Fantasy Devika, a rich high class housewife, with angel heart

[zulfique]

Marvelous

[Bowlg78]

Any update today?

[prady12191]

Ramlal clutched the paper with Devika's measurements in his gnarled hand as he descended the apartment stairs, his legs unsteady beneath him. His heart hammered against his ribs like a drum in a temple festival, and sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool corridor. What had just happened in that apartment seemed like a dream – the kind that visited him on lonely nights when the darkness was too thick and memories too thin to keep him company.



He paused at the landing, leaning against the wall to steady himself. The numbers scrawled in his shaky handwriting – bust: 96 centimeters, waist: 78 centimeters – weren't just measurements. They were secrets, intimate knowledge of a woman's body. Her body. Devika's body.



"God," he whispered, though he wasn't particularly religious. "What magic is this?"



The memory of her standing before the mirror, unwinding her pallu to reveal the fitted blouse beneath, played again in his mind with cinematic clarity. The swell of her breasts against the fabric, the gentle curve of her waist, the flash of skin at her navel – these images were now burned into his consciousness with more precision than any measurement he'd taken.



He'd touched her. Actually touched her. His rough, weathered hands had made contact with skin softer than any fabric he'd ever felt in his tailoring days. The contrast between his calloused fingers and her silken flesh had been almost painful in its beauty.



"She let me touch her," he murmured to himself, still disbelieving. "A woman like that, allowing an old man like me..."



In the privacy of the stairwell, Ramlal allowed himself to revisit the moment when everything had shifted – when she'd pushed back against him, when she'd asked him directly if he wanted to touch her. The memory of her voice, low and uncertain yet somehow commanding, sent a renewed flush of heat through his aged body.



"I should have been bolder," he whispered to the empty stairwell. "Should have taken what she was offering."



In his mind, an alternate version of events unfolded – one where his hands didn't just rest at her waist but moved upward, cupping the weight of her breasts through her blouse. Where his fingers didn't just circle her navel but slipped beneath the edge of her saree, finding the heat between her thighs. Where her head thrown back against his shoulder wasn't the end of their encounter but the beginning.



"I could have removed her blouse," he thought, his breathing quickening. "Could have torn it from her body and tasted her skin, could have laid her on that bed and—"



"Good afternoon, Ramlal-ji."



The voice of a passing resident shattered his fantasy, bringing him abruptly back to reality – a sixty-five-year-old security guard standing awkwardly in a stairwell, clutching a paper of measurements and sporting an embarrassing bulge in his trousers. He nodded quickly at the woman, a middle-aged resident whose name he couldn't recall, and continued his descent, shame washing over him.



"What am I thinking?" he scolded himself as he reached the ground floor. "She is a professor, an educated woman. Not some cheap film heroine for an old man's fantasies."



Yet as he returned to his post by the security booth, slipping the paper of measurements into his shirt pocket, he couldn't help but feel a strange pride. Devika had chosen him – not some professional tailor, not one of those young men who always looked at her with hungry eyes, but him – to take her measurements, to touch her body, to see her in a state of undress no other man in Pune had seen.



"She trusts me," he realized, and this thought brought a different warmth to his chest. "She knows I won't force her, won't take more than she offers."



And perhaps that was better than any fantasy – to be the man she trusted when her world was falling apart, when her husband had betrayed her. To be worthy of that trust, even if it meant containing his desire within the boundaries she set.



"I will wait," he decided, settling into his chair beside the security booth. "If she wants more, she will tell me. If not..." He patted the pocket containing her measurements. "I have this moment. More than I ever expected to have."



The next morning, Ramlal arrived at his post earlier than usual, his uniform freshly pressed, his thin white hair combed neatly. He'd spoken to his tailor friend the previous evening, passing along Devika's measurements with a fabricated story about a niece who needed blouses. The tailor had raised an eyebrow at the sophisticated design requests but asked no questions beyond the expected delivery date.



Now, Ramlal found himself watching the stairwell entrance with unusual intensity, his heart leaping at every sound that might herald Devika's appearance. Each time the door opened to reveal another resident, disappointment settled in his chest, only to be replaced by renewed anticipation moments later.



When she finally emerged shortly after nine, the sight of her stole his breath. She wore a deep purple saree, the fabric clinging to her curves in a way that reminded him acutely of how she had felt pressed against him. Her hair was pulled back in a neat braid, her eyes downcast as she moved across the courtyard toward the gate.



"Good morning, Devika," he called, unable to help himself, the intimacy of using her name without the respectful suffix still new and thrilling on his tongue.



She startled visibly at his voice, her steps faltering. For a brief moment, her eyes met his, and Ramlal saw what he hadn't expected – not warmth or shared secret understanding, but discomfort. Embarrassment, even.



"Morning," she replied, the word clipped and formal, her gaze already sliding away from his as she quickened her pace.



Ramlal felt the chill of her response like a physical blow. The warmth that had sustained him since yesterday's encounter drained away, leaving a hollow ache in its place. She hadn't stopped for their usual brief exchange, hadn't smiled or acknowledged what had passed between them. Instead, she hurried past as if he were a stranger – or worse, something unpleasant she wished to avoid.



"The blouses will be ready next week," he called after her, a desperate attempt to establish some connection.



She gave a small nod without looking back, her steps never slowing until she passed through the gate and disappeared from view.



Ramlal sank back into his chair, the weight of his age suddenly heavy on his shoulders. "Fool," he muttered to himself. "Old fool. Did you think yesterday changed anything? That a woman like that would want anything real from you?"



Yet even as bitterness rose in his throat, he remembered the genuine vulnerability in her eyes as she'd asked him to touch her, the sincerity in her voice when she'd thanked him. That hadn't been pretense. Whatever regrets had followed, whatever embarrassment now colored her response to him, the connection they'd shared had been real, if fleeting.



"Give her time," he told himself, settling in for the long day ahead. "She is confused, ashamed perhaps. But she will remember that I respected her boundaries. That I stopped when she asked."



And maybe, just maybe, she would return to him when she was ready – not because she needed measurements taken or packages delivered, but because she had seen something in him worth returning to.




"She's completely broken," Vishnu said, leaning back against the hostel room wall, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. "You saw her in class yesterday—barely keeping it together, avoiding eye contact with everyone." He took a deep drag, the smoke escaping his lips in a thin stream as he smiled. "It's perfect timing. She's vulnerable, questioning everything she thought she knew about herself. If we don't act now, we might lose our chance."



Pathan reclined on his bed, arms folded behind his head, his silver tooth catching the late afternoon light that filtered through the dusty window. "You're right. Once the initial shock passes, she'll rebuild those walls—probably higher than before. Women like her don't stay broken for long."



"Exactly." Vishnu tapped ash onto the floor, ignoring the ashtray on the bedside table. "The question is how to approach her. We can't be too direct. She still thinks of us as her students."



"We need to change how she sees us," Pathan mused, sitting up and reaching for the water bottle beside his bed. "Make her think of us as men, not boys."



Vishnu nodded, a sly smile spreading across his face. "We need to trigger something in her. Something she's probably been suppressing during her entire marriage."



"Lust," Pathan said simply, the word hanging in the air between them like Vishnu's cigarette smoke.



"Pure, simple lust." Vishnu stood, pacing the small room with restless energy. "Think about it—her husband's been fucking around in Dubai while she's been alone here for months. When's the last time someone touched her? Really touched her?"



Pathan's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "So what's your plan? We can't exactly seduce her directly. She'd report us to the principal."



"No, no." Vishnu waved his cigarette dismissively. "We need to be subtle. Plant the seed in her mind, let it grow on its own." He stopped pacing suddenly, turning to face Pathan with eyes bright with inspiration. "Adult films."



"What?" Pathan's expression shifted from confusion to skepticism. "You want to give our professor porn? Are you insane?"



"Not directly from us," Vishnu clarified, excitement building in his voice. "Through Sharada. Her colleague, her friend. Someone she trusts."



Pathan sat up straighter, interest piqued despite his reservations. "And why would Sharada agree to this?"



"Because she has no choice." Vishnu's smile turned cold. "Remember what we discovered about her little arrangement with the librarian? The married librarian?"



"That's dangerous territory," Pathan warned, lowering his voice though they were alone in the room. "If we push too hard, she might decide she has nothing to lose by exposing us instead."



"She won't." Vishnu crushed his cigarette beneath his heel. "She has too much to lose—her job, her reputation, her marriage. All we're asking is for her to pass along some DVDs. Easy enough."



Pathan considered this, rolling his water bottle between his palms. "It's risky. Devika might be disgusted, might see through the whole thing."



"Or," Vishnu countered, "she might be curious. Might be desperate enough for some release that she actually watches them. And once those images are in her head..." He made an explosion gesture with his hands. "We just need to be there when the dam breaks."



After a moment's hesitation, Pathan nodded. "Fine. Let's try it. But if it backfires—"



"It won't." Vishnu reached for his phone. "I'll call Sharada now."



"Now?" Pathan raised an eyebrow. "It's nearly nine."



"Perfect time. Late enough that she'll be home alone, early enough that she won't be asleep." Vishnu scrolled through his contacts, finding Sharada's number. "Watch and learn."



The phone rang several times before Sharada answered, her voice tight with irritation. "Vishnu. It's rather late for a student to be calling a professor."



"Apologies, ma'am." Vishnu's voice transformed, taking on a respectful tone that made Pathan smirk. "I wouldn't disturb you if it wasn't important."



"What is it?" Sharada's impatience crackled through the speaker.



"It's about Professor Nair. Pathan and I are concerned about her."



A pause. "Concerned how?"



"She seems... unwell since discovering her husband's betrayal. Distracted in class, sometimes on the verge of tears."



"That's hardly surprising given the circumstances," Sharada replied, her voice softening slightly. "But it's kind of you to notice. She'll be fine with time."



"Of course, ma'am." Vishnu caught Pathan's eye, signaling him to listen closely. "We just thought, since you're close to her, you might help her through this difficult period."



"I am helping her," Sharada said defensively. "As her friend and colleague. What exactly are you suggesting?"



"Well..." Vishnu hesitated, manufacturing uncertainty in his voice. "Pathan and I were discussing ways to help distract her from her troubles. Something to... lift her spirits."



"And what might that be?" Suspicion had returned to Sharada's tone.



"This might sound inappropriate," Vishnu continued, lowering his voice as if embarrassed, "but we thought perhaps some adult entertainment might help her... release some tension."



The silence that followed was so complete that for a moment Vishnu thought Sharada had hung up. Then came her voice, tight with shock and anger. "What kind of suggestion is that? How dare you even think of such a thing!"



"Please, ma'am, hear me out," Vishnu said quickly. "It's not as crude as it sounds. Many psychologists recommend self-pleasure as a way of coping with stress and loneliness. We just thought—"



"You thought what? That I would give pornography to my colleague? Have you lost your minds?" Sharada's voice had risen to a near-shout.



"We only want to help," Vishnu insisted, winking at Pathan, who was now watching with rapt attention. "Professor Nair is suffering, and we thought this might be a way for her to reconnect with her own needs, her own body."



"This is completely inappropriate," Sharada snapped. "I'm ending this call."



"Before you do," Vishnu leaned in, his voice low and calculating, "consider how Professor Nair would react if she found out about your little rendezvous with the librarian. You know, the one you couldn’t resist despite your supposed professionalism."



"Are you blackmailing me?" The question emerged strangled, disbelieving.



"I'm simply asking for your help in supporting Professor Nair during a difficult time," Vishnu replied smoothly. "The decision is yours, of course."



Pathan leaned closer to the phone, adding his voice to the conversation. "We have the DVDs already, ma'am. Nothing too extreme—just enough to remind her she's a woman with needs. You wouldn't even have to say they're from us."



"This is absurd," Sharada muttered, but the fight had drained from her voice. "She would never accept such things from me."



"You might be surprised," Vishnu countered. "From what we understand, you've been encouraging her to be more modern, more liberated since she arrived in Pune. This is just another step in that direction."



"One time," Sharada said finally, defeat evident in her tone. "I'll try once. If she refuses or is offended, that's the end of it. I won't mention it again."



"That's all we ask," Vishnu agreed, triumph gleaming in his eyes. "I'll put the DVDs in your bag tomorrow morning before classes begin. Just find the right moment to offer them to her."



"And after this, we're done," Sharada insisted. "Whatever you think you know about me and the librarian—"



"Will remain between us," Vishnu assured her. "As long as you help us help Professor Nair."



After Sharada reluctantly agreed and ended the call, Vishnu turned to Pathan with a victorious grin. "See? Easy."



"She hates us," Pathan observed, though he was smiling too. "And if this goes wrong—"



"It won't," Vishnu interrupted, moving to his desk drawer and pulling out several unmarked DVDs in plain cases. "I've selected these carefully. Nothing too hardcore to start—just enough to awaken something in our proper professor."



"And if she actually watches them?" Pathan asked.



Vishnu's smile widened, revealing perfect teeth that contrasted with the calculated cruelty in his eyes. "Then we'll be there to help her process her... reactions. To offer understanding, support, and eventually, a practical demonstration."



"You're a devil," Pathan said, but his tone held admiration rather than censure.



"No," Vishnu corrected, sliding the DVDs into a plain envelope. "I'm just a man who sees what he wants and knows how to get it. And what I want is our beautiful professor, coming apart in my hands, begging for more."



Pathan raised an imaginary glass in a toast. "To Professor Nair's sexual awakening."



"May we be there to witness every moment," Vishnu replied, sealing the envelope with a decisive lick.






Sharada clutched her leather satchel close to her side as she walked through the college gates, her usual confident stride replaced by something more cautious. She had just spotted Vishnu leaning against a pillar near the entrance, his eyes fixed on her with predatory focus. Before she could change course, he pushed away from his perch and intercepted her, a plain brown envelope extended in his hand.



"Good morning, Professor," he greeted, his voice pitched low despite the early hour and relative absence of other faculty or students. "As promised."



Sharada glanced around nervously before snatching the envelope from his hand. "This is completely inappropriate," she hissed, shoving it deep into her bag without looking at its contents.



"Yet necessary," Vishnu replied with a smirk that made her skin crawl. "Remember our agreement. One honest attempt."



"I haven't forgotten," she snapped, brushing past him with renewed purpose. "Now leave me alone."



His soft laughter followed her across the courtyard, settling between her shoulder blades like an unwelcome touch. The envelope seemed to burn through her bag, its presence a tangible reminder of her compromise, her shame. How had she allowed herself to become a pawn in these boys' twisted game? What would Devika think if she knew the truth?



By mid-morning, the staff room had emptied save for Sharada and Devika, the latter staring absently out the window, a cup of tea cooling untouched before her. Sharada observed her friend's distant expression, the slight furrow between her brows that spoke of inner turmoil. The envelope weighed heavily in her bag, its presence a constant prod at her conscience.



"You seem far away today," Sharada ventured, breaking the silence.



Devika started slightly, turning from the window with a forced smile. "Just thinking."



"About your husband?" Sharada asked gently, moving to sit beside her.



"No," Devika replied, surprising both of them with her directness. "Not about him." She hesitated, her fingers tracing the rim of her teacup. "Sharada, can I tell you something... personal?"



"Of course." Sharada leaned closer, genuine concern temporarily overriding her guilt. "That's what friends are for."



Devika drew a deep breath, her eyes fixed on her tea. "I've been having these... feelings. Sensations, really. A kind of... ache."



"An ache?" Sharada repeated, confusion evident in her tone.



