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Ara 28

1997 – A Long Time Ago Pt. 03: Climax

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EARLIER: 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 secrets of her body and a subtle journey into the salacious depths of her soul, through the wonders of onanism.

PREVIOUSLY: Part II – Arousal: The day after, I was visited over the 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. But despite a meandering trail of cunnilingus and fellatio, finally allowing me to explode my pent up juices into her delicate mouth, I missed Meena.

THIS STORY: PART III – Climax: My maid, Meena returns on Monday dressed and looking like an Indian goddess. She allows me into her most private and intimate self; not just all her erogenous orifices but also deep into her heart and soul, revealing a horrific and shocking past. While she has multiple orgasms due to my ministrations through the day, I cum explosively first in her mouth and later in her most venerated and carnal depths.

******

It was Monday morning, the ninth day of my 3-month stint as an exchange student at the Indian Institute of Technology in Bombay, India. I had arrived the previous week on Sunday from Paris, France where I was in my final year at the École Normale Superieure. Over the course of the week, one of my new student-colleague friends had found me a one-room terrace-apartment in her aunt’s three-storeyed mansion and the lady had very kindly agreed to rent it to me at a nominal cost. I had stayed one night, the night of my arrival, at a student hostel but was relieved to move in to my rental almost immediately.

The apartment was small: one room that accommodated a work desk, a wardrobe and a bed; and an attached bath, a kitchenette and a broom closet. The landlady had also organised a cleaning maid to service the flat, and she had been given access to it during the day when I was away at the college. The terrace of course was huge, almost five times the size of my living quarters, and for my exclusive use.

Unfortunately, I had not yet enjoyed the pleasure that the terrace offered with its potted plants and a glorious view of the Powai lake to the North of the building. One reason was because of inclement weather; the infamous monsoon season was on. Another reason was the fact that I was away at the Institute for most of the day during the week. And a third reason was that I had been rather occupied over the previous two days, my first weekend, in amorous interludes with the maid on Saturday and my new new student-colleague friend on Sunday.

On this Monday morning I was at home and not at the technology institute because a general strike of factory workers and transport unions had been called so the city was pretty much in lock-down. I had slept like a log last night after a very salacious and titillating afternoon with my friend Anita, followed by a satisfying Indian dinner and a couple of drinks after she left. Early this morning I had gone out for an invigorating 8-kilometre run before having a cold shower and a heavy breakfast at a nearby cafe. On the way back, just fifty metres from the apartment, I had bought two cheap faux cane chairs that were supposedly waterproof. They now adorned one edge of my terrace from where I could get a view of the lake.

It was 11 o’clock in the morning as I sat on one of the new chairs, looking towards the water body and ruminating about the weekend which had now got extended. As I sipped a chilled Chablis, the last dregs of a bottle I had bought at the airport on my arrival, from a water glass, I thought of Anita. She had come at about this same time yesterday and we had shared a couple of glasses of wine before one thing led to another and we spent a glorious four or five hours in passionate ecstasy. I was remembering her beautiful body; I could recollect every curve and indent washed in the bright light of day that filtered into my room through the various windows. She was a classy woman, lived in a stately home – like a chateau – a few blocks away with her rich family, and was exceedingly brilliant in her studies. We were good friends.

But truth be told, the memory that kept intruding my brain, the one I was finding impossible to ignore, was of the “bai” whom I first saw on Saturday two days ago. The word “Bai” (pronounced ba-e) in this part of India refers to the cleaning maids that service houses on a part-time basis, usually with four or five such jobs they do every day. In some other parts of the country, the word is used as a suffix to the name of grand ladies, often part of former royalty. And elsewhere, it is also used simply as a form of address for women, usually in villages.

Meena, in my eyes, was the most exotic creature I had ever set eyes on in my short güvenilir canlı bahis siteleri life of two decades. She was the epitome of a South Asian woman, the likes of which I had often dreamed of in my fantasies as a growing teenager in France. My friends and I often talked about Indian beauty, thinking of the women that participated in world beauty pageants and the models frequently used for advertising global products in Europe. But to me, the ideal Indian woman was not from the large metropolitan cities, not the well educated ladies that came from posh families and studied in Britain, not the fair complexioned gorgeous air hostesses and stewardesses we saw on flights.

