Indian Gay Erotica: Godhuli: 2

Indian Gay Erotica: Godhuli: 2

Indian Gay Erotica: Godhuli: 2

Indian Gay Erotica: It wasn’t until he noticed the shades of shadows floating over the bed of ripe wheat, that Rana stopped on his way to retrieve his cycle where he left it last evening. He looked up over the trees and found the skies ahead darkening with clouds.

Read from the beginning here!

The concern for an unseasonal rainfall pulled him out of his daze again. He prayed, not to any God, but just in general, hoping that it’s not a heavy rainfall. Just one week left. He had already hired the boys who would come and help him out with the harvest. He had oiled up and kickstarted all the machines that had been lying covered and packed up for last few months in the barn behind his house.

He had just one more week to figure out who was this mysterious stranger and what’s his story and what to do about him. He was perhaps a nymph sent by the devil to seduce him off his anonymity. Or perhaps he was an angel fallen from the skies like a raindrop upon his parched heart of perpetual loneliness.

The obvious next step is to inform the authorities about the discovery of a person, Rana knew nothing about. But the right thing to do, seldom presents itself without any caveats. Rana’s biggest concern was, whose hands will he fall into?

What if he ends up where he was trying to run away from, if he was running away at all. He seems to have lost his memory or his language or something serious is up with him. But he looks healthy physically.

The other more consistent concern for Rana was for himself. Over the years, he had managed to stay away from any communication with the police. If at all he needed any communication, he used his intermediary sources. But this is perhaps a missing person, who has no hair on his body, covered in slime, with no memory and can only speak in English.

What if he’s a casualty of one those twisted games rich men play in the cities? For if he is, then intermediary sources alone would not protect Rana’s anonymity. If by chance this lost human being is some kind of secret they want to keep hidden, then they would do everything in their power to eliminate all witnesses.

Rana reached the spot where his cycle lay abandoned. Just as he pulled up and hopped atop it to ride back, his glance went over the spot where had found his new guest last evening. He could see a vacant spot within the giant wheat patch, as the way to the spot was still indicated by the slanted stalks bent apart on either side from last evening.

Out of obvious curiosity, Rana walked through the path to see the spot in a better light, if that showed up any clues as to what was happening. What he saw upon reaching there utterly confounded him.

There was a narrow patch of land, oblique in shape, around five feet long, which told him that this is exactly where Rana had found him lying on the ground last evening. The soil within this oblique shape looked like it had never been farmed before.

He squatted down to have a closer look, the soil was untilled and wild. He grazed his palm over the soil to realize that a million blades of dense grass were sprouting through the soil. How on earth was that even possible?

Rana just sat himself down on the same location. His brain was perhaps exhausted from all the wonder and absolute incomprehension. His mind felt ready to give up on the quest for any answers whatsoever.

He was never a superstitious man. But all of this made no sense to him within the scope of his understanding of reality. Either it was something supernatural, or something divine or something sinister.

Perhaps, this is something he shouldn’t be meddling with, to begin with, and let nature (or the “authorities”) take its course. In all his pragmatism of self-preservation, one compromise he just couldn’t wrap his head around, which was a solution to every possible means to first protect himself— was to abandon this hapless little creature who landed up on his doorstep.

Sitting there, Rana finally made up his mind. He decided not to inform anyone about any of this until he could ensure both of their safety. He had to do two things.

Firstly, the more challenging one, was to find out if there has been any incident or any connection to the identity of this person, either in the village or the city far ahead. This was going to be tricky to execute without revealing the existence of him in Rana’s property, to begin with.

Also, since Rana manoeuvred his way out of his past life in the underground three years ago, a lot of his contacts which served as sources of information from the city had died out. Awakening those contacts also meant reminding them of his existence and the potential use he could be to the powers that be. The entire shroud of his meticulously crafted anonymity was at stake here.

Secondly, Rana had to figure out how to get his guest to a safer location. Especially before the boys arrive for the harvest, who are pretty much going to camp here during the whole time. The only place he could think of was his old aunt’s place near Vrindavan.

