My name is Dr. Kshama (pronounced "Shama" -- the "K" silent. It means "Beautiful Queen" in Hindi) V. V. (the middle names comprise no less than 44 letters!) Patel (as common in India as "Smith", "Jones" or "Johnson" are in your Western societies.) I am half Turkish and half Indian, born in Istanbul on the 24th day of March in the year 2042, my family having moved to the city of my father's birth -- Mumbai, India -- on the 1st day of August, 2044. I am Doctor of Gynecology here in Mumbai, with an office in Lahore, teaching a course in medicine at the University of Lahore on Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays. I am attractive, even beautiful, to non-Western eyes, but I to you I suppose I'd be would be considered a fat and homely "Sand Nigger" to use your parlance. But let me assure you, dear readers, I don't lack for white pussy, both young -- 19 -- and "old" -- 60.
I am a slaveowner, a Lesbian Mistress. It may surprise and perhaps enrage white readers that of my 34 slaves, fully 26 are white, 4 Thai and 3 Japanese and 1 Vietnamese. Slavery is legal in this portion of India, though it is currently illegal to own anyone deemed to be Central Asian -- Turk, Afghani, Indian or Pakistani. Even that corollary is set to expire with Indian Parliament's recent vote to legalize slavery throughout India. It was more of a rubber stamp than anything, though, as de facto slavery has existed in India since at least 1800.
The email exchanges lasted for several days; as I was incorporating Gertrude into my house, as personal slavegirl, first as toilet girl, then perhaps as maid, then as as full pleasure slave. Gertrude was born in Brighton, UK, 31 years before, a student at University of Mumbai, blonde, blue eyed, very Nordic, very hot, her figure a true thing of beauty, breasts that wouldn't quit, and dancer's legs well developed and exquisite. I purchased her from a small market in Mumbai a week before. I despised the name Gertrude, thinking it clumsy and ugly for such an angel, I re- named her Inge (while also a Swedish name, it's roughly translatable as "Doe Eyed" in Hindi.)
I found out from the slaver selling her that Gertrude had come to India in a guise of student but in reality was MI5, investigating the disappearance of British girls in Mumbai and Lahore. The huntress became the prey!
As with all new slaves, I paired her with Aisha. Ah, lovely Aisha. She was a Russian peasant from Kiev, also blonde and blue eyed, but diminutive, reminding me very much of Russian gymnasts (so much so considered naming her "Olga" after the famous Olga Korbut, but "Olga" in Hindi means "ruler.") Aisha was a superb trainer; she had infinite patience, but her skill with whip and shrill, angry voice superb training tools. Each new slave feared her completely.
As she had never been a slave, Inge was slowly learning Islam, reciting her lessons under Aisha's waiting switch, her punishments severe if she misquoted lines, her rewards generous if she recited her lessons perfectly. Arabic fluently, the Qur'an -- for all its beauty and superb poetry -- is a difficult to learn, particularly to Westerners, who must learn an alphabet light years from their own. I'd been raised Islamic, of course, having come from Kashmir, a little village not far from the famed "Silk Route", but never believed in its teachings, absolutely opposed to its view and treatment of women as second class. But, too, I realized its amazing potential for training haughty Western slaves and subjugating them absolutely.
Since Aisha was also an accomplished belly dancer (a highly delectable trait for some common in Russian women!) she also trained slaves in that splendid art. If Inge's dancing was noticeably better, Aisha was rewarded with Paris fashions, shoes and jewelry; if, however, I was displeased by Inge's slowness in learning, or if Aisha hadn't performed another duty to my satisfaction, she was whipped. Harshly, brutally, and it was a lesson she would remember. A mistake, most assuredly, she would not repeat. Or the consequences would be worse.
