Bebo and Lolo

I had been a massage therapist for six years now. Learning my trade in a shady massage parlour (where happy endings were more the norm than special requests), I did my fair share of old, dirty men and tired women. Some of them wanted relief from pain, the others, an easing from daily life, being alone while still surrounded by 15 million people.

But now, that was the past. I was lucky to receive growth in a dead end profession. I worked well, had strong arms, and understood the internet enough to learn new tricks of the trade. Over time, I added Swedish, shiatsu, Kerala and other type of massages. Though most people in India preferred the less painful Thai massage, once they tried one of the others on my recommendation, they were hooked. That I was tall, lean and easy on the eye helped as well. One thing led to another, and I was soon called upon by the crème de la crème of Bombay society.

Over time, I learned enough english, enough subservience and exercised caution, discretion and a genuine appreciation for my clients' lives. The hour and a half they spent with me was perhaps the only time in the week where they could truly switch off, wade in that special zone between sleep and mindfulness, and think about the simple joys in life.

Today, it was just one such day. I arrived at the Khar station, making sure my little 'bag of wonders' (as my current client of the day referred to it), survived the jostling. It was maddening to survive the train journey at this time of the day. Consequently, given my sweat infused state, I could not reach the client directly. Over the past few years, as my earnings had increased, I befriended a local hotel owner who let me use the bathroom of a vacant room to take a shower, and then take a quick taxi to the clients' homes. Thank god most of my clients lived in a microcosm of this great city, else I would be forever stuck with this problem. The issue of body odour wouldn't normally occur to a person of my class, but watching enough deodorant advertisements pasted on each train and bus had told me it was expected behaviour from a man, to smell good. Also, the little time I spent in a five-star spa in Bandra had made me realise the power of good smells.

The bath over, I doused a few drops of petrichor ittar, ensuring I smelled earthy yet not perfumed, and took a taxi. There was a slight breeze blowing, and the day was as Bombay as it could be. Arriving at the Oberoi Crest, a large white building, I noticed the building security being more vigilant than usual. There were three media vans standing around, and some bustle. Sensing this as usual, I wondered what made the security guard stay on edge, with a pensive look lining his face. Shankar Pandey knew me well from previous visits, and greeted me with a slight nod of the head as he opened the gate. 'Seedha andar jaiye aaj, thoda panga hai', so I walked on- was there some tabloid news that I had missed?

The door was opened by the housekeeper, who asked me to set up in the study, my usual spot in the house. Going in, I noticed the living room was empty. Given my client's irregular hours, I thought she might have just returned from an engagement late in the night, and they were still sleeping. I took out the burgundy massage table nestled behind the large book case, and set it up. The candles were already in place, meaning my client had partaken the aromatherapy session I had recommended the last time. Happy that she had some time to relax the night before, I was looking forward to the massage session. Her last film had been a huge hit, a typical hindi blockbuster. An item song had caught the nation's fancy in particular, and everyone from little kids to old men were humming its particularly raunchy lyrics all day long. She had travelled the length and breadth of the country for a month, and now as the clamour died down, she had a week or so before she went on to shoot for the next movie. Telling me all this during her last massage, she had sounded excited about this brief period of rest.

I was all set, and let the housekeeper know. She was carrying a tray with some snacks and a few plates, which meant there were more than the usual two people at home. I went in, put on the Buddha Bar CD, and waited for my client.

The door opened and someone walked in. Recognising her usual perfume (she had worn Jean Paul Gaultier Classique all her life, I had learnt), I bellowed out a 'Good morning madam' to wake her up. It was essential to get her to a mindful state before I melted her consciousness away. Turning around, I was surprised by the other presence in the room- along with Kareena Kapoor, dressed in a shapeless cotton kaftan, was her elder sister, Karisma Kapoor. "Good morning, Kabir ji", Kareena replied, smiling and radiant. Having just had her morning coffee, she was bubbling. "You know Lolo, of course." "Namaste madam, how are you?" She smiled and moved to the bookcase to check out the latest books her mother had stacked up. Kareena told me she was going out, and her didi would be partaking of my services. I nodded, and set about getting the towels and other things ready. Kareena and I stepped out of the room while Karisma changed. Kareena hesitated for a moment, and then said "She's not been in a good state of mind for quite some time. I tried the candles last night, but she still needs a little more help. Please ensure you do whatever you can to get her to relax?" I nodded again- not speaking much with my clients was a policy that had served me well. My relationship was more physical, more instinctive and my clients relished the opportunity to not be peppered with questions and comments on everything. People had a tendency to try to impress and swoon over them, and my silence appeased them. Vidya Balan had expressly said as much to me, and I had not met a more observant woman in my life.

