tagInterracial LoveAnita (Her Mothers Diary)

Anita (Her Mothers Diary)


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.

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