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My little Indian girl
My little Indian girl, by Ace, 2000
I first saw her in the airport, the day I was taking my flight home to
England.
My eyes were drawn to her. A bride, an Indian in her marriage
garb; a blood sari, one end looped over her head, so only her fine
face was showing. Glass and gold bangles on her slim wrists.
The tops of her feet and the backs of her hands had patterns painted on
them, in henna.
She was surrounded by, I supposed, her relatives. She was beautiful, very
beautiful. But she did not look happy, not happy at all. The look on her
face, her expression, was more of defiance than anything else. Her eyebrows
were knitted together, the corners of her small mouth turned downwards in a
frown.
Her was sobbing a little. A simply dressed man, her father? Was
talking to another, higher caste man, a higher up. I didn't like him.
As if it was up to me to like or dislike any of these people. I didn't know
them; I couldn't hear what they were saying in any case. My turn came to
check in, and I forgot them.
I was pleasantly surprised when the bride was shown to the seat next
me by the English stewardess.
She had the window seat, I, the aisle.
Fate is a strange thing, if you believe in fate. I never did, but I think I
must now.
The flight was delayed for several hours. Were that not so, we probably
would've never had the time to get to know each other. The flight to Kuwait
is only four or five hours. For that's where she was headed to; Kuwait. To
be married.
"My name is Tom." I told her, hoping that she would speak some English.
Sometimes I've taken transcontinental flights without exchanging a word with
the passenger in the seat next to mine. Other times, I've had great
conversations, even started friendships on planes.
It didn't seem very likely that I'd have much in common with this girl, but
that didn't mean she wouldn't be fun to talk to.
"I am Salima" she replied, hesitantly.
We made a little Small talk, then I asked her;
"So why are you so unhappy?"
"He's horrible." she replied.
"Then why are you marrying him?" I asked, like an idiot. Was not the scene
in the airport self-explanatory?
"I have been sold." She said.
I had realized she was less than willing, but I was still taken aback at
what she told me.
"I thought that sort of thing didn't happen anymore," I said.
"Oh yes," she said calmly "it is happening every day."
"But perhaps," I offered, "you'll find happiness after some time."
"How can I ever be happy with him," she replied, " when he is enough to
be my grandfather?"
I was shocked into silence for a minute, then I replied, "Now surely he's
not that old."
"One moment," she said to me, "and I will show you his snap."
After looking in her little bag, she produced a little folder, and opened
it. A black and white photo, passport sized, head and shoulders. Indeed, the
man did looked nearly enough to be her grandfather. 50, 60 years at
least. How could this happen? This had to be a teenager. I was
flabbergasted.
"How, how are you?" I immediately regretted the question, it was too
personal. Then again, we were already having a pretty personal
conversation.
"I am 16 years old" she replied.
"This has to be illegal, there must be some authorities to appeal to, to
prevent this."
"Here in India," she replied, "everybody is corrupt only. Nobody will take
my side. We are poor, while my husband's agents will pay money, and everyone
take his side."
"So you're already married?" I asked her
"It is not legal," she replied, "we were by a mullah, but there is
no paper. We are to be properly when I arrive in his country."
There was silence for some time, then I said; "Your accepted money
for you." It was not a question, a statement.
"Yes," she said, "my likes to drink. He has no money, he has no
work. One suggested to him that I could be answer to this problem.
Normally here in India, a dowry must be paid to get a married. My
father would never have this money, and this is shame to all of us. By
marrying me to this Kuwaiti man, he will be taking money instead of giving
money."
"But that man, your husband, he is so and you are so young."
"He was wanting a virgin." She said to me.
I was quite shocked at the forwardness of the statement. She was young, 16
years old. That she should speak to me, a foreigner, about her virginity,
impressed me.
I said to her "Do you have a boyfriend, somebody you would've liked to be
with?"
"Yes" she said, "I had a boyfriend, in Delhi."
I was filled with emotion, the hopelessness of her situation, the
mundaneness of my own. Returning from my holiday. A cheap Third World
holiday, sharing a flight with her, as she headed toward her emotional doom.
