I had the day off and was on the phone, talking to a pal, when I glanced at her from the corner of my eyes.
She was in the kitchen, leaning over the sink and filling up a bowl with water from the filter. She couldn’t see me because of the angle at which the telephone was placed in the room opposite the kitchen. Neither was she aware that I could see her, because, looking around her, she quickly picked up my wallet that I had placed yesterday night on the microwave, and stuffed it in front of her and inside the folds of her sari.
My pulse quickened since I had been eying her for the last week ever since she had been appointed by my wife to take over the kitchen.
In short, she had replaced the old maid.
The old maid had been about fifty-five, wrinkled, fat and despicable. Whenever and whatever chores she used to do around the house, I always found her to have this peculiar sullen expression she carried.
This one was a brand new maid and totally opposite to the old one. This one was in her mid-thirties, curvaceous, voluptuous and always had a mischievous glint in her wide and blazing dark eyes.
They have a phrase to describe such sweeties: Zawari Maal. You see, most of these maids have a rural background. And literally translated, Zawari maal implies ‘Rural Goods’
Her name was Maya. She had a wheat-like and smooth complexion, married to a guy who was a cabbie and her five foot three frame weighing about a hundred and twenty was pure dynamite.
I am well into my forties, have a very attractive wife and a pair of lovely teenaged kids. I used to have my own business and having tasted a huge loss, had given up on it and was working as a freelance consultant.
This often meant wayward hours and in fact, there were long periods of inactivity. My wife is a schoolteacher and with the kids in college, it invariably meant that during such long hours of inactivity, I would be mostly lying around the house, reading newspapers, watching TV or listening to music.
I had been fantasizing about Maya ever since she had started working as a cook-cum-cleaner lady. Her working hours were normally between eight in the morning to twelve noon and during my periods of inactivity, this meant that I would be alone with her.
Anyway, as I said, my pulse had quickened when I realized that she had stolen the wallet and crammed it, probably inside her panties. The sari is a billowy garment that covers a lady’s assets perfectly and also allows activities such as the one, which she had just carried out.
In my mind, I had plotted and schemed a hell of a lot. Very often, I would spy on her and gaze at her lustrous body, hidden inside that sari. Though it is impossible to imagine what kind of a body a lady hides inside the sari, you can pretty much guess if the sari is worn a little tightly. Or, if the border that is looped around one shoulder slips down to reveal the blouse.
On occasions, she had worn tight saris and that was how I knew she had a luscious body. And all too often, when I spied on her, I had watched the border slip off her shoulders. I was lucky I did not have any apoplectic fits during such occasions because she had great and gorgeous breasts.
Blouses worn with a sari are most often than not, buttoned in front and as a result, have pretty deep and plunging necklines.
The view I used to have on such occasions was amazing. There is something very erotic about watching such displays of bosoms when the lady is not aware that she is under scrutiny. At times, she would stretch, and then there is always the element of bending down or leaning forward when a lady works in the kitchen.
I should know, because my second child was a result of the furious sequence of events that had followed one early morning when I had watched my wife working in the kitchen. She had not been aware that I was watching her, and the display I had the opportunity to view, resulted in a missed day at the office and school. We had started our activity in the kitchen, carried it on in the small storeroom and finished it in the bathroom.
The result was a baby daughter.
I pretended not to have noticed what Maya had done when she peeped around the kitchen and glanced at me. Today, she was wearing a black chiffon sari, an old one that my wife used to wear. It was quite sheer and flimsy and had it not been for the petticoat that she was wearing, I would surely have had a clear view of what she was wearing, or not wearing, under it.
The blouse too was black. The border of the sari was looped around the shoulder and tucked into the waist just where she had tucked in the top of the sari. This meant that the flimsy border had to be dragged between her breasts and of course, I would have been a fool not to notice the way her firm and voluptuous breast stuck out from the top of the blouse.
After I hung up the phone, I walked over to the tape recorder, put a blank tape in and jacked up the mike. I had paid twenty grand for the tape deck and damned if I would have settled for a mike that couldn’t pick up the sound of a pin drop from thirty feet away.
Anyway, she was hardly fifteen feet away and that was perfectly okay by me.
She stiffened and concentrated on the work she was doing when I walked in and pretended to search for my wallet.
“Did you see my wallet here?” I asked, not looking at her.
“N-no s-sir,” she stammered.
“Shucks! I think I kept it right here yesterday.”
She did not speak. In fact, I had hardly ever spoken to her sine my wife had hired her, and neither had she spoken to me.
“I swear I kept it right here,” I muttered, bending down and looking at the spaces under the microwave stand.
Out of the corner of my eyes, I could see the way her body moved when she kneaded the dough. Her buttocks were firm and round and the sari couldn’t hide the shape of her hips.
Finally, I quit pretending to search for the wallet and stood beside her, hardly a couple of feet away.
“Are you sure you did not see my wallet?”
She stopped all movements and her eyes went wide as she glanced at me.
