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

[Fuckstar]

Hi Prady,

It's good to see that you have finally found your story for Devika...... This story looks amazing like the previous ones...... I like all the male characters, specially Devika's interactions with Ramlal and her new angle with Seenu ...... I like Vishnu and Pathan's character but it looks like you have given them unnecessary powers like they are blackmailing anyone whenever they want.....

I am more interested in seeing how Devika's story moves ahead from here with Ramlal and Seenu..... Looking forward to the conversation between Devika and Ramlal, when they both discuss about the night Ramlal saw Devika watching porn and fingering and the aftermath of that conversation.....

[exbiixossip2]

next update bro... with add more devika pics

[prady12191]

# Scene 1



The door clicked shut behind Ramlal, leaving Devika alone in the suddenly vast emptiness of her apartment. The air still carried the scent of fresh parathas and something else—the musk of male sweat, the lingering heat of forbidden touch. She pressed her hands to her face, fingers still dusty with flour, and inhaled deeply. What had she done? What had she almost allowed to happen? Her body thrummed with conflicting signals—alarm, shame, and underneath it all, a persistent, unfamiliar hunger that refused to be silenced.



"I asked him to take off his shirt," she whispered to the empty kitchen, testing how the words felt in her mouth. They tasted of both transgression and liberation. "I let him touch me."



Devika's legs carried her to the bathroom, her movements mechanical, divorced from the chaos of her thoughts. The fluorescent light flickered on, harsh and unforgiving, as she faced her reflection in the mirror. She looked both familiar and foreign to herself—the same features she'd seen countless mornings, yet animated by something new, something dangerous.



Her fingers rose to her neck, finding the spot where Ramlal's mouth had been. There, just above her collarbone, bloomed a small purple bruise, the outline of teeth visible in its center. The paan-stained imprint of his desire marked her skin like a brand.



"His teeth," she murmured, touching the tender spot. "Dirty with paan." She remembered the rough scbang of his mouth, the slight bitterness she'd tasted when his breath fanned across her skin. The evidence of his addiction was now physically imprinted on her body, a temporary tattoo of their transgression.



Slowly, she unwrapped her saree, letting the midnight-blue fabric pool at her feet. The sleeveless blouse came next, buttons opening one by one until she stood in just her petticoat. Her eyes widened at what she saw in the mirror. Along her waist and hips, reddish marks spread like watercolors on wet paper—the imprint of his flour-dusted fingers, the evidence of his desperate kneading of her flesh.



"Like dough," she said softly, tracing the marks with her fingertips. "He kneaded me like dough."



The reality of what had happened—what had almost happened—crashed over her. She had invited a man into her home, had orchestrated a scenario designed to bring them into intimate contact. She had welcomed his touch, his kiss, his desire. If she hadn't stopped him when she did...



A flush spread across her skin, partly shame, partly something else—a dark thrill at her own boldness, at the power she held over him. She turned sideways, examining the marks more carefully. There was something almost beautiful about them, these temporary tattoos of passion.



"What am I becoming?" she asked her reflection. The woman looking back at her offered no answers, only the evidence of her metamorphosis written across her skin.



The shower beckoned, promising cleanliness, normalcy. She turned the water as hot as she could bear, stepping under the spray with a gasp. Steam filled the small bathroom as she scrubbed her skin, watching the last traces of flour swirl down the drain. If only her confusion could be washed away so easily.



As she cleansed herself, a strange sadness settled over her. The marks would fade, the evidence of tonight's encounter would disappear, and she would return to being Dr. Devika, the respected professor with the absent husband. For a brief moment, she'd been someone else—someone wild and hungry and free. Someone who knew what she wanted and wasn't afraid to reach for it.



Water sluiced down her body, carrying away the physical traces of Ramlal's touch, but unable to erase the memory of it from her skin. When she finally emerged from the shower, pink and raw from her vigorous scrubbing, she dried herself with careful movements, then slipped into her cotton nightgown without looking in the mirror again.



In bed, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, the events of the evening playing on endless loop behind her eyes. The weight of Ramlal's body against hers. The roughness of his hands. The heat of his breath. The moment when desire had given way to fear, when she'd pulled away. Sleep, when it finally came, was filled with dreams of flour and fire and hands that never stopped touching her.



