MAID-Care 2

A recap of the ever-so-vital statistics:
Me 40 years / 5’3” / 64 kg
Kamla 55 years / 5’9” / 88 kg
Meena 22 years / 5’10”/ 85 kg


The balcony was warm with the late afternoon sun, golden light spilling over the tiled floor. Meena’s arms wrapped me snugly, her tall frame effortlessly supporting my 64 kilos. I rested my head against her chest, feeling the subtle rise and fall of her breath as she held me close. Kamla lingered nearby, hands on her hips, smiling like a queen observing her tiny, obedient subject.

“Beta,” Kamla called, her voice soft but commanding, “let’s get you some fresh air and a little evening tea. But remember…” She tapped Meena lightly on the shoulder, “no walking for our little girl. Carry her, Meenu.”

Meena’s grin widened. “Of course, Mummy,” she said, bending slightly to adjust me in her arms. “This little wife of mine is too precious to touch the ground.”

I felt my face heat up, my small body cradled so high that the balcony railing barely reached my feet. “I… I can hold onto the railing myself,” I stammered, but my words were soft and weak. My limbs instinctively relaxed against her, my arms clinging around her neck as if it were natural to be carried like this.

“You? Hold on?” Meena laughed, a rich, teasing sound. “Beta, you’re a delicate little flower. Let your strong husband do the job. Look at you—your tiny arms, your helpless legs… perfect for carrying.”

Kamla chuckled softly, ruffling my hair from behind. “Such a tiny little girl, and already so obedient. I’m proud of you, beta. You really belong in our care, don’t you?”

“Please Kamla didi, tell Meena to put me down,” I pleaded, unable to stop myself. My cheeks were burning, my heart thumping in a mixture of embarrassment and an odd warmth that I couldn’t quite explain.

Kamla replied in mock seriousness, “What Kamla didi ? I'm your mother-in-law now, your Saas. Mummyji bolo.”

I didn't reply, just buried my face on Meena's shoulder.

Meena began to walk toward the small garden beyond the balcony, her long strides smooth and confident. Each step made my body sway slightly, and I felt the weight of my surrender fully. She adjusted me higher against her chest, pressing me even closer. “See?” she murmured softly, “you fit perfectly in my arms. Just relax, little girl. Feel safe. Feel… mine.”

I nodded, hiding my face against her shoulder. “Meena please..” I whispered. And the truth of it settled in my chest like a gentle fire. Even though my adult mind screamed with embarrassment, my body, my instincts, my small frame, knew something different: here, in her arms, I was safe. Completely, utterly… hers.

Kamla followed behind us, carrying a tray with a cup of tea and small biscuits. “We’ll have some tea in the garden,” she said, setting the tray down on a low table. “But you, beta, are staying in Meenu’s arms. Only she decides when you get down.”

I swallowed, feeling my throat dry. “Yes… Mummyji,” I said, my voice barely audible. Meena smiled down at me, gently swaying as she lifted me over the table and set me carefully on a large cushion on the garden bench—but only just. My tiny feet didn’t touch the ground. I was perched in her lap, held firmly around my waist and thighs.

“Perfect,” Meena said softly, her strong hands adjusting me so I couldn’t slide or squirm. “See? Even in the garden, my little girl doesn’t touch the floor. My arms are all you need.”

Kamla leaned down, brushing my hair back gently. “Drink your tea, beta. But remember, you’re not allowed to hold your cup yourself. Meenu will help.”

I could hardly believe it. A 40-year-old man, sitting in a frock, perched in the lap of a 22-year-old, 5’10” strong woman, being treated like a child. My mind spun, my heart raced, but as Meena guided the cup to my lips and I sipped, I felt a strange, undeniable comfort.

“You see?” Meena whispered, glancing at Kamla with a victorious smile. “Being small, being helpless… it suits you.”

I buried my face in her shoulder, my tiny hands resting against her chest. “Y…yes… Meenu…” I murmured, feeling the words pass from my lips without shame or resistance.

