A wild, wacky, ribald tale of a modern-day sexpot and her highly erotic encounters in the land of the Kama Sutra. Candy-esque, of course, but not bad.
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The main highway from Calcutta to Katmandu in the tiny nation of Nepal is not a bad road, really, and the bus found it easy sometimes to race down the sloping foothills of the Himalayas with a kind of reckless abandon that left the passengers gasping for breath. And then it would climb slowly to the next summit, to new heights of fantastic beauty and grandeur, and the passengers, at their leisure, would gaze fondly out on the rolling pastures of India on their left and the craggy ridges and bluffs of Dacca Plateau on their right.
It was spring, and spring in the Himalayas is a joyous season with rippling mountain streams and singing Fia birds for musical accompaniment. The passengers, almost all of them dark Nepalese, were happy to be in the bus. They trusted the driver with a faith and courage that is unknown in other lands. If they had known what was going on in the driver's mind however, they would have been in fear for their lives.
The eyes of the driver were not on the superbly lovely scenery of his country. They were glued tenaciously to the rear-view mirror which revealed to him the miraculous whiteness of the thighs of the American girl who sat halfway back of the bus, in the aisle seat. He had never in his entire life seen such white thighs; it was rare that he saw feminine thighs at all, except his wife's.
The sign on the panel above and in front of the driver's head listed the name: Ahmeel Balahwar. It gave his age as forty-five and said that he was married and was the father of four children. The small black photograph showed him with the beard and the long hair and turban of a Sikh. He was a very religious man. But today, his thoughts were not on religion; or even his wife and four children. His mind was reeling with the intoxicating lewdness of the scene in his mirror.
He glanced casually at the other passengers. The faces were all dark and the women, most of them fat, sat like small brown lumps in their seats, swathed in colorful silk Saris. Almost all of them held grimy babies and carried great bundles wrapped in canvas or bamboo. They were a drab and uninteresting contrast to the exciting whiteness of the American girl's thighs.
American girls. He wondered what it would be like to sleep with this one. She was wearing what he had heard called a mini-skirt and she made no effort whatever to keep her private matters to herself. On several occasions, Ahmeel had caught devastating glimpses of her crotch and the brilliant white silk that covered it. On those occasions, he had felt his organ begin to grow to full erection and he had very nearly allowed the bus to roll off the road and go tumbling into the deep valley below.
Ahmeel's mind was on a private orgy that he had conjured up for himself and the American girl. His mind had even devised an ingenious, though unlikely, method of eliminating the girl's companion, a weak-looking, pale, blond man, obviously an American also. In his daydream, Ahmeel had plunged the bus over a steep cliff and, by some glorious miracle, the American man had been killed and he and the girl had been saved, uninjured. Of course, everyone else on the bus had also died, but it was a small sacrifice, indeed, to pay for their driver's pleasure. After all, they were rather a grubby, worthless, miserable lot.
As much as he hated to do it, Ahmeel brought his mind and his eyes back to the task at hand. The scheduled rest stop was at the summit of the next hill and they would be there within a few minutes. He thought about passing it up to enable him to continue his delightful ogling — but he was certain the girl would change positions after the stop — but he knew he had to make it. The passengers would kill him if he didn't. Be-sides, he himself had to take a leak so badly his stomach had begun to cramp.
“Rest atop in three minutes,” he called out in Sanskrit. He repeated the message in Hindu and then in English. He was very proud of his prowess with languages. He wished there had been some Mexicans aboard so he could have delivered the message in Spanish, too.
Ahmeel Balahwar kept his seat as the passengers filed past him and stepped down onto the gravel. He watched from the corner of his eye as the American girl stood up, yawned, stretched and said something to her companion, who had been sleeping. The girl walked forward in the bus and Ahmeel was grateful that the man had not sufficiently awakened to follow her immediately. They were the last passengers to leave.
He licked his dark parched lips as the girl approached. He controlled his hand on the gearshift by gripping the knob very tightly. Otherwise, as Buddha was his witness, he was going to take the hand and, he was going to run it all the way up her legs, under the mini-skirt, and grasp her delicious mound.
The girl stopped before him and the delicate flavor of her expensive perfume seared into his nostrils, causing them to flare dangerously. His eyes rested on her beautiful pink knees, then rose to her full, protruding breasts, almost lewd in the thin cotton sweater.
“Will we be her long?” the girl asked.
