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.
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.