My Gift Took Me to a Lost Temple in India
This is my confession, told exactly as it happened to me. Some people won’t believe me; others will think I’m exaggerating. It doesn’t matter. When you’ve been carrying what I’ve carried since you were fourteen, you stop caring what other people think.
Mine is called priapism. For anyone who doesn’t know, and putting it bluntly, it means I’m hard practically all day long. The name comes from Priapus, the Roman god of fertility. I have the painless form, the lucky kind within something so unusual: it doesn’t hurt, and I can come several times in a row without going soft. What is a punishment for some ended up becoming a way of life for me.
The most obvious inconvenience is having to piss sitting down. The rest, over the years, I learned to manage as a gift. And a gift has to be used. I’ve used it with women, with men, with transvestites, with entire groups where nobody was quite sure who was with whom. There was always someone willing to find out whether the story was true.
But it isn’t all about having a hard cock. I like pleasure in its entirety—the pleasure of skin, of tongues, of the smell of sweat in a closed room. That’s why, when I started getting bored with the European routine, I decided to cross the world. The idea was simple: travel to India, read the Kama Sutra in its homeland, and let some local master teach me things that didn’t even have names in the West.
I took a flight from Heathrow to Bombay. Twelve long hours, with a layover. I was wearing loose linen trousers and nothing underneath, because I knew the pressure would be with me throughout the journey. And it was. The flight attendant assigned to my aisle noticed before we took off.
Her name was Carla. Blonde, tall, with thighs that seemed to go on forever beneath that corporate skirt. Every time she bent down to serve drinks to the row in front, I could see the edge of her ass and the transparency of her lingerie. I didn’t pretend to look anywhere else. Neither did she pretend not to notice.
“Have you been having trouble sleeping for a long time, sir?” she asked with a smile as she served me a whisky I hadn’t ordered.
“Longer than you can imagine,” I replied.
“If you need anything during the flight, come and find me. I’ll be in the rear galley.”
She said it without lowering her voice, looking at my lap. The passenger beside me pretended to read the newspaper. I closed my eyes and let the pressure do what it had to do.
***
When I got off the plane in Bombay, the heat hit me like an open hand. Humid, thick, impossible to breathe through without feeling my shirt stick to my back within minutes. I took off my jacket, loosened my tie, and put it in my bag. I wasn’t going to need the tie over the following days.
Carla caught up with me at the terminal exit carrying a small suitcase, already changed into a strappy dress and flat sandals. We shared a taxi to the hotel without asking each other anything. There was no need. The driver handled the car as if the lines on the asphalt were merely a suggestion, and we took advantage of every jolt to brush our legs together in the back seat.
The hotel was the best in the area. I don’t worry about money when I travel; I’d rather pay for a firm bed and air conditioning that works. That night Carla shared my bed. It wasn’t a negotiation; it was a continuation.
She undressed in front of me without any theatrics while I opened the wine from the minibar. She had the body of someone who walked a lot through airports: firm, with white marks where her swimsuit hadn’t let the sun through. She climbed onto the bed on her knees and waited for me.
“I want to find out whether what they were saying in the galley is true,” she said.
“And what were they saying?”
“That you stayed like this throughout the whole flight.”
I answered by opening my trousers. No further explanation was needed. She gave a quiet laugh and lowered her head. Carla wasn’t the kind of woman who settled for receiving; she gave herself completely—mouth, hands, everything—while demanding that I never stop touching her. We switched positions so many times that I lost count. When I came in her mouth for the first time, she smiled and told me that was the beginning, not the end. She was right.
***
The next day we decided to explore the temples. I’d been told about one on the outskirts of the city where, according to the guides, ancient celebrations in honor of pleasure deities were still held. Carla put on an almost transparent dress, with nothing underneath. “What for?” she said with a laugh. “It’s going to end up on the floor anyway.” I stayed in the fine linen, also without underwear, because by then nothing mattered.
The temple stood at the end of a reddish dirt road, surrounded by palm trees and incense smoke. Aruna welcomed us, a devadasi priestess dressed in a yellow sari so delicate it wasn’t a garment but a second skin. She had dark skin, deep brown eyes, and breasts that pointed boldly against the fabric. Her nipples showed through like two buttons.
“It is an honor to receive visitors who respect our customs,” she said in flawless English, bringing her hands together at chest height.
