Vish Athwal got filthy rich selling diamonds and opium. He made enough to get to America and build the the Jaipur Royal. An Indian palace transplanted wholesale to the edge of the mangroves. Two square miles of walled garden, a jungle arboretum. A palace at the head of it all: marble and bright tiles and fountain squares. He died in 1925, happy and fat in the land of the free. With the endowment he left, the Jaipur Royal became a centre of the arts.
**The Juice of it on sleeping eye-lids laid**
**Will make or man or woman madly dote…**
You hold the ticket in your hand in the line outside the gate, under a high wall, stuccoed red, flaking. Voices hum low, expectant. The air is as hot as the subcontinent. Moths dance about the round lamps. A bat flits past and picks off one of the bugs. *A Dream of Midsummer*, that’s what the event is called. One night only.
He was meant to be with you but two hours earlier you received a WhatsApp message: *Sorry babe dont think its going to work out xx*. Your head still throbs from that. You tried to reply but he had blocked you. You went to his apartment but his roommate pretended he wasn’t in. You shouted a bit, made a scene, got a few should *we call the cops* looks from the street. Five months of your life wasted on that *loser*. You pretended to be interested in his dumb hobbies, put up with the lecherous comments from his douche friends when they thought you couldn’t hear; fuck, you talked to his mother on Sundays when he was too hungover. *Yes ma’am, —- is doing just fine, yes we had a lovely day out in the…* The utter, complete, total shithead.
‘Do you have a spare ticket?’ He is broad, taller than you. A pressed white shirt, sleeves flipped up at the wrists, open a couple of buttons; blue khakis.
You don’t reply for a second. His eyes pass over you: the crushed silk dress that follows your form and finishes well above the knee, the silver bracelet made like a band of stars, strappy sandals. You feel the weight of the pause, as heavy as the heat. Underneath you have tiny black hip-hugging lowriders. By the way he looks you feel like you might as well be in those alone. It’s a good feeling. *Really* good.
‘Do I look like I’ve got a spare ticket?’ You don’t mean to sound so pissed off.
He raises his hands in didn’t-mean-to-cause-offence. ‘If you don’t have one that’s fine, I can…’
‘No,’ you say, deflating. ‘No, I’ve got one, here.’ You fish around in your purse, hand it over. ‘Just take it, I don’t even want the money.’
‘You sure?’ You shrug in response. ‘You OK?’ He seems concerned, genuine. You feel more of an idiot.
‘Yeah, just dealing with…’ Being totally betrayed? Being taken for a fool? ‘…a few things.’
He can see your whole story, you’re sure of it – but then again no one is going to be calling Sherlock to solve the case of single woman with two tickets.
‘Hey,’ he nods up. ‘You got one of those things in your hair.’ You’re under a shiny-leafed vine that has tangled its way over the top of the garden’s wall. You reach up and feel something spiky, sticky. You try and get it out but it only makes it worse. ‘Here, let me.’
He steps in and starts to work it out. You feel awkward so close, the smooth of his chest under the shirt that’s almost against your face. Your hips are inches away from each other. He begins to free it, easing strands of hair through the tiny hooks of the seed pod or whatever. He is tugging: firmly, persistently, on single strands then several at a time. None break. It feels great; *bite your lip and tie me up* great. You were blushing in embarrassment but it becomes something else, something that makes you open your mouth slightly. Is he taking a little longer than he needs to? You yelp in pain as he pulls it out. A couple of people glance at you.
‘There you go,’ he says. You put out your hand. It’s the green bastard of a apricot and a porcupine. He give you a crooked, wolfish, smile. ‘You liked that, didn’t you?’
You don’t know what to say. *Yeah, I liked it when you got your big hands tangled up. Yeah I wanted more. Yeah with a face like that with a body like that you can do what you like with me right now, right here*. You’re saved from having to say anything when the line starts moving.
‘See you inside,’ he says and melts into the crowd.
**And meet me in the palace wood, a mile without the town…**
There were hundreds of people outside but the garden is so huge a minute later you are alone. There are some paths laid out, lanterns strung between the clay-coloured bark of the rhododendrons and rubber trees but you are free to wander. It’s that kind of event. In a small clearing you find a shadow puppet theatre, a few benches set out, thick candles on the ground. You sit and are joined by others. It’s a skit from the play, the cut-out and Pyramus and Thisbe in an Indian style, in keeping with the surroundings.
It is beautiful but you can’t concentrate. And its not the shithead anymore that’s on your mind. It’s *him*. The guy from outside. The memory of his touch, the firmness of it. You want it back. Beside you is a couple. She rests her head on his shoulder and their fingers twine. This is the kind of night out that’s meant to be shared. The people round you come and go. When it is over you go too, deeper between the trunks.
It is dark. You swear you hear monkeys shouting. The air is aromatic, foreign plants. You are not on any of the trails any more. Your feet scrunch through leaf litter; your toes touch warm loam. You begin to feel deflated, down. Everyone else is having fun. You can hear their laughs, their voices distantly. And then you see the lights. You lean forward, push branches aside.
