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Comments by Rachael Rollercoaster

Firstly I thank those kind people who have written to me and told me how much they have enjoyed my writing. You will not know the great pleasure it gives me to know that, especially for one young couple who enjoyed it together. I have, I hope, replied to all those who have written…some will be disappointed that I do not send out photos of myself either nude or pornographic; I do however feel that I share something much more sensitive and special with all who read me. I am now on MSN messenger and am usually on line at 2200-2300 GMT. Please feel free to page me and have a chat, my e-mail is my ID 


I was in my local town, Colchester the other day when I was sure that I saw an old friend. I saw him first as I walked through the shopping mall but stood and watched him, unsure that it was he. I am forward, but I don’t approach strangers and I stood and watched him as he passed along the clothes racks and I was undecided until I recognised the pose. He stood with one hand across his chest and the other holding his chin. The class-room memories came flooding into my mind, the smell of floor polish, the slam of closing desk tops, and I felt filled with excitement and expectation as I approached him in my usual self assured way; as he turned and faced me, his eyes moving across my body, I knew I was right, it was the same man.

"Hello, Saleem," I said with my head slightly to one side and a broad welcoming smile on my lips.

He smiled, his face a picture of thought, his memory cells holding him in pause mode. He had aged a good deal, but it was some eight years since we last met in India. He looked at me with the same smile that I remembered but slowly it froze and fell away and he paled visibly before me. My own expression must have reflected his, for he looked as if he had seen a ghost. He said nothing but his mouth opened and closed in a sort of mechanical way and then he turned and fled. He nearly knocked one man over in his haste to depart and I watched as he, without looking around tried to open the shop door the wrong way in his panic and at last succeeding he passed through it and fled down the High street. I stood and watched in amazement and felt so sad for him…there is a story you see.

When I was about ten my Father was posted to India as an attaché to our embassy there. There was a history and some tradition in our family, my Grandmother is an Indian high caste lady who married my late Grandfather, who was Irish…the result of their union, my Mother, was born and lived in India until she was sent back to England to be educated.

My Mother was delighted with his posting as she loved the country and its customs, and spoke Urdu well. I on the other hand was not so pleased as I had then to become a boarder at my school…something I hated. I went to India at the long summer holidays and my parents came back to see me when they returned from time to time. My work suffered at school, as I was unhappy there and inclined to be disruptive. So after eighteen months it was decided, with some relief to the school, and great joy to me, that I would join my parents in India and be schooled by the local English school out there.

I was so excited to be there…like my Mother I loved the country and its people. India I found fascinating, full of colour and music and charm. I went with my parents to all the wonderful sites, the Taj Mahal, and many Hindu temples, where I stood in fascination looking at the erotic sculptures surrounding the doorway. I suppose that was my first experience of erotic art but there was no embarrassment as I stood there holding my dear Grandmother’s hand as she explained what it all meant. Sexuality in India is bound up in the culture and life there. It is not a separate thing, kept in a locked Pandora’s box as it is in the West. I became very close to my Grandmother and she talked to me of all sorts of fascinating things, which I find now to be part of my own foundation. She was the most elegant, sensual person I have ever met, and even now in old age she exudes a strong sexual presence. She still has several admirers who hold her in the highest regard and have promised myself that I shall return soon. The bazaar’s, streets and the people are an inspiration there and I was and still am captivated by it. The Indians on the whole are a passive people, friendly and easy going and the troubles there between the Muslims and Hindus has been blight on the nation.

But I digress…………………

My education was good; the teachers there were both dedicated and highly intelligent, furthering the knowledge through interest and good learning. I was very keen on literature, especially early English prose and for a girl of now nearly fourteen I was educated to a very high standard. Then there was one of those times when everything seems to be changing and there is no stability; the headmaster left and was replaced by a man who knew less than I did. My father became concerned and he instigated the hiring of Saleem P****, a brilliant young man who had won a scholarship to Bombay University and came from a very poor background. He was then about 23 and I thought he was a prince…my Prince. His main subject was English Literature and I started to excel in the subject, he was a good teacher, somewhat hard to understand at first, but we became quite good friends and he lent me books about Chaucer and one in particular I remember, " Sir Gawain and the Green Knight", which I still have on my bookshelf today, the very copy he leant me. He was a handsome young man too and young girls of my age (just fifteen) were as susceptible then as they are today to a bit of hero worship. He liked me too, I knew that and I was mature for my age. I had most of the attributes of a woman, with the reserve and innocence of a girl…my how things have changed. I suppose looking back I was a sort of Lolita, with that fatal charm that has been the undoing of many men. I also knew that I had inherited my Grandmother’s highly developed sensuality…and she had by now become my role model…and I tried to walk like her even…I still do.

