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Tara under the Banyan Tree

A story of sexual awakening
Tara under the Banyan Tree. by

Tara Richardson.


I boarded the plane still a little flustered. I had just made it, no thanks to the end of term party at Redwood College of Art, my flatmates, the late taxi, and the usual chaos on the M25 motorway.

Inside the airport there had been the usual female security guard who I was sure this time was a lesbian. Moving the metal loop across my body to the hem of my dress, I felt her feathery fingers touch my naked thighs, and my nipples immediate response. She smiled her face strong and hard, and I knew instinctively she wanted to strip search me, and I wanted her to. We held each other’s eyes, and she licked her lips, but the queue behind me was like the last day at Wimbledon and she relented.

I felt alive even reckless. I was free of college for the next eight whole glorious weeks. In the departure lounge I knew eyes were watching me, as the hem of my skirt flounced across the top of my thighs, barely covering the only other garment I wore, a snug fitting blue thong. I giggled at the memory of my bending slightly to pay the cabbie, his eyes never leaving my breasts as they lay captured in the top of my dress. Behind the wind blew and two male Japanese tourist started chattering excitedly. When I turned they stopped, smiled and bowed. I of course returned the bowed to show them what the cabbie saw, and moved off through the entrance to Terminal four, aware my dress was swirling around just below my naked behind.

Alice one of my four flat mates and a fellow student at the RCA, had took one look at me just before leaving the airport and chuckled. Advising me in her mock motherly tone, not to use the escalators dear, and certainly not to stand on the moving steps with my thighs slightly parted.

The two men below me stepped back down three steps to get a better view. I blushed imagining what they could see, and wickedly enjoying every moment.

I had sensed their eyes between my legs, and turned in mock admonishment. They both wore identical track suits with strange logos on the left breast, and some squiggles below, which I suspected must be some form of Arabic script. In the way they filled out their tops and bottoms, I guessed they were athletes. I shivered as one of them moved his hand to highlight a large bulging crutch, and gave me a smile that told me if this was their country.

I moved off teasing them and myself with thoughts of being confined between them.

But for now all I wanted was the thrill of silky material skimming over my bare skin. I had thought of buying a thin gauzy white dress, where in front of the mirror in the changing room at Zaras. I saw the fuzzy outline of my panties and bra. The thought of not wearing anything underneath had seriously tempted me. Oddly it was the colour white and the long journey ahead of me, that made me buy the blue flowery print mini dress. Still it felt both sensual, with its flouncy short skirt and low cut bodice.

The interior of the aircraft smelled of old leather sofas, plastic, re-conditioned air, and quite panic. I waited after showing my ticket to the smiling stewardess, whilst the passengers in front of her hurriedly stowed their cases, and flopped down on their seats. I felt my heart beating faster. Although eighteen heading for nineteen in a few days’ time. I had never flown this far alone.

The city of Mumbai formerly known as Bombay in English, I knew was the capital of the Indian state of Maharashtra. This being my total knowledge, other than my parents lived there. My Father an IT Manager for Bensons a family bank probably as old as the Raj, whilst my mother seemed to be involved with a Maharishi and some kind of lifestyle sect.

This was going to be the start of my new life. My body ready, my mind flexible. This was my new world free from teachers, and timetables. For the next nine hours I would be in the belly of this enormous plane, constrained for reasons perhaps more delectable, because I knew my body and how it played with my mind.

The beautiful blond stewardess led me to the window seat. The blind pulled down. I looked at the blank plastic and left it down. The view would only be rows of opaque glass windows from the terminal beyond.

I turned to look at my fellow passengers. I snuggled into my seat, feeling the thick cloth caressing my naked thighs. For a moment I abandon myself to the power of the deep seat, drifting in and out of thoughts between its arms. Here it would be my lover, touching, caressing, and holding me for the next nine hours.

I looked down. The hem of my skirt had moved up my thighs, a curtain edge now still hiding me. I regretted for a moment that I had not worn stockings, to show that bare flesh would not be a fingernail length away from the black lace.