It is a lake, impossibly large. There is a line of five or so rowing boats pulled up on the shore. Each has a tall hook with a lantern, each staffed by a Donkey-headed rower. You approach one and he helps you on board, pushes off. He pulls smoothly across the surface. You lean to the prow, feel the breeze on your face. It wakes you. It is change. It is alertness.
You are approaching an island in the middle. There is the ruin of a temple, thick pillars and a blocky roof. To one side, a jazz band is playing: clarinet, bass, snare and brushes. Under the lintel of the shrine a bar and in fizzing neon it proclaims Oberon’s Apothecary. The boat grounds, you go to hop out, stumble and…
…a hand reaches out. It’s him. Somehow you aren’t surprised. He is bigger than you, much bigger, but he doesn’t loom. He just makes you feel tight, curled up, like you could fit in his palm.
‘Come on,’ he says. ‘I owe you a drink.’ There are tables on the grass, most empty. Not many guests have made it this far into the gardens yet. He sits you at a table, goes to the barman. You watch him talk, leaning against the bar, his back stretching. The island is lit all about with the same low candles as in the jungle, clusters of them all over the place. He comes back with a couple of cocktail glasses, frosty.
You drink – the bite of lime, something strong underneath. Neither of you speak. He just looks at you. It is not like the shithead’s friends. They undressed you with their eyes carelessly, thoughtlessly. He holds you with his gaze, makes you breathe deep. You are stuck to your chair, drink to your lips, the biting cold, the sting of the citrus. *Takemetakemetakeme*. The thought hammers through your brain, along neurons seizing with ice from the drink. You feel like a flower dunked in liquid nitrogen, ready to shatter at the slightest touch.
He knows, of course he knows. But he waits and makes you wait. Glasses empty. He stands, takes your hand again and you walk around the side of the crumbling sandstone and the thick creepers where a single candle burns and all there is you and him and the moon on the lake.
His hand is back in your hair, his fingers at your scalp, pulling your head back firmly. You breath comes sharp, a half sigh: relief, release. *Finally.* The loser never gave you this, never made you feel this way in half a year. Your bodies are pressed, his arm around your waist pulling you to him. He squeezes you tightly, firmly, his fingers all the way round your body, on your ribs, almost at the soft of the flesh below your breast. Your skin is taut, goosebumps on your forearms. This man, this stranger an hour ago, is now all you want, all you need. The way he holds you: the heft of his bicep against your shoulder, his forearm on your lower back. You feel delicate. Your nipples harden against the lace of your bra.
He smiles, leans in, takes a step forward which makes you step back. Your shoulders are against the building. Your hands go to his, the one in your hair, and he pins you to the sandstone, rough on your knuckles. His cheek is against yours, the scratch of evening stubble. His hand that was behind your back moves round, rests above your knee.
‘Tell me you want it,’ he says.
You bite your lip, tell him you want it with push your pelvis out towards him but he presses back with his hip, keeping you in place. He pulls more firmly at your hair and you shut your eyes hard, hear rushing in your ears. His voice rises through it, deep and rich.
**O wall, full often hast thou heard my moans…**
‘There was once a girl,’ he says. ‘Beautiful, lithe, naughty. She learned she could get men to do exactly what she wanted. A flutter of her eyelashes, a low-cut top, a skirt hem cut just too high.’ His fingers run along the edge of your dress, tug at it a little so you can feel the straps pull into your shoulders. ‘She promised them everything but gave them nothing. But she couldn’t hold out forever.’ His lips brush beside your ear. You make a short moan, an *oh*, and as you do the heel of his hand starts to push up your skirt.
‘She played with boys but they were clumsy with her. So she found men to play with instead. They knew just what to do with naughty girls.’ His teeth find your earlobe, nip. You exhale, hard, full. ‘They would make it clear that they were in charge.’ He takes a tighter grip of you. Now his fingers are scoring your thigh, pressing in, opening your legs. You let him. *Please touch me, please*. He moves up, up, up to the front of your panties, rubs downwards over you, presses against your warmth.
‘I’m going to spread you open,’ he whispers into your ear. ‘Fill you.’ His fingers pass either side of your folds, half pinching. You make noises that make him smile. He continues to the elastic above, dips in and you can feel him catch on the tiny triangle of hair. He takes a tuft between his forefingers and thumb, leaves you waiting, waiting. You abs tremble. ‘If you’re very good,’ he says, ‘I’ll eat your hairy little pussy before I fuck you.’ You need the feeling of skin on skin, you want him to feel your slickness, not just to fill you but to have you, to take you, to do everything, *god damn*. The shithead, the anger, the lust, the booze, this night, this summer, *fuck!*
‘I…you…’ The connection between your brain and voicebox is down, all activity focused on riding the jagged and dangerous wave of dopamine and adrenaline. He moves his hand out of your panties, back to where it was, continues touching you through your underwear. ‘Shhh,’ he says. ‘Shhh, not so fast.’ His hand releases your hair, moves over your face, strokes your lips. You open your mouth, try to take one of his fingers in, your tongue reaching for it, but he doesn’t let you. Instead, he carries on down and settles on your throat.
