Ashlil Vichar 2 (Obscene Thoughts) MF, Mdom, Interracial, Hucow, BDSM

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 Alberta, 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.

Chapter 2

First Bet, Three discoveries

My name is Michaela Glasgo, a Petroleum Engineering grad student at UBC. I come from a very small town in Northern Alberta, where being a tall redhead who developed early and far did me no favours at all since I was uninterested in becoming a teenage wife to a oil worker or farmer, and every intention of becoming a successful career woman.

My need for spending money, my full ride scholarship didn’t prepare me for how expensive all the incidentals would be here in Vancouver, landed me looking for a part time job. I come from a small town, so honestly I can’t understand how all these star trek looking order machines and tills work. I do serious computers, I do mechanical cash registers, I don’t do whatever these Mcstrosities are.

As a result, I ended up working for a Hindu curiosity store sandwiched between the exotic dance club Mleccha and the Indian restaurant Delights of Goa. The store’s name is Ashlil Vichar, which I guess is Hindi. Maybe for toy store? Knick-nac? There is some pretty weird stuff in here.

The owner Vivek is amazing. He is fifty, pot bellied, and more intensely alive than anyone I have ever known. His laugh is booming, his smile infectious, and his manner so over the top I don’t know whether to giggle or throw something at him.

Every day I come he stops me, walks all the way around me, staring intently at me from every angle, and making lip smacking sounds and clutching at his chest.

“You are too beautiful to be allowed to walk free upon the earth. I should lock you away for the good of mankind, or at least my poor heart. Still, who will run the store, who will reach the high shelves, the low racks? Who will bring me coffee? No, there is no help for it. I will struggle on, even in the face of your beauty!”

If anyone else had spent an actual minute ogling my body from every angle I would report them to the police or smack them. But with Vivek I found myself posing to elicit new wounded and desperate sounds from him, before being allowed to punch my time card and begin my day.

I guess my ideal man would have been described as blond or dark haired, pale skin and swimmer’s build. Smooth hairless chest and soft voice. Someone who looked fashionable effortlessly with that mussed hair style of ‘bad boy’ types from boy bands. Problem was, I had met guys with that look and ended up telling most of them to go have sex with their hair stylist. I gave up on guys as a gender, and wasn’t into girls. Objectively, there was nothing about Vivek I should find attractive.

And yet.

He was no taller than I was. He was hairy, he was pot bellied, his teeth were wide and white, with a slight gap in front. He wore a gold chain with a trishul on it in the middle of a half open shirt that showed a chest that was deep and heavy with muscle, and well padded. He should have looked ridiculous, but he burned.

I mean, he was so alive. His eyes lit on something with a child like glee and the world grew bright. He could sell anything. His describing to young couples what these naughty dice could lead to was half comedy routine and half pornography, but both of them were blushing and laughing and asking if he could add the fuzzy pink handcuffs to the dice, and maybe a riding crop? He was like the herd bull, or the lion of the pride, his overblown character simply his way of making the overpowering MANHOOD that burned beneath his dark Indian skin less threatening and more comforting.

He was very touchy. I come from a family that does not do physical affection. No hugs, kissing on the cheek is barely brushing, and physical affection is something best kept to the bedroom and off the tv screen praise Jesus.

The first time I muttered something about one of our departing customers being too heavy to wear the garter belt she had purchased he slapped my ass so hard it brough tears to my eyes.

“Ugly thoughts have no place in that pretty head, and ugly words no place in my store. That woman is beautiful, as you are beautiful. Her man is going to see her dress like a wanton whore and begging for his cock and he is going to see nothing in the world but the most divine goddess in all creation, and he is going to fuck her so hard the pillars of the world will shake.

While you are on your knees praying Jesus to forgive you for wanting to feel love, she is going to be on her knees begging him to rise for his second coming and fuck her until she cannot walk. Unlike you, she will have all her prayer’s answered because that lucky white girl has an Hindu bull at home who lets her be a real woman and not a starving ball of guilt.”

He gave my ass a second ringing slap, and his serious stare burned into me. My own father had never hit me, and Vivek’s hard spanks on my ass had run right up my spine to my brain and got my whole attention.

