Her Master's Voice Read online

  She came clattering and rushed out onto the verandah. She wore just a faded sarong and a flower in her hair. “Timmee, Timmee!” she shouted, “I know you come today! Before I come to find you.”

  Tim picked his way up the notched log that served as front steps and sat at the edge of the verandah to pull off his boots and socks. Darti threw herself at his back and started licking his ear. “Wait, wait,” he said as he struggled with his boots, “Wait, I’ve got something to show you.”

  He pulled two small gift-wrapped packets from his coverall pocket. She looked at them in awe for a moment and then started to tear them open. Crescent moon earrings in white gold. She rushed to a broken shard of mirror glass wedged in the clapboard wall and held them up to her ears. They shone in the black velvet of her hair. Setting them carefully on a shelf near the mirror, she tore open the other packet. Two tiny lace panties, one black, one white. She held them up and laughed. “Very small! I think too small! But I try. We go for mandi, OK?”

  At ground level at the back of the house Darti kept her water supply in two large plastic drums, a present from Sea Sprite IV. She had placed them to catch rainwater falling from the ragged eaves above and two strips of galvanized sheet bent into gutters helped extend their reach. Usually this caught enough water, but if she had run short after a rainless week, Darti would bring water up in buckets from the pool in front of the house. By the water tanks lay a small log platform, Darti’s bathroom. As Tim struggled out of his coveralls, she unwrapped her sarong and hung it over the steps. When Tim was ready, she stood in the middle of the platform, piled her long hair on the top of her head and waited. Standing there small, brown and naked, she looked even more like a little girl but Tim guessed she was about thirty-five. She said she had three children, already big, so even if she had started early she had to be at least thirty.

  She looked at him sideways. “Come on, Timmee, make me clean!”

  He took the plastic scoop and quickly shovelled cool water over her. “Oh—cold,” she complained as he reached for the soap. He soaped her from neck to toe and then used both hands to rub the soap into her skin. She felt firm and alive in his hands. Her small breasts barely filled his cupped hands and their dark chocolate nipples stood proud from the cold. He stood behind her to rub soap onto her back and down into her bottom. She sighed and opened her legs a little as his hands dived between her cheeks and brushed her little knot.

  He reached underneath her until he could soap the folds of her sex and on up onto her mound. She sighed again and stuck her bottom out as an invitation for more. Then she grabbed his wrist behind her and pulled him away. “Enough! Now water.”

  Tim scooped more water over her to wash away the suds and, still holding her hair up with one hand, she held her bottom and then her sex open for him to splash cold water into her.

  Then it was his turn. She soaked him and then soaped him all over. She spent a long time rubbing soap over his cock, sundang as she called it, and it stood rigidly as her small hands rubbed and stroked and dived between his legs. By the time she had finished, Tim was ready to throw her down on the floor and make love to her right there but she led him inside, still wet and dripping. She sat him on the floor against the wall while she modelled her new presents. First the earrings and then the white panties. They fitted perfectly and the contrast between the white lace and her brown skin looked delightful. She turned her back to him to show the small white T diving out of sight between her cheeks. Tim could wait no longer and grabbed her hips to pull her back on top of him. She fell on him giggling and shrieking for him to stop. When he did, she leapt up and pulled him into the centre of the room. She laid him on his back on the split bamboo floor and stood over his head.

  “That better. Now you quiet and watch me.” She pressed her feet against his ears and wiggled her toes against his neck. “You like my new pant?”

  “You look fantastic. Very beautiful. Take them off.”

  She put her hands to her hips and started to slide the panties down her legs. Past her knees and down until they held her ankles together. The lace pressed against Tim’s face. “You like now?”

  He looked up at her through the leg holes of the panties. “Yes, I like. You’re very pretty. Bring it down here”

  Darti tutted in denial. “Puki not pretty!”

  “How do you know? You don’t enjoy it the way I do. Bring it here where I can eat it.”

