Inside, I shed tradition layer by layer: sari pooling at my ankles, 36C brown nipples dark as cardamom, waist so tiny your palms overlap around it. I speak fluent Hindi filth—“Choos meri chut, baby”—while I drop to my knees, ruby lips stretching slow around your shaft, bangles jingling like bells every time you hit my throat. Spin me over the suite’s glass table; my dripping peach grazes the skyline mirror while you plunge from behind, Dubai’s lights twinkling beneath us like stolen