MAID-Care 3

Just so that we can visualise the characters :-

Kamla          55 years / 5’9” / 88 kg
Meena         22 years / 5’10”/ 85 kg
Protagonist 40 years / 5’3” / 64 kg


MAID-Care 3

The first rays of morning light crept through the curtains. Birds chirped faintly outside. But inside the bedroom, nothing had changed for me.

I was still plastered across Kamla’s body, face buried in the warm hollow of her collarbone, arms tucked uselessly under her weight. Her heavy arms were wrapped tight across my back, her broad chest rising and falling beneath me like a living mattress. My legs remained wedged deep between her thick thighs, completely pinned.

I had not slept properly at all. Every time I tried to move, her unconscious body pressed me back down without effort. By now my limbs were sore, my pride even sorer.

Meena woke up first. She turned, stretched, and the moment her eyes fell on me—still lying helplessly spread out on Kamla—her lips curled into the most mischievous smile.

“Good morning, Malik ji,” she whispered, her voice thick with amusement. “Lagta hai raat bhar apni buddhi naukrani ke sharir se chutkara nahi mila? Wah re wah… kya Mardangi hai tumhari.”

“It seems you couldn't get rid of your old maid's body all night? Oh, oh, oh… what masculinity..?!”

I mumbled weakly, my face muffled in Kamla’s collarbone, “Bas karo… mujhe utar do… main Malik hoon, tum dono meri naukrani ho…”

“Stop it… put me down… I am the master, you both are my maids…”

Meena leaned over, flicking my ear playfully. “Arre Malik ji, ab toh duniya bhi mazak udaegi. Socho—40 saal ka Malik, raat bhar buddhi naukrani ke seene pe chipka raha, aur subah bhi wahi atka hua hai. Naukrani so rahi hai… Malik qaid hai. Wah!”

“Oh, Master, now everybody would make fun of you. Imagine– a 40-year-old master, spent the entire night glued to the chest of his old maid, and he's still stuck even in the morning. The maid is asleep…but the master still cannot free himself from her captivity. Wow!”

Just then, Kamla stirred. She yawned loudly, stretched—and only then seemed to notice the warm weight pressed flat against her chest. Blinking down at me, she smirked.

“Arre… yeh kya? Hamara Chhotey Malik abhi tak meri godh mein chipka hua hai?” she teased, tightening her arms around me deliberately. 
"Hey... what's this? Our little master is still clinging to my lap?” 

“Arre wah, main toh so gayi thi… aur malik ne pura raat mera sharir takiya bana liya!”
“Oh, I fell asleep… and the master used my body as his mattress the whole night!”

I groaned, trying once more to push against her arms…“No… I wanted to leave… but…”

Kamla raised an eyebrow, amused. “Lekin…? Buddhi naukrani ke soye huye haathon se bhi nikal nahi paaye? Toh kaise Malik ho tum? Kaunsa mard ho tum?”

“But what ? You couldn't even escape the old maid's sleeping hands? So what kind of master are you? What kind of man are you?”

Meena burst out laughing again, clapping her hands. “Bas! Yeh toh sabse bada tamasha hai. Chalis saal ka Mard—jo apni buddhi naukrani ke sote huye sharir se bhi azad na ho paaye!” 
“Wow great! This is the biggest joke.. A forty-year-old man—who can't even free himself from the sleeping body of his old maid servant!”

Kamla chuckled, stroking my back like a child. “Haan beta, tum toh hamari chhoti gudiya hi ho. Malik ban’ne ka natak sirf muh se karte ho. Sach toh yeh hai ki tum apni naukraniyon ki godi ke qaid se kabhi nahi bach sakte.”

“Yes, son, you are our little doll. You only pretend to be our master in words. The truth is, you can never escape the captivity of your maid servants.”

I clenched my fists, frustrated. “Main… main 40 saal ka aadmi hoon. Tum log mujhe aise treat nahi kar sakti…” "I… I'm a 40-year-old man. You guys can't treat me like this…”

Kamla gave a deep, throaty laugh. “Aadmi? 40 saal ka aadmi jo ek 22 saal ki ladki Meena ke godh se chut nahi paata… aur ek 55 saal ki buddhi ke thul-thul seene pe chipak kar raat guzarta hai…buddhi naukrani ke sote huye sharir se bhi nikalke azad na ho paaye… woh aadmi hai?”
“A man? A 40-year-old man who can’t even free himself from a 22-year-old girl like Meena… and spends the night clinging to the plump breasts of a 55-year-old woman…and can’t even free himself from the sleeping body of his old maid… is he a man?”

