Taking Ashima

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We both knew why the door was closed and why this meeting had not taken place until the house was deserted. There were unspoken intentions between us and we both understood them. Whether she was playing a coy sort of game of the fear in the back of her eyes was real, but I knew that she wanted this experience, in the way that I wanted her body.

The room was bright with the noon sunlight and I suddenly felt it was blinding me. It was too bright for the clandestine acts I desired and I pulled back, suddenly unsure of everything I had planned to do to her. She was dancing. The sultry, rhythmic moves of the west, designed to entice. It was provocative. When she beckoned to me I could not resist and I joined her there in the center of the room, but instead of moving my body along with hers, I reached over and turned the stereo off. I did not want to dance.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, and there was something like hurt in her voice.

“I want to know something,” I said, and returned to my place on her bed, sinking in the mattress.

“What?”

“Have you ever slept with a man?”

“No. No,” She said, first as if she thought it was a dumb question, a stupid thing to ask. And then, more shyly, with a lowering of her eyes that could have been coquette, or could have been fear or the pathetic sweetness of innocence.

I was quiet. I had thought that because Ashima was religious and from another world altogether her thoughts would reflect everything Indian. Instead, she swayed to American dance music and batted her dark eyelashes at me.

“What’s the matter with you? Don’t you want to be with me?” she asked. I suddenly realized how young she was. Her body was deceiving. The full curves of her breasts and the wide span of her hips made me think of her as a mature woman, not just a nubile teenager. Eighteen suddenly seemed too young for these games.

I patted her coverlet, close to wear I sat and she came and sat next to me.

“I’m sorry. I don’t feel like dancing,” I told her.

“But what should we do?” she asked.

Oh, God, I thought. Had she really asked that? What about understanding our intentions? What about waiting until her parents had left her alone to call me and invite me over? Hadn’t she known what I would want? What I would expect?

“I don’t know how to dance.” I told her.

She giggled. A high girlish sound that shook me to my center. I wanted her.

“Come, I’ll teach you,” she said.

I let her draw me off the bed and back to the center of the room. But I wasn’t aware of the staccato beat of the music or the movements of our two bodies. I could think only of the stretch of her t-shirt across her breasts and the smooth skin of her arms. Her breasts were too ripe and her mouth too soft for her to be a child.

She maneuvered her hips close to mine, so that on every other beat we brushed together, unapologetic and tantalizing. She put her silky arms around me neck, pulling me close to her. I let her lead me, swaying along with her. My feet were bare and seemed hardly to be moving. I slid my hand under her t-shirt, up her side, feeling the long smooth span of her waist and her ribcage. I found her breast, encased in a lacy bra-cup.

I kissed her. I wanted to say something, but could think of nothing. She was kissing me back, summoning up all of her miniscule knowledge, seeming to concentrate on how and where to move her lips. But her lips were closed. Demanding more, I pushed my tongue forward escort kartal and traced it across her lower lip, pushing into her mouth. She resisted and pulled away.

“No, I don’t like that,” she told with a small shake of her head.

Her resistance only made me want it more. I tried again and again. Eventually she surrendered and let her lips part, only slightly. My tongue plunged inside.

And then that small victory was not enough. My hand found the clasp of her bra, in the deep valley between her breasts. I fumbled there, the back of my hand pressing into her breast as I bent the little metal catch this way and that, searching for the right method.

“Stop,” she said. “You’re making me uncomfortable.”

I remembered the way she had lured me into this empty house, into this room, how she had furtively closed the door behind us, and the way her body had demanded I dance with her. After all that, it seemed impossible that I could make her uncomfortable. I ignored her claim and persisted. Her arms around me neck were pushing downward. She was trying in some subtle, hesitant way to force me to move my hands lower, away from her breasts. I let go of the clasp and grabbed at her breast, kneading it hard, pressing it into her chest. It was a low tactic, and I thought I might have hurt her.

