From India with Love


This is a work of fiction. All persons are intended to be age 18 and above.


Sometimes on the way to work I stop by a convenience for a bottle of Diet Pepsi. I know — sodas are bad for you, including sodas sweetened with artificial sweeteners. You know what? Everything is bad for you to some extent. I happen to like the sharp taste of cola in the morning — unless the weather is cold, in which case coffee is my beverage of choice. When the mood strikes I don’t deprive myself of a soda fix. Sue me.

There’s a store just around the corner from my house. It was closed for awhile and I figured it would be torn down and replaced with something essential to mankind’s survival, like a nail salon or another mattress outlet. But somebody bought it, cleaned it up, replaced all the underground gas tanks and re-opened it as a convenience store.

I began stopping there on my way to the office because their 16-ounce sodas were about a nickel cheaper than the other nearby convenience store, and that meant I didn’t have to break a dollar to pay the tax. Their coolers weren’t turned down as low as the other store’s but that was OK. I could always toss my drink into the freezer at work until it was close to the point of freezing. I like ’em that way — especially on a hot summer day.

The people who bought the store turned out to be a family from India so recent to the United States they had not lost their accent and in fact, spoke little English. I spoke not a word of Hindi, either, but that too was OK — they understood American currency just fine and we communicated with smiles and nods. Good for them for trying to make a better life for themselves and having the guts to move to a foreign country and open a business. It can’t be easy doing that in the States, where regulations often baffle even native-born Americans.

On this muggy summer morning I pulled into the angled parking space along the hedge that separated the convenience store from the apartment complex next door and got out. The heat swarmed over me like a giant, wet dog that was too big and bulky for your lap but he wanted to be there anyway. The asphalt seemed partially melted and stuck to the bottoms of my shoes as I hurried to the front door — or was that 10 years of accumulated spilled Slurpees and dropped Skittles and chewing tobacco spit? Oh well.

Inside it was cooler, but not a whole lot. At least not as chilly as Americans usually set their thermostats. Maybe in India they prefer warmer temperatures. Maybe they were just trying to save money on air-conditioning.

I noticed a not-bad looking man chatting up the dark-skinned clerk behind the counter. The man looked to be in his late 20s and had a thin, scraggly beard that matched his thinning, flyaway hair. He was talking amiably, as if the clerk could understand him, and the clerk was smiling and nodding as if he could. But I knew better.

I had seen him there virtually every time I dropped by the store. He couldn’t have been older than his early 20s and featured the dark complexion silivri escort and jet-black hair of people from that far eastern subcontinent. He was only about 5-7 and couldn’t have weighed more than 125 pounds. Overall he was a good-looking guy and I wouldn’t have minded seeing what was hidden under that polo-style shirt and blue jeans. But how do you flirt with a guy who’s unfamiliar with the customs of your country?

The American was giving it a go. But I knew he would fail.

I went to the back of the store where the cooler sat and found my big plastic bottle of Diet Pepsi. I returned to the front and got behind the American, who was still trying to woo the young Indian. He gave me an irritated glance and I smiled, thinking, You’re wasting your time, buddy. But I concur with your tastes. I wouldn’t mind fucking that tight little Indian ass myself.

Finally, reluctantly, the man paid his bill – $12 in gas — and left, giving me the stink eye as he sidled past me. I had interrupted his pitch and now I was the evil cock blocker. Oh well. I put my drink on the country with a wet thonk.

“He wanted you,” I blurted to the young clerk without really thinking, who smiled without understanding and rang up the soft drink. Why had I done that? To make him uncomfortable? Because I could?

Or was I secretly sizing him up for my own pleasure?

I pointed to the man, who was now getting into his Kia. I made the universal gesture of a blowjob — fingers of right hand in a circle, as if clutching a big dick; mouth open; head bobbing — and then pointed to the clerk. He understood instantly and reared back in surprise, then let out an uneasy giggle, as if such thoughts had never occurred to him. Then he did an odd thing. He sort of shrugged and smiled halfheartedly, as if to say, “Oh well. What are you gonna do. That wouldn’t have been such a bad thing.”


I wondered if our recent arrival might be up for a little horseplay. He gave me my change and was it my imagination or did his fingers linger on the palm of my hand a little too long? My imagination kicked into high gear and I felt my cock stirring in my britches. I was not against a morning quickie on the way to the office, and if this boy was obliging. …

I looked him in the eye and wondered how he would react if. …

And then I said fuck it. Luck always favors the bold.

With the same impulsive lack of concern I had shown a moment ago, I pointed to myself. I repeated the blowjob sign, and then I pointed at him.

His face went neutral and one of those dark, furry eyebrows arched. But he didn’t seem instantly averse to the idea. A lot of guys would have grimaced and said no — emphatically. But not him. He glanced at the digital watch on his wrist (Who wore digital watches anymore?) and seemed to come to some kind of decision. Then he grabbed a key on the cash register and turned it, presumably locking it, and made his way around the counter.

