My Indian maid catches me masturbating, and spanks me

My Indian maid catches me masturbating, and spanks me as a punishment.. Rashida had been our family maid servant for a long time. Moving to Kolkata from a distant village, and coming from a very poor family, she was merely eighteen when she started to work at my family’s place. From pictures of her that I saw later, the young Rashida was a beautiful village belle. She had a curvy figure, full sized breasts, and a beautiful radiant smile. Like many women from the poorer strata of society, she did not wear blouses at that time, so the picture simply showed the top part of her thin sari wrapping around her upper body, with her breasts prominent in the picture. Later on my mother had gotten Rashida to wear blouses around the house.

I was fifteen years younger than her, which meant when she started working here at my parent’s place I was merely a toddler of three. I was practically brought up by Rashida — she used to care for me as my high flying parents were frequently away on social engagements. Rashida had seen me as a toddler and then a child, and I grew up in front of her eyes. I loved her almost like a second mother, and she also had a special fondness for me.

However, it was always the case that we were from different classes of society. She was a servant, and I was the son of the master of the house. As I grew up, I came to see her less and less as a mother figure, and more as someone who made my bed, tidied up my room, washed my clothes, cooked my food and cleaned my toilet. She would lovingly (and respectfully) call me baba, rather than my name, Tarek.

Advertisements

Here I should also mention that since we lived in Kolkata, all our servants were Bengali, like many of the lower class folk in the city. We, like many of the upper class businessmen, hailed from Urdu speaking families. Since our domestic help did not speak Urdu, so whenever we conversed with them we always spoke in Bengali.

Our story really started when I was eighteen, and Rashida was thirty-three — one of those slightly older and strict matronly Indian women who were the object of every teenage boy’s wettest dreams. I was in my final year of high school, and had already gotten accepted into a prestigious university in Kolkata. Physically I was tall and lanky, with an athletic frame and was a member of the school cricket team.

I had just hit puberty some time ago, a late bloomer, and suddenly I had become aware of a whole new world. My whole existence was suddenly filled with visuals of big breasts and exposed navels and the women wearing sari and baring the sexy slender midriff and the sari riding into the butt crack. Each woman around me suddenly radiated a charm and a magnetic pull towards her chest that I was constantly in a state of arousal. I would walk the streets, my penis brushing against my underwear, and get hard simply looking at the buttocks of the lady walking in front of me in the street.

You have to realize that in those days, in India, the internet wasn’t as developed as it is today. My main source of entertainment was Bollywood, and every movie had the heroine dressed in a body hugging sari, with her waist exposed and her blouse tight, displaying the outline of her breasts, dancing seductively to a fast track music. We even have a word for it — thumka. I would spend hours rewinding a Juhi Chawla movie to that scene where she sways her belly, with her navel exposed, and then turns around and swings her butt in rhythm with the music.

Sex stories:   Becoming his toy - 6

I had also discovered how to masturbate. Every afternoon, after coming home from school, I would close the door to my room, lock it, and then pull down my pants. Taking my penis in my hand, and armed with a supply of Johnsons & Johnsons lotion close by, I would start to fantasize about actresses Madhuri Dixit or Juhi Chawla, or my really hot English teacher Mrs. Geeta Patel.

In my fantasies, I would be in a house with these beautiful women, or on an island, and they would make me their servant, making me serve them tea and drinks. They would then call me, hold me by the ear or twist it, and then slap me for mistakes I made. I would then be forced to lick their feet and then kiss their beautiful buttocks. They would use me and abuse me as their personal boy toy. In no time at all, I would be ejaculating a huge amount of cum into my hands. This was my daily routine.

Lately, I had started to notice my maid servant Rashida as well. We also kept a younger maid called Rubina who knew how to cook well. Rubina was just a young scrawny thing; her only redeeming feature was her big butts. Otherwise she had a thin small figure. Rashida on the other hand — she was bigger, and filled out quite nicely. You could say Rashida was a little chubby, but the weight was in the proper places.

Being older, Rashida was also more carefree with her appearance, with more skin exposed — back, navel — and her big pendulous breasts were always bouncing about in her blouse as she mopped the floor or dusted the furniture. Rashida’s blouse was always a size smaller for her humongous boobs, and her cleavage was always visible, even more when it was just I who was around. When she used to mop the floor, I used to sit at the dining table, pretending to study, while ogling her as she bent over, her gigantic butt protruding, while engaged in the housework. After she was done, I would usually go to my room, trying to be discreet about my raging boner, and jack off to thoughts of Rashida and Mrs. Patel together.

One afternoon there was no one home except the two maids — Rubina and Rashida. I knocked on the door after returning from school and Rashida opened the front door.

“Hi Rashida. How are you?” I greeted her as I walked in.

“I am fine, baba.” She replied. “Thank you for asking. Your parents are out, and will be returning late. Do you want your food right away, or sometime later?”

“Perhaps later, Rashida.” I told her. “I want to relax in my room for some time.”

“Alright, baba. I have to finish sweeping the floors before I mop them. After that I will make your food.”

Rashida had turned around and was heading back to the kitchen. My eyes went to her shapely buttocks, and how her clothing was clinging on to her shapely figure. Her ass cheeks swayed from side to side as she walked, and I could feel my penis hardening. Oh, how I would love to bury my face between her ass cheeks!

Sex stories:   Hum Sath Sath Hai

I went to my room. Carefully shutting the door, I started to strip. First I took off my socks, then my shirt, and then my pants. I was now dressed only in my underwear — a thin, cotton, elastic underwear — and ready to begin my masturbation session.

