1997 – A Long Time Ago Pt. 01: Foreplay

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THIS STORY: Part I – Foreplay: On my first visit outside Europe during my college years, during a 3-month exchange programme, I was introduced to the exotic allure of a rustic Indian woman. My part-time maid, Meena, a village woman working in Bombay, acquainted me with the erotic wonders of her body and a subtle journey into the salacious depths of her soul, through the wonders of onanism.

NEXT: Part II – Arousal: Within a week of my arrival in Bombay, I was visited on a weekend by a student colleague and new-found friend, Anita. She took me through an emotional rollercoaster of friendship, love, lust and passion, giving her body and mind to my desperately wanton spirit. While she wished to remain a virgin, Anita took us close to the edge of her losing it through a meandering trail of cunnilingus and fellatio, finally allowing me to explode my pent up juices into her delicate mouth.

LATER: PART III – Climax: Coming Soon


I was sitting at a small work desk in the corner of the room with my back to the wall. To my left was a dark wooden wardrobe about my height, six feet tall with a broken latch. With my desk in the corner, there was a wall behind me and a tiny window that overlooked a dirty side street and rows of hovels and hutments beyond that. On my right was another wall with a much larger, three panel window that had a rusty ironwork grill on it and dirty smeared window panes. While it let in a fair amount of daylight, especially in the morning since it faced eastwards, the view was not spectacular.

As I sat at the desk, it was now early afternoon on a cloudy day that threatened rain during this monsoon season. I had a table lamp on the desk that vaguely lit up the room; diagonally across from me, at the other corner, was my unmade bed with a small bedside table that held another reading lamp. And directly in front was a wooden door, the entrance to my living quarters. Between where I sat and the wardrobe across on my left was another door, painted a faded green which led to a small corridor about 15 feet long, ending in a cul de sac. On one side of the aisle was a bathroom; and slightly further towards the end was the kitchen. I ate my meals on the study table.

This was Bombay, India’s commercial capital, a thriving hub of 14 million people in those days. I was here as an exchange student back in the late 1990’s and it was my first introduction to Asia. Little did I know that years later, this country is where my career would bring me. Back then, on an exchange programme from the École Normale Superieure in Paris, I spent 3 months with students and faculty of the India Institute of Technology at Powai, Bombay. I had found my one room apartment on the roof of a three-story building that was opposite the Pawai Lake and although I didn’t get a view of it from the room, its was a great sight to the North from the terrace outside my main door. Actually, the house belonged to an aunt of one of the female students studying at the Institute, and she had very hospitably provided the introductions.

I was waiting for the “bai” – that’s what they called the day maids that would come to clean the house everyday. Monday through Friday she came sometime while I was away at the college, and the landlady’s servant would let her up to my room. I pretended it was a penthouse suite up above the proletarian masses, but that was just to lighten my spirits when I got depressed with the room. Anyway, this was my first Saturday at “home” because I had arrived last Sunday and stayed at a youth hostel that night somewhere very far away. On Monday, I went to the engineering faculty and was introduced to everyone, and then during the lunch break Anita, a student colleague, introduced me to her aunt.

I was offered my “penthouse” at a measly rent and went immediately to the youth hostel to pick up my duffel bag and backpack – the contents of which comprised my entire worldly possessions in India. I settled in on Monday evening itself. It was barely a ten-minute ride to the Institute on my hired bicycle. The rest of the week had gone swiftly as I engaged myself quite vigorously in the activities of the IIT, getting to know lots of people and imbibing the urban culture of life on campus.

That Saturday morning, I’d taken my rented bicycle and gone out for a ride around the lake and a little beyond, had some street food and a glass of hot sweet tea with milk, and returned just as it was beginning to rain. After taking a shower, I had done some work, written a couple of postcards that I would post on Monday morning, and then waited for the maid. At 1 o’clock I heard a light rap on the wooden door and just as I was getting up from my chair, I heard the double doors squeak open on the rusted hinges. Having taken a couple of steps, I stopped in my tracks and looked at the woman leave her sandals outside before walking into the room.

