by Tara Alton
(11/17/99)

I loved hands. Anything to do with them. I had dozens of books on the mysteries of palmistry, and I owned handfuls of costume jewelry rings from antique stories. On my fridge I had pictures of mehndi tattoos with tapered fingers decorated with henna. I wanted designs on the inside of my palms so badly. I daydreamed about how exotic and sexy it would be.

One afternoon, I stopped at an Indian store to get some chutney. I loved the place. It made me feel as if I was in another world with its unfamiliar smells and shelves of spices and food. I saw the business card on the counter for mehndi. I asked the clerk if he knew who Sarita was. He said she was his cousin. She was very good and she was a certified artist. The business card said private appointments or parties, specializing in Indian and Middle Eastern designs. I saw an article in a magazine about the fine-line floral Indian designs. That was the style I wanted.

But I only had a week off work. I hadn't been getting along with my boss, Judy. She overlooked me for promotion after three years of hard work at the collectibles store. She gave the position to her niece, who had only been there six months. I told her I'd done everything she asked. She said blood was thicker, so I demanded my first vacation a week before she left for her annual Florida holiday. She was pissed, but she agreed. That was when I decided to get the mehndi. Judy had fired another girl for getting a nostril ring, but I figured by the time she got back it would be faded or I could wear white gloves and say I was being 1950's retro fashionable.

I called Sarita and made an appointment for the next day. She sounded younger than I had imagined. I wondered what she looked like. When I was in New Orleans on vacation, I had a crush on a palm reader in Jackson Square. I kept going back every evening. Eventually, she ran out of things to say. I told her just to hold my hand, and I imagined she thought it was beautiful and never wanted to let go.

Sarita told me to meet her at the grocery store the day of the appointment. I was so nervous. In the store, I found a young woman behind the counter.

"I was looking for Sarita." I said.

"That's me. You're Mary?"

I nodded. She called someone else to the counter and motioned me out the back door. I thought she would be wearing a sari or something exotic, but she wore a T-shirt and jeans with tennis shoes. She had long, thick wavy dark hair that went to the middle of her back and her skin was light-colored. Except for her looks, everything about her was so American. She had no accent and told me she was second generation. Her grandmother had taught her the mehndi.

Behind the store was a small strip motel that I hadn't noticed.

"My family lives in the last three," she said. "We rent the rest. My cousin owns the store, and my sister owns the sari shop across the street."

Sweeping her hair into a ponytail, she tied it with a strand of her own hair. Glancing over her shoulder, she flashed me a smile.

In the motel room, she asked me to sit in front of a coffee table on the floor. She gave me lots of pillows to support my back. The room was warm. On the table she had cones that looked like mini pastry bags laid out along with other things.

"So what were you thinking about in terms of a design for your palms?" she asked, sitting across from me.

"Something Indian," I said. "I want something that celebrates the beauty of hands."

She looked thoughtful.

"I can do a Peacock feather on the right palm and Lotus blossom on the other."

"That would be lovely," I said.

She reached for my hand. I felt a nervous butterfly tickle my stomach.

"Before we start," I said, pulling my camera from my purse. "I wanted to get before and after pictures."

Sarita agreed. She snapped a picture of my bare palms and put the camera on the coffee table. I wanted proof that my hands could be turned into something exotic.

"I've been meaning to start a portfolio," she said. "Maybe you could get double prints."

"Sure," I said.

Now, she took my hand. The sudden warmth of her fingers made me feel giddy, but I wondered what she thought. Did she like what she saw? I knew I had my doubts about the beauty of my own hands. I didn't think my fingers were long and tapered enough. My nails were too frail. My skin was too pale. I thought the contrast between Sarita and me was startling. She had lovely hands, with one gold ring around her pinky. I wished I looked like her.

"I just love hands," I said. "Anything to do with them. Really. You should see how obsessed I can get. I bought a ton of palmistry books since my vacation to New Orleans, and I met a palm reader. I'm pretty sure I can read palms now."

"Maybe you could read mine sometime," she said.

