0 comments/ 33523 views/ 2 favorites Anita (Her Mothers Diary) By: Xamphos Anita stole into her mother's bedroom. Despite the house being empty Anita heightened the secrecy by moving as stealthily as she could. She moved to close the door then changed her mind. It would be easier to hear if someone entered the house. It would also aid her escape. Despite being 18 years of age and a young woman, entering her parents bedroom particularly when they were out of the house made her still feel like a naughty child. She looked guiltily to the heavy draped white netting at the window with its embroidered edging. The house was not overlooked, but she still warily checked to see no one could see she was in the room. Her bare feet sank into the deep pile of the pink carpet, it felt warm tickling up between her toes the static crackling as she checked for unseen observers. She looked about the room. The decoration was ornate, and fussy, overly fussy. The dressing table and bedside cabinets were each draped with embroidery, the bed itself was piled with cushions over a rich satin cover. She wondered how her parents were ever able to sleep in it, or if they only slept on it. The luxuriance of the cover beckoned, together with the comfort of the big soft cushions. Anita sank into the enveloping comfort. One day she would have a bedroom like this where she could luxuriate and wait in repose for her husband to come and attend to her. Pampering her body whilst she lay resting in a nest of cushions. Feeding on dates or tea, spoiling herself with rich sickly sticky sweets. He'd come and bathe her mouth with a warm cloth, taking the excess sugar away. Then he would attend her with gentle fluttering kisses and she would drift off into a soft sleep until the evening came around. Laying back Anita looked at the subtle shadows on the ceiling, showing grey against the white. She arranged the cushions about her, getting comfortable on the bed. She peered down the length of her jeans to her silver ankle chain and the rings adorning her purple painted toes beyond. She waggled her feet arranging them like a rifle sight. Through the opening she aligned her eyes to her mother's wardrobe she could see the silk suits and sari lengths all hanging protected under polythene covers. The bright colours drew her eye, alongside the radiant silks her western clothes seemed drab and lifeless hanging like vacuous ghosts. Anita's own wardrobe looked similar to that, with western and eastern clothes combining. But hers were less segregated, favoured clothes hung together, dirty clothes lay on the floor, worn clothes were almost everywhere in total chaos or so her mother thought. Anita hugged a cushion close to her resting it over her flat abdomen. From the dressing table her parents smiled out at her from their wedding photograph. The picture was taken outside a registry office. Dad wore a suit and tie, whilst mum wore a rich gold and red sari. She had long jet black hair then like Anita's, her father's hair was thick and wavy, reaching down and over his collar. It was hard to envisage the businessman with his neat short hair thinning chain grey, and chain of chemist shops to his name was the same awkward man in the picture. You could only tell from the warmth within his eyes. They looked very happy in the picture, they and their assorted friends. Anita knew of the pain behind the picture, the families who had not wanted them to marry, who would not share the joy of their wedding celebration. Anita's mum Valerie had always been rebellious in her youth. She had dreamed of backpacking across India studying the culture and religion first hand. There she met Jumahl on holiday from Birmingham. The thrill of the romance and the hardships they endured were all detailed in Valerie's diaries. Each of them being abandoned by their families, who felt the children had betrayed their family traditions. The loneliness of prejudice and the strength of good friends and family allies were all recounted. The way they worked together strengthening their marriage, getting by and making do, until Anita their first child was born. The golden child who broke the family barriers. Jumahl or Jeff as he always introduced himself proudly showed his daughter to his eager cousins. They christened her the little princess, and she came to be treated that way. Anita brushed her hair from off her face and turned reaching over the bed, she opened the drawer to her mother's bedside chest. Reaching into the drawer, Anita's slim hands burrowed under her mother's underwear and slid out the box containing the diaries. Even as a little girl Anita had been aware of her mother's diaries but it was only by accident she had discovered their hiding place. Her dad would never consider looking there. He was a great respecter of his wife's privacy, he would never enter into what he referred to her as her intimate things. Although the