of self along dim lit temple walls. Then up them!

"Dream," she said again, feeling her husband relax.

She made a sound like a yawn, then "Ngaaaargh!" she gasped, as the yoni in her vagina entered to the hilt. Her husband was as thick as this, but not as long or clever. Soon she started keening to the thrusts.

"You're a lousy singer," her husband remarked as she tried to turn the keening into some sort of a song. Then Gupta took it up, pretending to sing along. Little tuneful grunts in time with the thrusts that he saw I was getting from behind. Cleverly timing them to the power of the pressure he put on my breasts as he turned my top towards him, and started devouring my breasts with his mouth. My bra and my top round my neck, my shoulders square against the carriage wall, my back twisted left, my pelvis cocked back at an angle. My eyes were closed, my mind in turmoil. I was being fucked against a carriage wall by someone who's face I had yet to see, my naked breasts being hotly devoured by a teacher, my husband next to me none the wiser of what was going on, and a dozen male Indians were watching!

The third organism was the biggest yet. It was a hay maker. A star burst. A Krakatoa of all orgasms! And made me weep.

By now I was red, and soft, and swollen where women get swollen when aroused to much and engaged too long. I was covered in a sheen of sweat and so moist in my pussy it was running down my legs.

It would be uncharitable to insist that what happened next was a conspiracy against us -- against my husband and me, by the Indian men on the train. But at the time, it seemed it was. The swell of bodies, not unlike water in a dam, ebbed and flowed and weaved. The Indian faces seemed to change position, move about, first one would be here, then there. Then another. Then another still. Some of them seemed to take charge of my husband, in a way. Engaging him in conversation. Joking with him. Asking him questions about Oregon -- which Dave would always respond to, being as proud of the place as he is. And all the while, as he was otherwise engaged -- or so it seemed to me -- others of the group would use me, in ways that they clearly enjoyed, in ways that I seemed unable to resist.

I came three times more, or maybe four. The same number of times as the number of men who entered me. Made love to me. Had congress with me. However you want to put it. Fucked me, I suppose. But I kissed so many more than that. Deep, passionate, tongue bathing sessions of kissing that just went on and on and on and on. Finished with one, another mouth was there, wanting some of me as well.

I gave up trying to identify the fragrances, the spices involved -- not the sort of thing we use in Oregon -- the tastes. Some had bad breath, but it didn't seem to matter. It was part of the variety, part of the differences, part of the NUMBER OF MEN that were into me. Excited by me. Excited with me. Excited me!

My mouth and my lips and my tongue were an attraction for those Indian men in the carriage far greater than I had ever imagined they would be, on any group of men. But if these parts of me were a hit, they were nothing to my torso, breasts and everything below. I lost count of how many mouths went over the skin of my lower parts, or how many mouths suckled my nipples, or how many hands wanted to feel me -- my boobs, my waist, by pussy, my bum, my legs. Some even worked on my feet. None tried to enter my anus, is the only thing that I came away with, other than the mind-numbing after-shock of having been so aroused, for so long, by so many people, and in such a bizarre place. The lights kept going off -- had I mentioned that?

When we finally arrived at the Mumbai station, Once called Victoria, now Chhatrapati Shivaji, I was well down the carriage from Dave, on the floor, with five of six mouths on me, heaven knows how many hands, and a youthful prick inside, doing its best. Or worse. But it was good enough, at that stage. Our arrival was when everyone became helpful. Assisting Dave from the carriage with assurances that I was fine, being shown -- I don't know, something or other -- as the young man completed his session with me and I, now something of a star, did not disappoint, by climaxing wildly, like the Mumbai Calcutta express, which was the parallel drawn by someone who I think was a tailor, for he gave me a length of beautiful apple green silk

A group of men collected the various bits and pieces of my clothing, located by yet another group of willing men from various places in the carriage where they had been discarded, or removed, and put them into a blue cotton bag someone offered. My second sneaker was found in a luggage rack, though I've no idea how it got there. To cover my nakedness, they wrapped me in the length of apple green silk that I was assured was finest Punjabi. It was wrapped around me in the manner of a sari. They pronounced me 'A Princess' and then, in procession with all these men around me, re-united me with my husband on the station platform.

If I considered the fact of being naked under my apple green silk, and how I would explain this to my husband, I clearly didn't do it very thoroughly. I have no idea what Dave thought of it all. But he reacted well to the cheers as I emerged in procession with all these strange men. He even returned the compliment when all of them clapped. We left the station like that, with cheers and clapping in our wake.

"What was that all about," Dave asked, when we stood on the pavement outside, waiting for a taxi.

"I have no idea," I said, then pointed. "There's a taxi, let's take that."

But Dave had turned. He was looking toward a crowd of excited men now exiting the station, overflowing onto the pavement. The taxi drew up, behind it an open lorry. Dave smiled at the faces around him, clapped again to indicate friendliness in response to theirs, which may not have been the brightest thing to do. He ended up in a crowd of jostling cheerful men in the taxi, while a row of willing hands above were attempting to pull me into the lorry, and another row of equally willing hands below were pushing me.

I think I shouted, objecting, to Dave. I think he did much the same, to me. But they were all so friendly, so willing, so wanting to help, that our half-hearted objections soon stilled. Besides, I'm not sure we could be heard above the noise of the crowd. They would take us to 'The Best Hotel in Town' someone said, and we were off, Dave with my clothes in the blue cotton bag. I turned to the group in the back of the truck. How many were there. A hundred? Which is when everyone's attention shifted. To what was inside ...

The length of Punjabi, apple green silk.