“Namaste!” she greeted me with folded hands, palms touching, as I continued to stare at her. She didn’t seem surprised to see me at home so clearly she had been briefed that isvecbahis the new lodger would be in on Saturday. As I continued to look open-mouthed at her, she repeated the greeting, “Namaste Bhaiya.”

I swallowed and attempted to smile as I brought my hands together and responded with a rather meek “Namaste!”

“Mera naam Meena hai,” she said. In one week, that was one of five phrases I had picked up in Hindi although people in this part of the country generally spoke a language called Marathi.

“Hello, Meena” I said, “Mera naam Hjjer hai.” I stumbled over the words but hoped that I had conveyed my name to her as well as acknowledged her own as being Meena.

“Oh good Hindi you speak. Very good! I also little bit English talk. I study school upto class five you know. So now I practice you English. Also I practice with little Englishman boy where house I also work everyday.” Her sentences all merged into one long string of words, much of which I understood. After a brief pause for breath, she continued “I not from Bombay, I from Bihar. You know Bihar?”

I shook my head and said “No, I’m sorry I don’t know where Bihar is.”

“Is ok no problem. Bihar very far away, many kilometres away. In North. I come by train five years ago. And now I working in different different houses. Some foreigner like you also. Let me do work now for you.” And saying that, she walked past me into the corridor and collected a bucket, a mop, and a couple of washcloths that had been hung to dry.

I wasn’t sure if I was expected to do anything so I just gathered a few papers from my desk and crawled on to my bed where I propped the pillows against a wall and used that as a backrest as I stretched my legs out. I took a deep breath, shut my eyes for a moment, and tried to ease the tension out of my mind and body. I couldn’t understand why I had almost frozen when the maid walked in; I wasn’t normally a shy or diffident person but the moment the “bai” came into my room I was at a loss for words.

I realised, as I sat unmoving on the bed, that she was a very beautiful woman and perhaps I was a little awestruck by her presence She was tall compared to all the Indian girls I had met or seen in the previous week; maybe 5’5″ which made her about a head shorter than my six-foot frame. Her hair was combed back tightly over her head and tied up in a black ribbon from which a thick coil of pleated rope hung down to her waist. She had a broad forehead and well shaped dark eye brows beneath which her kohl lined eyelids etched large brown eyes. Her cheekbones were sharp and angular as her jaws tapered to a firm chin. Her heart-shaped face had a rich golden-brown complexion and the skin looked smooth and taut.

She had a delicate but long neck that held her head proudly above her sloping shoulders. Meena was wearing the traditional Indian saree, a six or seven yard long drape of cloth that was partially wrapped around her waist and the remaining two yards or so thrown over her shoulder. Around the waist, the saree is tucked into an undergarment which is referred to as a petticoat, like a full length skirt that is tied to the waist with a thin cord. The saree seemed to be made of some synthetic fibre and was patterned in a combination of dark red and black colours with a wide border that had broad white stripes.

The top half of her body was clothed in a blouse that had three or four tiny buttons on the front, sleeves that covered barely half her upper arms, and a v-shaped neck that ran from the rounded edge of her shoulders down to her chest. The blouse revealed her chest and only the beginning of her cleavage, but also left a six inch swathe of midriff bare between its hem and the top of the saree. However, much of this was covered by the gauze thin folds of the drape that ran diagonally from her right hip to over her left shoulder.

She carried herself upright and proud; the swell of her bosom looked firm and the tapered waist was very apparent because the saree hugged her almost like a sheath as she walked past me towards the broom closet and bathroom. Her hips swayed just a little as she sashayed across the floor, and I thought I could discern her muscled thighs but that was just my imagination. From below the hem of her saree I could see the edge of her petticoat and then the delicate feet, one of which had a thin golden chain around the ankle. Her toenails were well pedicured and had a faint blush of red on them. A golden ring adorned one of the toes on her left foot.

When I saw the maid next, she had some kind of broom in her hand, made apparently from many three-foot long stalks of grass or weed, bound together about four inches from the end to make a handle. She was sweeping the floor from one end of the corridor, having already done the kitchen. As she approached me in the single room, she was bent slightly so as to reach the floor with the broom. Her blouse and upper body were now visible because she had taken the free part of the saree that would normally drape over the shoulder and tied it around her waist so that isveçbahis giriş it didn’t trail on the floor as she bent forward. She had also knotted her long ponytail into a bun that hung at the nape of her neck.