"For touch," Devika clarified, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "For intimacy. I find myself... noticing men in ways I never did before. Thinking about them. About their hands, their bodies." A flush crept up her neck as she spoke, color blooming across her cheeks. "It's as if discovering Anand's betrayal has unlocked something in me. Something I've kept contained for years."



Sharada blinked, taken aback by the confession. This was exactly what Vishnu had predicted—Devika's awakening sexual awareness in the aftermath of her husband's betrayal—but hearing it from Devika's own lips made it suddenly real, human, complex in a way that Vishnu's calculated predictions had not been.



"That's perfectly natural," Sharada said carefully. "You're a young woman whose husband has been absent for months, who's just discovered he's been unfaithful. Of course you're having these feelings."



"But I don't know what to do with them," Devika confessed, finally meeting Sharada's eyes. "Yesterday, I..." She stopped, seeming to reconsider her words. "I found myself in a situation where I could have... acted on these feelings. With someone I barely know. I almost did something I might have regretted."



Sharada nodded, understanding dawning. "Did this involve a student?" she asked cautiously, thinking of Vishnu and Pathan.



"No!" Devika looked genuinely shocked at the suggestion. "Nothing like that. Just... someone unexpected. Someone I never would have considered before all this happened." She sighed, pushing her teacup away. "I feel lost, Sharada. I don't recognize myself anymore."



Sharada felt a pang of genuine empathy, followed immediately by deepened guilt about the envelope in her bag. Yet wasn't this exactly the opening Vishnu had anticipated? The moment to introduce his "solution" to Devika's awakening desires?



"There are ways," Sharada began hesitantly, "to address these feelings without involving another person. Ways to... satisfy yourself."



Devika's brow furrowed. "Satisfy myself? I don't understand."



Sharada took a deep breath, forcing herself to continue despite her discomfort. "I mean, there are ways to explore these feelings privately. Some women find that watching certain types of films can help them... process their desires in a safe way."



"Films?" Devika repeated, then understanding dawned in her eyes. "You mean... adult films? Pornography?" Her voice rose slightly on the last word, a mixture of shock and embarrassment coloring her tone.



"It's more common than you might think," Sharada pressed on, hating herself for every word. "Many women watch them, especially when they're alone or... unsatisfied in their relationships. It's nothing to be ashamed of."



"That's—" Devika shook her head sharply. "Sharada, I could never. Those films are degrading to women, exploitative. How could you suggest such a thing?"



"Not all of them are like that," Sharada argued, the words feeling false in her mouth though she knew they contained some truth. "There are films made with women's pleasure in mind, films that can be... educational, even liberating."



Devika stared at her, disbelief written across her features. "Do you watch such things?"



Caught off guard by the direct question, Sharada hesitated too long before answering. "Sometimes," she admitted finally. "When my husband is away. Many women do, though few admit it. It's just another way of taking care of your needs."



"I can't believe we're having this conversation," Devika muttered, rising from her chair and gathering her belongings. "There must be other ways to address these feelings."



"There are," Sharada acknowledged, seeing an opportunity to appear balanced in her advice. "You could consider a new relationship, if you're truly done with Anand. Someone who—"



"No," Devika cut her off firmly. "I'm not ready for that. After what Anand did, I can't imagine trusting another man that way." She shook her head, moving toward the door. "I should go. My next class starts soon."



"Devika," Sharada called after her, "I didn't mean to upset you. I just want to help."



Devika paused at the doorway, her expression softening slightly. "I know. And I appreciate that you listened without judgment. But this—" she gestured vaguely, encompassing their conversation, "—is too much for me right now. I need to think."



With that, she was gone, leaving Sharada alone with her guilt and the damning envelope still nestled in her bag. She'd tried, as promised. Surely Vishnu couldn't expect more from her than this.



But when evening fell and classes ended, Sharada was surprised to find Devika waiting beside her scooter in the nearly empty parking lot, her expression a mixture of determination and embarrassment.



"You were right," Devika said without preamble, her voice low despite the absence of others nearby. "I do need something to... distract me. To help me understand these feelings."



Sharada stared at her, momentarily speechless. "You mean...?"



"The films you mentioned," Devika clarified, her gaze fixed somewhere over Sharada's shoulder. "I've been thinking about what you said all day. And maybe you're right. Maybe this is something I need to explore on my own before I..." She trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished.



"Are you sure?" Sharada asked, guilt and surprise warring within her. "This morning you seemed so against the idea."



"I've never been less sure of anything in my life," Devika admitted with a small, self-deprecating laugh. "But I've spent years being certain, being proper, being exactly who everyone expected me to be. And where has that gotten me? Alone in Pune while my husband entertains other women in Dubai."



Sharada nodded slowly, understanding despite her misgivings. "I actually have some films with me," she said, the admission feeling like a betrayal even as she reached for her bag. "Nothing too... extreme. Just things that might help you explore these feelings safely."



Devika's eyes widened slightly. "You carry such things with you?"



"No! I mean, not usually," Sharada fumbled for an explanation. "I just thought, after our conversation yesterday about your husband, that you might... that this might help."



It was a flimsy explanation, but Devika seemed too preoccupied with her own thoughts to notice its inadequacy. She extended her hand, palm up, a gesture both tentative and resolute. "I'll try," she said simply. "No promises that I'll actually watch them, but I'll try."



Sharada withdrew the envelope from her bag and passed it to Devika, who quickly tucked it into her own satchel without examining its contents. "Thank you," she said, her voice barely audible. "For understanding. For not judging me."



"That's what friends are for," Sharada replied, the phrase now tasting bitter on her tongue. As Devika walked away toward the college gates, Sharada couldn't help but wonder what she had just set in motion—and whether her friendship with Devika would survive the inevitable fallout.



Devika clutched her bag close as she walked home, the envelope inside seeming to pulse with a strange energy. Part of her couldn't believe what she had just done—asked for pornography from a colleague, accepted it with the intention of watching it alone in her apartment. What had happened to the proper Kerala woman who had arrived in Pune just months ago? Who was this new Devika emerging from the ashes of her marriage?



Yet beneath the shock and embarrassment lay something else—a current of anticipation, of curiosity about what the films might show her, what they might awaken. The same current she had felt in her bedroom mirror, with Ramlal's hands on her skin and his breath on her neck. The current that whispered there might be more to life, to pleasure, to her own body than what her carefully structured existence had allowed her to experience.



As she entered her apartment building, she kept her eyes fixed firmly ahead, avoiding Ramlal's station near the security booth. Whatever journey she was embarking on, whatever exploration these films might lead her toward, she would face it alone—at least for now.

[prady12191]

Sharada's fingers trembled as she typed the message to Vishnu, guilt and relief battling for dominance within her chest. "It's done," she wrote, the words stark and damning on her phone screen. "She has them. God help me." She pressed send before she could reconsider, before the full weight of her betrayal could stop her. The response came almost immediately, as if Vishnu had been waiting with his phone in hand: "Good work. Now we wait." Something in the speed of his reply, the cold efficiency of it, made Sharada's stomach turn. What had she done? What had she set in motion?



Across town, Devika approached her apartment building, the brown envelope burning like a brand against her thigh through the thin fabric of her satchel. The security booth came into view, and with it, Ramlal's weathered face. Their eyes met briefly—his lighting up with recognition, with that particular warmth he reserved only for her—and she felt heat rise to her cheeks. The memory of his hands on her body, measuring, touching, nearly worshipping, flashed unbidden through her mind.



"Good evening, Devika," he called, rising slightly from his chair with a deference that belied the intimacy they had shared.



She managed a small smile but couldn't bring herself to stop. "Evening, Ramlal-ji," she replied, hurrying past him toward the stairwell, her heart racing with something that wasn't quite fear, wasn't quite anticipation, but some strange cocktail of the two.



Ramlal watched her go, his eyes drawn inexorably to the gentle sway of her hips beneath her saree. The fabric had shifted as she walked, revealing a glimpse of her hip fold—that tender curve where thigh met hip—through the thin material of her petticoat. His mouth went dry at the sight, his body responding with an immediacy that surprised him despite his age. She noticed his gaze, he was certain of it—there was a slight hitch in her step, a momentary pause—but she didn't turn back, didn't acknowledge it beyond a barely perceptible quickening of her pace.



"She feels it too," he thought, settling back into his chair with a heavy sigh. "Whatever passed between us, she hasn't forgotten."



Inside her apartment, Devika shed her work clothes like a snake shedding its skin, desperate to be free of the constraints that had bound her all day. She stood under the shower, letting water cascade over her body, washing away the chalk dust from the classroom, the lingering scent of the college's disinfectant, the weight of propriety she carried like armor. But it couldn't wash away the knowledge of what lay in her satchel, waiting, promising something she hadn't allowed herself to want.



Saturday dawned bright and clear, a day without obligations stretching before her like an empty canvas. Devika moved through her morning rituals with mechanical precision—tea, meditation, a light breakfast—but an undercurrent of restlessness pulsed beneath her skin. With no lectures to prepare, no students to teach, the hours yawned wide and vacant.



She tried watching television, flipping through channels with increasing disinterest. She attempted to read, but the words on the page refused to coalesce into meaning, her mind wandering away from the text like a disobedient child. By evening, she had cleaned her already immaculate apartment, reorganized her bookshelves, and called her parents for their weekly check-in, careful to keep her voice steady, to betray nothing of the turmoil that churned within her.



As night settled over Pune, Devika found herself sitting on her sofa, staring at the dark screen of her television, the silence of her apartment pressing against her eardrums like cotton wool. Her mind drifted to the envelope, still tucked in her satchel where she had left it the day before.



"This is ridiculous," she whispered to the empty room. "I'm a grown woman. A professor of biology. I teach human reproduction without blushing." Yet still she hesitated, her breath shallow in her chest.



What would her mother think? What would her colleagues say if they knew she was considering watching pornography? What would her students—Vishnu and Pathan with their knowing smirks, their predatory eyes—think of their proper professor then?



"They would never know," she told herself. "No one would ever know."



Except Sharada, who had given her the DVDs. Sharada, who had admitted to watching such things herself. Sharada, who had not judged her for wanting to explore this unknown territory.



"It's not a sin to understand one's own body," Devika murmured, the words sounding strange on her tongue. "It's not wrong to want... pleasure."



Decision made, she rose from the sofa, moving with sudden purpose toward her satchel. The envelope slid free easily, its contents rattling slightly as she extracted it. Two unmarked DVDs nestled inside, their blank surfaces giving no hint of what they contained.



Her heart hammered against her ribs as she crossed to her television, hands shaking as she inserted the first disc into the player. She locked her apartment door—an unnecessary precaution at this hour, but it made her feel safer, more contained. The lights went off next, leaving only the dim glow of her small table lamp to illuminate the room. She settled back onto the sofa, remote clutched in her trembling hand.



"Just press play," she told herself. "Just watch. You don't have to like it. You don't have to do anything."



The screen flickered to life, and Devika drew her knees up to her chest, a defensive posture against what might come. The video began without preamble, without the production values or narrative setup she had somehow expected. Just a simple room, a sofa not unlike her own, and an older man—perhaps in his sixties, with silver hair and weathered skin—reading a newspaper.



Something in the man's profile, the slope of his shoulders, reminded her of Ramlal. The thought sent an unexpected shiver down her spine, a warmth blooming low in her abdomen.



A woman entered the frame from what appeared to be a kitchen doorway, dressed in shorts that exposed long, tanned legs and a tank top that clung to full breasts. She moved with deliberate sensuality, her eyes fixed on the older man with an intensity that made Devika shift on her sofa, suddenly aware of the fabric of her saree against her skin.



The woman approached the man from behind, sliding her hands over his shoulders, bending to whisper something in his ear. He ignored her, eyes fixed on his newspaper. Undeterred, she circled the sofa, plucked the paper from his hands, and before he could protest, straddled his lap.



"What are you—" the man began, but the woman silenced him with her mouth, pressing her lips to his with a hunger that startled Devika.



This was no chaste peck, no dry meeting of closed lips like the perfunctory kisses she had exchanged with Anand in their later years. This was devouring, consuming, a wet and desperate thing that made Devika's own lips part in unconscious mimicry.



The man's initial resistance melted away, his hands coming up to frame the woman's face, to tangle in her hair as their kiss deepened. Devika watched, transfixed, as their tongues became visible, sliding against each other, tasting, exploring. They broke apart only to gasp for air before diving back in, their mouths locked in what seemed an endless dance of hunger and satisfaction.



"Do people really kiss like that?" Devika whispered to herself, her finger tracing the outline of her own lower lip. She had never been kissed with such abandon, such raw desire. Anand's kisses had been brief, utilitarian—a prelude to the main event, which itself had been brief and unsatisfying.



On screen, the kiss continued, the man's hands sliding down to cup the woman's breasts through her thin top. She moaned into his mouth, arching her back to press more firmly into his touch. In one fluid motion, she reached down, grabbed the hem of her top, and pulled it over her head, revealing a lacy bra that barely contained her generous curves.



The man broke their kiss to stare at her exposed flesh, hunger evident in his eyes. The woman reached behind herself, unclasping her bra with practiced ease, letting it fall away to reveal full, heavy breasts with dark nipples already puckered with arousal.



Devika felt an answering tightness in her own nipples, a heaviness in her breasts that couldn't be ignored. Without conscious thought, her hand drifted up to cup herself through the fabric of her blouse, her palm pressing against the hardened peak she found there.



On screen, the couple had resumed kissing, the woman now gloriously topless, her bare breasts pressed against the man's clothed chest. Their tongues were visible again, sliding against each other in a wet, messy dance that went on and on, far longer than Devika would have thought possible or desirable. Yet she found herself leaning forward, her breathing shallow, her lips parted as if to receive a phantom kiss.



The man's hands came up to cup the woman's bare breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples in circles that made her gasp and writhe against him. Then he bent his head, replacing his fingers with his mouth, drawing one dark peak between his lips and sucking hard.



"Oh," Devika breathed, the sound escaping without her permission. Heat surged between her thighs, a damp warmth she hadn't felt in far too long. She pressed her legs together, seeking pressure, relief, but it only intensified the ache.



The man on screen moved from one breast to the other, lavishing equal attention on each nipple, licking, sucking, even gently biting until the woman was moaning continuously, her head thrown back in abandon. Devika had never experienced such attention to her breasts—Anand had touched them briefly, mechanically, never lingering, never exploring what might bring her pleasure.



"Is that what it feels like?" she whispered to the darkness, her hand still cupping her breast, her thumb now mimicking the circular motion she had seen on screen.



The couple continued their exploration, the woman eventually sliding from the man's lap to kneel between his legs. She reached for his belt, unfastening it with eager fingers, then drew down his zipper. The man lifted his hips to help as she tugged his pants and underwear down in one motion, revealing his penis—already semi-erect, larger than Devika had expected, especially for a man of his age.



Devika felt her face flush hot with embarrassment, her hand flying to cover her eyes. But curiosity won out, and she peeked between her fingers, unable to look away as the woman wrapped her hand around the man's shaft, stroking slowly until it grew fully hard.



The image of Ramlal flashed unbidden through Devika's mind—the pressure of his arousal against her back as he measured her, the heat of his breath on her neck, the tremor in his hands as they skimmed her skin. Was he built like this man? Would he grow hard at her touch, her kiss?



"What am I thinking?" she scolded herself, but the thought refused to leave, superimposing Ramlal's face over the actor's, her own body in place of the woman's.



