1997 – A Long Time Ago Pt. 02: Arousal

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PREVIOUSLY: 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.

THIS STORY: 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.

NEXT: PART III – Climax: Coming Soon


I wasn’t sure how long I’d slept because I didn’t know what time I’d fallen asleep. But the wristwatch on my study table showed 7:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning. When I woke up, Meena, the maid, was not by my side on the bed the way we’d fallen asleep the previous night. I tried to listen for sounds in the bathroom or the kitchen, thinking she’d have gotten up before me and was either washing away last night’s stains from her body or perhaps even making us some breakfast. But I heard nothing except silence.

I looked around my one room apartment for any signs that my maid may have left behind, maybe a note to say where she’d gone or when she’d be back. It was a clear day after the heavy overnight storm and the sunlight was streaking in through my East-facing window. A table lamp on my desk was still lit. I had thrown off a duvet that had been draped over me and now stood naked in the middle of the room, trying to recall the events of the previous night. My clothes were lying neatly folded on a chair, the only chair in the room, but I saw nothing of the maid’s anywhere.

I tried to replay the sequence of events of Saturday; starting with the maid coming for work in the early afternoon, going away for some hours and my miserable state during her absence, her return in the early evening after getting caught and drenched in the rain, and the time till she curled up and slept on my bed. Then later in the evening the drinks we had, my undressing her and discovering her sensuous body, finger-fucking her to a climax before she undressed me and masturbated my cock to the most earth-shattering ejaculation I had ever experienced. And finally, the heavy incense fragrance of sex that surrounded us as we fell asleep in each other’s arms, our bodies sticky with sweat and semen.

I walked naked to the kitchen and put some water in the kettle to boil, wanting to have a mug of coffee while I wrapped my head around the maid’s absence. But then I decided to complete my morning ablutions and went to the bathroom instead. While I was shaving, I noticed a reflection in the mirror of a pair of white panties hanging on the shower curtain rod. Turning to face the bath area, I plucked the underwear off the rod and felt the slightly damp cotton fabric between my fingers. Bringing it to my face, I inhaled the aroma of the cleaning detergent and smiled; she would come back. And then I felt my penis hardening as I pictured her in her saree and imagined her hairy crotch underneath, free of protective lingerie.

I completed my shave, had a cold shower that did nothing to erase my erotic thoughts, and then got dressed. Putting on a fresh pair of briefs, I slipped into my faded denims and a t-shirt from the David Bowie concert I had attended in Paris earlier that year. I liked walking barefoot on the floor so I avoided any socks or flip-flops at home. The water had boiled so I made myself a cup of black coffee and took it, along with some soft fluffy bread called pao, or pav, to my solitary desk in the front room. It was just going on to 8:00 am.

As I mentioned earlier, I was here in India on a student exchange programme from the École Normale Superieure in Paris, to the India Institute of Technology at Powai, Bombay. This programme was a first, and on an experimental basis, because the IIT did not have a tie-up with any French university at that time. I had spent a week of my three-month time-table and was getting pretty swamped with the assignments that had to be completed. Although I had worked long into the night on Friday, and a few hours the previous day, I still had a fair bit of work to finish now. So I opened up my books and papers, and my laptop computer and got down to some serious study, wishing I had some help.

I worked uninterrupted for three straight hours without even a coffee break till I heard a soft knock on the door, barely 10 feet in front of me. I was deeply engrossed in my studies but a smile lit up my face in anticipation of my maid’s return. The door was never latched so I just called out “Come in!” and looked up, waiting for her to enter. The güvenilir bahis door creaked open very slowly, almost hesitantly, so I said again in English and Hindi, “Come in, andar ao!”

I almost fell off my chair when a head peered in between the flaps of the double door. “Anita!” I shouted as I pushed the chair back and rose to welcome her in, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise it was you. Do come in, please.”

“Whom were you expecting?” she said with a mischievous smile, “And I notice you’re picking up some of our vocabulary. How are you, Hjjer?”

