He would describe the parts of the body, his voice a low, hypnotic rumble, while she listened, wide-eyed and fascinated. He spoke of breasts, not as objects of shame, but as cups of pleasure, meant to be filled, to be suckled. He spoke of the soft skin of her inner thighs, the secret folds between them, the delicate bud that held the key to her own pleasure. He would make her touch his chest, feel the hard planes of his muscles, the coarse hair, the rapid beat of his heart.

"This is power, little bird," he would say, guiding her hand to his stomach, then lower, over the rough fabric of his dhoti. "This is strength. And it is meant to give you joy."