She leaned back, the upper part of her body away from me, her legs squeezed tightly together so that the point of their juncture thrust forward, a burning mound as probing for contact through our clothing as that region of my own body was. My hand slid down behind her and her buttocks were flexed tightly under the thin material. Her hips rotated in response to the caress and I found myself falling in with her rhythm. She pushed down one side of the top of her evening gown and the gold and ivory of one perfect breast—lighter in color than the rest of her bronze complexion—swelled in the moonglow. The tip was light pink and a single telltale drop of moisture glistened at the sharp point of its quivering surface. The roseate circling it was dark brown, contrasting with both the nipple and the breast itself. Her hand pushed at the back of my neck and I bent low to cover the plump sweetness with my mouth.
Her breast trembled under my lips and tongue. An eager moan escaped her. Our bodies continued their circling movements and the heat at the point of contact grew until it seemed an actual flame, rather than a manifestation of our wildly increasing desire. I reached down and grasped her thigh, tugging at the material of her gown until I had enough of it in my grasp to pull the rest of the skirt up over her hips. Her derriére muscles relaxed and her thighs opened to admit my searching hand. Quickly, I pushed aside her silken panties and plunged deep into the-dampness of her eagerly pulsating womanhood. Just as quickly, before I could reach my objective, she pushed me away.
“No, Mr. Victor," she said firmly. "1 am a virgin and I must remain so until my marriage. So it is written.” And then, arranging her clothing, she quoted the Kama Sutra of Vatsayana—the world-famous and much-banned sex manual which has through the centuries been absorbed into the Hindu creed itself. “It is a sin to love a woman who has already been enjoyed by another man," she quoted. “I should not like, Mr. Victor, to be responsible for forcing such a sin upon my husband to be."
“Call me Steve, will you please?” I said. “Under the circumstances, ‘Mr. Victor’ seems more than a little too formal." That out of the way, I registered a protest. “Ringing in the Kama Sutm at this point is unfair, Samantha. And besides, I'm familiar enough with it to supply an answer for this sudden virtue.”
“What answer?”
“He who neglects a woman because she appears too timid receives only her scorn because she looks on him as an uncivilized savage who does not know how to conquer and govern a woman."
The passage was verbatim from the Kama Sutra, and her eyes widened with surprise that a Westerner should know the Hindu classic so well. "The Kama Sutra also provides alternatives, Steve," she said with a slight tremble in her voice. "Would you think me immodest if I were to suggest that I might come to your room tonight so that we may together explore one of these alternatives?"
“No, Samantha, I wouldn't think you immodest. Rather, I would be honored and gratified at such a visit."
“Then I would suggest that we rejoin the others now and I will come to you later."
Mustafa’s nose was well out of joint when we returned to the house. I joined in the conversation for a decent interval, then confessed myself weary and went to my room. I gathered that both Mustafa and Samantha retired shortly after I did, because as I lay in my bed waiting for Samantha, only the voices of her father and Cunningham reached me from the terrace below my window. Jayasana’s words were soft and I couldn't make them out, but Cunningham bombasted loudly and the drone of his loud harumphs was clearly audible, although of little interest to me. I stopped listening altogether when Samantha slipped into my room.
She wore a loose nightgown, white and sheer. It reached from her shoulders to her ankles, but really covered nothing in-between. She carried a small incense burner and the first thing she did was to kneel in a corner of the room, set it down and light it. Then she turned to me and stood perfectly still as one of her hands worked at the tie at the throat of the garment. Undone, the garment seemed to float down her body and settle at her feet. She continued standing still so that my eyes might have ample opportunity to drink in her nude beauty.
The first thing that struck me was how well Samantha epitomized the one notable characteristic which sets Hindu girls apart from the other women of the world. This difference is seen in all Hindu art and sculpture and came in for a great deal of comment in the Sanskrit texts upon which Vatsayana based his writing of the Kama Sutra around 450 A.D. Since some of these texts go back almost to the brink of pre-history, the physiological difference of the Hindu woman would seem to be innate, rather than developed. Indeed, Indian temple sculpture confirms its having been noted and recorded well before the advent of the written word of Sanskrit.
Quite simply, this difference is summed up in the Sanskrit classification of the ideal female as a hastini, which literally means "elephant girl." If that sounds rather unflattering to a Westerner, it doesn't strike the Indian female that way. She takes it as a compliment because it means that her gudha (Mound of Venus) is plump, rides high on her pubis and has a deep cleft reaching towards her belly. Another idealization labels her a padmini, or “lotus woman," which means that her madanachhatri is set high in the cleft and large enough to be visible between the "lotus petals” of her yoni. All Hindu women have the qualifications of a hastini or a padmini to a much more marked extent than the other women of the world. Samantha presented the Hindu ideal, with a beautifully round and plump gudha riding high and a well-developed madanachhatri thrusting boldly and redly from its delicate folds. This placement would prove highly practical when she positioned herself astride my foot and contrived to get her kicks without sacrificing her virginity during the interlude which followed.
Now, still posing for me, she told me what she had in mind. “From your study of the Kama Sutra, do you remember the chapter on Auparishtaka, Steve?" she asked me.
“Of course.”
"Have you ever experienced it?"
"Not in its ritualized fashion. No.”
“Then you have never enjoyed the eight steps proscribed for Auparishtaka by the Kama Sutra?"
"No."
“Then I shall perform them on you now." She turned away from me a moment to make sure the incense was burning. Her long black hair, a loose cascade down her back, played hide-and-seek with the firm, rippling flesh of her round, golden-tan buttocks. Then she turned to walk towards me and I was once again struck by the high-etched splendor of her lightly curl-covered gudha. I was sitting on the edge of the bed, and she knelt in front of me and bent, her head so that her tresses fanned out over my naked thighs. She arranged it so that she straddled one of my feet and her weight rested just above the ankle.
"The first step is jhuthamethuna," she reminded me. Her hands slid up my thigh and grasped me firmly. Her lips encircled only the tip of my lingam and moved in the proscribed circular churning manner. After a moment of this, she paused to look up at me questioningly.