---



In his small booth at the entrance to the apartment complex, Ramlal sat hunched over, his head in his hands. The night stretched endlessly before him, each minute an exercise in self-recrimination. He cursed himself in harsh whispers, each oath more biting than the last.



"Fool," he muttered, slamming his fist against the desk. "You had her right there. Right there in your hands. And you let her slip away."



The memory of Devika's body pressed against his was torture—so vivid he could still feel the softness of her hips beneath his palms. His fingers curled reflexively, as if trying to recapture the sensation of her flesh yielding to his touch.



"So soft," he whispered, closing his eyes. "Like nothing I've ever felt before."



He remembered the precise moment when she'd leaned back against him, her consent unspoken but unmistakable. The slight arch of her spine, the tilt of her head exposing the delicate curve of her neck. She had wanted him—he was certain of it. And yet, he'd moved too quickly, too roughly. He'd frightened her.



"I should have been gentler," he told the empty booth. "Should have taken my time. Removed her saree first, slowly. Then the blouse." His breathing quickened as he imagined how it might have gone differently. "She would have been vulnerable then. Exposed. She wouldn't have stopped me."



The fantasy bloomed in vivid detail—Devika's saree falling away to reveal more of her golden skin, his hands working the buttons of her blouse until it gaped open, exposing the curves he'd only felt through fabric. In his mind, she didn't pull away. In his mind, she welcomed him, encouraged him, begged for more.



"Next time," he vowed, the words a promise and a prayer. "Next time I won't waste my chance."



He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his body still tense with unfulfilled desire. The taste of her skin lingered on his lips—salt and sweetness and something uniquely hers. He'd marked her, he knew. Left the imprint of his teeth on her neck, his fingers on her hips. The thought sent a surge of primitive satisfaction through him. Even now, she would be looking at those marks, touching them, remembering.



"She'll call me again," he decided, certainty growing with each moment. "She'll want more. And when she does..."



He let the thought trail off, savoring the possibilities. Next time, he wouldn't hesitate. Next time, he would take what was offered, and more. The respectable professor from Kerala had revealed a different side tonight—a woman of fire and hunger, aching to be touched. And he would be the one to touch her, to claim her, to satisfy the need she could no longer hide.



"Next time," Ramlal repeated, his voice firmer now, his resolve hardening. "I am not going to leave the opportunity. Not again."



The night deepened around him, his imagination the only company in his small security booth. Outside, the city slept, unaware of the promises being made in the darkness, the boundaries being redrawn, the hunger growing stronger with each passing hour.





# Scene 2





Morning light filtered through the thin curtains, pulling Devika from troubled dreams into consciousness. Her body felt heavy, as if she'd run a great distance in her sleep. Memory flooded back—Ramlal's hands on her waist, his teeth at her neck, the dangerous precipice she'd nearly tumbled over. She sat up with a jolt, her fingers immediately finding their way to her collarbone, searching for evidence of last night's transgression.



She hurried to the bathroom, heart pounding as she leaned toward the mirror. To her relief, the bite mark had faded to the faintest shadow, barely visible unless she knew exactly where to look. She turned, examining her hips and waist where his flour-dusted fingers had pressed and kneaded. The reddish marks there too had softened overnight, retreating like tide marks on sand, leaving her skin unmarked but somehow changed—as if the memory of touch had seeped beneath the surface.



"Thank goodness," she whispered, releasing a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.



Her wardrobe stood open, the sleeveless blouses hanging like silent tempters among her more modest attire. Devika's fingers hovered over the emerald green one she'd worn the day before yesterday, the one that had started this cascade of boundary-crossing. Something in her wanted to continue the experiment, to feel men's eyes on her exposed skin again, to wield that strange, intoxicating power she'd discovered.



But another part—the cautious academic who had built her reputation on competence and dignity—urged restraint. She had ventured too far, too fast. It was time to retreat, to reassess, to remember who she was supposed to be.



"Not today," she decided, selecting instead a high-necked, full-sleeved blouse in deep maroon. The fabric embraced her arms completely, a cotton armor against unwanted—or perhaps too wanted—attention.



She chose a cream-colored saree with a simple gold border, dbanging it with practiced movements, making sure the pallu covered her shoulders fully. As she fastened her mangalsutra around her neck, she remembered Seenu's fingers fumbling with the clasp, his breath hot against her skin. So many boundaries crossed in such a short time. She needed to find her footing again, to remember who Dr. Devika was before all this began.



