indian xxx : My little indian girl

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 more than happy with him,” she replied,” when he is old enough to
be my grandpa?”
I was shocked into silence for a minute, then I responded, “Now surely he’s.
not that old.”.
” One moment,” she said to me, “and I will show you his breeze.”.
After looking in her little bag, she produced a little folder, and opened.
it. A black and white photo, passport sized, head and shoulders. Certainly, the.
male did looked nearly old enough to be her grandfather. 50, 60 years of ages at.
least. How could this take place? This girl needed to be a teenager. I was.
flabbergasted.
” How, how old are you?” I immediately regretted the question, it was too.
personal. However, we were already having a quite individual.
discussion.
” I am 16 years of ages” she responded.
” This needs to be prohibited, there must be some authorities to appeal to, to.
avoid this.”.
” Here in India,” she replied, “everyone is corrupt only. Nobody will take.
my side. We are poor, while my partner’s agents will pay money, and everybody.
take his side.”.
” So you’re already wed?” I asked her.
” It is not legal,” she replied, “we were wed by a mullah, however there is.
no paper. We are to be wed effectively when I show up in his nation.”.
There was silence for some time, then I said; “Your father accepted money.
for you.” It was not a concern, a statement.
” Yes,” she said, “my dad wants to consume. He has no money, he has no.
work. One man recommended 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 ever have this money, and this is shame to everyone. By.
weding me to this Kuwaiti guy, he will be taking money rather of providing.
money.”.
” But that guy, your hubby, he is so old and you are so young.”.
” He was desiring a virgin.” She stated to me.
I was quite stunned at the forwardness of the declaration. She was young, 16.
years old. That she ought to speak with me, a foreigner, about her virginity,.
impressed me.
I stated to her “Do you have a boyfriend, somebody you would’ve wanted to be.
with?”.
” Yes” she said, “I had a sweetheart, in Delhi.”.
I was filled with feeling, the hopelessness of her scenario, the.
mundaneness of my own. Returning from my holiday. A low-cost Third World.
holiday, sharing a flight with her, as she headed towards her psychological doom.
” Is there anything I can do for you,” I asked her, “exists any method I can.
help you?”.
What a stupid thing to say, I believed, how can she understand exactly what it was.
possible to do. If she understood, she would not be here; she wouldn’t be on this.
flight, which was now heading to the runway at last.
In she was looking out the window, then she relied on me so her that her.
lips were almost at my ears, and she whispered to me: “What upsets me most.
is that he is getting exactly what he paid for.”.
” What do you suggest?” I asked.
She said nothing. She looked down between her feet. I looked there likewise. She.
used open shoes. She had extremely beautiful feet too. She had silver rings on her.
toes.
I recalled up at her face. She was dark, for an Indian woman. In India,.
a dark skin tone is related with lower caste. I found her very gorgeous.
Her dark skin was silky smooth, and the thin gold ring in her nose.
contrasted wonderfully with it.
At last, I recognized exactly what she suggested. That she had saved herself, she had.
not enabled her partner exactly what he desired. She had actually saved herself, however 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 guy she was going to
wed. I didn’t want him to have her, but if he would, I desired her to have
understood passion initially.
She had no enthusiasm for that male, that was clear. Possibly it would develop
later. Set up marital relationships have as high a rate of success as the love
marriages that we prefer in the West. However, this marriage was very, extremely,
terribly set up indeed.
Soon my shoes were off, my trousers down, my tough white penis stood proudly,
when she took it in her little brown hands, the top of my head practically
came off from the sensation, her shivering little brown hands around my difficult,
white, confident cock.
After we had actually fondled and kissed for a couple of minutes, I knelt down on the
floor, and put my mouth to her crotch. She wept and held my head in
her little hands. She covered her charming brown thighs around my head, and
pounded my shoulder blades with her tiny heels as he had her first orgasm,
maybe ever.
She was very flexible, and I put among her ankles up on my shoulder. She
was spread out wide now, her beautiful little vagina opened to my cock. Gradually,
carefully, lovingly, I pushed my hard dick into her softness. Her big
almond eyes seemed to end up being even larger as I entered her, holding her,
enjoying her expression altering in between fear, excitement, doubt, desire.
I have actually had sex; I would’ve believed I was a fairly knowledgeable young guy at
25. However nothing like this, absolutely nothing so electrical, so erotic, so incredible.
It wasn’t the feeling of her tight young pussy on my cock [although that
did help] It was the unlikeliness, the outlandishness, the outrageousness
of the scenario. She was offering her virginity to me, plainly for the
reason and the purpose of not enabling her husband to have it.
” A condom,” I stated to her, “we need to be using a prophylactic.”
” Do not stress,” she replied “it makes no distinction now.”
” But”, I stated “you might conceive.”
” Yes.” She stated, her angel eyes locked on mine, her small arms around me, my
consiousless cock pulsating inside her, hurting to do the filthy deed and
launch the load.
As I looked into her big eyes, I questioned how this young lady from Delhi
might know a lot.
I began pumping in and out of her once again, and we came together there in the
tiny cubical, holding each other firmly.
We cleaned each other up. Yes, there was some blood. And it was a tough job
getting her back into that sari.

There were individuals outside waiting to utilize the toilet when we came out. Well,
what could they do? I might feel their disapproving eyes on us as we
gone back to our seats.
We sat down and had our last valuable hour together before landing.
If it had been an English airplane, I would have aimed to get the flight crew
to hide her aboard during transit in Kuwait, however it was a Kuwaiti airplane.
She informed me of her life because hour. Her drunken daddy, her prostitute
mom aiming to hide sufficient money from him to pay for the school. In spite of
this, discovering good friends and happiness on the streets of Delhi as a young girl.
Up until the Kuwaiti male paid his down payment, and she was virtually under
guard until the flight, when she was seen to the plane.
After all. exactly what could take place on a plane?

I got a letter from her a year later on. I was living in London, attempting to
hold a relationship together with a wild Caribbean lady.

Dear Tom;
I am hoping that this letter finds you in the very best of health by the grace of
almighty God.
I make sure you did not believe me that I was understanding to write along with
check out, however as I told you, I attended school for some years.
I have actually wanted to compose to you for all this time, but there was no chance,
as my family here has been extremely strict with me until now.
My partner has died last month, leaving me a widow with kid. The
kids of my other half and their wives were extremely terrible to me, as they did not
wish to give me any share of my late husband’s home. They state it was a.
sham marriage only, that I was just a home woman. They say that my baby can.
not be their relation, due to the fact that my hubby had an operation prior to our.
marital relationship so might not have more children.

I am staying in a shelter now, this is a place some good women have made for

Indian xxx 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.

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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