Tony should have been on seventh heaven after that experience. But one thing nagged at him.

“Why…why did you kiss my feet?”

“I am parachi, you are karaiyar. For centuries my people have prostrated themselves before you.”

“No! I don’t believe in the caste system. We are equals.”

“I was only teasing.” She grinned. “Your parents were telling me how the community here thinks of caste. I did not tell them, but actually they are stuck in the eighties. In Sri Lanka we have moved on. The rebels did not believe in caste, and did a lot to stamp it out.”

“Really?”

“The rebel leaders were karaiyar, like you. You know that your people started out as mercenaries, right? It was the Sinhalese kings who paid for them to come from India. But the karaiyar are not the highest caste, they are the second highest,” said Manjula.

“Who were the highest, then?”

“They are called the vellalas. They have history with your people. During colonial times, the karaiyar got rich sucking up to the Europeans. They had so much money they bought up whole fleets of fishing boats. Lower castes had to pay them rent to use the boats and earn the money back by doing the work of fishing. Your ancestors had imperial patronage and did not do much work. The vellalas were jealous. They called your people the ‘boat-owning caste’.” She giggled. Tony made a face.

“During the war the vellalas looked down on the rebels and even fought against them. So they made a big deal of equality. They recruited pariah soldiers — they even tried to recruit me. They made sure anyone could go to any temple. Soldiers could marry into any caste. I went to the same schools as vellalas, and teachers had to teach me. Now it is possible for me to be a doctor. Your people here are a bit behind the times.”

Tony reflected on the sociological irony.

“You said you like a girl to be submissive,” Manjula reminded him. “And… all my life I have been the leader. My little cousins depended on me. All the other children at school, sometimes even some teachers, depended on me. Here I have to constantly navigate this foreign culture. Sometimes I think my ancestors had it simpler. They did as they were told, no matter how dirty, they prostrated themselves, and they did not have to make decisions and plan.”

“So you like to submit, because it means you don’t have to be responsible?”

“Well not really. I know I am always responsible. But I like to pretend. I like to be dirty. And besides…”

“What?”

“It is worth doing these things just to see the look on your face. I have never seen anyone so happy. It makes me feel very good inside that I can do that for you.”

Tony hugged her. “Everything you do makes me happy.”

***

They settled into a routine. Over time, Tony rutted in a variety of places; her forehead, between her breasts, her belly, even on the crack of her ass, if not actually in it. Manjula loved the sense of being marked as property. She felt particularly docile, even kittenish, after his fingers had been inside her.

They didn’t get to do this as often as they might have liked. Their homework burden was growing, as were their other activities.

Manjula had been serious about Tony starting an exercise program. She joined him at the gym, worried that the high-calorie Western diet would erode her figure. Tony liked ogling her in yoga pants, but was dismayed to find that she was in much better shape than he was.

The non-profits Tony had contacted advised him against unpaid internships, but they did ask him for volunteer help — cleaning up their databases, fixing bugs on their websites, and the like. In addition to the time he spent on that, he had signed up with one of the political parties active on campus, and now sometimes went to rallies or wrote articles.

Tony reflected that he wouldn’t even have had the level of energy to sustain this pace without the joy that Manjula had brought to his life. For her part, she volunteered as a math tutor, and had also become active in the foreign students’ association.

Lacking the time for long play dates in person, Manjula made do by sending Tony nude selfies, sometimes re-enactments of poses from his Playboy collection. He would have liked to send her a dick pic in return, but didn’t dare. They both kept each other informed about their masturbatory activities, sending each other racy texts at odd hours of the day or night.

Nevertheless, Tony found himself hungering for some real quality time with Manjula. He phoned her up one evening.

“Hi angel, do you think you could get Saturday free?”

“I have a lot of homework.”

“So do I. But I want to take you to Toronto. We can rent a car.”

“Why?”

“We need to take some time for leisure, otherwise we won’t be as productive the rest of the week.” He’d guessed that would be the best argument to persuade Manjula. She finally agreed, on the condition that they leave early morning and return by early evening.

***

It was a beautiful morning. The green of summer was giving way to the bright colours of fall. Yellow and orange decorated the roads. Manjula stared out the windows spellbound, never having seen autumn before.

She was also unprepared for the sheer number of cars on the roads.