  She shrieked with laughter. “No, not for eating.” All the same, she stepped out of the panties and crouched over his head. She started to kiss him, his forehead, his cheeks, his ears. Her damp hair hung over him, enclosing them both in a dark, sultry tent. Then she reached his mouth and gave him long upside-down kisses.

  She ran her fingers through the hair on his chest. “Mmmh, orang hutan,” she said. “Not the same Indonesian man.” She moved further down so that her breasts hung above him. “You like, Timmee?” and she started to drag the dark points across his face. He snapped at one and caught it between his teeth. She always liked this game and pulled away. He held the nipple lightly and let her drag it out of his mouth. She moaned with pleasure. He snapped again, sucking half of her breast into his mouth and holding it gently with his teeth. She enjoyed the sharp edges dragging across her flesh and onto her nipple. She pulled free and dangled her other breast above him. He seized on it and filled his mouth again.

  When he had tormented her breasts for long enough, she moved her kisses down onto his stomach. She lay heavily on him, and his face pressed into her tummy. He could feel on his forehead the hardness of her mound with its sparse dusting of hair, and he could feel her breath on the end of his cock. He could do nothing but wrap his arms around her and enjoy her lithe weight pressing down on him.

  Her fingertips brushed against him, running up and down his length and stroking the hairy sack below. He felt himself swell even further. Darti was murmuring to herself in Indonesian and her stroking pulled at him to uncover his plum. Her warm breath enveloped him as she moved closer and closer. He lifted his hips, begging her to take him into her mouth.

  She touched him with the tip of her tongue, holding his shaft and dabbing at the rim of his plum, teasing his stretched nerves. Tim groaned and in response she pulled the skin of his erection back even harder. She stretched him to the edge of pain and gave him no relief. In his agonised mind Tim wrestled to delay the crisis she provoked so wantonly, holding back and at the same time begging for more. Darti’s teasing changed into long, succulent licks and she ran her tongue around and around him. She was pushing him past the limit.

  Tim’s hunger gathered in his roots until at the last second she relaxed her grip and laid him back onto his belly. “Mmmh! You are hungry man, Timmee. Not enough pom-pom in Singapore, no?”

  He slid back from the edge of orgasm and again felt the weight of her body lying on him, her breath warm on his balls. She felt smooth, firm and exciting. He gripped her hips and lifted her up. “Let me look at you…”

  Darti giggled as she allowed him to raise her onto her knees. She knelt on all fours above him and he looked up at her feminine riches, her small breasts hanging with their dark brown wrinkled points, her slight frame and narrow waist, childish hips and, shaded at the base of her belly, her sex with its dusting of black hair. He ran his hands up and down her flanks, stroking her and enjoying the silky feeling of her. He pulled on her hips, seeking to bring her sex within range of his tongue, but she resisted him. Her knees pressed on either side of his head, holding him still and keeping him a few tantalizing inches away from her centre. “No! Cannot!” She was teasing him.

  She dipped her head down and scooped him up with her mouth. He groaned in relief as her warm wetness engulfed him. “Yes, oh yes!” She savoured him, moving her head gently from side to side and letting him slide around in her mouth. His excitement mounted rapidly, but she pulled away and his sex fell back onto his belly.

  “Mmmh, very good, Tim. Very hungry. I think you make me very full when you
come. Too much come! You lie down.” She moved around to face him and knelt astride his thighs. He looked over the length of his body to take in her slim brown beauty, but she had eyes only for his sex. She shuffled forward, bringing her small dark delta closer. The rich wetness of her lips settled warmly onto the root of his sex, enveloping him. “Oh, that’s good,” he muttered, staring at the soft lips spread around his shaft. Darti looked into his eyes and started to rock gently. Her face grew still and thoughtful.

  Tim reached down to stroke her thighs as the rhythm of her rocking became more insistent. She had her eyes closed for seconds at a time, and when they opened, they were blank and far away. She leant forward and put her hands on his chest. She rubbed herself harder against him now, pressing almost brutally against his hairy root. Her head nodded and her curtain of black hair fell forward. “Oh Tim,” she panted and her rubbing became frantic. It could not last, and with a cry she threw her head back. She sat frozen, all her weight fusing them together, balancing herself between her pulsing sex and her rigid fingertips on his stomach.

