To Be Or Not To Be A Doctor – Chapter 3
Introduction:
All characters in this story are 18 and over.
“This weekend I am bringing someone home.”
His mother was astonished. “What? You are speaking Tamil?”
“Yes, I am speaking Tamil.”
“How did you learn it? Who is coming?”
“Her name is Manjula. She comes from Sri Lanka.”
At hearing a female name his mother excitedly burst into rapid Tamil far too fast for him to follow. “Slower? Slower… yes, she taught me… can she stay Saturday night?… she likes puttu… Mullaitivu district, I don’t know the name… okay, bye.” He felt proud that he hadn’t had to dip into English once, after less than a week of Manjula’s teaching. She was changing his life, in more ways than one.
***
Unfortunately the amount of time Tony and Manjula had spent with each other had been cutting into study time. They decided to stick to the library for Friday’s classes with each other.
Tony was now learning verb conjugations. As he had taken French in high school, the concept was at least familiar to him, and Manjula felt satisfied at how quickly he picked it up.
When her turn came, Tony reflected that she didn’t, so far, show much interest in slang, except for sexual terms. She really had a dirty mind, he thought. He loved it.
“The vagina in slang is called a ‘pussy’. Why is that?” she asked.
“Most people here don’t know the reason. But I do—”
“—because you know everything,” she interjected teasingly. “Well not everything, but I tend to look up stuff like this. It has to do with cats.”
“Cats?”
“A female cat, when she goes in heat, will mate with a whole bunch of males, one after the other. She’ll chase each one off afterwards and go for the next. So that part of the body is named for the female cat, the pussy.”
“Is that what women are like here? Everyone back home was warning me not to be like them. They say you can have sex with a white girl just by asking, whether you are married or not.”
“Where did they learn that?”
“That is what people say who have watched English television shows.”
“No, girls here usually won’t have sex except with their boyfriends.”
“But… more than one?”
“Yes. If they break up, she finds another boyfriend, and has sex with him. And so on. Eventually, when she finds one she wants to marry, she does.”
“So a woman might have sex with four or five men in her life? One after another?”
“Yes, that’s probably about average.”
“And if I broke up with you, you would have sex with another woman?”
Tony looked up fearfully.
“Do not worry, I do not want to break up with you. But I am asking… say, hypothetically.”
“Hypothetically. I would be devastated to lose you. But I would not expect you to remain alone the rest of your life, and I would not want to be alone either.”
“But if you got married, how would you expect your wife to feel, knowing that another woman had had sex with you?”
“Women here don’t mind that, as long as their husbands are faithful to them while they’re together.”
“A Sri Lankan man would definitely mind. I am not even sure about what we did on Wednesday,” she said dully.
His heart sank. “Do you regret it?”
She looked daggers. “Of course not. I loved it. But if you do not marry me, I would not tell my husband about it.”
Tony did not believe that someone should lie to their partner, as a matter of principle. But what if their partner had asked them a question they had no business asking? And how could he tell someone from another country how to live?
He wanted to have sex with Manjula, and she knew that he wanted that, and she was with him anyway. That would have to be good enough for now.
***
On the bus ride out of town the next morning, Tony found himself disappointed to see Manjula wearing a traditional Sri Lankan outfit, a long dress with long sleeves. She still looked lovely, and he had to admit that the clothes themselves, with gold-coloured thread interleaved in the fabric, and little pieces of jewelry dotting them, were prettier than anything he’d chosen. She looked stylish and elegant. Undoubtedly she was trying to impress his parents.
Instead, he decided to broach the other forbidden subject.
“Manjula, why do you want to be a doctor?”
“I am very intelligent. A very intelligent person should become either a doctor or a lawyer, and there is no demand for lawyers in rural areas.”
“Are those really the only two career options?”
“Yes,” she said bitterly. “Sri Lanka is not a rich country. We do not have loads of skyscrapers with consultants and marketers and executives. We do not have high-tech firms with engineers and investment banks with finance jobs. The civil service is reserved for the Sinhalese. The only options left for an educated Tamil are law and medicine. In rural areas, just medicine.”
She didn’t say the words check your privilege, but this was the equivalent.
Tony reflected on the reams of recruiters found at any career fair. They would have nothing like that in Sri Lanka. He himself had chosen computer science after seeing the mountains of jobs in the field constantly being advertised, but that would not be the case there.