But that would mean ferrying him through the village to the train station, just the thought of which chilled his spine, as he knew the police was more suspicious of Rana being seen in a company than him alone by himself. He wondered if the more physically dangerous alternative was a safer method to get them out of the village without being seen.

Of course, Rana couldn’t push the creeping admission laced with guilt, entirely beyond his conscience. Of all his righteous concern fueling the need to protect this fragile little being, for which Rana would bother to go through all this trouble after all these years; in absolute honesty within his own mind, he knew there was a secondary purpose behind why Rana didn’t want to let him go.

His sexual attraction grew from a peculiar self-interest no matter however much he justified the need to protect him with his rational rhetoric. Rana hadn’t experienced such helplessly intense attraction for anybody for a long, long time. Perhaps since his wife passed away at childbirth six years ago, when both of them lived back in the city.

He actively denied to engage with a strange question his mind dangled on a stick in some corner of his mind — Was this attraction stronger than any he had ever experienced before? Why was he so drawn in enamour to his hole between those fleshy thighs?

All Rana wanted to do was to devour that hole. In the bath this morning, while Rana was squatting behind him, with his buttocks right in front of his face; he contemplated if he should penetrate.

He always knew his cock was too big and thick, for which he never tried anal. But even the warm, wet and squishy texture inside the hole, engulfed tightly around his fingers, sufficed a sensation he desired to never step out of. Of course, Rana wanted more. A lot more.

Stepping out of the bath, something had come over Rana, to see this creature wet and fresh from the bath, basking in the morning sun, stepping out barefoot onto the ground. Rana reached out, took hold of him and lifted him off the ground, laying him close to his chest in both arms.

The tired walk that he had taken the previous evening, with this stranger’s tactile nudity pasted over the skin of his torso; the walk had introduced him to a strange idea of intimacy, Rana had never imagined before.

The ability, to carry the weight of another person’s absolute vulnerability on his arms, stoking the sexual thunder of masculine protectionism in his heart, while the heart was also caged within a fragile mesh of anxious uncertainties. Is it better to never have anything at all than to have it and live in the fear of losing it?

Rana had decided to call him, Nangu, as he refused to give any name or didn’t remember one. Nangu seemed to be lost in many aspects of things. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry to go anywhere. He didn’t seem to be bothered by his own nakedness either. Since last evening Rana had struggled with his own morality over choosing not to cover Nangu up.

He almost did after he cleaned him up last evening. But Nangu had caught him staring at his hole with his legs spread apart. He didn’t seem to object. He looked and went back to sleep. Did that mean he liked it?

Last evening Rana had wondered if Nangu had truly lost his memory, was it also possible that he doesn’t realize the culture of modesty and covering up our nakedness around strangers. In such a case, was it his responsibility to remind him or rather teach him about how he should cover up his body?

But if it’s something that needs to be taught, wouldn’t it mean that in essence, he is teaching someone to be ashamed of their own nudity? Shame, after all, is also a human construct.

Brushing his idealism aside, Rana sheepishly admitted to himself, that he also somehow got some strange kick out of the idea of the presence of this body, all naked, lurking within his private space. A sexual nakedness of which was entirely his own private show to watch.

He even liked the presence of the nudity, even while it would be a blurred impression in the corner of his eyes. He was like this beautiful helpless wild creature, who couldn’t speak or understand, but seemed to submit his power to Rana’s protection, in its most unguarded, uncovered self.

The idea that he could safeguard a helpless creature in their most fundamental vulnerability, filled him with some sense of pride, ownership and more importantly, responsibility. He hadn’t experienced this need to care for someone more than he cared for himself in years of him traversing these treacherous lands in his self-constructed seclusion.

It had been a few hours, Rana had been lost in his ruminations about his newfound desires for an unannounced guest. When he had stepped out of his house, his original plan was to pick up the cycle and ride to the village for help, which he decided against by now.