He wasn’t funny anymore. He was, not Jesus, but somehow when he spoke it was with the sort of godly passion the pastor always told me I should feel before God and never had. His words were testament, were judgement, and I had failed. Plus, he pointed out I was fat shaming a woman for the crime of being happy in her body as I was not, had not been since my breasts started to develop. I felt like crap.

Not all of me.

I felt a fire in my sex. I mean, the throbbing in my ass was intense. Vivek had hands like Devesh, dark and strong. Manly hands. Strong Hindu hands. My pussy throbbed in time with my burning ass and I found myself unable to take my eyes off Vivek for the rest of the shift. That is probably how I got in trouble.

I had to inventory our incoming shipments from our suppliers. I was unpacking marital aids, a fancy term for rubber imitations of things that belonged on farm animals, not pretending that any human being could fit them inside her. I mean the smallest of them was as thick as my forearm and some of them were as long.

“These are so unrealistic, they are as fake as the tits in porn.” I said shaking one at Vivek.

He boomed laughter and replied.

“I forget, for all that you are blessed with me, you were raised Mleccha and have no idea what real men look like. I am as big as that toy right now, but with a little appreciation from a beautiful woman would be far grander.”

I blushed, laughing at the thought of the rubber cock in my hand being attached to my pot bellied bosses body. The fact caused the embers burning in my panties to ignite my whole skin in tingling, prickling, blushing arousal.

“Bullshit! I have heard that a hundred times and seen cocks from pencil to crayon size whipped out to prove it.” I challenged. I mean, I gave up on boys because they were all about them, and there really wasn’t much to them to be about in the first place.

Vivek reached out and cupped my head, turning me to face him. I moaned as his hand naturally fit the nape of my neck. His touch on my neck the most sexual thing I had felt in about two years.

“Not bullshit. That is a white Christian thing. Bull cock. Hindu bull cock. This is a gift from our holy gods for the most sacred race, whose lowest caste stands higher than every other race, and whose highest castes are given just rulership over all they survey.”

He was staring into my eyes and I felt a strong desire to run, like a deer suddenly realizing the sleeping kitty in the corner was a Bengal Tiger who was awake and hungry. I felt a strong desire to kiss him, to climb him like a tree, and nestle in his chest hair for the winter. I felt a strong desire to say something smart ass to break what had turned too serious to deal with. I followed that path into a mistake.

“I bet you are using man measurements, like every other man. I bet if we tried matching you with this toy, you wouldn’t stand up as well as you think.” My voice was trembling, and my eyes kept darting down to his pants. I mean, his bulge was always pretty large, but Vivek was just over the top in all ways so I didn’t really think that deeply about it.

Vivek grinned and winked.

“I will take that bet, if you will agree to my stakes. I will add one item of clothing to your work uniform if you are wrong. You think I am not a bull, if I prove it, you will wear this for me.”

He held up a collar with a large cow bell on it. I had hated being called a cow by the flat chested women and the hate filled boys I told no. I had “issues” with that word. I had issues with collars, the whole objectification of women thing. That and I had issues with how the idea of being collared by Vivek made me feel confused. That said, I didn’t get this far in my life by backing down. A hundred guys had tried that claim with me, a dozen had gone as far as whipping it out, and finger food is the best I could describe any of them. I had nothing to fear.

I held up a school girl skirt (slutty school girl, hemline somewhere between thigh and belt) and countered. “If I win, you will wear this.”

He took the skirt and roared in laughter.

“You just want to see my ass, little minx. It is a deal. In fact, if I lose, I insist you take my picture in this and we mount it life size in the changing room!”

I laughed, Vivek could make anything seem reasonable.

He walked over and wrote something on a piece of paper in Hindi and taped it beneath the open/closed sign and flipped it to closed, before locking our door.

He then came back and gestured to the ground before him. I knelt before him and laid down the black dildo. I reached up and undid Vivek’s belt. He began stroking my hair.

“Good girl Michaela, I am so proud of you. That is right my darling girl, you have earned it. You deserve it. you are a Good Girl Michaela.”

