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My Indian Maid: Three Months On

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Today’s another glorious weekend, the fourth Saturday in the wonderfully pleasant month of March 2008. The year started off in a rather hectic manner; I’ve had to fire our GM in Malaysia and have recently hired a smart and tough lady from URS Corporation in the United States. I’ve opened another office in India, a small detachment of youngsters with fire in their belly housed in an upscale commercial district in Mumbai. I’ve made two long overseas trips; one to Singapore and Tokyo that kept me out of the country for 10 days, and another week-long visit to France and the UK. And my house has been well looked after; Sunita, my maid, has been working with me for almost three months now.

Sunita is fantastic in every way; she has very clean habits and is a wonderful housekeeper, keeping my apartment in a very spruced up manner. She cooks the most amazing Indian meals, just the right amount of spices, barely any oil, and brilliantly tasty. She washes my clothes, tends to the potted plants on the terrace, does all the shopping for us, goes to the dry cleaners for me, polishes my shoes, makes my bed, changes the linen, everything. She generally gets up before I do and goes to sleep after I do; I assume she catches a catnap in the afternoons when I’m away at work.

She dresses neatly and stays well groomed throughout at the day; at least during the hours that I see her. My initial astonishment at seeing her has not diminished in any way. Although I try and focus on anything but her, its difficult when we’re alone together in the apartment. I marvel at her beauty, her dark olive complexioned smooth skin, the jet black hair which I have never seen in any way other than coiffed into a bun at the back of her hair. Like I thought when I first met her, I’m confident that it’s thick and long and if only she would let it hang loose, I’m sure it would cascade down to her perfectly contoured backside.

I still dream of her at night, have nocturnal emissions while she lives through my fantasies. I don’t dare allow her ever to get even a hint of my feelings, but I often wonder if she does. The day I hired her one morning in early January, I still remember the dreams I had that Sunday afternoon when she went to her sister’s (or sister in law’s) house to collect her belongings. I’m also unsure of whether I was awake or asleep in my fantasies, but when I awoke I had spurted huge amounts of my semen from a cock that was still hard and gripped tight in my hand. What woke me up was the doorbell that Sunita had rung on her return. Flustered, I looked down at my naked body and felt the cool streams of semen trickle down from my chest and stomach to the soft white bed sheet I lay on. I hastily slipped into my towelled dressing gown, opened the door for her, and rushed in to the bathroom for a quick shower. I even changed the bed linen myself and threw the old one into the washing machine. She seemed quite unfazed at my hasty behaviour but by the time I had emerged from the shower, dressed in my proverbial t-shirt and jeans, she had pushed her luggage into the room I had assigned for her, and even washed up in her en suite toilet.

Our working relationship began rather tremulously, both unsure of how to behave. I hadn’t had anybody share my apartment ever since I left France and a part-time girlfriend six years ago. For me this was somewhat uncomfortable at first. Had it not been for the fact that I was totally smitten by this lady, I may have changed our arrangements immediately; maybe offer her a day-maid job or pay her enough to hire a small apartment in the neighbourhood. But I couldn’t, within 24 hours I couldn’t bear the thought of her not being around.

I noticed that I had been avoiding all social evenings with Annie for fear that she may want to come over and spent the night at my place. This had been fairly common practice for the last few years but now I didn’t want anyone else staying overnight at my place. In fact, Annie and I hadn’t had sex at all this year; of course part of that was because I had been out of the country a lot of the time, and extremely busy for the rest.

Now, three months on, Sunita and I had an easy relationship. We were both teaching one another words in English and Hindi, and our vocabulary had improved. I found that if I spoke slowly and used simple words, she could understand what I said most of the time. Which was way better than if she spoke to me in Hindi; my vocabulary had not grown as well as hers had.

Today, Saturday, I was soaking in some sun on the terrace, sipping from a can of Heineken; my second can in fact. I had started looking forward to spending the weekends with Sunita from the first one after she started work, and I always got the sense that she enjoyed them too. On work days I either got home very late or came with a truckload of work that kept me glued to the laptop. Like for the last few weekends, I tried to convince her to share a beer with me but she wouldn’t. I asked her if she refused pendik escort on religious grounds but she said she didn’t like the taste, so I didn’t press it any further. Instead, I just sat and stared at her.