Kamla laughed softly, patting my back. “Good little girl. Today… we will carry you, pamper you, feed you, and protect you. Every single moment. You’ll see, by the end of the day, you won’t even remember what it feels like to walk on your own.”

I shivered slightly, partly in embarrassment, partly in anticipation, as Meena lifted me again effortlessly, chest to chest, legs dangling over her strong arms. My frock rustled softly with the movement, my hair brushed back against her shoulder.

“Ready for your evening stroll, beta?” she whispered, her voice low, teasing, yet filled with warmth.

I nodded, unable to speak. “Meenu, enough… abhi toh chhod do, koi dekh lega…” My heart raced as she carried me down the small garden path, the sun painting us both in gold, the world outside fading away. I was utterly, completely… theirs.

But for the first time in my life, I didn’t want to be anywhere else.


The evening shadows deepened over the bungalow, and the last traces of sunset had faded into a velvet-blue night. The house felt strangely alive — every corner echoing with laughter, every step reminding me that I was no longer the “master” here.

After our garden tea, I thought perhaps they would let me have some time alone in my room. But Meena only smiled knowingly as she carried me upstairs, her long legs taking the staircase two at a time, my small body bouncing in her arms like a helpless child.

“Meenu, enough now,” I muttered weakly, pressing my palms against her shoulder. “You’ve had your fun. Put me down. Remember, I am the owner of this house. You are my naukrani, and your duty is to obey me. You can’t treat me like this.”

Kamla, walking behind us, let out a hearty laugh. “Arre sun, Meena! Malik bol raha hai apne naukrani se: ‘Neeche utaro mujhe, main malik hoon!’” She mimicked my voice, then clapped her hands. “Aur sach kya hai? Naukrani ne Malik ko godi me qaid kar liya!”

Meena tightened her arms around me, grinning ear to ear. “Bilkul, Ma. Malik sahib toh bas humari godh ka khilona ban gaye. Socho na — Malik apne hi naukrani ke bazo mein bandhan mein hai.” She glanced down at me, her tone mock-serious. “Ab batao, chhotey Malik, tum Malik ho ya humare chhote se bandhua bacha?”

I squirmed in her grip, my face flushing red. “I’m forty years old! A grown adult man! How can you two treat me like some… some little girl? This is ridiculous.”

Kamla bent slightly, her tall frame looming above us as she stroked my hair. “Forty years old? Hmmm… toh chalo test karte hain. Agar tum itne bade ho, toh apne aap ko azad karo. Chhodo Meena ke bazo ko aur neeche utar jao.”

Meena immediately hugged me tighter against her chest, my legs dangling helplessly around her waist. “Haan, Malik sahib,” she teased, “aisa kaunsa mard hai jo ek 22 saal ki ladki ke godi se chutkara bhi nahi le paata?”

I tried once, twice, thrice, pathetically pushing against her shoulders, but her arms were like steel. I slumped back, defeated. “This… this isn’t fair.”

Kamla chuckled, scooping me straight from Meena’s arms as if I weighed nothing at all. My world shifted — her big, warm body enveloped me, my face pressed against her bosom, her thick arms caging me in. “Aur yeh dekho,” she said, looking at Meena, “ab ek 55 saal ki buddhi aurat ke godh mein, 40 saal ka mard qaid hai. Ab yeh buddhi ki goud se apne aap utar ke dikha.” 

I flailed my arms and legs, pushed hard against her shoulders. But I was helplessly stuck in her strong arms. Meena was rolling in laughter. 

Kamla was just smiling down looking at my futile efforts to free myself from her arms. “Ab bol, beta — kaisa lag raha hai? Malik hai ya yeh budhhi naukrani ka bandhua (bonded) ?”

“Please…” I whispered, my pride crumbling under their laughter. “I’m not a child. I’m not a girl…”

But Meena crouched low in front of me, smirking up at my small frame lying helplessly in Kamla’s cradle. “Phir kya ho, Malik? Agar mard hote, toh kam se kam meri ya mummy ki godh se bach nikalte. Lekin tum toh bas ek chhoti si ladki jaise chipke ho Mummyji ki baahon mein.”