Ahmeel found it difficult to answer correctly. His mind was reeling with sexual obscenities in five languages.
“Ten minutes,” he said.
“Thank you.” The girl turned toward the back of the bus. “Come on, Gee Gee,” she said with a trace of impatience to her bell-tone voice. “We've used up almost half our time already. I want to have some time to look out over the mountains.” She turned back to Ahmeel. “Is that distant, peak Mount Everest?”
Her arm was raised and that caused her right breast, to raise proportionately. Ahmeel swallowed hard and looked directly at the pointing breast.
“It may look like Mount Everest,” he said, licking his lips again at the sensual beauty of her right breast, “but it is not. We have many miles to go before we see it.”
“Come on, Gee Gee,” the girl said.
The driver, with Herculean effort, pulled his eyes away from the lovely American girl and looked back to see the blond American, hair awry, getting slowly out of his seat.
“We can stay a few minutes longer,” Ahmeel said in a very kind tone. “The schedule is not so very important.”
“Thank you,” the girl said. She smiled warmly at him and he felt his fourteenth erection of the trip begin to form in his crotch. “Do you happen to know a monk by the name of Anil Feroze Nanda? He is a Sikh, just like you. I think he lives in the northern mountains, just above the capital. Katmandu is the capital, isn't it?”
“It, is the capital,” Ahmeel said. His eyes were wary now. The American was in the aisle, grunting, yawning, straining, stretching, belching —waking up to the beautiful day and the breath-taking scene before them. Ahmeel kept his eyes on his hand on the gearshift knob. His knuckles were almost white under his nearly black skin.
“Do you know Mr. Nanda?”
“I know of him,” Ahmeel said. “The men from his monastery are the keepers of the most, beautiful shrine in all of Katmandu. I am told.
For the next twenty miles up and down the steep, precipitous road, around the hairpin curves and along the precarious ridges and plateaus of the Southern Himalayas, Ahmeel Balahwar drove magnificently, like a man possessed of a bus driving talent that has graced no one but him. He glanced only occasionally in the rear-view mirror and then only to see if perhaps the girl had shifted to a more advantageous position.
The American couple had indeed taken the wide rear seat of the bus, but the girl was now sitting off to one side and the seats along the right of the bus obstructed Ahmed's view of her tantalizing white knees and thighs. The man was Hitting at exactly dead center.
As the bus rounded a particularly dangerous point in the journey and Ahmeel was directing all his mental and physical energies to making certain the bus followed the prescribed route, Ahmeel suddenly glanced up to the rear-view mirror. What he saw very nearly brought tragedy to them all.
The girl named Christie had leaned over and her head was in Gee Gee's lap. Although her blonde head covered the intimacies of the situation, it was obvious to Ahmeel Balahwar that the girl had taken the man's instrument into her mouth I Ahmeel clung to the wheel and, in a brilliant display of self-control and expert handling, brought the bus under control. His body shuddered with the knowledge of what was happening in the rear seat and, for the fifteenth time, his tool jerked to an aching, rampant hardness.
The big bus streaked out onto a straight stretch of road and Ahmeel used the interval to survey his passengers. They were sound asleep, as the American had predicted. His eyes focused once again on the couple in the rear seat. He saw that the man had slipped his hand under the girl's sweater and Ahmeel could see a wide swath of white skin. It was the girl's stomach, but he pretended it was her breasts.
In the rear of the bus, Christie Farrell withdrew her mouth from the hard object and looked up smilingly at her blonde friend.
“Did that help you get into the mood?” she asked.
“The question is,” he said, “did it get you into the mood? I've been there since we left Calcutta.”
She slid her hand into his trousers.
“You're right,” she giggled.
“Don't be alarmed,” the man said, “but that greasy bus driver is watching us.”
“Don't call him greasy. He's rather cute.”
“Let's give him something to keep him occupied,” Gee Gee said. “Let's get naked and really upset the old fart.”
Gee Gee reached down and grabbed the hem of Christie's sweater. He pulled it over her breasts so that the blazing white of her brassiere literally glowed in the subdued light of the bus. The girl lay on her back and her breasts jutted upward, still taut in the thin cotton brassiere. Gee Gee massaged each of the breasts, then unsnapped her bra and brought them out into the open, in full view of the driver.
Then, with a deliberately slow and exaggerated action, he lowered his head and took one of the hardening nipples between his lips.
“You're wicked,” Christie said, giggling. “You'll drive the poor driver off his nut.”