At least she was thinking about careers. That was how Tamils thought about education. Going to university is an obsession since early childhood. The rocky soil and remoteness of the Tamil regions left little work in agriculture, and Tamil parents hungered for their children to get the few professional jobs in the country. When the civil service was made Sinhalese-only, and university places were assigned quotas based on ethnicity, the Tamils had risen in armed rebellion. They were the sort of people who would literally go to war for a chance to get an education.
There were problems with this, of course. Tamils overwhelmingly pushed their children towards science and engineering disciplines. As a result, hardly anyone studied Tamil literature, and the field suffered a serious lack of scholarship. Tamil literature is one of the oldest in the world — of languages still spoken, only Greek and Chinese have as ancient a canon — but few of Tony’s relatives had ever studied it, even those who had gone to school in Sri Lanka. Most knew far more about Shakespeare than Shankara.
Tony grew up with this cultural passion to learn. His favourite activities were reading books, or news and educational websites. It had been, he suspected, the main reason he failed with girls — he was just too much of a nerd, in their eyes. He hadn’t watched most popular TV shows, and didn’t know much about pop music. Nor did he have the good looks that might have made up for that. Manjula’s passion for learning touched his heart. And her skill at teaching language had made him feel so much more connected to his heritage and ancestors.
On the entire bus ride home they did not let go of each other’s hand. He often noticed that she would give him little caresses with her fingers, caresses that felt wonderful.
***
Tony had feared his parents would embarrass him in front of Manjula, but that turned out not to be an issue. His mother warmly embraced her as soon as she stepped through the door, and dragged her off to tour the house, stopping at every framed photo on the way.
His father was looking at him with approval. “So you finally got yourself a girlfriend, eh?”
Girlfriend. What a beautiful word that was, really. He felt like he would burst with pride.
“What is her surname, son?”
“I… I don’t know, actually.”
His father frowned. “And what village did you say she was from?”
“I didn’t ask that. She did mention Mullaitivu District.”
His father’s lip curled, but he said nothing further.
Dinner was a surreal experience for Tony. Manjula, relieved to finally have someone to speak Tamil with, was enthusiastically talking entirely in that language to Tony’s parents. Occasionally Tony asked for a translation, but seldom got more than a sentence or two. As far as he could tell, his parents were very interested in the changes in Sri Lanka since they had emigrated decades before.
He found it more amusing to watch Manjula eat. She had eaten like a bird whenever they’d gone to lunch or dinner, but he realized now that was simply because she didn’t like Western food all that much. She was gobbling down his mother’s cooking as if she hadn’t eaten in weeks. In one sense, she hadn’t.
Sri Lankan food was in fact far from being Tony’s favourite. When he was a kid, he used to surreptitiously throw vegetables from his plate in the garbage when his mother wasn’t looking. He’d outgrown that, but if you offered him a choice between an eggplant curry and a hamburger — hell, even a vegetarian burger — he knew what he would choose.
But he did love vattalappam, a dessert dish made with jaggery. From the look on her face, so did Manjula. It made him smile to see her so happy.
After dinner, his father glanced at him, then leaned forward and asked Manjula something in Tamil, with a serious look on his face.
Manjula looked shocked, putting her hand to her lips.
His father repeated the question, quietly.
“What are you saying?” asked Tony, but no one answered.
His father leaned forward and said something else in Tamil. Manjula burst into tears, but she nodded. Both his parents had a pained expression on their faces.
“Manjula — Manjula! What’s wrong?” Tony rose and went towards her, but, burying her face in her hands and sobbing, Manjula scurried from the room.
Tony felt his blood pressure rise. He faced his father. “What did you say to her?” he snarled.
His father didn’t reply, but said something, still in Tamil, to his mother. They seldom spoke Tamil to each other, except when it was something they didn’t want him to understand. She left the room.
“Please sit down,” his father said, in English. “Your mother will talk to Manjula.”
Tony was not satisfied. “What did you say?”
“We do like her, really we do. But there are some things you may not realize—”
“WHAT?” Tony shouted.
“Manjula is a parachi,” his father said, simply.
Parachi, or pariah if applied to a male, was a term his parents often used to tease. Tony thought it meant “twerp”.
“Are you trying to insult her?” He felt his hands start to ball into fists.
“No, I mean that she is, literally, a parachi.” He sighed. “Maybe we should have taught you Tamil after all. “
“Will you get to the point?”
“Manjula is an untouchable.”