I blushed remembering the two Arabs, wondering how it would feel to be in the middle of all that solid muscle. I felt the heat rise to my face; they were powerful men who would dominate me.

Around me the hustle and bustle of boarding, slowly gave way to the singularity of individuals settling down into their seats.

The slim blond stewardess came down the aisle and stopped to lean over me, her blondness contrasting with my long mahogany tresses.

She smiled, “Please allow me?” She took my light leather travelling case and placed it in the overhead stowage compartment. For the moment she seemed lost in her thoughts, looking down the aircraft and back up to the front, before bending down to fuss over some safety documents in the netting at the back of the next row of seats. The stewardess caught my eye and smiled. We both held each other’s gaze, and I felt my body respond. Suddenly I was imagining, we were long lost sisters, or soon to become lovers? I felt her presence, and noticed through her blouse the rise and fall of her breasts confined to their bra. I suddenly felt sorry for the poor things. I looked up and saw the stewardess eyes roam over my body, taking in the long line of my closed thighs, and my unfettered breasts nestled inside the thin cloth of my dress.

I saw something cross her face, a doubt perhaps. I wonder for a moment what it could be. However before curiosity got the better of me, she stood and with a smile turned to move back towards the front of the aircraft.

I felt eyes on me, and I turned to look across the aisle at a man reading the inflight magazine. I smiled as our eyes met. He was blond and in his early twenties with striking coral blue eyes. I teased him with a smile and arched slightly in my seat, letting my skirt ride higher, my breasts thrust forward. Slowly I pulled out my seat belt on either side of my hips and locked it. I was deliciously secured to my seat and helpless. I looked at him with begging eyes. Here I was safe. I shivered even though I felt hot and uncomfortable, the dress and my attitude had made me feel sultry, and shameless.

He was stripping me with his eyes, and I wanted him to do it for real.

The last passenger to come on board was a head taller than the stewardess who smiled at him, and waved him to his seat. The beige lightweight suit highlighting his dark skin, and glossy hair streaked with grey.

To my surprise with all the number of empty seats around me, he came and sat next to me.

The pleasant smell of wood and citrus came off his clothes.

The stewardess took his case and stretching up she allowed her skirt to rise just a little higher than normal, as she laid it in the storage locker, and closed down the lid with a clunk.

For a moment I saw the black lace of her stocking tops encasing her slim thighs. Was it deliberate for the man, a signal for him to imagine something delicate and lacy perhaps above them? Against the odds of modern living, I loved stockings and suspender belts, and the demarcation line between lace and bare skin.

The Stewardess turned and headed back towards the front and her station for take-off. The man pulled on his seat belt and glanced at me. He smiled his deep brown eyes showing confidence, experience and something else. I tried to guess his age from the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes, possibly forty, maybe fifty? Old enough to be my father perhaps, but there the closeness ended.

He smiled, and my body responded with a shiver.

“Hello my name is Musharraf Qaisrani. Miss?” his deep brown eyes never leaving me.

“Tara Richardson,” I answered politely.

I felt my throat become dry as he smiled.

A moment later the stewardess’s voice came on throughout the cabin, welcoming the passengers, and followed by the usual safety talk.

The vibrations from the starting of the engines came through my seat, along with the noise, quickly followed by the Cabin crew going through the final checks before take-off. The blond Stewardess walked down the aisle checking each passenger, and seemingly to spend a little more time on the man and me.

It was like a plot, but I ignored it and put it down to my imagination, and too many crime novels.

I looked again down at the hem of my skirt now riding up my thighs, just two more delicate rows of flowers from my thong. I looked at the long pianist fingers with their perfect manicured nails, resting on the left trouser leg not centre meters away from my right thigh. I wondered what else they could play.

I loved my body not from vanity, for my beauty is in the eyes of the beholder and not me. It was the sensual feelings from my skin, my nipples, and my own sexuality. Even hidden inside the dress my body was on display. Since puberty I found my nipples extraordinarily sensitive. In this dress just the movement of the fabric across their tips made me shiver.