On screen, the woman bent lower, her intentions clear. Devika's breath caught in her throat as she watched the woman's tongue extend, licking a slow path from base to tip of the man's penis. The man groaned, his hand coming to rest on the woman's head, not pushing, just anchoring himself to her as she took him into her mouth.



"Oh my god," Devika breathed, shock and arousal warring within her. She had never done this, had never even considered it. Had known, intellectually, that such acts existed, but had filed them away in the category of things "decent women" didn't do.



Yet here was this woman, her mouth sliding up and down the man's shaft with obvious enjoyment, drawing moans from him that spoke of intense pleasure. And more shocking still was Devika's own response—the surge of wetness between her thighs, the unconscious licking of her lips, the way her mouth had fallen open, mimicking the act she was witnessing.



Her hand slid down from her breast, over the flat plane of her stomach, coming to rest at the juncture of her thighs. The thin fabric of her saree was a barrier, unwelcome now when she craved direct contact. Without allowing herself time to reconsider, Devika stood, unwrapping her saree with practiced movements, letting the yards of fabric pool at her feet.



She settled back onto the sofa clad only in her petticoat and blouse, her hand immediately seeking the warmth between her legs. The dampness there shocked her—she was wetter than she could ever remember being, certainly wetter than Anand had ever made her. Through the thin cotton of her panties, she found her clitoris, circling it with tentative fingers.



"Oh," she gasped, the pleasure sharper, more immediate than she had expected. On screen, the woman continued her oral ministrations, now taking the man's testicles into her mouth, rolling them with her tongue while her hand stroked his shaft.



Devika's fingers moved faster, the pleasure building, but the fabric of her panties chafed, limiting her sensation. Again, she stood, this time hooking her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and drawing them down to her calves, loosening the ties of her petticoat so it hung precariously on her hips.



She sat again, spreading her legs without shame now, her fingers finding her slick folds, exploring with growing confidence. This was her body, her pleasure. Why had she denied herself for so long?



On screen, the dynamic had shifted. The woman was now naked, her legs spread wide as the man knelt between them. To Devika's shock, he lowered his head, pressing his mouth to the woman's sex. The woman's back arched off the sofa, her hands flying to tangle in the man's silver hair, holding him against her.



"Oh, fuck," Devika whispered, the profanity strange and thrilling on her tongue. "Is that—do people—" She couldn't complete the thought, too overwhelmed by the image before her and the pleasure building between her own thighs.



Anand had never done this, had never even suggested it. Their lovemaking had been perfunctory at best—a few kisses, some cursory touching, then penetration that never lasted long enough for her to find release. She had accepted this as normal, as the way things were between husband and wife.



Now, watching this older man devour the woman with obvious enthusiasm, hearing the woman's cries of pleasure, Devika realized how much she had been denied, how much she had denied herself.



Her fingers moved with increased urgency, one sliding inside while her thumb maintained pressure on her clitoris. She moaned, the sound echoing in her empty apartment, louder than she intended but impossible to suppress.



Outside, Ramlal jerked awake in his chair at the security booth, startled by a sound he couldn't immediately place. The night was quiet, the apartment complex still, but something had disturbed his light doze. He glanced around, alert for any sign of trouble, when he noticed a flickering light coming from Devika's window. The curtains were drawn but not completely closed, a sliver of illumination spilling out into the darkness.



Concern furrowed his brow—it was late, past midnight, and the light seemed unsteady, like a television rather than a lamp. Was she unwell? Unable to sleep? The memory of their encounter in her bedroom haunted him still, the feel of her skin beneath his hands, the way she had leaned into his touch before pulling away.



Driven by worry or perhaps by something more selfish, more primal, Ramlal left his post, climbing the stairs to the second floor with a stealth that belied his age. He approached her door, intending to knock, to check on her, but another sound stopped him in his tracks—a moan, unmistakably female, unmistakably Devika.



His breath caught in his throat. Was she with someone? Had she invited a man to her apartment? The thought sent a stab of jealousy through him, sharp and unexpected. But no, he had seen no one enter her flat that evening, and he had been at his post until just moments ago.



Drawn by curiosity he couldn't deny, Ramlal moved to her window, peering through the narrow gap in the curtains. What he saw froze him in place, his heart hammering against his ribs.



Devika sat on her sofa, saree pooled on the floor at her feet, panties tangled around her calves, petticoat loose at her hips. Her legs were spread wide, one hand working between them with rhythmic purpose, the other squeezing her breast through her blouse. Her head was thrown back, lips parted, eyes fixed on the television screen where an explicit scene played out—an older man, not unlike himself, pleasuring a woman with his mouth.



"My god," Ramlal whispered, his body responding instantly to the sight before him. This was Devika as he had never seen her—uninhibited, raw, abandoned to pleasure. And she was watching a film featuring a man who could have been his brother, with a woman near her own age.



Was it coincidence? Or had she chosen this particular film because it reminded her of him, of what had almost happened between them?



The thought sent blood rushing to his groin, his penis hardening with an urgency he hadn't felt in years. Without conscious decision, his hand moved to his fly, unzipping quietly, freeing himself from the confines of his uniform trousers.



Inside, unaware of her audience, Devika's pleasure mounted. On screen, the couple had moved to penetration, the man entering the woman in a position she had never tried—her on her back at the edge of the sofa, him standing, holding her legs apart as he thrust into her.



"I didn't know," she gasped to the empty room. "I didn't know it could be like this."



She slid a second finger inside herself, her thumb continuing its relentless circles on her clitoris. The sensation was overwhelming, building toward something bigger than she had ever experienced alone or with Anand.



The couple on screen changed positions again, the woman now on her knees, back arched as the man entered her from behind. Then again, the woman astride the man, controlling the pace, her breasts bouncing with each movement. And finally, in a configuration that made Devika's eyes widen, they moved into what she vaguely recognized as the sixty-nine position, each pleasuring the other with their mouth simultaneously.



"Oh god, oh god," she chanted, her fingers moving faster, pressure building at the base of her spine, between her legs, a tension that begged for release.



Outside, Ramlal stroked himself in rhythm with Devika's movements, his eyes fixed on her face contorted with pleasure, his mind drifted back to that moment with Devika—the way her skin felt beneath his fingers as he measured her waist, the softness of her body igniting a fire in him. He could still feel the warmth of her breath, the subtle shudder that ran through her when he kissed her neck, sending waves of desire coursing through him, the taste of her, the warmth and salt, the way she would shudder and clutch at his head. Her fingers glistening with her arousal in the dim light from the television. He knew he should leave, should return to his post, should give her the privacy she deserved. But he was held captive by the sight of her—this woman who had occupied his thoughts since her arrival, now lost in self-pleasure while watching a man like him bring a woman to ecstasy.



On screen, the couple had returned to a simpler position, face to face, the man thrusting with increasing urgency as the woman clung to him, legs wrapped around his waist, cries growing louder, more desperate.



Devika felt it building, that elusive peak she had chased so many times without success. Her fingers curled inside herself, finding a spot that sent lightning through her veins, her thumb pressing harder, faster against her swollen clitoris.



"Yes, yes, there, there," she gasped, her hips lifting off the sofa, seeking more pressure, more friction. And then it crashed over her—a wave of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain, radiating outward from her core to the tips of her fingers, the soles of her feet. Her body convulsed, inner muscles clamping down on her fingers, a cry tearing from her throat that she couldn't have suppressed if she tried.



Outside, Ramlal's release followed immediately, triggered by the sight of Devika's climax, her face transformed by pleasure, her body arching in abandon. He spilled into his hand, biting his lip to stay silent, his eyes never leaving her face as wave after wave of pleasure washed through him.



As the intensity faded, Devika collapsed back onto the sofa, boneless and spent, her fingers still nestled between her thighs, aftershocks pulsing around them. On screen, the couple had reached their own conclusion, the man withdrawing to release on the woman's stomach, an act that would have shocked Devika an hour ago but now seemed almost anticlimactic compared to the revelation of her own body's capacity for pleasure.



"So that's what I've been missing," she whispered to the empty room, a small, satisfied smile curving her lips.



Outside, Ramlal withdrew from the window, carefully adjusting his clothing, his heart still racing with what he had witnessed. He descended the stairs on unsteady legs, returning to his post with the image of Devika in ecstasy burned into his memory—a gift he had never expected, a secret he would carry with him like a talisman against the loneliness of his days.



And in her apartment, Devika reached for the remote, turning off the television with a decisive click. The DVD remained to be removed, the second disc unviewed, but those were concerns for another time. For now, she basked in the afterglow of discovery, of pleasure found by her own hand, guided by images that had awakened something long dormant within her.



"There's more," she told herself, a promise and a revelation as she gathered her discarded clothes, preparing for bed with a lightness she hadn't felt in years. "So much more to discover."

[Thilka]

Excellent

[Thilka]

Next update?

[Bowlg78]

Poor ...fellow... security guard ...he is..in dreams...

Always....so he suffers like this night always....

Waiting for old man mania( security guard)like...in video saw by devika

Writing skills ...are amazing.... especially... between this

Security guard and devika...

[Bowlg78]

Waiting for tea at devika flat.... security guard

[prady12191]

The morning sun slanted through Devika's bedroom window, illuminating dust motes that danced in the golden light. She stirred beneath tangled sheets, her body languid and heavy from the previous night's revelations. A dull, pleasant ache lingered between her thighs, a physical reminder of pleasures discovered in the privacy of darkness. She had slept dreamlessly, deeply, her body exhausted by release after months of unconscious tension.



The sharp rap at her door startled her from half-sleep. Devika blinked, disoriented, as the sound came again—more insistent this time. She fumbled for her phone. Ten o'clock. She never slept this late, not even on Sundays.



"Coming," she called, her voice rough with sleep. She grabbed the nearest saree—the one she'd discarded on the floor last night—and hastily wrapped it around herself, not bothering with the precise pleats and tucks her usual public appearance demanded. She didn't even glance in the mirror as she hurried to the door, though she did pause to run fingers through her tangled hair.



Ramlal stood in the corridor, a small package clutched in his weathered hands. His eyes widened slightly as they took in her appearance—hair tousled, saree dbangd haphazardly over her petticoat, the edge trailing on the floor behind her. The skin beneath her eyes looked bruised with exhaustion, yet there was a strange glow to her, a softness that hadn't been there before.



"Good morning, Devika," he said, his voice carefully neutral despite the riot of memories that flashed through his mind—her legs spread wide on the sofa, her fingers moving between them, her head thrown back in ecstasy. "A courier came for you."



Devika reached for the package, suddenly aware of her disheveled state. Heat climbed her neck as she wondered if Ramlal could somehow see the evidence of last night written on her face, in the looseness of her limbs, the heaviness of her gaze.



"Thank you," she managed, her fingers brushing his as she took the package. The brief contact sent an electric current through her, an echo of the pleasure she'd discovered hours earlier. "Is there... do I need to sign something?"



"No, no." Ramlal's eyes dropped to her feet, then rose slowly, lingering momentarily at the gap where her hastily wrapped saree revealed a sliver of midriff. "I signed for you already. Thought you might still be... resting."



Something in his tone—a knowing edge, an intimacy that hadn't been there before—made Devika suddenly, acutely self-conscious. Could he know? Had he heard her through the walls? Impossible. Her apartment was at the end of the corridor, and she'd been careful to keep her voice down. Mostly.



"Yes, I... I slept late," she admitted, clutching the package to her chest like a shield. "Thank you for bringing this up."



Ramlal nodded, his face inscrutable. "Of course. Good day, Devika." He turned to leave, his movements oddly stiff.



Devika closed the door, turning the lock with shaking fingers. She leaned against it, the cool wood a balm against her flushed skin. "What's wrong with me?" she whispered to the empty apartment. Her body felt different somehow—more alive, more sensitive, as if every nerve ending had been awakened by her explorations the night before.



She set the package on her coffee table without looking at it and sank onto the sofa—the same sofa where she had discovered a pleasure so intense it had bordered on pain. The television stood dark and silent across from her, the DVD player still holding evidence of her night's activities.



"I watched it," she said aloud, as if speaking the words might help her process the reality of what she'd done. "I watched old men having sex with young women." She pressed her hands to her hot cheeks. "And I liked it."



The scenes replayed in her mind—the silver-haired man with his mouth between the woman's thighs, the woman astride him, controlling their pace, their pleasure. Images that had shocked her at first viewing now returned with a different charge, colored by her own response to them.



"It was like watching Ramlal," she admitted to herself, the truth of it shocking in its clarity. "Like seeing what might happen if we..." She couldn't complete the thought aloud, but her mind had no such restraint.



She imagined Ramlal's hands on her body, not measuring for blouses but exploring for pleasure. His calloused palms would rasp against her skin, creating friction that sent shivers down her spine. In her mind's eye, she saw him lifting her—despite his age, he was wiry and strong from years of physical labor. He would hoist her up, hands cupping her buttocks, her legs wrapping around his narrow hips.



"Would he be able to hold me like that?" she wondered, her breath coming faster. "Against a wall, my saree hiked up around my waist, my legs bare and spread for him?"



She pictured it—her back pressed against cool plaster, Ramlal's body hot against her front, his mouth on her neck, her collarbone, dipping lower to taste the swell of her breasts above her blouse. Would he taste of paan, that sweet-spicy flavor she sometimes caught on his breath when he stood too close?



"If I kissed him," she whispered, her fingers unconsciously rising to touch her lips, "would his mouth be stained red from betel juice? Would our tongues tangle like the couples in the film, wet and desperate and hungry?"



The thought should have disgusted her—this proper Kerala woman imagining herself kissing an aging security guard, tasting tobacco and betel on his tongue. Instead, it sent a fresh surge of heat between her thighs, an answering clench of muscles still sensitive from the night before.



"And his..." She swallowed, unable to say the word even alone. "Would he be like the man in the film? Long and thick and hard for me?" She imagined herself kneeling before Ramlal as the woman had knelt before the silver-haired man, taking him into her mouth, tasting his desire for her.



Her hand slid beneath the loose folds of her saree, finding the dampness that had gathered there at her own imaginings. "Oh god," she breathed, shocked at how quickly her body had responded, how ready she was again despite the multiple releases of the previous night.



She snatched her hand away as if burned, rising from the sofa in a swift, jerky movement. "What's happening to me?" she demanded of her empty apartment. "He's a dirty old man. A security guard. How can I be thinking these things?"



But her body didn't care about Ramlal's age, his status, the betel stains on his teeth. It remembered only the gentle reverence of his hands as they measured her, the heat of his breath against her neck, the hardness she had felt pressing against her when she leaned back into him.



"No," she said firmly, gathering the loose end of her saree and tucking it properly at her waist. "This has to stop. I need to keep my distance from him."



Yet even as she made this resolution, folding it neatly into the practical corner of her mind where she stored all her proper decisions, another part of her—a part newly awakened and hungry for experience—whispered that it was too late. The door to these desires had been opened, and no amount of propriety or self-discipline would easily close it again.



Devika moved to the bathroom, shedding her hastily donned saree, avoiding her reflection in the mirror. She would shower, dress properly, reclaim her dignity and control. But first, she would remove the DVD from the player and hide it deep in her drawer, a secret treasure she could return to when night fell again and propriety gave way to newly discovered hunger.




Evening settled over Pune like a silk veil, the heat of the day giving way to a gentle warmth that clung to Devika's skin as she moved restlessly through her apartment. She had spent the day in a state of nervous energy, alternately cleaning already spotless surfaces and attempting to grade papers, her concentration fragmenting each time her mind drifted to the morning's encounter with Ramlal—and the shameful fantasies that had followed. She had just settled at her dining table with a cup of tea when a soft knock at her door made her freeze, the familiar pattern instantly recognizable.