diaries revealed her dad was kept familiar with most of the contents of the drawer, and how they looked on her mother's body. Anita lifted the lid to the box and spread out the cloth bound volumes onto the bed. She was looking for the early one, the older one. The pages were a little stiffer than the rest, the perfume on them smelt richer, deeper with age. The top notes had disappeared and all that remained was a solid scent of exotic flowers and a little ginger, slightly sweet, without an acid bite. She found the diary, red with small gold thread embroidery. Even the colour was exotic, before she opened the cover to release the trapped scents. She looked at the bedside clock. She had time. She could read the whole entry from beginning to end. She knew every word, everything that happened there in. She had memorised the whole event and dreamed of it in her bed at night. She still took pleasure, from the thrill of holding the pages in her hand. Following the excited sweeping swirls of her mother's hand as the words were impressed into the page. She could feel the giddying emotion, the passion as she wrote. Each flourish each swirl, each indent registered against her fingers sending little flurries of emotion into her body. Collecting back all the unwanted diaries, Anita arranged them into order, ready to return to the box. She did not want to be surprised, caught, or later discovered to have been tampering with the diaries. She did not want to lose the source, the insight of her mother as a woman. A young woman just like Anita, on a journey of enlightenment which brought her love. Anita slipped the box and its contents off the bed placed them ready to slide back into their hiding place. Rolling onto her front she settled the cushions once more, placing one between her legs. She gripped it hard with her thighs releasing the tension in her body. Then finally wriggling into position she delicately opened the diary turning to her favourite page. Now the time of Jeff's departure for England is approaching he has stopped asking me to return with him. I am both sad and relieved at the same time. Since he rescued me in the market surrounded in my naivety by beggars, we have explored India together. In a few short weeks we have grown as close as any two people can. I do not want to be without him but I cannot return to England yet. To return now would be to abandon a life long ambition in mid path. This voyage of self discovery and enlightment is teaching me something new everyday. From simple responses to common place objects like tables and chairs, how to sit, how to manipulate my body, even how to walk. To greater issues like communication and relationships. I have moved beyond words to create a dialogue by expression, and body language alone. Whilst starting to understand myself, I must stay to learn more of my purpose and cosmic position before returning to England again. I have learnt a great deal but the more I learn the more I feel there is to know. The vastness of this country acts as a doorway to comprehend the infinity of the stars. India is so dramatic and so vibrant. I have never loved or felt so in love as I do now. The exotic richness of this country is so overwhelming. I am constantly made aware of the extremes and injustices of this place. The rich opulence of the temples contrasting with the poverty of the people. I am in love with the noise the fervour, the life. All of it is so romantic. Perhaps it is the atmosphere, the hint of danger and adventure which makes Jeff so exciting. I fear he will seem ordinary and commonplace at work in the hospital pharmacy. So it is that I live each moment revelling in each new mystery and the peculiar mystique of Jeff. I always think his family here are speaking of a different man when they speak of Jumahl. When he is with me, apart from his colouring, you would think of him as just another traveller, with his jeans, cotton shirt sandals and nasal black country accent. Only at his grandmother's did I see briefly a different man. Dressed in a shirt with ornate brocade, and tailored trousers, his long hair slicked and oiled into place. His high cheek bones and firm jaw line lost the softening of his normally loose hair and briefly he looked like an eastern romantic hero portrayed in the posters for the local cinema. For the first time I could imagine him living here. He seemed like a Prince surrounded by his cousins. I could have been a slave girl. I wanted him to carry me away there and then, to make wild passionate love to me on a carpet of flower petals. Instead as an honoured guest I had to sit and make polite conversation while my insides boiled. I would have done anything to spend the night with him. As it was I did not yet know how his body felt. What it would have been like to have him enter mine. I could imagine no greater pleasure. I told him how he had looked to me later. Hinting of my