Chapter 2: After Dinner, Before Dawn
The door clicked shut behind us, and the sound of that lock turning felt like a period at the end of a sentence. Fatima stood in the middle of the room, her back to me, her shoulders rising and falling with shallow, uneven breaths. She hadn't said a word since we left the dining room. Hadn't looked at either of us. Just walked up the stairs with her hand still warm from where she'd touched him, her face pale and flushed all at once.
Mohammad settled into the armchair by the window. He hadn't bothered to zip his pants back up. Didn't seem to care. He just sat there, legs spread, whiskey finally in hand, watching us with that patient expression that made my stomach flip.
I'd seen that look before. The first time he'd fucked me in front of his brother. The first time he'd watched me eat out my best friend from university while he jerked off in the corner. It was the look of a man who knew exactly how the night would end, and was willing to wait for it.
I crossed to Fatima. Stood behind her. The mirror on the wardrobe caught all three of us—her in her crumpled green saree, me in my black dress with the slit up the thigh, him in the shadows with his cock out like it belonged there. Which it did.
"You're shaking," I said.
"I know."
"That's okay."
She laughed. A small, broken sound. "Is it?"
I didn't answer. I just reached for the pins in her hair, one by one, pulling them free and setting them on the dresser. Her hair fell in waves down her back, thick and dark and smelling of jasmine oil. I buried my face in it for a moment, breathing her in, and felt her shiver.
"He's going to fuck your mouth first," I said, my voice low against her ear. "You're going to kneel between his legs and take him as far as you can. And when you can't take anymore, you're going to use your hands. And when your hands get tired, I'm going to help you."
Her reflection stared back at me, eyes wide and wet and terrified.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I want you to know what's coming. I want you to choose it."
She was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, she nodded.
I unhooked the back of her saree. The fabric loosened, and she caught it against her chest, holding it there like a shield. I kissed the curve of her shoulder, the spot where her neck met her spine, and she made a sound that wasn't quite a gasp and wasn't quite a moan.
"You've never been with a woman," I said. It wasn't a question.
"No."
"Neither had I. Before Mohammad."
She turned her head slightly, trying to look at me. "He—"
"He introduced me to his ex-girlfriend. Let her teach me. He's good at that. Finding people who need to be found."
The saree fell. She was wearing a plain white bra, the cups slightly too small, and matching underwear that rode up her hips. Nothing fancy. Nothing practiced. She hadn't come here expecting this. That made it better.
I unhooked her bra and slid it down her arms. Her breasts were small, with dark nipples that had already pebbled in the cool air of the room. I cupped them in my palms, feeling the weight of them, the heat.
"Mohammad," I said, not looking away from her reflection. "Come here."
The chair creaked as he stood. His footsteps were slow, deliberate, and when he stopped beside us, I could smell the whiskey on his breath and the musk underneath it. He didn't touch her. Just stood there, letting her look.
And she looked. God, she looked. Her eyes traveled down his chest, past his stomach, to where his cock hung heavy and thick against his thigh. She'd touched it. She'd felt its weight in her hand. But seeing it—really seeing it in the amber lamplight—was something else entirely.
"On your knees," I said softly.
She sank down. Slow. Hesitant. But she went. The wooden floor was cold under her knees, and she winced, but she didn't move. Just knelt there, looking up at him, her hands clenched at her sides.
"Take him in your hand first," I said. I'd crouched beside her, my dress pooling around me on the floor. "Get used to the weight of him."
She reached out. Her fingers brushed against the shaft, and he inhaled sharply through his nose. She froze.
"Keep going," I said.
She wrapped her hand around him. She couldn't close her fingers all the way. Her thumb and middle finger didn't touch—they hovered maybe an inch apart. I watched her realize that, watched her eyes go wide, and felt something hot and satisfied curl in my chest.
"Now your mouth," I said.
She leaned forward. Her lips parted. The first touch was tentative—a brush, a question. He answered it by resting his hand on the back of her head, not pushing, just resting. Letting her know he was there.
She took the tip between her lips. Her eyes fluttered closed. And then she pulled back, coughing, her hand flying to her mouth.
"It's okay," I said. "It's a lot. I know."
"I can't—"
"You can. Just go slower. Use your tongue."
She tried again. This time she got maybe three inches before she gagged. Her eyes watered, and I could see the humiliation rising in her face, the shame, the feeling of failing at something she'd never been asked to do before.
I moved closer. Pressed myself against her side. "Watch me."
I took him from her—not roughly, just gently guiding him from her hands to mine—and showed her how it was done. How to breathe through your nose. How to relax your throat. How to use your tongue along the underside, that ridge where the nerves bunched closest to the surface.
She watched. Mouth slightly open. Breathing shallow.
"Now you," I said, and guided her back.
She was better the second time. Still clumsy, still gagging, but better. I stayed beside her, one hand on her shoulder, one hand cupping her head, murmuring encouragement. Mohammad's fingers were tangled in my hair now, his breathing ragged, his hips starting to move in small, involuntary thrusts.
"Good," I whispered to her. "You're doing so good."
She moaned around him. Not a performance. Not for his benefit. Just a sound of surprise, of discovering that she liked this, that the weight on her tongue and the stretch in her jaw and the taste of him—salt and musk and something darker—was making her wet.
I could smell her. That sweet, sharp scent of a woman who was dripping through her underwear and didn't know what to do about it.
"Touch yourself," I said.
Her hand moved between her legs. I watched her fingers disappear into her underwear, watched her shoulders hunch as she found the spot she needed. She was shaking now—not fear, not anymore. Something else.
"That's it," I said. "You're going to make yourself come while you suck his cock. And then I'm going to eat you out until you can't remember your own name."
Mohammad groaned. His hand tightened in my hair. "Mahra—"
"I know," I said. "I know."
I stood up. Stepped out of my dress. My underwear was soaked—had been since the dining room, since I'd watched her hand close around him, since I'd seen the look on her face when she realized what she was doing. I knelt behind her, pressing my breasts against her back, my arms wrapping around her waist.
"Keep going," I said against her ear. "Don't stop."
She didn't.
I reached around her, my fingers replacing hers. She was so wet that my fingers slid inside with no resistance at all—two of them, three, curling up against that spot that made her thighs clench. She moaned around Mohammad's cock, and he bucked his hips, and she took him deeper than before.
"That's it," I said. "That's my good girl."
She came first. It surprised her—I felt the shock of it in the way her whole body locked up, the way her breath stuttered, the way her cunt clenched around my fingers like a fist. She pulled off Mohammad, gasping, her forehead pressed against his thigh.
He wasn't far behind. He came with a sound like a growl, his hand fisted in her hair, spilling over her chest and her chin and the floor beneath her. She looked up at him, dazed, wrecked, and something like wonder in her eyes.
I pulled my fingers out of her, brought them to my mouth, and licked them clean.
"Get on the bed," I said.
She didn't hesitate this time. Just climbed up, legs still trembling, and lay down against the pillows. The oil lamp flickered, casting shadows across her body—the curve of her hip, the dark thatch of hair between her legs, the shine of sweat on her stomach.
I looked at Mohammad. He was already recovering, already half-hard again, that impossible stamina that never stopped amazing me.
"Let me taste her first," I said.
He nodded. Sat back in the chair. Poured himself another whiskey.
I crawled onto the bed. Parted her legs. Pleased to find she was still dripping, still wet from her orgasm.
And then I put my mouth on her.
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I'll continue if you want.