Anaya. She is 25 years old, an Indian woman from Goa with golden-brown skin—the color of caramel with a hint of saffron radiance. Her hair is black, long, and wavy, cascading down her back and adorned with jasmine flowers. Her body is a dance of curves, 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 moist—its fleshy, glistening lips tucked beneath a soft, well-groomed mound of Venus. She wears an orange silk sari that leaves her abdomen and breasts partially exposed, the fabric embroidered with gold thread. She is in an ancient palace, illuminated by lanterns, and she dances slowly, her hips tracing hypnotic circles. “Mujhe chuo, ” she whispers. “Touch me.”