The schoolroom itself was a converted military building…nothing special but adequate for the task at hand. There was Saleem on the staff and an English woman who had stayed out there when her marriage had broken up. I forget what we were doing but I seem to remember an essay being at the start of this story. I had written it and somehow the ink had run, because of the rains one day as I walked to school, so this must have occurred in the monsoon season. Saleem called me up to explain something he could not read. His desk was a usual one, sitting on a raised platform, very old fashioned and traditional, like a big box with a large top, closed in all around except for the knee hole between the two sets of drawers where he sat. I went up and he asked me to explain about this word and then about that word and I stood beside him explaining what I was trying to say in the essay. I remember thinking how black and shiny his hair was and how smooth his skin looked, wondering if it felt like velvet too. 


He told me the essay was excellent and as I stood there talking with him, discussing what effect Chaucer had on literature during that time, feeling special because we shared this same interest…when I felt his hand touching the back of my leg; it ran up over my sock to the soft flesh, then down again, each time getting higher until it was on the back of my thigh. I was standing on his left, and looking over his shoulder. I froze at first, but the passage of his hand upward to my inner thigh was to say the least…absorbing my attention. My mouth went dry, my temples pounded and I felt a movement inside me, in my sex, as if an awaking serpent was uncoiling in me. He carried on talking quite calmly and I continued to stand there, his hand now at the back of my panties, feeling my almost mature bottom, lifting one cheek then the other as if sampling them. I felt like jelly, my knees felt weak, but I did not move away. Even when I felt his hand move between my thighs I stood there and moved a leg sideways and nearly died of pleasure as he felt my swelling sex. I was hairy there then at that age and as he moved through and held all of me in one hand I trembled with excitement and expectation. I had secretly dreamed of this, he was at the centre of my very private self-stimulation, although of course he was ignorant of that. My mouth was so dry and I could not swallow, my head was thumping in unison with my chest and my left knee started to tremble, just as it does now when I am sexually excited.

He was just about to pull the hem aside when the bell went, making us both jump, and his hand was quickly removed. I shakily removed my books and went back to my desk as the others all packed up and started to leave and I in my turn gathered my things and at length looked up at him but he was absorbed in something and did not look at me. I left in silence, looking back once more at him sitting there, ignoring me. I removed myself to my room when I got home to relieve the tension he had built in me. I lay back, naked from the waist down with my hand working myself furiously…it did not take long and I writhed and trapped my own hand there as I gasped with an intense orgasm. I suppose he obsessed me and perhaps it was my obvious charm with him that led him further. I also used all my young womanliness to my best purpose, my skirts became shorter and I started to wear a little make-up. My parents put it down to my age and found it amusing, which perhaps spurred me on too. My Grandmother knew though, she smiled a warm smile at me, my eyes moving away from hers’ betrayed me; when I looked back at her again a few seconds later, the smile returned and I held her gaze and smiled back…she knew I had an admirer; I wondered if she would approve though of the attentions I was receiving from Saleem.

It happened again a few days later… Oh how I ached for his attentions…this time his hand was firmer, and kneaded my inner thigh and my legs were parted wider for him. My heart pounded again in my chest and I looked at his hair and fine features as his hand pulled down my panties at the back, exposing my full cheeks to the warm air. He caressed me as before, lifting each cheek in turn, parting them and sliding between, to my most private parts. My leg started to tremble as I felt his attentions about my soft undermound, feeling through the hairs there and parting me. I thought I was going to die with passion as he pushed into me, I was well lubricated with my own desire and I could now smell my own arousal. His finger removed itself and in one quick movement he slid right through and found my swollen clitoris, and started to stimulate me. It was too much, I could not breathe and I felt a red curtain fall over my eyes and I started to pull away, afraid of crying out with abandon. He handed me my corrected paper and I gathered it with a trembling hand as I discreetly pulled up my panties at the back and returned to my desk.

Nothing happened for a week and I began to wonder whether I had frightened him off with my sudden withdrawal the last time. My passion was consuming me and I daydreamed things that I was afraid of…images from the temples…mad intrusions to my body in places I could not really understand. Another day came and I was standing there again at his desk and as I stood there as before, he did nothing…I leaned over him, pressing myself against him…still he did nothing and I felt a sort of desperate despair. I seemed to be spending my spare time dreaming and masturbating in private and my Mother asked if I felt all right; I think I decided then to make a move towards the goal I desired. A few days later an opportunity arose when I was again standing at his side having some work checked. He dropped his pencil…the shiny red one that looked so wonderful against his dark smooth skin as he held it with his delicate fingers. I dropped to one knee to pick it up, but it rolled under his desk and he looked under it as I stretched forward to recover it for him. Our eyes met and in an instant I closed my mouth on his. His response was immediate; his tongue invading me, his mouth sucking me to him and his hand fondled my breasts. I gasped at the reaction and somehow still grasped the pencil for him and when our mouths parted I got up and placed it on his desk, looking around the class to see if anyone had seen…but no… our secret was safe. During the next two days I was on a high of sexual expectation…he still liked me…I wanted him so much. 