"Is there anything I can do for you," I asked her, "is there any way I can
help you?"
What a stupid thing to say, I thought, how can she know what it was
possible to do. If she knew, she wouldn't be here; she wouldn't be on this
flight, which was now heading towards the runway at last.
In she was looking out the window, and then she turned to me so her that her
lips were nearly at my ears, and she whispered to me: "What upsets me most
is that he is getting what he paid for."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
She said nothing. She looked down between her feet. I looked there also. She
wore open shoes. She had very pretty feet too. She had silver rings on her
toes.
I looked back up at her face. She was dark, for an Indian girl. In India,
a dark complexion is equated with lower caste. I found her very beautiful.
Her dark complexion was silky smooth, and the thin gold ring in her nose
contrasted wonderfully with it.
At last, I realized what she meant. That she had saved herself, she had
not allowed her boyfriend what he wanted. She had saved herself, but not
for this.
I slid my hand under the armrest and took her small brown one in it. I had
no intention to take it further, I merely wanted comfort her, I swear.
As we reached cruising altitude, and the little dong sounded announcing that
we may smoke, remove our seatbelts, and use the toilet, the evil thought
came to my mind. I could have her here, on this plane, in the toilet.
The temptation. could any resist? Yes, I can hear you saying, a
could, should resist. But it was not I. I looked into her eyes. They were
huge, brown, and clear. Sensuous, almond eyes, eyes I could look into
forever. Could she possibly be thinking the same thing that I was thinking?
I squeezed her hand lightly and brushed across her palm with my thumb. A
simple gesture, almost nothing, yet filled with meaning.
She looked out the window and squeezed my hand in return, and I thought I
detected an increase in her respiratory rate.
She kept her silence as I ran my fingertips up her slim brown wrist to the
inside of her elbow, and back again. She turned her head to look at me, and
her large eyes stared deeply into mine again. I had overwhelming urge
to kiss her, to hold her, to comfort her, to love her. I wanted to defend
her against the world and it's horrible reality. Yet, weren't my own
feelings a part of that horrible reality? What I wanted was only the same
thing to the from Kuwait wanted, to have this beauty for my own, for
this moment, or forever, whatever I could get.
"Wait a moment, then follow me," I said her, as I removed my hand from
hers, unbuckled my seatbelt, stood and walked to the back of the plane. I
had absolutely no way of knowing if she would follow or not. But it
wouldn't take long to find out. Of course, you all know the answer to this
question. If she had not followed me, there would be no story, nothing to
write about. Well, I suppose the would still have been worth telling.
But there just would not have been much to say.
If you ever have the opportunity to make love on a plane, there are always
one or two toilets with an emblem on the door depicting a baby being
changed. These toilets have slightly more room than the others.
She was tiny, the top of her head was about level with my nose, her hair was
tied back in a large bun on the back of her head. There was flowers in her
hair, she smelled sweet, of Sandalwood. She was so fine, so small. She had
fine bones, a straight nose, full lips; I took her in my arms, pulled her to
me, her head against my chest, and rocked her little bit from side to side.
I was having second thoughts, I didn't know if this was right. But a hard
cock has no conscience, and mine was very, very, hard. The softness of her
body against mine, her arms around my waist, her small against my
chest.
I stroked her head and her face with my fingertips as I held it against me.
She looked up at me, and I bent my head down to put my lips to hers. Her
mouth tasted sweet, virginal.
Removing her complex marriage sari in such a confined space was difficult,
but together, we managed. Soon she was naked, her ass perched up on the
little sink. Her head was level with mine in this position, and I held her
head in my hands and kissed her, stroking her small, fine body with my
hands, loving her. her body was exquisite, perfection itself. her
were small but firm. They stood proudly, waiting for my touch. her hips were
narrow, lean and muscular. she must have been used to some form of heavy
work. this was born out by the surprising calluses on her small hands. her
ass, the color of dark chocolate and as sweet, was small and oh so round.
her legs, although muscular and short, had a beautiful shape.