Anita was a student colleague of mine at the institute, the girl that had introduced me to her aunt; now my landlady, and her mother’s sister. She was a Masters student working on her degree in Mathematics and Applied Statistics & Informatics. She was an extremely attractive woman and an absolute genius at her studies with plans to enrol in a Ph.D programme after completing her M.Sc.

“I’m very well, thank you, Anita” I replied. “What a pleasure and a pleasant surprise to see you this morning.”

We were both standing in the middle of my very small room, the work table directly behind me, the open door behind her, and my bed in the corner on our side. There was a moment’s awkward silence till she said “You’re too polite to ask me what I’m doing here so I’ll just tell you… I was in the neighbourhood; thought I’d drop by.”

We both broke into a laugh; I knew she lived in a mansion only a few streets away but not in my wildest dreams would I have thought she’d ever drop in to my one-room digs. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you. I look forward to meeting you every day at the Institute but never thought I’d ever see you in my penthouse suite,” I said.

“Well? Aren’t you going to ask me to sit down?”

“Yes! Yes, of course,” I stammered, “Uhm, why don’t you sit on the chair and I’ll make myself comfortable on the bed,” I replied, looking disgustedly at the unmade bed and hoping that the smells of last night’s romp weren’t infusing the atmosphere. I got out of her way and walked behind her to the doors which I opened wide, thinking some fresh air would do the room good.

When I turned back, she had walked to the bed and was straightening out the light blanket and bedspread while saying, “No! You use the chair and I’ll make myself comfortable here.” She placed a pillow against the wall along which the length of the bed ran, kicked off her sandals and slid back to lean against it.

I asked her if she’d like something to drink. “Would you like some tea? Or coffee? I even have Coca Cola if you prefer. Or water?”

“For a Frenchman, I’m surprised you don’t have any wine,” Anita said with a smile.

“Well, actually I do. I picked up two bottles at the Duty Free shop in the airport when I landed last week. Would you like some? In fact I even have some Indian rum.” I realised it was almost 11:30 and thought a glass of wine wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

“I can’t stay for very long but I think we have enough time for a glass of wine if you’ll have one as well.”

“Excellent!” I said, and walked to the refrigerator in the kitchen where I’d put the bottle of Chablis, a not too expensive chardonnay. I had a corkscrew opener but no wine glasses so I poured the chilled white into two glass tumblers and brought them back to the room.

“I’m sorry I don’t have any wine glasses,” I apologised, handing a glass to Anita.

She took the highball shaped water glass from me and said “Thank you. By the way, my Mum said to tell you that if you need anything, you should let us know, or tell my aunt.”

“That’s very kind. Please thank your Mum from me; and yes, I will let you know if I need anything, although my requirements are quite well met here in this apartment.” I raised the glass towards hers and clinked the rims, thanking her again. “You’ve already been very kind and helpful,” I said.

“My Mum says that for a young man like you from Europe, you will find your first visit to India quite trying.” Anita then talked for a while about the trials and tribulations of a foreigner in India, especially Bombay.

I was still standing in the middle of the room, looking at her as she prated on, moving from one subject to another. She was wearing a white t-shirt that said “Walk, Don’t Run” over a pair of blue jeans. For the one week that I had been at the institute, she always wore something called a salwar-kameez; a traditional combination dress comprising a long tunic and a pair of trousers that were pleated and baggy at the waist, tapering down to cuffs at the ankles. Along with that, she would have a long scarf, the middle of which was above the chest with the ends thrown over both shoulders; it’s called a dupatta, and was traditionally worn as a symbol of modesty.

Seeing her in a t-shirt and jeans was a pleasant change; for the first time I could discern the shape of her well sculpted body. The shirt had a round neckline and short sleeves, but the body hugged her chest and I could see the outline türkçe bahis of her brassiere underneath. They were half cup, plunge style and looked like they may have been a sort of powder blue in colour. The cotton fabric hugged her full bosom and I found myself guessing that she may have a 36D sized bra.