"Just a moment," she called, smoothing her saree—properly dbangd now, every pleat in place—and checking her reflection in the small mirror near the entryway. This time, she was prepared, composed, the picture of propriety. No hint remained of the disheveled woman who had answered the door that morning.



She opened the door to find Ramlal standing there, a brown paper package clutched in his hands. Unlike his usual security uniform, he wore civilian clothes—a faded but clean button-down shirt and loose cotton pants that hung from his thin frame.



"Your blouses, Devika," he said, extending the package toward her. "My friend finished them today. I told him it was urgent."



Devika blinked in surprise. "So quickly? I didn't expect them for several days at least."



"My friend owes me favors," Ramlal explained, a hint of pride entering his voice. "When I ask, he makes time." Something in his tone suggested the effort he had gone to, the strings pulled to expedite her order.



"Thank you," she said, accepting the package, her fingers careful not to brush against his this time. "How much do I owe you for the tailoring?"



Ramlal waved a dismissive hand. "Nothing. My friend did this as kindness to me."



An awkward silence fell between them, Ramlal lingering in the doorway rather than turning to leave. Devika clutched the package to her chest, uncertain what to say next.



"Is there something else?" she finally asked, her voice stiffer than she'd intended.



Ramlal shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his eyes darting past her into the apartment before settling back on her face. "I thought perhaps... you might want to try them on. To see if they fit correctly." A beat passed. "Sometimes adjustments are needed."



Devika felt heat rise to her face. The thought of undressing with Ramlal waiting outside her bedroom door sent a jolt of both alarm and something darker, more primal through her body.



"That won't be necessary," she said quickly. "I'm sure they're fine. If there are any issues, I can have them adjusted elsewhere."



Hurt flashed across Ramlal's weathered face, there and gone so quickly she might have imagined it. "Of course. I just wanted to be sure you were satisfied."



The word "satisfied" hung in the air between them, charged with unintended meaning. Devika's mind flashed to the previous night, to the pleasure she had found by her own hand while watching strangers on her television screen, to the fantasies of this very man that had followed in the morning light.



"I appreciate your concern," she said, her voice slightly breathless. "But I'm sure everything will be fine. Thank you again for arranging this so quickly."



Ramlal nodded, finally seeming to accept his dismissal, though he made no move to leave. "You're welcome, Devika." Her name in his mouth still carried that hint of reverence, of forbidden intimacy.



"One more thing," she said, the words tumbling out before she could reconsider. "When we're in public—in the courtyard, or when others might hear—please call me 'madam.' It's more... appropriate."



Confusion clouded his eyes. "But when we are alone...?"



"When we're alone, Devika is fine," she conceded, not examining too closely why she allowed this familiarity behind closed doors. "But outside, it's better if we maintain proper... distance."



"As you wish," he said, his expression unreadable. "Good evening, then." He turned to go, his shoulders slightly stooped, smaller somehow than when he had arrived.



"Good evening, Ramlal-ji," she replied softly, closing the door with a gentle click.



Alone again, Devika leaned against the door, the package of blouses clutched to her chest like a shield. What was she doing? Setting boundaries was sensible, necessary—but part of her recognized she was trying to build walls against a flood that had already breached her defenses.



With a small shake of her head, she moved to her bedroom, setting the package on her bed and carefully unwrapping it. Inside lay four blouses in the jewel-toned silks she had chosen—emerald, sapphire, ruby, and a deep amethyst. Each was expertly stitched, the sleeveless design elegant in its simplicity, with necklines lower than any she had worn before.



Devika hesitated only briefly before removing her conventional blouse and saree, standing in just her petticoat before the mirror. She selected the emerald blouse first, slipping it over her head, the cool silk sliding against her skin like water. She turned to examine herself in the mirror and caught her breath.



The woman who stared back at her was both familiar and strange—recognizably Devika Nair, professor of biology, yet transformed by the cut of fabric that revealed her arms, the dip of the neckline that hinted at the swell of her breasts. The blouse fitted perfectly, skimming her curves without clinging, the rich color making her skin glow with warmth.



She tried each blouse in turn, marveling at how accurately Ramlal had translated his measurements into these garments that seemed made for her body. The ruby silk made her lips look fuller, darker without any cosmetics. The sapphire brought out hidden depths in her eyes. The amethyst lent her an almost regal air.



"Perfect," she whispered, turning to examine the back of the final blouse, where the tailored darts emphasized the narrowness of her waist. She had specified a lower neckline, and the tailor had obliged—not scandalously low, but enough to reveal the gentle curve where her breasts began, a hint of cleavage that would be visible depending on how she dbangd her saree.



As she removed the amethyst blouse, folding it carefully with the others, Devika found herself whispering a thank you to Ramlal—not just for expediting the tailoring, but for seeing her as she had not seen herself. For his hands that had measured her body with such care, his eyes that had appreciated what they saw without judgment or expectation.



"Stop it," she scolded herself, returning the blouses to their wrapping. "He's just the security guard who happened to have tailoring experience. Nothing more."



But as she prepared for bed that night, the image of herself in those blouses lingered in her mind—not just how she looked, but how she had felt wearing them. Confident. Desirable. Bold in a way Devika Nair, proper Kerala woman, had never allowed herself to be.



Tomorrow, she decided, she would wear one to work. The sapphire, perhaps, with a navy blue saree that would complement it perfectly. And if her arms felt bare, exposed after years of modest coverage—well, that was simply the price of becoming the woman she was choosing to be.


Monday morning dawned clear and bright, sunlight streaming through Devika's bathroom window as she stood before the mirror, razor in hand. She had risen earlier than usual, allowing herself extra time for this new ritual—one she had performed before, but never with such deliberate intent. The sleeveless blouse hanging on the bathroom door demanded it; arms exposed would mean underarms visible. Such a small thing, this removal of hair, yet it felt significant, symbolic of the larger transformation taking place within her.



She raised her arm, examining the dark growth that had accumulated in the weeks since she'd last bothered with this task. Who would see her underarms in Pune, after all, when her blouses always had sleeves? But now, everything was changing.



The razor glided over her skin, revealing smooth patches between lingering wisps of black hair. She worked carefully, rinsing the blade between strokes, watching her reflection with a critical eye. When she finished, she ran her fingers over the slightly damp skin—not perfectly smooth as the women in advertisements, but real, with small patches that added a certain rawness, an authenticity to her presentation.



"Better," she murmured, setting down the razor and reaching for her small collection of cosmetics—rarely used for daily wear, reserved typically for special occasions. Today felt like an occasion, though she couldn't have named exactly what she was celebrating.



A touch of kohl to define her eyes, a hint of color on her lips—not the bright red of her fantasies, but a subtle pink that enhanced her natural shade. She worked methodically, the familiar actions grounding her as she prepared for the unfamiliar sensation of walking through the world with her arms bare.



The sapphire blouse waited on its hanger, the silk catching the morning light, almost luminescent against the white bathroom walls. Devika slipped it over her head, the cool fabric settling against her skin with whispered promises of transformation. She turned before the mirror, examining herself from different angles—the cut of the armholes revealing the gentle curve where her arm met her shoulder, the neckline dipping just enough to suggest rather than display the fullness of her breasts.



"I look..." She paused, searching for the right word. Not provocative—the blouse was too tasteful for that. Not immodest—her curves were suggested rather than flaunted. "I look confident," she decided finally, turning to examine her profile.



Yet despite this assessment, Devika felt anything but confident as she selected a navy blue saree with a silver border, dbanging it with practiced ease over the new blouse. Almost unconsciously, she adjusted the pallu to cover her arms, the familiar weight of fabric offering security against judging eyes.



"Ridiculous," she chided herself, examining the end result in her full-length mirror. "What's the point of a sleeveless blouse if you're going to hide your arms?" Still, she left the pallu in place, a compromise between the woman she had been and the one she was becoming.



As Devika stepped into the corridor, lecture notes tucked into her bag alongside student papers she'd finally managed to grade, she felt oddly exposed despite the conservative dbang of her saree. The knowledge of what lay beneath—the bare arms, the lower neckline—was enough to make her heart beat faster, her palms slightly damp with nervous perspiration.



She descended the stairs, each step measured and deliberate, aware of the sway of fabric around her ankles, the whisper of silk against her skin. At the bottom of the stairwell, she paused, drawing a deep breath before pushing open the door to the courtyard.



Ramlal stood at his usual post near the security booth, scanning the morning newspaper with idle attention. He looked up at the sound of the door, his weathered face lighting with that particular warmth he reserved only for her.



"Good morning, madam," he called, emphasis on the formal address they had discussed, though his eyes held a private acknowledgment of their more intimate connection.



Devika nodded in greeting, her hand unconsciously tightening on the pallu dbangd over her shoulder. She had nearly reached the gate when something made her pause—a sudden conviction that this moment mattered, that the choices she made now would echo forward into the woman she was becoming.



With deliberate movements, she turned back toward Ramlal, who watched her with curious eyes. Maintaining eye contact, she slowly unwound the pallu from her shoulder, letting the fabric fall to dbang across her body in its intended fashion, leaving her arms bare in the morning light.



Ramlal's breath caught visibly, his eyes widening as they traced the newly revealed contours of her arms—the elegant line from shoulder to elbow, the delicate wrist, the soft skin of her underarm visible when she adjusted her bag on her shoulder.



A silent message passed between them—her gesture conveying both gratitude for his role in this transformation and a quiet pride in her own boldness. She offered a small nod, a slight smile curving her lips as she held his gaze.



"Perfect," she said softly, the word carrying across the quiet courtyard. "The measurements were perfect."



Ramlal stood straighter, pride evident in the set of his shoulders, in the slight lift of his chin. "I am pleased you are satisfied, madam," he replied, his voice carrying the formal address while his eyes spoke a more intimate language.



With a final nod, Devika turned and continued toward the gate, aware of Ramlal's gaze following her, feeling it like a physical touch against her bare skin. She didn't look back, but her posture shifted subtly—shoulders squaring, chin lifting, hips swaying with a new awareness of her body's power.



As she disappeared from view, Ramlal remained standing, newspaper forgotten in his hand. The image of Devika's bare arms—smooth brown skin catching the morning light, the gentle curve where her underarm met her breast, the slight flex of muscle as she adjusted her bag—was seared into his memory with perfect clarity.



"Such a woman," he murmured to himself, sinking back into his chair. His eyes remained fixed on the gate where she had vanished, as if her phantom still lingered there. "If a man wants to marry, he should marry a woman like that. Or else stay without marrying."



He closed his eyes briefly, remembering the deliberate way she had revealed herself to him—not to the world, not to the other residents hurrying past on their morning commutes, but to him specifically. A private display meant for his eyes alone.



"Will I ever feel those arms?" he wondered, his rough palm opening and closing as if remembering the softness of her skin beneath his fingers as he had measured her. "Will she ever allow me to touch her again?"



The question hung unanswered in the morning air as Ramlal returned to his duties, the newspaper reopened though his eyes skimmed unseeing over the headlines. His mind remained with Devika—her tentative smile, her bare arms, and the promise they held of a woman emerging from constraints both external and self-imposed, blossoming into something bold and beautiful and utterly captivating.

[prady12191]

Devika paused at the college entrance, the weight of her bag hanging from her shoulder like the weight of her decision this morning. The sleeveless blouse beneath her forest-green saree felt foreign against her skin, cool air brushing places usually hidden under fabric. A small rebellion, she thought, straightening her back as students streamed past her. Her husband wouldn't approve—but he was in Dubai, and she was here, trying to carve out a space that felt like her own.



The staff room was mercifully empty when she arrived. Devika set her bag down on her designated desk, extracting the day's lecture notes and arranging them in neat stacks. Her fingers lingered on the edge of her saree pallu, instinctively pulling it to cover the exposed skin of her arms. The golden border of her saree caught the fluorescent light as she moved, sending warm reflections across the institutional beige walls.



"Did I walk into the wrong staff room?" Saradha's voice, bright and teasing, cut through the quiet.



Devika turned, her hand automatically clutching the saree pallu tighter around her shoulders. "Good morning, Saradha."



Saradha's eyes widened as she approached, her gaze traveling over Devika's attire with undisguised interest. "Well, well, look at you! I've never seen you in a sleeveless blouse before." She circled Devika once, nodding approvingly. "It suits you perfectly. About time you showed off those lovely arms."



Heat crept up Devika's neck, spreading across her cheeks. "It's nothing," she murmured, adjusting her saree nervously. "Just... trying something different."



"Different is good," Saradha said, setting down her own bag. "You know, most women would kill for your figure. Those curves were made to be flaunted, not hidden away." She gestured toward Devika's arms, which were once again partially covered by the dbang of her saree. "Why are you hiding them again? The whole point of a sleeveless blouse is to show off, isn't it?"



Devika looked down, studying the pattern on the floor tiles. "I'm not used to it. It feels... exposed."



"That's exactly what it's supposed to feel like!" Saradha laughed, the sound echoing in the empty room. "Being exposed isn't always bad, you know. Sometimes it's liberating." She reached out, gently tugging the saree pallu away from Devika's shoulder. "Don't be shy, girl. Be bold, be proud of your beauty."



"I don't know, Saradha..." Devika hesitated, her grip on the fabric loosening slightly.



"What's the point of wearing a sleeveless blouse if you're going to keep it covered? Might as well have worn your usual high-necked ones." Saradha's tone was gentle but insistent. "Try it. Just for today. See how it feels to own your space."



Something in Saradha's words resonated with Devika. She'd been trying so hard to fit in since moving to Pune, to find her footing in this new phase of her life. Perhaps this small act of boldness could be a beginning. With a deep breath, she released the saree pallu, letting it fall away from her shoulders, exposing the smooth skin of her arms.



"There you go," Saradha said with approval. "Beautiful."



Devika smiled, a tentative expression that gradually relaxed into something more genuine. "Thank you."



---



In his office, Seenu sat forward in his chair, eyes fixed on the security monitor on his desk. The grainy CCTV footage from the staff room showed Devika in perfect, if pixelated, detail. His mouth fell open slightly as he registered her attire—the sleeveless blouse revealed arms he'd never seen before, and the way her saree dbangd around her curves made his throat go dry.



"What happened to her?" he muttered to himself, adjusting his glasses with unsteady fingers. "When did she start wearing such blouses?"



He watched as Saradha pulled the saree away from Devika's shoulders, revealing more of her smooth skin. Seenu felt a familiar tightening in his chest, a quickening of his pulse. In his fifteen years at the college, he'd cultivated a careful image—respectable department head, dedicated academic—but behind his office door, his eyes lingered on screens like this one, cataloging the women around him.



"She'll make every man mad wearing sarees like this," he whispered, his voice thicker than before. He wiped his palms on his trousers, his wedding ring catching briefly on the fabric. His wife would be in court now, arguing some corporate case, worlds away from this moment, from him.



He reached for his phone, punching in the extension for the staff room. "I want to see her," he decided, watching on screen as Devika moved toward the phone. "Need to call her to my office."



On the monitor, he saw Devika answer, her free hand absently touching her neck where her mangalsutra rested against her collarbone.



"Dr. Devika," he said, his voice carefully modulated to sound professional, authoritative. "Could you come to my office right away? I need to discuss something important with you."