“So in Canada… does every family have a car?”

“Most of them, yes. Many even have two.”

“What an amazing country,” she sighed.

Tony wondered if she’d still feel that way if they got stuck in traffic. But, luckily, they did not. He pulled into Rouge Park. Hand in hand, they strode into the forest of tall Canadian maple trees. Far from the roads, they could hear only the noises of squirrels running, a stream flowing nearby, the wind whistling in the pines.

Tony loved walking in the forest. The only thing he found more beautiful than the trees was Manjula. As the weather cooled, she no longer showed off her legs in short miniskirts. But she was no less a feast for the eyes in skinny jeans and a denim jacket, and many were the photos he took of her.

“We don’t have a huge amount of nature here in the city, but we try,” he said modestly.

“It is very beautiful,” said Manjula. “It is not the same as Sri Lanka, but it is very peaceful. I can see why you enjoy it here. And you do not have to worry about dengue fever or snakebite.”

“I haven’t spent as much time outdoors as I should,” Tony began. “But there are lots of things people do.” He told her about camping, about water skiing, about canoeing, kayaking, hiking, fishing.

“It sounds like you people have a lot of fun. Nobody in Sri Lanka can afford these things,” she said wryly. “If you are in a boat, it is because your job is a fisherman. And nobody would sleep in a tent if they had money to afford a proper house.”

Perhaps that was why, Tony thought, his own parents had little interest in the Canadian outdoors. He’d had to beg them to so much as take him on a nature trail.

“But how do you stand the cold?” she asked. “It is fifteen degrees outside.”

“That’s pretty good for this time of year,” Tony replied. “In the winter we can bottom out at twenty below,”

“Oh, I will die,” she said. “How do you stand it?”

“Kids have the most fun of all. They build little forts from the snow. They pack the snow into balls and throw them at each other.” He told her about skating, about hockey, about tobogganing, about skiing.

“Do you do this — this skiing?”

“I haven’t tried it yet. Maybe we could do it together, this winter?”

“Maybe,” she said, but it was clear to Tony the cold was getting to her. They returned to the car.

“How about a Sri Lankan restaurant for lunch?”

“What?”

“You didn’t know? There are more Tamils in Toronto than in Jaffna itself, now. Lots of restaurants.”

“My village does not have restaurants. Rich people hire cooks to come to their homes. Poor people work as cooks.”

Before going to the restaurant, Tony showed her some of the many small Tamil grocery stores and take-outs in Scarborough. Manjula was shocked. “They have a better choice of spices than we have in our village!” she exclaimed.

“Toronto is two percent Tamil,” Tony replied. “I think in all of Sri Lanka, only Colombo has a larger Tamil population. Wait till you see the restaurants.”

Manjula had never actually been to a full-service restaurant before, only small cafeterias. She wasn’t prepared for the sheer number of dishes on the menu.

“They offer — all of these dishes?”

“Yup. You pick the ones you want, and they’ll bring them.”

Getting to stay seated while being served by a waiter was a staggering experience for her. Tony had to restrain her from going to the kitchen and offering to help.

“But they are bringing me food.”

“Yes, that’s their job.”

“But I am a parachi.”

“So? Your money — our money — is as good as anyone’s.”

“I never imagined I would ever have servants of my own,” said Manjula wonderingly. “How many places like this are there?”

“Thousands. Even the smallest town has at least one restaurant. People eat there a lot, just not when they’re in a hurry,” Tony explained.

Restaurant food wasn’t quite as good as homemade, but Manjula loved it, though she blanched when she saw the bill. Tony paid it before she had a chance to object.

They slurped ice cream in Nathan Phillips Square. They watched sidewalk performers on Yonge Street. Manjula gaped at the giant sculpture of flying birds in the Eaton Centre. She could not, of course, resist shopping again, but eschewed the expenses of Nordstrom’s and Holt Renfrew in favour of simpler, but no less sexy, fall outfits.

They followed the underground malls to the intersection of King and Bay, then went outside. Manjula was spellbound by the sight, an intersection with four of the city’s largest skyscrapers. First Canadian Place, Scotia Plaza, Commerce Court, Toronto Dominion Centre. They glittered like palaces, with gleaming glass doors, smooth marble floors, and flashing ticker lights giving everything a sense of importance.