Every time he said Good Girl it went from brain to nipples, from nipples to brain, from brain to pussy.

His voice was heavy and soothing, like he was calming an over anxious filly who he was trying to saddle or shoe. It worked on me about the same, my hands which were shaking so badly finally got his belt and button undone and pulled down his zipper.

Vivek stopped me with a hand cupped under my chin to turn my face to look up at him. Fifty years old and pot bellied, from here he should look ridiculous. Instead, he looked like a king, like a god, and when his thumb brushed my lips I parted them and sucked his thumb like I had sucked mine for comfort until two.

“You are a Good Girl, and this is your reward.” Vivek said softly, and all pretense of joke was abandoned. I pulled his pants down and a huge Hindu cock fell out. Heavy and hooded like a cobra it hung thick and potent as something on a stud bull from home, or like a king stallion retired from a career of victories to a life of stud.

I reached out and ran my trembling hands over it. I held the toy up beside it and had to admit the toy pressed into Vivek’s pubes was slightly shorter than what hung above Vivek’s heavy hairy balls.

“Now Michaela, the bet is only half over. You have to see what he is like when a beautiful slut has shown it proper devotion and worship.”

Do you remember the first time you saw a Hindu cock? Full heavy foreskin like the hood of a cobra, the cock heavy, so dark and hot to the touch. I kissed it. Licked my tongue under the foreskin to taste it. To taste HIM.

Again Vivek stroked my red hair. “Good Girl Michaela.”

I took him in my mouth. The rush of being called a Good Girl by Vivek pushed me over the top and into a frenzy. He was growing thicker, harder. I licked down his shaft and found myself nuzzling his balls, lapping at them as I stroked his cock. They reminded me of the Gulab Jamun the honey glazed dark rosewater dessert balls I had at Delights of Goa. A reward for a needy white girl. I took one in my mouth and worshipped it, moaning.

Vivek stopped me, pulled me off his cock and I whined like a puppy. He held the heavy cowbell collar and locked it about my neck. He picked up his phone with one hand and held it towards me. Then grabbing me by my long red hair, he moved me back to his proud Hindu cock.

This time it was clear he was instructing me. I gagged, and he stopped, corrected my posture and tried again. When I got him past my gag reflex he called me a Good Girl and I just about came in my panties.

Each thrust of his cock caused the bell to ring. Cow bell. I was a cow. A white cow for my Hindu bull. I grew frantic, tearing at my buttons to get my blouse off. I reached back to free my bra and tore it off painfully, not willing to take my mouth off his cock. I needed my big white cow tits to sway as my cow bell rang with every thrust of his Hindu bull cock.

“Good Girl Michaela, good Mleccha slut, my big titted white cow.” Vivek grunted as he raped my face and throat. Tears and snot made a mess of my face, down my tits, and the bell clanged and clanged as my tits bounced as he turned me into a cock sleeve, a gagging snorting farm animal for him to train.

Vivek pulled out his cock and slapped my face, once, twice, three times. I blinked up at him, and fought his grip on my hair to get my mouth on his cock again. Laughing, he made me beg to suck his huge Hindu cock again. He slapped my face once more and fed me his cock slowly. I fought against his grip, pulling my own hair to get him deeper. I wanted to feel him own me again.

He let go his restraint and began fucking my face savagely. Now I was holding his thighs for support, struggling to breathe. He was snorting like a raging bull and his cock swelled as he started to pump his seed into my mouth.

Yanking back my hair, he sprayed my red hair, my eyes, my face, my neck my cowbell and udders with his thick Hindu seed.

He let go my hair and began to stroke my head again, comfortingly. I had tears streaming from my eyes, snot and cum all over my face, but I smiled up at him, his phone beside his smiling face as he filmed me.

I began repeating “Thank you sir, thank you.” All the while kissing and licking the cum off his cock.

I don’t know what this means for me, but three things were now clear to me.

Hindu cock was different. I really could be a slut if it pleased Vivek. I was okay with being a big titted white cow for Hindu bulls.

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/uemmil/ashlil_vichar_2_obscene_thoughts_mf_mdom