“Just so he doesn't drive the bus off a cliff.”
Ahmeel Balahwar's eyes bounced like drumsticks from the road to the rear-view mirror. His groin ached from the agony of unsatisfied lust. His lips crusted with dryness and his tongue, only a trace wetter, flashed across them rapidly. He feasted his dark eyes on the luxurious white vision of the American girls big breasts and his yearning grew with each turn of the big tires on the road.
“I've got an idea,” Gee Gee said. “Take off your pants and straddle me. That should give the driver a fantastic view.”
“It could also be fatal,” Christie said. “Why don't we just crawl over in the corner, out of his view?”
“I thought you liked an audience when you made love.”
“I do, my darling Gee Gee, but not when the audience is a bus driver and the bus is moving over mountains like these. One wrong move and that cute Sikh could drive us all to Mecca.”
“He's an expert driver,” Gee Gee said. “Let's give him the acid test.”
“You wicked, wicked man,” she cooed. But she liked the idea and her hands were already on the band of her panties.
The bus plunged onward at better than fifty miles an hour on the straight stretches, slowing to twenty and thirty on the grades, zooming as high as seventy on the dips. Ahmeel drove like a maniac, but an expert, accomplished maniac. Miles and miles of fabulous scenery slipped past without a single eye playing witness to it. On a long, wife straight piece of road, Ahmeel took a good look into the rear-view mirror and saw the American man holding something white in his right hand.
Great Buddha in Mecca, he breathed. It was the lady's underpants!
And then, glory of all glories, he saw the most beautiful pair of buttocks he had ever seen as the girl slipped a leg across the man and straddled him. Sweat poured out of his forehead and oozed down from his turban. His face began to itch terribly under his beard. He felt his already throbbing organ twitch in agony.
But the road dipped down and away from the hill and Ahmeel directed his energies once a-gain to his job. He turned the wheel to the left, to the right, eased up on the accelerator and then, when the bus reached the bottom of the swooping dip, jammed the pedal down for the climb back up the other side. When the road tamed again, he looked into the mirror.
The girl's buttocks were raised high and her knees were dug into the dark leather of the seat on either side of the man. Ahmeel saw the dark, lance-like object pointing up towards the American girl. With a feeling of torturous longing, of burning, of yearning, of eternal frustration, he bounced his eyes from the road to the mirror in time to see the two join in a beautiful and satisfying union. The white buttocks settled gingerly onto the man.
Ahmeel Balahwar gurgled deep in his throat and, for the first time of the day, thought of his slim, dark wife with her high mount; and the pleasure it gave him. The road became dangerous again and two trucks came at him from the opposite direction. With nerves near the shattering point, he drove the bus quickly and accurately past all obstacles and came out once again on a long, narrow stretch that climbed at an easy grade up the side of the mountain.
He looked into the mirror. The girl was still going at it. Ahmeel watched them for long, dangerous seconds, marveling at their stamina, moaning at the maddening scene, groaning at what their actions were doing to him. Never, in all his years of driving the bus from Calcutta to Katmandu and back had he been exposed to such a delightful show. He had reached the end of his rope. Ahmeel Balahwar could stand it no longer!
With his hand gripping the wheel as the bus groaned and wheezed up the long, gentle grade, his right hand quickly unbuttoned his trousers mid slipped inside. He tried desperately to focus one eye on the rear-view mirror and the other on the road, but that was impossible. With a tremendous sigh, he looked out at the magnificent hills, at the huge cumulus clouds that scudded across the azure sky, at the black road that glistened almost white in the blazing afternoon sun. His hand began to work expertly and beautifully in his aching lap.
Gee Gee Parkinson relaxed against the hot leather of the seat and allowed the beautiful blonde girl to do all the work. Her movements, studied, practiced and honed to a kind of perfection, drew from him everything that could be expected. Christie Farrell was not only sexy looking and most assuredly sexually attractive, but she was the most adept sexual machine he had ever known. And, in his years at Berkeley, he had known many beautiful and sexy girls.
It was to Christie's immense credit as a perfect sexual animal that he was even in India. She went wild and, without the slightest doubt, crazier then a loon, and she could not be dissuaded from coming to India to find and meet the illustrious Anil Feroze Nanda — and, of course, the true meaning of life and love and truth. She would have come alone and Gee Gee would not have been able to stand for that. To protect her — and to continue his own enjoyment of her sexual appetite and expertise — he had joined her on what simply had to be the nuttiest journey in the history of the world.
