duty to make it memorable for you. Think of me as your own mother, I’ll make sure you’re cared for. Anita is very experienced, she’ll be gentle and loving, or, if you like, Bindu is a spitfire—after you have had her, you will never want to look at another woman again.’ I was so unsettled by now that I didn’t even react to the madam comparing herself to my mother; instead I was furious for landing myself in this situation, I was furious for not being firm with Deepak.
‘Take your time, beta, it’s a slow night, take all the time you want.’
And that’s when it struck me that I was the one in control here—the brothel keeper couldn’t do anything that I didn’t want her to do, and for 300 rupees she was mine to command. Decisiveness entered my voice, and I said clearly, ‘I don’t want Bindu or Anita, I want you.’
She couldn’t have been more than thirty-five, but her years of whoring had coarsened her. She was gross, with a triple chin, vast shapeless breasts, bad skin and a behind that had a life of its own, yet suddenly a huge desire grew in me to have my way with her.
Her self-confidence faltered when I made my demand but she recovered quickly enough. ‘Ah-ha, the young stallion wants to ride a mare with enough capacity to swallow a whole ship of lesser cocks. I like that spirit, beta, chalo.’
The whores on the sofa tittered as she led me away. But by the time she had drawn the curtain around the cubicle and motioned to me to sit beside her on the plank bed in that tiny space that reeked of semen, incense and stale food, my sense of power and the surge of desire I had felt had ebbed away. Her small shrewd eyes, bagged in layers of flesh and kohl, missed nothing.
‘You’re terrified aren’t you, beta? But there’s nothing to be scared about. I’m so pleased that you have chosen me. I feel like a young girl again, waiting for the first thrust of your manhood, I never thought I’d experience that sensation again. Come now, let me take off your clothes.’
If her words were practised, they didn’t seem like it. Her heavily be-ringed hands went to the top of my shirt but I pushed them away nervously.
‘Fine, let me take off my clothes, then maybe you’ll want to take off yours.’ She unwound her sari, slid the blouse from her shoulders, and her breasts swung into view. They were not a pretty sight, cumbrous and falling almost to her navel, but I had never seen a grown woman’s breasts before, so I gaped at them. ‘Do you want to touch them? If you’re really nice to me I’ll let you,’ she said in a high-pitched little girl’s voice, then guffawed, revealing her paan-stained teeth.
I was beginning to feel bilious—the Old Monk I had drunk earlier in the evening, the whore’s cheap perfume, the close fetid air of the cubicle and my own nervousness were beginning to come together in an unpleasant way and my stomach began to churn. The woman didn’t seem to notice my discomfort. She raised her hips and slid her petticoat off, then turned to me.
‘Do you like what you see, you little badmash?’ she asked coquettishly as she stood and shimmied her hips. She then did a slow pirouette, her belly following her hips just a fraction slower, swaying like a sack with the movement. The vast masses of flesh almost covered her incongruously neat pubic thatch, and as she revolved in front of me I caught sight of an angry red pimple high on her massive behind. I could take it no more. The bile that had been steadily rising in me ever since we had entered the cubicle now surged up and I began to retch.
The fabled humanity of whores is overrated. Abandoning any further attempts at seduction, the madam lifted me up and marched me across to a washbasin in the corner of the cubicle. ‘Don’t dirty my room, you useless bakra. That chutiya Deepak should know better than to bring me babies who haven’t outgrown their mother’s breasts.’ The warmth had gone from her eyes, they were hard
‘Take your time, beta, it’s a slow night, take all the time you want.’
And that’s when it struck me that I was the one in control here—the brothel keeper couldn’t do anything that I didn’t want her to do, and for 300 rupees she was mine to command. Decisiveness entered my voice, and I said clearly, ‘I don’t want Bindu or Anita, I want you.’
She couldn’t have been more than thirty-five, but her years of whoring had coarsened her. She was gross, with a triple chin, vast shapeless breasts, bad skin and a behind that had a life of its own, yet suddenly a huge desire grew in me to have my way with her.
Her self-confidence faltered when I made my demand but she recovered quickly enough. ‘Ah-ha, the young stallion wants to ride a mare with enough capacity to swallow a whole ship of lesser cocks. I like that spirit, beta, chalo.’
The whores on the sofa tittered as she led me away. But by the time she had drawn the curtain around the cubicle and motioned to me to sit beside her on the plank bed in that tiny space that reeked of semen, incense and stale food, my sense of power and the surge of desire I had felt had ebbed away. Her small shrewd eyes, bagged in layers of flesh and kohl, missed nothing.
‘You’re terrified aren’t you, beta? But there’s nothing to be scared about. I’m so pleased that you have chosen me. I feel like a young girl again, waiting for the first thrust of your manhood, I never thought I’d experience that sensation again. Come now, let me take off your clothes.’
If her words were practised, they didn’t seem like it. Her heavily be-ringed hands went to the top of my shirt but I pushed them away nervously.
‘Fine, let me take off my clothes, then maybe you’ll want to take off yours.’ She unwound her sari, slid the blouse from her shoulders, and her breasts swung into view. They were not a pretty sight, cumbrous and falling almost to her navel, but I had never seen a grown woman’s breasts before, so I gaped at them. ‘Do you want to touch them? If you’re really nice to me I’ll let you,’ she said in a high-pitched little girl’s voice, then guffawed, revealing her paan-stained teeth.
I was beginning to feel bilious—the Old Monk I had drunk earlier in the evening, the whore’s cheap perfume, the close fetid air of the cubicle and my own nervousness were beginning to come together in an unpleasant way and my stomach began to churn. The woman didn’t seem to notice my discomfort. She raised her hips and slid her petticoat off, then turned to me.
‘Do you like what you see, you little badmash?’ she asked coquettishly as she stood and shimmied her hips. She then did a slow pirouette, her belly following her hips just a fraction slower, swaying like a sack with the movement. The vast masses of flesh almost covered her incongruously neat pubic thatch, and as she revolved in front of me I caught sight of an angry red pimple high on her massive behind. I could take it no more. The bile that had been steadily rising in me ever since we had entered the cubicle now surged up and I began to retch.
The fabled humanity of whores is overrated. Abandoning any further attempts at seduction, the madam lifted me up and marched me across to a washbasin in the corner of the cubicle. ‘Don’t dirty my room, you useless bakra. That chutiya Deepak should know better than to bring me babies who haven’t outgrown their mother’s breasts.’ The warmth had gone from her eyes, they were hard
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