A day or two later when the bell went I stayed at my desk until the room was clear, pretending to look for some lost article. Mrs. Hesketh, the other teacher came into the room and discussed something with Saleem and left soon after…we were alone. He calmly rose and went and locked the school door and returned to where I stood and as I turned to face him, he gathered me in his arms, kissing me with a passion I cannot describe. I seemed to melt into him…I felt as if I was being eaten alive. His mouth was everywhere…on my own…my neck…travelling down to my now exposed breasts…I watched as he sucked on one teat and then the other…he lifted my chin and my eyes raised to his, he told me to relax as I felt my pants being removed. I watched as he drew them away and he lowered to me, I watched as he put his mouth on my sex and his tongue parted me. I gasped and shook as I still watched him do his magic. I was lifted to the desk, his mouth still devouring my sex, sucking me out into the open, my labia like pink petals moving back and forth like sea anemones in water. His tongue was like a magician’s wand and as I watched him, the erotic images on the temples flashed through my mind and I lifted a leg for him, exposing all I had, stretching myself, my head fell back and I started to gasp as he brought me to a full orgasm. I was consumed inside and out by him and as he undid his trousers and drew out his stiff penis I just sat and watched him with my brain in limbo. He approached me and I lifted my other leg, now draped across my own desk, assuming he was going to fulfil my dreams. I prepared myself as all virgins do for that one act in life that changes everything…I spread for him, my sex open and wet, fully prepared for him, but he did not do as I expected. He drew me from the desk top and sat me on the seat…approached my face with his fully erect member and again the images on the temple came to my mind and I accepted him into me in the other way depicted there. He tasted good and I liked it and I wanted to please as well. He was slender in size, with well-formed glans that curled away from his shaft. I looked and memorised the image of him; I can see his member now as I write. I did what I thought he wanted and when he placed my hand around him I rubbed and pumped as he indicated. He seemed to be very intense suddenly and my mouth was full of him, almost to the back of my throat, his balls swinging against the back of my hand when he tensed and I felt him throb and pump…the jets of fluid took me by surprise and I went to withdraw but he drew me fully onto him and I had to swallow or choke. I swallowed it all…my first taste of a man…I wasn’t sure I liked it.

He was very gentle with me afterwards; I wanted to know that I had pleased him and he soothed me, reassured me. He had a greater understanding than I then knew about and when I left the classroom and wandered in a daze back to my house…all I could think about was my fulfilment…how I could please him…my training had begun.


A few days later I found myself in an area of the town I did not know. I was there on a pretext of returning some borrowed books. My Mother wanted me to take a servant with me for protection, but I managed to dissuade her…as I said it was daylight and I was now grown up. I knocked on the open door and waited and soon I heard a shuffling up the hallway…it was Saleem in his slippers. He looked over my shoulder to see if I was alone and as I entered he closed the door. The atmosphere was electric, we walked down the short hall into a pleasant room; the walls were hung with carpets and highly coloured cloths to hide the mud walls. He moved slowly it seemed at the time towards the shutters and closed them, the room immediately became cool and dimly lit. As I stood and watched him throw some pillows on the floor everything seemed to be in slow motion…I was in a sort of trance, but somehow totally calm. I looked about the room it was poverty in the extreme…with a strange atmosphere of something behind it all, a hint of cinnamon reached my nostrils as I was then consumed with a raw, natural, erotic feeling and the images on the temple came sharply into focus. This was going to be sex…a raw unabashed sex…like thick rich paint mixed on an artist’s palette…the primary colours strong and vibrant. He pulled me down to him and we joined in a passion of discovery…he of me…and me of myself.


When I look back as I do now…I truthfully cannot remember what happened in detail…the sequence of events is blurred into a crazy picture of images. I remember being pierced by him, my virginity carried away on a single thrust; my lip bitten and bleeding as he did so. I remember his mouth at every opening, his tongue in my bottom as I lay there on my front, my bottom lifted and offered to him. I looked in front of me, open eyed at a shaft of light dancing across the floor…something exploding inside me, like the birth of a new passion. Then his penis invaded my bottom and I did not balk at it, rather embracing the wild passion of the feelings and I remember doing the same to him with my finger and his thrashing as I did it. I remember his straddling me, his penis between my breasts, my hand pumping him furiously, his bomb like explosion as he scattered his seed over me, splattering into my face and over my breasts…saving me from the worry of pregnancy. I bathed in him literally and I look back and thank heavens that my first experience was so dynamic and vibrant…how lucky I was. It was nearly dark by the time I arrived back home and there was a panic on for my safety but I was in such a serene state of sexual satisfaction that it all passed over me and I went to my room and slept for hours. I awoke the next morning a woman…a woman with new needs and desires.

Saleem for his part was not so fortunate or so careful in his choice of lovers. He was caught in a compromising situation with the wife of a senior Official and was lucky not to have been severely punished. The feeling was that he was led astray…I think not, but I did not voice my opinion at the time. He was vilified, shamed and dismissed and left the area, much to my own sadness and I have not seen him again…until the other day. I am sad and upset that he feels as he does…I feel nothing but gratitude and warmth. Perhaps we might meet again and talk awhile…but what happened can never be repeated, and I hold dear those memories of my first great passion…I have them forever, they are mine and I treasure them. 

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