“If you got a job as a quant, or a consultant, or an actuary, there’s a good chance you could end up working here,” he said.

Tony had never taken seriously the gag that tall skyscrapers are phallic symbols, but Manjula’s reaction made him wonder. The expression on her face, at any rate, was very similar to what she looked like when he was fingering her. His cock tingled a little at that thought.

“Kiss me,” said Manjula suddenly. She had never actually said that in so many words, but Tony was hardly going to refuse. The wind whipped coolly around her lips, making her warmth more precious than ever. They made out for a while, then went for Tim Horton’s legendary donuts and coffee.

Later on, Manjula was even more staggered by the Rogers Centre domed stadium.

“Fifty thousand people will come here to watch a sports match? That is half the population of our entire district.”

“Yes, baseball games can attract quite a lot of people.”

“Baseball? I thought you said the most popular sport was ice hockey.”

“It is, but they play at the Air Canada Centre…” On it went, one wonder after another. Manjula gawked at the newly legalized cannabis stores and daringly stomped on the glass floor of the CN Tower. She had never ridden a subway train before, nor a streetcar.

Nor had she ever eaten Chinese food, so Tony took her to his favourite restaurant in Chinatown. She was hesitant at first, but her reluctance vanished once the waiter pointed out several spicy Sichuan dishes, and helpfully brought over chili sauce.

“This entire neighbourhood is Chinese! It is like we are in China!” she remarked, munching away.

“Toronto has two other Chinatowns like this. And there are Chinese shops and restaurants all over.”

“White people do not mind?”

“They’re the first to go there. And not just Chinese — there’s Sri Lankan, Indian, Vietnamese, Italian, Portuguese… you name it. Usually they’re not concentrated in one neighbourhood, but spread out all over.”

“So all these different peoples — live in the same places? Go to the same schools?”

“In Toronto yes. Where I grew up was more than ninety-nine percent white.”

“How did you survive that?”

“There were incidents” — his face flushed — “but all in all, it was okay.”

Manjula was having trouble processing this. One of the grievances that had led to war was Sinhalese families, in search of cheaper land, moving into once solidly-Tamil parts of the country, a process the Tamils dubbed “colonisation.” It was common to regard other communities, whether ethnic or religious, with deep suspicion. Her own village once had a sizable Muslim community, but the rebels had expelled them years ago. They weren’t regarded as Tamil, even though that was the language they spoke. The idea of everybody living side by side happily seemed a pipe dream to her.

She was in a thoughtful mood on the drive back to campus. “I had a wonderful time today,” she said dreamily.

“Me too.”

“But the real reason you brought me here was to show off Canada, was it not?”

There was no point in denying it. “That too.”

She sighed. “It worked. I understand the appeal of this country. I see why so many of our people have come here to live.”

“Do you think — do you think you could join them?”

“Part of me wants to. Not just so I could be with you. I see now that Canada has joys and wonders in its own right.”

Tony knew the word but was coming in there somewhere. He waited for it.

“But how can they leave their friends and family behind? How can you decide on a country so quickly? I have only been here a few weeks.”

“People in Sri Lanka marry after knowing each other a few weeks. Most immigrants to Canada have never visited before they come. They rely only on what they’ve been told. And almost everybody has family back in Sri Lanka, or in many other countries…”

He told her the history. The first wave of Sri Lankans who came in the 1980s, strangers in a strange land, were widely accused of being bogus refugees. They struggled to explain to employers what an A-level was. They worked at hamburger joints to put themselves through community college. They spent years living in tiny, roach-infested apartments until they could afford better. They were cut off from other friends and family who had stayed behind, or who had emigrated to Europe or Australia or India instead.

“I don’t think you should make the decision on my account. I think — if we are still together, after graduation, we can talk about getting married. But don’t stay here just for me. Stay only if that’s what you truly want. In fact it, need not be Canada. In finance, you could probably find your way to the U.S. or Britain.”

“But what about you?” she wondered.

“If we were still together after graduation, I’m sure we could find a city that both of us could be successful in. But I want you to think of your future. Be the best person you’re capable of becoming.”

“So that is my choice,” Manjula said. “To be a doctor in Sri Lanka, or a quant or whatever abroad.”

“To be a doctor, or not to be,” Tony half-muttered. “That is the question.”

