1.
“I’d like to see something old,” said the customer, a good-looking foreigner with salt-and-pepper hair. “I’m in India, after all. I’m after something that has a provenance. My wife is the daughter of a billionaire and I need something unique.”
I was watching the scene from my viewport in the back office and I could see that the salesgirl looked disappointed. She was on commission and she could see that this well-heeled American customer wanted something that she could not sell. The American tore his eyes away from her and looked around the counters to all our other salesgirls.
They were uniformly young and very pretty. We dressed them to exude sex appeal, calculated to encourage customers to spend money. Our uniform saris were made of very thin blue chiffon with embroidery done with gold thread. We made them wear the saris “hipster style” – very low waists that exposed a great deal of midriff, with the pleats tucked in just above the crotch. The uniform included very brief choli-style blouses that ended in a band of gold thread embroidery just below their breasts. The cholis had halter necks that tied in trailing bows at the back of their necks and bared their shoulders.
I emerged from the back office to take charge of this valuable customer.
“What seems to be the problem?” I asked.
“He is asking to see antique pieces, ma’am,” said the salesgirl.
“I see,” I said.
The customer was staring at me. I’m tall with a complexion the color of milk chocolate. I have large, dark eyes and my hair is straight and jet-black. It was piled on top of my head in a formal coiffure.
I wore a sari and choli outfit that was identical to the other salesgirls, but my sari was orange and my halter neck choli was gold and silver lame. I wore gold bangles on both my wrists as well as red kumkum in the part in my hair, indicating my married status. In addition, I wore pearl earrings and a pearl choker – a double strand of smoky pearls with a gold pendant.
I have a ripe, hourglass figure and I liked that the outfit showed it off to very good advantage. My breasts are full without being too large and my waist is narrow. I was aware that men found the swell of my belly very sexy under the gauzy, translucent chiffon of my sari pallu. My rounded hips rolled as I walked and I knew I attracted male attention. I wore my sari waistline as low as the salesgirls and I could see the customer mentally measuring the few inches between the hipster pleats and my crotch.
“What did you have in mind?” I asked him.
“Who are you?” asked the customer.
“I’m Ayesha Banu Peerally Premji. My father is Seth Ismail Azeem Peerally, the owner of this store. He owns three other ones just like it. I can take you into the strong room and show you some antique pieces with impeccable provenances. But they will be very expensive.”
“How much?” he asked.
“The cheapest ones are about …” I paused and did the mental calculation converting the rupees to dollars. “A hundred thousand US dollars.”
“Good. That's just what I was looking for.”
“May I ask your name?”
“Jack Grierson,” he said.
“Very well, Jack. We don’t take personal checks. There is a twenty percent markup on credit cards. We really prefer cash.”
Jack put his hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out a wad of US currency. He riffled through the wad, showing me the denomination of the wad – they were thousand-dollar bills.
“There’s a hundred G’s here,” he said. “I’ve got four more wads, in case I see something I really like.”
“Follow me,” I said.
I led the way to the rear of the store and pressed a sequence of panels on the wall. A section of the wall slid away to reveal a six-foot-tall strong room steel door. I used the palm scanner, then placed my face in a retina reader and finally punched in a code. The strong room door swung open slowly.
I gathered the pleats of my sari and stepped over the sill into the strong room, displaying my high-heeled thong slippers and ankles as I raised my sari hem. Jack followed me. As soon as he was in, the door swung shut behind him and the locks reset with an obvious whirring sound. The walls of the strong room were covered with metal lock boxes, while both sidewalls had full-length mirrors that made the room appear larger than it actually was. There was a heavy, polished table that ran down the center of the strong room.
The air-conditioner in the strong room was set quite a bit lower than those in the outer store. I drew the pallu of my sari around my bare shoulders, but it was so thin that it offered little additional protection. I went around one side of the table, but when I turned I found him on the same side with me.
He was staring at my breasts. I realized that the cold had hardened my thick, meaty nipples and they projected forth quite obviously even through the thin layers of my bra, choli and two chiffon layers of the pallu I had wrapped around myself. The openness with which he stared at my breasts disconcerted me. To cover it, I turned away, unlocked one of the lock boxes and drew out a heavy gold necklace studded with diamonds and emeralds.