He had sat down next to Heera and Moti, and talked to them about how it was their responsibility to keep a strict watch while he was gone and that they shouldn’t let anyone enter his property. He was never really sure they ever understood what he would say to them, but from past experiences, he knew they did. And so far he hadn’t heard any barking, so he knew things were fine.

He walked back slowly, thinking about what to cook for lunch. He hadn’t eaten anything since he woke up as he had served up his own share after he toppled the plate he had served Nangu in a fit of rage.

Remembering that, a cloud of worry hovered over his heart. He may have buried his own history in the depths of his conscious mind, but that didn’t mean they ceased to exist. He knew what all he was capable of in the moments he couldn’t contain himself.

All that anger had remained unresolved in spite of all the destruction he caused, until he decided to let go of it. Do the embers of unresolved anger ever burn out completely? Not knowing the answer to that question, Rana wondered, was he, after all, the best person to protect and care for Nangu?

As Rana entered the house, he found Nangu sleeping on his own bed, with Heera sleeping on his back with his paws up in the air next to him. These two were never allowed on the bed, so Rana smirked as he wondered if Nangu would be the first person to spoil them.

Moti, the more aloof one, was sleeping between the bed and door, like the guard dog that he is. Seeing Rana, Moti got up wagging his tail and rubbing up on his leg, sniffed him, yawned and stretched and quietly stepped out of the house outside.

Nangu had slipped on one of Rana’s shirts before he slept off. Seeing him in a piece of cloth for the first time, all of his prior conversations with himself about morality and modesty, gushed back into his mind.

Until he realized, that Nangu could have easily taken any of the fresh, washed clothes lying on the rack nearby. But he chose the shirt, Rana had kept out for wash yesterday. The shirt Rana had worn, when he had made a train trip to the next village, regarding some matter pertaining to the upcoming harvest.

It had been a particularly hot and muggy day, and Rana had returned home, with the shirt drenched in sweat, stinking of the strong odour his body usually emanates after a tiring day’s work. He sat down next to Nangu, and he could still smell the odour from the shirt covering Nangu’s upper body.

He only wore a shirt. His lower body was still uncovered. With his buttocks up in the air, inviting and enticing anyone who would catch a glimpse of it. Rana quietly returned his finger to the crack between the cheeks, caressed them along the line and lightly inserted the tip of his fingers a little inside.

The hole was still moist since the morning. And the muscles faintly clenched up around the tip of his finger, almost as a reflex.


Why can’t I, for the life of me remember that damn skylight? I am not surprised that its there, as it’s not an uncommon feature around here, since this was some old building that’s been repurposed into a laboratory.

I worked pretty much day and night in OL17 for last two years, and I just can’t remember ever noticing the skylight. Perhaps, it’s the all the tube lights that have been suspended at a much lower height than the ceiling.

The low hanging bright white light from the tubes probably prevented anyone from noticing the skylight back up on the ceiling. It’s a rather large one, with the entire frame divided up into a three by three grid frame, encased with transparent glass panes.

I’ve been swimming in and out of consciousness as if I just got too drunk. (Or is it sleeping pills?) And every time I open my eyes I see the full moon at its brightest, shining its light on me through the skylight. It’s drizzling outside. And the coy little drops of water trickle down on the other side of the glass panes, finely distorting the shape of the moon like an old VCR tape.

I know I have been staring at it for quite a while, as my vision blurs in and out; for when I noticed the moon first, it was in the top right section of the skylight, and by now it has sluggishly travelled diagonally down to the bottom left of the skylight. In a bit, I won’t be able to see the moon through the frame in the ceiling anymore.

Perhaps I’m noticing the skylight for the first time, as all the tubes are turned off. OL17 is all dark, with just an emergency light near the door. I can tell from the little square window on the door, that the lights are on in the corridor outside. But why am I here? Why do I feel like, I’m done with this place? I’m not supposed to be here anymore.

As I crane my neck up, I realize that I’m lying in a hospital bed (or is it an operating table?), with the upper half of the bed tilted up in a forty-five-degree angle, so that I’m half sitting up. I try to prop myself up fully, but sense something firm and sturdy binding me to the bed.

