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He was a quiet man, twenty-two in the summer of 1946; his still young face lined with worry and years of the blazing Indian sun. Still, he looked like all of the other men in Bombay (later known as Mumbai), their skin the same toffee color and their hair the same rich, lustrous black. But he was not like all of the other men. He was Achuta, the Untouchable.

His sins in a previous life had to be very grave indeed. He was born impure, too polluted to be included in the human community. His fate was sealed at birth. Every day I watched him as he tended to the Viceroys complex. Matru was of the caste that worked the soil. He did the gardening, mowed the expansive lawns, and fed the livestock that we kept on the property. He worked from dawn to dusk for a handful of rupees, a few pennies a day. Most of what he earned went to his wife and child in Bihar. He could never return there, for the Kshatriya (the soldier caste) had abused his wife and beaten his son, finally driving him from his home all for daring to drink from the Brahmans fountainhead. He was not of the lowest caste, however. According to the Hindu Laws of Manu that was reserved for the Bhangis who cleaned the latrines and carried dead animals from the streets.

Matru was an amazingly attractive person, despite the tatters and rags he wrapped himself in. A mop of glossy hair crowned his expressive face, full of sadness. His kohl black eyes smoldered under heavy eyebrows. Matrus left cheek had been severely burned the night of his expulsion from Bihar, his attackers throwing acid in his face as cruel punishment for his audacity. The scarring gave him a permanent frown, like he was perpetually in pain. He probably was, as I think of it now. His broad sloping shoulders were thick with muscle; his biceps large and well developed from severe manual labor from the time he was old enough to toil. His chest, revealed in the thin gauze tunic he wore every day, was an expanse of polished golden-brown skin pulled tightly across his bulky pectorals. His legs were powerful, strapping and slightly bowed in dusty white pantaloons. His calloused feet were invariably shod in traditional buffalo hide sandals. Matru was not a tall man, but his commanding physique gave him an imposing appearance that contrasted with his submissive, deferential attitude. He was in unusually good condition being well fed by the British government here at the complex, unlike his fellow Untouchables outside the gates who would steal chicken bones from our trash to make soup.

I spoke little of the natives language, typical of the arrogance of our nation at the time. Matru knew enough English that we could exchange pleasantries, and I made a point of greeting him every morning on my way to the executive wing and my duties as under-secretary to the Viceroy. I would waive cheerily, and he would smile back with his sad uneven face. From my office window I would watch as he dug in the earth, edging the manicured borders. His tunic would come off in the hot late-morning sun, gritty sweat glistening on his nut-brown back as rivulets of perspiration soaked the waist of his trousers. I had no way of truly understanding his life, and my life would have been entirely beyond his comprehension. How would he react to the privileges and benefits that I enjoyed, that I took for granted? How would he respond if he knew that I secretly wanted to touch his poignant face, lay my head on his brawny shoulder, feel my arm around his firm narrow waist?

Every evening Matru would strip down to a diaper-like cloth he wore under his pants, and wash the stink of the day from his skin. I knew his ritual, and often slipped behind the iron fencing that ran against the back of the potting shed, in order to watch him. I loved to see him wash; it was a luxury for him and was probably his only pleasure. He would take buckets of clear tepid water from the cistern and pour them over his head, the soothing liquid trailing down his glistening chest. His large hands would rub across his torso, down his thighs, rinsing the dust and grime from his flesh. He pulled the fabric away from his belly and poured water into his loincloth. I imagined his penis, nestled in a soft bush of inky black hair, anointed by the cooling stream.

From my hiding place behind the fence I could see him, but he couldnt see me. Or so I thought. One evening as Matru was finishing his ritual, he seemed to focus directly on me. I thought I was imagining this, as he was far too introverted and set in his caste to actually stare into the eyes of the Sahib! He strode across the court and stood before me, dripping wet and almost nude. I could have reached out and touched his beautiful face, his ruined cheek. I could smell the rich, grassy scent of the soil on his skin. He pulled back the shrub I stood behind.

"Sahib, how may I help you? You are in need of something?" He said with no sign of the modesty I would have expected from an Achuta. I watched his hand gently stroking his chest as he spoke. "I am here to serve you!"

"No... That is, Yes, I mean... will you come and help me with my window? It has been jamming, and I think I want to close it tonight" I stammered. It was the only thing I could think of. I wanted to be near Matru just a little longer. I wanted to walk in the cool night air next to him. I couldnt think past that, but I had vague ideas of other things that we could share.