Knocking at the door, I received a curt "Come in" in response. Stepping in, I dimmed the lights, put the candles on. And warmed the oil in my hands. Her alabaster skin had always baffled me, and now, lying on the table, with just a towel covering her hips, was the object of my teenage fantasies herself. Ever since she had asked Harish in Prem Qaidi to take some money out of her bosom, Karisma had become a sensation, delivering superlative performances across dramatic, comedy and romantic roles. With her 'type' of films waning away in the early 2000's, she had married a once divorced Delhi business man, had two children, was now back in Bombay to live with her mother. I knew all of this not because I knew the family intimately, but the country's media let us know every sordid detail every single day of the week.

She had dropped her children here, and gone off for a trip to god knows where- this was a detail only I knew because I was in the house for half a day last week, helping Kareena unwind. The children and their granny stayed in the living room, and their patter continued while Kareena paid me.

Moving forward, I asked, "Start karen, madam?", so I didn't startle her, and she grunted in response. She was thicker in the sides than she looked clothed, but her last child was born less than a year ago, and this figure was a delight for the eyes. Only someone like me, used to looking at the best bodies in the country in the buff, would notice. I started with a Thai maneuver, the others were too intense for clients I was working for the first time with. Slowly repeating my strokes, I ran my hands over her shoulders, back and extending to the top of her hips. As I unknotted her shoulders, she moved her head to the side, started breathing deeply, and relaxed her body further still. Soon, her body was putty in my hands, moving supple chunks of skin with each movement, undulating and tensing as I moved from flesh to muscle.

The music was getting slower, and the massage was well under way. I moved to her legs, moving the towel to cover her back and hips, working out kinks in her calves. Almost all of the movies stars ran a lot to maintain their fitness, and Karisma had maintained her activity levels. I applied more oil and gave her calves a good workout, moving away only when I felt the skin move sans any resistance to my hands. She had long given up grunting when I moved to the sore spots, and from the level of feedback, it seemed she was used to a more vigorous style of massage. I prompted her to turn around and she slowly rotated, presenting, in all glory, her 36B breasts. They were large, distended to the sides as she lied down, but what glory! I immediately set to work while she had her guard down, massaging her upper chest, being careful not to touch her breasts, as I moved around them. Many clients tended to cover their breasts while I was doing their front, but she seemed very relaxed about baring them to me.

Used as I was seeing to naked flesh, I just could not take my eyes off her breasts. They were near perfect globes, rising softly with each breath, and moving to the sides slightly, as I circumvented from her upper chest to her stomach, moving downwards towards paradise. Despite myself, I was getting turned on, getting harder- and that was going to be a problem. Being a thorough professional, I could not afford to have a hard on in presence of my clients. Once before, while attending to Raveena Tandon, my taut manhood had brushed inadvertently against her hand, and I had never been called back, something that rankled me a year later.

Moving quickly to her legs, I started massaging her upper thighs, working out the kinks rather rapidly. She seemed to sense the change in pace, and softly asked me to come back to her shoulders, without moving about. This meant I was hovering over her head, massaging her shoulders and upper chest from the front, and HER BOOBS WERE IN MY FACE. I brought my years of practice to the fore, and started thinking about Kareena in her size zero stage to bring my manhood down. It didn't help. The buxom version of Kareena was only too recent in my head, and the image of a naked Kareena in my head, and a naked Karisma in my hands was even worse.