“This is a fine piece,” I said. “It was made for Asaf Jah VI, the 9th Nizam of Hyderabad who presented it to his fourth and youngest wife on the occasion of their wedding. Its provenance dates it to 1896. The descendants of the Nizam sold it at auction in 1953 to finance their sheep station in Australia. My grandfather acquired it then and it has been in our collection ever since.”
“How much?”
I read down to the end of the provenance.
“Five hundred thousand US dollars,” I said flatly.
“Ridiculous. I could get a two-thousand-year old Greek amphora for less than that. I’ll give you a three hundred thousand.”
“Four hundred and fifty,” I said.
Jack looked from the necklace to me. I could see his eyes tracing a path from my crotch to my breasts and back again, lingering on the swell of my belly and then on the prominent bumps that my nipples made in my clothing. Finally, he raised his gaze to meet my eyes. No one had ever looked at me like that before, and I felt my cheeks grow hot.
“Put it on,” he said.
I hesitated. But then I thought of my frustration at my father’s airy dismissal of all the modernizing management practices I had put in place. Of how he refused to understand how my hard work had reduced our operating costs by twenty percent, swelling our profits by millions. Of how he refused to pay me a salary, insisting that he would buy me whatever I wanted.
‘We are merchants, little one,’ he always told me. ‘If you really want to me to pay you, sell merchandise and I will give you a thirty percent commission.’
This sale would be worth millions of rupees. It would make me a handsome commission and it would be my own money. More importantly, it would make him take me seriously.
I took the necklace out of the steel tray and ran it through my fingers. The diamonds and emeralds sparkled in the recessed lights in the strong room ceiling. I draped it around my neck and snapped on the clasp. I had to raise my arms to put on the necklace and it raised my breasts, causing them to jounce seductively.
“There,” I said. “What do you think?”
Jack stepped up to me and ran his fingers over the necklace, allowing them to brush my dusky skin. His fingers lingered on, creating an intimate contact.
“Don’t,” I said.
“Three hundred and fifty thousand,” he whispered.
The fingers of his right hand traced a line on my skin up from the necklace to the pearl choker on my throat. His left hand took my right hand, lightly interlacing his fingers with mine. My pallu fell off my bare right shoulder, exposing the tie of my halter at the back of my neck.
“Four hundred,” I said.
“Three hundred ninety for the necklace,” Jack murmured. “And ten to fuck you.”
“That’s not funny,” I said, giggling nervously.
Suddenly, he tightened his hold on my right hand and twisted it behind my back. His right hand swept my pallu off my left shoulder and it fell to the ground.
I knew the strong room was soundproof, so there was no point in screaming. I twisted, trying to reach for the red alarm button at the end of the table. But Jack twisted my arm even harder, forcing my face down on the table. My reach for the alarm button fell short by over two feet.
“My God! What are you doing?” I cried.
“I’m going to fuck you, Ayesha,” he said.
“You can’t! This room is recorded! Everything will be on video!”
“So much the better. We’ll make a sex tape.”
“Our guards are monitoring the video! They will be in here in minutes – you’ll be arrested!”
“I don’t think so,” said Jack, untying the halter neck of my choli. “I paid your guards to go away for an hour and have a cup of tea. If you bring up the video as evidence in a trial, you may convict me, but you will lose everything. Your husband will divorce you for being fucked by another man. No one else will marry you.”
“Please! Don’t do this to me!”
“Calm down, Ayesha. You will enjoy it. Just let me pleasure you.”
“No!”
Jack unhooked the two front hooks of my blouse and pulled it off me. I wore a yellow, strapless, low cut bra. He kneaded my full breasts, working the thin yellow silk of the lingerie on to my skin. Then he hauled me upright and pulled down my bra cups, revealing that my nipples are coal black. I inhaled sharply as his fingers ran over my sensitive nipples, causing my breasts to jounce again. The action was reflected in the full-length mirror in front of us and I could not take my eyes off it. He kissed the back of my neck, drawing a gasp from me.
