This short story is an entry in the 2002 Soc.Sexuality.Spanking Summer Short Story Contest and is copyright by the author and commercial use is prohibited without permission. Personal/private copies are permitted only if complete including the copyright notice. The author would appreciate your comments
Category: Adult
The Fourth Wife
By
Mara Maharakshasa <MaraMahaRakshasa@aol.com>
Befitting his status as a zamindaar, and owner of a prosperous sisal factory, my father enjoyed the household of a rich man.
Twenty servants, a car, and three wives. I respected all of the women, as much as my mother. But I know, as others suspected, that he lived a double life when he traveled away to the city. He was too fond of Allahabad, and spent many days there on errands that might take little more than a few hours.
But that is the privilege of rank and power, and reflects nothing that I would not desire, given a chance.
I was seventeen, and contemplating a career in farming ? my father was talking of sending me to agricultural collage in Sind ? when I discovered the secret of his long stays. We had traveled to Allahabad to meet with some powerful colleagues of his, men who had attended the same school in the 1940s, where he learned his excellent English. During the day I wandered the streets, but joined him for the evening meal, staying in a spare room at his second house, a fine villa in a prosperous suburb.
For the first few days, things passed uneventfully. But on the fourth night, he hosted a small party of friends, who were quite shameless about drinking foreign whisky, despite all of the Koran's prohibitions. As for me, he insisted I try a small glass, and laughed uproariously as I spluttered and choked on the fiery liquid. "You'll see how good it is, like many forbidden things, when you are a man," he told me, with a kindly smile.
I repaired to bed early, feeling sick and dizzy from the whisky, and fell asleep. It was perhaps two o'clock by the moon, when I awoke, parched. The house was quiet, and I went to the well. From inside, in my father's wing of the villa, I could hear voices, one a woman's.
How could I not investigate? Through a window, I peeked. And there was my father, bare-chested, in his underpants, with a naked woman. Or maybe a girl, for she was little older than me. Shocked but excited, I could not help but watch. He was stroking her, inspecting her like a pet. She was pale-skinned, with flowing black hair that almost reached her breasts, and a shapely body. I'd spied on some village girls bathing, but never seen one so beautiful, nor in such a state of shameless excitement. As she murmured passionately, I realized she was English.
I watched, my penis hard, as he took up a leather paddle and sat, beckoning her to bend over his lap. And touched myself, trying not to gasp with arousal, as he proceeded to beat her bare bottom until it reddened.
Fearing I was about to ejaculate and cry out, I fled. But that night, and for many others after, I masturbated at the recurring vision of this 'fourth wife.' May my first wife be as beautiful and submissive as she.
The End
© Copyright by Mara Maharakshasa, 2002. All rights are reserved by the author. Do not retransmit, store (except for personal use) or publish without permission.
Reviews
John <johnb(at)ssec(dot)wisc(dot)edu>
A peep show of forbidden pleasures. It must be difficult these days for an urbane and educated man who must appear to cling to an eleventh century interpretation of morality lest he be overthrown. I would not like to be these people. But it was, indeed, fun to watch.
Anne <Ladyanne60(at)aol(dot)com>
A father and son story told in the heat of passion. Oh, the things one can learn from their parental units. A fine tale using excellent imagery and cultural background for this young man. The significance here is upon learning of his father's secret life, he discovers many new things about himself.
Pablo Stubbs <Pablo.Stubbs(at)newsguy(dot)com>
Here, the complex construction of setting works perfectly for the story, which is essentially the gradual lifting of veils both actual and metaphorical. And the restraint in the description of the final action keeps the tone somewhat innocent and distant, which is wholly appropriate for the narrator. Nicely done.
Margaret <wessyLA(at)aol(dot)com>
I enjoyed the setting of this story and the sense of mystery you managed to conjure up in just a few words. Thank you for sending this along.