As it happened, Manjula had studied Shakespeare too.

“Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of Sri Lankan poverty,” she quipped, “or to fill out immigration forms to flee a sea of troubles.”

Tony started to laugh. Inspiration had hit Manjula, and she continued, “to emigrate, to leave — ay, there’s the rub. For in that long exile, what loneliness may ensue, when we have shuffled off family and friends and familiarity?”

“Did you seriously make that up just now?”

“That undiscovered country, from which no immigrant returns, puzzles the will, and makes us rather bear those ills we have, than fly to others that we know not of,” she finished.

“You really know that speech well,” Tony said.

“Actually I was thinking about this decision a few days ago, and it reminded me of this speech, so I looked it up.”

How typically Manjula. He took her hand and brought it to his lips, all he could manage while driving.

“I know you would like to paint me tonight” — painting being their euphemism for sexual activity, which they often amused themselves with by saying openly in front of others — “but I fear I cannot do much for you. I am so tired.”

They ended up cuddling in Tony’s bed, but going no further than kissing. Tony’s roommate found them fast asleep at only ten o’clock, quite early for university students on a Saturday night. Enjoying the side view of Manjula’s figure, he let them be.

***

Manjula prepared to leave early the next morning. An entire day without homework had to be made up for.

“I had such a lovely time yesterday.”

“Me too.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything, Manjula.”

“I… I want you to share your browser history with me.”

“My — my full history?”

She nodded. “Uncensored. You can edit out your email and things like that. But you know what I really want to see.”

Tony felt trapped. “There are… there are some things in there that might make you despise me.”

“Why? Have you looked at anything contrary to the laws of this country?”

“No, but—”

“I cannot promise you that I will ever do anything you have watched, or even like your watching it. But I can promise you that I will not hurt you.”

Tony looked at her. She was asking him to share his deepest, most perverted fantasies with her. This was an act of intimacy far beyond anything they’d done before.

Yet had he not, in a different way, asked her to change her life, to trust his judgment? Could he not do the same?

“I can, um…write up a program to export it. I’ll email it to you in a bit,” he said.

The program was not that hard to write; he even got it to produce a list sortable by frequency of which sites and videos he’d watched the most. Was it safe to actually show her this? Probably not, but he could not lie to her. Not ever. He emailed it.

That day he found it difficult to concentrate. What was she thinking? Miss you, he texted her. Miss you too, came back the reply.

She probably hadn’t looked at the sites yet. He busied himself with his physics assignment. Kinetic energy — just like he had with Manjula. Momentum — just like his cock when it rubbed into her face—

What are you doing? he texted again. English writing, she wrote back in Tamil. Which is harder than it sounds, since typing a Tamil letter requires two keystrokes instead of one.

He went over the Tamil notes he’d made with her. The adverbial participle. Breaker words. Verbal extensions. Tamil grammar was surprisingly complex — there was, for example, no single word for and. Things only got clear when Manjula explained things.

He couldn’t text her again, could he? He settled for sending over a picture of a rose. Fifteen agonizing minutes went by before she replied. She’d stuck her phone up her skirt and taken a picture.

After that, Tony’s concentration problems disappeared. He happily finished the physics, made good progress in the math, and covered much of the research for psychology.

Monday night was their free evening, when her roommate Rachel was in class. He texted over, in Tamil, tomorrow at 7? He got a thumbs-up sign in return. Had she looked at the sites yet? He didn’t dare ask.

***

After math class, Tony’s restraint finally gave way.

“Did you look at the sites?”

“Yes I did. I cannot talk now, I am due at the learning centre. We must discuss this tonight,” she said, walking off.

Was this it? Had he finally gone too far? Tony tried to muffle his panic. Calm down. Don’t jump to conclusions. She might just have been in a hurry. He spent the rest of the afternoon with heart racing, worrying if he might have lost the girl he had grown to love so much.

***

He was trembling when he knocked on her door that evening. Manjula greeted him with a warm smile, which faded as soon as she saw the expression on his face.

“What is wrong?”

“I was just—just so scared of what you might think of me. After you saw those sites.”

“They were certainly more than I had ever expected to see,” Manjula admitted. Tony looked up at her. Back in the warmth of the indoors, Manjula was once again decked in a conical miniskirt, the kind that flies up easily.

