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 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 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.
