‘W-what are you?’ he stammered.
She had the sorts of eyelids that swept as dramatically as butterfly wings each time she blinked. Her skin had a golden hue and her shimmering hair let off the sweet scent of jasmine. The curves of her body were very arousing. She followed his gaze across her chest and reached for him. Her touch was soft. Her fingers, now fully formed, ran along her body to show him that she was real. She drew attention to parts of the body that Ram had never had to consider as a tailor – the bone jutting from her collar, the sharp edge of her elbow. Her toenails were curved and white like half-moons. Her belly button was a dark crater in the golden desert of her body. Ram reached out to clutch a handful of flesh above her hip. It was as real as his own.
‘Call me Laila,’ she said.
She put her lips to his earlobe and sucked it gently. Shivers of delight ran through Ram like an electric current. He ran his hands down her back and grabbed her buttocks, drawing their hips together as they fell back against the bed of fabric. She unwound the loose cloth that covered the top of her body and exposed her breasts to Ram. Ram flicked his tongue against a dark nipple. Laila gasped with pleasure, grinding herself against him. Ram switched to the other breast. She tasted salty and musky, the way he could never have imagined. Daringly, he brought his fingers to her mouth. She licked and sucked on them. Ram’s manhood throbbed with anticipation of what Laila’s sweet, silky mouth might do for him. His fingers were slick with saliva when he pulled them away from Laila’s lips and into the silky crevice between her legs.
‘You’re so real,’ Ram uttered.
Laila spread her legs wider and allowed Ram to stroke her. The fabric beneath her darkened with shadows of sweat. With both thumbs, Ram gently parted the folds of her womanhood and used the tip of his tongue to tickle her protruding button. Laila’s giggle turned him on even more. She rolled over him, pulling off his pants fiercely. His manhood was stiff. Laila teased him. She brushed her wetness against the tip of his manhood and watched his face contort with pleasure. ‘How does that feel?’ she breathed into his ear. Her breasts dangled over his lips. He replied with a groan. ‘That’s not a proper answer,’ Laila said sternly. With a scowl, she lowered herself onto him and began riding vigorously on his hard, thick stick.
The angry look on Laila’s face was the only remnant of the punishing nature of the curse. Ram gave Laila’s bottom a hard squeeze. Her scowl deepened. ‘How dare you?’ she asked. He gritted his teeth, the tension building inside him. He felt Laila’s muscles clenching at the same time as his. She cried out his name and let out a long, shuddering moan. Witnessing Laila’s ultimate pleasure triggered Ram’s quick, hot release. He grabbed her hips and moaned loudly. Laila’s body was slick with sweat. She continued to rock slowly on his stick as tiny aftershocks sent quivers through his body.
As they lay together, Laila explained that she had been created from Ram’s wishes to be with a woman. The curse had been no match against the strength of his desires. Aware that wishes, just like curses, have a lifespan, Ram asked Laila how long they would be together. ‘As long as these rolls of fabric,’ Laila said. They looked around. The fabric had unspooled and spilled across Ram’s modest studio. Rich, fiery hues of orange and dazzling silver threads stretched as far as they could see.
Kulwinder’s tea was cold. She barely noticed it as she brought the cup to her lips and gulped it down. Her face, her hands and feet felt very warm, almost hot. She could feel the pulsing of her heart and another pulsing in very private place. There was a faint recollection of this feeling, from many years ago when she first discovered what it was that men and women did, and why they did it. Her earlier appalled fa?ade forgotten, she was enthralled. She even dared to think that it was worth living the rest of her life for, this closeness with another human being.
She put the story back into the folder and pulled out another one. This was by Jasbir Kaur, a widow who lived in South London. Kulwinder had attended the engagement party of her grandson a few years back. She began reading Jasbir’s story and felt the blood surging through her body with such urgency that she had to put it down. She stood up and left the cup of tea on the table. A wave of energy swept over her and carried her up the stairs. Lying on the bed, Sarab was staring at the ceiling. Kulwinder took his hand and laid it gently on her breast. He stared at her in confusion at first, and then he understood.
Nikki knew without ever having had the experience that she would be pretty hopeless in a fight. A wrestling scenario played in her mind and immediately she saw herself being pinned to the ground by one of Kulwinder’s meaty arms. She winced; even in a fantasy, she was losing. She would have to use her wits. The stories, she would explain, had never been intended to make a mockery of the classes, or of Kulwinder. The stories were inspired by the women, and yes, they were raunchy, but weren’t they learning language all the same?
If these tactics didn’t work, Nikki would just grab the folder and leave. For this scenario to work, the folder would have to be within reach of course. It occurred to her with a pang that Kulwinder might have already tossed the stories out in the rubbish.
The night breeze picked up and rustled through the trees. On the main road, the headlights of cars shone intensely like eyes. Nikki turned to a side street and walked briskly to warm herself. At night, the houses seemed to crouch together behind dim patches of porch lights. Nikki’s phone buzzed in her pocket. A text from Sheena.
All the women still want to meet regularly. Can you think of a place?