She pushed my hands down roughly from under her shirt and stepped back. “Stop!” she yelled, and this time there was real anger in her voice.

She seemed to have changed her mind, so I stopped and picked up my glass from her nightstand and began to drink. She picked up her glass as well. We both sat down on the bed and we said nothing. But after only a moment, my drink was gone and I was ready for something more than dancing. I leaned toward her and the sheer force of my body seemed to shrink her and push her back into the pillows. She was easy to lead, like a lamb to slaughter. As if her outburst had never happened, I slid my hand inside her t-shirt again, this time going immediately for the catch. She pushed it down, looking irritated.

With a sigh, I lay down on the bed and let my legs trail to the floor. “I thought you like me,” I said—another low tactic, something out of a bad movie.

“I do.”

“Then why do you fight me?”

“You’re moving too fast for me.”

I rolled to my side and moved alongside her. This time she shifted and put her head on my shoulder. With hardly a moment’s pause my hands found their way back under her shirt. She closed her eyes, but didn’t try to stop me. After a while, I tried the clasp again, but she jerked upright and forcefully moved my hands out of her shirt. To my surprise, she placed them on her breasts, molding my palms to her curves; outside her t-shirt.

“Only the outside,” she said emphatically, as if she were training a small child.

I pushed and stroked at her breasts, unsatisfied for several moments. She closed her eyes again. Once free of her watchful gaze, I pulled at her t-shirt and pushed the cups of her bra down, so that her breasts were free. I saw the hard kernels of her nipples pushing up through her thin shirt. Her eyes were open, but she looked away from me. I took that as an invitation and lowered my head. At the moment my hot, wet mouth enveloped her breast, soaking her t-shirt and penetrating to the smooth skin beneath she cried out. She would have pushed me away, but I was like dead weight, and refused to me moved.

I laved her breast with my tongue, sucking, maltepe escort pulling, nibbling at her nipple, pressing my face into her flesh. All the while my other hand pulled and massaged at her other breast. She curled her legs towards me and her knee brushed my groin. Finally, my hand left her breast, as my mouth switched sides and I slid my palm down her stomach. I paused for a moment, with my palm spread wide and felt the heat of her skin on my fingertips. The skin on her abdomen was very pale when compared to the skin of her face and arms. I imagined she would have been a prize in her country, where fair skin was always more desirable.

I started unzipping her jeans.

“Stop,” she said, grabbing my wrist.

I lifted my head and looked down at her.

“I’m not going to stop you. I want to do this, and you want me.”

“You have to,” she whispered. There was a pleading tone in her voice, but I felt she was resisting because she thought she was supposed to resist, because everything in her world had taught her not to give in too easily.

“No,” I told her.I would not stop.

I abandoned my efforts at her jeans and yanked the hem of her shirt up, pulling it out of the way to expose her breasts, crammed as the were between the bunched t-shirt and her smashed bra cups. Her nipples were dark and red and swollen.

She tried to fight me again, pushing at my shoulders with her hands, but I ignored her efforts and easily unhooked her bra, spread the cups to the side, gazing at her naked breasts. I suddenly wanted to possess them, to own them like a piece of food, like an apple. I wanted to taste of-them.

“Please,” she said, and I thought she might cry, but I did not look at her face.

I turned my attention to her jeans and unzipped them. When she tried to fight me, I pinned her to the bed, using my superior weight and strength to hold her down. I held both of her arms with one hand, pressing her wrists into her soft belly. With my other hand I pushed at her jeans and panties, pushing them down her thighs.

“Please don’t do that,” she said in a panic. She was crying.

I leaned up and kissed her lips and her neck, smelling her sweat at her throat and the fragrance of her shampoo on her hair. She relaxed some and closed her eyes, but I was hardly finished. I felt that if she had really wanted me to stop she would have screamed or kicked out, something other than begging. With her arms pressed down, her breasts were forced upward toward me. They beckoned my mouth once more.