I smiled and nodded. Sarita began the peacock feather. It got quiet. I looked around the room and spotted a framed picture of a beautiful young woman in a sari. The picture looked old.

"She's beautiful," I said.

"She's my grandmother," she said.

"I can see the resemblance."

There was a pause. I wanted her to keep talking to me.

"On the phone you said you are an art student," I said. "What media are you studying?"

"Mostly drawing," she said. "I like eyes the best. I'll show you my sketch books when this hand is done."

As the last line of the feather was completed, I felt as if my hand was transformed. There it was! Beautiful black henna against my skin, and Sarita had done it all freehand. I loved it. I couldn't wait to see it dry. My other hand looked so bare now in comparison. How could I ever go back to that?

"Your work is amazing," I said.

Sarita smiled and got out her sketch books. She did love eyes.

"I use a lot of magazine ads to draw from because they show a woman's face so close. I'd like to do more mehndi and art classes, and not work in the store so much, but it's hard. It sounds cliché, but my parents wanted me married by now. They are visiting India indefinitely with some family. I told them that by bringing me to the US they chose to raise me as an American. I haven't had much time for social life with work, school, and this."

She put aside her sketch book and sat back down. She started the Lotus flower on my other palm. I was glad she was holding my hand again. I thought the skin of her hands was breathtaking, her nails short and clean.

"Do you have any mehndi?" I asked.

"Just on my toes right now," she said.

She paused.

"How did you find my card?" she asked.

"In the store. I love chutney."

"You do? That's sweet."

She smiled shyly.

"I have a confession to make. I saw you before."

"When?"

"About a month ago. Before my cards were printed. You were buying chutney. I was in the store room with the door open. I liked what you were wearing. You looked like a naughty Catholic school girl with your plaid skirt and white shirt and your funky black shoes. Your blouse was unbuttoned."

She blushed.

"So I was glad to see you today," she said.

I was so flattered that she remembered me. The Lotus flower was almost finished. I wanted this to go on forever, her holding my hand, drawing this exquisite art on me.

"How long until it's dry?" I asked.

"It can take anywhere from three minutes to a half-hour depending on the temperature and the skin. When it's dry enough, it will take on a matte finish instead of the shiny one. You can get some truly deep red colors because of the skin of the palm."

She put on the last line. I was so happy to see it done, and yet I felt a keen disappointment that the contact between us was gone. I hadn't realized how lost I was in her spell. For a moment I thought I might blurt out how I felt.

"Photo Op," I said.

"Wait," she said. " I've got an idea."

She went into the closet and brought out handfuls of beautiful fabric.

"These are saris from my cousin's store. We could drape them around you for the photos and then I could use them for my portfolio. Maybe even an advertisement if you don't mind."

How could I mind? She showed and explained each sari to me. The top one was a cold pale shade of blue with a watercolor affect floral print. It was a Georgette fabric. Very light. The next one was a crepe silk in dark green with a small floral print in navy blue.

I sat on the sofa and she wrapped the sari over my shoulders like a scarf. It was bliss to have her touch me again. She was so close I could smell her skin. The contrast was beautiful between my palms and the fabric. She took several pictures with me in different poses, telling me how to hold my hands and how to look out the side of my eyes for an erotic look. Like a photographer, she pretended to tease me into more seductive poses.

"You're beautiful. You're an Indian princess. Flirt with me," she said.

She hesitated.

"It would be prettier, more natural, more exotic if your blouse wasn't showing, just bare skin. We could fold it down and back."

I held up my hands.

"I can't do it," I said.

She put down the camera and came close. I opened my legs and she crouched between them. Off my head and shoulders, she pushed the sari. With her exquisite fingers, she unbuttoned my blouse. I could feel her warm hands on my skin as she folded the blouse to expose my breast bone. She looked me in the eyes as if asking for permission and hesitated at the button on my cleavage.

"You can go a little lower," I said.

My bra was revealed. She edged the blouse off my shoulders and rested her fingers on the curves of my breasts peaking out at the top.

"You have beautiful skin," she said.

"I like your hands on me," I confessed.