I had once seen an amateur short film of village women bathing somewhere in India, shot on an 8mm camera and screened in a shady street pub in a banlieue – a suburb – on the outskirts of Paris. Through a haze of cigarette smoke and the din of lascivious men in the darkened atmosphere, I remember watching enthralled at three women draped in their native dress, a saree, squatting next to a bore well pump, and dousing themselves with mugs of water scooped out of metal buckets.

Once they were fully drenched, they removed the wet covering from their torsos and rubbed a soapy froth across their faces, between and over their large breasts, and in their hairy armpits. Although the screening was black and white, I still get an erection when I picture the darkened moss of hair in their pits and the textured black of their aureolas and nipples. With soap suds still over their torsos, the picture zoomed in to one of the women and showed her raise her wet garment up her thighs and bunch it around her waist. Then, still squatting, she spread her thighs apart and began to soap the extremely hairy bush below her abdomen. The darkness of her pubic hair contrasted with the white of the froth generated while she rubbed the soap into her groin.

The film wasn’t more than seven or eight minutes long but it has remained ingrained in my mind since I saw it. I think my ideal vision of the Asian woman lies somewhere between the rustic rawness of those in the film and the polished glamour of the beautiful Indian socialite we were more familiar with. And for some reason, the ‘bai’ seemed to fit that image of mine.

I sipped the last of my wine as I recollected the moment she walked into the house, and how I just gawked in silence for the first few seconds. As I peered out now at the coconut palms on the lake shore and the water hyacinth beyond, I envisioned her nakedness even though most of the time we spent together had been in near darkness. She had left on Sunday morning some time before I had awoken but every aspect of her voluptuous body was etched in my mind to the extent that I could even imagine the smooth silken feel of her skin.

As the sun reached overhead, I heard the chimes from the Holy Trinity Church bell and knew it was noon. Dark clouds were wafting in from the West and it was apparent that my sun-drenched terrace would soon be ravaged by the incoming monsoon rain. I went inside my one-room apartment, left the door open and walked through to the scullery at the back. The small glass of wine had whetted my appetite for some more but the bottle of Chardonnay was empty. I remembered that I had bought two bottles at the airport; one red and one white, so I scoured the kitchen cabinets to find where the pinot noir was stashed.

Just as I discovered the wine alongside other bottles of tomato ketchup and cooking vinegar which the maid had tidied away, I heard a roll of thunder and the distant crack of lightning. I was reminded of Saturday when the ‘bai’ had come back to my house from her other jobs, drenched to the bone because she had been caught unprepared in the late afternoon downpour. I found the corkscrew and opened the bottle of wine, picked up a water glass from the overhead shelf, and poured myself a good 30ml of the ambrosia. For a Frenchman I was shameless enough not to care about the glass I was drinking it in, but I did tell myself I should get some proper wine glasses.

I carried both the bottle and the glass tumbler to my desk in the front room and sat on the straight-back chair behind the table. Less than 15 feet directly in front of me was the door of my room, and another 30 feet beyond that was open terrace. At the end of my line of vision was another door in the housing shaft of a stairwell that came up from the ground floor entrance to the building. As I sat at the desk, listening to the rolls of thunder get louder, I sipped my wine and got more pensive and melancholy as thoughts of Meena the maid played havoc with my emotions, and desires.

I opened up my Toshiba Libretto 50 mini-notebook that I had purchased a couple of months before leaving Paris and powered on the Windows 95 system in an effort to distract my thoughts, and perhaps do a bit of study work. I must have stared at the screen for a full ten minutes, unable to will myself any further. Just as I was güvenilir illegal bahis siteleri about to give up any hope of working, or doing anything for that matter, I heard the squeak of my terrace doors swinging open on their rusted hinges.