I didn't feel bad about stealing her innocence from the she was going to
marry. I didn't want him to have her, but if he would, I wanted her to have
known passion first.
She had no passion for that man, that was clear. Perhaps it would build
later. Arranged marriages have as high a rate of success as the love
marriages that we favor in the West. But, this marriage was very, very,
badly arranged indeed.
Soon my shoes were off, my pants down, my hard white penis stood proudly,
and when she took it in her small brown hands, the top of my head almost
came off from the sensation, her trembling small brown hands around my hard,
white, confident cock.
After we had fondled and kissed for a few minutes, I knelt down on the
floor, and put my mouth to her crotch. She whimpered and held my head in
her small hands. She wrapped her lovely brown thighs around my head, and
pounded my shoulder blades with her tiny heels as he had her first orgasm,
perhaps ever.
She was very flexible, and I put one of her ankles up on my shoulder. She
was spread wide now, her lovely little opened to my cock. Slowly,
carefully, lovingly, I pushed my hard dick into her softness. Her big
almond eyes seemed to become even bigger as I entered her, holding her,
watching her expression changing between fear, excitement, doubt, lust.
I have had sex; I would've thought I was a fairly experienced at
25. But nothing like this, nothing so electric, so erotic, so amazing.
It wasn't the sensation of her tight on my cock [although that
did help]. It was the unlikeliness, the outlandishness, the outrageousness
of the situation. She was giving her virginity to me, clearly for the
reason and the purpose of not allowing her husband to have it.
"A condom," I said to her, "we should be using a condom."
"Do not worry," she replied "it makes no difference now."
"But", I said "you could become pregnant."
"Yes." She said, her angel eyes locked on mine, her small arms around me, my
consiousless cock throbbing inside her, aching to do the dirty deed and
release the load.
As I looked into her big eyes, I wondered how this from Delhi
could know so much.
I started pumping in and out of her again, and we came together there in the
tiny cubical, holding each other tightly.
We cleaned each other up. Yes, there was some blood. And it was a tough job
getting her back into that sari.
There were people outside waiting to use the when we came out. Well,
what could they do? I could feel their disapproving eyes on us as we
returned to our seats.
We sat down and had our last precious hour together before landing.
If it had been an English plane, I would have tried to get the flight crew
to hide her aboard during transit in Kuwait, but it was a Kuwaiti plane.
She told me of her life in that hour. Her drunken father, her prostitute
mother trying to hide enough money from him to pay for the school. Despite
this, finding friends and happiness on the streets of Delhi as a girl.
Until the Kuwaiti paid his down payment, and she was virtually under
guard until the flight, when she was seen to the plane.
After all. what could happen on a plane?
I received a letter from her a year later. I was living in London, trying to
hold a relationship together with a wild Caribbean girl.
Dear Tom;
I am hoping that this letter finds you in the best of health by the grace of
almighty God.
I am sure you did not believe me that I was knowing to write as well as
read, but as I told you, I attended school for some years.
I have wanted to write to you for all of this time, but there was no chance,
as my here has been very strict with me until now.
My husband has passed away last month, leaving me a widow with child. The
sons of my husband and their wives were very cruel to me, as they did not
want to give me any share of my late husband's property. They say it was a
sham marriage only, that I was only a house girl. They say that my baby can
not be their relation, because my husband had an operation before our
marriage so could not have more children.
I am staying in a shelter now, this is a place some good women have made for
Indian who find themselves in trouble here. They will send me back to
India, but I do not want to go there. Even if my accepts me, I will
never find a husband.
You can phone me here at the shelter. Otherwise, the sisters say they will
arrange for me to return to Delhi in three weeks.
I do not know if it is true that my husband had the operation. Only I can
say that my son is very fair.
With kindest regards, Salima
So that's how I came to have my child, and my bright Indian wife.
Ace 2000 mail to; aceinthe_hole@hotmail.com is very much appreciated!