Behind her, a group of young women from the temple were cleaning statues and arranging flowers. They were all wearing similar saris, and they all moved with the same calm. They were preparing for the following day’s festivities.
We invited her to dinner. Aruna looked at the bulge in my trousers with the naturalness of someone reading a page, nodded, and accepted. We took her to the most expensive restaurant in Bombay, on the upper floor of a colonial building overlooking the harbor. She ordered fish and white wine and told us stories about the temple, the rituals, and how she had learned to breathe with her whole body rather than only with her lungs.
When we returned to the suite, there were no preliminaries. Aruna kissed both of us at the door—Carla first, then me—without hurrying. I went into the bathroom to take a shower. When I came out, wrapped in a small towel, the two of them were already on the bed, caressing each other with that unhurriedness found only in women who know each other’s bodies.
I joined them from behind. I grabbed Aruna’s breasts while she slid two fingers into Carla. I moved toward the blonde’s ass, already stretched and wet from the night before, and penetrated her slowly, listening to her moan against the Indian woman’s mouth. Carla came before anyone else, undone between the two hands working her.
Then we switched. I ended up between them, facing Aruna, inside her, while Carla wrapped her arms around us and caressed the priestess’s breasts from behind. Aruna breathed as if she were meditating, controlling every movement, every contraction. I had never felt a pussy squeeze and release me with such precision. It was training, not chance.
We had several orgasms. I lost count again. At some point, Carla went down to my cock to swallow me whole while fingering my ass with two fingers. Aruna climbed on top of me, rubbed her clitoris against my pelvis, and came trembling without making a sound. We made love for hours. When dawn began to break through the window, none of the three of us had slept, and none of us cared.
***
In the morning, after a long breakfast on the terrace, we returned to the temple for the festivities. It was a ritual orgy, plain and simple. Naked bodies, thick incense, drums somewhere in the distance, and a heat that made your skin sticky within two minutes. Aruna disappeared into the crowd as soon as we crossed the door. Carla did too. I was left alone in the middle of bodies that didn’t know me and didn’t need to know me.
Near me, a couple embraced against a column. He was penetrating her slowly. I approached her from behind, caressed her buttocks, and began entering her ass without anyone objecting. Quite the opposite: she threw her head back against my shoulder and sought my mouth with her lips.
My hands didn’t stop. I touched her breasts, brushed the man’s cock and balls, and after a while I felt another head slip between my legs and start sucking my testicles from below. I pulled my cock out of the woman’s ass and put it in the mouth of the girl underneath. The guy who had been fucking her, seeing me free, kissed my back and began caressing my ass with both hands.
When I came in the mouth of the girl on the floor, the man touched my shoulder and turned around. He offered me his own back, buttocks spread, and I entered him without thinking. I fucked him slowly, his hands searching for mine over the hips of the woman who was still underneath. Three bodies at once, all three moving in the same rhythm, all three without speaking.
Then he turned around and took me by the hips. He rammed into me from behind while I remained inside the woman’s ass. His balls struck against mine. When he came, he did it while squeezing my neck with his open hand—not violently, just marking that he was there. He stood up, kissed me on the mouth, and went off to find another body among the crowd.
I stayed where I was. The woman sat up, dragged me onto a silk rug, and sat on top of me. Another girl came over, kissed them both, and licked my chest. A third tore off the little I was wearing and took possession of my cock with her mouth before the first could mount me again. I was laughing by then—not because anything was funny, but out of sheer disbelief.
Another woman sat on my face and offered me her open pussy. I licked her slowly, parting her lips with my tongue, until she came trembling and left my face drenched. Meanwhile, hands reaching me from every direction traveled over my chest, thighs, and nape. I stopped knowing who each caress belonged to, and that was exactly what I had come to find.
At some point I saw Aruna again among the crowd, covered in sweat and other people’s hands, looking at me from the other side of the room. She smiled the way someone smiles when they already know how the story ends. Then she nodded at me, as if to say: now you know. After that, the crowd swallowed her once again.
Carla appeared hours later. She found me lying on my back, with two girls at my sides and a guy still inside me. She laughed, kissed me on the forehead, and sat down beside me to wait for the next turn without hurrying. The Indian woman was right: in that temple, pleasure wasn’t measured in orgasms but in hours. And with my gift, I had hours to spare.