I looked up from the screen of my notebook and saw the double wings of the wooden door pushed inwards. The first thing that I saw was the striking radiance of the colour red, and my eyes took a couple of seconds to fully focus on the movement ten yards in front of me. Two glasses of wine had put a misty haze, like a sheer curtain in front of my eyes. In very slow motion I saw a figure walking towards my room, an apparition swimming through the fog as my eyes began to focus.

Like a previous occasion, my jaw dropped and I stared open-mouthed at the beauty that was unfolding before my eyes. It was a vision of the most alluring and dazzlingly exotic woman I had ever set eyes on.

She was tall; judging from the six-feet high doorframe she had just walked through, the woman stood about five feet seven inches from the ground. She had an oval-shaped face with a rich dark chocolate complexion that seemed a little sun tanned. Her hair rose in a modest bouffant above her head, giving her an extra couple of inches, and soft tendrils of hair fell on either side of her face and behind her ears. Looking at her from the front, I could make out a ring of white flowers that seemed to be wound around the thick mass bunched behind her head; perhaps a string of jasmine. She had a wide forehead and thick black arched eyebrows with a tiny beige coloured dot between them on her forehead.

Her eyes were large and deep-set, with long lashes; she had used a faint kohl eyeliner to rim the gorgeous deep pools. Her ears were shaped to perfection and from their lower helix, her ear-lobes, hung delicate silver bell-shaped ear-rings called “jhumka” in the local language. They were very traditional and apparently more common in villages than in the metros. Her lips were full, with a prominently peaked cupid’s bow on top and a luscious centre to the lower lip. She had used a red lipstick that went beautifully with her dark skin tone. From slightly elevated cheekbones, her jawline tapered to a strong chin that gave her overall facial structure something between heart-shape and diamond.

“Namaste, Bhaiya!” It was only when her greeting filtered through the fog in my brain that I came to the full realisation that Meena, the ‘bai’ was standing in front of me. She had called me by a generic term, “bhaiya”, which literally meant ‘brother’ but was used colloquially across the country to refer quasi-respectfully to a male peer or older.

“Meena?!” I exclaimed in surprise, “You look so very beautiful today,” I said, still staring at her shamelessly. Her lips stretched slightly into a coy smile, small dimples accentuating her cheeks. Her slender neck descended to slightly sloping shoulders and the delicate outline of her clavicle. She was wearing a red blouse that matched the colour of her embellished lips; the neckline was u-shaped and started just over the rounded edge of her shoulders, dipping low towards the middle of her breasts. The sleeves were long, covering her arms upto half of her forearms, and had a two-inch wide border that looked like golden chain-mail at the cuffs. The front of her blouse was like a second skin over her large but regular shaped breasts; they seemed round and full and I guessed they would be sized 36DD. The lower edge of her blouse was tightly hemmed barely an inch below the curvature of her bosom, running across her chest.

“How you are today?” Meena asked. I mumbled a response but shook my head sideways in abject wonder, not believing that such ethereal beauty could adorn my humble abode. “Bhaiya, say something. Why you no talk?” She wasn’t very literate but had a passable vocabulary and spoke in English with a heavily accented tone.

I looked at the exquisite enchantress and said “Let me drink in your beauty for a while, Meena. I have never seen a woman look more beautiful.” She was wearing the traditional Indian saree, a six yard length of fabric, about four feet in width. Under the saree would have been a petticoat, tied with a drawstring around her hips although many traditional women would have worn it higher around the waist. After tucking a corner of one end of its length into the side of her petticoat, the saree went around her hips one full circle. Then, she would have made six or seven four-inch wide pleats and tucked them into the front of the petticoat. After this she would have been left with another three yards of the fabric, referred to as a ‘pallu’, which would go around her once more before being taken from her right hip and draped across her chest before being thrown over her left shoulder.