I decided to throw caution to the winds. This might be my only chance at touching her. And who knows, like many previous encounters, this massage may also turn into a happy ending. Moving my hands slightly lower, I asked Karisma, "Madam, Chest bhi karna hai kya?" Using the unisex and medical term for her bazookas was a masterstroke. As soon as she said yes, I moved in to the side, applied a fresh coat of oil to my hands, and started massaging her breasts. They were soft, a little stuffy from the silicon she had put in (almost all actresses did over time as time changed how their breasts looked), but overall, a perfect handful and a half.

At first, she started saying something as soon as I touched the bottom of her breasts, but then settled down to enjoy the massage. Her breathing had changed, and she squirmed a bit as I circled her areola and reached very near her nipple. She nearly brought her back off the table as I went to town, getting every part of her breast involved, but leaving the nipple alone. I knew how a woman worked, I had brought the best of them off. But I had to know where I stood- in the middle of turning a woman on, or risking a very lucrative assignment with Karisma Kapoor, and Kareena by extension. On the next trip to the center of her breasts, I brushed the back of my hand against her nipple, and her mouth opened involuntarily almost. I immediately asked her, "theek hai madam?", to which she replied rather breathlessly, "Accha hai, karte rahiye bhaiya" The bhaiya rankled me, but would I rather think about my feelings, or satisfy this bitch in heat? I kept my counsel, and started pinching her nipples slightly now. She was squirming, rubbing her legs together, and the towel covering her legs moved slightly away. I could see a very fair thigh leaning out.

As I continued to massage her breasts, she continued to breathe shallower and faster. I knew many women who came while only tending to their breasts, but Karisma was one of a kind. It almost felt her breasts were a hundred million nerve endings, all attached to her vagina directly. Holding one of her nipples between my left hand, I used my right hand to move downwards to her stomach, going down towards paradise. I stopped just short of the towel, using pressure on her navel to apprise her of the possibilities. She was heaving now, and wanted release more than anything. I moved my hand further down still, almost moving it below the towel, and felt the first signs of stubble on her otherwise smooth body. Moving my hands rapidly between her navel, thighs and rib cage, I had her in a frenzy.

Abruptly, everything changed. She took my right hand and took it below the towel, landing her fingers, my hands intertwined with hers on her clit, and pressed it there. I continued the assault on her breasts, moving rapidly between her breasts, the nape of her neck and her cheeks- this woman loved a firm hand. Less than a moment later, she was whimpering, holding my hand in a vice like grip over her vagina and coming like a banshee. She kept muttering "Oh shit, oh shit, Oh god, fuck" over and over again as she came. My hands were sticky, full of ejaculate of a former hindi film heroine, my other hand still brushing her boobs slightly as I brought her back to earth. Almost as soon as she came down, I moved away from her immediately. I had had incidents where clients felt deeply ashamed of their actions with me as their bodies betrayed them, and berated me. Thankfully, all of them called me back and became regulars but I had to keep my wits around me. With a massive hardon, I turned around lest she have a look. After all, the woman had just used me as an instrument, and I'd rather play a dildo unless she wanted more.

Lady luck was on my side. As I moved away, she reached out for me, with her eyes still closed. Trying to catch my hand, she managed to land her hand on the side of my leg, mid way between my thigh and crotch, and tried to pull me in her direction. As I turned, her hand remaining on my body, my body turned in, landing my dick right in her hands. She immediately gripped it, moving rapidly between handling it with the palm of her hand and trying to coax it with her fingers, rapidly moving from one to the other. I could not gauge what she wanted- was she just trying to reciprocate and bring me off, or did she want my cock out? I stayed in limbo, watching her manicured, red nails dance across my crotch.

"Nikalo jaldi!" her breathless command was electrifying. Lying prone on her side, she watched as I got rid of my pants and underwear in a jiffy, and then without her prompting, removed my shirt too. I had to let her stay in command, keeping our social structure in place, but take some lead if I wanted to get something out of this situation.

She immediately removed the towel from her crotch, bringing her pussy to my line of vision. It was glistening with her cum, and it was itching for more. Almost on autopilot, I took my hand back to her crotch, this time ignoring her clit, getting two of my fingers together for a deeper probe. She instinctively opened her legs, and let my hand wander. Reaching the entrance of her honey pot, I gathered some moisture from around her crotch, and attempted to make an entry. She was hot as hell inside, making me feel the heat as one and then two fingers entered her. I probed slowly, making tentative inroads. It was a tight fit, my mental query about a vaginoplasty confirmed as I noticed the slight bump indicating a healed stich near her opening. What luck! She would be as tight as virgin if I did get lucky all the way.