Mrs. Patel had been extra sexy that day. She had worn a dress shirt and a tight skirt that clung to her small ass and rose slightly above her knees, and the windows of the classroom had been open. An occasional gust of wind through the room would suddenly blow her skirt up, and we could even see the outline of her white panties. Of course she would just laugh and flatten her skirt down again, not knowing what affect it was having on us. There was always a scrum before English class — even the usual backbenchers would fight to sit at the front row for her class. Every time Mrs. Patel had her back to us and was writing with the chalk on the blackboard, her little ass would wriggle and shake, leaving us all excited.

I sat down on my comfortable leather chair at my desk, and unbuttoned the slit on my underwear. Carefully I took out my excited cock from its resting place. I started to rub and stroke my penis, thinking of Mrs. Patel and Rashida. In my fantasy, I was imagining that I was in my classroom, after school, with Mrs. Patel behind the desk. I was dressed in my school uniform.

“C’mon,” said Mrs. Patel, in my imagination, “If I am going to make you my slave, Tarek Zia, you need to get completely naked.”

“Yes, Mrs. Patel, ma’am.”

In my erotic imagination, I gulped as I slowly began to undress. First my shoes and socks, then my shirt, then my pants. My underwear was the last remaining article of clothing on my body.

“Those need to come off too,” Mrs. Patel said. “I need you fully in the nude, boy. Slaves don’t get to wear clothes.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I then gripped the sides of my underwear and quickly took them off. My penis was there, fully exposed. A grin appeared on my teachers face.

“Your penis.” She uttered. “It’s so small.”

A snicker came out of her mouth, before she quickly covered it and attempted to hold in her laughter. I looked at her face. As much as Mrs. Patel tried to hide it, I could read pure amusement in her eyes. I could tell what was running through her head — of all the boys and men she must have seen, comparing them to me — I was the smallest. I felt completely belittled and emasculated just by looking at her.

“Ok then,” she said, “This … thing … won’t take long to examine thoroughly.”

Mrs. Patel then bent down and began to squeeze my little penis, lifted it and checked underneath. The warmth of her hand as she touched my petite penis caused it so turn hard in between her index finger and thumb. I heard her snicker under her breath.

“I should probably not grip too hard, it’s so small and must be delicate!”

She then laughed out aloud. I turned bright red. She just showed me that she was not afraid to tell me directly that I was a small man.

Sex stories:   A mother's desire for a big cock gets this story started

“Rashida!” Mrs. Patel called out. In my fantasies, Rashida was the maid in the school. The door to the classroom opened and Rashida came into the room.

“Look how small this boy is, Rashida. We need to measure it. Can you find me a small ruler?”

Oh Rashida! I thought, as I continued to furiously stroke my penis, lost in my fantasy.

I dreamt of Rashida as she hunted a small ruler in the classroom for Mrs. Patel.

“We don’t usually have such small rulers here,” Rashida told Mrs. Patel. “But this will do for him.”

She pressed the small ruler against my dick, laughing as she read the measurement aloud.

“He’s just a baby,” Rashida told Mrs. Patel. “Such a little dick, memsahib!”

“Maybe he needs to get hard, Rashida.” Mrs. Patel suggested. “Perhaps you can rub him and see if … it … gets a little bigger?”

“Oh, bua! Oh, Rashida. Oh, Mrs. Patel!” I gushed out aloud, rubbing myself furiously as in my imagination, Rashida walked to me.

“Tarek,” She told me. “I am going to rub your little penis.”

“Oh, yes!”

I was so lost in my masturbation that I didn’t realize that I had forgotten to lock the door of my room. I was stroking my cock harder and harder, and mumbling, “Oh, Rashida! Oh, Mrs. Patel! Oh, Rashida!”

Suddenly, the door to my room flew open.

It was Rashida, and she had a broom in her hand. She had meant to clean the room, and had knocked. Unfortunately, as the door wasn’t locked and bolted, Rashida’s knock had sent it flying open. She walked in, and stood transfixed at the sight in front of her. Here I was, eyes shut, repeatedly rubbing my weenie, and murmuring “Mrs. Patel! Rashida!” when she had walked in!

And there she was — dressed in a green sari, tucked over to one side as she had been working profusely, her big stomach and belly button completely exposed. Her bosom was heaving, and I could see a little sweat on the blouse material around her arm pits due to her hard work. Now she stood starting at my exposed manhood, and a sly smile creeping to her lips.

“What’s going on, baba?”

Oh I was scared. My dick immediately flopped. Would she tell my parents? Rashida knew exactly what I was doing.

“Oh, bua, please, I am sorry.” I immediately started to apologize to her, using the respectful term bua (which meant aunt). I usually called the maids by their names, but here I was, calling her bua. I did not think then what I had thought later — why was I apologizing to her? She had barged into my room!

“I am so sorry, bua.” I cried, trying to hastily put my engorged prick back into my underwear. “Please, it won’t happen again. Please don’t tell my parents.”

“Well, Tarek Zia!” Rashida replied, “This is highly unusual, you know. There’s two women in the house!”

She always called me ‘baba’. Here she was, calling me by my full name.

“Please, please, bua, I am so sorry. You see, I don’t know what came over me. Please, I will never do this again.” I was close to blubbering.

“You left the door open on purpose, Tarek.” Rashida accused me. “You left it so I would open it and see your … nunu! What dirty game are you playing? Why are you showing me your nunu?”

Pages: First -1 - 2 - 3 - Next → - Last