"Of course, sir," came her reply, the South Indian lilt in her voice more pronounced over the phone. "I'll be there immediately."



Seenu watched her hang up, say something to Saradha, and gather a notepad before heading toward the door. He switched off the monitor, straightened his tie, and prepared his expression to greet her.



In the staff room, Devika tucked her notepad under her arm, suddenly conscious again of her exposed skin as she prepared to meet with the department head. Something about Seenu's tone had felt different, but she dismissed the thought. She was becoming paranoid, reading too much into simple interactions. Academic life was straightforward—it was personal boundaries that confused her.



"I'll be back soon," she told Saradha, who gave her a casual wave in response.



As Devika stepped into the corridor, she fought the urge to pull her saree pallu up again. Be bold, she reminded herself. Be proud. Still, as she walked toward Seenu's office, she couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted, that she was walking into a situation she didn't fully understand.



Devika stood at the threshold of Seenu's office, her knuckles poised to knock on the already-open door. He looked up, his eyes immediately abandoning whatever document lay on his desk. She watched as his gaze traveled from her feet upward—lingering at her waist where the saree hugged her curves—before finally reaching her face. The attention lasted only seconds, but it left a trail of discomfort on her skin, like invisible fingerprints.



"Dr. Devika, please come in," Seenu said, gesturing toward the chair across from his desk. His voice carried the practiced warmth of authority, but something else lurked beneath it, something that made Devika hesitate before stepping fully into the room.



"You wanted to see me, sir?" she asked, her voice maintaining its professional timbre despite the unease settling in her stomach.



Seenu nodded, his eyes dropping again to her arms before darting back to her face. "I must say, this is quite a new look for you. It suits you remarkably well."



Devika's hand twitched, nearly reaching for her saree pallu before she remembered Saradha's encouragement. "Thank you, sir," she replied, the words coming out softer than she'd intended.



"Please, sit." He shuffled some papers on his desk. "I wanted to discuss the upcoming department review. Your contribution will be essential, especially regarding the biotechnology curriculum."



As Devika settled into the chair, she relaxed slightly. Work discussions were safe territory, and she spoke confidently about her ideas for the program. Seenu nodded occasionally, his gold-rimmed glasses catching the light as he tilted his head.



"You've raised some excellent points," he said after she finished outlining her suggestions. "I have some notes here that might complement your approach." He gestured toward a stack of papers at the corner of his desk. "Would you mind coming around to look at them? It might be easier to explain side by side."



Something in his tone gave her pause, but the request itself was innocuous enough. Devika stood and walked around the desk, conscious of how her saree swayed with her movement. She stopped beside his chair, leaving what she thought was a professional distance between them.



"Here," Seenu said, sliding his chair closer to the desk and pointing to some highlighted sections. "These research methodologies align with what you were saying about practical applications."



Devika leaned forward to examine the notes, unaware of how the motion positioned her hips near Seenu's face. She began explaining her interpretation of the data, her finger tracing lines of text as she spoke.



"The integration of computational models with laboratory experiments creates a more robust framework for students to understand biological systems," she said, engrossed in the content.



Seenu made a sound of agreement, but his attention had drifted to the narrow gap between the edge of her blouse and the saree's dbang, where a sliver of her midriff was visible. The golden brown of her skin disappeared into the fabric of her saree, and his eyes traced the path it took around her waist.



Devika glanced down, catching the direction of his gaze. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second before he abruptly pointed to another paragraph.



"This point about interdisciplinary approaches," he said quickly, his voice slightly higher than before. "How would you implement that within our current structure?"



She straightened, putting a few more inches between them. "It would require coordination with the chemistry and physics departments, but I believe we could develop joint modules that—"



"I just remembered," Seenu interrupted, swiveling in his chair. "There's a reference text that would be perfect for this discussion. It's up there." He pointed to a shelf above his filing cabinet, where rows of academic journals and books were neatly arranged. "The green binding, third from the left on the top shelf. Would you mind?"



Devika looked up at the shelf, which was positioned high enough that she would need to stretch to reach it. She hesitated, an instinct warning her that this request wasn't entirely innocent.



"Of course," she said finally, moving toward the shelf.



She reached up, her arms extending fully as her fingers searched for the book he'd indicated. The motion caused her saree to pull snug against her hips and her blouse to ride up slightly at the back. Seenu's breath caught as he watched her, his heart pounding harder in his chest.



The stretch exposed the gentle curve where her arm met her chest, the soft hollow of her armpit visible in the sleeveless blouse. Seenu's hands gripped the armrests of his chair, his knuckles whitening. He imagined pressing his face against that hollow, tasting the salt of her skin. The thought was so vivid he almost flinched with the force of it.



"Is this the one?" Devika asked, her fingers closing around a green spine.



She turned her head toward him, still reaching, and caught him staring. Something dark and hungry flashed across his face before he managed to compose his expression.



"Yes, that's it," he said, his voice rougher than before.



As Devika pulled the book from the shelf, her movement was halted by a sudden tug at her neck. The delicate gold chain of her mangalsutra had caught on a small metal protrusion from the shelf door. She felt the clasp give way at the back of her neck, and then the weight of the pendant was gone, the necklace falling to the floor with a soft clink.



"What happened?" Seenu asked, leaning forward in his chair.



Devika touched her bare neck, alarmed. "My mangalsutra—the hook caught on something." She knelt to retrieve the fallen necklace, examining it in her palm. "The clasp bent a little."



She attempted to straighten the small gold hook with her fingernail, bending it back into shape. Holding the ends of the chain, she tried to fasten it behind her neck, but the clasp wouldn't stay closed.



"Is it damaged?" Seenu asked, watching her struggle.



"The hook isn't tight enough to hold anymore." She frowned at the necklace in her hands, feeling oddly vulnerable without the symbol of her marriage around her neck.



Her first instinct was to excuse herself, to return to the staff room where Saradha could help her. Yet something kept her rooted to the spot—a curiosity perhaps, or a dangerous whisper of power she'd felt when she'd caught Seenu watching her. She knew what his eyes had been doing all this time, knew the effect she was having on him.



A thought formed in her mind, reckless and thrilling. Later, she would question where it had come from, this impulse so contrary to her usual careful nature. But in this moment, she found herself looking at Seenu with a deliberate softness in her eyes.



"Sir," she said, her voice dropping to a tone she barely recognized as her own, "if you don't mind, could you help tie my chain around my neck?" The words came out with an unexpected seductive quality that surprised even her.



Seenu's eyes widened, his lips parting slightly in shock. He stared at her as if unsure he'd heard correctly.



Devika held his gaze, the mangalsutra dangling from her fingers. "Could you help me?" she repeated, more explicitly this time. "Or I can go to the staff room if you'd prefer."

Seenu remained frozen, caught between disbelief and desperate hope, as Devika waited for his answer, her heart racing with the boldness of her own request.


Seenu's paralysis broke as he processed Devika's words. An opportunity like this—her standing before him, asking for his touch—it was fantasy materialized. He wouldn't let it slip away. "Stay," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'll help you." He rose from his chair, moved past her to the door, and turned the lock with a soft click. "Just in case anyone comes," he explained, avoiding her eyes. "They might think... something wrong."



Devika watched him lock the door, a flutter of apprehension rising in her chest. The sound of the lock engaging seemed disproportionately loud in the quiet office. She stood holding the mangalsutra, suddenly uncertain about the path she'd set them on.



Seenu approached her, his hands visibly trembling as she placed the gold chain in his palm. The metal felt warm from her touch, and he closed his fingers around it as if it were something precious.



"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice thick with anticipation.



"Yes," she replied, though the word came out softer than she'd intended. "It's just a clasp that needs fixing."



He nodded and stepped closer, the scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something sharper—filling the narrow space between them. Reaching forward, he attempted to place the chain around her neck from the front, his arms extending on either side of her face.



The pendant settled perfectly at the center of her collarbone, catching the light as it rose and fell with her quickened breath. Seenu tried to connect the clasp behind her neck, but his fingers fumbled with the tiny hook. Each failed attempt brought his hands brushing against her skin, sending involuntary shivers down her spine.



"I can't quite..." he muttered, frustration and desire battling in his voice. His fingers were clumsy, too aware of the woman standing so close to him, her eyes watching his face, her breath warm against his cheek.



Devika observed his struggle, noting the beads of sweat forming at his temples, the way his eyes kept darting to her lips, her neck, the exposed skin of her arms. "You're having trouble," she said, her words cutting through the tension. "Should I turn around?"



Relief and disappointment warred in his expression. "Yes, that might be easier."



She turned, presenting her back to him, and gathered her hair to one side, exposing the nape of her neck. The simple movement felt strangely intimate, a gesture usually reserved for her husband in the privacy of their bedroom.



Seenu stared at her revealed neck and shoulders, transfixed by the smooth expanse of skin, the elegant curve where her neck met her shoulder. He moved forward until his body nearly touched hers, her curved form just inches from him. The soft roundness of her backside brushed against his thighs as he reached around to secure the clasp.



"So soft," he thought, fighting the urge to press closer.



With her facing away, he found the clasp more easily this time. His fingers worked the bent hook into the small loop, securing the mangalsutra around her neck. But even after the necklace was fastened, his fingers lingered, tracing a feather-light path across her skin.



"There," he said, his lips close to her ear, close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath. "I've tied the mangalsutra around your neck. Does that make me your husband now?"



Devika closed her eyes, a strange heat coursing through her body at his words. "No," she said, her voice surprisingly steady. "You just helped me tie the chain. It was already tied by my husband."



Seenu's hands moved to hover just above her bare arms, not quite touching. "Can I feel your arms?" he asked, the words rushing out as if he feared his courage would fail him.



"No," she said, but the word lacked conviction, barely more than a whisper.



He didn't heed her weak protest. His hands descended onto her skin, his palms gliding along her upper arms in a slow caress. The contact sent an electric current through Devika's body, a sensation so unexpected and intense that a small sound escaped her lips.



"So soft," Seenu murmured, echoing his earlier thought aloud.



His fingers traced down to her wrists and back up again, exploring the texture of her skin, the subtle curve of her muscles. Behind her, Devika could feel his body's response, the hard evidence of his arousal pressing against her.



Emboldened by her lack of resistance, Seenu leaned forward and inhaled deeply at her neck, drawing in the scent of jasmine from her hair, the faint trace of sandalwood soap on her skin. His lips pressed against the curve of her shoulder, then moved up to the sensitive spot where her neck met her collarbone.



The taste of her skin—salt and sweetness—was overwhelming. His hands continued their exploration, fingers intertwining with hers, then traveling back up her arms in a possessive caress.



Devika stood frozen, caught in a storm of conflicting sensations. Her body responded to his touch with treacherous pleasure, while her mind screamed warnings. This was her department head, a married man twice her age. This was wrong, dangerous, a violation of everything she believed about herself.



The thought of her husband—their wedding day, the sacred vows—crashed through the haze of unexpected desire. She stepped forward abruptly, breaking the contact between their bodies.



"I have to go," she said, her voice shaking. She turned to face him, putting distance between them.



Seenu reached out, catching her wrist. His eyes pleaded with her, dark with need. "Please," he said, the single word heavy with implication.



"Let me go," Devika insisted, pulling her arm free. "I got carried away. This shouldn't have happened."



Something in her tone—perhaps the renewed conviction, the flash of regret—made him release her. He stood with his hands hanging uselessly at his sides as she gathered her composure and moved toward the door.



She paused with her hand on the lock. "I need to return to my class," she said without looking back, her voice almost normal again. Then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her.



Seenu remained rooted to the spot, his mind replaying what had just occurred. She had asked him to tie her mangalsutra—had allowed him to touch her arms, to kiss her neck. Yet she'd pulled away so suddenly, as if waking from a trance. His body still hummed with unfulfilled desire, his mind racing with possibilities. What had happened? What had she meant by "got carried away"? And most importantly, would it happen again?



---



Devika entered the staff room in a daze, heading straight for the water dispenser. Her hands trembled as she filled a paper cup and drank deeply, the cool water doing little to quench the heat that still coursed through her body.



"What happened to me?" she thought, touching the mangalsutra at her neck, the gold warm against her fingers. She had asked that man—that old, married man—to tie her necklace. She had stood still while he touched her, kissed her neck. She had become someone she didn't recognize in that office.



The worst part was not that it had happened, but that for a moment, she had wanted it to. The feeling of being desired so intensely, of holding power over someone with just her presence—it had been intoxicating. She'd never felt that way with her husband, whose affection was steady but predictable, who had never looked at her with the naked hunger she'd seen in Seenu's eyes.



"He was the first man to feel my arms in this blouse," she realized, glancing down at her exposed skin. "The first man besides my husband to kiss my neck." The thought should have disgusted her, but instead, it left her confused, trapped between shame and a forbidden thrill.



No one in the staff room seemed to notice her distress. Saradha was engaged in conversation with another teacher, their laughter piercing through Devika's thoughts. How could everything seem so normal when her world had just tilted on its axis?



She gathered her teaching materials without speaking to anyone and left the staff room. She needed space, time to think, to understand what had happened and ensure it never happened again. As she walked through the college corridors, she felt the weight of the mangalsutra against her skin—a reminder of promises made, of boundaries crossed, of the dangerous territory between desire and duty.

[exbiixossip2]

next update bro.. ek ek karke sabhi ke sath erotic sex seduce karao or khaskar ramlal ke sath sex seduce or oral sex karao phir dheere dheere full sex bhi karana ramlal ke sath kyonki pahla hak usi ka hona chahiye... Devika par...










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[Sage_69]

Excellent update.

[prady12191]

Devika's fingers kept finding their way to the mangalsutra at her neck as she walked toward the laboratory, tracing the gold chain that Seenu had fastened there. The weight of it felt different now—heavier, tainted. In Kerala tradition, only a husband should tie this sacred necklace, yet she had allowed another man's fingers to brush against her skin, to restore the symbol of a marriage that was already broken. She wondered if the students would notice anything different about her, if the forbidden intimacy of that moment had somehow marked her visibly.



The truth clawed at her insides: the mangalsutra had lost its sanctity long before today. Anand's infidelities had hollowed out its meaning, leaving behind only a shell of gold and black beads that she wore out of habit, out of fear of what others might say if she removed it. The revelation of his affairs in Dubai—photographs of him with other women that these very students had somehow obtained and shown her—had already severed whatever bond the necklace once represented.



"Why am I still wearing it?" she murmured to herself, pausing outside the lab door. The corridor was empty, allowing her this brief moment of honesty. Perhaps it was easier to pretend, to maintain the façade of the devoted wife even as everything crumbled around her.



She took a deep breath and pushed open the door. The familiar smell of chemicals greeted her, along with the immediate hush that fell over the room as she entered. Pathan and Vishnu sat at their usual workstation, heads bent together in conversation that ceased abruptly when they spotted her.



"Good afternoon," she said, setting her materials on the demonstration table at the front of the lab.



Their eyes widened in unison, tracking her movements with an intensity that made her skin prickle. Pathan leaned back in his chair, a slow smile spreading across his face. Vishnu's mouth hung slightly open, his usual affected nonchalance abandoned.



"Madam," Pathan finally managed, "you look... different today."



"Very different," Vishnu agreed, his gaze traveling over her exposed arms. "The sleeveless blouse—it's new, yes?"



Devika felt heat rise to her cheeks. "Yes, just a small change," she replied, busying herself with arranging test tubes in their rack. "Let's focus on today's practical, shall we? We need to complete the enzyme catalysis experiment."



