[This little erotic novella is a collaborative effort between myself, and another, who has fleshed out Snama in more ways than one.]
Part one . . . Reality in the Twilight Zone
Perhaps it was a gentle, anemonic caress of his manhood sheathed inside Snama's yoni that had awakened Neshe. Or it was just a sleepy stirring of the angelic form spooned against his chest and loins that encroached upon his sleep. Maybe it was a combination of these two. Or was it . . .
He was not clear. His eyes wandered to the Spartan face of the phosphorescent clock. Four thirty seven it said. "Almost daybreak" he thought. His mind meandered to when they had actually slipped into the realm of sleep.
He clearly remembered it had been exactly the stroke of midnight when his white hot signet had first kissed Snama's delicate, almost translucent skin. He had branded his initials on the small of her back, just above where the cleavage of her buttocks began.
It had taken him barely four minutes to indelibly inscribe his mark on five points of Snama's quiescent form.
The first brand had seared the small of her back. The second and third ones had settled on the peak of each perfectly rounded buttock. The fourth and fifth brand he placed on the velvety smooth inside of either thigh, almost kissing the rising swell of either outer lip of her yoni.
He had not been surprised that she hadn't uttered even a sob as the white hot gold had five times seared her soft, delicate skin.
As a matter of fact nothing had surprised him about Snama. Right from the moment he had first set his eyes on the reality of her late in the afternoon -- at the airport, where, courtesy of one of his friends in the Customs, he had been able to receive her on the tarmac.
He had positively known, ever since the day she had responded to his Valentine with the picture of a hennaed hand, that if he ever met her, the first time Snama would be in a sari.
Though he had seen just two small pictures of her, he had recognized her instantly. And in a sari she was, pale golden pink brocade in a very complex filigree pattern . . . as complex and as beautiful as the online relationship they had developed.
Snama stirred almost imperceptibly. Her haunches burrowed another hundredth of a millimeter into his groin, as if there was still room to be united more than they already were. In the gentle prison of her yoni, his manhood throbbed. Once again his mind meandered, in a "slow, smooth, sweet mind fuck" on how they had become so close.
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They had met on the net, in a chat room famous [or infamous] as a blatant sex chat site. Their interchanges, though, had always been short, and philosophical. So far as he was concerned, they had left him always thirsting for more.
Over time he had come to know that Snama also thirsted for his company.
And when she had responded positively to his invitation that she vacation with him in India this year, he had known.
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He had complimented her on how her form beautified the sari she had donned, and her slightly diffident, just this side of shy smile had emblazoned itself on his heart.
In the car, he had only uttered three sentences to her in the hour long drive to his home.
"Welcome to me, and welcome to India."
"I knew you'd be in a sari . . ."
"I also know, there's just you under the petticoat."
His left hand had found her lap, slid comfortably into the gold silk "V" formed by the juncture of her thighs.
Snama had just uttered four simple words . . .
"I knew you'd know."
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Her flight had been long but not tiring, she had told him. He had wanted to show her around what little his city had in the way of cultural and historical interest, but she had gently demurred.
"There'll be time for that later, there's so much to explore in us here first."
Dinner had been early, and a simple affair. It was embellished only by Snama's glowing presence in the muted candles between them in soft rose tinted candle holders. A shashlik on boiled, white aromatic rice, kebabs, unleavened bread . . . no wine, though later, some time after dinner, some cognac in exquisitely etched, warmed balloons.
Those softly sparkling glasses in hand, he had guided her to the roof. He knew she would be charmed by the view of the already half somnolent city, the shiny domes and turrets of the Temple a burnished gold in the glow of faraway focused spotlights.
The soft night breeze carried the waft of her scent to him again and again, almost as if insistent. But instead of obeying the impulse that impelled him towards Snama, he took a step back, standing almost at a right angle to her body, his eyes taking in her soft profile.
He watched her with half closed eyes, sipping his cognac, his gaze following the darting of her eyes on the darkened horizon, knowing that she'd turn to him . . .
And turn to him she did.
"This place is beautiful" she said
"More, because of you being here"
Again that almost shy smile.
"Let's go to bed," he said
"So soon?" she asked
"I didn't say let's go to sleep..."
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Snama stirred slightly again, intruding for a moment into his reverie. Then she settled down, and his mind again meandered.
In the subdued light of the bedroom, her looks, her form gained a new softness, a subtle accent to her womanliness.
There had been one soft kiss, and then his fingers had unwound the brocade cocoon of her sari . . . in a moment her blouse, bra and petticoat had gone too, revealing the golden wealth of her ripe womanhood as he disrobed.
He had been as ready for her as she had been for him. A step towards was all he needed to close the gap the gap between them. A simple extending of his arms was all that was required to pull her close. His hands had themselves found the roundures of her buttocks lifting her up to him.
"My kuss, my yoni, my cunt." He had whispered into her mouth as he had effortlessly impaled her on his impatient manhood, flashing onto her mind an instantaneous playback of all they had said and "done" via the chat messengers.
Snama's arms and legs entwined around his body. For a lifetime he held her crushed unto his chest, then in a couple of loping steps crossed over to his bed, gently lowering her underneath himself, his lingam still sheathed in her heat.
Of themselves her legs flexed, retracted, her knees finding a place on either shoulder of his.
Their need was totally mutual . . . it had not needed any assistance of motion to impel them into nirvana.
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Part 2 . . . Reality in the Twilight Zone
To be or not to be was a question with Hamlet.
Beyond being is becoming, and that, somehow was the path being traversed by Neshe and Snama.
Becoming one.