“My God,” Gee Gee said, clasping the girl. “I'm there!”
“Hold on for just a little bit, my darling Gee Gee,” she said. “I'm still working on it.”
“You should see the driver,” he said, looking over her heaving, bouncing shoulder. “I think he's masturbating!”
“Nope, I'm certain of it. He's jumping all over the goddam seat.”
“Won't we crash?” she asked. She was more sexually excited than frightened by the possibility.
“I doubt it,” Gee Gee answered with a chuckle. “We're going up a long, straight grade. Maybe he can accomplish both tasks.”
Ahmeel Balahwar was in a state of terrible animation. His eyes went from the road to the rear-view mirror to his flashing hand. He was near climax, but a climax of another sort was coming up just as quickly. The bus was nearly to the top of the grade and Ahmeel knew the road well. On the other side, the road plunged and dipped and curved in one of the most dangerous parts of the entire highway. He fought to rid himself of the terrible ache before the bus reached the summit.
A baby cried out in its sleep and Ahmeel's eyes flashed to the mirror to see if he were being observed by the other passengers. They were still asleep, but the interruption had set him back.
“How is he doing?” Christie Farrell asked. She was still hard at work.
“To hell with him,” Gee Gee said, moaning. “I can't hold out any longer.”
“Wait,” she said. “Think of something cold. think of broken bones and crushed guts. Get your mind off sex. I'm almost ready.” The bus reached the top of the hill, then picked up speed as it plunged down the other side. The road ahead lay like a sleeping serpent, disappearing for long stretches behind the many folds of the mountain. Ahmeel Balahwar was in a highly agitated and frustrated state. He thought of ceasing, of allowing his great buildup to slip back into a state of turgidity. But the view of the American girl drove him onward, in spite of the obvious danger that lay ahead.
His left hand steered the accelerating vehicle down through the swoops and curves and hidden crannies of the road his right foot pumped the brakes to keep the speed of the bus from reaching an irretrievably dangerous point. And the bus plunged faster and faster past the beautiful hills under the blazing afternoon sun.
No longer able to watch the beautiful girl, Ahmeel gave all his attentions to his dual task of bringing the bus through safely and completing his appointed duty, brought on by the rollicking scene in the back of the bus. With his eyes on the road, he felt a diminishing of his inspiration, so he resorted to time-worn obscenities. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he said under his breath. Then, he said the same thing in Sanskrit, Nepalese, Hindi.
He made it on a vicious curve to the right.
His left hand worked mightily on the wheel, straining. The bus hit the berm and Ahmeel Balahwar realized that he would need both hands to bring it out of the curve safely. With great reluctance and regret, he used both hands to right the wrong that his excitement had wrought.
“I can't hold out any longer,” Gee Gee cried. “I think we're going to crash and, by God, I don't want to hold out.”
“Oh my God,” Christie said, increasing her speed. “Are we really going to crash?”
“I don't doubt it for a minute.”
“Beautiful,” she cried. “Beautiful, beautiful, marvelous! What a way to go!”
And they reached their long-awaited, delicious, truth-seeking climax together.
And the big, lumbering bus slowed as it came to the bottom of a dip and started the climb back up. The two Americans clung to each other in a weak, limpid heap of flesh. The black Sikh gripped the wooden wheel with both hands and his lips moved in a silent prayer to Buddha.
The lights of Katmandu shone brilliantly in the deep valley off to their right. The sun had already set behind the huge mountain range. In the distance, far above and behind the beautiful capital city, the shiny, snow-covered peak of Mount Everest gleamed like a massive diamond.
“We're here,” the girl said as she sat by the window and looked out at the shimmering peak. “Before we know it, we'll be talking to the master, the Big One. Aren't you excited?”
“Ecstatic,” Gee Gee said. There was a note of friendly sarcasm in his voice. “I still think we're wasting our time.”
“I don't think so. After all, we are seeing India and it is daddy's money.”
“I know,” Gee Gee said, “but I don't think you'll get that goddam monk to leave here to go to America with us. Not in a million years.”
Christie Farrell smiled a cryptic, Mona Lisa smile and gazed off toward the imposing peak of Mount Everest.
“We'll see,” she said. “After all, I got you to come to India with me. And, for all his wisdom and brilliance, I'm convinced that the same kind of persuasion should work beautifully on our wonderful monk. You just leave Anil Feroze Nanda to me. Within a week we'll all three be on this same bus, going back to Calcutta.”