"But madam," Pathan persisted, his voice carrying across the otherwise empty lab, "this is not a small change. This is..." He gestured broadly at her figure. "This is transformation. You can't stay low all the time because of what your bastard husband did to you. You are bold, madam. We like this new you."



Devika stiffened. "Pathan, please don't involve yourself in my personal matters," she said, her voice sharper than intended. "And I would appreciate if you refrained from using such language."



"Sorry, madam," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "But I'm only speaking facts. You are looking beautiful. Men are dying for women like you, but your husband doesn't have taste, having multiple affairs."



The words stung despite their crude delivery. She remembered the day they had shown her the photos—Anand with another woman outside a Dubai hotel, his arm around her waist, his lips at her ear. The same intimate gesture he had once reserved for Devika.



"That's entirely inappropriate," Devika said, feeling the control of the situation slipping away. "I'm your professor, and this discussion is completely out of line."



"Of course, madam," Vishnu said, his tone conciliatory but his eyes still lingering on her arms. "We are just happy to see you becoming more... free. After everything that happened."



Devika looked between them, these two young men who had inserted themselves into her personal life with a presumption that made her uncomfortable. Yet she couldn't deny they had done her a service, painful as it was. Without their interference, she might still be living in blissful ignorance, writing loving letters to a husband who was betraying her at every opportunity.



"I appreciate your concern," she said carefully, "but there are boundaries that need to be respected. What happened with my husband is my business to deal with. Your role in revealing certain truths doesn't grant you permission to comment on how I dress or how I live my life."



"You're right, madam," Pathan said, raising his hands in surrender. "We overstepped. It's just—" He paused, searching for words. "It's good to see you fighting back, in your own way."



There was something in his expression—a genuine admiration perhaps—that softened her stance slightly. These boys were crude and inappropriate, but they had, in their own misguided way, tried to help her.



"The sleeveless blouse suits you perfectly," Vishnu added, his voice gentler now. "You should always dress like this. It shows confidence."



"Thank you," she said, surprised to find she meant it. "But that's enough personal discussion for today. We have work to do."



She turned to the whiteboard and began outlining the experiment steps, conscious of their eyes still on her. Part of her was appalled at their boldness, at the way they spoke to her as if they were equals or friends rather than her students. Another part—a part she was increasingly unfamiliar with—felt a flutter of something like power at their obvious admiration.



"Let's begin with setting up the water bath," she said, determined to regain control of the class. "You'll need to maintain a constant temperature of 37 degrees Celsius throughout the experiment."



As Pathan and Vishnu finally moved to gather their equipment, Devika wondered what was happening to her. First Seenu, now these students—the boundaries that had once seemed so clear were blurring. She had always been Professor Devika, respected and somewhat feared for her exacting standards. Now she was becoming something else, someone who invited inappropriate attentions, who almost welcomed them.



"Focus," she told herself firmly, turning her attention to the day's lesson plan. But even as she began demonstrating the proper technique for the experiment, she couldn't help but notice the way Pathan and Vishnu watched her every movement, their eyes lingering on her bare arms each time she reached for something on the shelf above.




The experiment required precision, but precision required focus, and focus was the one thing neither Pathan nor Vishnu could maintain. They fumbled with pipettes and misread measurements as Devika moved through the laboratory, her saree rustling softly with each step. The sleeveless blouse exposed the graceful curve of her arms, skin catching the fluorescent light as she reached for reagents on the upper shelves. Every time she lifted her arms, the young men's eyes followed the movement like compass needles finding north.



"Remember to record all your observations," Devika said, writing the procedure on the whiteboard. She stretched upward to reach the top of the board, causing her saree to pull snug against her hips. Behind her, a test tube nearly slipped from Vishnu's fingers.



The air in the laboratory felt charged, heavy with something beyond the usual chemical scents. Devika found herself hyperaware of her body—the weight of the mangalsutra at her neck, the brush of fabric against skin, the eyes that tracked her every movement. She reached up to adjust her braid, which had begun to unravel slightly. As she raised both arms to twist her hair back into place, she caught Pathan's gaze fixed on the exposed curve where her arms met her chest.



"Is something wrong, Pathan?" she asked, letting her hands fall slowly to her sides.



"No, madam," he stammered, eyes darting back to his notebook. "Just... trying to understand the catalysis rate."



She moved toward their workstation, noting how they stiffened as she approached. "Show me your notes so far," she said, standing closer than strictly necessary.



As Pathan showed her his haphazard calculations, Devika felt a strange sensation unfurling within her—a dark thrill at their obvious discomfort, at the power she held over them simply by existing in this space, in this body. These were the same boys who had presumed to involve themselves in her personal life, who had spoken so casually about her husband's betrayal, who had somehow thought it appropriate to share pornographic material with her through Saradha.



An idea formed in her mind, slippery and dangerous. What if, instead of maintaining boundaries, she pushed them? What if she gave them a taste of the discomfort they so readily inflicted on her?



"Your titration technique needs work," she said to Vishnu, who was struggling with a burette. "Let me show you."



She moved behind him, closer than she had ever stood to a student before. Rather than demonstrating from across the bench as she normally would, she positioned herself directly behind his tall frame. Her body was close enough for him to feel the subtle curve of her hips pressing gently into his lower back. One of her hands covered his, steadying it, while the other wrapped lightly around the burette's glass body.



"Like this," she whispered, guiding his fingers with slow precision. "You need to control the flow rate by applying gentle pressure. Too much, and you'll overshoot your endpoint."



She felt Vishnu's breath catch, his hand trembling slightly beneath hers. The contact was innocent enough to be dismissed as instructional, yet intimate enough to be unmistakably inappropriate. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, sense the rigid tension in his shoulders as he fought to maintain composure.



"Do you understand?" she asked, her voice softer than usual, her breath warm against the back of his neck.



"Yes, madam," Vishnu managed, his voice strained. "I think I understand perfectly."



She pressed herself slightly closer, allowing her chest to make the barest contact with his back. "Good. Keep practicing that technique."



Devika stepped away, catching Pathan's shocked expression from across the bench. His eyes were wide, mouth slightly open, as if he couldn't believe what he had just witnessed. She met his gaze steadily, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips.



Moving to Pathan's side of the bench, she noticed he had been taking notes on the experiment. "Let me check your observations," she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. She felt him stiffen under her touch as she leaned forward to examine his notebook.



"Your handwriting is difficult to read," she commented, increasing the pressure of her hand slightly. "And you've recorded the wrong color change here."



She leaned closer, her side pressing against his shoulder. Through the thin fabric of her blouse, she could feel the warmth of his body, the tension in his muscles. Unlike her interaction with Vishnu, this position allowed her to see Pathan's face—the flush creeping up his neck, the nervous dart of his tongue across his lips.



"I'll fix it, madam," he said, voice uncharacteristically subdued.



After a few moments, she straightened and walked around the bench, observing both students as they attempted to continue their work with shaking hands. Vishnu had moved to sit beside Pathan, both of them now on the same side of the workstation, comparing notes in hushed voices.



An opportunity presented itself, and before she could reconsider, Devika approached them again. She stood beside Pathan and looked over at Vishnu's notebook.



"You've made the same mistake as Pathan," she said. But instead of walking around to Vishnu's side, she leaned across Pathan, placing one hand on the table between them and reaching with her other hand to point at Vishnu's notes.



The position forced her to stretch over Pathan, her body bent at the waist. She felt her saree slide slightly, exposing the bare skin of her midriff. With calculated precision, she adjusted her stance so that her waist pressed against Pathan's face, her navel coming to rest directly against his lips.



Time seemed to stretch as she remained in this position, explaining the correct procedure to Vishnu while acutely aware of Pathan's hot, shallow breaths against her skin. She could feel his lips—not moving, not kissing, but unmistakably touching the sensitive hollow of her navel. The sensation sent an unexpected jolt of pleasure through her body.



"The catalyst affects the activation energy, not the reaction energy," she continued, her voice remarkably steady despite the intimate contact. "That's why your calculations aren't matching the expected values."



Pathan remained frozen, caught between propriety and desire, his face pressed against the soft expanse of her waist. She could feel the tremor in his body, the rigid self-control as he fought against instinct. Vishnu stared at them, unable to focus on a word she was saying, his eyes fixed on the point where his friend's face made contact with their professor's body.



After what felt like an eternity but was likely only thirty seconds, Devika straightened, smoothing her saree back into place with casual grace. Pathan exhaled sharply, his face flushed crimson, eyes fixed on the table before him.



"I think that clarifies the main issues with your experiment," she said, her tone returning to its professional cadence as if nothing unusual had occurred. "Review your notes, correct your calculations, and we'll discuss the results next time."



She walked back to her desk, heart pounding beneath her composed exterior. What had possessed her to act this way? These were her students, barely men, and she had just deliberately used her body to... to what? Punish them? Tease them? Express some newfound freedom?



"That will be all for today," she announced, gathering her materials. "Please clean your workstations before leaving. We'll continue with the next practical class on Thursday."



As she left the laboratory, she could feel their eyes following her, could sense the confused tension she had created. For the first time since discovering her husband's betrayal, Devika felt something other than hurt and humiliation. She felt powerful.




Pathan flung himself onto his narrow dormitory bed, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other hand pressed against his chest as if to contain his racing heart. Across the small room, Vishnu paced back and forth, running his fingers through his hair repeatedly, stopping occasionally to point wordlessly at his friend before resuming his agitated movement. For several minutes, neither spoke, the silence between them heavy with the shared memory of what had just happened in the biology laboratory. Finally, Vishnu dropped into his desk chair, the plastic creaking under his weight.



"Bhai, what the fuck just happened?" he breathed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Did that really happen or am I hallucinating?"



Pathan lowered his arm from his face, staring at the ceiling. "It happened. She came in wearing that sleeveless blouse..." His voice trailed off, the image vivid in his mind—the smooth brown skin of her arms, the elegant curve of her shoulders, the way the light caught the gold border of her saree.



"Fucking sexy Kerala woman," Vishnu muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. "Did you see how different she looked? Like completely transformed."



"How could I not see?" Pathan sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. "I've never seen her arms before today. Always those high-necked, full-sleeve blouses. And then she walks in looking like..." He gestured vaguely, words failing him.



"And then—" Vishnu jumped up, unable to contain his energy. "—she almost hugged me from behind. Did you see that? She pressed herself against me, bhai. I could feel her..." He cupped his hands in front of his chest, the crude gesture conveying what he couldn't articulate.



"I saw," Pathan nodded, his expression serious. "Her chest was definitely touching your back. I couldn't believe my eyes."



"I almost dropped that damn burette," Vishnu laughed nervously. "My hands were shaking so bad. And her voice right in my ear, all soft like that..." He shivered dramatically. "I thought I was going to embarrass myself right there in the lab."



Pathan stood suddenly, moving to the small window that overlooked the college grounds. "That was nothing compared to what she did to me," he said, his voice low and intense.



Vishnu stopped his restless movement. "What do you mean? When she put her hand on your shoulder?"



"No, man. After that." Pathan turned to face his friend, his expression still carrying traces of disbelief. "When she leaned over me to explain something to you. She—" He paused, as if needing to collect himself. "She pressed her waist against my face."



"What the fuck?" Vishnu's eyes widened. "When did this happen?"



"When she was pointing at your notes. She stretched across me instead of walking around." Pathan's hands moved in the air, tracing the curve of an invisible woman. "Her saree slid a bit, and her navel was right on my lips, bhai. Right. On. My. Lips."



Vishnu collapsed back into his chair. "Holy shit. I didn't even notice. I was too focused on her arms reaching toward my notebook."



"I could feel the heat from her skin," Pathan continued, his voice taking on a dreamy quality. "The softness of her stomach against my face. Her navel was literally touching my lips, and I just sat there, frozen, not knowing what to do."



"What did it feel like?" Vishnu leaned forward, hungry for details.



"Like silk, man. Warm silk." Pathan closed his eyes briefly, reliving the moment. "I could smell her—this mix of jasmine and something else, something sweet. And I could feel her breathing."



"Fuck," Vishnu exhaled sharply. "I can't believe I missed that. Did she act like it was an accident?"



Pathan shook his head slowly. "No way. She stayed like that for almost a minute, pretending to explain something to you. She knew exactly what she was doing."



"This is insane," Vishnu said, a grin spreading across his face. "We can definitely see the effect of her husband troubles and those videos Saradha shared with her."



"The porn definitely opened something in her mind," Pathan agreed. "Remember how shy she was when she first came here? Always pulling her saree pallu up to cover every inch of skin? And now look at her—sleeveless blouse, pressing herself against students."



"Her husband is a fucking idiot," Vishnu laughed. "Cheating on a woman like that."



"His loss, our gain," Pathan smirked. "She's finally letting herself go. Those videos must have shown her what she's been missing."



Vishnu leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. "Soon she'll be riding on our laps, bhai. I'm telling you. She's just getting started."



"We need to be patient," Pathan cautioned, though his eyes gleamed with anticipation. "Let her come to us. Each time she'll go a little further."



"Next practical class is Thursday," Vishnu reminded him. "What do you think she'll do then?"



"Maybe she'll drop something and bend over to pick it up," Pathan suggested, his smile turning wolfish. "Or maybe she'll wear an even more revealing blouse."



"Whatever happens," Vishnu said, "we need to be cool. Act like today was normal. Don't scare her off by being too eager."



Pathan nodded, moving back to sit on his bed. "We've already done the hard part—showing her those photos of her husband, making her realize what kind of man she's wasted herself on. Now she's starting to blossom."



"And we'll be right there to catch the flower when it falls," Vishnu added, his crude metaphor hanging in the air between them.



They fell silent for a moment, each lost in his own thoughts, replaying the events of the afternoon from slightly different angles, savoring the details that stood out most vividly in their memories: the press of her body, the scent of her skin, the unexpected boldness from a woman who had always seemed the epitome of propriety.



"I never thought those pictures of her husband would lead to this," Pathan finally said, a note of genuine surprise in his voice. "I just wanted to help her see the truth."



"And now she's helping us see a few truths of our own," Vishnu replied with a laugh. "Like what Professor Devika looks like when she decides to break the rules."



The apartment was silent when Devika returned, the emptiness greeting her like an old friend. She slipped off her sandals at the door, padding barefoot across the cool tile floor to the kitchen where she poured herself a glass of water. The day clung to her like a second skin—Seenu's fingers at her neck, Vishnu's body tense beneath her touch, Pathan's breath warm against her navel. What had gotten into her? She barely recognized the woman who had walked through the college today, seducing men with calculated touches and deliberate proximity.



She moved to the bedroom, where a framed photograph of her wedding day sat on the dresser. Devika and Anand, garlanded and solemn, their hands joined as they circled the sacred fire. She turned the frame facedown with a deliberate motion, then began removing her jewelry—earrings first, then the gold bangles that clinked softly against the wooden surface of the dresser.



Her fingers paused at the mangalsutra. The morning's scene played in her mind: standing in Seenu's office, the necklace broken, asking him—inviting him—to tie it around her neck. What madness had possessed her to make such a request? In all of Kerala tradition, this was an intimacy reserved solely for a husband. Yet she had stood there, watching Seenu's face flush with desire as his fingers fumbled with the clasp, feeling the heat of his breath against her skin.



"I asked the department head to tie my mangalsutra," she whispered to her reflection in the mirror, testing how the words felt in her mouth. They tasted of transgression, of boundaries not just crossed but deliberately dismantled.



