Blood Over Embers

Simone wakes up with a dull, throbbing headache that reaches her earlobes. She squints her eyes, blurring the objects in the room, each haloed with the morning’s fuzzy haze. The bright, tropical light filters in through floral curtains, leaving diagonal shafts across her bed that extend towards her feet. As she adjusts her position on the bed, she feels the gentle grazing of her flaccid nipples against her thin cotton t-shirt. Her perked nipples make her think of sex. The thought bruises her. Every single cell in her body craves a lover, and yet it has been many, many months since she has been aroused, stimulated, fucked. A gentle throbbing in her groin makes her contemplate masturbation. A mental image forms, becoming sharper as she focuses on it.

Padma: a fresh-faced college graduate, the new office internist. Her dark eyes, fulsome lips and angular jaw captured Simone’s erotic imagination from the time she had interviewed her a few weeks ago. Simone tries to push away the memory of the pungent smell of Padma’s cheap perfume, the trigger for her fantasies – but it clings to her nostrils long after Padma had left the room, long after she is out of Simone’s sight. That scent, of dying flowers, forces its way in to every stream of consciousness, in to fanciful daydreams.

Despite her best efforts to diminish her lust for the younger woman, Simone’s fixation had grown in to pulsating orgasms every time she masturbated – once at night before she fell asleep, and once in the morning, after she awoke. The exulting vision was always this: Padma, seated naked at her desk in the open office, her dark skin made darker by the white, wooden desk in front of her.

Padma oblivious to her own nakedness and to Simone’s eyes fixed squarely on her from a distance. The office staffers scurrying around like automatons, oblivious to this vision of beauty, a dark-skinned Goddess amongst them. In a flash, Simone is standing behind Padma, placing either hand on a generous shoulder blade, currents of electricity passing through their bodies at the first shock of physical intimacy. Padma – statuesque until this moment – leaning back, her flowing black hair masking the naked stretch of skin now pressed against Simone’s heated groin. They stay this way for a few seconds, until Simone, aching to taste Padma’s chocolate skin, the texture of its tautness, salty on her tongue, finds Padma’s neck with her lips and teeth. Parted lips trace a straight line along a defined shoulder blade. Nestled in the crook of Padma’s neck, Simone’s soft love-bites leave their blue-black mark of ownership.

Possession: you belong to me. Languidly lips move upwards to a fleshy ear lobe adorned with a small, round golden stud.

Padma, head cocked slightly to one side, her long tussle of hair in Simone’s fist, turns her head towards the Lover. The truth is complicit between them. This is a role-play and Padma is the Beloved. She must reprise this scene to perfection. Starting with a slow fervor that builds into a fever pitch, tongues meet, twist, roll, taste, wrestle. Padma’s long, slim arms glide effortlessly upwards, finding Simone’s short crop of brown locks.

Tugging Simone’s head down, Padma engages them in a deeper, more potent kiss. Reason, if it had any place in a sexual repertoire, is rendered obsolete. In its place is madness whose fire rages, whose flames consume—a destroyer of all objects that threaten its existence. Simone’s hands grasp hungrily, greedily, voraciously for Padma’s wholesome breasts, cupping, squeezing, massaging, rubbing, pinching—she deploys every gesture in the lexicon of nipple stimulation to turn her Beloved on. A pair of black nipples hardens in Simone’s soft, white palms. Forbidden trails open up in forests of damp pubic hair. Simone, in her bed, masturbates. Padma, in Simone’s fantastical temple of pleasure, masturbates. Seals of cum and sweat conceal those hidden places of worship, of sacred fires. Together, they hurtle towards an unknown oblivion in which values have no firmament, in which the chaos of emotion spills its blood over embers.

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Sasha Bings was born in England in 1980, but her family returned to India when she was 16. She escaped two years later to study psychology and creative writing in the United States, coming back to Bombay as a fully-fledged lesbian in her mid-twenties. Like most of us, she has a day job, but writes short stories on her blackberry when she’s stuck in traffic, or late at night before she falls asleep. She used to meditate, but she found writing stories to be much more cathartic. Sasha blesses all her ex-loves for teaching her that life goes on. These stories are dedicated to them. She lives with her two cats, Minks and Kinks, and parrot, Sing-Song.
Sasha Bings

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