suppressed desire for his body. Separation will tell if it is India or Jeff who made me feel this way. Today I made a new discovery to make the parting more difficult and my resolve weaker. I just wish we could stay here forever to relive the events time after time. Here he will always be my Prince and I his willing slave. As it is I can only commit to memory the pleasure and the joy of the last few hours. Even as I hold my pen to write, my hand and body trembles at the events of the day. I find it hard to consider them chronologically, but for my own satisfaction, I will do what I can to record them faithfully so I can relive them time and again. Having stopped asking me to return to England with him, Jeff disappeared for a couple of days. I began to fear, he had gone home without saying goodbye. On the third morning he arrived at the hostel acting strangely. He was distant, agitated, and excitable. We spent the day exploring a local temple, he said little, till it came time to leave. He took me back to the hostel. Leaving instructions of where to meet him, as well as the clothes I should wear. It had been stifling hot all day. He had said little of his intentions. It was just important I was wearing my cotton dress. With the heat I had favoured a Sari it was so cool. He had been insistent I had to wear Western dress. I was reluctant to step into such hot inappropriate clothes without knowing where I was going. However I trusted his judgement and acceded to his request. Besides I did not want to argue with him, so close to his departure. With the heat I was concerned, any disagreement could flair into a scene. It had happened before. We both hold strong opinions, from which neither will yield. Jeff is naturally defensive particularly of India and the traditions by which they live. Whilst embracing the spiritual culture, I could not drop my Western views in the face of such deprivation. In truth there was always compromise, but knowing so little of each other we constantly put our relationship to the test. It was the honesty and integrity which drew us together. So strong is my faith in him I trust him implicitly. So I did not argue, I did not shame him, I did as I was told.. I went to the address he had given me. I knew it well, a gathering point for travellers and backpackers just off the market. The sun was low and long shadows darkened the alleyways and store fronts. I felt everyone was watching me. The dress made me stand out from the crowd it's cool crisp white cotton, patterned with pastel flowers looked muted against the bold colours emerging from the shadows. I wore my hair up to allow the evening air to cool my neck, yet I could still feel the sweat, making small rivulets down my back, sticking my dress to the places where it touched my body. I suddenly felt strange rather like a young lady of society encountering India for the first time. All the turmoil and sounds seemed to close in on me, and all the time I felt I was being watched examined and evaluated. I moved towards a table, I felt slightly giddy and decided it must be the heat. I had little time to rest before being approached by two men. They asked if I was Valerie. I said yes. They said Jumahl had sent them and I should go with them. Nothing before in India had frightened me. But I did feel the first cool note of apprehension as I was led into the darkened alleyways. We walked quickly through the maze of streets turning until I was lost. Eventually we stopped at the door to a house and I was led inside and left alone to wait. The sky outside turned a mixture of red and gold, I searched and found a match by which to light a lamp. I found a chair and waited. I was becoming angry and more than a little scared. It was almost dark when the tall figure dressed in a white and gold suit filled the door frame. Startled I jumped to my feet. I had heard no one arrive. I tried to look at his face, but it was covered by a mask, I moved closer but he signalled I should avert my eyes. My heart racing I could not understand what was happening. Where was Jeff? The stranger gripped me and bound my arms behind my back, then covered my eyes. Suddenly I was a prisoner. Alone in a very foreign land. I tried speaking to the stranger. Make him understand I was here waiting for a friend. A very important friend from England. He said nothing. He gripped my arms and led me away from the room and further into the house. Behind the blindfold I began to panic. I wanted to escape, be free. I did not know where I was or who I was with. I did not know if the stranger was alone if the two men and others were waiting to capture me if I tried to break free. The stranger's hands were strong. Despite my resistance he easily guided me through the house. Then he stopped and I was standing at the edge of a woven mat. I could smell incense, hear the rustle of the stranger's clothes. I heard the sounds of a heavy bolt