“I thought for a long time about how to say this,” she began. “Then I remembered how so many times you have sung Tamil songs to me, even when you could barely speak Tamil. I found an English song I want to sing for you now.”

She clicked on her laptop, and the familiar chords of the Beatles’ I Want to Hold Your Hand blared out. A sixties English song, fitting given their shared love of that decade’s music, in both languages. She’d picked a karaoke version.

“Oh yeah I, tell you something, I think you’ll understand… “

Tony smiled as she danced, swaying seductively, looking pert and saucy and irresistible. So she wasn’t mad about the sites. Or maybe she hadn’t looked at the worst ones? She didn’t have a bad singing voice, and the song’s innocence sounded adorable in her higher register.

“When I, say that something, I want to suck your cock!”

Tony’s jaw dropped.

“I want to suck your co-o-o-o-o-o-ock,” she crooned, again and again. She had a wicked grin on her face.

Tony felt dazed. What was happening? Was this still his Manjula?

“Oh please, say to me, you’ll let me be your whore,” she cackled evilly, taking off her blouse. “And please, say to me, you’ll let me suck your cock…” The skirt made its way down, then the bra, then the panties. She sank to her hands and knees and crawled on the floor towards him, sliding up his body and putting her hands on his shoulders.

“And when I taste you I feel thirsty, inside,” she leered, waving her tits in front of his face. “It’s such a feeling that, my love, I can’t dodge” — his heart pulsed — “I can’t spit” — she twirled around, wigging her ass — “I must dri-i-i-i-i-i-i-ink!” she shrieked, twerking her ass against his now-erect cock.

“Yeah you, got that something…” she went on, but Tony could hardly hear now, he was lost in the jumble of emotions. All he could think of was how badly he wanted her, wanted to possess her. Her tits were in his mouth, he was greedily, hungrily sucking on them, desire flowing through him. He could not keep his hands from wandering everywhere, that silky smooth ass, those unbelievable legs, that juicy wet pussy.

In time to the music, Manjula ripped off all his clothes, manhandling him like a stuffed toy. Tony could see, behind her sweet voice, the raw animal desire that was driving her.

“I want to suck your co-o-o-o-o-o-ock,” she finished triumphantly. She was on her knees again, her lips just a centimetre in front of the white drop on the tip of his head.

“But,” he finally said, exerting every ounce of self-control he could muster, “but what…what about your virginity—”

“For whom? Some man in Sri Lanka I have not even met? It is not he I want to be my husband. It is you I want to be my husband.”

“I can’t—”

She shushed him by kissing his cock. “I know you are not ready for that. But I also know that I am. Your father was wrong. Nothing you desire can possibly hurt me. I feel I understand you so much better now. I know how long you have wanted this and how much it means to you. I want to give it to you. Tell me how to please you the way you have always dreamed.”

No man can resist the siren calls of his cock for long, not when the girl he loves is kneeling before him.

“Take me to the shower,” he said at last.

Not since he was a small boy had Tony been bathed by another person. He had her spend most of the shower on her knees, bobbing up only to soap his upper body. Each run of the lather was a gentle caress.

She pulled him down to a squatting position to get a better grip on his ass. She soaped it up not once, not twice, but three times. Tony struggled to stay upright, so great were the wave of passions her magical hands brought to his body. He felt raw, exposed, open, fully naked in a way he had not before, not even with Manjula.

He didn’t let her touch his cock — it was already so fired up that it would explode instantly if she touched it. She settled for drying him off with the towel instead.

“Do you know,” she remarked, “this is the very same towel you sat on the first time you came for me? How far we have come since then.”

How far, indeed. He had found it thrilling enough merely to masturbate in front of her in lingerie. Now he was going to — was going to — he couldn’t finish the thought, he was so overcome with emotion that he grabbed her in a rough bear hug and held her tightly for quite a while.

He remembered the role she wanted him to play. “You… you really want to be my servant? My parachi servant?”

“Do you know what the most attractive thing you have ever done is?”

“Um…” He had no idea.

“When you were at your mother’s house, you helped her in the kitchen. She did not even have to ask you. You set the table, you laid out the food, you washed the dishes afterwards. I could not believe that. No man in my village would ever do that. Not even Appa.”