An untouchable. Tony had heard of that in India, but not in Sri Lanka. The caste system, where people were born into hereditary occupational groups, with a carefully defined ranking, with intermarriage strictly forbidden, with brutal honour killings to suppress the lower ranks — wasn’t that long past, part of the dustbin of history?
“What… what? We don’t have untouchables.”
“Manjula’s ancestors were latrine cleaners. It would have been their job to clean up people’s shit — animals’ shit too. No one could touch them — even when they were beaten, it was with sticks. They would live in restricted neighbourhoods. They could not visit the same temples, nor even eat out of the same plates as other castes.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It is a primitive and barbaric system, yes. But our people believe in it. When I was a boy, your grandfather once pulled me by the ear and smacked me because I had talked to the young man he had hired to clean up after the animals. He told me if I ever polluted the house with the presence of such a man, I would get a severe thrashing.”
“So now you believe that crap?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” his father snapped. “My father was wrong. He was a bigot. But that bigotry has not gone away. Even some of my siblings — if they came here and found out a parachi had been here, they’d walk out, and some of them would want the chair she sat in scrubbed, before they came here again.”
Tony did not know what to make of this. Raji aunty — a bigot? Ponnambalam uncle? So prejudiced against Manjula he’d want a chair scrubbed? These were aunts and uncles he respected, people he loved.
“I know you are young to be thinking of marriage. But if you were to marry a girl like Manjula, I don’t think more than a quarter of our family and friends would attend your wedding.”
“We don’t have to tell them—”
“Manjula’s last name is Alukkuchuttam. Did she tell you that? It literally means ‘cleaner of dirt’. Her village is a poor one with many pariahs. Even if she does not reveal that, we can guess from her accent.”
“She’s not a dirt cleaner! She’s going to be a doctor!”
“I am sure she will be, son. You have not known this because none of the pariahs made it to this country. They never left Sri Lanka. They did not have the connections to emigrate as refugees, nor the education to qualify as skilled immigrants. Manjula is in fact a rare exception. She must indeed be very intelligent and determined to overcome such a background.”
“That’s why I like her so much.”
“If she marries you, be aware of the sacrifice the two of you must make. You will lose many of your relatives and friends. Children you have grown up with. Uncles and aunts who have loved you.”
“How can they still think like that?”
“Believe me, I have had this argument many times. Did you know that pariah is an English word too? It is the only English word of Tamil origin.” Not even the nerd in Tony had made that connection. Pariah in English does indeed mean a despised person, an outcast.
“We are not trying to be cruel to Manjula,” his father added. “Actually we are trying to protect her.”
Tony bristled. “How?” He almost spat the words out.
“Have you been intimate with her?”
Had he? Did their romp the other day count as “intimacy”? Tony genuinely did not know the answer to that question.
“You don’t have to answer that,” his father continued. “My point is this. Throughout history, upper castes have preyed on the low. Sexually.”
Tony started to protest but his father held up a hand. “Nobody in our family will admit to this, but it is true. Traditionally, a karaiyar man, such as us, could have an affair with or even rape a parachi woman, virtually with impunity. Their wives would think of it as masturbation, not infidelity.”
“I will never hurt Manjula,” Tony insisted.
“Be sure that you do not. If you are intimate with her, and then fail to marry her, you will have hurt her deeply, I can promise you that.”
Tony did not know what to say.
“We are not trying to impose another country’s morality on you. But remember, she is from another country,” his father said, a tone of finality in his voice.
Tony felt his stomach churn. He shut his eyes tightly. This could not be happening, this nightmare, this evil blast from the past. He felt like crying…
Crying? Manjula had been crying!
He ran out of the room. Manjula was sitting on the couch on the living room, still sobbing. His mother was sitting beside her, crooning something softly in Tamil, but not, Tony noted, actually touching her.
“Manjula,” Tony said, struggling to keep his voice calm.
She looked up at him, then deferentially gazed at the carpet again.
“Manjula,” Tony repeated. He grabbed her hands.
It did not take long for the significance of that to dawn on her. He caressed her fingers gently. She looked at him in surprise and shock. He lifted his fingers to her face and wiped away her tears. He placed a hand on each of her cheeks.
Gently, he pulled her to her feet and took her in his arms, just holding her, mutely, while her entire body wracked with sobs. Leaning on his toes, he rocked her back and forth, slowly, soothingly, for a long time, waiting as she cried herself out.