As he made his way past me he kind of rubbed against me bakırköy escort and I definitely felt something hard below his belt poking against my hip. He started heading back to the rear of the store, and I followed. I was sure he was heading to the lone, universal restroom, but he stopped short and unlocked a door that led to the cooler. He gestured me to step inside.

The cooler consisted of a set of angled shelves facing the customer, a walkway, and then three rows that held stocks of beer, soft drinks, milk, and other items that might spoil in the higher room temperature of the store itself. Three rows back and there was another walkway — for stocking the storage shelves. Nobody could see us behind that last shelf, and that’s where we went.

He didn’t waste any time.

He pulled up the bottom of his polo and undid his jeans, shoving them down. No underwear.

Out spilled one of the bigger dicks I had ever seen, a fat, dark sausage of flesh that looked for all the world like a python pouring itself out of a jungle of pubic hair to bask in the afternoon sun. Holy God, it was a monster. I couldn’t believe such a small, slight young man could have such an impressive animal hidden in those tight jeans, and I immediately fell to my knees in front of it, as if to worship.

He stepped closer.

I buried my face in his crotch. He had an exotic aroma, some kind of spice I couldn’t identify mixed with the more universal scents of perspiration, piss and male musk. I opened my mouth and ran my tongue the length of that thickening snake, which by now had come unstuck from his balls and was growing thicker and longer. He was not circumcised but his cock had already emerged from that fleshy sheath and was glistening in the dim, cold light of the freezer. I gripped his hips, and his hands found the back of my head. I opened wide to slide that monster inside.

His taste was as strange and different as his smell. Again there was the hint of spice against a cocktail of familiar flavors. I made a note to look up Indian cuisine online to see if I could identify that flavoring.

He immediately began thrusting into my mouth. I really had to gape my jaws to accommodate that fat tube, and his insistent prodding at my throat encouraged me to swallow him, despite his girth. When his cock went down, past that part of my throat where the gag reflex lives, he squeaked out a little puppy dog whimper and thrust even harder.

The air whistled through my nostrils as I struggled to breathe and swallow my spit as he face fucked me. My hands went from his hips to his smooth, brown ass. I cupped his butt cheeks and reveled in the feel of his muscles flexing and unflexing as he thrust into my throat, hesitantly at first but with increasing force until finally he seemed to cross a boundary of restraint and simply pushed his entire crotch into my face.

I was using the middle finger of my right hand to rub his asshole, which was mostly dry and wrinkled. I wanted to force it inside but it wasn’t lubed şirinevler escort and I knew the sudden, maybe painful entry would distract him and he might pull away, and I sure didn’t want that to happen. I was enjoying this violent blowjob for every painful thrust it was worth. Despite the fact my cock was still in my pants, it was hard as wrought iron and probably leaking gallons of prostate fluid. I would have to take care of THAT little problem after I got back to the car.

For the next five minutes, he pounded my face without mercy. My universe became his crotch — the smell of it, the dark thatch of pubes advancing and retreating, the mist of sweat beginning to slicken the skin above his pubic thatch. It was all very intoxicating and arousing, sucking off this young man from India. I wondered if part of his urgency sprang from the fact homosexuality is culturally forbidden in that country. If so, he was more than making up for it know. His balls crashed against my chin as he pounded away, and that huge, beefy python was choking me — from the inside.

I could tell he was reaching his climax when his yips became deeper grunts — unh, unh, unh — and his hands pulled my face ever deeper into his crotch. I felt his ass muscles clench and then a mighty wallop of cum spit down my throat, seeming to drain his balls in a single, all-encompassing spasm of ecstasy. He stood there, that fat cock buried to the hilt in my sucking mouth, as he emptied himself inside me. His ass clenched my finger as he did so and I could feel his anus winking as the waves of his orgasm spread out across his nervous system. My own cock was leaking and I knew if I so much as touched it, the thing would explode, making a mess in my pants. I’d have to go back home and shower, then change clothes. So I kept my hands on his now-sweaty ass and began using my mouth and throat to milk him.

I looked up and saw his head lolling, a dreamy smile on his lips. His eyes were closed and his nostrils flared as he sucked in air with a loud hissing sound, so loud I actually heard it over the dull roar of the freezer fan.

His cock began to lose its stiffness and slowly I let it pull out of my throat. When it sprang free I licked at the head furiously, cleaning up every molecule of jizz. Then I went below it to the balls and gave them a good cleaning. And finally, to his surprise, I spun him around and buried my face in his ass crack. I don’t think they rim back in India because judging by his shock, this was an entirely new experience for him. But heck, I was a pro. I gave him my top-shelf tongue bath and made sure I wiggled the tip against his tightly clenched anus.

At last, and not a little reluctantly, I stood up. He pulled up his pants, giving me a shy smile as he turned to leave the freezer. But I stopped him and delivered a quick kiss to his lips. That, too, seemed to shock him, but he didn’t resist.

And then, after checking to make sure the coast was clear, we left the cooler. He went back behind the counter and unlocked the cash register — just in time as it were. A man had just gassed up the minivan and was headed inside while his kids sulked inside, their faces buried in mobile phones.

And I could now go to work and not worry about freezing my soda.

All that time in the cooler had chilled it just the way I liked them!