My body is covered with one half of a hospital gown, with the strings on the side untied and hanging loose. As I try to uncover the gown piece, I realize, that my forearms are strapped to the bed. So are my calves strapped to the side of the bed, with my legs pulled apart.

There are all these machines around me, beeping and flashing numbers in their led screens, as wires grow and extend out of them, and creep under my gown. There are two IV drip bottles hanging right over my head, with pipes extending out of them and reaching out to the cannula attached to the elbow pit on my right arm.

There’s a white hospital band wrapped around my wrist on the same arm. My arm is strapped down so tight, I can’t even turn my wrist to read all the letters printed on the band. All I can read is “GOD”

A chill runs down my spine as a strange memory floods up into my conscious mind. The door clangs open and a nurse, wearing a hospital mask enters the OL and turns on the light. Now I remember. The lab has been vacated.

None of the equipment or furniture is there anymore, while I can clearly remember the entire room setup which used to be here. Except for everything that is here around me. I try to speak out to her, but I can’t. All I can do is muffle.

Right then, another man enters the OL behind her, wearing a scrunchy, scrubs and mask, pushing his fingers through white rubber glove as he pulls it over his wrist, with the other already gloved hand.

I know him. I know him too well. A simultaneous pair of emotions clash inside my mind, that of an extreme endearment and utter fear. I want to call out to him to beg him to save me and release me. While I also know he’s not going to do that. He says something to the nurse and walks over to me, while reading some charts handed to him by the nurse.

He comes into the light hanging over me. He’s grown older than I last saw him. He’s put on weight. His hairstyle is still the same, just grayed out completely. As he looks up from the charts, and his eyes meet mine. And he smiles.

I remember. I look down near my feet, there’s a strange big device placed right near them. I have never seen it before, but I feel I know exactly what it is. There are these strange lights, in a whole bunch of squares, lighting up in reds and greens in seemingly randomized configuration. And a fat coil of silicon covered cords jut out of the device, and extend toward my body, between my legs, the coil reaches under my gown.

Suddenly I realize why my body has been feeling so unusually heavy and pulled down by a foreign weight from the inside. I know why I can’t move.

I am trying so bloody hard to scream out of a very familiar fear. Like a recurring nightmare has turned to reality. But not a single sound escapes my throat. Dad is now next to me, and he says something to me. Is he saying, everything will be okay now?

Motherfucker! And he puts his hand below my stomach and a piercing sensation of horrid revulsion shoots through my limbs. I manage to twist my wrist and grab his arm so hard that my fingers dig into his flesh. And the lights turn off pitch black.

The skylight is not there anymore. The lantern on the floor in that corner is not as bright, but a dim glow emits from its dying wick. One of Rana’s legs is lodged between my thighs, and I realize my fingers are digging into his forearm resting on my stomach.

Drenched in sweat, I turn my head towards him. His face is five inches away from mine. And he’s fast asleep. Didn’t I just scream? I thought I just screamed. Or did he not hear it.

I’m back in the shack now. It must be middle of the night. Rain is pouring cats and dogs outside.

I had been feeling a bit queasy when I woke up this evening. Like a headrush or like right before you would come down with a bout of viral fever. Rana was standing atop two stacked boxes, rummaging inside a storage trunk placed on the ledge of one of the walls.

He exclaimed in triumph when he pulled out a bottle of Black Dog and climbed back down and handed the bottle to me grinning like a child, as he realized I was awake. It was an old, but unopened bottle of whiskey. As if he was saving it for a special occasion.

The warm violet of the sky hadn’t yet turned into the blackness of the night. The air was thick and humid, right before a heavy rainfall. I could see flashes of light fill up the skies outside followed by angry thundering.

Rana lit up a matchstick and added the flame to the wick, and placed the glass globe on it and brought the bright lantern, placing it near the bed. I could sense my body temperature was slightly above normal. I groaned at the realization that I was probably coming down with fever soon.