  Tentatively, Tim rocked his hips from side to side but it was too soon for her. “No, no, stop!” and she fell trembling onto him. “Stop! I rest.” She wanted to wait but Tim no longer cared. Roughly, he lifted her up again and steered his urgent erection between her lips. She settled slowly down onto his spike. It felt heavenly.

  Tim lifted her up and started to move beneath her. Under the arch of her spread thighs, his thick stem slid luxuriously in and out of her, and they both watched it in silence. She moaned and, pushing on his chest, brought her feet up until she squatted over him. She raised herself until she held only his tip, and allowed him to move freely. It felt intensely exciting to watch his cock being nearly swallowed and then re-emerging slick and shiny.

  It was not enough for Darti, and she started to move. Soon she was lowering herself onto him, sucking the whole length of him into her delicate body. She moved more forcefully, dropping herself heavily onto his root. Tim could not imagine how she swallowed him so completely without pain, that her small frame could accept him, that she desired so much of his cock inside her. She paused to grind her mound into his hair, feeling his rod stir her insides and then she began again, slamming herself down on him and striving for release. With a rush Tim was coming at last, pumping and fountaining into her. He was barely conscious of her drawing out the agonising moment, squatting on him, arms between her raised knees, holding his waist and frantically crushing her sex into his hair.

  She lay on him, between his legs, with his softening stem still inside her. Her hair flowed over him and he could feel her soft breath on his neck. He felt completely relaxed.

  “I don’t know how you do that, Darti. It doesn’t look possible to sit on it like that. It should hurt.”

  “Hurt?” she muttered. “No hurt. I like it inside. It is very good.”

  Chapter 4

  She was torn from her diary by Ranji’s phone call. “Come quickly, Sherry, I’ve found a new flute for you.” Ranji sounded flustered, as if she had been running. She must have called from a payphone and Sherry could hear the traffic behind her.

  “But I’m busy…” she protested half-heartedly.

  “So come to the Marco Polo now. Can you take a taxi?” Ranji did not listen to her.

  Sherry resigned herself to another lesson and went to shower and change. She dressed as Ranji had taught her to dress, slowly and with care. She patted herself dry and stood powdering her skin under the ceiling fan. Dry and silky, she started with jewellery. Gold pendants for her ears because Ranji held that men love to see them swinging as her flute-playing became more emotional. Filigree gold cross low in her cleavage because that too would swing as she moved, and it was a cross because Ranji said Asian men invariably loved blonde European Christian women. Just associating with them would give any man a lift, no matter how important he was. Three gold hoop bracelets (Ranji would have liked more but Sherry had refused) and her dress wrist watch. She had accepted a discreet slave chain at her ankle.

  She sat in front of the mirror and ran a comb through her hair. Still growing, but a long way to go. As it was now, not even touching her shoulders, she still could not hold it back in a ponytail or a roll. The hairdresser had worked on it, but even she could not make it grow faster. Still, what there was looked good, and Ranji especially liked her colour and the way it swung onto her cheek as she bobbed her head.

  They had arrived at her make-up scheme during a bad-tempered session at the beauty salon. Sherry had sat mute while the black-haired Singapore Chinese beautician had argued with the equally black-haired but far more colourful Ranji. The beautician wanted understatement and Ranji seemed to favour something out of a Bollywood movie. They had settled on a model from an outdated Cosmopolitan, exaggerated a little to please Ranji. Ice blue shadow and strong pink lips. Now she had grown used to it, the make-up felt like her other personality. She found she enjoyed the feeling of slipping on a tarty character and going out into Singapore in disguise.