a key turning in the lock. I was imprisoned. I began to quake at the purpose for my capture. My mind accelerated through the possibilities, of death, torture, or some kind of slavery. Survival was the important thing. Was this Jeff's doing? Was he angry with me for refusing to return to England? Had he planned my capture and death. Or was this a trick to force me into returning with him. Making me his wife. I did not know. All I knew was the stranger was still here in the room with me. I could hear his footsteps, as he paced the room. I tried to keep the note of panic from my voice as I began to try and communicate with him. My head swivelling to the sound of his movements about the room. My annoyance was melting into fear, a slight tinge of hysteria causing my voice to rise. His hand touched my shoulder, I started to turn but found myself in his strong grip. I moved to scream but his hand clamped over my mouth he whispered strange shushing noises into my ear. Then his lips kissed my cheek, my neck, his hot lips leaving a tender trail to the neckline of my dress. I wanted to scream, but his actions were telling me no. Instead I stood trembling as his hand slipped from my mouth and gently stroked my face. He kissed me again and I felt the hard patina of the mask against my face. This time his lips were more urgent more passionate as they covered my face, whilst his hands traced my torso through the damp fabric of my dress. I told him to stop. I begged him to stop. I felt his hard muscular body press against mine. His arms encircled me pressed me to his chest. He said something I could not understand. It was soothing gentle. He spoke again, pulling me away from him and releasing the bonds that tied my arms. My hands were free I could release the blindfold. But should I? How would I know? I opened my eyes, and I could see the room lit by flickering shadows. He was in front of me again, then he sat back onto a ornate wooden framed bed, with carved posts, covered in elaborate silk and velvet throws. He settled himself against the cushions covering the bed, his eyes examining me all the time. I was free untethered but held captive by his eyes. The dark coal eyes staring back from behind the mask. I started to plead for my release again. He said nothing, just signalled that I should rotate on the spot whilst he watched. I turned slowly, not letting my eyes stray from watching him. He did not move he just sat watching me from behind the mask. Anita gave a little sigh. Brushed her hair out of her eyes. She pressed two fingers between her lips and gently bit down on them. She suckled against the knuckle, drew comfort from its warmth, then hugged a cushion against her chest, letting a tremble of warmth trickle through, down to the core of her abdomen. She felt the blush of excitement bruise her cheeks, as she imagined herself the captive of a strong man. Her young body, being studied and appraised. The cold stare of an experienced man, judging the curve and angle of her breasts, the gentle sweep of her abdomen, the pronounced round of her buttocks. Taut, firm, round buttocks tensed with apprehension. She yearned to feel the firm positive touch of a man, confidently grasping her face, her shoulders, her hips, his hot breath resting upon her quavering lips. She shivered as the diarist had, then pressed her groin into the bed as her vagina began to flutter, the spasm of awakening dampening her labia lips. She read on, her body awakening, her flesh becoming more sensitive with each swirl of the writer's hand. As the stranger sat watching me, some of my spirit returned. Who did this man think he was? He had no right to imprison me. I was not a peasant girl to be ordered around. I was not a beast up for auction. I pulled myself up straight. As he would not communicate to me by normal means I had to exhibit my defiance, my strength, my character. He clapped his hands and gestured I should come stand close to him. I remained still. He clapped again, my resolve weakened, with hesitant steps I approached him. His hand reached out touched my hips. I brushed his hand away. He sat up on the bed and reached for me again, this time he looked me straight in the eyes. The effect was hypnotic, I could not look away. He touched me again, pulling me close till me abdomen rubbed against his nose. He kissed my body through my clothes. My body began to tremble, my knees began to shake. Was this the strangers's purpose? He intended to use me. What then? I moved to push his face away. He gripped the back of my thighs just below my buttocks, pressing me against his lips. I wanted to fight him. Deny him my body. The flickering of the candle light, the power of the incense, drifted into my senses, the heat of his touch was searing through my clothes into the pliant damp flesh, and I felt myself begin to yield. With his teeth he unbuttoned the front of my dress, exposing my abdomen