His span is is big. The warmth of his palm envelops the front of your neck. He applies pressure gradually, listening to you suck air through your nose, finds a sweet spot, holds it. The back of your head is pressed against stone. You feel your jugular throb under his thumb, a tingle in your mouth, your cheeks. ‘I just can’t decide,’ he says, quiet as dropped silk. ‘Maybe I should push your panties to the side.’ You try to nod. *Yes, take them off, stuff them in my mouth, fuck me senseless.* ‘Or maybe I should tear them to pieces, leave you in that dress, make sure everyone gets a good look when you bend over.’ *Or you can do that, do anything, just…* ‘ Or maybe…’ he pauses, takes hold of your panties where they arches up over your leg, turns a twist of material. The fabric tightens against you, between your lips, against your ass. His hands: playing you, knowing exactly what to do, his solid, firm pressure the only thing stopping you from becoming a blathering mess. Your arms are above you in complete surrender.
‘…or maybe,’ he says, ‘I should pull them down to your ankles. That’s what naughty girls like, isn’t it?’ He bites your earlobe again, strokes the wet material pulled taut in your slit. ‘They like to drop their panties at a moment’s notice, show it off. All those eyes on you.’ He changes his hold slightly, forces your chin up. There is contact, briefly, where your outer lips are not covered, just the side of a finger against the sensitive ridge of flesh, but it makes you jolt. You moan properly now, try and move your hips. He denies you, holds you in place. But he does rub faster, over your clit. Your legs weaken. ‘Tell me where I’m touching you.’
‘My…my pussy.’ You speak hoarsely through his grip. He is pushing you up to the peak, past the treeline, up through the clouds towards the blinding bright sky.
‘Tell me you want it,’ he growls.
You’re panting, through your nose, your mouth, as he cranks it up further. Without warning he yanks your panties down, delves into your soaking wetness.
‘Give…it…to…me…’ your teeth are clenched, your fists clenched, all muscles tense all sinew strained, your body being torn apart on a rack of lust.
He drops to his knees. The cool air hits your neck, your face, sending you spinning, lost, out of sync with reality. He pulls your underwear down and raises his face. He buries himself in you, one hand holding your knees wide apart, the other fingering you as he works your clit with his tongue and lips. You’re back, grounded so hard you expect cracks to peel out from your feet through the hard earth. *Wham*. You hear someone sobbing, gulps of air, moans and when you feel the tears on your cheeks you realise it is you.
‘I…I…I,’ you say. He knows what you mean. He flicks off his buckle, drops his pants. No shorts on. In the dim light you see his thick cock, already hard. On any other day you might have wondered whether you could take it but right now you are so soaked, so addled with want, no such thoughts cross your mind. He stands, puts his hands behind your thighs, lifts you. Your panties dangle from an ankle. You try to unbutton his shirt, frantically, ripping of two of the studs, then lift your dress up as far as it can go, over your breasts. He pulls the front of the bra down and your arms go around his neck. Your lips touch his the same time as your nipples press against his chest. Madly you try to get as much of your tongue into his mouth as possible. He gives as he gets, holding you against the wall.
His hand goes to angle himself up. You feel the head of his cock against your opening, slipping, sliding. Then he puts it in you. It stretches you wide. You cry out at the first inch. You look each other in the eye as he penetrates you deeper, deeper. Your mouth hangs open, no sound comes out as he gives you the rest. It just fucking *keeps going in*. Then he starts to fuck you. His thrusts are long, slow. Each time he is nearly out you feel empty and each time he starts back in you have no idea how you will fit it all but it does. He speeds up, using his hips, keeping you pinned. The head of his cock rubs inside you, making your pussy grip him, squeeze him. He moans now. And he gets harder.
‘Touch yourself,’ he says. Your hand snaps down to your clit. You feel his shaft moving, pumping. You rub hard, fast, getting high. He kisses your neck, your ear, your hairline. He is holding your ass with both hands, gripping you firmly.
‘Oh fuuck.’ Your shoulders heave, lift. Your feet wrap around the backs of his legs, pulling more of him into you, more. The orgasm builds. Your hand flickers, blurs. An incredible heat in your chest, the sides of your neck, your cheeks, your pussy. ‘I’m going to…’
You scream into his shoulder, feel yourself go, gushing, sunrises and sunsets in ultrafast time lapse – and he is still fucking you and your noise and fluttering makes him start to throb.
‘Fuck.’ He pulls back, still holding you, cock pointing straight up. He comes over your hand that’s still between your legs, hot, sticky. You feel a second spurt flick across your belly, up to the underside of your breasts.
He kisses you, you kiss him back, pressed together in the sweltering dark.
**Now, until the break of day…**
Straighten clothes and finger-comb your hair,
Rebutton the unfastened garb you wear.
Shadowed fig leaves, mango green, gives way:
A lovers’ walk of palms to set your route.
Over East, the dark is cut in twain,
A slice of peach under a velvet train.
A promise of white sheets, a glass of wine.
His touch, your sighs, will usher out the night.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/4m9c0i/the_play_within_the_play_mfdomiambic_pentameter