I was wearing a pair of dark glasses, lounging on the rattan chase lounge, staring at her. She pretended not to notice, sitting on a cane stool in front of me. I had told her that she should, or could, wear something less formal on weekends but she continued to wear sarees as always. Not that I minded. Today she’s wearing a light pink saree made of polyester like material, with a very thin embroidered border in a slightly darker shade. Her blouse matches in colour but has a lot more heavy embroidery around the bust and the hem. The patterned design leaves a lot of her upper body exposed and in fact shapes her rounded breasts like a brassiere would; it’s a fashionable piece and I enjoy watching her chest heave as she breathes. The dark creviced line of her cleavage is also visible through the flimsy polyester saree pallu. Her legs are crossed and the saree hugs her thigh as it crosses the other leg; three inches of ankle are visible where the hem rises. Around one ankle is a thin silver anklet. Between the blouse and her waist where the saree is tucked into the top of her petticoat is a band of uncovered skin, a deep navel centred in it. I know I’m getting hard just looking at her as she sits there chopping vegetables for the evening meal.

Every time she leaned forward to reach for a knife or a vegetable, her pallu would drop and almost simultaneously, so would my jaw; the milky white sell of her enormous breasts push upwards against the neckline of her blouse, the deep cleavage running low into the crevice created by her taut brassiere holding her boobs together. I knew I should turn away lest she see me looking, despite my sun glasses; or worse still, see the growing bulge in my jeans. I thought of getting up and going inside the apartment but the fear that my swollen crotch would be all too obvious kept me where I was.

I was desperately restraining myself from reaching out one hand and touching her, the urge so strong that I shove my palm under my butt as I lay on the lounger. I wanted, had been craving it for days now, to just get a brief touch of her skin, even her face. There were innumerable occasions, particularly in the evenings when I got home on time and Sunita was readying for the evening, that I almost reached for her waist or her neck or shoulders. Countless times when I saw her navel wink in the slight fold of her stomach when she was sitting that I wanted to plant my lips on it. In fact, the bravest I had ever got was when I pushed a rare unruly strand of hair behind her ear; doing it casually and walking on nonchalantly.

On weekends it was our practice to have a late and heavy breakfast, like a brunch, and to skip lunch all together. We’d both got into that routine, and today was no exception. We would have an early dinner, and possibly watch TV with Sunita still insisting on sitting on the carpeted floor rather than on a chair or even a stool. I had stopped trying to figure it out: why she was happy sitting on a stool while we were on the terrace but not inside the apartment. “Want more beer?” she asked as she rose to go into the kitchen with the tray now full of chopped vegetables. “No. Thank you. I think I’ll have a gin and tonic”, I replied as I strained my neck backwards to look up at her while she walked in. Her buttocks were firm as her hips swayed gently, the whispering swish of her saree sounding strangely erotic to my ears.

I got up from my chair and walked towards the parapet, looking at the flowers that were still in bloom, bending occasionally to smell the fragrance of some of them. In fact, I was just stalling, waiting for my erection to subside. After a couple of minutes, I walked into the apartment, leaving my sandals outside the door. The house was pleasantly cool after the warmth of the sunshine outside, the heavy drapes drawn in the living room. I walked to the bar to make myself a drink as Sunita pottered around in the kitchen. After a few moments I heard her say “You make your drink, Sahib, I go have bath and wash my hair, then come back soon, OK?” I turned around to her and nodded; this too was part of her Saturday routine.

I slipped a CD into the music system and found my favourite recliner to sit in while the beautiful sounds of Pandit Shivkumar Sharma’s santoor gently filled the room through the seven Bose speakers subtly placed in their acoustically optimised recesses. Keeping the TV silent, I switched on a news channel and watch as Pakistani president Asif Ali Zardari nominated Yousaf Raza Gilani as the Prime Minister. The door to Sunita’s bedroom was open only a crack, not more than a couple of inches, and through that I heard the door to her bathroom shut. Once again the urge surfaced; I wanted to get up from my chair and walk over to her room, maybe even maltepe escort open her bathroom door if it wasn’t locked. I took a large sip from my glass but that wasn’t enough to muster any courage. Instead I just strained to hear if any sounds came out of the bathroom. There weren’t any; at least none that reached my ears.