I had to admit to myself that I had been eyeing Anita in more than just a platonic way every time I saw her at the college, although I was usually convincing myself that we just good friends. Looking at her now, sitting with her legs stretched across the width of my bed, I wondered what she would look like in the nude. He narrow waist was also evident because the shirt had ridden up a few inches and I could see an inch of bare skin above the waist band of her jeans. The flare of her hips was accentuated in the sitting position she was in, and the figure-hugging trousers showed the tapering from her thighs to her knees, and then down to her ankles. Her feet were clean pink and delicate.

Anita said something which I didn’t catch, but I tore my eyes away from their meanderings and stared at her face with a quizzical look. Her hair was worn loose that day, although during the week it was either pleated into a braid or tied into a small bun behind her head. “Why don’t you sit down?” she repeated, and pointed at my chair behind the desk.

“I’ve been sitting there for three hours this morning, so I don’t mind standing for a while,” I told her. We talked about the assignment I was working on and while she spoke, I lost myself in the beauty of her face. Wide forehead, large brown eyes, an oval shaped face that tapered to the chin, and high cheekbones. Her lips reminded me of the Hollywood actress, Angelina Jolie, whose first major film “Hackers” had been released a couple of years ago, but which I’d seen only a couple of weeks before I’d left Paris.

Anita’s hair was tucked behind her ears and hung down in a shiny jet-black curtain to a length just below her breasts. Two tiny diamond studs were embedded in her ear-lobes, the only pieces of jewellery that adorned her body. I took an inattentive sip of my Chablis while staring her lovely face when I heard her say “Where are you, Hjjer. I think I’ve been talking to myself all this time.” The sweet tinkle of her laughter brought me right back to the present as I focused on her eyes. “Come here and sit next to me if you don’t want to sit on the chair. You’re making me dizzy standing there.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “Truth be told, I was lost in your beauty.”

“Flattery will get you anything,” she said with a coy smile as she patted the bed next to her.

Holding on to my glass, I took two steps to the bed, sat on it and pushed myself backwards to rest on the wall next to her. While doing that, my elbow inadvertently nudged the side of her breast and I was immediately embarrassed, not just for myself but for her as well. My instinctive reaction was to pull my hand away and in the process, our elbows hit each other’s and I spilled most of the wine out of my glass and on to her t-shirt.

“Oh damn! I’m so sorry Anita,” I exclaimed, and then hurried to get off the bed. I placed the almost empty glass on my work table and then turned to see how much damage I had managed to do. The front of her shirt was completely wet and all I could do was continue to apologise. She seemed to be taking it very calmly, telling me not to worry as she slid off the bed and rested her own glass on the small bed-side table before standing up.

I quickly turned around, opened my wardrobe and took out a clean grey t-shirt that had PARIS emblazoned across the chest and the blue-white-red of the French flag underneath. “I’m so sorry. Here, why don’t you change into this” I said, handing the garment to her and pointing to the bathroom door behind me.

She took the shirt and said “Thank you” as she placed it on the bed. I was surprised because I thought she’d take it to the bathroom and wear it there. I also recall how frightened I was suddenly because I remembered that my maid’s wet panties were drying on the bath curtain rod. In a bit of a panic, I was about to swivel around and rush to the bath area so I could remove the panties, hopefully without her seeing me, and stuff it into my pocket. But then Anita caught me completely by surprise.

She clutched the bottom of the shirt with both hands in a cross-arm, rolled it up to reveal her torso, pushed the bunched folds over her shoulders, pulled the neck over her head, stretched up her arms and removed the garment. I stood gawking at her, unsure whether to look at her or not. She used the back of her hand and patted her brassiere, decided that it too was damp and unhooked it from the back, letting it drop on to the bed. She was facing towards me all this time but we never made eye contact; it was almost as though I wasn’t there. Then reaching for the t-shirt, she unfolded it and slipped her arms in before swiftly pulling the neck of the shirt over her head. She then pulled her hair out from inside and finger güvenilir bahis siteleri combed the lengths, smoothening the curtain down over her breasts.

I was so stunned at what had just transpired, even though it was all over in less than a minute. But every second of it was burned into my mind. I walked nervously into the bathroom, removed my maid’s panties from where they were hanging and put the almost dry underwear into my pocket. “Would you like to soak your t-shirt in some warm water?” I called out to her.

