Read Online The Yellow Papers by Dominique Wilson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dominique Wilson
Tags: Historical
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would have laughed together, and now every time they saw him they would smile, and though they wouldnât say anything heâd know they were remembering. Heâd been a fool. He should have saved face. Insisted she leave the river. Turn around while he dressed. He should have kept his dignity. Reprimanded her for behaving in such a shameless manner. But now it was too late. He would become a laughing stock and had no options but to leave as soon as possible. He heard footsteps outside his hut. The door opened.
âMu?â Sahira whispered.
Chen Mu lay still. Quiet. Should he tell her to leave? Pretend to sleep? She came into the hut, bumped into the table that was the only other piece of furniture beside his bed, and swore quietly. He felt her hand on the corner of his bed, over his feet as she felt her way around, but still he didnât move. A rustle of fabric, then no sound.
She slipped into his bed and lay still. Now Chen Mu wished heâd spoken earlier â if he spoke now, sheâd know heâd been pretending to sleep. But he couldnât pretend for much longer. Already he could feel himself grow hard against her warm skin.
âI couldnât come earlier,â she whispered.
Still Chen Mu didnât answer, unsure of how to react.
âI had to.â¦â she kissed his chest, dozens of little soft kisses barely touching his skin, then put her lips around a nipple and played with it with her tongue â⦠take my turn â¦â she moved down to his belly and Chen Mu groaned and arched with pleasure â⦠looking after Mrs Dawson ⦠â and she wriggled further down the bed and licked the inside of each thigh. Chen Mu forgot about losing face, and gave himself up instead to the heightened sensations of moist lips on hot flesh, and the musky odour of passion mingled with sweat.
Each night, as Matthew Dawson sat beside his wifeâs bed, watching her fight for breath and slide into delirium, Sahira slipped into Chen Muâs bed and guided him through the mysteries of her sex. Then they would talk, often till dawn, and she told him of her life as a child in India and on the goldfields, where both her parents died of typhoid, and how she entered service when barely ten years old in order to survive.
âI didnât cry, you know, when my father died. And I didnât cry when my mother died, either ⦠Do you think Iâm heartless?â
Chen Mu shook his head and continued stroking her hair.
âSo many were dying, you see. You could tell the tents that had typhoid â that horrid pea-soup smell of the diarrhoea ⦠And when someone close to you got it, well, you knew what was coming. But you were too busy looking after them, trying to cool their fever, changing their bedclothes ⦠No, I didnât cry then. And I didnât cry when the missionary women came and took some of us to Sydney â to the Randwick Asylum for orphans. Do you know when I cried?â
âWhen?â
âWhen they cut my hair, that very first day. They said we had lice. I never had lice! They sat us on a stool and they hacked away at it and I looked at my long plait lying on the floor, and all the extra hair beside it, and thatâs when I finally realised my mother was dead. Does that sound silly? But you see, my mother used to spend hours brushing my hair in the evenings, and as she brushed she would tell me stories, and tell me what her dreams were for me. It was always a special time, her brushing my hair. And if sheâd been alive, she would have never allowed them to cut it off like they did â¦â
âMy mother cut her hair. For me. To sell so that she could give me money for my journey.â
âShe must have loved you very much â¦â
Chen Mu nodded. âI think thatâs when I first realised that she must. She wasnât an affectionate woman, my mother. Not like your mother. She was always very strict
âMu?â Sahira whispered.
Chen Mu lay still. Quiet. Should he tell her to leave? Pretend to sleep? She came into the hut, bumped into the table that was the only other piece of furniture beside his bed, and swore quietly. He felt her hand on the corner of his bed, over his feet as she felt her way around, but still he didnât move. A rustle of fabric, then no sound.
She slipped into his bed and lay still. Now Chen Mu wished heâd spoken earlier â if he spoke now, sheâd know heâd been pretending to sleep. But he couldnât pretend for much longer. Already he could feel himself grow hard against her warm skin.
âI couldnât come earlier,â she whispered.
Still Chen Mu didnât answer, unsure of how to react.
âI had to.â¦â she kissed his chest, dozens of little soft kisses barely touching his skin, then put her lips around a nipple and played with it with her tongue â⦠take my turn â¦â she moved down to his belly and Chen Mu groaned and arched with pleasure â⦠looking after Mrs Dawson ⦠â and she wriggled further down the bed and licked the inside of each thigh. Chen Mu forgot about losing face, and gave himself up instead to the heightened sensations of moist lips on hot flesh, and the musky odour of passion mingled with sweat.
Each night, as Matthew Dawson sat beside his wifeâs bed, watching her fight for breath and slide into delirium, Sahira slipped into Chen Muâs bed and guided him through the mysteries of her sex. Then they would talk, often till dawn, and she told him of her life as a child in India and on the goldfields, where both her parents died of typhoid, and how she entered service when barely ten years old in order to survive.
âI didnât cry, you know, when my father died. And I didnât cry when my mother died, either ⦠Do you think Iâm heartless?â
Chen Mu shook his head and continued stroking her hair.
âSo many were dying, you see. You could tell the tents that had typhoid â that horrid pea-soup smell of the diarrhoea ⦠And when someone close to you got it, well, you knew what was coming. But you were too busy looking after them, trying to cool their fever, changing their bedclothes ⦠No, I didnât cry then. And I didnât cry when the missionary women came and took some of us to Sydney â to the Randwick Asylum for orphans. Do you know when I cried?â
âWhen?â
âWhen they cut my hair, that very first day. They said we had lice. I never had lice! They sat us on a stool and they hacked away at it and I looked at my long plait lying on the floor, and all the extra hair beside it, and thatâs when I finally realised my mother was dead. Does that sound silly? But you see, my mother used to spend hours brushing my hair in the evenings, and as she brushed she would tell me stories, and tell me what her dreams were for me. It was always a special time, her brushing my hair. And if sheâd been alive, she would have never allowed them to cut it off like they did â¦â
âMy mother cut her hair. For me. To sell so that she could give me money for my journey.â
âShe must have loved you very much â¦â
Chen Mu nodded. âI think thatâs when I first realised that she must. She wasnât an affectionate woman, my mother. Not like your mother. She was always very strict
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