And then, not satisfied with one impropriety, she had gone directly to her practical class and continued her strange, newfound boldness with her students. Students who were barely men—young, impressionable, and already far too involved in her personal life.



Devika unhooked the mangalsutra and laid it beside the upturned photo frame. She unwrapped her saree slowly, the forest-green fabric pooling at her feet like water. The sleeveless blouse came next, exposing her skin to the cool air of the bedroom. Standing in her petticoat, she examined her arms, the same arms that had drawn so many eyes today. They were just arms—ordinary, unremarkable. Yet the simple act of revealing them had transformed her in the eyes of the men around her.



She thought of Vishnu in the laboratory, the way he had stiffened when she stood behind him, her body close enough to feel the heat radiating from his. She had guided his hands on the burette, whispered instructions near his ear, allowed her breasts to brush against his back. The memory should have filled her with shame. Instead, she felt a strange thrill at the power she had wielded, the control she had exercised over his reactions.



But it was the moment with Pathan that lingered most vividly in her mind. The deliberate way she had leaned across him, positioning her body so that her waist pressed against his face, her navel resting against his lips. She had felt him freeze beneath her, felt the hot, quick breaths against her skin, sensed the tremor that ran through his body. In that moment, she had held him completely in her thrall.



"I pressed my waist against his face," she said aloud, the words hanging in the empty room. "I let a student's lips touch my stomach."



She closed her eyes, remembering the sensation—the softness of his lips, the warmth of his breath, the slight moisture that had left her skin feeling sensitized even after she pulled away. It was inappropriate, unprofessional, potentially ruinous for her career. Yet in that moment, she had felt more alive than she had in months.



"What is happening to me?" Devika asked her reflection as she opened her eyes again. "Why am I suddenly making all these men mad for me?"



The question had no simple answer. Was it rebellion against Anand's betrayal? A reclaiming of her sexuality after learning of his infidelities? Or something deeper—a fundamental shift in how she saw herself, in what she believed she deserved?



She had spent years being the perfect wife, the dedicated academic. She had followed all the rules, maintained all the appropriate boundaries. And what had it gotten her? A husband who cheated, a marriage that existed only on paper, and a life half-lived in a city where she felt perpetually out of place.



Perhaps this new Devika—the one who wore sleeveless blouses and used her body as an instrument of power—was simply claiming space that had always been rightfully hers. Perhaps the transgressions of the day weren't transgressions at all, but liberations.



Yet as she slipped into her nightdress, doubt crept in around the edges of this rationalization. She had used these men—Seenu with his obvious longing, Pathan and Vishnu with their youthful desire—to feed something hungry inside herself. She had crossed lines that existed for good reasons. What would happen tomorrow, and the day after? How far would this new Devika go?



She moved to the kitchen to prepare a simple dinner, her thoughts circling back to the moment in the lab when Pathan's face had pressed against her waist. The look in his eyes afterward—shock, desire, confusion—had mirrored her own internal state. She was playing with fire, and somewhere beneath the exhilaration, she knew she might get burned.



As she ate alone at her small dining table, Devika wondered if there was a middle path—some way to embrace this newfound sense of power without losing herself completely. Could she be both the respected professor and the woman who owned her sexuality? Could she find freedom without destruction?



The questions remained unanswered as she washed her plate and prepared for bed. Tomorrow would come, bringing with it choices and consequences. The mangalsutra lay on her dresser, unclasped, no longer a binding symbol but a reminder of how quickly certainties could unravel. Devika turned off the light, letting darkness envelop the room, feeling both lost and found in the new territory she had entered—a land without maps, where she would have to create her own path forward.

[prady12191]

The bathroom tiles felt cool against Devika's bare feet as she emerged from the shower, water droplets racing down her skin like tears. She wrapped a towel around herself and wiped steam from the mirror, studying her reflection with new eyes. The woman who stared back was both familiar and strange—the same features, the same body, but animated by something different, something hungry. She touched her waist, remembering the pressure of Pathan's face against her navel, the heat of his breath seeping through her saree. What kind of woman was she becoming?



With her hair dripping onto her shoulders, Devika moved to her bedroom and opened the wardrobe. Instead of reaching for her usual cotton nightgown, her fingers lingered over a midnight-blue night saree—a gift from Anand last Diwali that she'd never worn. The fabric was gossamer thin, meant for intimacy rather than sleep. Beside it hung a matching sleeveless blouse with delicate embroidery along its edges.



"Why not?" she whispered to the empty room. Her earlier boldness hadn't left her; rather, it seemed to have taken root, growing stronger in the quiet of her apartment.



She slipped the blouse over her damp skin, the cool silk making her shiver. The armholes were cut lower than the one she'd worn to college, revealing the soft curve where her arm met her chest. The saree dbangd differently than her daytime ones—looser, more suggestive in how it clung to the contours of her body. She secured it at her waist, then studied her reflection in the full-length mirror. The woman looking back at her seemed like a stranger—confident, sensual, aware of her own power.



"You wore a sleeveless blouse and pressed yourself against a student today," she told her reflection, testing how the words felt. "You let a boy's lips touch your navel."



The memory of the laboratory flooded back with visceral clarity. Vishnu had been struggling with the burette, his large hands too clumsy for the delicate instrument. She had positioned herself behind him, her body close enough to feel the heat radiating from his back. Her hands had covered his, guiding them to the proper position on the glass tube.



"Like this," she had whispered, her lips near his ear, conscious of how her breasts pressed lightly against his back. "You need to control the flow rate by applying gentle pressure."



She had felt him freeze, felt the tension in his muscles as he tried to maintain composure. The power she'd experienced in that moment—the knowledge that she could affect him so deeply with such minimal contact—had been intoxicating. It was a different kind of control than what she wielded as a professor; this was primal, intimate, dangerous.



The memory sent a flush of heat through her body. It was wrong—she knew it was wrong—and yet, she couldn't bring herself to regret it. Not after months of feeling invisible, months of knowing her husband was touching other women while she withered in lonely fidelity.



Devika moved to the living room, the night saree whispering against her skin with each step. The apartment felt too quiet, too empty. Usually, she welcomed the solitude after a day surrounded by students and colleagues, but tonight was different. The new sensations she'd awakened craved an audience, a witness.



She picked up her phone, then set it down again. Who could she possibly call? Saradha would ask too many questions, would immediately sense the shift in her. Her family in Kerala was out of the question—what would she even say to them? And friends... she hadn't made many since moving to Pune, her life revolving around work and her absent husband.



An image formed in her mind: Ramlal, the night security guard for her apartment building. Middle-aged, respectful, with eyes that followed her movements when he thought she wasn't looking. She'd caught him watching her once before, on a night when curiosity had led her to open one of the videos Saradha had shared—explicit content she'd never sought out herself. She'd forgotten to draw the curtains, and later realized he must have seen her through the window, seen her hand moving beneath her nightgown as she watched the forbidden images on her screen.



Neither of them had mentioned it, but something had changed in how he looked at her since that night—a new awareness, an unspoken secret between them.



"This is madness," she muttered, even as she reached for the intercom that connected to the security desk. Her finger hovered over the button. What exactly was she planning? To invite him up? For what purpose?



She wasn't entirely sure herself. Perhaps she just wanted company, someone to talk to. Perhaps she wanted to see desire in another man's eyes, to confirm that this power she'd felt today wasn't an illusion. Perhaps she wanted something more—a continuation of the boundaries she'd already crossed.



Whatever it was, she would keep it under control. She was still Dr. Devika, still the careful academic who thought through her actions. This would just be conversation, nothing more. She pressed the intercom button.



"Hello? Security desk?" Her voice sounded strange to her own ears, softer than usual, almost tentative.



"Yes, madam?" Ramlal's voice crackled through the speaker. "Any problem?"



"No problem, Ramlal. I was just wondering... if you're not too busy, could you come up to my flat for a moment? There's something I'd like to discuss."



A pause, filled with static. "Of course, madam. I will come right away."



"Thank you." She released the button, her heart hammering against her ribs. What was she doing? This wasn't like her at all—inviting a man to her apartment at night, dressed as she was. Yet she made no move to change, to cover her exposed arms or swap the diaphanous night saree for something more modest.



Minutes later, a soft knock at her door. Devika took a deep breath, smoothed her saree, and opened it to find Ramlal standing in the corridor, his security uniform neatly pressed, his expression a mixture of concern and curiosity.



"Good evening, madam," he said, his eyes widening slightly as he took in her appearance. "Is everything okay?"



"Yes, everything's fine," she replied, stepping back to allow him entry. "Please, come in. I just... I wanted some company tonight. It gets lonely sometimes."



Ramlal hesitated at the threshold, his gaze moving from her face to her bare arms and back again. "If you are sure, madam..."



"I am. Please." She gestured toward the sofa. "Would you like some tea?"



"That would be very nice, thank you." He stepped inside, moving carefully, as if entering a temple rather than an apartment.



"Make yourself comfortable. I'll just be a moment." Devika moved toward the kitchen, aware of his eyes following her, tracking the sway of her saree, the exposed skin of her arms and back where the blouse cut away.



In the kitchen, she filled the kettle and set it to boil, her movements deliberate, almost performative. She reached for cups in the upper cabinet, stretching so that her saree pulled taut across her hips. Through the doorway, she could see Ramlal sitting rigidly on the edge of the sofa, his hands on his knees, watching her with an intensity that sent a thrill down her spine.



As she prepared the tea, adding cardamom and ginger the way her mother had taught her, Devika felt strangely calm. This was inappropriate—inviting the security guard into her home at night, dressed as she was—but after the day's events, the boundaries of propriety seemed flexible, negotiable. She was no longer sure where the lines were drawn, or if she cared about crossing them.



She returned to the living room with two cups of steaming tea, setting one before Ramlal before taking a seat in the armchair opposite him. Not too close, but close enough to observe the subtle shifts in his expression as he looked at her.



"Thank you for the tea, madam," he said, lifting the cup to his lips. His eyes remained fixed on her face, but there was something in his gaze—a knowledge, a memory—that made heat rise to her cheeks.



He was remembering that night, she realized. Remembering how he'd seen her touching herself, her face contorted in pleasure as she watched strangers coupling on her screen. The thought should have mortified her, but instead, it gave her a strange sense of power.



"You look different tonight, madam," Ramlal said, breaking the silence. "Very beautiful."



"Thank you," she replied, sipping her tea. "I've been trying something new. Sleeveless blouses. I wore one to college today."



"It suits you very well." His eyes dropped briefly to her arms before returning to her face. "Did your colleagues notice the change?"



Devika smiled, remembering Saradha's approval, Seenu's hungry stares. "Oh yes, they noticed. My friend Saradha encouraged me. My department head was... quite attentive." She paused, watching Ramlal's face. "Even my students couldn't keep their eyes off me."



"I can understand why," Ramlal said, then immediately looked down at his tea. "I mean, it is a very nice style for you, madam."



"I've noticed many men's eyes on me today," she continued, emboldened by his reaction. "Even now, your eyes keep wandering, Ramlal. You look at me in a certain way."



He fumbled with his teacup, nearly spilling it. "No, madam, I would never—"



"It's alright," she interrupted, her voice gentle but playful. "There's no need to lie. I see how you look at me."



Ramlal's face flushed, his eyes meeting hers briefly before dropping again. He gave a small, embarrassed nod.



"I've been wondering," Devika said, changing the subject slightly, "why do so many men in Pune chew paan? Even my HOD chews it constantly. The red stains everywhere—it's so different from Kerala."



Ramlal seemed relieved at the shift in conversation. "That is just our way, madam. Some cannot live without paan, just like Kerala people cannot live without their Malabar beedis."



Devika laughed, the sound filling the small living room. "You're right about that. Every uncle in my village has stained fingers from those beedis."



"Each place has its own... pleasures," Ramlal said, seeming more at ease now. "Things people cannot resist."



"What else is famous here?" she asked, leaning forward slightly. "What other local pleasures should I try?"



"Kulfi," he replied immediately. "Our kulfi is very famous. Especially young women like you, they enjoy it very much."



"Is that so?" Devika tilted her head, noting something in his tone that suggested there was more to his words.



"Oh yes," Ramlal nodded, gaining confidence. "They love to suck it, lick it till the very end of the kulfi." He paused, watching her reaction. "Some women, they like to take the entire kulfi in their mouth at once."



The double meaning was unmistakable now. Devika felt her cheeks warm, but instead of reprimanding him or expressing outrage, she found herself playing along. "I've never tasted one," she said softly.



"Not to worry, madam," Ramlal replied, his voice lower now. "When the time comes, I will give you mine—" he caught himself, "I mean, buy and give to you. You can taste it then."



"I look forward to that," she heard herself saying, her voice honeyed with suggestion. "I'm waiting for that opportunity."



Ramlal's eyes darkened. "I cannot wait to see your lips wrapping around the kulfi, licking with your tongue."



Devika's heart raced, her breath coming quicker. This was dangerous territory, far beyond anything she'd ventured into before. Yet she couldn't stop herself. "I hope your kulfi—I mean, the one you buy for me—won't melt too easily."



"I will try," he replied, his voice husky now. "But when someone like you sucks it, it cannot withstand the heat. It might melt quickly in your mouth."



A liquid warmth pooled between her thighs at his words. This conversation—so explicit in its subtext, yet maintaining the thinnest veneer of innocence—was unlike anything she'd ever experienced. It terrified and thrilled her in equal measure.



"I heard in Kerala, mangoes are famous," Ramlal said, changing the subject but not the underlying current.



"Yes, they are very famous," she confirmed, wondering where this new metaphor would lead.



"I like mangoes," he continued, his eyes briefly dropping to her chest before returning to her face. "Not too big, not too small. I like medium, natural-sized mangoes."



The wetness between her thighs intensified. She shifted in her seat, crossing her legs, which only heightened the sensation. "Have you tasted Kerala mangoes?" she asked, her tone playful, deliberately echoing his double meaning.



"No," he shook his head slowly. "Not sure whether I will get the chance to taste those."



"Don't worry," Devika said, surprising herself with her boldness. "You may get a chance. I mean, when I go to Kerala, I will bring a few back. You can taste them then."



"Thank you, madam," Ramlal said, his voice strained now. "I would love to suck those mangoes of yours—I mean, the ones you bring from your hometown."



The air between them felt charged, electric with unspoken desires. Devika could see Ramlal's hands trembling slightly as he set down his teacup. His breathing had quickened, his face flushed with excitement and perhaps a hint of shame. For a man his age, in his position, this conversation was clearly overwhelming.



"I should return to my post," he said suddenly, standing up. "It is getting late, and I have duties."



Devika nodded, rising as well. "Of course. Thank you for keeping me company."



"It was my pleasure, madam," he replied, moving toward the door. He paused with his hand on the knob. "Perhaps another time, we can continue our... discussion about local specialties."



"I'd like that," she said softly.



After he left, Devika leaned against the closed door, her heart pounding in her chest. What had she done? The conversation had veered so far from propriety, had contained such explicit suggestions, that she could hardly believe it had been her participating, encouraging it even.



She moved to the window, pushing aside the curtain to look down at the security desk. Ramlal had resumed his position, but even from this distance, she could see how he sat with his head in his hands, seemingly as shocked by what had transpired as she was.



Devika let the curtain fall back into place and moved toward her bedroom, the night saree clinging to her heated skin. The woman she had been yesterday—proper, contained, respectable Dr. Devika—would never have recognized the woman she was becoming. Yet as she lay down on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, she couldn't bring herself to regret any of it. Not Seenu, not the students, not Ramlal.