to his snaking tongue. He explored the indent of my navel, reaching down to where my knickers cut across my waist. He nuzzled inside my dress, kissing my torso, working up to my chest, gradually exposing more of my flesh. His hands followed his mouth, strong, firm, inquisitive, not rough or bruising, soothing fingers, exploring the contours of my shaking, trembling body. Reason and respectabiltity told me he should stop. My body however was compelling me to submit to the barrage of passion assaulting my body. Anita (Her Mothers Diary) Thoughts of Jeff entered my mind. Again I tried to understand why he had brought me here. Was it for pleasure or punishment, was there some other reasoning for this strange lesson in love. Love was a strange word to use. But I could think of no other. As slowly the stranger stripped away my dress leaving it to tumble to the floor. I could feel only tenderness in the hands and mouth caressing my body. I waited for the moment when I could express my own suppressed emotions, when I would feel his lips against my mouth. Anita moaned to herself. Her hand had become that of her mother's captive. Reaching under her cotton tee shirt, she had caressed her own flesh. Cupping her own stiffened breasts, she rolled and pinched the hardening nipples. Each pinch sending a shiver through her body, further dampening the cotton of her pants. She started to gyrate her pelvis against the cover of the bed, flatten the cushion against her groin. How she hungered for the slow explorative passion of a man gently exposing her body, making it flower with the heat of his touch. She thought of the few boys who she had allowed to touch her. Remembered the crushing disappointment, the anti climax of the event. The rough urgency, with which they had enjoyed her youthful body. The animal mechanics, of their hands and cocks thrusting hastily between her legs. How she longed to languish upon a bed, being kissed and teased till her whole body was aflame and sparkling as it was within her own hands. Pulling up her tee shirt, she exposed her breasts pressing them into the warmth of the satin. Manipulating the nipples with her hand she continued with her mother's text. It was not long before I had my wish. I sank before him to my knees. His hands enveloped my face, pulled my lips to cover his mouth. I always remember it as my first real kiss. Nothing else had had such passion, or meaning. I transferred my soul into my mouth, let it pass out between my lips. Each press, each movement of tongue and mouth, enriched my being, till like a bird, I could fly. I have no recollection of when I was nude. How I came to be lying on the bed. I just remembered it being the most natural state, the only way to be with this man. I had no embarrassment, no guilt, no shame, just love and need. The need to give, and give of myself, so that in some way I could become whole. His mouth left my lips, travelling about my body, in lines each directing fire to my liquefied centre. I felt my breasts swell to such a heightened state, even the brush of a butterfly's wing would have been like the sting of a whip. My body writhed and ached for fulfilment, the fulfilment of when he would enter inside me. Instead he toyed and played with my fragile flesh, letting it coat in a sheen of sweat. When my body reached a state where it twisted and gyrated of its own volition, he removed himself from me. From begging him to stop, I was now pleading with him to continue, openly displaying the full flowering of my body, lewdly exemplifying my need for satisfaction. He stripped away his fine clothes, displaying the brown, lean body beneath. The muscled torso, with its thick black hairs looked familiar to me. The shape of his chest as he sucked his abdomen in, the slight untidiness of the fingers at the nails all were details in my memory. My mind was filled with new sights, the solid thick trunks of his bristling thighs between which grew the thick bush of pubic hair. From the roots of the bush sprouted the tower of his arousal standing proud and solid from his body, like a shaft of ebony. I wanted only to touch the shaft, feel its power take it within my hands and feel it entering my body. I opened wide my legs, displayed the clear pearls, which had formed with the damp of my excitement. I offered him my spread pink flower, urged him to bury his shaft inside. He sank his face between my spread legs. His hands his tongue entered within, never had I felt my body like this as it drew his face into me. My thighs clamped about his neck, drawing his hot breath against my clitoris. As my soul had departed from my mouth, my vagina would receive his with every hungry urgent breath he took. Urgently I ground my groin against his face, feeling the rough of his stubble against my tender thighs. I urged I cried for my primal release, which rolled in frenzied surges down my body. As the waves of pleasure