He entered the room quietly. She purposefully chose one far from his to have her wounds treated - and of course did not tell him. Gauri, whom he managed not to kill, but still hunted her with looks of wrath, was about to enter and put a soothing balm on her mistress' back, when he roughly pushed her away, taking the bowl from her hands and finally entering and closing the door behind him. She was lying on the bed, resting, her eyes closed and her naked back exposed. He moved silently as he stepped closer and sat carefully next to her. She did not even flinch, though he knew she was awake. She apparently still thought it was Gauri with her.
In a dim light of the lamp he inspected her back more carefully this time. He could almost phantom the sound of the whip cutting through the air and her cries of pain - if there were any. Something was telling him she wouldn't give Kali Babu that satisfaction. Maybe that was why he did not care about damaging the goods he had paid for? Except for the whip marks he now could see the nasty bruises of all colours on her upper arms, lower back, and from what he could see, also below her ribs. Several of the whip marks bit deep into her skin. They were no longer bleeding, but for now remained open, red and swollen.
Setting the bowl with the balm aside, he reacted instinctively. He gently brushed his lips over one of the bruises, pressing a light kiss against the unaffected bit of her skin. Her eyes shot open at the sensation but before she could turn around and get up he pressed himself against her, pinning her down but being careful not to hurt her. "Trust me," he whispered. He could just imagine her being hesitant. She craved for his touch, she wanted to be comforted by him, yet at the same time she did not want him to see her like that. What he was asking of her, for the first time in her life, was to give up all control, to be at his mercy. Because even though she always subordinated her desires to his, her wishes to his, there was always a sense of having some control over what was happening. She never let her guard down, she never completely gave in. And he now wanted exactly that.
"Trust me," he repeated, feeling her inner turmoil. Finally she closed her eyes and he felt her body relax a bit. Another wave of gentle feelings washed over his heart.
His lips started to make love to the abused skin of her back. Kisses soft as a feather, kisses lingering lazily, kisses fleeting but plentiful. He would blow softly into the whip marks before caressing them with his lips and breath. She trembled upon every touch. Soon enough she rewarded him with soft whimpers. At time they were little protests of pain, when he used a bit more pressure at some extremely sensitive spots, and he was always quick to make up for it with more loving touches. Finally, when she was nearly passing out of sheer pleasure, he dipped his fingertips into the bowl, spreading the healing balm over the gashes and bruises lightly, cooling down her back that was still burning from his touch. A long sigh escaped her, in which he could hear his name, half choked-up in her throat. "Sleep," he ordered gently, planting one more kiss on her neck. Blowing out the candle, he left the room to let her rest and to get some sleep himself.
It was not coming though. After some time of hopelessly turning from one side to another in attempts to fall asleep, he finally decided there was no point in trying. He got up to pour himself some water, but did not bother to put on the lights. The moonlight streaming into the room through an open window was bright enough.
He did not expect a soft palm to suddenly cover his eyes, nor a touch of hot lips on the back of his neck or soft, soft and gentle female form to lean into his back. Even through the material of his shirt he could feel she was naked. It was all so unexpected he just felt stupefied. All his sense came alive moments later, much more alert than ever, when he felt the cool fingers of her other hand float under his shirt and make their way slowly, tantalizingly up his spine, resting gently on his shoulder blade. "You should be asleep," he only managed to say, his throat dry. Yes, she should. She was hurting and in need of rest. But his thoughts were quickly getting less and less coherent as he felt the jasmine scents rising from her hair. He could almost imagine it physically entangling him, like an invisible rope, binding him. He felt her moving in front of him and her lips lightly touching his cheek. Then she lowered her palm from his eyes so he could see. Her eyes were shining in the dark, as if some hidden light was coming out of them. She was yet another person. Another unfamiliar Chandramukhi. This one was not a dignified martyr, she was not a mischievous imp, she was not caring nurse trying to make the weight of the world lighter for him. This was a woman woken up under all the other layers she has learned to accept and make her own. This was her most inner self. Love was in her heart-beat, passion was her air. All the conventions and shyness were forgotten. She was there in front of him, just like the Gods created her, beautiful and fully aware of that.
Maybe they were just moments, minutes, maybe they were ages, but he kept staring at her. His own body was quicker than his brain. He felt his blood rushing through his veins, his breath was coming out in short gasps, he felt tightening in his groin area. No, no shyness in her eyes at all. He took off his shirt first. Now it was her eyes feasting upon his body as he shed all his clothing. Her heart was racing. He was beautiful. The firm shoulders and lean body, long, muscular legs. They were a man and a woman. Equals. There was no difference anymore. He was not a master and she was not a tawaif. He was not a noble man and she was not a lowly female society laughs at.
She was the one to make the first move. She came closer to him, placing her hand over his heart. "Trust me," she whispered then, echoing his words from earlier that day. He understood what she meant. This was her night and she would do as she pleased. And he should just let her be, because she apparently knew best what she was doing. Anyway, any thinking became difficult as soon as she started kissing his chest. Down from his shoulders, over his collarbone, she was tasting his skin, causing as much pleasure to himself as herself. She moved her hands gently, but firmly over the lines and curves of his back and chest, ultimately reaching lower. He drew a sharp breath when her hand covered his manhood, already painfully hard. And the rest of his logic died as she began to perform her own art of love-making. Her lips and her hands have mastered the skills perfectly over the years, but for the first time she felt that while giving him the pleasure she herself was taking it as well. Caressing, kissing and licking his manhood, it did not take long for her to realize he was not fully in control of his pleasure. He was not skilled enough to prolong the moment. It was her who had to teach him. When she felt his hips started thrusting slightly forward, she stood up again, only one of her hands still moving over his erect member, her fingers tracing the beautiful vein running so close under the sensitive skin. His eyes were dazed, intoxicated. She made him lie on the bed.
Sliding her own body over his she made sure he felt every little inch of her form, and at the same time she relinquished at the feeling of his solid torso burning against her skin. His manhood trapped in between their bodies now, she decided to ignore it for a moment, choosing to kiss him passionately and long. Just like he had her in his power completely that night so long ago, by his strength and possessiveness, she had him on her mercy now, by gentle, but incredibly exciting movements, sights and touches.
Straddling him, she finally allowed him to enter her, wincing with pain a bit. He no longer knew the rest of the world existed. She was perfect for him. As fulfilling as the other night had seemed, he hardly had the time to realize and savor these things, driven by raw passion. She started to move slowly, keeping an even pace, making him ache with impatience, but at the same time prolonging the experience. Her soft palms rested upon his chest, she could feel his heart beating. Her moves became quicker then. Both of them were breathing heavily, but none allowed any loud cries to escape them. The moonlit silence of the moment seemed too precious. It belonged to their union, it made it more their own. His hips were lifting up to meet her, his member sliding in and out of her beautiful, wet heat more frantically with each passing moment, trying to get as deep as possible and yet every single time even deeper. And then even she lost the control. She threw her head back, arching her body and one of her hands touched the place where their bodies met. He never saw anything as beautiful in his life. With that thought he pushed into her one last time and closed his eyes as he reached his climax, and she followed just moments later. Then she collapsed on his chest.
"I'm cold," she whispered after a while. And really, her body, unlike his, was almost freezing. He reached out for a blanket and through it over them both, nesting her head on his chest instead of a pillow and carefully wrapping one arms around her shoulders, while the other rested on her waist, both avoiding the injured back. He breathed into her hair and after a long time felt at peace. Just before he fell asleep, an idea sprung into his mind. He smiled into the darkness. The future was now in his hands.