Between the hem of her blouse and the top of her saree was about 12 to 14 inches of bare naked skin. She wore the saree low over the swell of her hips so I could clearly discern the sharp indent güvenilir bahis şirketleri of her waist. The dress was an off-white beige-like colour with a wide six-inch red border running across the top and bottom edges. As she stood in the door frame, with the light behind her, I saw Meena’s limbs faintly silhouetted through the fabric. Her left thigh was at an angle that crossed the other limb before her knee bent and her long leg descended to the ground, the toes of one foot visible in her sandals. From her right thigh, the pallu rose across her full bosom, over her shoulder, and then dropped behind her to reach below the curve of her hips. This drape, that partially protected her blouse-encased breasts and the naked abdomen, was decorated in a filigreed pattern with delicate gold inlays between the red borders on either side. The pleats that were tucked into the petticoat in front was so low, it couldn’t have been more than a centimetre above the triangle of thick pubic hair that I remembered from our first meeting.

The fact that she was dressed in traditional garb but still in such a risqué fashion was hard for me to come to grips with. Her rustic ethnicity still clung to her like an aura but her dressing style was far from subtle; the bawdy suggestiveness was almost vulgar but in a very sublime way. Village girl glammed up. She took a slow step into the room as I kept soaking in the beauty, and as she turned towards the centre of the floor I saw her in angular profile. The swathe of fabric that crossed her front was roughly pleated so it didn’t cover the bareness of her abdomen completely.

Her breasts were firm and stood out proudly on her chest, the deep navel on her belly was dark in shadow, and the flatboard stomach disappeared into the folds of her saree. I pushed my chair back, stood up and took a couple of steps till I reached her. I took her hands in mine and drew her another two steps to the bed where she sat down. I realised only then that she had a large shoulder bag hanging on a long strap which she now removed and placed on the floor next to her feet.

“Oof! these chappals are not nice,” saying which she bent down to remove both her sandals and push them under the bed. I noticed they had maybe two-inch heels and realised she probably wasn’t used to them. “You like my dress?” she asked, looking up at me quizzically. But without waiting for a response, she went on “I go to temple today. Rani Didi and her husband and myself we all sit on his motorcycle and go to temple, you know?”

‘Didi’ was another generic term used frequently to refer to an elder woman, even though its literal meaning was ‘elder sister’. I assumed Rani was the name of one such acquaintance or friend of Meena’s. “Then they drop me here, I tell them I have to work for foreigner boss!” she continued with a giggle that sounded like tinkling wind chimes. Pointing at her large handbag, she said “I having working clothes in my bag so will change later. So you like my saree or no?”

“I love everything, not just your saree. I like your hair and your ear-rings and your eyes and lips and … yes, everything. Very, very beautiful Meena,” I told her as I stood directly in front, my shins lightly grazing the saree over her knees. She stood up while I was talking and before I could take a step backwards to give her space, her arms wrapped tightly around my waist, holding on so she wouldn’t fall back on the bed. Her breasts pressed hard against my chest and I could smell the sweet fragrance from the jasmine garland that was wrapped around the coils of hair at the back of her head. I placed my hands on her hips, shut my eyes, and breathed in the delicate aroma as we stood fused together for a minute or so.

She had made absolutely no reference, either by word or gesture, to the Saturday evening and night that we had spent together. Yet there was an easy going camaraderie and familiarity that enshrouded us now; no embarrassment or discomfort. She finally pushed me back a step and uncoupled herself from me, saying “I go and change into other clothes now, OK?”

“No! Let me look at you like this for a little longer. You can change your dress later,” I responded rather vehemently. She looked at me, a little surprised at my tone but nodded in agreement. She walked into my bathroom without shutting the door behind her, and then I heard running water in the wash basin where she was obviously washing her hands. There was a sudden loud clap of thunder outside, followed within seconds by a heavy torrential downpour that burst from the open skies.

“Just in time,” I heard Meena say as she came out of the bathroom, wringing her hands, “otherwise I get full wet like other day when I come here. Remember?”

That was the first reference to the “other day” and I replied, saying “Yes, I remember very well.” She was standing just outside the washroom in the small corridor that ran out of my living room towards the kitchen at the other end. As I looked at her, she turned around and headed towards the kitchen, drying her hands by rubbing them along her flanks; first her palms and then the back of her hands. Her hair, not completely opened, had loosened itself somewhat and hung in a thick bunch below the nape of her neck; the string garland of white jasmine flowers dangled from a hairpin holding it in place.

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