Kamla kissed the top of my head, rocking me gently. “Sach hai, beta. Jo apne naukrani ki godi se azaad na ho sake… usse hum kya kahenge? Mard ya chhoti si bitiya?”

I had no answer. My lips quivered, my hands clutched her thick neck for balance. My protests were shrinking, my pride crumbling with every second in their arms.

When they finally carried me into my bedroom, I thought I would at least be left to sleep in peace. But no — Meena sat on the bed, pulling me onto her lap sideways like a child. She adjusted my frock, brushed my hair back with slow, deliberate strokes, then cradled me close against her chest.

“You’ll sleep like this tonight,” she whispered, her breath warm on my ear. “In my arms… or in Mummy’s. But never alone. Never free. Our little girl doesn’t need a bed… she only needs her naukrani’s godi.”

Kamla dimmed the lights, her voice low and playful. “Sahi kaha. Naukrani ne Malik ko sirf din hi nahi, raat mein bhi apni godi mein qaid rakhna hai. Aur beta…” she leaned closer, her eyes glinting, “…tu abhi bhi sochta hai tu Malik hai?”

My eyes burned with helplessness, my throat dry, but the words slipped out almost in a whisper: “N…nahi, Mummyji.”

Meena smiled triumphantly, tightening her hold as she lay back on the bed with me still nestled in her lap. My legs curled instinctively against her, my face buried in her chest. “Good girl,” she whispered. “Ab so jao, meri chhoti si biwi.”

And as their laughter lingered softly in the room, my 40-year-old body melted into the warm, unyielding arms of my maids — their little captive, their little girl, their helpless Malik.


That night, the house felt strangely quiet without my mother. Every corner seemed bigger, emptier. But in my own bedroom, there was no emptiness at all. There was Kamla, broad-shouldered and solid like an unshakable wall, and there was Meena, tall and glowing with youthful strength. And then there was me—small, cornered, and completely trapped in their care.

I wriggled in Meena’s lap, my frock bunching at my thighs as she rocked me slowly. Her long arms pinned me easily, one looped under my legs, the other around my back. Kamla stood nearby, smirking at the sight.

“Chhotey Malik,” Kamla said, deliberately stressing the word, “do you know what people would say if they saw this? 40 saal ka Malik apni naukrani ki godi mein qaid hai.”

Meena laughed, bouncing me slightly. “Aur sirf naukrani ki hi nahi… ek jawan, 22 saal si ladki ki godi mein. Malik banna toh door, yeh toh bilkul chhoti si ladki lag rahi hai.”

I flushed. “Bas kijiye… why don't you understand, main tum dono ka malik hoon. Yeh mera ghar hai. Tum dono meri naukrani ho.”

Kamla bent down till her face was inches from mine, her deep voice thick with mock-seriousness. “Naukrani? Malik ko godi mein zabardasti pakad kar rakhne wali agar naukrani hai… toh tum kaise Malik ho, batao zara?”

“Main… main ek aadmi hoon, mard hoon,” I said, voice faltering.

Meena grinned, hugging me tighter to her chest. “Aadmi, Mard ? 40 saal ka aadmi.… aur ek 22 saal ki ladki ke godh se chutkara bhi na le paaye? Kaise mard ho tum?”

Kamla cackled, slapping her thigh. “Wah ! Aur socho… ek 55 saal ki buddhi aurat, jise tum naukrani kehte ho, uske haathon se bhi apney aap ko bacha nahi paate, aur apne aap ko 40 saal ka Mard kehte ho?”

She suddenly swooped forward and, before I could protest, lifted me straight out of Meena’s lap like I was a pillow. My legs dangled uselessly as she pressed me against her bosom and cradled me side-to-side.

“Dekha?” Kamla teased, planting a loud kiss on my forehead. “Yeh hai hamara 40 saal ka Mard. Buddhi aurat ki godh mein roti hui chhoti bacchi!”