It’s not like I detested fever. It sounds morbid, but I rather like it. Because it makes me super fucking horny every time. Because when your body is running a fever, your nervous system is on an overdrive. Every sensation in the body is amplified. It’s like a live current running rapidly under your skin.

And the heat. Not just in the head, but every, single, part of your body. The heat is unbearable in the groin. Everything down there is so hypersensitive that a single touch shoots out ripple effects through the entire body.

And all I desire in such a moment is a big fat cock, pushing inside my hole, pressing and expanding every muscle inside my anus, where it is the hottest. It’s like fire.

Rana sits himself down on one of the boxes and places two whiskey glasses which also he pulled out from the trunk along with the whiskey. He opens the bottle and pours two big pegs into the glasses.

He picks up both the glasses, raises one to his face and sniffs inside the glass with a deep sigh of relief, and he hands out the other glass to me. As I reach out for the glass that’s being offered to me, he pulls back, thinks something to himself for a moment and refuses to hand me the glass, nodding his head in rejection, as if he changed his mind about it.

He pours the drink from the glass into his own and puts away the empty glass.

A sudden feeling of indignation shoots through my mind as I sit up straight frowning in frustration. Who the fuck is he, to tell me what I can or can not do? Rebelliously, I go up to him and unsuccessfully try to grab his glass out his hand, as he pulls back his arm behind him over his head, while wrapping his other arm around my neck and pulling my body closer to his torso, until he finds me in a lock where I can’t move without jolting him too hard.

He kisses my head, while rubbing my shoulder, trying to calm me down, mumbling something which I sense it means, that he doesn’t want me to drink out of some concern.

I release myself from him, throw a visible tantrum and return back to bed and lay down turning away from him. I’m not mad at him. I just want to throw a tantrum. I won’t deny that the feverishness is probably making me a bit irritable and impatient.

But I know he’s probably right to be concerned. If I was drugged or something, because of which I landed up here, mixing alcohol with it, might just not be a good idea after all.

But he’s such an ass, he should have thought of that beforehand before dangling the carrot on the stick. Or he can just choose not to drink himself. Well, he sure can’t put it back in the bottle with the fancy dispensers attached in liquor bottles these days.

It’s the same warm violet in the sky with a diminishing light like last evening when he brought me here. I can hear the loud cacophony of birds in some far off distance, the same sound I woke up to last evening before the dogs arrived. These twenty-four hours have felt like a lifetime.

A Kafkaesque dream rather. Now that I have had some time to process everything, there’s a strange sadness that colours the ambience of my thoughts. Why do I feel no desire to know who I was? Something within tells me that I made the choice to leave everything behind.

I am strangely happy and content, in the heavy arms of this beautiful stranger. His sexual conquest of my body, feels like I’m owned by him. And I feel like I can spend the rest of my days in my absolute submission to him.

Perhaps I can live here. Language may be an issue for some time, but we are picking up fast. We both seem to mostly understand what either of us has to say to the other. I know his name is Rana. And I know the dogs respond to Heera and Moti. Heera seems to already like me. Moti is still somewhat guarded, but not suspicious of me anymore I feel.

Perhaps he too knows that I’m also owned by his owner. But in the hierarchies of subordination, he has probably realized that I’m the one who fulfils the owner’s most basal desires. Rana said something about his farm, I think the harvest will be up soon.

Read the deep and lovely Indian gay erotica of two strangers finding solace in each other’s company after a series of weird but fortunate events!

I’m sure he’ll need help. I can help him out with the farm. I can learn to cook. I can keep his household clean and up and running. I don’t see any civilization around here. We are surrounded by farmlands which no one seems to use anymore.

I see a couple of dilapidated houses and barns and stables, but they have been lying still, with no life moving in or out of them. Rana must be a recluse. But he doesn’t seem to mind my presence in his isolation. It could be our little world. Is this what they call a utopia? Or if this is a dream, too good to be true, I wish I never wake up from it.