This might not be the moment for Tony to mention the many scoldings and lectures his mother had given him to get him to behave that way.

“Let me do what is truly woman’s work. But only in the bedroom, and only when I ask you. Do not even think about trying to be my master anywhere else.”

“M—master?”

“Yes, my master,” she said demurely. Again, she prostrated herself on the ground and kissed his feet.

Tony let his inhibitions go, let his theories of social psychology fly out the window. Rare and fortunate indeed is the man with a girl who will strip naked and kiss his feet. He looked down at her beautiful long hair, and let the lust fill him. A drop of precum fell onto her hair.

“Let’s go to bed.” He hadn’t told her to make the trip on hands and knees, but that is what she did, provocatively wiggling her ass from side to side. For the first time, Tony wondered what it would be like to place his cock inside that tight little ass…no, it was not time for that yet.

“Hands first.” He lay down on the bed, face forward. He had her kneel between his legs and massage him. He told her exactly how to do it — with the lightest of touches, giving her soft fingers the feel of a feather. Or, she could curl her nails across his back, drawing lines of energy across him.

He had her stroke him from neck to heel, but save his ass for the end. “Delay. Always delay. The more time you give me to anticipate something, the better it will feel.”

“Yes, aiyar.”

“Aiyar? Doesn’t that mean ‘husband’?”

“It means master, or sir,” Manjula said with a laugh. “Though married women often use it when talking about their husbands. Now I see why.” Tony let himself moan as she caressed his body, let the feeling of warmth spread through him.

“Now my ass.”

She leaned forwards, so that he could feel her breathing on his ass, sending fire bursting through his cock. Her hands, filled with love and care, kept on caressing him, feeling him, arousing him. He directed her to turn her hand sideways and place it into his crack, sliding it up and down.

“Ohhh, ohh god that feels so good. So good…wait, stop.”

Tony did not want to cum on the bed. He rolled over. His cock stared greedily at Manjula’s nakedness.

“Now massage me, every part of me… every part except my cock and balls.”

“Why not those?”

“Obey me, parachi,” he growled, pretending to be stern.

“Yes, my lord,” she replied meekly.

More arousing than the massage was her letting him use language like that. The more she submitted herself to him, the more awe and gratitude he felt for her. Who was this angel who had come into his life, who had given him more joy than he’d believed possible?

His cock glared up at her. The exposure of it thrilled him. His erection was naked testimony to how much he desired her body. Far from being repelled, she was revelling in it, teasing him with her fingers.

“You are so beautiful,” he said.

“Now I know you can do much better than that. I started going out with you to learn more slang, do you not remember?”

“You are my beautiful whore,” he said. Just saying that forbidden word in front of her made his cock want to explode all on its own. Her eyes lit up. “I love it when you talk like that.” She kissed him, and he took the chance to grab her tits, mauling them, fondling them.

“My sexy slut,” he added.

She pushed them into his mouth, cuddling him the way he loved. “My horny man. My dear, horny man. I love being your slut. I love being your whore.” Mouth full of tits, hands full of ass, Tony did not reply for quite a while.

When he came up for air, he said, daringly, “I want to put my cock in your cunt.” He had enough clarity to remember that these words probably carried less stigma for Manjula than for a native English speaker.

“I want to, so, so much. But I have not seen the doctor yet. But I will do anything else. Anything at all,” she replied.

“There is one thing—” He paused.

“Is it what I think it is?”

“That’s why we took a shower first.”

“My name is Cleaner of Dirt,” she said in Tamil. “I will always clean my master’s latrine.”

Tony’s body jerked so hard that she tipped off, giggling. How to do this so that he didn’t cum straight away? He settled for going on his hands and knees, feet dangling over the foot of the bed. Manjula pulled up a chair to sit behind him. Behind his behind.

There is reality, and there is fantasy. Tony had tried to keep the two separate, relegating most of his desires to the latter category. But Manjula had burst into his life like a flaming star, redefining his sense of what could be real and what was a dream.

For so long he had longed for this, he had masturbated to it, but he had never believed he would ever experience it. Now the long wait was ending. Even if he were to live this dream but once in a lifetime, the memory of it would bring warmth, even to his toes, for the rest of his time on this earth.

His entire body was shaking. “How are you so calm about this?” he wondered.