“Main… main bacchi nahi hoon!” I squirmed, but she only rocked me harder, cooing like to a baby.

“Arre Meenu,” Kamla called, “sun tu… yeh kehta hai main aadmi hoon. Zara apne hath mein le aur compare kar.”

Meena stretched her long arms and took me back, holding me sideways across her lap as if displaying a prize. She patted my small chest with one finger. “Mard? Yeh? Main toh sirf 22 ki hoon, lekin 5’10 ki hoon aur 85 kilo ki. Tere chhote se 64 kilo ko toh main ek haath se utha loon. Bata, aisa mard kahan milta hai jo apni naukrani ki godi mein phansa ho?”

I buried my face in her shoulder, humiliated. “Mujhe neeche utaro… main chalis saal ka aadmi hoon…”

Kamla leaned over, her laughter deep and wicked. “Arre wah! Chalis saal ka mard… jo na buddhi Kamla ke haathon se bach paata hai, na jawan Meena ki baahon se. Yeh mard nahi, Meenu, yeh toh bas hum dono ki gudiya hai.”

Meena squeezed me closer, planting a playful kiss on my cheek. “Sahi kaha, Ma. Gudiya hi toh hai. Abhi toh raat lambi hai. Hum dono isse khel-khel ke sulayenge.”

My eyes widened. “Kya matlab? Mujhe akela sone dijiye—”

Kamla cut me off, lifting the blanket on the cot. “Arre Malik, ab tumhari marzi nahi chalegi. Naukrani ne Malik ko toh qaid kar liya. Aaj raat yeh dono naukraniyan tumhe apni godiyon mein sulayengi. Tumhare pair zameen tak nahi lagne denge.”

Meena stood up, still holding me, and laid herself on the cot without letting me go. She pulled me tightly stretched out lengthwise against her chest, her legs wrapping around my legs so I was entirely engulfed. Kamla sat beside us, stroking my hair.

“Bas,” Meena whispered in my ear, “ab so jao… chhoti gudiya. Tum hamare ho. Aur kal subah bhi uthege toh hamare hi godh mein.”

I whimpered, half-protesting, half-sinking into the warmth of her arms. My voice came out small, defeated. “Main… main is ghar ka Malik hoon..aur tum dono mujhey hi apney hi ghar mey qaid kar liya…”

Kamla chuckled, leaning down to kiss my head again. “Haan, haan… tum Malik ho…lekin sirf naam ka. Asli Malik toh hum hai. Tum toh bas hamara chhota sa khelona ho.”

Meena tightened her hold until my face was buried in her collarbone. “Aur tum chahe jitna bhi protest karo, tumhe sabse zyada sukoon isi godi mein milta hai. Sach batao… chhoti gudiya.”

I shivered, my hands clutching her nightdress, my voice barely audible. “Meenu..kya kar rahi ho…”


The night stretched on like a long captivity. I had no control over myself, no say in where I lay or who held me. Meena began the cycle—lying on her back, she pressed me across her chest, my head under her chin, her long arms folded tightly around my small frame. She rocked me slowly, humming under her breath like I was her baby doll.

“Dekha, Ma ?” she whispered, running her fingers through my hair. “Yeh hai hamara Malik… ek chhoti gudiya jise godh mein sulaya jata hai.”

Kamla laughed from her side of the cot. “Haan, Malik ko naukrani ke seene pe rakha gaya hai. Kaisey naukrani ke bachpan ka frock pehne huye so raha hai. Wah re kismat! Malik toh sirf naam ka hai… asal mein toh yeh sirf ek chhoti ladki hai.”

I stirred, trying to mumble protests, but each time I spoke, Meena only hugged me tighter, shushing me as though I were a restless child. After a while, she passed me to Kamla.

Kamla gathered me in her thick arms as if I weighed nothing. She turned on her side, pulling me fully into her embrace until my nose pressed inside her wide neck and my entire body vanished beneath the folds of her sari and the heaviness of her arms.

“Chup,” she whispered. “Malik ab meri godh ka qaid hai. Subah tak meri body se chutkara nahi milega.”

