Warning: This is a VERY taboo, vintage, hard-boiled full length (100+ Pages), post-censorship erotic novel. This is bad stuff. Both bad meaning bad and bad meaning *good*. The story is so crazy, we can't even give a proper description.
*****
"Oh, my last name is too hard for Americans to pronounce," the tan-skinned Asian girl laughed condescendingly, having been unable to come up with a suitable last name with so little advance warning. "I am the daughter of the Mahatma of Upper Bengal and you should have seen what the newspapers did to our last name. Of course, English does not have all the letters you need to write Bengali words."
"Golly! Where are you from, Mandi?"
"From Bangladesh," the girl answered simply, noticing that virtually everyone in the ballroom was watching them. For a moment she feared that her sheet had come undone and some important portion of her person was being revealed, but then she realized that it was merely the strangeness of her costume and the fact that she was dancing cheek-to-cheek with San Francisco's most eligible young bachelor. She could not explain to herself what had made her decide to pretend she was from Bangladesh, but now that she was into her act, it struck her as an enormously good idea. Having digested a eighteen page article on the country in Volume Three of the Universal Encyclopedia, she undoubtedly knew more about the Bengali people than anyone in the room. As she and Dexter swept around the floor, she allowed him to draw out of her the information that she was visiting the United States on a fund-raising trip with her father, and had stayed behind in San Francisco while her daddy had gone to Washington to confer with the Secretary of State concerning a billion dollar loan to alleviate starvation in Bangladesh. Dexter pulled her even closer, his slowly hardening cock rubbing against the flatness of her stomach.
*****
"Oh, my last name is too hard for Americans to pronounce," the tan-skinned Asian girl laughed condescendingly, having been unable to come up with a suitable last name with so little advance warning. "I am the daughter of the Mahatma of Upper Bengal and you should have seen what the newspapers did to our last name. Of course, English does not have all the letters you need to write Bengali words."
"Golly! Where are you from, Mandi?"
"From Bangladesh," the girl answered simply, noticing that virtually everyone in the ballroom was watching them. For a moment she feared that her sheet had come undone and some important portion of her person was being revealed, but then she realized that it was merely the strangeness of her costume and the fact that she was dancing cheek-to-cheek with San Francisco's most eligible young bachelor. She could not explain to herself what had made her decide to pretend she was from Bangladesh, but now that she was into her act, it struck her as an enormously good idea. Having digested a eighteen page article on the country in Volume Three of the Universal Encyclopedia, she undoubtedly knew more about the Bengali people than anyone in the room. As she and Dexter swept around the floor, she allowed him to draw out of her the information that she was visiting the United States on a fund-raising trip with her father, and had stayed behind in San Francisco while her daddy had gone to Washington to confer with the Secretary of State concerning a billion dollar loan to alleviate starvation in Bangladesh. Dexter pulled her even closer, his slowly hardening cock rubbing against the flatness of her stomach.