One of Aisha's favorite indulgences -- other the chocolate brownies I allowed her on rare occasions -- was simply lying under the Mumbai Sun, skin glistening sexily with the Cocoa Talashi Oil (a lighter version of Talashi gel mixed with cocoa butter, a re-formulation for SPF protection), her skin a luscious golden brown, hair bleached blonde. If I were in the mood and Aisha had done well in her service, we would make love under that blazing sun, her tongue happily serving her Mistress, my tongue occasionally on her hot body, my face between her glorious breasts, loving each other as only a woman and slave can. Our orgasms were usually mutual and always volcanic and soul shaking, my Aisha always mumbling "thank you, Mistress" in feeble breaths.
Aisha -- after a one such lovemaking session -- asked, in her delightful Russian --accented Hindi, that if, indeed, Islam were the "only true religion" and Al'lah the "only true God", why were women subjugated and considered second-, almost sub-- human within it.
It was a question I had been anticipating. Though of barbarian stock, Aisha was remarkably intelligent, balancing a magnificent figure with a sharp, almost equally magnificent mind.
"My child," I answered, trying to coordinate all of my knowledge of my 33 year religious experience (that is, all my life) into a response both to the point and honest. "...the ways of God are unknown to humans."
"But, Mistress," she asked humbly, meekly, tone of voice wonderfully submissive, eyes flashing with intelligence and doubt, "is God not a woman?"
"God is male," I responded, reaching for my quirt, pretending my anger was about to boil over. She flinched and edged away shyly, long blonde hair falling to her waist, beautiful breasts bouncing delightedly, blue eyes flashing fear.
"If that is so, Mistress, would not His teachings command us to worship women, and hold them in the highest esteem, for all life, of every animal I know, is borne by the female?Instead, the Qu'ran teaches we are slaves."
I was about to strike Aisha when I realized it was futility to keep up the charade of Islam much longer. "That is true, child." I murmured, drawing her sweaty little body back to me.
"Mistress forgive my impudence," Aisha's tongue slid down my left leg, and she eventually started kissing and nibbling my feet; I watched, loving the way her long hair was always floating and catching on my sandals, hot breath delightful and refreshingly gentle on my tired brown skin. I gently helped her to her feet and we cuddled on the expansive lawn chair.
"Not impudence, child, intelligence. I wouldn't have you any other way." I kissed her. She gave my hot titties a gentle feel, cupping them, caressing them.
"I know Mistress forbids criticism of Islam." She said finally. "I will accept my punishment joyfully."
"My darling Aisha," I brushed hair from Aisha's eyes. The night was sweltering and humid, but a remarkable scent of Jasmine wafted in the air, someone somewhere was serenading her Mistress with magnificent tabla (small bongo-like drums). We listened to the unspeakably erotic singer a few moments before I kissed Aisha's hand and gently raised her chin.
"... you have been looking at the book of Isis, haven't you?"
She lowered her eyes. "Yes, Mistress. It's in your library - my house duties took me there. I know I shall be punished for not asking first."
"Yes," I agreed. "Five lashes." She knelt before the chair and bowed, I struck her five times with my switch of Indian teak, she groveling, kissing my sandals, catching her hair on the straps, but not screaming out once.
I realized, though, the punishment wouldn't - couldn't - be harsh. The Book of Isis -- 13 volumes, leather-bound, gilt-paged - was in English. A wide variety of literature was also kept in my library, from magazines like Playboy, Penthouse and Mistress Sappho (a Lesbian S&m magazine) to Vogue, Cosmopolitan, People and a dozen others. Leather bound hardcovers of Anais Nin works shared the shelves with paperbacks of Pauline Reage, Daniel Steel and Nora Roberts .
"I apologize, my great Mistress." She whispered, her red lips full, perfect and superbly kissable. "Though I cannot read, the pictures in The Book of Isis are most exquisite ."
"Aye, they are," I smiled. I keep my library open. I require -- I demand - my slaves to be beautiful to look at, exquisite in bed, superb to kiss, and intelligent. "But ask next time, yes?"
"Da, Mistress!" she smiled, mixing her languages.
"Look at dear Inge," I indicated my blonde slave practicing her belly dancing in my yard. "She is a former agent in British intelligence."
"I didn't know that, Mistress." Aisha grinned.
"She told me. Nothing escapes me." I frowned. "I know my slaves absolutely."
