Naukraani Ko Jabardasti Thoka

I clutched at the thin cotton shift and pulled it higher. He added a fourth finger, his mouth still at work. He worked in and out of me, stretching me. Then, the movement paused. He looked up. "This is going to hurt." Four fingers weren't enough for him. He added a thumb. While his mouth worked, his hand did, too. It took seconds of overwhelming sensation before I understood his meaning. His saliva ran over his hand and he used it to slick himself into me, over fingers and over knuckles. The pressure hurt but, Lord, it felt like a hurt I wanted. "You can take it," he said against me. "I want you to feel me while I'm gone." It was a strong and pulsing pressure; eventually my body yielded. His hand buried in me to the wrist and he made a fist. I felt it, so full inside me. He hardly needed to move it; the twist of his wrist, in concert with his tongue, sent me galloping into pleasure. I bit my hand but still couldn't stop the strangled cry. He moved his hand inside me, flexing and. ’ I was screwed. I had the bell and the candle and here was a priest with the background needed to identify them as antiquities. There was an outstanding warrant for my arrest in Spain for Alan Saint Laurent, antiquities thief. Between the two there was no way I’d be able to convince anyone I wasn’t a man in need of an extended interaction with the Spanish judicial system. I sat, smiling pleasantly. The priest appeared to be meditating. The officers sat back, one pushed a folder my way as he did. Warrant for arrest, my picture, some photographs of artifacts I’d trafficked in. They had more on me than I’d thought. ‘It will make for a long stay in Spain,’ he said. ‘You won’t make any of it stick,’ I replied, calmly. ‘They will,’ said the priest, looking up at me abruptly. He had piercing grey eyes and thick grey hair, and in his sudden intensity he looked a lot less like the academic theologian I vaguely knew him as. ‘Don’t be a fool, Mister Saint Laurent. This is the end of the road….
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