“W-why do you a-ask m-me?” she stuttered.
I paused long enough to make her fidget uncomfortably.
“I think I know where it is, Maya.”
I noticed the change in the color of her face.
“W-what do y-you m-mean?”
“Why did you take it, Maya?”
She gasped, turning to look at me. There was fear in her eyes and a dolt could tell that she looked like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“W-what?” she asked, pretending to be shocked.
“I said, why did you take it?” I repeated.
“I-I d-did not!” Her attempt to sound sincere failed.
I crossed my hands and looked at her for a long time, aware that I was making her feel uncomfortable. I was also aware of her large breasts heaving within her blouse.
“Do you really need the cash?” I asked her point-blank.
Her eyes went wide and she tried to look like she was being humiliated. She failed in doing so.
“Your husband has a pretty long record with the cops,” I said.
She continued to stare at me.
She had begun to breathe pretty heavily and watching her breasts rise and fall was making me get hornier.
“Did you or did you not pick up my wallet?”
There was a long pause while she considered the matter. Her eyes were downcast when she finally replied,
“I-I am sorry. Yes, I picked up the wallet. I needed the cash.”
“Why did you not ask madam or me for it?”
“I- I w-was afraid that I wouldn’t get…”
“Ah ha,” I said. “So you admit that you stole the money.”
A long pause ensued and then she nodded. “Y-yes sir.”
I motioned to her to step out of the kitchen. “Wash your hands. I think we have to talk.”
I watched her rinsing her hands off, leaning into the sink. I could see her heavy breasts strain against her blouse.
I made her sit on a chair that faced the chair on which I sat. She was hardly a couple of feet away from me and I could smell her from where I sat.
She clasped her hands and placed them on her hips, staring at them. I could see the color heightening on her cute face and I knew she was frightened as hell.
“What do we do now?” I asked her.
She remained silent.
I reached out to the tape recorder, snapped it shut and rewound the tape. She was startled when she heard our conversation when I played the tape.
Her eyes widened with panic and I thought she looked very sexy this way.
“I could easily hand over this tape to the cops. And with the background that your husband has with them, they would be happy to put you in a cell.”
She gasped when she realized what I had just said.
“Please, sir, I didn’t mean it.”
I let my eyes drift to her crotch and felt my prick stirring inside my pants when I thought about my wallet lying there.
“Ha!” I snorted. “Didn’t mean it?”
She fidgeted a bit more and the border of her sari fell off her shoulders. I just couldn’t look away from her heaving chest. The top of her breasts was clearly visible. The cleavage was enticing.
I decided to plunge forward. Leaning forward and bending down, I took hold of the bare heel of her left leg. She was startled by my action and tried to pull her leg away.
I gripped her heel and looking at her, I whispered harshly, “If you want to get free, I think you will have to do what I tell you to and say what I want you to.”
Her eyes looked into mine and she blushed again. I carried her leg towards me till it was lying across my lap. The bottom of her sari slid back, revealing her bare legs up to her ankles.
She had strong calves. I was astonished to find that she had either waxed her legs or shaved them because there was no hint of any hair there. This was surprising because she was after all a Zawari Maal coming as she did from the rural belt. I expected to find hair on her legs because such girls normally do not visit beauty parlors, neither do they keep their legs or armpits shaved / waxed.
Looking directly at her flushing face, I let my hand traverse her smooth knees till I reached the ankles. She once again tried to pull away her leg.
“Don’t do that!” I commanded in a harsh voice.
“P-please s-sir, d-don’t do that!” she whispered.
I grinned at her. “Don’t look anywhere else but either at my hand or in my eyes.” I told her.
Her eyes fluttered and she decided to fasten them to where my hand lay on her calves.
I caressed the smooth calf. First, I pulled on her toes gently and then let my palm slide up over her calves till I was gripping her ankle. I let my other hand lie on the armrest of my chair.
“Ah,” I whispered. “Your legs are so smooth and so strong.”
She blushed and tried to look away.
“No!” I told her harshly. “Look at what I am doing. We better understand what is going on here. You don’t do this my way and I am going to call the cops. I know a particular constable who would love to harass you because of what your husband had done to him during a strike of the cabbies.”
She stiffened, arching her back. This only succeeded in her breasts jutting against her flimsy blouse. She tried to draw the border of her sari across her shoulders.
“Let it remain there.” I remarked.
She hesitated, blushed again and obeyed me.
The sight of her sitting there on the chair, one foot resting on my lap, her breasts heaving within the confines of her skimpy blouse was giving me a hell of a hard on.
“Lift your other leg and let it rest on my lap,” I told her. She hesitated, so I squeezed her ankle till she gasped and obeyed me.
With both her legs on my lap, her sari had to slip way past her knees till her smooth strong hips and thighs were exposed. My throat went dry as I looked at the smooth expanse of her sexy legs.
Her legs were not skinny like those you come across on the models in the TV shows. There was nothing skinny about her. She was a healthy and rotund specimen.
The proverbial Zawari Maal.