Over Manjula’s shoulder, Tony made a gesture at his mother. He let Manjula go. His mother put her hands on Manjula’s shoulders, gingerly, as if petting a scary-looking dog for the first time. Tony scowled, and looking abashed, his mother gave Manjula a hug. He motioned to his father, who had entered the room, to follow suit. The older man grimaced, but acceded to his son’s wishes.
***
That night, Tony was lying awake, upstairs in his room. Manjula was in the spare room, in the downstairs part of the house. Would she have gone to sleep? Or was she still upset? He headed downstairs.
She was awake.
“I am so sorry,” she whispered sadly, “so sorry I did not tell you.”
“It’s okay. I don’t think I would have understood if my dad hadn’t explained it.”
“Your parents are so wonderful. I was so afraid they would beat me.”
“They would never do a thing like that.”
“Or not let me stay here.”
“They would not do that either.” Though, he had to admit, they were not likely to tell friends and family about Manjula.
“But I cannot believe — do you still want to be with me? Knowing what I am? You still want to touch me?”
If there was one thing Tony hated, genuinely hated, it was prejudice.
He remembered the bitter humiliation he had felt when a classmate had joked about the chocolate that he had supposedly fallen into. He remembered the kids who had followed him home, making sneering imitations of Indian music. He remembered movies like Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, how everyone had asked him whether he ate chilled monkey brains. He remembered flinching every time he saw Apu on the Simpsons. He remembered the constant complaining, sometimes even from teachers, about immigrants and how they all soaked up welfare and stole jobs simultaneously.
There were the stories of Sri Lanka he had grown up with — of how Sinhalese mobs, death lists in their hands, went from house to house, rioting, killing, burning Tamils to death. He had seen the pictures of his grandparents’ homes, piles of rubble, entire streets with smashed houses and burned fields. He remembered the TV images of the thousands who lay dead on the beaches when the war reached its bloody end. His family had fled, scattered all over the world, struggling to find countries that would take their refugee claims, cousins grown apart, cultures dividing them, roots fraying.
Was there anything in the world worse than prejudice? Surely not. And, in his mind worst of all, it had reduced this beautiful girl, this precious girl, to a wreck of tears.
“How can anyone call you untouchable? I want to touch you — more than ever.”
For the first time since dinner, her lips curled into a smile. “You never stop, do you?”
“I guess not. But it doesn’t have to be tonight.”
“Yes it does.” She sat up suddenly. “Can your parents hear us down here?”
“Not if we speak quietly.”
“This house is so huge. Just three of you lived here? Ten people would live in a house this size in my village.”
“It does feel a lot better with a fourth person in it,” said Tony. Manjula smiled. “Your parents are not the only wonderful ones in this family.”
“My dad… my dad said it would hurt you very much if we had sex and then did not get married.”
Manjula looked wistful. “He is a wise man.”
“I know… I know in Sri Lanka people get married quickly. My parents only knew each other a few weeks when they decided to get married. But here… here it takes years.”
“And couples just have sex during those years? Even if they never get married?”
“Yes.”
“Does that not make it very painful for them? If they break up?”
“Yes, I suppose it does. Breakups can be very painful. Sometimes people get very depressed.”
“Do you know why I was crying today? I cried because I thought you would break up with me.”
“I won’t.”
“And when you touched me… I could not believe how it felt. Just knowing that you were willing to touch me. I felt it up and down my body. It was like magic.” He could hear her breathing hard. “Will you touch me again?”
Tony leaned over and kissed her softly.
“With your hands.”
He stroked her beautiful face with his fingers. It made him feel warm to see the look of bliss going across it. It was the same feeling he got playing piano, that sense of giving yourself to the world, letting music fill the room. Or in this case, letting joy fill his girl.
He drew his fingers down her neck softly, watching her close her eyes and breathe deeply.
Then an idea occurred to him. He got up. “Please stay a little longer,” she begged, but he was only going to the other side of the bed. He put his hands on her foot.
“What are you doing?”
“This is called a foot massage.”
“I should be doing that to you, not you to me. It is not fitting.”
“Does it feel good?”
“Yes, but—”
“You can do one for me later. If it does not feel good, just say so and I will stop,” said Tony firmly.
Manjula, being Hindu, would not have heard the story of Jesus washing his disciples’ feet. He who exalts himself will be humbled, but he who humbles himself will be exalted.