“I was not calm when I first saw the videos,” Manjula conceded. “But then I imagined you in them and I realized it was all right.”

She stroked his ass cheeks, gently, then kissed them, one by one. Tony gripped the pillow hard, fighting to remain control.

He felt her nose probe into the crack of his ass. At that point his knees gave way, and he collapsed on the bed. “It is okay. Lie down,” she said soothingly, pushing his feet upward. He moved back up to the bedhead, while she lay down between his legs. She put her hands on his ass cheeks again and gently pried them apart.

There she was, peering into his most intimate opening. It was clean, as clean as it could have been made, but how clean was that? He could not let her risk infection, no matter how much he desired her.

“Manjula,” he panted, “you have to promise—aaaah!”

Tongue in the mouth feels warm, loving, and tasty. Tongue on the skin feels affectionate, caring, and sensual. Tongue in the ass transcends those as mightily as a rocket transcends an airplane. There are nerve endings in the asshole that Tony had not even suspected to exist. He had never felt, never imagined even possible, the sheer physical pleasure he was now experiencing.

He screamed. Manjula jerked her head up. “Are you okay?”

“Oh my god, oh my god. That felt so good, I can’t believe it—aaah!” Manjula slid her tongue in again, deeper, deeper, impossibly deep. How was she doing that? Her tongue felt a metre long. The pleasure was wracking his body, consuming him.

She kept licking his asshole, he did not know how long, while he screamed and stamped his feet and pounded his fists like a toddler. The pressure of her weight on him kept his cock from climax, but the level of arousal and desire was driving him wild.

She didn’t seem to tire of it. In and out her tongue went, sending waves of passion through him like an electric current. Finally it was Tony who had to roll her off. His body was trembling, shivering, barely able to handle the surge of feeling rushing through him.

Manjula looked at him nervously. “Was that good?”

In answer, he drew her close to him and clasped her against him. He felt he could not possibly love her any more than he did at that moment. Even if she never did this again, he could never, ever forget it, the closest he had ever come to pure paradise.

“I can’t believe,” he said finally, “how… how privileged I am to have you in my life. Truly you are one of heaven’s angels.”

“I am just a girl,” Manjula contradicted. “My work here is not yet complete. But thank you for saying that.”

“Your… work?”

“Woman’s work. Or maybe I should say whore’s work.” She beamed. “I am tired of painting. It is time for drinking.” She slid back down to the floor, into his favourite kneeling position.

“Are you sure—ohhhh,” he moaned as Manjula lunged for his inner thighs. And then he could not think anymore, could not hold a coherent thought, as her tongue, her sweet, sensuous tongue, was caressing him. She pried his legs apart for a better access, and seductively licked his groin, sending ripples of pleasure through him.

He was saying something now, he didn’t know what, he could not talk coherently, something about how she was angel, she was whore, she was both and they were all together, goo goo g’joob. He closed his eyes, quivering, as his balls, one after the other, went wet in her mouth. Words were failing him now, he was babbling, giggling, making incoherent sounds, his intellectual armour gone, his raw emotions rising to the surface after having been buried for so long. Tongue on balls will break the will of the hardiest.

Manjula had been careful not to touch his cock, but he was already on edge. With one swift flick of her tongue, she licked his cock from bottom to top. And then, no—

— he could not last —

— and her mouth was on him —

— and his head was spinning —

— oh my god, oh my god, this can’t be real, it can’t, it can’t —

— and he was shooting, he was shooting, he was inside her mouth, inside it —

— the earth was moving, it was moving, I tell you —

—and he was heaving as much as if he’d run a race, heart thumping, uttering praise to all the gods of Christianity and Hinduism.

His own goddess lay beside him with a satisfied look, humming to herself, stroking his hair. Tony opened his eyes to see that sweet face in front of him, her expression sly.

Manjula opened her mouth. There it was, the white pool, the subject of so many dreams, so many late nights.

Her slow, smiling swallow was like nothing Tony had seen in porn. It was an act that hit him straight in the guts. So many years of waiting, of dreaming, of fantasy, had crossed the line into an unbelievable reality. Tony could not contain himself; he burst into tears.

Manjula took him in her arms. She lay there holding him, soothingly, comfortingly, for a long time.

Liked it? Vote again! Comment again! On to Chapter 6!

---