I pushed up the panel covering the window, and looked out at the grey taxi way, my own reflection a ghostly shadow on the sealed safety glass.

I saw the man move his head in the reflection, and smile knowing my skirt hem had moved up my closed thighs.

The roar of the engines, the release of the brakes and the forward momentum, still gave me a buzz, as the huge lumbering aircraft sped down the runway, and gently almost gracefully, for something that should not be able to fly, lifted off the ground to a thud of the landing gear being raised.

The red light went out and the man next to me released his seat belt, and lifting out the book from the netting, he opened it at the book mark, and ignoring me and his surroundings continued to read. An hour later he asked me if I wanted to take a drink with him in the lounge. The staircase became a dare. Could I walk up it slowly the man below me? I was surprised by my wanting the challenge, but I was really not interested, after last night farewell party, I was now just happy to look out of the window and relax.

The man had smiled with a never mind maybe later, and moved off towards the lounge. A steward and a dark haired stewardess came next with a trolley of drinks, and I took an orange juice for safety. Time slowed. The film shown was for a mixed audience of children and parents. I ignored it.

The afternoon sailed by in the cylinder of recycled air. Tea or coffee, pastry or biscuits followed. The man still had not return to his seat. I leafed through the magazine the Stewardess had given me, and later another. The printed articles flashed through my mind but never stayed long enough for me to remember.

The dinner finally came and on my small table, various foods were served in strange containers that I could hardly identify with my eyes, or my taste. Out of my window the shades of blue turned darker as the sun slowly passed below the bed of fluffy cotton wool clouds, their colour changing across yellow, orange, reds, and dusty browns tinged with grey and black. The meal seemed to drag on through the courses, almost becoming a ritual to waste time, not by any clock but in my mind.

Finally I wondered if it was time to sleep. But actually I was free to sleep whenever I wanted to. Inside the winged cradle, so far above the surface of the earth there was no day or night.

I drifted into a sort of twilight world between memories and sleep. The book still lay there like a marker to indicate he once existed. He wandered into my mind; the jacket tossed on the empty seat, his tailored shirt shaped by the muscles underneath, no fat, no belly, and no tiredness in the skin, only experiences I could barely imagine. The powerful legs encased in lightweight fibres that did not crease, plain handmade and very expensive moccasins shod his feet. He was inside my head another phantom like the two Arab men. I felt my thong between the cheeks of my bottom being pulled as I moved on the seat. I was uncomfortable, not in my seat but with my own body.

The memory returned of days and weeks ago. A large dusty studio lit by the overhead sunlight through frosted windows in the ceiling. In the centre of the room stood a large black rock, and three meters away Vasily Kapustin the sculpture, worked behind a huge slab of clay.

Secured to the rock was a naked Andromeda, the daughter of Cepheus and Cassiopeia. The goddess chained as an offering to Cetus the sea monster. This was pure Greek Mythology. However, the rusty chain behind my back, running from my shackled wrists, over my bottom and down to the huge stone was very real. I looked at him, his eyes roaming over my naked flesh. I was his model to be turned into bronze.

He lit another foul smelling cheroot and came over to me, he was ancient like his studio, neglected and dusty, yet his hand created beauty. I felt his cold calloused fingers touch my skin as he lifted my left breast, my nipple eager for the same touch. He smiled his eyes missing nothing and I felt the finger graze the tip, I shuddered unable to move.

We had hardly spoken since I had come out in my robe from the changing room, and into the vastness of the warehouse studio, around which stone and even iron had been shaped, or misshaped into whatever twisted form Kapustin had created. Nearly every girl in the college told me, they dreamed of him immortalising them in clay, and he had chosen me. A girl not even in his class, my course was in graphic design. But he had walked up to me near the clock tower, and said

“Come to my studio tomorrow, I have a commission to complete, and you will be perfect for it.”

I had already done nude modelling for the life classes, being naked was natural to me, and of course it helped to supplement my small allowance from my parents.