"You do?" she asked. "Why?"

I hesitated, unsure how to say it. She looked at me expectantly. Her gaze was so penetrating. Was she really looking at me this way? I felt as if her fingertips were waiting on my skin like question marks.

I decided to say it.

"You're arousing me."

She let out a small sigh of relief.

"I was hoping you were feeling the same as me," she said "I want to touch you more, Mary."

I nodded. My heart beginning to race with the thought of it.

Slowly, she ran her hands up to my collar bone up to my chin where she lifted it. Her body was pressed against mine. She kissed my chin, then ran her nose over my lips to my nose where they met. She kissed me, her lips like butter. Feeling her nibble my lower lip, I opened my mouth in surprise. Her tongue slid inside, exploring my teeth and the roof of my mouth. I was reeling with desire.

She started kissing down my throat to my sternum where she unhooked my bra and exposed my breasts. Her tongue explored each nipple as she finished opening my blouse. At my waist, she flipped up my skirt and tugged off my tights with my underwear. I felt like I was tied up with the mehndi on my hands. I couldn't touch her. She planted kisses on my skin, exploring my body like it was a sensual doll. She was really feeling me, not just casual caresses, but getting to know the texture of my body.

"I want to make you quiver with desire," she said.

Her hands caressed the inside of my thighs. She made a V with her fingers, holding me open while she fucked me with her tongue. Just when I thought I would go bad girl mad with arousal, she tugged me down and opened me up more. Her mouth clamped down on my clit, and she began sucking on it. Her hands reached up and fondled my breasts. The sucking sent me over the edge.

She knew it. I came in her mouth.

"You're sweeter than chutney," she said.

After my orgasm, she told me to lie down on the sofa and close my eyes. My pussy was still throbbing like crazy. I heard her take something off the coffee table, and I felt her lean over my body.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Shh," she said.

I felt something cool and damp tickle my lower abdomen and thighs.

"Open your eyes," she said.

I did. She had decorated my skin.

"Now you can't move at all. You are my mehndi prisoner."

Sarita put down the cone and came to the end of the sofa where my head was. She gave me an upside down kiss. I reveled in the texture of her tongue against mine. I could taste myself on her. With one quick movement, she pulled off her T-shirt and bra and wiggled out of her jeans and panties. Like a cat, she climbed over me so her breasts were over my face. I sucked her nipples. She let out a small moan of pleasure.

I let go of a nipple. She climbed down further, her tongue meeting my belly button. My mouth found hers. I was surprised to find a piercing. I took the ring in my mouth and flicked it with my tongue. It drove her wild.

Like an erotic picture in a pillow book, she poised her body over my mehndi designs, her fingers spreading open my pussy lips like a flower. Slowly, she lowered her pussy over my mouth.

I arched up my head, my arms wrapped around her thighs, my newly decorated hands poised in the air. She finger-fucked me as I licked her delicious pearl.

One finger inside me. Then two. I wanted them all. She began to rock back and forth over my face. As she pulled away, I playfully bit her. She groaned. In and out of my mouth her pussy popped. The rhythm between us picked up. Her pussy was closer until she was just fucking my mouth. I was lost in her wetness, her clit like a precious gem swimming around on my tongue.

A third finger went inside me to the second knuckle. Her whole hand could slide inside me. My pussy hit a high note of a second orgasm, throbbing, ear-ringing, toe-curling, out-of-body bliss.

Sarita's cries reached a rapture as she came and shuddered above me.

She climbed off me. I saw her lovely terrain in reverse, her tummy, her piercing, her breasts, her neck, chin, mouth and then those eyes. She untied her hair. It cascaded over her shoulders. Kneeling by the sofa, she took my hands in hers and looked at the mehndi. She smiled.

"I can't wait to feel your exotic hands on me," she said.

"You think my hands are exotic?" I asked.

She smiled.

"Yes," she said. "Even without mehndi. That day I saw you in the store for the first time, I watched you brush a strand of hair off your forehead. It took my breath away."

"Are you sure?" I asked.

Her kisses on my fingertips were her answer.