Meena leaned over, gently pinching my cheek. “Sach batao, chhoti gudiya… tum mard zyada ho ya humari beti zyada ho?”
“Tell me the truth, little doll… are you really a man or more of our daughter?”

They laughed together, their voices echoing in my ears. My protests shrank into silence. I lay limp, my body still hopelessly pinned to Kamla’s, every inch of me screaming with humiliation.

But worse than the humiliation was the truth: no matter how much I protested, my small and weak frame could not escape their towering strength.

And they knew it.

After my futile struggle all night, the morning continued with no mercy. Meena scooped me up from Kamla’s lap as though I weighed nothing. She carried me across the hall to the dining area, holding me on her hip like a toddler.

“Dekho, Mummy,” she teased, “hamara Malik ko na table tak chal kar aana aata hai, na khud khana khana. Dono ka zimma ab naukraniyon pe hai.”
"Look, Mommy, our master can't even walk to the table or eat himself. He has to depend on his maids for both.”

Kamla followed, chuckling. “Wah re Malik. 40 saal ke ho gaye, par naukraniyon ki godi se utarna mushkil hai. Kya izzat hogi tumhari agar bahar wale dekh lete!”
“Look at you, Master. You're 40 years old, but you can't even get out of the lap of your maids. What would happen to your reputation if people outside saw you!”

Meena settled me on her lap at the dining table. She held both my wrists gently but firmly with her left hand only, making sure I couldn’t even lift a morsel on my own. She spoon-fed me upma and sipped her own tea in between, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Kamla cackled. “Malik toh bilkul bacche ki tarah khilaaya ja raha hai. Malik aur naukrani ka yeh rishta duniya mein sabse ajeeb hai!”
 “Master is being fed like a child. This relationship between a master and his maid servant is the strangest in the world!”

“Arre, muh kholo, gudiya,” she ordered, holding the spoon at my lips. “Aur dhyaan se… varna kapde gande kar doge.”

“Hey, open your mouth, doll…and be careful… or you’ll stain your clothes and mine.”

My face burned, but my empty stomach betrayed me. I opened my mouth and meekly accepted each spoonful, all the while both women smirked at my helplessness.

Once breakfast was done, Kamla suddenly lifted me in her powerful arms. I yelped, but she ignored it, carrying me straight into the bathroom.

“Ab nahane ka time hai,” she announced firmly. “It's time for your bath.”

“What? Nahiii… !! I'll do it myself…” I protested, but she had already begun pulling the strings of Meena’s frock I wore.

Meena leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, grinning. “Haan, Malik ji, khud karoge? Kal raat ko buddhi naukrani ke seene se chutkara nahi mila… aur aaj keh rahe ho ki nahana khud karenge? Wah re wah!”
 “What, Master ji, you want to do it yourself? You couldn’t escape from the breasts of the old woman last night… and today you’re saying you’ll take your own bath? Wow, wow!”

Before I could speak, Kamla tugged the frock up and off. I stood there full naked, frozen, humiliated, while she poured warm water over me, scrubbing me down like a disobedient child. Her big hands rubbed soap across my chest, back, arms, and legs, leaving no part untouched.

“Bilkul saaf karna hai, Meenu,” Kamla said seriously, as if I were her real child. “Hamare Malik ko chamakna chahiye.”
“He has to be absolutely clean, Meenu, our master must glow.”

Meena laughed so hard she held her stomach. “Arre, Malik nahin… gudiya chamak rahi hai. 40 saal ka mard apni 55 saal ki naukrani ke haathon se naha raha hai. Kya shaan hai!”
 “No, not Master… say our doll is shining. A 40-year-old man is bathing in the hands of his 55-year-old maid. What a wonderful sight !”

Helpless, I stood there as Kamla bathed me thoroughly, her big palms so heavy and sure that I felt more like a doll being scrubbed. Meena kept up her teasing commentary the whole time, snapping her fingers like a fashion critic. “Careful, Ma. Malik ki mardangi na ghis jaaye sabun se.”
"Be careful, Ma. Don't rub off your master's manhood with the soap.”

I could only shut my eyes, cheeks red hot with shame, as Kamla rinsed my bare body, like I'm a small boy and wrapped me firmly in a towel.

Kamla carried me back to the bedroom, still swaddled in the towel. She plopped me on the bed, and Meena quickly climbed up, tugging me by the arm until I stood upright on the bed.

“Chalo, gudiya,” she smirked, “ab tumhe taiyaar karte hain. Dekhte hain tumhare liye kaunsa frock sahi rahega.”

"Come on, doll, let's get you dressed. Let's see which frock will fit you.”