We returned to my rooms in the annex behind the Ambassadors residence. It was a private building, and I had my own entrance to the little efficiency I was granted as a member of staff. Matru followed me obediently up the short flight of stairs to my second floor flat. I opened the door and let him in.

There it is, the bloody thing wont go down! I think I jammed it now, trying! I said. He crossed the room and began to draw on the sash. It stuck for a second, then pulled free and slid in place on the sill. Matru pulled the shutters together and turned to face me in the dim light of the electric bulb over the bed.

I think, Sahib, that the window is not broken. I think the Sahib needs Matrus help with something else? His full lips curled into a grin, revealing white teeth under his dark moustache. (He would not call me Richard, far too familiar for an unwashed to call a man by his name.) His hands reached to his thighs, and he began to touch himself. I was swooning at the sight of him. I reached out, and he stepped forward into my arms. We stood there pressed against each other. I was afraid to move, afraid the spell would be broken. Slowly I began to explore his body. The strong powerful shoulders, the arch of his back. The soft roundness of his buttocks. My hands ran over his velvety skin, as he stood perfectly still in my embrace. I reached down his backside, slipping between the rough loincloth and his smooth ass. He was tense, silent, as I tore the cloth from his waist and pushed him backward onto the bed.

I held his pulsating erect cock in my hand. He sighed in my ear and I felt his body relax. I nuzzled his neck, inhaling the rich, earthy scent of the man. I turned him over on his stomach and opened my fly. He didnt resist me. I pulled my trousers down around my hips and mounted Matru, rubbing my dick against his rock-hard butt. He spread his powerfully built legs wide, and pushed his golden ass into my groin. Matru, I need you. You are so beautiful! Please, Matru, please! I murmured in his ear.

I could feel the smooth, thick skin where the acid had disfigured his cheek. I ran my tongue along the deeply scarred flesh, tracing a line from his temple to his chin. He shuddered, and mumbled words that I couldnt understand... soft, whispered words. I slowly pressed the tip of my raging hard-on against the soft pucker between his ass cheeks. His body bucked upward, driving my cock halfway into his body. He reached up and clung to the ornate teak headboard as I continued to urge my cock into his virgin ass. I lay in his outstretched legs, my hips pressing on his inner thighs as he took the last of my hard manhood into his body. I froze there as he adjusted to the assault, my throbbing cock in the deep warmth of Matrus bowels. The bare electric bulb flickered over us, illuminating our bodies with garish yellow light and casting a harsh shadow across his face.

Matru was dispassionate, he seemed to be in a world other than the one that I occupied. He seemed almost unaware that my eight-inch erection was jammed into his ass. I was frustrated. I expected him to respond with lust, or resistance, or at least fear. He appeared to be to be unaffected by my sex. My frustration began to turn to anger. I fucked him hard, without concern for his ruined asshole. He winced and shifted under me, I saw pain in his soft brown eyes. He didnt fight, just let me pound his ass until I swelled inside him, my inflamed cock deep in his gut, and shot a hot volley of cum into his rectum. What I failed to understand is that he felt unworthy of my attentions, and certainly couldnt conceive of an Untouchable like himself showing any kind of feelings or emotion for his master Sahib. If he were molested in his village and fought the attention of the Brahman, he would be severely beaten, or even killed. And to seek any kind of sexual gratification for himself was unthinkable! I rolled off his shivering brown body and went into the bath to clean the sticky cum off my belly. When I returned, Matru was gone.

And so it went, for several weeks after our first encounter. Afternoons, on my walk back to the annex I would signal Matru with a nod of my head that I needed him. He would go to his bathing trough, clean himself in preparation for our tryst and let himself into my rooms. We said little to each other. I would sit in my armchair as he stripped silently in front of me, his perfect golden skin revealed as he removed his rough linen costume. I thrilled at his broad, sloping shoulders, and his oversize chest. I ached to touch his firm belly, his profuse bush of dark pubic hair, and his thick, richly veined penis.

Matru showed absolutely no sign that he enjoyed my attentions, but also showed no resistance. He would finish stripping and immediately place himself into position on the floor, on his hands and knees, his body offered up to me. I usually allowed him to crawl between my legs, his black moustache brushing my sandy blonde pubic hairs as his warm soft lips enveloped my aching cock. I loved the feeling of being in his voluptuous mouth, and he was expert at taking the entire thing deep into his throat. After getting me aroused to the point that I could resist him no more, I would join him on the thick wool pile of the carpet and enter him from behind. He would groan, shudder, and finally take me deep into his gut.

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