I Hire an Indian Maid

She stared into the bathroom and asked "Mine?" When I said yes, she looked up with such glee in her eyes I thought she might actually hug me in gratitude. Her eyes were moist; she had got very emotional and I inwardly shuddered at the thought of where she was staying and what the conditions of her current habitation were. I smiled at her, letting my vision linger on her face for a while, then turned around and walked out of her new quarters. The maid stayed in her room for a few minutes, used her washroom, and then walked out into my living room. "Thank you Sir, thank you very very much." I smiled at her once again and told her she should now go and get her things and I would wait at home till she returned. She said she would take three hours and be back around 2 o'clock in the afternoon. Then she did the most amazing thing, completely unexpected and had me floundering for a reaction. She walked up to where I was standing, bent down, touched my feet with her fingers, straightened up, placed her hand on her heart and head, turned around and walked out of the apartment.

As my newly hired maid turned around and walked towards the door, I couldn't help but gape at her wonderfully shaped body even though she was demurely and modestly draped in her saree. She threw her shawl around her shoulders and slipped into her slippers which she had left at the door when entering the flat. I noticed a silver anklet daintily wrapped around one ankle, visible just below the hem of her saree. The indentation of her waist and the voluptuous swell of her hips mesmerised me as she unwittingly sashayed out of the apartment. I let the door swing shut behind her and drew in a deep intake of breath, realising that my forehead had a thin sheen of sweat across the brow.

It was nearing 11 o'clock so I poured myself a glass of wine and stepped out on to my terrace. The sun was up but the weather was extremely pleasant. I lowered myself on to a chaise lounge, took a large sip of the wine, placed the glass on the floor next to me, shut my eyes and dreamed of my maid. It was impossible for me to picture anything else in my mind. The classical Indian beauty of her face, the kohl rimmed wide and deep eyes, her succulent lips and the promise of long flowing tresses of hair. The large wholesome breasts encased in her tightly covered blouse and the swathe of her saree diagonally rising from her ups up to her shoulder, leaving me with hypnotised by the occasional glances of the smooth brown skin between the blouse and the tucked in top of her saree. The deep pit of her navel as it winked every time she moved her body. The strong firm hips and thighs that tapered down from her hips to her knees pressing outwards against the tightly wrapped fold of her saree.

Somewhere in that late winter morning after polishing off a second glass of wine, I dosed off into a rather restless sleep, my pleasant thoughts of the new maid Sunita metamorphosing into reckless erotica. I dreamt of her working around the house, her dress a lot more relaxed and seductive than the formality with which she appeared for the interview. Although she still wore a blouse and saree, the blouse was a lot tighter and her breasts were clearly bursting out of them; every alternate button down the front having already ripped off. Her saree was worn low, just above where I imagined a dark and hairy bush would be flaming. Nipples pressed hard and long against the blouse, creating large protrusions that I could clearly see. Massive amounts of skin across her abdomen and back, perfectly shaped hips and backside that the flimsy mono-coloured saree only seemed to enhance.

I dreamt of myself walking around the house, following her everywhere. I saw myself talking with her, smiling, sharing a joke maybe. I stood next to her in the kitchen, my body pressing against her as I ostensibly helped with her work. It was an intense and even partially disturbing dream; somewhere my subconsciousness trying to nudge sanity back into my thoughts. She was my maid, and Indian who was obviously not very educated and perhaps driven by extremely conservative mores. And then the devil would tell me that she was very liberal and she wanted me as much as I wanted her; why else would she work for a white man and stay alone with him in his house?

I awoke once in a panic, sweating either from the nightmarish thoughts that my brain was trying to tackle or the heat that direct sunlight was wrapping me up in. My throat was parched, either because of my hallucinations or the two glasses of wine I'd imbibed. I numbly walked into the kitchen for a glass of water, unhappily aware of a subsiding erection, a reminder of my dream-state indiscretions.

I changed out of my clothes into a t-shirt and tracksuit bottom, had another glass of water, and lay down on my bed. Having woken up very early that morning, sleep caught up rather quickly. And with it came the dreams again. My maid, Sunita.

We were in the car driving towards the market that we'd had breakfast in that morning and then suddenly we weren't in the city anymore; the countryside whizzed past the window, sometimes France and at other times the Himalayan foothills. I remember clearly driving a long stretch without looking at the road; staring instead intently at the maid. She was still dressed in the same saree she'd interviewed in but her hair was loose, no longer tied in a bun, the wind ripping through it as it trailed many feet behind her, rapunzel-like. I stared at that wonderful face, unable to drink in enough of the ethereal beauty, my throat still parched.

As the pallu of her saree, pressed in by the wind, became like a second skin over her chest, I gazed longingly at the fullness of her large round breasts, tautly supported by a skin-tight blouse and an underwire brassiere no doubt. I sank into the crevice of her cleavage only to find myself swimming in the ocean, sputtering, desperately searching for her but saw nothing and no one. Then feeling a firm grip around my wrist, I was pulled along at a feverish pitch, skimming the surface of the water, riding the crest of waves, till I found myself on horseback with Sunita riding beside me. Side saddle. A gentle breeze blowing in our faces, and all along I only stared at her face, the perfection of her body in my peripheral vision. I noticed suddenly that she was naked but I didn't seem surprised and she wasn't embarrassed. And as my eyes danced all over body I realised that I was unable to see nipples or aureoles on her large breasts that now bounced freely as we rode. She sat side saddle facing me but I was unable to determine whether she had a bushy growth of pubic hair or was she clean shaven.

And then we were in my office together; she was sitting on my chair, behind my desk with my laptop and a desk phone on it. She was dressed immaculately in a blue silk saree with gold trimmings, a tiny dark blue dot, a bindi, centred between her eyebrows. Her hair was done up neatly in a bun, no stray whispers escaping. Her swollen breasts were perfectly contoured and clearly visible above the desktop, a hint of deep cleavage visible in the cut of her blouse. And I lay supine on the leather visitors' couch directly in front of her, my head resting on an arm-rest.

I was naked. As I look intently at her, one arm bent behind my head, my other hand firmly gripping my penis. I stroked myself slowly and monotonously while looking at her, my eyes roaming over her face and saree-clad torso. I saw myself as though in an out-of-body experience, like I was the third person in the room. She just sat and stared at the naked man caressing his cock; thick and hard and long as his fist gripped it hard and slid along the length of his shaft.

Whether this concoction of dreams went through for an hour or just a few minutes, I have no idea. But I remember it in its most lurid and vivid detail despite all that has happened since then.

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