title; my little Indian girl

codes; M/f rom, interracial, Indian

Part 1 of 1

Summery; An English man meets a very young and unwilling Indian bride on a plane traveling to her wedding.

storyace@hotmail.com

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 young bride, an Indian girl in her marriage garb; a blood red sari, one end looped over her head, so only her fine young 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 mother 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 young 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 old 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 old enough to be her grandfather.  50, 60 years old at least.  How could this happen?  This girl had to be a teenager.  I was flabbergasted.

"How, how old 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 married by a mullah, but there is no paper.  We are to be married properly when I arrive in his country." 

There was silence for some time, then I said; "Your father accepted money for you."  It was not a question, a statement.

"Yes," she said, "my father likes to drink.  He has no money, he has no work.  One man suggested to him that I could be answer to this problem.  Normally here in India, a dowry must be paid to get a daughter 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 old 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 man resist?  Yes, I can hear you saying, a man 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 young 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 old man 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 story 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 breasts 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 breasts 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 man 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 vagina 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 young man at 25.  But nothing like this, nothing so electric, so erotic, so amazing.

It wasn't the sensation of her tight young pussy 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 young girl 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 toilet 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 young girl. Until the Kuwaiti man 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 family 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 girls who find themselves in trouble here. They will send me back to India, but I do not want to go there. Even if my family 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 young Indian wife.

Ace 2000 mail to; storyace@hotmail.com is very much appreciated!