  She paused to ring for a taxi, and went to her wardrobe. Ranji had stood over her while she bought three versions of what English ladies should wear. At least, what Ranji thought they should wear. Light, string-strapped summer frocks with subdued floral prints, timeless, Liberty’s, completely proper. Ranji had shortened them, of course, saying that even in Singapore nobody wore knee-length skirts. Sherry pulled a dress from the rail and slipped it over her naked body. That was the other thing. Although Ranji might wear a bra to confine her own generous breasts, she permitted Sherry nothing at all. Not even panties. She had complained bitterly but Ranji folded her arms and looked as unyielding as granite. No underwear. “It will make you feel more like a proper woman,” she had said. “You won’t stop thinking of your sexiness, and that is good for you. Every time you move, you will feel sexy.”

  She had been right, of course. The first few times Sherry had left the house without her bra and panties, she had felt terribly naked, as if every passerby on the street could see her breasts and more. She had been terrified of discovery, and yes, she had felt sexy too. Every time she hurried, or stepped onto a bus, or felt the wind blow, she had been reminded of her secret nakedness. Now she was used to it; now she felt normal dressed like that. Squeezing into a crowded bus or tapping quickly down steps no longer frightened her. When she had mentioned the change in her feelings to Ranji, she had clapped her hands and giggled. “Now I know you are learning correctly. Papi Bombar will be so pleased, I must tell him. You are not feeling so sexy now because you are sexy. You are changing, Sherry, and it is very good!”

  She slipped into heeled sandals and stood in front of the mirror with approval. She knew she looked good. She smiled and swung her hips to make her skirts twirl. She looked desirable, but the pricking thought that she had been having more frequently came again, what would Tim think if he could see her now?

  Ranji waited for her in the hotel lobby, dressed grandly in a dark green sari with a delicate pattern picked out in gold thread. She had plaited her black hair and it hung far down her back. She looked severe and matronly, if such a thing was possible for Ranji.

  “Ranji! You look so formal you make me feel terrible.”

  She smiled and took her by the elbow. “Come on, the Professor is waiting for us.” They hurried to the elevators.

  “Professor?” asked Sherry, thinking of the tweed-jacket-with-leather-elbow-patches professors of her own university days.

  “Yes, Professor Rhee. He is very important.”

  “An important professor?”

  “He is an important politician from Calcutta and also, of course, a business executive. He is a VIP!”

  Perhaps Indian professors were different, thought Sherry as the elevator rose. She began to feel nervous. Just stage fright, she told herself.

  “Now, I have told him that you are Swedish and that your father is a diplomat, and that you are still a student, and you are not permitted to speak to him. There, that
should make things easier for you.” Ranji marched confidently towards the professor’s room. “Don’t let me down, Sherry. Show me all your lessons.” She tapped at the door.

  The professor looked unimpressive. Short, bony and wearing tinted glasses with thick black plastic frames. Receding hair and a moustache, both white. He wore a white cotton sarong wound around his skinny waist. Sherry’s heart fell.

  If the professor’s looks let him down, his self-confidence did not. “Ranji, my dear, come in. Come in.” His accent was unmistakably English public school, and probably Oxbridge. “And this is your student. Welcome, young lady, welcome.” Sherry muttered something low as she shook his small hand.

  His room sat high in the hotel and looked out over the trees towards Orchard Road. Sherry stared out of the window in an effort to erase the room and the professor from her life.

  “Sit down, sit down, Ranji. Can I bring you something to drink? What is the young lady’s name? Where do you want me?” The professor sounded excited and nervous, and Ranji tried to cool him down.

  “I think you should sit on the bed, Professor, and I will come and sit next to you. There, that’s a good thing, I think.” She guided him down and settled her generous bottom beside him. The bed sagged beneath them and, like a hammock, tipped them closer together. Sherry registered the contrast they made—youth and beauty, age and dryness. Ranji looked rich and alive. The professor’s nervous activity made a poor substitute. She wished she were somewhere else.

  Without ceremony, Ranji reached for the professor’s sarong and started to unwrap him. “So, let’s see what you have for Ingrid to play with…”