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.