“Christine, it’s the middle of the night,” My husband growls in a sleepy voice. “You’re too old for such foolishness. I’ve got to be up early for goodness sakes.” He scoots away from me and burrows his head deeper in the pillows. For a moment, I want to argue with him, but I open and then close my mouth. I try and ignore the hurt I feel and I quietly slip out of bed and pad quietly out of the room and down to the bathroom.
There is a window in there that I have often found myself standing at in the early hours just before sunrise. When the dawn comes, the sun begins to illuminate the forest — jungle really, that surrounds our village. It is beautiful and it is at that those moments than I am truly glad to be in India.
Joseph and I are missionaries. We’ve been in India for almost fifteen years. We have lived and worked in this small village in the Bastar District in the state of Chhattisgavh. For Joseph, it is his calling — his work, although I don’t he’s ever been truly happy here. He has had little success in converting the local peoples, although they tolerate his efforts very politely and patiently. Our son, Jeff has lived here since he was three years old. It is really the only world he has ever known and he tells me he wants to live here forever, despite the attractions and bright lights of America that he knows of from our periodic visits home.
I run a school here. There has been some friction between Joseph and me for a long time in that while his church has languished, my school has thrived. Over the years, I know that I’ve helped pave the way for many a child from our village to lead a better life.
And over the years, I have come to love India. In truth, although I sometimes get homesick for the United States, like my son, I too believe I could live out my life here. There is something magical and powerful about this land — something ancient and majestic that calls out to me, that has captured my heart. I was raised a Christian and still believe in God, but I quickly became enraptured in this place where religious toleration is so vital to much of its culture. Its easy acceptance of polytheism has entranced me — there is room for my God, but room for so much else as well.
My life would be a very good one except that my marriage to Joseph has turned to ashes over the years we have lived here. My husband was once a passionate lover and we enjoyed each other’s company for many years, but as India seemed to awaken and expand my reality, Joseph seems to have shrunk in body and in spirit. I cannot honestly recall the last time we made love — honest, true passionate love.
Still, as barren as that part of my life is, I feel fortunate. I have a wonderful, healthy son who has a good heart, I have my school and I have made many friends here in the village. My roots have sunk deep here. The villagers take me as one of their own, accepting this blonde, forty-six year old woman as if I were born here.
As I watch the dawn approach, my mind again turns to my erotic dream and to that perfectly formed cock. Just picturing it in my mind makes me wet between my legs. Standing beside the window, I slip my fingers through the waistband of my panties and into my furry bush, finding my slippery labia lips and spreading them apart.