"Madam, may I lick you?" Switching to english was important now. She laughed at that, and replied, "haan bhosdi ke, chaat le meri choot!" Wow. She looked like an angel, and talked like a cheap whore in bed. I wonder what idiot would have divorced her. She knew she had pressed the right buttons, as her vagina was immediately covered with my tongue. I moved rapidly from her clit to her vagina, stopping nowhere and trying to be everywhere at the same time. She took charge, holding my head to her clit for some time, and then pushing it further when she wanted me to probe her hole. I was happy to be led to the wonderland. Soon, she was gasping again, moving her ass off the table. I grabbed hold of her ass cheeks, and went on to write the alphabet on her clit. She went absolutely mad, muttering obscenities as she thrashed around. "Fuck, yes, yes, oh god, Fuck, Zor se bhaiya, aur thoda, yes, Fuck, fuck fuck!!" She held on to my head, tousling my hair this way and that as she continued to thrash about like a fish out of water. Finally, she was done.

Or so I thought. She immediately grabbed hold of my dick again, which had softened a bit without attention but was rapidly hardening after her thrilling climax. She slid off the massage table, confirming my suspicions that she was a true lady, one who satisfied in return, than just use me as an accessory. She sucked me in rapidly, getting to my pubes on her first go- she was an actress from the age of the casting couch, when even family name wasn't enough to get you what you wanted. And she had worked with the best directors and actors through her career, and without exception to that wimp Abhishek Bachchan, dated the hottest men. I didn't expect less than porn star performance from Karisma Kapoor, cock sucker extraordinaire!

She moved rapidly, sucking, licking, blowing, deep throating and lightly biting me, moving me rapidly from one stage to another- she seemed intent on getting me off as soon as possible. As minutes went on and my hardness reached its zenith, she knew she had to use other aspects of her body to get things moving. She made me lie down on the table, leaning over me as she used her mouth, and then her breasts to rub against my shaft. As she rubbed her boobs, she whispered "Kaise lag rahe hain mere mumme?" "very nice, madam!" I replied, nearly panting from her ministrations.

Now, she was getting irritated, and nearly losing interest in getting me off. I had to see if I could cross the final frontier. So I grabbed her from her armpits, and pulled her upwards, then rapidly grabbing her hips to poise her over me. Holding her like this, her petite yet busty body was ready to be impaled, but I had to know she wanted it. She immediately settled her feet near my thighs, squatting down, trying to seek my cock without looking. I held her body up with one hand, using my other hand to place my cock at her pussy. "Daal doon, madam?", I asked, returning her 'bhaiya' pronouncements in kind, still maintaining decorum.

"Chod sale, daal de andar!" she hissed huskily, and I lowered her body on my dick. She went down like a grip on a cricket bat's handle- smooth, rubbery, her pussy engulfing my cock as I reached the hilt. Oh man, she was tight like a vice, nearly milking me on the first upside. I was in heaven. Karisma Kapoor, 36B alabaster breasts, hanging over me, on her haunches, milking my cock with her pussy. I was in heaven, I laid back and let her enjoy herself. She alternated between being a porn star, giving me a show as her breasts did the splits, and then taking pleasure for herself- here was a woman who knew what it was like being extremely well-fucked, enjoying herself and making me gasp as he provided friction to my foreskin with her well timed and never missing connections.

I was in seventh heaven, she finally got tired of being on her haunches, mounted me with her knees on my side, and started taking her hips back and forth, in an attempt to get my dick to rub against her g-spot. I starting rocking my hips to meet her thrusts, and soon we were both going a mile a minute. The table was staggering, and I knew we would soon break it with our combined weight and movement. I swiftly had her dismount me, pushing her down to her knees and feeding her my cock. She lapped hungrily, tasting her own pussy juice and getting intoxicated. I roughly pushed her to the ground, placed a pillow below her knees, and stared at her ass for a moment.