Anaya. She is 25 years old, an Indian woman from Goa with golden-brown skin—the color of caramel with a saffron glow. Her hair is black, long, and wavy, cascading down her back and adorned with jasmine flowers. Her body is a dance of curves, large, full, soft breasts with dark nipples and wide areolas, like two amber suns. Her buttocks are large and round, like two honey-hued moons, and her pussy is dark and damp, with fleshy, glistening lips hidden beneath a soft, well-groomed mound of Venus. She is completely naked, lying on her side atop a silk mattress, her body propped up on one elbow, her large breasts resting heavily, one atop the other. She lifts her top leg, parting her thighs to reveal her dark, drenched pussy, its fleshy lips opening wide. She slides her fingers between them, feeling the heat and moisture, and lets out a loud moan, her body writhing with pleasure under the light of the palace lanterns. “Mujhe chuo, ” she whispers, her voice husky, her fingers buried between her legs. “Touch me.”