My eyes were riveted to the expanse of her chest as the neckline of her blouse seemed to plunge lower than I had earlier thought. Her breasts, which I now realised were considerable in size, pushed against the edges of the bodice and the cleft between the two orbs was deep. I tried to make out if she was wearing a brassiere but was unable to see any outline beneath the fabric. The v-shaped cut of the neckline seemed to run over the areola and I was quite sure that the darker shade of the brown halo was partially visible. If she wasn’t wearing a bra, I was hoping to catch a view of protruding nipples, pushing against the blouse but then she had turned towards my desk.

As she swept under my work table, she was on her haunches and stretching out with the broom to reach the far corner. From where I sat on the bed, I saw her cafe-au-lait complexioned skin, about six inches wide from below the blouse to the top of her saree. The knobbed line of her spine ran down the centre as it disappeared into the tucked-in edge of the saree. The expansion of her hips from the narrow waist left me imagining the contours of her buttocks and the tapering of her thighs down to the knees.

Continuing with her sweeping, Meena turned sideways and kept moving forward one foot at a time, raising herself but still bending forward. The side view of her breasts, tightly ensconced in her black blouse, showed how perfectly they were shaped. The upper half of her bosom rose firmly at an angle to her chest and then curved back inwards in a perfect arc. There was a small pool of dust that she kept sweeping towards the entrance before turning and walking towards the head of my bed. Our eyes met briefly before I tore mine away embarrassedly.

She bent down again to reach far under the bed with the broom, sweeping continuously. I braved another quick look at her and saw the top of her head, her shoulders and back cinching into her waist before her hips swelled out. The urge to reach out with my fingers and touch her, any part of her, was frighteningly strong and it took all my will to desist from doing so. As she moved backwards, I was peering directly over her breasts, pushing against the cloth of her blouse. The deep valley between her breasts descended into darkness but the mounds of flesh were enticingly bare as I stared unashamedly.

She moved away from the bed and swept towards the entrance doorway again; pausing, she lifted a plastic pan and used the unflagged bristles to brush the dust and debris into it. Straightening up, she opened the door and emptied the pan into a dust-bin lying outside on the terrace. Then she walked back into the rear of the house with broom and pan, put them into a closet from which she extracted a bucket and a mop. I heard water running into the bucket for a minute before she came out of the bathroom and went into the kitchen.

I leaned back against the pillow that was resting against the wall when I suddenly came to the realisation that I had an erection. The swelling in my jeans had gotten a little uncomfortable and I had to push the engorged length under the denim to a more agreeable position. With my hand still over the warm bulge, I saw Meena back out of the kitchen door, on her haunches again. I was surprised that she didn’t use a long handled mop to wipe the floor; instead she had a thick rag mop that she moved in wide arcs across the floor with her hand. Every once in a while, she would soak the wash-rag in the bucket, squeeze out the water, and continue swabbing. I could get the refreshing citrus aroma of what I assumed was a disinfectant mixed in the water.

Having backed out of the kitchen, she was now turned around facing the bedroom as she pushed the bucket along the aisle. She moved in a squatting position and had raised the saree up so that her knees were bare, as were the lower limbs. The folds of her dress were tucked between her thighs and her upper body so she could move freely. Bent and hunched forward as she was, the maid again provided me with that intoxicating view of her mammaries bursting out of the v-necked blouse. As she moved, her breasts pressed down against her thighs and I thought they would surely escape the confines of her slip.

Once inside my room, she followed the same path as she had with the broom, going under the desk, then across the floor to all corners till she finally came to the bed I was reclining on. Since my accommodation was small and sparse, the entire cleaning operation hadn’t taken more than 20 minutes but somehow the tantalising view and resultant hard-on in my jeans all seemed to make it much longer. As she crawled half-way under the bed, reaching for the recessed corner, I dropped my right hand over the edge and let my fingers brush against the skin of her mid-section.

