A mothers Command
I am Viswam. I am a twenty year old student of an engineering college in Chennai, India. My story is very strange. The problem is I do not know whether I am a hero or a villain. I think my deeds are pure but the world without second thought would say that I have plumbed the depth of ignominy. This is my story.
My home is on the seventh floor of a high rise block of flats in Purasawalkam, a crowded ancient part of Chennai. My father owns a shop selling electrical goods. My mother is a teacher in a middle school within walking distance of my home. The fourth member of our household is the top servant woman. She comes in the morning at seven and after washing the dishes, sweeping the house, laundering, and helping my mother with cooking leaves at ten for a fast food restaurant where she is the specialist samosa folder. Though only 32 she is a widow having lost her husband to the popular brew called arrack. She and her two children aged 18 and 21 live in a tiny house at the end of our street.
By the time the top servant woman finishes her chores at ten we three would have left for our duties. I leave at eight, my father shortly before nine and my mother shortly after nine. As all four have a house key each that is no problem. One morning I had forgotten to take the exam application form. It was the last day for submission so I rushed home. It was a few minutes past ten. I used my key to get in. I collected the form and was filling it when I heard the door click open. I heard something heavy and soft thud on the divan. It was the maid bringing in the laundry that she had hung to dry on the terrace. She could not have known that I was in the house. As she was folding the clothes she was humming a tune. I have never heard her warbling before. She sang well. I could hear her open the clothes almirah to replace the folded clothes. The singing now emanated from the kitchen. Her work for the day was over but she was in no great hurry to leave. I thought she was taking some rest before leaving for the fast food joint. It was not so. She was waiting for something more sensational. I heard the door open once again. I wondered who it could be. A male voice spoke.
"Taruni," it said. I froze. It was my father's. That was the maid's name. I have never heard my father talking to the maid least of all calling her by name, and here he was calling her most lovingly. I silently moved to the next room and climbed to the loft in that room. At one end of the loft there is a gap in the wall blocked with wooden trellis. It overlooks the kitchen. I crouched comfortably in the darkness and had a ring-side seat to watch the thrilling event that was now to take place. I admit that my action was unworthy of a gentleman.
My father and the maid were in a tight embrace. Soon he was peeling off her clothes. The sari was the first to go and then the blouse and bra and finally the skirt. The woman was naked. Lean and comely she had a shapely pair of breasts that sagged just enough to enhance their beauty; her buttocks were firm and her pubic mound nicely convex. She was not clean shaven but had trimmed the pubic hair short. I could criticize my father's morals but not his taste. His wife, my mother who is just 38 is prettier, but of course wife's good looks never stood in the way of a husband seeking mistresses. The maid now went about preparing soup from a can that she opened. My father sat and watched the naked girl at work. He must have enjoyed the sight. He must also have passed on his taste for seeing naked girls do homely chores to his son for I found that sight most erotic.
My father was now moving stools and chairs about as if he was a ring master in a big cat show in a circus. He placed a large stool against the wall and a chair against it. It was a well practised move. It was of course apparent that this affair has been going on for months. I wondered what this odd arrangement of chair and stool was for. I got the answer soon enough. Taruni sat on the stool with back against the wall. My father sat on the chair facing her. Taruni lifted her feet and placed it on either side of father's thighs. She had her thighs widely apart and her vulva was in grand display. Father who had by now discarded his clothes was holding the soup bowl in one hand and as he sipped his other hand was either kneading her breasts or rubbing her clitoris. From time to time as if to vary the taste he took a sip from one or other nipple. Soon the soup bowl was empty. Incidentally even though my father offered her soup she declined. The maid knew were to draw the line in a master servant relationship!
The time was now ripe for the finale. They had a well practised routine. My father who is strong and well built lifted Taruni in the folded state she was in and planted her on the table used for kitchen work. From my hide I could she her spread thighs and her vulva with lips parted. My father then took his erect and good sized penis towards the vaginal opening and she helpfully took hold of it and inserted it in. Both were in a pumped up state owing to the strange foreplay. Judging from the movements and the moaning they must have had their climaxes in unison. They held on to each other for quite a while and then they parted. Taruni climbed up the sink and washed her vulva. Even in that tense moment I wondered what my mother, a stickler for cleanliness, would say if she knew the unusual use her maid was putting her sink to. They dressed quickly. A brief hug and my father left and after resetting the furniture she left. I did not. I had an urgent task to perform. I went to the bathroom and masturbated. As so often happens in our world it is the innocents who sneak out. I left like a thief, looking this way and that.
The stirring event that I witnessed was not a shock to me. My father was a womaniser. That was no secret. He has been the star of several scandals. My mother must have had it out with him in her earlier years but now she was reconciled to it. She rarely spoke to him and they slept in different rooms. What was disturbing was that the affair should be happening under our roof and involving our maid with a thriving family. It did not look good. I felt deeply for my mother, a gentle and kindly teacher much loved by her pupils. If she comes to know of it even her resilience would not be enough. I thought about it in the days that followed. I decided that my mother needs me.
For the next few days I watched the maid as she went about her duties. There was nothing, absolutely nothing to show that she was carrying on a spectacular affair with the master of the house. My father gave nothing away either. They of course never spoke to each other and my father hardly ever looked in her direction. They were communicating with each other of that there was no doubt. That afternoon the maid was waiting for him with soup bowl and can with opener ready. When and how he sent his messages I know not.
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