Naked he had chained me to the rock, with real manacles to get the correct effect on my body. He wanted my shoulder’s pulled back, thrusting out my breasts, my nipples hard from fear. I looked on helpless as he moved to the clay; strangely I wished his hands were on me.

I smelled the Channel of the Stewardess, and pretended to be asleep. Carefully I felt my seat being tilted back transforming it into a bed, and the softness of a blanket being slid over my legs.

I snuggled down into the seat and returned to my phantoms. The studio was empty now inside my mind, Kapustin had gone. I looked across towards the changing room, just as the door opened and the two Arab men stepped in. Their tracksuits jackets open displaying well developed pecks and twin ladders of stomach muscles. They started to walk round me, taking in my manacled wrist laid over my curving bottom, my fraught body so helpless. I felt the heat in my face, as I watched inside my mind their hands cupping each of my breasts. I was helpless and hot. My right hand moved very slowly over my concave belly towards the hem of my skirt, delicately lifting it back clear of my damp thong.

The men were naked now their dark skin shaped by rippling muscle. In their fists they pulled back their foreskins to show the large domed heads of their cocks.

With difficulty in the seat I tried to spread my legs a little, my fingers slipping inside the blue cotton, and finding the bud of my sex erect, and my lips wet.

They stood stroking their long thick shafts, their large balls swinging obediently to their hands. I was the helpless Andromeda sacrificed to these men. They moved closer to let me see their stiffness and length. I shivered knowing these men would not cover themselves. They moved closer and I felt my body arch as my finger turned me into a molten goddess, whose lips would glistened in the eyes of these phantom hard men. My fingers gently massage my bud of flesh to bring on an orgasm, whilst my phantoms moved ever closer growing more muscular and so beautifully huge. I shivered. I was close my finger dipping into my crack and back up to my clit, suddenly I felt a man’s hand on mine.

The man’s hand did not move, purely by its weight it applied pressure to my clitoris.

I stopped breathing for a moment, my body tense my nerve endings frozen, my belly taught and clenched. I was surprisingly not even offended, nor did I feel it had invaded my private moments, for they were held now like a film suddenly paused. I waited for what was to follow my dissolved fantasies.

I moved my hips slightly and felt my thong bunch a little around my swollen lips.

I remained still. I really wanted to open my eyes but decided to feign sleep instead, and keep my embarrassment hidden. Nothing happened for some time. Then I became aware that his other hand was lifting the blanket and drawing it aside. The hand took hold of my knee and marking it with his intentions to command me, slid upwards along the curves and hollows, till it disappeared under my dress.

On my thigh his fingers gently rose slowly up and across my bare skin until it alighted on the edge of my thong.

I opened my eyes and looked at the square face of the blond man, his coral blue eyes holding me.

We did not speak his hand continuing across my muscular flat belly, just above the curving line of my thong. Gently stroking me as though he wanted to calm me, his fingers deftly moved under the thin elastic band and I gasped. His fingers felt so cold on my heated sex.

He smiled and then his hand forced my thighs to spread further apart, his hand closing over my swollen lips, caressing me. I could not stop him my body was on fire. I looked into his eyes my wanton passion clearly glinting from mine. I arched as his fingers deftly slid down the furrow of my lips, dipping lightly between them, and brushing over my erect button. I moaned inside my mouth. Turning a little more his large frame shielding me from the aisle; he pulled down the blanket and my soaking wet thong. My dress was clear of my belly. I was free for the air and his hand to caress me. Leisurely he moved to and fro between my legs his fingers sinking deeper into my moist membranes; slowly they advanced, and for a moment hesitated. I bit my lips to stifle a sob of frustration. I quivered and panted with desire as the blond man brought me closer and closer to my orgasim.

