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My little Indian Girl
by Aceinthe Hole (aceinthe_hole@hotmail.com)

***

A guy meets a pretty young Indian woman at Heathrow 
airport in London. She is on her way home to an arranged 
marriage to a man many years her senior. One thing leads 
to another and he is offered her virginity in the 
airplane restroom. (M/F-teen, 1st, intr, mile-high, 
india) 

***

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're so 
young."

"He was wanting a virgin," she replied.

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 cannot 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.

END

The good people at asstr have given me a web page, where 
you can get all of my stories. It is absolutely non-
commercial [I do appreciate feedback, though]. 
http://www.asstr.org/~aceinthe_hole/ Ace 2000. mail to; 
aceinthe_hole@hotmail.com is very much appreciated!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. 4-million people around the world 
contract HIV every year. You only have one body per 
lifetime, so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 79