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Title: “èlephantiasis of Lust: An Indian Schoolteacher’s Tryst in the Hotel Of Voracity”

The ornate hotel room was a sanctuary of sin, a den of decadence where the sacred rites of carnality were about to be performed. Indoors, the smoke of incense curled languidly, carried by the sighs of the lovers as they undressed each other with the reverence of sculptors, revealing the flesh that was their greatest work of art.

She, the goddess, was possessed of flesh so soft and sweet that the very air aroused when in her presence. Her dusky complexion, like rich earth, was a blessing on which to lay one’s soul. Nipples, dark and pert, stood proudly upon the canvas of her ample bosom, each one a monument worthy of a lover’s devotion. The thatch of hair upon her mound, a wheat field swaying in the afternoon breeze, hinted at mystery and desire.

He, the supplicant, was a young man of penitence, having come to lay his failings at her altar. He knelt before her, eyes downcast, as she unlaced his shirt with fingers that left trails of fire upon his skin. With each item of clothing removed, he felt exponentially weaker, until finally he was naked before her, pathetic and powerful, unable to control his own body’s response to her.

With eyes alight with promise, she pushed him onto the bed, a felon onto the gallows, waiting in trepidation for the noose to fasten around his neck. She straddled him then, grinding her heat against his hardness, womb-fire ignited by the phallic girth of his manhood pushing insistently against her vulva. She moaned low and long, tongue licking a path up his chest, pausing to cerebate the vulnerable flesh of his nipple before moving to stake her claim on his lips.

He surged up against her, palms cupping the wondrous globes of her arse, kneading the giving flesh. Her teeth nipped at his bottom lip, telling him the punishment for denying her access, and he granted it greedily, tongue wrestling with hers as they dueled for dominance. She ground harder against him, and he thought he might bite right through his own tongue, the pleasure was so intense and immediate.

This Parsifal was no fool, and sought to please his goddess by seeking her holy grail. Sliding down between her thighs, he placed reverent kisses upon her most hallowed ground, relishing the tang of her juices upon his tongue. His fingers stroked the swollen folds of her labia, stroking, petting, before diving deep to flick against the heart of her. Her cry of ecstasy only spurred him on, and he suckled her clit as if it were the ultimate lifeline, earning himself the prize of her blessed fluids as she climaxed, screaming his name, the priests of sin rising everywhither.

Sated for the moment, she dragged him up and rolled them over, eager to claim her own prize. Settling onto his magnificent cock, she threw her head back, eyes closed, in benediction and bliss as inch by throbbing inch impaled her exquisite cunt. She rode him like a bronco, wild and woolly, her hips gyrating to accomodate the ever burgeoning river of his precum down to her parched depths. Her hands roved over his sweat slicked chest, feeling the trashing of his heart, the clutching of his gut, until both promised release so inevitable and imminent.

The goddess on high, she bore down at last, accepting the sacrifice of his seed, his homage to her beauty and his doom in his own undoing. He clenched his teeth, back arching to plunge ever deeper into her IRS as she, in sublime rapture, tumbled them both into the abyss of oblivion, where they drowned in rapture, never to be found.

Gasping, he opened his eyes, the hotel room slowly coming into focus once more. She lay atop him, breasts heaving, eyes dark with satiation. A smile, slow and just a little wicked, crossed her face. “Did you like that?” she asked, voice husky and satisfied.

He could only nod, too over stimulated to speak. She laughed, the sound as mischievous as a schoolgirl, and rolled off of him, going to pour them each a drink. His eyes followed her movements, the sway of her hips, the slenderness of her waist, the ripe fruit her buttocks. He was, in that moment, the most blessed of men, having been allowed to glimpse the unalloyed pleasure of the goddess, and live to tell of it.

He knew, too, that it was all fiction, a story told by their bodies to the fertile ground of their conjoined souls. In the light of day, she was simply his teacher, one of the finest exceptions in the school. But in this sacrosanct space, she was his Saraswati, his ride to school, a schoolgirl herself with the greatest lesson of all to impart.

With the first sip of the chilled drink she had brought him, he swore a pledge of future fidelity, vowing to be her humble par Rotation, attending her Ilk on high as often as she would allow. And with a smile just a little more wicked than before, she toasted his promise, and drank deep.