I arched as he cupped me, his hand now a pair of warm tight fitting panties. He leaned towards me and kissed my navel. Moving up he took my right hand and drew it inside his trousers. My fingers touched and gently pulled the heated manhood clear of its confines. I looked down and slowly pulled back the foreskin to reveal the large head, the drop of male essence glistening on its tip. It throbbed in my fingers; slowly I began to slide down seeking its impressive length and feeling its power transmitted to my hand. I circled around the shaft that would stretch and fill me, my fingers opening and closing to caress him. I felt his muscled body, stiffen his fingers between my heated lips becoming urgent. I sensed him close now. Consequently I no longer limited my caresses to fundamental back and forth motions, this was mine to play with and enjoy, in my hand it grew. I lightly ran a filed nail over the thick ivy vein going under his arched cock and followed it down on my journey to find his balls.

Like his shaft they filled my hand and obediently moved with the manipulation of my fingers. I looked at him his eyes already glazed. It was time to milk my blond stallion. Climbing up the stone pole of his cock my hand finally closed over the folds of his loose skin, almost hiding the head from my eyes. I sat up to let my aching arm do its work properly. Slowly twisting my hand down his shaft I relaxed my grip, and alternatively strangled his tumescent flesh, and then relaxing my grip on it, some strokes barely grazing it, whilst others tormented it. I continued to massage it with broad strokes or irritated it with quick merciless little movement, until I felt his body tense and his hardness throb.

Turning slightly in my seat I bent down over him, my mouth just a finger nail away from the swollen head, I open my lips, my tongue flicking out licking his wet cock head, and tasting its salty extract. A moment later hot white aromatic spurts of semen hit the roof of my mouth, my tongue, my face and hair. It seemed he would never stop flowing down my throat. I was drinking him. It was intoxicating, a shameless delight as I swallowed him and licked him from my lips. I lifted my head to show him I had accepted his gift, and kissed his cheek to thank him, but he wasn’t finished, his soft cock now cooling in my hand he began again on my button, and I quickly came, shivering on his fingertips.

A few moments later he left and sliding back into his original seat, gave me a smile and a silent mouthed thank you from his lips. I blew him a kiss, and wondered what a mess I must be.

A few minutes later I got up and taking down my travel case from the stowage locker went towards the toilet at the front.

Pulling back the screen I almost jumped as the blond stewardess with a finger to her lips smiled, and offering to take my case showed me to the toilet. Shaking her head, and showing me all I needed to clean myself lay in sanitised wrappers on the shelves. She closed the door, and I turned to lock it, with a giggle and a hope she would return I left it. I took out a pack of wet wipes and began with my hair. I could still taste him on my tongue. It was a mixture of many things none of which was unpleasant.

I combed my hair looking at myself in the mirror. Miss Tara Richardson five-foot-six, one-hundred and twenty three pounds, thirty-four double D, twenty-three waist, thirty-five hips, and size eight dress.

The door suddenly opened and I jumped. The mirror quivered and reflected back over my shoulder the face of Musharraf Qaisrani. From his position looking down at me his presence overwhelmed me. My gaze took in the man in a moment, and I knew instinctively why he was here.

I tried to take in his size, and I immediately became aware of my breasts showing my quickening breath, and my erect nipples revealing my emotions. In my eyes he was tall and strong, not big but proportioned with broad alethic shoulders tapering in his fitted shirt to slim hips, and down to powerful legs. But it was his face that held me, the straight nose separating those twin large brown eyes devoid of any emotion. Below his mouth held a smile of appreciation those eyes would never give. There was nothing soft in this man, he commanded and others obeyed, for now I realized I was in the presence of the most powerful man I had ever met.

His hands went to my hips, my skirt hem rising. I thought of my thong, and blushed when I remember the blond man slipping them into his pocket. He bent and kissed my neck and slowly pulled up my dress. I lifted my arms to help him, and a moment later the naked me stared back from the mirror. I felt his hands slide under my arms, his long fingers lifting each of my breasts, the fingernails stroking my eager nipples. I leaned back against him watching those fingers feeling them on my taught skin. Those eyes held me and I saw and felt his hand slide down the flat tense plain of my stomach, and knowing what his hand would find as the fingers slid over my smooth waxed pubis. He stroked me for a moment.