She first pulled out one of her old frocks from when she was 14. As she slipped it over my head, the cloth fell long—nearly to my ankles.

Meena gasped dramatically. “Hai Rabba! Jab main 14 ki thi, yeh frock mujhe ghutno tak aata tha. Aur dekho… hamare Malik pe 40 ki umar mein bhi yeh poora neeche tak ja raha hai. Matlab main 14 saal ki umar mein bhi is Malik se badi thi!”

“Oh my God! When I was 14, this frock would reach my knees. And look… on my master, even at the age of 40, it's reaching all the way down. Meaning, even at the age of 14, I was taller than our master!”

Kamla clapped her hands in delight. “Wah! Toh sach mein hamara Malik chhoti gudiya hai. Malik toh bas muh se hai, asal mein toh yeh naukraniyon ki bachchi hai.”
"Oh! So, really, our master is a little girl. He's just a boss in words; in reality, he's the daughter of his maid servants.”

Meena tried another frock from when she was 13—it fit better, but still snug around my shoulders, giving them more reasons to laugh.

“Dekho Mummy,” Meena said with mock-seriousness, adjusting the frock’s sleeves, “13 saal ki Meena ke kapde ab 40 saal ke Malik ko fit aa rahe hain. Ab bolo, yeh Mard hai ya hamari chhoti behen?”
"See Mummy, Thirteen-year-old Meena's clothes now fit her 40-year-old master. Now tell me, is this a man or our little sister?”

Kamla patted my cheek, her eyes twinkling. “Naukrani ne Malik ko sirf godi mein qaid hi nahi kiya… ab usse apni beti ke kapdon mein bhi band kar diya. Ab batao, Malik ji, mardangi kahan gayi?”
“This maid servant not only held our master in her lap… now she has also dressed him in her daughter's clothes. Now tell me, my master, where has all your masculinity gone?”

Meena burst out laughing. “Exactly! Malik ne apni izzat naukrani ki godi mein rakh di hai! The master has lost his honor in the lap of his own maid servant ! ”

I stood frozen on the bed, dressed in Meena’s frock, my face crimson. “I'm your boss, your master….why are you doing all this to me ?…” I whispered, but even my voice sounded childish against their booming laughter.

It was just past noon when my humiliation deepened. Kamla and Meena had no plans of letting me rest, nor of letting me keep a shred of dignity. After dressing me in that oversized frock, they seemed to take special delight in “presenting” me around the house like some prized doll.

Meena scooped me up first, sliding her big arms under my knees and back, lifting me as if I weighed nothing. She carried me out of the bedroom and into the living room, humming like she was showing off a new toy.

“Dekho Ma,” she teased, “40 saal ka malik sahab apni 22 saal ki naukrani ke godi mein ghoomte hain… aise malik to kahin dekhe bhi na honge!” “Look, mother, our 40-year-old master is being carried by his 22-year-old maid in her lap… have you ever seen such a master!”

Kamla chuckled, following behind. “Bilkul. Naukrani ne malik ko qaid kar liya, aur ab apne ghar mein hi ghumaa rahi hai. Kya mard hai ye? Forty years ka hokar bhi ek jawaan ladki ke haathon mein latka hai!”
“Absolutely. The maid has captured her master and is now roaming around with him in her arms in his own house. What kind of a man is he? Forty years old, he's still stuck in the arms of a young girl!”

I blushed furiously, trying to wriggle out. “Enough! Put me down, both of you! What if someone sees from the balcony? Or from the garden? My mother left you in charge of my well-being, not for this—this nonsense!”

At that, Kamla raised her heavy finger and wagged it at me. “Arre, bas kar Malik sahab. Agar padosi ne dekh liya na, to pehle to hansenge, phir tumhari maa ko phone karenge. Aur maa ko kya bolenge? ‘Aapke chhotey Malik ko to humne dekha frock pehne hue aur apni naukrani ke godi mein masti karte hue.’ Phir tum bataana, kiski izzat bachi?”
“Hey, stop it, Malik Sahib. If the neighbors see us carrying you, they'll first laugh at you, then call your mother. And what will they say to your mother? 'I saw your son wearing a frock and having fun in his maid's lap.' Then you tell me, whose dignity will be left?”

Meena tightened her hold around me, carrying me to the sofa and plopping herself down, keeping me pinned on her lap like a child. “Malik,” she whispered in my ear with wicked sweetness, “hum tumhari izzat bacha rahe hain. Isiliye tumhe balcony ke paas bhi nahi le jaate. Tumhe toh shukriya kehna chahiye.”
"In fact we're protecting your honor. That's why we are not carrying you near the balcony. You should be thankful to us.”