This time I was less gentle. There was no longer any need for cajoling. She was under control, and I pulled at her breasts with my lips, sucking hard, as if I would draw sustenance from them. She whimpered a little, every few seconds her hands tugged, trying to pull from my grasp, but I held fast.

As I suckled at her, I slid my hand between her thighs. Her leg muscles tightened, and she drew her legs up against me, barricading herself. When I looked up at her she had closed her eyes again, and this time I thought something like real pleasure was on her face. Wanting to free her completely of her the shackles of her jeans and panties, I pulled my hand from between her legs and sat up, removing her pants completely.

For a moment I stared intently at the little triangle of hair between her legs. This was undiscovered territory, an unclaimed stretch of wilderness. I tried to push her thighs apart. I wanted to see her pussy pendik escort bayan and the folds of skin between her thighs. I wanted to smell her there, even taste her, but she kept her legs tightly closed and tried to twist away from me. Giving up, I pushed my hand into the V of her thighs, covering the little patch of hair. Between her legs she was slick with fluids. I could feel the hard little nub of her clit. She gasped when I pushed at it. Lower I found her lips and parted them, pushing deeper. Finally, pushing hard to spread her thighs I found her entrance and pushed my middle finger inside.

I heard her gasp, but ignored the sound. I adjusted my body, so that I was sitting beside her and kept my grip on her hands. At this new angle I could better pushed apart her legs. I could more easily leverage my finger inside her. This I did. I sank to my second knuckle into her. She cried again and resumed her struggles, but did herself no good. I pushed a second finger into her and when she bucked against me, she only succeeded in impaling herself. I felt something give way inside her and she let out a high-pitched wail.

“Stop, you hurt me!” she accused.

I pulled my hand from between her thighs. There was blood on my fingers.

“I just took your cherry,” I said.

She looked at me as if I was sick and I saw tears well in her eyes. But I wasn’t done, I wanted to watch her come. I wanted to see her first orgasm on her face.

“Spread your legs,” I told her. She hesitated, but there was a look of resignation on her face and she relaxed a little, allowing me to let go of her hands and push her legs apart. I grabbed her hips, sliding her across the bed, orienting her whole body to mine.

Then I looked, and touched and played until my curiosity was satisfied. For several minutes I did not try to penetrate her again, and when I did she cried out and said it was sore. I ignored her please and pushed two fingers into her, going deep, moving them in and out, thrusting into her, withdrawing. She turned her head away impassively.

No,I thought.This is not what I want.I wanted her to look at me. When her head was turned away and her eyes closed, I lowered my face to the space between her thighs and pushed my tongue, flat and wide against her clit. She came alive then, looking at me with shock and I grinned against her. She tried to close her legs, but could not.

I could feel her clit getting hard against me tongue; her back began to arch. I ran my tongue over and over her clit. I began to suck and taste her opening, as my fingers moved inside. Her hands tangled in my hair, pushing and pulling as if she warred with two halves of herself; one that desired to keep me there between her thighs and one that wanted me away. My fingers moved faster and faster, pushing hard into her. The sounds of her wetness filled the room. Deeper I pushed, harder, faster. My tongue was everywhere.

Her breath was coming in pants and sobs. She made whimpering noises in her throat and formed half-words and strange foreign whispers. Her head tossed and turned. I watched her face contort into a grimace of pleasure-pain, knowing she was about to come. Suddenly she gave a choked scream. Her back arched off the bed and I felt her muscles trying to crush my fingers. I pushed deep, sucked hard at her clit, making her cry again and then it was over. She sank back to the bed and let her body surrender to the waves of muscle spasms. I left my fingers inside her until the spasms subsided and then slowly withdrew them. She winced.

Liquid seeped from her opening where my hands had been like a river after a dam breaks. It formed a soggy puddle on her coverlet. I pushed her thighs closed and watched as she slowly fell asleep.

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