Divine temptation lies in wait in an ancient and mysterious land. In their first years together, Priscilla and Jonathan enjoyed a marriage based as much on physical passion as on love. However, the travails of business and the tribulations of the Great War have taken their toll. When Jon's father dies in faraway India, the couple travels to the father's isolated Assamese tea plantation to settle his affairs. Far from the bustle and distraction of London, left alone to endure the monsoon rains while Jon struggles ...
Divine temptation lies in wait in an ancient and mysterious land. In their first years together, Priscilla and Jonathan enjoyed a marriage based as much on physical passion as on love. However, the travails of business and the tribulations of the Great War have taken their toll. When Jon's father dies in faraway India, the couple travels to the father's isolated Assamese tea plantation to settle his affairs. Far from the bustle and distraction of London, left alone to endure the monsoon rains while Jon struggles to complete the final harvest, Priscilla realises how much she misses Jon's touch. Anil Kumar arrives with business documents for Jon to examine. The charismatic native enchants both Priscilla and Jon with his god-like beauty and charm. In separate incidents, each of them succumbs to Anil's lustful attentions. Will the illicit desires excited by the handsome Indian be the final stroke that destroys their marriage? Or the route to saving it? Reader Advisory: This story was released as part of the Brit Party Anthology by Total-E-Bound
I became addicted to words at an early age. I began reading when I was four. I wrote my first story at five years old and my first poem at seven. Since then, I've written plays, tutorials, marketing brochures, software specifications, self-help books, press releases, a five-hundred page dissertation, and of course, erotica. I'm the author of four erotic novels and two short story collections. I also edited the ground breaking anthology SACRED EXCHANGE, which explores the spiritual aspects of BDSM relationships, and the massive collection CREAM: THE BEST OF THE EROTIC READERS AND WRITERS ASSOCIATION. My short stories have appeared in more than two dozen print collections edited by erotica luminaries such as M. Christian, Maxim Jakubowski, Mitzi Szereto, Rachel Kramer Bussel, and Alison Tyler. In my so-called spare time, I also review books and films for the Erotica Readers and Writers Association (erotica-readers.com) and Erotica Revealed (eroticarevealed.com), and feature as a Celebrity Author at Custom Erotica Source(customeroticasource.com) My lifelong interests in sex and the written word became serenditipitously entwined about a decade ago when I read my first Black Lace book by Portia da Costa. Her work inspired me to take my fantasies out of the closet (and the private email files) and expose them to the world. The rest, as they say, is history (although granted, no more than a minor footnote!)I've always loved traveling; my husband seduced me in a Burmese restaurant by telling me tales of his foreign adventures. Since then I have visited every continent except Australia, although I still have a long travel wish list. Currently I live with him and our two exceptional felines in Southeast Asia, where I pursue an alternative career that is completely unrelated to my creative writing.
The rain drops are Lakshmi’s tears. That is what Lalida had said—tears of pity wept by Vishnu’s consort at the sad state of mankind. From the sheltered veranda, Priscilla watched sheets of rain sweep relentlessly across the land. The silver curtain alternately hid and revealed the shapes of the green hills rising in the distance. Priscilla swallowed the last of her biscuit and leaned back in the rattan chair, drawing her shawl around her shoulders. She knew, from the past week’s experience, that the downpour would end in a few hours. The lush wet bushes would sparkle in the sun, as though someone had scattered handfuls of jewels over their leaves. For now, the muted hues of the landscape matched her mood. “More tea, Madam?” Lalida stole up behind her on bare feet, her orange sari like a streak of fire in the grey morning. “Not for me, but please bring a fresh pot for Mr. Archer.” “Yes, Madam.” The maid hurried away, leaving Priscilla alone again with her reveries. Had it really been only a month ago that they had arrived in India? It seemed like a lifetime. She could barely remember the streets of London, the bustle and the noise, the clatter of hooves on the pavement, the horns and the backfiring engines of the autos vying with the carriages for space. It was so quiet here on the plantation. All she could hear was the hiss of the rain sluicing down. The first week she had been busy, working with Lalida and a few of the village girls to clean up her father-in-law’s bungalow and sort through the untidiness of two decades of bachelor living. She’d met Jonathan’s father only once, at the wedding six years ago. Her confused recollection was of a jovial, but somewhat distracted man with eyes younger than one would expect from his seventy four years. He had travelled five weeks to see his only son married, yet he stayed in London only four days. India was his home, he’d told her. He couldn’t bear to be away for long. Once the house was in order, Priscilla had little to occupy her. Jonathan’s days were full, managing the plantation and trying to figure out his father’s tangled affairs. He had little time for her. Not that this was so different from her life in London, but there she had friends and diversions. Here she had no one to talk to but Lalida whose English was hardly adequate for a conversation of any depth. The door hinges squeaked. Priscilla turned, expecting the servant, but instead she saw the trim, erect figure of her husband. “Good morning, Jon. Did you sleep well?” “Well enough. I hope that my tossing and turning didn’t disturb you.” “Not at all.” Priscilla couldn’t tell him the truth. Often she lay awake for hours, staring at the pale mosquito netting looped above their bed, listening to his muttering, wanting but not daring to wake him. Dying for him to touch her. “Sit down and have some breakfast. Lalida’s coming with a fresh pot.” “I’m really not hungry. I’ll take a flask of tea with me. I want to get out to the north slope as soon as I can and see how the plucking is coming along. Suresh told me that normally the second flush harvest should be completed before the rains begin. The longer we take, the poorer the quality will be.” “Please, sit down for just a minute. Have a biscuit. These days I hardly see you!” Jonathan rested his hand on her shoulder. He brushed his lips across her ginger curls. The brief touch made Priscilla shiver with delight. “I’m sorry, Pru. I know that this must be hard on you. As soon as the harvest is finished, we’ll start looking for a buyer. We’ll be back in England before Christmas, I promise.” He straightened up, a resolute look hardening his youthful features. “Right now, though, I’m facing something of an emergency. I hope that you can understand. Lalida, put that in a Thermos for me. I’ll be back for lunch, around one.” He reached for the oilcloth raincoat hanging by the door post.