As the bus swooped down the first dip on its long journey to the lovely Katmandu valley, Ahmeel Balahwar shifted in the hot leather seat and kept his eyes on the turning, twisting road. It had been a most satisfying trip and he felt greatly at peace with his world. His mind had eliminated the memory of that one bad moment back there when they were all in danger of being smashed against the mountain; indeed his mind rested now on the beautiful and lovely vision of the American girl's gleaming white buttocks as she had made love to her American friend. Thinking of it, Ahmeel felt another erection coming on.
The bustling city of half a million people came slowly alive as the golden sun of India edged slowly and meticulously over the eastern horizon and dipped its magic, warming rays over the edge of the high mountains to bathe the deep valley in yellow brilliance. That same sun peeked into the wide windows of the Rajah Hotel, snaked a-cross the thick brown carpeting and touched the pink hand that dangled over the edge of the big bed.
Christie Farrell stirred and opened her crystal blue eyes to her new world. She felt the warm body of Gee Gee next to her, then leaped to the floor and ran to the window.
The beauty and glory of the awakening city was spread before her and already she felt the inner tinglings that come from being so close to the source of wisdom, the source of the true meaning of life itself. She had come to India for one reason and one reason only: to find and be found by the deepest and truest mind in all the world.
For the past three years, she had heard much about Anil Feroze Nanda. She heard his name spoken with reverence by the young Indian seers who were now coming to Berkeley in droves. She had sat through many sessions with her fellow students, listening to wise men such as Kanak Shah, a direct descendant of the Sikh movement, and Jubalwaha Pel, the fascinating Guru who was now “turning on” the minds of all her friends and colleagues at the University of California, and she had heard all their wisdom and had taken in their way of life. And always, when the name of Anil Feroze Nanda was spoken, always the eyes of the Gurus misted and they spoke his name lovingly, soothingly, passionately.
Strangely, she had felt great and glorious sexual arousal when she listened to the handsome young Indians — and her arousal had actually moistened her thighs when she heard them speak the name of Anil. They had told her that Anil Feroze Nanda was the seat of all mystic powers, the leader of all current mystic thought; that he wits the master of all Hindu and Sikh secret which could bring ecstatic joy to life and which could guarantee everlasting peace and beauty in the life hereafter.
It was only natural, then, that she seek out the master; that his disciples were not sufficient to calm or quell the fires of passion that burned in her fine, young, nineteen-year-old body. She would find the master and she would take him back to America with her. She would be his constant companion, his mystic mistress, his concubine. Anything, just to be near him. It had taken a lot of convincing to get her father to let her make the trip to India and to Nepal, but she had never yet been denied anything she really and truly set her mind to obtaining.
And now she was in Katmandu, the brilliant star of Nepal, the capital on top of the world, the shiniest emerald of the Himalayas. And out there in the mountains, just a two-day journey from the elaborate and lavish hotel, was the Guru who could not only turn her on, but who could keep her turned on throughout eternity if necessary.
The thought of her own private mystic, her own private Messiah, her own private seeker of love and truth and life, sent a spasm of pure rapture to her loins and she felt the lips of her puss grow moist and warm and sweet. She looked around the room and took joy in its luxurious furnishings, its warmth and beauty. Her eyes settled on the lump in the big double bed.
Her aching loins began to convolute at the thought of her lover. They had made love only once in the night before falling into deep slumber, borne of the fatigue from their long journey. She wanted him now! Not so much for himself and the physical pleasure he would bring her, but for the mystic passion that now surged through her veins at the mere thought of being within two days travel from her beloved, her darling, Anil Feroze Nanda!
Quietly and quickly, she slipped out of her pink negligee and stood in front of the window, gazing once more over the ornate balcony to the city below, at the dark-skinned, gaily-costumed figures who walked slowly along the narrow streets, carrying the bundles of their mercantile existence. She hoped that one of the men would look up and see her enormous pink breasts with their dark pink nipples. She virtually purred at the sexual impression such a wish left on her.
Christie repeated the name of her wonderful monk and felt her body begin to experience a series of ecstatic spasms that made her realize the immense power the unseen and unmet Guru already held over her.
The mere thought of Anil Feroze Nanda and his great and deep love for humanity and life and earth and heaven and stars and... and everything... made Christie shudder with a delighted and tormenting realization that the true meaning of life and love and truth were within her very grasp!
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