I imagined her hanging up her fresh clothes that she would wear after her shower, then slowly undrape her saree and unhook her blouse from the front. I pictured her unknotting the petticoat and letting it glide down over her hips till it pooled around her ankles. Then she would reach behind her back and unclasp her brassiere, freeing those deliciously huge orbs of flesh, her nipples resting centre of the puckered aureoles. She would push her panties down too over her hips, then lift one leg to remove the underwear, followed by raising the other leg. Not for the first time did I picture her completely naked and wondered whether she shaved her pussy or let a heavy undergrowth flourish over her mons veneris. Turning on the tap for her shower, adjusting the warm water, she would step under the cascading water, letting her hair unravel and cloak her back down to the crack of her buttocks.

I stood up, wondering what I should do. Walking across the living room floor on my bare feet, I reached her bedroom door and peered inside through the thin crack she had left open. I saw nothing, no clothes on the bed, only a pair of sandals at the bathroom door. And then I heard the shower faintly, water cascading over her smooth silken body. My cock was painfully hard and compressed inside my jeans; I placed a hand over the bulge and rubbed it in an attempt to ease the discomfort but that only made it harder. I was about to unzip my jeans and take out my penis from the denim confines, actually pulled down the zipper, when I suddenly realised what I was doing. A little ashamed at myself, I pulled up the zipper, turned around swiftly and walked back to the bar where I made myself another drink, and then sat down once again on my recliner.

Twenty-five minutes later, there was a happy buzz in my head thanks to the alcohol in my system; I wasn’t drunk, just happy. I shut my eyes; let the music flow over me. I heard Sunita’s bathroom door open so I shut my eyes and pretended to be asleep. A few minutes later, now genuinely lost in the beautiful strains of the santoor, I suddenly felt sprinkles of water on my face, little cold pinpricks that felt nice. Before I opened my eyes, I could smell a fragrant mix of roses and frangipani in the air, and I knew. “You no sleep, no? Sahib?” I opened my eyes and my mouth fell open.

She stood there in front of me like a goddess from the skies, smiling the most incredible smile I had ever seen. And she was different from any vision I had seen before. First, she wasn’t wearing a saree; instead she had on a kurta-pyjama. A loose fitting white linen pyjama and a beautiful top with embroidery on an aquamarine coloured base. Her hair was bundled into a towel, drying on top of her head. I gawked at her as she continued to smile. “You like my kurta-pyjama? Nice, no?” she asked. I shut my gawping mouth and nodded my head affirmatively while I swallowed.

Sunita unwrapped the towel from her head and walked back towards her room, rubbing her wet hair and then letting it fall over her shoulders and down her back. She disappeared for a moment into the bathroom to hang up the towel, and then walked back towards me, running her fingers loosely through the tangled mass of wet hair. For the first time ever, I saw how long her tresses were; all the way past her waist and down to the swell of her hips. She walked up to me and once again stood a few inches away from my recliner. I was still gazing at her in absolute wonder, my eyes tracing this vision from her beautiful face down her massive breasts to the hem of the kurta she wore. Her breasts seemed fuller than usual, creasing her top as they pushed outwards. “Sahib you alright no?” she said, her smile momentarily being replaced with a look of concern. “Yes. Yes, I’m I’m fine” I muttered, and her face lit up once again.

I realised I was in a mild state of shock and tried to mentally shake myself out of it before I did something I would regret. I swallowed again and tried to smile back up at her; then before I knew what I was doing, my right hand reached out and took hold of her fingers as I said “You look very beautiful, Sunita, very beautiful today.” She smiled somewhat demurely, lowered her eyes to the ground, then raised them up again and said a little mischievously “Only today Sahib? Not every day?” I laughed, almost guffawed, a strange feeling of being released from the tension that had coiled up the muscles of my body. “No. No. You are a beautiful woman. Always. But today there’s something special about you.” Feeling a little encouraged because she hadn’t pulled her hand away from my light grip, I encircled her wrist and pulled kartal escort her gently down towards me. She allowed herself to be pulled, turned around a bit and sat on the recliner next to me.

