Moments of Passion with Married Maid
Hi all, my name is Alok, and this is my first time sharing my story. I’ve been a reader of ISS for some time now, so I hope this ignites some passions for you all as well. I’m currently in Hyderabad, but have been born and brought up all my life in Mumbai itself. My family had parents and an elder sister as well. We’ve been a good family for the most part, with all kinds of ups and downs. I’ve always been an athletic one, 5’11, well maintained, and packing a good tool of 7.5 inches of steel. In my teen years, I’ve had a girlfriend with physical action but no sex. They were great, but gradually, somehow, I wasn’t attracted to them anymore, or rather, I always wanted more. I’ve yearned for a passion of a woman’s hunger, the one that can even turn the most noble of men into slaves of desire. It caused me to have a strange struggle. You might call this fake, but it takes me an intense session of sex in order to finish. Otherwise, my soul and body aren’t satisfied. Over the years, I learned the art of easily making women’s toes curl, using all kinds of methods. Now I yearn to do more. But I digress, so coming to the focus of the story, my maid of the house, Maalti (Name Changed). She’s been working at our house for years now, and used to work for 2 hours a day. In my college days, when I was 21, I luckily did not have attendance issues. I used to spend the majority of my time at home, gaming, or playing sports. My parents had jobs. So eventually I used to take care of and be alone with Maalti at home. It was dangerous to leave a horny, fuelled couple unattended. We started talking, which were just simple conversations about the day. Over time, I found out she was married and had 3 kids. She was in an unhappy marriage where she was forced to have kids. Her husband was a pump chump and a drunkard. (Typical Indian Household). Over time, we became closer, and our conversations started getting deeper, and a flame ignited somewhere. From my relations to her fantasies that were never even heard, let alone attempted to be fulfilled. We both laid our souls bare. I started flirting with her. A smile here, a touch there, and the solitude of the house allowed us to be true to our nature. Holding hands to a long hug, teasing her about the colour of her bra, and tickling me when I studied became a routine. She had a smaller build and a perfectly proportional waist. Then came that one fine day when everything changed. My parents had left, and I knew that the house was ours for the next 7 hours. She rang the bell, but something was different. There was no joy, no excitement. I asked, but she evaded. For several minutes, I enquired, frustration growing in me. I finally pushed her to the wall forcefully, but in a gentle way, and asked. “Kya hua, tumhari ankhon mein nami kyu hai?” (What happened? Why are you crying?) “Mein khush nahi hoon, mere bacche meri sunte nahi, kyuki unhe meri saas bigad chuki hai. Mera pati nikumba hai jo kama bhi nahi pata na toh woh ek acha baap hai. Aur aab toh woh mujhe ek aurat hone ki khushiyan bhi nahi de paata. Mein thak chuki hoon.” (I’m not happy, my kids don’t listen to me cause my mother-in-law is spoiling them, my husband is a useless idiot who doesn’t earn and isn’t a good father. Moreover, now he doesn’t even do his responsibility as a man, and he can’t please me either. I’m sick and tired.) I don’t know what came over me, but I embraced her tightly. She curled up in my chest, like a kitten in a warm blanket. I brought her to the couch and told her, “Maalti, main tumhare liye kya kar sakta hoon, tum jo bolo.” (Maalti, what can I do for you? Tell me.) She smiled and said, “Kuch nahi, main sambhal lungi, tum kya hi kar sakte ho?” (Nothing, I can handle myself, what could you do?) I said, “Main tumhe woh khushi de sakta hoon jiski tumhe sakt zaroorat hai.” (I can give you that happiness which you desperately need) “Woh kya hai?” (What is that?) To which I took a deep breath and a leap of faith, slowly holding my left fingers. With my right hand, I grabbed her neck and pulled her in harshly for a kiss. It was violent, it was rage, it was desire. She couldn’t help herself, something so expected, she just squeezed my arm. 5 minutes of culminating in each other’s flavours. That breaking it seemed like a sin. Finally, she stopped and pushed me away and said, “Yeh galat hai, main shaadi shudha hoon aur mere teen bacche bhi hai. Aur tum merese bohot chotein ho.” (This is wrong, I’m a married woman with three kids, and you are much younger than I.) I said, “Galti uski hai jisne tumhe woh amrit nahi diya jo haar aurat ko roz milna chahiye. Mahino se mein tadap raha hoon khud ko rok ke. Par ab sirf itna bolunga, kya tum sabse pehle ek aurat nahi ho? Kya tumhara haq nahi khush hone ka?” (It’s his mistake, who didn’t give you the secret sauce that every woman should get, every day. I’ve been in agony for months, stopping myself, but I’ll only say this: Are you not a woman first? Do you not deserve to be happy?) I got up, but she still held my hand, and with a tear in her eye, looked up and said, “Khush karo mujhe please.” (Make me happy, please.) That’s it, we had crossed the bounds of who and what we were, other than a man and woman waiting to ravish each other. I lifted her to her shock. I threw her onto my bed. She was wearing a simple kurti dupatta, which I almost tore away from her body. Fear in both our eyes about what the world would do or say. But none of it could stop us anymore. I removed her leggings slowly while running my fingers through her flower between her thighs. She arched back as hands explored her C-cup breasts, groping them. Slowly sucking, kissing, and biting them. We looked at each other. We kissed again; she scratched my arm and grabbed my dick over my track pants.