He began to sing Ovvorru Pookalume, a Tamil motivational song. It was a beautiful song, performed in its movie with a real band of blind musicians. He’d read a translation of this song before, so did know approximately what he was singing.
“Every flower says, life is a struggle.” He squeezed each of her feet, from heel to toes, then drew his fingers gently across the tops of her feet to her ankles. If the light had been on, he’d have had a clear view up her robe.
As if she’d guessed that fact, she pulled up the robe to knee level.
“Every sunrise says, day follows night.” He started massaging her calves. They were very tense, but he could feel them relax as he touched them.
She pulled the robe still higher.
“Keep our spirit, we will gain what we strive for.” It was harder to keep his voice steady. Seeing her lovely thighs had been powerful enough, touching them was something stronger. His cock was beginning to rise. No. He could not do that. He could not take advantage of her, not when she was this upset and vulnerable.
“Your heart, your heart, it can become something new.” Her silken thighs — their feel was exciting him. Was it exciting her too? He lightened his touch, running his hands over her knees, circling on the front of her thighs, rising higher, and higher.
“Whether it be mountain, or be ice, you fight on,” he sang. Manjula spread her legs wide. Her inner thighs, that glorious region just below her panties, felt so incredibly soft, softer than a feather pillow. Touching it made him nearly mad with desire.
He bent down and kissed the inside of her thigh. Her leg straightened out like a ramrod. Hands grabbling, she pulled off the robe entirely. Underneath she had on, oh my god… it looked like that dazzling emerald number they’d bought.
He paused. His mouth was directly over her green panties, and only the dimness of the night light prevented him from seeing through it. Was it moist down there? Should he touch it? His father’s words rang again in his brain.
He let the song speak for him. He no longer remembered the meaning of this verse, but Manjula understood. “Inside what person is there no pain? As time passes, so does the illusion of pain.” He moved higher, over that heavenly, curved waist, that impossibly thin midriff.
“Only the heart that can stand pain will find happiness.” He put his arms around her soft form and kissed her just above the navel, feeling her warm body yield to his. He felt wetness on his chest. Somehow the smell did not bother him at all.
Manjula put her hands under his arms, tugging him upwards. She looked at him with a very tender expression, then burst into song herself. “Thousands of desires in our eyes, ambitions in our hearts. No one can defeat you if you persevere.” She kissed him, arms wrapped around each other. As their tongues probed greedily into each other’s mouth, their hands wandered, exploring each other’s body. Tony stroked her hair, caressed her back, reached down again to fondle her legs.
She broke for air, then paused. “We… we have to stop. I do not wish to be pregnant.”
“I’ll stop.”
“But I do not want to stop.” She grabbed at his shirt, and with an almost angry motion pulled it off. She giggled. “You need to do more exercise,” she admonished, putting her hands on his chest. Then she paused.
“I am torn in two. I want… I want to feel what it is to experience climax. But I cannot get pregnant. I have not seen the doctor.”
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”
“I wish there was another way. I wish girls could masturbate, like boys.”
Manjula never failed to surprise him at just the right moment. “What are you talking about? Girls can masturbate.”
“How? We do not have a conveniently-sized organ for that purpose,” she shot back, smacking him on the front of his shorts.
“What do you think your clitoris is?” Tony asked.
“It is a useless organ, an artifact of evolution. Like the appendix.”
“Manjula, you have taught me so much already. Can I teach you something now?”
“What is it?”
“I promise I won’t hurt you. In fact, I won’t touch anywhere that I haven’t already touched.”
“I trust you, Tony.”
“Will you do as I tell you?”
“Yes.”
“Take off your top.”
“Why am I not surprised?” she grumbled, but she obeyed. Tony’s cock was begging for a closer look, but he knew that turning on the light would only make her feel more self-conscious.
Tony had never done this, but he had read about it. He could only pray the web articles knew what they were talking about. He took the tip of her little finger between his index finger and thumb, and gently wiggled it back and forth.
“Do that, not with your finger, but with your nipples.”
“Oh… oh! Oh!”
How badly he wanted to take those nipples in his own mouth. He settled for kneeling on the floor and leaning forwards, just enough for his breath to be on them.
“Circle your finger around them.”
Her breath was hot and heavy in response.
“Squeeze them.”
He had to put his hand over her mouth to muffle a scream.
“Now take off your—” She had them off before he could even finish the sentence.
