Indian Mallu 1

Ouan hesitates, overwhelmed by the whole thing. Then he takes the soap and begins. The woman leans back his hands, her eyes shut, her breathing deep. She opens her eyes and indicates that her should do her front as well. Ouan’s hands have never felt anything like the firm softness of her body. His hands, inflamed and hot, rub and squeeze her round breasts, slide down her stomach and down between her legs. The woman opens her thighs so that Ouan can soap down below, rubbing for the longest time. She is bald down there as well as her head, smooth and slippery as an eel. The woman at last hisses out a long breath with her eyes tightly shut. She now pulls the plug and stretches out in her bath on her front. The thick milky water drains away, gradually baring an earth-coloured island of her body with the round hills of her buttocks prominent. Ouan rubs and caresses them to wash off soap suds, his hands trembling. Finally she stands up and waits for him to dry her. His accent wasn’t too thick but you could hear the Middle Eastern twang on certain syllables. “Please, it is nothing sir. Honestly. Thank you.” He smiled into the rearview mirror and continued driving. It’s crazy how much we can honestly grow. I’ve gone from a ten year old monster of a child with a vehement dislike of anybody remotely of Middle Eastern descent to spending the past nine months playing with their children, protecting them, and now riding in the backseat of a Muslim's car. That’s the power of the military, baby. “Right here is perfect sir. Thank you so much.” I said after the thirty-five minute drive. I left him fifty dollars and hopped out with my bag slung across my shoulder, halfway down the block from the house. I didn’t want her to hear a car door and suspect anything. I briskly walked the couple hundred feet, nervous as hell, cheesing from ear to ear. “She’s going to throw a fit.” I thought to myself. I slowly walked around the hedge as I reached the house,.
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