“Shukriya? Thankful?” I stammered. “For parading me helplessly hanging in your arms, inside my own house? For treating me like a—like a doll?”

Kamla laughed so hard her shoulders shook. “Naukrani ke liye kya izzat? Aur tum jaisa Malik ke liye bhi kya izzat? Aaj se naukrani malik ban gayi, aur malik bachha ban gaya. Naukrani ka malik, godi ka qaidi!”
“From today the maid has become the mistress, and the master has become her child. The master has become the captive in his own maid servant’s lap!”

Meena almost doubled over with laughter, hugging me tighter as if to prove the point. “And look at his size, Ma! He barely fits in my lap. At 22, I’m bigger and stronger than my 40-year-old malik. Tell me, what kind of masculinity is this?”

I tried to protest, “I am a man—” but my words died in my throat as Kamla leaned down and, with no effort at all, scooped me right out of Meena’s lap. She held me upright against her chest, one big arm under my thighs, the other behind my back.

“Are you, though?” she murmured with mock pity. “If you were a real man, you would have freed yourself from my godi last night. Instead, even in my sleep my heavy arms and thighs pinned you like a chhota bachha. Malik ho ya gudia?”

Meena clapped her hands. “Wah, Ma! Malik to bas malik ke naam ke liye. In reality, hum dono ki qaid mein hai.” “He is our master only by name. In reality, he is our prisoner.”

They carried me from room to room like this all afternoon, making sure to shut the curtains or keep away from open windows so no outsider could get a glimpse of their private game. Yet inside those walls, my humiliation was complete — rocked, cuddled, and paraded by my own naukrani and her daughter, every taunt about my size, my manhood, and my so-called authority slicing deeper into my pride.

And yet, for all my squirming and protests, I couldn’t break free.

The afternoon grew heavier, the sun blazing outside, yet I was not allowed a moment’s peace. Kamla and Meena had turned my captivity into their amusement.

Meena was the first to suggest it. She looked at me cradled in Kamla’s massive arms and giggled, “Ma, let’s play ghar-ghar. You be the mother, I’ll be the elder sister and our Malik will be the baby.”

Before I could object, Kamla chimed in with mock seriousness. “Haan bilkul. Aur baby ko khilona bhi chahiye. Lekin baby to khud ek khilona hai—hamara jeevit khilona. Yes, of course. And the baby needs a toy too. But Baby is a toy himself—our living toy.”

They burst into laughter, shaking me gently in Kamla’s cradle-hold until my face burned with embarrassment.

Meena reached over, tugging at my dangling leg. “Pass him to me, Maa. It’s my turn to play with the doll.”

Kamla handed me over as if I weighed no more than a cushion, and Meena perched me on her hip, bouncing me up and down like I was two years old. “Dekho, dekho, 40-saal ke Malik ko bhi main ek haath se sambhal rahi hoon. Look, look, I'm even handling my 40-year-old boss just with one hand.” she bragged, shifting me effortlessly with one arm.

“Meena!” I hissed. “This is ridiculous. I’m not your doll!”

“Not my doll?” she teased, pressing her nose against mine. “Then why are you dressed in my old frock and hanging helpless in my arms? Malik sahib, apko toh apni naukrani ki gudiya banna hi likha tha.
Masterji, it was written in your fate to become the doll of your maid.”

Kamla clapped her hands. “Wah wah! Naukrani ki gudiya, aur maa ki godi ka qaidi.”

Soon they invented a competition: who could carry me in the most “creative” way.

Meena slung me over her shoulder like a sack of rice, patting my back as she paraded around the living room. “Arre Ma, dekho—apna Malik to bilkul bori ki tarah hai. Ek jawaan ladki ka bojh bhi nahi ban paata.”

Then Kamla tried, holding me under her arm like a football, my legs kicking uselessly. She announced, “Ye dekho, Malik to bas ek khel ka saaman hai. Naukrani chahe toh football ki tarah kick bhi kar de!”

I groaned, covering my face with my hands, but that only encouraged them.

Finally, they returned to the cradle carry, taking turns rocking me like a baby. Meena hummed a fake lullaby, while Kamla stroked my hair, both of them whispering taunts:

“Malik ke naam ka, lekin naukrani ke kaam ka.”

“Forty saal ka mard, lekin ek bachi ka frock bhi loose lagta hai.”

“Mardangi ki toh sharam hi nikal gayi. Malik yaa gudiya?”

By then I was too drained to protest, my words coming out in meek murmurs that only made them laugh harder.

Inside those four walls, I was no longer master of the house, no employer, no grown man. I was simply their captive—rocked, swung, paraded, and teased like a living doll.


( To be continued…)