My name is Michaela Glasgo, a Petroleum Engineering grad student at UBC. It is embarrassing to admit, but I had just failed at a part time job at McDonald’s. I come from a small town in Norther nAlberta, and we don’t have lots of things the big city has. We don’t have chain stores, you can still by groceries with cheques, and the people are either white or native. While I had a personal computer and cell phone, the local stores had old fashioned mechanical tills and I had no idea how to use the Star Trek looking device at the local McDonalds when I went to get a part time job just off campus to cover those expenses my “full ride” scholarship didn’t. The headset was hard to use, and the constant screaming of alarms was confusing and I got in everyone’s way as ten people tried to use the space of a mobile home hallway to pass carrying trays and bags. I got in everyone’s way. The fact my 48E breasts looked even larger in the too tight uniform made everyone who passed either try to cop a feel of my front or rear, or loudly complain about me being a stupid cow taking up too much space.
I have always been sensitive about my breasts. I developed early, my redheaded tomboy body suddenly becoming a distraction about grade five when my breasts started before everyone else. By grade seven, I was bigger than some of the teachers and girls and boys were both making me feel ashamed of them, for different reasons. I hated the way men looked at me. By the time I was dating I knew the answer if I asked what colour my eyes were, the boy I had been dating for weeks to months would have to stop and look. I am a natural redhead. My eyes are blue, and they are up here! I didn’t date in university. Unless you count madam hand and the finger sisters, in which case I was either a lesbian or a candidate for early carpal tunnel issues.
I was drowning my sorrows at an Indian restaurant in the strip mall just off campus. To one side of the restaurant was an exotic dance club called Mleccha, which seemed to cater to Indian men, but the dancers all had names like Tammy Tits, Candy Sprinkles, and Brittany Bunny. I felt enough like a stripper wearing the too tight McDonalds uniform, and the leering of white men had always made me feel sick. Sitting in the Delights of Goa restaurant, I saw the old owner run his eyes over my body openly and slowly, his soft approving smile met my eyes not with hungry predatory threat, like I was used to, but a strong paternalist approval. I felt like less of a total failure and took in a deep breath and pushed my chest out as he watched. Slouching to hide my breasts was a learned response, but under his eyes, I didn’t need to hide. He smiled and sent over a tray of dessert.
I had money for naan and nothing else, I love naan, but bread is bread and desserts are out of my unemployed price range.
I waved my hand to protest, and the manager (or owner?) came over.
“Sir, I can’t afford this. I just lost my job at McDonalds and I am a grad student on a limited allowance. Just the naan please.” I begged him.
He looked down on me, dark hands, dark eyes, liquid dark eyes that seemed to get larger as I looked into them. His shirt didn’t button all the way, and the gold chain with a golden trident pendant hanging from it, like the one on the billboard in front of Mleccha, drew my attention to a dark salt and pepper haired chest. Chest hair is supposed to be gross, but it was somehow so manly, so primal on him that I wondered for a moment how it would feel against my skin, against my nipples. I had to stop that train of thought. He was old enough to be my father!
“These are Gulab Jamun, named for the rose water they are made with. You are too pretty an English rose to be weeping in my place. Besides a Good Girl like you deserves to suck some heavy Indian balls in her mouth as a reward. You are a Good Girl aren’t you?”
He reached out, and turned my head to look into his eyes when I had tried to look away. My mind went blank. When he called me Good Girl my mind when blank, but my body caught fire. GOD, I was about to cry, now I thought maybe I did need to start dating again, because when he said I deserved to suck some Indian balls my eyes tried darted to his pants, not to the table. His hand on my chin, which I should have objected to, meant that he saw and felt me look down at his crotch. I blushed and stammered something. He stroked my hair and my mind went away again.
“You are a Good Girl. Tell Devesh what the problem is. Devesh will see a good girl like you is looked after.” He stroked my hair and the humiliated rage went away. Like, gone! Soft commanding voice heavy with the Hindi accent and the strange smell of skin sweating oils so unlike those of the meat and potato tar sands men I grew up with, or fast food frat boys of university. More primal, more potent. I started gushing my problems in an incoherent mess.
He stroked my hair, my back, then stopped me talking by putting a hand to my lips.
“Now stop Michaela. You are a Good Girl, you are a smart girl. You don’t need to learn those stupid machines, you are going to be an engineer, it is beneath you! Now you need a job where being a Good Girl, and pleasing people are your strengths. My neighbor Vivek is looking for a new girl to work his store Ashlil Vichar. Now, finish your Gulab Jamun, and your naan, and go see my friend Vivek. Tell him I said you were a Good Girl and he should hire you.
I caught his hand before he could pull it away from my face and planted a little kiss on it. I don’t know why. I have never come on to a guy in my life. I mean, normally my efforts are to keep them at arms length so I can not be harassed while I am trying to get something done or simply travel from one place to another without cat calls and obscene remarks. Devesh just laughed and kissed the top of my head.
I went to the shop on the other side of Delights of Goa from the strip club Mleccha. It was a store called Ashlil Vichar that seemed to sell games, curiosities and even some adult themed items for couples. It also had a Help Wanted sign. With a sigh, I nerved myself up and walked in.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/uemjx3/ashlil_vishar_1_obscene_thoughts_fm_mdom