sapped my body, so he entered me. Slow and confident, with the natural ease of an experienced lover. Gently he rode me, his shaft slipping between the pulsing lips of my still hungry vagina. With coaxing fingers, and casual brushes of his lips, my vigour restored, drawing strength from the rigid bolt of energy pulsing deep within me. I attached myself to the rhythm of the gentle undulation, till I was floating on a sea of bliss, the slap of his body against my thighs beating like a wave breaking on the bow of our fragile vessel of passion. When the storm of his climax broke I was thrown and tossed as the hot splashes of his semen spat inside me. He came and lie beside me. Covering our nakedness with the cover from the bed. For the first time I felt cool as the passion subsided. I had no fear no inhibition, as we exchanged touches. Here was my eastern king, my hero. On this night I was his queen, his natural bride. As he spoke I could only smile, romance becomes less dark, when spoken with a nasal accent. But the words were still as potent, no matter the accent in which they were said. We made our vows of love, swearing we would always love each other. I did not return with Jeff, I completed my learning in India, but after that night he was always with me. Protecting me, guiding me, till I returned to be his wife. Anita was filled with the sense of it all, the exotic smells drifting through the room, heady with the heat. The wild blurring frenzy of passion, lasting all through the night. The simple man who imagined himself King and made his lover Queen. She rolled over on to her back trembling with exhileration. Where was her man, her imaginary King? Perhaps he would be waiting for her when she got to college. Certainly she had found no heroes at home. All had proved to be frightened by her intellect and beauty, had run away from her depth of passion. She dropped the diary onto the bed. Closing her eyes, she stroked her naked body. She imagined her hands to be that of her lover, firm sliding down her abdomen. Gradually opening the front of her jeans, pausing at each button. Stroking the thin cotton of her pants, circling the mound of her pubic hair, seeking the cleft of her vulva. Slowly she teased stroking the clitoris, lifting her thighs she eased her jeans down. Not opening her eyes, not breaking the spell, she hooked her fingers inside her pants. Spreading wide her thighs, she flattened the soles of her feet onto the bed, gyrating her pelvis to the gentle thrusts of her fingers. She listened to the slurping sound as her fingers flexed in and out. She felt the tension spread throughout her breasts, her hand snaked up dragging and tearing at the sensitive nipples. Pressing her palm onto the head of her vulva, she worked her fingers faster and faster into the molten damp of her vagina, flicking back to stroke her clitoris, till her hips began to thrust and bounce on the bed. She flattened her head back into the pile of cushions, letting her jaw drop open. All she could hear was the pounding of her heart, beating back, through the flexing bed. Her fingers were not hers. They were the faceless hero who filled her dreams. He was kissing her, whispering to her, spurring her on, driving her to her climax. He was telling her to relax, to come, to soak his palm with her free flowing juices. He was telling her all the things he would do to her. All the many ways he would love her. First she had to prove her love. First she had to come against his hand. She felt the first spasm, hit her body. She bucked as the second one came. She began to gasp, then roar and scream, as her body bucked again and again. The sound and pulse of her orgasm filled her head and the room, she felt her body soar from the bed, propelled by the violent waves sweeping over her. As the crimson mist cleared from her eyes she felt the last fluttering of her labia against her fingers. The tall strong figure was receding from her mind as she let her fingers linger over her clitoris. Her body ached for the confident touch which could lift her beyond her own imagination. Maybe she should take the other option offered to her. Take an arranged marriage. Her uncle had many handsome sons, they were all older than her, any would be pleased to take her as a wife. She had enjoyed an independent life for too long. Like her mother, she must find her own destiny. Maybe she would have many lovers before finding a partner. Perhaps she would remain single. She just hoped to experience love soon. Real blinding love, to replace her dancing fingers. She settled back into the cushions on the bed. She had time for one last fantasy, one last dream. She began to circle her clitoris, sliding her still damp fingers between her labia lips. She could see him coming towards her. Unmasking his muscular torso, and he was on her, in her driving between her legs. Oh god make him come soon. Please let him come.