He ground his hips against my buttocks, giving me a tight feel of his erect organ. His hardon felt enormous through our clothing.
I still fought him, panting with the exertion. He kept whispering in my ear, “Shhh, just relax. Shhh, you’re going to love what I do to you …”
His continual working on my sensitive nipples began to have an effect and gave an edge to my panting. But I still fought to free myself.
Then his right hand drifted lower and massaged the swell of my belly. It drifted even lower and pulled the pleats of my sari out of my petticoat.
“God! Don’t!” I cried.
“Hush… hush,” he said, soothingly. “Look at your nipples, they are getting even more swollen and harder.”
“No, no, no,” I gritted out.
He disengaged my sari from my petticoat and it slid down, pooling around my ankles. He slid his hand under the waistband of my petticoat and worked it loose till it too slid down to form a silky, yellow ring on top of my sari. I wore a yellow thong trimmed with white lace.
Jack cupped my crotch and his thumb traced my pussy through the yellow silk. I was already slightly moist and his ministrations dampened my thong along my pussy.
“You’re getting wet. You’re getting excited. Look at your face in the mirror. Don’t fight it,” he whispered.
“No, no, no!” I moaned.
Then he released my twisted right arm. He put fingers of both hands in the waistband of my thong and stripped it down. Putting his arms around my waist, he lifted me up and out of the pooled thong, petticoat and sari and set me down beside them.
He held me tightly with both arms around my waist. He spent a moment looking at my near nakedness in the mirror. My bra was just a strip of yellow silk underneath my breasts, my pearl choker was at my throat, the Nizam’s precious necklace was around my neck and my high heels were on my feet. My kumkum and bangles – the signs of my married state – brought to mind my husband who would soon be cuckolded. My bangles clinked as I struggled, but I could not deny that the thought of adulterous sex was exciting.
My bush was trimmed to a neat line and my thick, nearly black pussy lips peeped through. Putting one hand up so that my full breasts were tight against his left forearm, he ran the fingers of his right hand along my bush. His fingers worked with incredible subtlety, so his touch grew more insistent very gradually. I did not even realize when his light probes changed to firm manipulations.
My panting turned to gasping as his fingers found my clit, gently at first and then with increasing urgency. My moistness turned to wetness.
“My God! Stop that! Oh! OHH!!”
I had never felt like this. My husband Rizwan Premji fucked me every other day but was always in the dark and it was always over in less than two minutes. He never got me even the least bit excited.
Now I felt like I had a fever. My heart was racing – I was breathing so hard I could hear myself panting and gasping. I was sopping wet and leaking out feminine juices that I did even know I had in me. I felt like I was climbing higher and higher, but I did not know where I was going.
Then Jack pushed two fingers into me and began to piston me hard, while working my clit with his thumb. It was too much for me and I began to cum. My whole body convulsed in his arms as though I was having an epileptic fit.
“Oh! Oh! Ohh! OMIGOD!! What's happening to me?!”
As my orgasm reached its crescendo, I gave out wordless cries, both hands gripping his forearm that enclosed my breasts, my nails biting into his skin. I had never felt a sensation like this before – I think it was my first real orgasm.
I was covered with sweat and leaned back on him, spent. He held me, cupping a breast in each hand, running a thumb over my engorged black nipples.
“Now I’m going to really fuck you, Ayesha,” he whispered in my ear.
“No! I can’t! I can barely stand!”
“How old are you, Ayesha?”
“Twenty-two…”
“So young,” he whispered, “and so hot. I’ll make you cum again. And again.”
I felt his massive hard-on again, but it felt different this time – hotter and fleshier. I had not seen him discard his pants, but he must have, for he was unmistakably against me, skin to skin.
He turned me around, put a hand on each of my buttocks and lifted me on to the smooth table. My legs were splayed around him. We saw each other in the two full-length mirrors on the sidewalls of the strong room. In the mirror, I saw him looking at my straight back, my smooth, dark skin that rippled over the muscles of my shoulder blades and the spread of my full, rounded buttocks.