A static charge crackled when I touched her, surprising me so isveçbahis yeni giriş completely that I hastily withdrew my hand and apologised with a choked “Sorry!” as I tried to straighten up on the bed. The maid pulled herself out from underneath and unbent herself, looking at me without expression. I stared into those deep brown eyes and was frozen like a deer caught in the beam of strong headlights. I whispered another “Sorry” and looked away, trying to grab some of the papers I had brought with me earlier from the desk. The woman then continued with her task, mopping the rest of my room till she finished at the doorway.

As she stood up finally, letting the folds of her saree drop to her feet, she picked up the bucket and mop and walked back to the bathroom. I saw her in my peripheral vision but did not allow myself to look at her directly. Over the next few minutes I heard water running and other washing sounds before she exited from the bathroom and went to place the cleaning implements in their rightful place. She then returned to the bathroom and shut the door behind her; I heard the latch click as she locked herself inside.

Every sound that emanated from the bathroom, through the locked door, created visions that flashed through my head. I heard the lid of the WC lifted and leant against the cistern, I heard the seat being lowered to the rim of the toilet, and there was silence for a couple of minutes. I already knew she was going to sit and probably take a pee, and sure enough I soon heard the trickle of urine jetting into the toilet bowl. I imagined how she would have hiked up the folds of her saree and the petticoat underneath, how she would have pushed down her panties before lowering her thighs on to the seat. I wondered if she had pubic hair or whether she would have shaved it like so many of the French girls did.

My hand lightly stroked the swelling in my jeans, the burgeoning girth of my penis feeling warm under the denim, as I tilted my head backwards and imagined her peeing into the bowl. Despite my relative lack of experience, I visualised her long legs, the muscles of her thighs, the light brown colour of her skin, the folded lips of her labia, and even the scent of her genitalia. I was suddenly shaken out of my reverie when I heard the water cistern flush, hastily grabbing a few sheets of paper and laying them casually over my erection. With my eyes still shut, in my mind I saw her pulling up her panties and dropping her flowing dress back to her ankles. I heard water running in the wash basin as I pictured her soaping and rinsing her hands before drying them on a hand towel that hung in a ring on the tiled wall.

When she walked out of the bathroom, the knot of hair on her head had opened out and the thick braided plat hung behind her down once again to her hips. The top half of her saree had been untucked from the waist and was once more draped diagonally across her torso and slung over the shoulder. The difference however was that this time the drape wasn’t like a swathe of fabric across her chest; instead it was sort of twisted into a thick rope like cord that seemed to cut through the valley between her breasts before being thrown over the shoulder. And another difference that I thought I observed was that her saree seemed to be worn much lower than earlier; it was now tucked in at the level of her hips rather than her waist. Or perhaps it was always like that and I had only just noticed her navel and at least four inches below that.

This vision did nothing to reduce the swell of my erect phallus. Her neck and shoulders merged smoothly into the vast spread of her chest and I could easily discern the top of her bosom bulge out of the v-shaped cut of the blouse. The few inches of her sleeves of course left most of her arms visible all the way from her biceps down to the thin red glass bangles that she wore around her wrists, and then the strangely delicate fingers, considering she was a working woman.

She came into my room with a feather duster in one hand and a chequered cloth in the other. Looking down at me, she had the hint of a smile playing around the corners of her mouth as I stared up at her from the bed. I was afraid she might see the bulge in my pants if I removed the papers that I held over it with my hand. “Go please sit on chair, I make your bed now,” she said quite pleasantly. So I hurriedly threw my legs over the side of the bed, stood up and walked casually to the corner desk trying rather unsuccessfully to keep the papers over my crotch.

By the time I had settled on the chair behind the writing desk, she was bent over and was wiping the wooden headrest and side panels of the bed. After that she removed the thin summer blanket from the bed, fluffed out the pillows, removed the bedsheet and whipped them a couple of times before tucking the edges back under the mattress. I kept looking at her backside clothed in the black and red saree that was drawn tightly around her hips as she bent over doing up my bed. Her brown-skinned bare waist was enticingly inviting and the desire to touch the servant’s body was fast turning into a craving. She finally spread the light blanket over the length of the bed and smoothed the folds and ridges before tucking the foot-end under the mattress as well.

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