Manjula was naked. The most beautiful girl in the world was lying nude before him. He stared with wonder at her. No picture, no video, no depths of imagination can do justice to the marvel that is the female human body. Billions of years of evolution, thousands of years of civilization, a lifetime of growth had led them to this moment. There was only the tantalizing form before his eyes, the intoxicating sounds in his ears, the fantastic soft skin that had aroused his feelings.
She was prostrate with arousal, helpless with desire. He could be inside her in seconds, thrusting triumphantly, feeling that glorious pussy around him. His cock jerked, a wet spot soaking through to the front of his shorts. No. Not yet.
He knelt between her legs, to get the best possible view. “Run your fingers outside your pussy.”
His heart was pounding. Her breath was coming as fast as a sprinter’s. “Touch your clit.”
She had just enough control to stay quiet, but her sudden gasp was music to his ears.
“Now finger it, the same way you fingered your nipples.”
“Oh Tony… oh…”
“Touch yourself. You are free. You do not need a man to give you this. You can have it wherever, whenever you want.”
“I want you…” she moaned in Tamil. The deepest feelings come out in one’s own language.
“I want you too,” he replied, also in Tamil. He could not take much more of this. His hand began to drift to his cock.
“I love you, Tony…” And then her body was shaking, quivering. Her heels stomped on the bed, her ass leaped up and down, her head was rolling, her shoulders shaking. Tony had never witnessed a woman orgasm before — he knew now that what they had in porn were not orgasms. It was like seeing an ocean in storm, but a beautiful ocean, a vastness of energy and feeling and hunger and longing. It was the most powerful expression of human emotion he had ever seen.
“I love you too, Manjula,” was all he said, but in English.
Tears were flowing down her face. Tony lay down beside her and took her in his arms again. She held on to him tightly, as if holding on to life itself, fingers clawing at him, breath heaving. His cock prodded into her belly.
She slid down the bed, and he felt his shorts being pulled off.
“Manjula, what are you doing?”
“Shh.” She sang more lines from the song to quieten him.
And then her hands were caressing his feet, touching them in the same gentle way he’d touched hers.
A woman’s hands are not like a man’s. There is a smoothness they possess that no man can match, like comparing marble to asphalt. Tony could not believe the tingles of joy her touch brought him.
“Lie still,” she said. “Let me be your servant girl.” He felt her lips kiss one foot, then the other. The simple submission of it left him deeply moved.
Manjula had him on his side, allowing her to massage both the front and back of his legs. She drifted her hands upwards, as if climbing a ladder, sending waves of delight up his calves, the hard muscles in his thighs. Each touch of her hands was like magic, a sizzling ray that left marks of joy behind. Nothing in his life had ever felt this good.
She circled his cock, touching his legs, his belly, his waist, everywhere but the organ pulsing and wet with desire for her. His belly vibrated when her fingers crossed it.
She put her arms around him — around his midsection. Her hands were on his ass. For the first time he discovered just how many nerves that part of the body really has. He felt he was going to melt, so powerful were the feelings she evoked within.
“Oh my god, Manjula,” he babbled. “Oh my god.”
She rolled him onto his back and spread his legs wide. Her hands were on his thighs again, leaving his crotch to wriggle and squirm in anticipation. Then slowly, she traced her finger lightly, so lightly, up between his legs. She gently pried his legs apart to get a better angle in.
He felt his groin being fondled, like a guitar. But the feeling! It was a sheer physical pleasure of the kind he’d never felt in his life. His cock was dripping now, dripping onto its base, but Manjula’s hands did not flinch.
She started to caress his balls. He moaned. Surely this was heaven, he had died and gone to heaven, nothing, nothing could feel this pleasurable. Did she see how strongly his cock was jutting in her direction, leaping, thrusting, trying desperately to find this princess, this goddess, that had given it such ecstasy?
She had but to place her palm on his cock before he burst, burst with the days of pent-up hunger he had for her, burst with the intimacy he felt for her, burst from the gentleness and affection with which she’d cared for him.
“Was that good?” she asked nervously.
“Manjula, Manjula… this is the greatest moment of my life,” he panted.
“For me too,” she said. She contemplated her fingers, white with cum. “It is not very much, is it? Just a spoonful.” She brought her fingers to her face and sniffed them. She even put the tip of one finger in her mouth.
“Not so bad,” she admitted. “Maybe for you, the best is yet to come.”
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