Tea and Spices (An Erotic Novel of Colonial India) (18 page)

 
“She has,” Kalindi said. “I’ve heard them arguing as well. The
sahib
refuses to dismiss Rohan.”

 
“Do you think the
memsahib
will succeed if she wants Rohan to leave?” Lota asked.

 
Kalindi watched the
tonga wallah
bicycle away. “I think she will. She is a woman who gets what she wants.”

***

CHAPTER NINE

 
“You see, my dear, sexuality is innately divine in Indian philosophy,” the maharaja said. “In
The Upanishads
, the woman becomes transformed into a Vedic site of sacrifice so that the act of intercourse is also a great, sacrificial performance.”

 
“It’s very complicated, isn’t it?” Devora propped her head on her hand as she stretched out on the picnic blanket. The maharaja spared no expense when it came to picnicking. The servants had arranged a number of silk pillows for their comfort and set out the food on fine crystal and china.

 
With Gerald gone on another short trip, the maharaja had brought Devora to the Khajuraho temples accompanied by a veritable entourage of three cars and six servants. A number of British tourists, mostly men, wandered about the grounds of the six temples. Many of them were simply craning their necks to get a view of the sexually explicit sculptures.

 
“Very complicated,” the maharaja agreed.

 
“I find it fascinating there is such an emphasis on the phallus,” Devora mused. She looked at the sketches she had drawn of the temple sculptures, several of which involved various gods displaying full erections.

 
“Yes, but the goddess is also highly revered,” the maharaja reminded her. “Many legends relate to the concept of divine duality, as the gods all have a feminine side. There is even one type of sculpture called the
Ardhanarishvara
, which consist of a deity that is half male, often with an erect phallus, and half female.”

 
Devora pushed herself to a sitting position and examined her sketches. The temple sculptures were extraordinary, filled with men and women in every conceivable posture of intercourse. She had even drawn one of a standing man holding a woman’s legs over his shoulders, which wouldn’t have been particularly unusual were it not for the fact that the woman’s back was against his chest and her head twisted to suck his penis.

 
Devora couldn’t help but find the sculptures stimulating. She stood, brushing off her dress as she approached the temples again. Such intricate detail and creativity!

Some of the couples were simply entwined together and kissing, while others were contorted into impossible positions. There were also scenes involving three or more people, not to mention cunnilingus, masturbation, and fellatio. Devora glanced at the maharaja as he came to stand beside her.

 
“Some of these postures aren’t even possible,” she remarked.

 
“Well, the contortion indicates the flexibility and suppleness of the
Devadasis
, who are the women servants of the gods,” the maharaja explained. “They were dancers and acrobats, and certainly their extreme flexibility was greatly prized, as it enhanced pleasure during coitus.”

 
“When were the temples built?”

 
“Most of the Khajuraho temples were built during the Chandela dynasty,” the maharaja replied. “That was perhaps 1000 A.D., I think.”

 
They walked around the temple grounds again, entering several of them to look at the sculpture of Shiva’s mount, the bull Nandi, as well as
lingam
and
yoni
sculptures. Devora still wasn’t certain she fully understood the concept of such explicitly erotic art, but she possessed a great admiration for a country that was not only so unashamed of sexuality, but also valued it highly.

 
She paused before a sculpture of two women entwined in lust, and her thoughts went back to her encounter with Kalindi and Lota a couple of nights ago. Devora was certain that the two women were lovers, even if she only had their guilty expressions to judge them by.

As it was, Devora had been more than a little stimulated by the notion of the two, lovely women together. Her arousal had been intensified by the sight of their disheveled figures and the scent of passion. Even now, her sex surged as she stared at the stone image of two women and imagined them to be warm flesh and blood.

 
“Come, we will wait in the car while the servants pack up,” the maharaja said. “I fear the sun might be getting too hot for you.”

 
Devora turned to him and nodded, patting her damp brow with a handkerchief.

 
“Thank you for bringing me here,” she said as they returned to their car. “I never would have seen this if it hadn’t been for you.”

 
“My dear Mrs. Hawthorne, you honor me with your presence.” The maharaja bowed his head slightly in her direction. “It is purely my pleasure.”

 
Devora had to smile at his continued use of the title “Mrs. Hawthorne” considering their own intimacy. She got into the car, leaning with a sigh against the plush seats. The maharaja did know how to travel well.

 
“So what are you going to do with your drawings?” the maharaja asked.

 
Devora shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it.”

 
“Perhaps you could publish them.”

 
“Believe me, no British publisher would be interested in publishing drawings of erotic, Indian art,” Devora said.

 
“Not even if they are written by a beautiful, British woman?”

 
Devora smiled again. “Not even then.”

 
“But you are not just any British woman, are you?” the maharaja asked. “You have your own mind.”

 
“So I’ve been told.”

 
“Does your husband tell you that?”

 
“Everyone seems to tell me that,” Devora replied wryly.

 
“Ah, then you must have your own opinions about the British presence in India, yes?”

 
“What about the British presence in India?”

 
“For example, how is it justified for the British to hold India?”

 
“I don’t know that it is,” Devora said. “It certainly seems to me that the Indians don’t want the British here. Mr. Gandhi’s movement is gaining force, from what I understand.”