For the first time since learning of Anand's betrayal, she felt something other than pain and humiliation. She felt alive, powerful, desired. And dangerous as it might be, she wasn't ready to give that feeling up.

[prady12191]

The door closed behind Ramlal with a soft click that echoed in Devika's chest like a forbidden drumbeat. She pressed her back against the wall, her breath coming in shallow gasps, the night saree clinging to her damp skin. The conversation they'd just had—the barely disguised innuendos, the hungry looks, the promise of more—it sent waves of heat through her body that had nothing to do with the summer air. What had gotten into her? This new Devika was a stranger, reckless and hungry, pushing boundaries she'd never even approached before.



"Mangoes," she whispered to herself, a delirious laugh escaping her lips. "I actually told him he could taste my mangoes." Her hand drifted to her breast, cupping it through the thin fabric of her blouse. The nipple hardened against her palm, sending a jolt of pleasure down her spine.



She moved to the window, watching Ramlal return to his post at the security desk. Even from this distance, she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The knowledge that she had affected him so deeply filled her with an intoxicating sense of power.



Her mind drifted back to the laboratory, to Vishnu's tall frame in front of her as she'd guided his hands on the burette. She had pressed herself against him, her chest touching his back, her lips close to his ear. The memory was vivid—the heat of his body, the slight tremor in his hands as he struggled to maintain composure, the catch in his breath when she'd whispered instructions.



"You need to control the flow rate," she had told him, her voice soft and intimate. "Too much pressure, and you'll overshoot."



In that moment, she had been the one in control, the one with power. Now, alone in her apartment, Devika found herself craving the opposite—to be the one touched, guided, pressed against. The thought of large hands encircling her waist, of a body pressing against her back, sent a liquid heat pooling between her thighs.



"I've gone mad," she murmured, turning away from the window. But had she? Or was this simply the natural progression of a woman reclaiming herself after betrayal? Anand had taken her dignity, had made her feel invisible and worthless. These new encounters—with Seenu, with her students, with Ramlal—they made her feel seen, desired, powerful.



She traced the bare skin of her arms, marveling at how something as simple as exposed flesh could transform her in the eyes of men. The sleeveless blouse had been such a small rebellion, yet it had changed everything. What other small rebellions might she permit herself? What other boundaries might she cross?



Her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn't eaten since lunch. The thought of food triggered another idea—a pretext to call Ramlal back, to continue what they'd started. It was dangerous, she knew. The suggestive conversation had been one thing, but inviting him back for a second time on the same night? That was deliberate, planned, impossible to explain away as mere loneliness or confusion.



"Aloo paratha," she said aloud, the idea taking shape. It was innocent enough—she was hungry, she wanted to try local food, she needed help making it. But beneath that innocence lay her true intention: to feel what Vishnu had felt in the laboratory, to experience hands guiding hers, a body pressed against her back.



Devika picked up the intercom, her fingers hovering over the button. Was she really going to do this? Cross yet another line? The memory of Ramlal's eyes—dark with desire, yet respectful, almost reverent—decided her. She pressed the button.



"Hello? Security desk?" Her voice sounded steadier than she felt.



"Yes, madam?" Ramlal's voice came through, a hint of surprise evident even through the crackling connection.



"I'm sorry to bother you again, Ramlal, but I was wondering... do you know how to make aloo paratha?"



A pause. "Yes, madam, I know. Why do you ask?"



"I'm quite hungry, and I've been wanting to try authentic aloo paratha." She twisted the cord of the intercom around her finger. "I have potatoes and flour, but I've never made it before. Would it be possible for you to help me?"



Another pause, longer this time. "Madam, I... I'm not sure if that would be appropriate. I'm on duty, and—"



"No one will come at this hour," she interrupted, her voice dropping to a softer register. "And I'm really very hungry. I'd be so grateful for your help."



She could almost hear him thinking, weighing duty against desire, propriety against opportunity. Finally, his voice came through again, lower than before.



"If you're sure no one will mind, madam, then I can come up and show you how to make it."



"Thank you," she breathed. "I appreciate it very much."



She released the button and smoothed her hands over her night saree. Should she change? Put on something more appropriate? But the thought was fleeting—she knew exactly what she was doing, what message her current attire sent. The sleeveless blouse, the sheer saree that clung to her curves—this was a deliberate choice, a silent invitation.



A few minutes later, a knock at her door. She opened it to find Ramlal standing there again, his expression a mixture of nervousness and barely concealed excitement. He had straightened his uniform, combed his hair—small preparations that told her he understood the unspoken promise of her invitation.



"Thank you for coming," she said, stepping back to let him in. "I'm really quite hungry."



"Yes, madam." He nodded, his eyes taking in her unchanged attire, lingering on the exposed skin of her arms, the curve of her waist visible through the thin fabric. "Aloo paratha is very famous here. Good choice."



"I've heard it's delicious." She closed the door behind him, acutely aware of the soft click of the latch, the private bubble it created around them. "I have potatoes, but I'm not sure what else we need."



"Onions, green chilies, coriander," he listed, moving toward the kitchen with careful steps. "And wheat flour for the dough."



"I'll show you what I have," she said, walking ahead of him into the kitchen, conscious of how her saree swayed with each step, how his eyes would be following the movement.



The kitchen was small, intimate—a space designed for one person, not two. They would have to stand close together, bodies brushing as they moved around. The thought sent another wave of heat through her body.



"I have potatoes here," she said, opening the small basket where she kept them. "And onions. I'm not sure about green chilies."



"This will do," Ramlal said, rolling up his sleeves. "Now, for the flour?"



"I don't have wheat flour," she admitted. "Only maida—all-purpose flour. Will that work?"



He considered this, nodding slowly. "Yes, but it needs more kneading. Maida dough must be worked longer to get the right texture."



"I don't mind waiting," she said, her voice soft with suggestion. "Some things are worth the extra effort."



Their eyes met, and the air between them seemed to thicken, charged with unspoken intentions. Ramlal's hands—large, strong, calloused from work—rested on the counter between them. Devika imagined those hands on her waist, guiding her movements as she had guided Vishnu's.



"Shall we begin?" she asked, her heart racing with anticipation of what was to come.


The kitchen filled with the gentle scbang of knife against potato skin as Devika followed Ramlal's instructions. Their elbows occasionally brushed in the narrow space, each contact sending ripples of awareness through her body. He stood beside her at the counter, close enough that she could smell the faint musk of his skin mingling with the starch of his uniform, close enough to feel the heat radiating from him like a banked fire waiting to be stoked.



"Peel them thinly," Ramlal instructed, his voice carrying a new tone of authority now that they were engaged in a task he knew well. "And then cut some onions—not too fine, just rough pieces."



"Like this?" Devika asked, holding up a half-peeled potato.



"Yes, perfect." His eyes lingered on her fingers, wet with potato juice, before returning to his own work—mixing spices in a small bowl. "Have you really never made paratha before?"



"Never," she admitted. "In Kerala, we make different breads. Appam, pathiri..." She trailed off as his arm reached across her to grab the salt, his chest momentarily pressing against her shoulder.



They worked in silence for a few minutes, the air between them thick with unspoken intentions. Ramlal mashed the boiled potatoes with practiced efficiency while Devika chopped onions, blinking away tears that had nothing to do with her racing thoughts.



"Now we need the flour," he said eventually, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel. "Where do you keep it?"



"Here." She reached for a container on an upper shelf, aware of how the movement stretched her blouse across her chest, how it exposed the curve of her waist as her saree shifted.



Ramlal's eyes followed the movement, his hands stilling momentarily before he took the container from her. "This is maida," he confirmed, opening it to examine the white powder inside. "Not wheat flour."



"Will it still work?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.



"Yes, but as I said, it needs more kneading." He measured out a portion onto the counter, creating a well in the center for water. "Maida dough must be worked longer to develop properly. It requires..." he paused, choosing his words, "strong hands."



The way he said it—"strong hands"—carried a weight of suggestion that made her breath catch. This was her moment, the opportunity she'd been waiting for.



"I'll knead it," she volunteered, stepping toward the counter.



"Have you done this before?" he asked, stepping aside to let her approach the mound of flour.



"No, but I want to learn." She positioned herself before the counter, adding water to the well he'd created. "I want to practice."



She began working the water into the flour, her movements hesitant and inefficient. The dough remained lumpy, refusing to come together under her inexperienced hands. She let her frustration show, sighing dramatically.



"It's not working," she said, looking over her shoulder at him. "I think I need those strong hands you mentioned."



Ramlal took a half-step forward, then hesitated. "I can do it for you, if you like. You can watch and learn for next time."



"No," she said quickly. "I want to do it myself, but... perhaps you could guide me? Show me the proper technique?"



He frowned, confusion evident in the furrow of his brow. "Guide you?"



"Yes. Like..." she gestured vaguely with flour-covered hands. "Stand behind me and show me how to use my hands properly. I learn better that way—by doing, not watching."



Understanding dawned in his eyes, followed quickly by disbelief and a flicker of desire. "You want me to...?"



"Yes," she said simply, turning back to the counter. "We don't have much time. I'm already quite hungry."



She heard his swallow, the rustle of fabric as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Then his voice, lower than before: "Madam, it's very hot in here. The humidity... If you don't mind, may I remove my shirt? It would be more comfortable."



The request—so unexpected, yet perfectly aligned with her unspoken desires—sent a thrill through her body. "Of course," she replied without turning. "You don't need my permission for that."



The soft sounds of buttons being undone, fabric sliding against skin, then the gentle thud as his folded shirt was placed on a kitchen stool. Devika kept her eyes on the dough, her hands working aimlessly in the flour, her heart hammering against her ribs.



Then he was behind her, his bare chest radiating heat like a furnace. She felt his hesitation, the careful way he positioned himself—close but not touching, waiting for some final confirmation that this breach of propriety was truly welcome.



"Are you sure about this, madam?" he asked, his breath warm against her ear.



"Yes," she whispered. "I need to practice."



He closed the remaining distance between them, his chest making contact with her upper back, the rough hair tickling her exposed skin where the blouse cut away. His skin was darker than hers, weathered by years of outdoor work, a stark contrast to her golden-brown complexion. She felt him reach around her, hands hovering just above her arms.



"May I?" he asked, his voice tight with restraint.



"Please," she breathed.



His hands descended onto her bare arms, engulfing them completely. His skin was rough against her smoothness, creating a friction that sent goosebumps racing across her body. With gentle pressure, he guided her hands back to the dough.



"Like this," he murmured, his lips close to her ear as he began to move their hands together, working the flour and water into a cohesive mass. "Firm but gentle. Push with your palms, then fold with your fingers."



Devika leaned back slightly, allowing more contact between their bodies. She felt the moment he registered her movement—the slight stiffening of his muscles, the catch in his breath, the infinitesimal tightening of his fingers around hers. As they worked the dough, sweat beaded on her skin, mingling with his where their arms pressed together. The flour stuck to their damp hands, creating a slick, silky texture that somehow made the contact even more intimate.



"Strong hands," she murmured, echoing his earlier words. "You were right."



He made a sound—half groan, half chuckle—and buried his face against her neck, his breath hot against her skin. Their hands continued to move in the dough, but the pretense of cooking was wearing thin. She could feel him hardening against her, his arousal pressing insistently at the small of her back through their clothes.



"Madam," he whispered against her skin, "so soft to knead."



"The dough?" she asked, feigning innocence.



"I mean the maida," he corrected himself, but his meaning was clear as his hips made a subtle, almost involuntary movement against her.



The pressure of his erection against her sent a jolt of pleasure through Devika's body. She felt herself growing wetter, her inner thighs slick with desire. A soft moan escaped her lips, encouraging him.



"Please," she whispered, unsure herself what she was asking for.



Ramlal took it as permission. His hands abandoned the dough, moving to her hips instead, leaving floury prints on the midnight-blue fabric of her saree. "The dough is done," he murmured, his voice thick with desire, "but there's something softer than maida that needs kneading."



His fingers pressed into the flesh of her hips, massaging in slow, deliberate circles. Devika gasped, her head falling back against his shoulder as pleasure radiated from his touch. His hands began to pull at her saree, tugging it lower to expose more of her waist.



"No," she protested weakly, her hands moving to raise the fabric back to its proper place.



But Ramlal was lost in sensation, his control slipping away. His grip tightened, holding the saree in place as he continued to tug it downward. Their hands wrestled briefly over the fabric, but his strength prevailed. Devika's eyes fluttered closed as she felt the cool air on newly exposed skin, felt his rough palms against her bare waist.



"So beautiful," he murmured, his lips finding the sensitive juncture of her neck and shoulder. He drew her skin between his teeth, sucking gently, then with increasing pressure.



"Ah!" she cried out, the sensation shooting straight to her core.



"Sexy Kerala woman," he groaned against her neck, his hips grinding more insistently against her. One hand left her waist, sliding upward toward her breast while the other moved to her navel, his thumb dipping into the small hollow and pressing gently.



The dual sensations—his hand moving toward her breast, his thumb circling her navel—broke through the haze of desire. This was going too far, too fast. She had wanted to experience being touched, being guided, but this was rapidly spiraling beyond her control.



With sudden determination, Devika twisted out of his grasp, stepping quickly to the side. "That's enough," she said, her voice firm despite her racing heart and trembling legs.



Ramlal stood frozen, his chest heaving, flour dusting his bare torso and hands. His eyes were dark with desire, confusion slowly replacing the hunger as her words registered.



"I'm sorry," he stammered, reaching for his shirt. "I shouldn't have—"



"No," she interrupted, smoothing her saree back into place with shaking hands. "Let's just... finish what we started. The parathas. We can eat together before you go."



The abrupt shift from intimacy to ordinary conversation left him disoriented. He nodded mutely, pulling his shirt back on with fumbling fingers.



They finished preparing the meal in silence, the air between them heavy with unfulfilled desire and unspoken words. When the parathas were done—golden brown and fragrant with spices—they sat at her small table and ate without looking at each other.



"The parathas are delicious," she said finally, breaking the silence.



"Thank you," he replied, his voice rough around the edges. "It's a simple recipe."



"Nothing about tonight has been simple," she thought, but kept the observation to herself.



When the meal was finished, Ramlal rose to leave, gathering the last shreds of his professional demeanor. "I should return to my post," he said, not quite meeting her eyes.



"Yes," she agreed, walking him to the door. "Thank you for... the cooking lesson."



He paused at the threshold, finally looking directly at her. Something unresolved lingered in his gaze—desire, confusion, the question of what would happen next time their paths crossed.



"Good night, madam," he said softly, and then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click that seemed to echo the closing of something else—a doorway perhaps, that once opened, could never truly be shut again.

[Thilka]

Can't wait for next update

[exbiixossip2]

hi brother

aap har baar KLPD kar dete ho...

Ramlal ko uske stan ko chhone or masalne dete... oral sex...ya full sex seduce and last sexxxxxxxxxxxxx.

next update bro... come fast with pics

[jaksa]

Can't wait for devika getting laid by oldman n students

[Sage_69]

Sparks will turn into fire in no time.

[Bowlg78]

Waiting..for... exploration of local ...specialities...by security guard....


Waiting...for... tasting each other's local special ones...mangoes and kulfis

Waiting for more spicy scenes between security guard and devika


Good and master piece work ...by author...


Writer... waiting for..devika and security guy..scenes..in your

Magical.. writing and creation of natural scenes between them