And so it went on. Back and forth, like a toy passed between two amused giantesses. One moment I was in Meena’s lap, smothered by her youthful strength, the next I was cradled by Kamla’s older, heavier frame. I begged weakly, “Main Malik hoon… mujhe chhodo… main aadmi hoon…”

But they drowned me in laughter.

“Malik?” Meena teased, holding me high against her chest. “Jo apni 22 saal ki naukrani se chhut nahi paata, woh Malik hai?”

Kamla added wickedly, “Aur jo ek 55 saal ki buddhi aurat ke godh mein atak jaye… woh 40 saal ka mard hai?”

My face burned, but exhaustion crept over me. Finally, sometime deep into the night, I lay flat out, face down, across Kamla’s body. She had pulled me so close that my chest and stomach were pressed along her thick torso, my face buried in the hollow of her collarbone. Her heavy arms draped across my back like steel beams, pinning me immovably. My legs were trapped deep between her massive thighs, pressed so snugly I couldn’t even kick.

To her, I was just a soft little weight. To me, she was a whole mattress—warm, broad, and suffocating.

I thought miserably: Bas thodi der ka natak kar lo… jab dono so jayein, main nikal kar doosre kamre mein so jaunga.

Soon enough, their breathing grew heavy and even. Meena turned on her side, drifting off. Kamla snored softly, her arms never loosening.

I tried my chance.

First, I pressed my palms against her arms, trying to lift them. Nothing. They wouldn’t budge an inch. Her relaxed weight was like iron bands. I squirmed my hips to slip my legs free, but her massive thighs clamped me tighter, unconsciously. My face sank deeper into her neck. 

I took some rest, regained energy and tried again. I just couldn't move her thick arms or fat thighs. I was stuck inside her body helplessly.

“Mmphhh…” I whimpered, helpless. Even asleep, she had me caged. She didn’t even know I was struggling, she herself was in a deep sleep—her body simply held me captive like nature itself.

I kept on trying to free myself, but failed.

My movements must have rustled the blanket, because Meena stirred awake. She blinked, rubbed her eyes, then leaned over. At first she didn’t understand. Then she saw me wriggling pitifully, still plastered across Kamla’s chest like a doll.

She froze for a second—and then burst into uncontrollable laughter.

“Arre wah!” she gasped, holding her stomach. “Dekho Ma… Malik ko chhutti chahiye apni naukrani ke godh se. Lekin buddhi bhi so rahi hai aur uski godh ne Malik ko qaid kar rakha hai!”

I groaned, my face still crushed in Kamla’s collarbone. “Main… main nikalna chahta hoon…”

Meena bent down, whispering in my ear, still giggling. “Kaise mard ho tum? Chalis saal ke ho, par ek soyi hui buddhi aurat ke seene se bhi azad nahi ho paate? Wah re Malik!”

She poked my back, teasing. “Chhudwao na apne aap ko… apne dum par. Aakhir tum Mard ho na?”

I pushed, I kicked, I strained with all my might. Nothing. Kamla’s arms never shifted, her thighs never loosened. She slept peacefully, completely unaware of my frantic efforts.

Meena slapped her thigh and laughed louder. “Bas! Yeh toh kamaal ho gaya. Malik toh malik… par yeh toh humari gudiya bhi nahi. Yeh toh bas ek takia hai, jo apni buddhi naukrani ke sharir pe chipak gaya hai, apne aap ko chhudwa bhi nahi pa raha hai.”

Her words cut into me, but the helplessness was undeniable. My body melted in defeat, plastered flat across Kamla’s huge frame, every inch of me locked down by her sleeping strength.

Meena leaned in closer, her laughter now softer, more wicked. “Sach batao, chhoti gudiya… kaisi lag rahi hai tumhari mardangi? Ab bhi kehte ho main mard hoon, tumhara Malik hoon?”

I couldn’t answer. My muffled voice against Kamla’s collarbone came out like a child’s whimper: “Meenu please nikalo mujhko.. please…”


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