He bent me towards the sink, my breasts hanging down, and my face watching my alto ego in the mirror. His hand ran down my back, my bottom and over my thigh, as though he was calming me soothing me before he took his pleasure from me. His hand cupped my sex parting my lips stroking my clit. Those long strange fingers caressing me making me throb, shiver, awakening me with emotions so intense I was panting. A finger went to my opening and gently massaged the tissue around it. I arched my back to open my sex for him, he pushed his finger gently into me and I moaned. Satisfied I was ready; he took my hair in his fist and moved behind me, I felt it touch my right cheek sliding along my soft yielding flesh. It was steely hard and I wanted it. He took the head of his cock and slowly moved it between my slippery lips. It felt huge, but I thought it was only perception, I was so sensitive now I clenched my belly and spread my thighs wider, I wanted him my body begged for him, he stood behind me and I felt the head touch my vulva. I gasped. With my hair in his fist he smiled down at me and thrust in. I cried out and his hand went to my mouth. Tears flowed down my cheek, whilst he entered me cautiously; it was huge like a bar of heated iron. I tried to relax take deep breaths through his fingers, my thighs quivering under the pressure of his brutal hardness. I could not stop him filling me, almost tearing me. I clung to the sink, sobbing, moaning and crying out unintelligible words into his scented hand. I could not feel anything else I was impaled on a monster. I had been a virgin once, but this made me feel I was again. I turned to look at his face, but he pulled my hair hard. He did not want to see me, he was in my saddle and I was to be ridden. The final thrust made me gag, and cry out in the final pain of taking all of the monster, and my surprise at the depth of my vagina. He waited a few moments for me to become use to him, but I could only feel the hardness the brutality of such a thing, it was made to command to dominate and subdue any female. It was a weapon. Slowly he pulled out drawing a sigh from me. I felt suddenly empty and my body wanted it back. Slowly he began to flex his muscles, stomach and thighs, I felt him turning the shaft, using its thickness and rigidity to soften up and laterally distend my interior tissue. I was being prepared for only one thing.

Gradually he began to move in me as I tried to come to terms with my soreness, my sexuality and something deep within me that wanted more. I was uncontrollable; my body demanded what my mind could not cope with. I was being used and I loved it. The man was working me like a bitch on heat, we knew nothing of each other, yet what was inside me knew more of me than I could ever know. He filled my body my mind my sensations, it slid in and I cried out, it moved back, and I whimpered for it to return. He was the complete master of my body. In the mirror my breasts swung obediently to his thrusting the nipples searching for something to touch. My buttocks clenched and the man spanked my right one hard, I yelped, a moment of fire, that was quenched by the moisture that poured from me around his shaft. I tried again to look into his eyes but he ignored me, as he looked down between my parted cheeks at his cock thrust like a piston into me. I was close now clenching him drawing him into my raw body. His fist tightened around my tresses, and he pulled my head back, I could feel his hard belt buckle on my behind, and his heavy balls spanking my clit. I was suspended on a bar of steel. I whimpered but it brought only harder thrusting. Tara Richardson was being brutally fucked, and I was flooding with emotions of pure animalistic pleasure.

Sensations flowed, fullness, pain, shock, and sheer wantonness. I bucked against him wanting more from him, yet even as my body packed my mind with sensations. He was in control of me, working me on his manhood almost breaking my body to his will.

His hands slid around and under my taught belly, the long fingers stroking the button of my sobbing sex. I arched biting my lip, to stop myself from crying out; I shuddered and blossom around the embedded shaft my body shaking with the intensity of my racking orgasm. I felt him hold me against his throbbing cock, as he thrust hard into me almost lifting me off my feet, as with sudden expansion and pulsation the organ that was piercing me spurted warm soothing sperm into my raw body.

Slowly I came down and calm filled me, the man never spoke sliding his softening cock out of me, I felt the wet phallus cool against my smarting skin. He took some tissues and cleaned himself and zipping up his trousers turned and walked out of the toilet closing the door behind him.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

Copyright © © Copyright Tara Richardson 2011

Unless explicitly stated otherwise, all rights including those in copyright within the content of this story are owned by or controlled by Tara Richardson

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