“No. Thanks. I’ll just let it dry here on your chair.”

I came back to the room and looked at her, saying “That t-shirt suits you. You should keep it.” It was obviously a few sizes too big for her but she looked comfortable in it, and the colour looked nice in contrast to her light brown skin and jet black hair. In length, it was almost like a mini-dress, coming down to cover most of her thighs.

“Thank you. Yes, I’d like to keep this t-shirt. It will have a nice memory attached to it.”

“Great!” I replied, still reeling from the shock of what I’d seen. “I’m going to top up my glass with some more wine,” saying which I grabbed the tumbler from my desk and walked to the kitchen. While pouring myself a good 5 or 6 ounces, I pictured Anita’s breasts and her stomach and her arms and how arousing the sight had been. She had small light brown areolas, most of which were occupied by seemingly large nipples which were much darker in colour. Her underarms were smooth and shaven clean. Her navel had looked deep and round, a dark shadow in the middle of her abdomen.

While one half of my brain contemplated the libidinous sensuality of her body, the other half tried to wrap itself around the suggestiveness and provocative behaviour. This was the first time Anita and I were meeting in a social context, and I only knew her for a week. And she was Indian; supposedly conservative, traditional, conventional … so where was this liberal behaviour and permissiveness coming from. Even in Europe, I wouldn’t have expected something like this to happen. I took a couple of hefty sips of the wine, poured out some more into the glass and then carried it to my multi-functional room.

She was sitting on the bed, sipping her wine and looking rather forlorn when I came back to the room. “I’m sorry I did that, Hjjer. I don’t know what came over me. Please don’t think I’m a loose woman; I’ve never done something like that in my life.” She was talking very softly, looking down at the floor as she spoke, a very despondent and wretched expression on her face. In fact she looked as though she was going to cry.

“No! Don’t feel like that. I don’t think you’re loose or immoral. It’s perfectly understandable to hurriedly change out of wet clothes and get into something dry. In fact, I’m the one that should apologise for my clumsiness,” I said.

But she was clearly not consoled. “I feel horrible about what you must be thinking of me. I don’t have a steady boyfriend; I’m still a virgin and will remain so till my marriage,” she continued. “I did that on instinct; didn’t think.” And then she did break down, sobbing heavily as the tears trickled down her cheeks. With her breath catching every second, she looked up with a desperate expression on her face and said “Please, Hjjer, don’t think any less of me. Please!”

I was heart-broken when I saw the look on her face, feeling guilty for my earlier thoughts about her being possibly licentious or promiscuous. I went and sat down next to her, put my glass on the bedside table, and took one of her hands in mine. “Anita,” I said in a low voice, “I did not, and never will, think that you behaved in any way that suggests immorality. You have to trust me, and believe me, when I tell you that. There was nothing improper about what you did. I’m not a stranger, I’m a friend.”

She didn’t respond; we sat there side by side in silence for the next few minutes as her sobs gave way to a gentler weeping. She still wept, taking deep breaths and sighing intermittently, still looking quite distressed. I rubbed her hand between my palms, trying to soothe her, and then whispered somewhat jocularly “But you do have a fantastic body, you know; I can’t wait for you to change back into your own t-shirt!”

Unfortunately, that triggered off another bout of hyperventilated crying for the next 30 seconds; between deep and heavy breaths she turned towards me and hit my upper arm with a closed fist a number of times as she said “I hate you! I hate you!” I laughed softly, draped an arm over her shoulder and pulled her towards me. She leaned into me, buried her face into my chest, and continued sobbing.

I held her close and continued to try and break her out of her current mood, jokingly saying “If you carry on crying like this, you’ll make me change out of a wet t-shirt … and who knows what’ll happen then!” I heard her chortle once between sobs and rubbed her shoulder with my palm as my right hand gently held her against me. The neckline, like everything about the shirt, was obviously considerably over-sized for her as a result of which the garment had slipped off her shoulder on the side that I held her. I caressed the rounded curve, fingers and palm gently stroking over the smooth surface.

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