I had to release her hand while she turned so now I placed both my palms behind my head and pushed backwards on the backrest, reclining so I could continue to gaze at her face. She smiled at me, a little tremulous, maybe nervous, and then said “You also very handsome Sahib, I like to see you also.” Her hip was pressed against my thigh as she sat sideways on the chair facing me. I was deeply conscious of the heat from her body, supremely aware of her flesh nudging mine. Then quite suddenly, catching me completely unaware, she raised her hand to my face and I felt the smooth skin of her palm against my cheek and jaw. I was so overwhelmed with this minuscule physical contact; I involuntarily shut my eyes and took in a deep breath, filling my lungs with her freshly bathed scent. Sunita’s fingers moved delicately along the ridges of my chin and jaw, her fingertips grazing the hard weekend bristle on my face.

This was getting to be more than I was able to control, yet I knew that I couldn’t force the pace with Sunita. For a man and a woman to have lived in such close proximity for almost three months with no physical touch can be a very harrowing experience, especially if there is some emotional content in the relationship. She had now only made what looked like an extremely tentative first move; or had I? My brain was still unable to string together any sequence of coherent thought; I knew my heart was thumbing inside the rib-cage. She lowered her hand down to my neck and over on to my chest; she could feel the rampaging heartbeat no doubt. “I am very sorry Sahib. Very sorry,” she said, actually whispered and I saw her eyes watering. She turned her face away but left her hand on my chest, and once again I heard her say under her breath “Sorry, my Sahib.”

For a moment my heart sank; in an instant the burgeoning erection in my pants deflated to a detumescent state. “Why are you saying that, Sunita?” I asked, “Why are you sorry, why? You haven’t done anything to be sorry about. Sunita? Sunita? What’s the matter?” I was panicking. Had she decided to leave? Was she not happy with the work? I reached out for her hand again but she pulled it away. I raised my back from the backrest of the recliner and sat upright, my body contorting as my chest flushed against her back. I shoved my legs down on the floor, almost pushing her off the ledge of the chair where she was perched. My hand went to her shoulders, felt the long tresses of still wet hair against my palm as I lowered my face almost against hers and again asked “Sunita, what is the matter? Are you crying? Are you not happy here? Have I done something wrong? I’m sorry; I’m very sorry if I’ve said or done something wrong.” The words just kept gushing out of my mouth as the alarm spread across my head and heart.

She turned around, swivelling on her bum, and faced me. Her eyes had indeed watered. “No Sahib. Don’t say sorry. You cannot do anything wrong. You are a very beautiful man; very nice man. I am very lucky to be with you.”

“So then what’s the matter, Sunita? Why are you crying and why are you saying sorry? Tell me please” I pleaded.

She looked at my eyes, and as I stared back at those deep pools of emotion, I saw that she was readying herself to say something very serious. I gazed at that gorgeous looking face, wanting so much to take it in my hands and kiss her wondrously luscious lips, feel the wetness and the softness of her mouth against my own, let my tongue probe the depths of her oral cavity, but once again I resisted the frantic urge. I felt I could give up anything if only she came into my arms, burying her face into my neck, letting her stunning breasts press hard against my chest. If only.

“You must get wife, Sahib” she blurted. I stared dumbfounded at her, wondering what exactly she meant to convey. Did she really want to leave working for me and was she telling me to get a spouse so that there would be someone to look after me? Was she concerned that after her departure I would not be able to manage my existence without a wife? “For three months now, Sahib” she continued, “for three months you have been in too much pain. No friend coming home. All alone you are at night. I know it very difficult for a man. You live like a sanyasi; a…a saint maybe. You very alone, no?” And again I saw tears begin to well from her eyes.

And then suddenly I knew exactly what Sunita was saying. I smiled at this angelic beauty as I raised my hand and took a teardrop on to one of my fingertips. Bringing it to my lips, I licked the salty liquid and kissed her on the forehead. I was astounded at the depth of her concern. I asked her “What about women? Is it not difficult for women also?” You do not have a man; are you also not in pain?” Her eyes fell to the floor as her face flushed a deep red with embarrassment at my questions. Yet, she had been so brave in showing me her distress at my own sexual abstinence. “Sunita, don’t be shy. I am your friend, you can talk frankly, openly with me” I said to her. She didn’t look up.

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