 
“Yes, yes, that is what I hear as well.”

 
Devora shot him a glance. “Are you involved in it? The anti-British movement?”

 
The maharaja shrugged philosophically. “Aren’t all Indians involved in the movement in one manner or another?” He reached out and put his hand on her knee. “And you know well that the British always suppress the slightest hint of unrest.”

 
“I believe the British try,” Devora said. “I don’t know that they always succeed.”

The maharaja smiled. “You use the word ‘they,’“ he said. “I find that most intriguing. All other British use the word ‘we.’“

 
“I don’t like to put myself in with that lot.”

 
“But you
are
one of them,” the maharaja said. “It’s painfully obvious, Mrs. Hawthorne.”

 
Devora gave him an irritated look. “What is that supposed to mean?”

 
“No British woman in India is immune from the dreaded curse of the
memsahib
,” the maharaja said, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. “Rounds of gossiping, complaining, bigotry, and downright nastiness. Every British woman succumbs to it sooner or later.”

 
“Well, I won’t. I dislike the
memsahibs
entirely.”

 
“Do you now? Surely you must enjoy the gossiping.”

 
“No, I don’t. I don’t enjoy socializing with them, but it’s my duty to do so. Also, it’s important to keep abreast of the British affairs.”

 
“Ah, yes. Politics. No place for a lady, in my opinion, although I admire your interest in it. I expect you’ve heard the British are planning a raid on a local village.”

 
Devora looked at him in surprise. “No, I haven’t heard that. Why?”

 
“A villager was accused of stealing from a British woman. Of course, that provoked a outcry among the British. This is their method of revenge.”

 
“I’ve heard the British are attempting to suppress Indian gangs,” Devora said. “That might be the reason for a raid, not revenge.”

 
A slight hint of triumph flashed in the maharaja’s expression, giving Devora an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. She had never assumed the maharaja had romantic inclinations towards her, but she could easily believe his motives were political ones. She made a mental note not to reveal anything else about what the British might or might not be planning.

 
“Well, I don’t really know,” she replied. “As I said, I don’t enjoy gossiping.”

 
“And that, my dear, is why I appreciate your company so much.”

 
The maharaja picked up her hand, pressing a series of light kisses across her fingertips. He really did have a sensual touch, Devora thought as she watched him toying with her fingers. He lifted his hand to her face, caressing her cheek and sliding his thumb along her lower lip. Slowly, he pushed his thumb into her mouth in a suggestive movement that made Devora’s blood start to race. Without thinking, she slid her tongue over his thumb and sucked on it lightly. Then she grasped his wrist and pulled away from him.

 
“The servants,” she murmured.

 
“We have time,” the maharaja assured her, pulling her towards him for a heated kiss.

 
The interior of the car was hot and stuffy, but Devora didn’t care. She felt wholly submerged in the eroticism and history that this country had to offer.

She sank against the maharaja, letting her fingers find the increasing bulge beneath his trousers. She massaged him gently as his penis hardened underneath her fingertips. He grunted and pushed his hips up towards her. Devora’s mind still spun with the sheer carnality of the temple sculptures, and she suddenly wanted to attempt an act that the
Devadasis
performed with such finesse.

 
She glanced up at the maharaja from beneath her eyelashes, noting the dull flush beneath his dark skin and the increasing force of his breath. Slowly, she unlaced the drawstring of his trousers and pulled them down to his knees to expose his jutting member. The sight of his cock never failed to fascinate her, projecting from the abundant nest of dark curls like a living creature. She wrapped her hand around the shaft and stroked it from base to tip as she knelt on the seat beside him.

 
“Ahhh, you do excel at that, my dear,” the maharaja murmured, leaning his head against the back of the seat.

 
Devora cupped him in her hand as she bent her head to take him in her mouth. She and Gerald had done this before, although for some reason he always stopped her before he had an orgasm.

Devora slid her lips over the hard knob, flicking her tongue into the indentation at the tip. He tasted salty and spicy, the heat of his skin fairly throbbing against the surface of her tongue. With lush ease, Devora slackened her jaw muscles and began to take him in fully. His shaft slid easily into the warm wetness of her mouth.

 
The maharaja groaned and pressed his hand against the back of her neck, twining his fingers through her hair. Devora almost choked when his penis hit the back of her throat. She started to pull back. The maharaja’s grip on her neck tightened suddenly.

 
“Take it in,” he said, his voice hoarse.

 
A flutter of fear went through Devora as she tried to pull away again and found herself unable to do so. She reached up to grab his hand and push him away from her, but he was stronger than she was. His grip became fairly inexorable, his fingers digging into her scalp until rays of tight tension began to spread across her head.

Devora gave a muffled cry of distress, feeling as if he were suffocating her. Her nostrils filled with his scent, and panic rose like a tidal wave. Without thinking, she bit down on his penis. The maharaja roared with outrage and yanked her away from his groin so hard that Devora banged her head against the car window.

 
“You bastard!” Gasping, Devora slammed her fist against the maharaja’s shoulder. An intense relief flooded through her, accompanied by a furious anger. “How
dare
you do that to me? How dare you treat me like that?”