The college corridors felt different this morning—quieter, more subdued. Devika made her way to the staff room, nodding at students who greeted her with their usual respect. Inside, she immediately noticed Saradha's absence. Her friend's desk sat empty, her colorful shawl missing from the chair back where it usually hung.



"Dr. Devika," called Professor Mehta from across the room. "Saradha called in sick today. Some stomach bug, she said."



Devika nodded her thanks for the information while a small wave of vulnerability washed over her. Without Saradha's protective chatter and companionship, she felt exposed, as if everyone could somehow see through her modest attire to the woman who had pressed herself against the security guard just hours ago.



She settled at her desk, arranging her papers with mechanical precision, trying to lose herself in the familiar routine of academic work. The lab equipment requisition forms demanded her attention, a welcome distraction from the memories that kept surfacing like bubbles in boiling water.



"Excuse me, madam?"



The voice—male, weathered, with the distinctive local accent—broke through her concentration. Devika looked up to find an older man standing before her desk, his hands clasped respectfully at his waist. He wore the college's peon uniform, the khaki fabric pressed into neat creases. His beard was a study in contrasts—dark hairs interspersed with gray, untidy yet somehow dignified. Behind thick glasses, his eyes crinkled at the corners, crow's feet speaking of decades spent under the harsh Indian sun.



"Yes?" she replied, setting down her pen.



"Good morning, madam. I am Ganapathi. Ganapathi Rao." He offered a small bow, his back bending with the stiffness of age. "I have joined as new peon for science department."



"Oh, I see. Good morning, Mr. Rao." Devika nodded politely. "Welcome to the college."



"Thank you, madam." His eyes moved over her face with unconcealed interest, lingering longer than strictly professional. "I am coming to introduce myself to all faculty members. Principal sir told me to meet everyone."



"That's very thoughtful," she said, feeling a strange discomfort under his persistent gaze.



Ganapathi didn't move away as expected. Instead, he leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Madam, if you don't mind me asking, you are not from Maharashtra, yes?"



The question surprised her. "No, I'm from Kerala. I moved here when I got the position."



His face brightened, as if he'd solved a particularly challenging puzzle. "Ah! Kerala! I knew it. You are looking too beautiful to be local Pune woman."



Devika blinked, taken aback by the directness of the compliment. "I'm sorry?"



"Kerala women have special beauty," he continued, seemingly unaware of her discomfort. "Different complexion, different features. No Pune women look like you, madam. When I saw you, my heart beat very fast. I thought, 'who is this beautiful lady?'"



His frankness was disarming, delivered with such matter-of-fact sincerity that it was difficult to take offense. Still, Devika felt her cheeks warm at his unfiltered admiration.



"That's... very kind of you to say," she managed, unsure how to respond to such direct praise from a man old enough to be her father.



"Not kind, madam. Only truth." Ganapathi nodded emphatically, his beard bobbing with the movement. "Kerala women famous for beauty. But you are exceptional even among them."



Devika glanced around, hoping someone might interrupt this increasingly awkward conversation, but the other faculty members were engrossed in their own work.



"Well, thank you for introducing yourself," she said, trying to bring the interaction to a close. "I'm sure you have other faculty members to meet."



"Yes, yes," Ganapathi agreed, though he made no move to leave. Instead, he leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping even further. "Madam, if you require any help, anything at all, please ask for Ganapathi. I am expert in solving all problems for faculty."



There was something in his tone—a weight to the words 'anything at all'—that made Devika wonder if she was reading too much into a simple offer of assistance. After the events of the past few days, perhaps she was seeing hidden meanings where none existed.



"I'll keep that in mind, thank you," she said, picking up her pen again in a clear signal that the conversation was over.



"No need for thanks, madam. It is my duty." He finally straightened, preparing to leave. "And my pleasure," he added, with a small smile that revealed teeth stained dark red from years of paan chewing.



As Ganapathi moved away, Devika exhaled slowly. What was happening to her life? First Seenu, then her students, then Ramlal, and now this elderly peon—all of them looking at her with that same hungry gaze. Had something fundamentally changed about her, some invisible signal she was now broadcasting? Or had it always been there, and she'd only just become aware of it?



She returned to her forms, but concentration proved elusive. The memory of Ganapathi's admiring gaze lingered, joining the ghostly sensations of Ramlal's hands on her waist, Pathan's face against her navel, Seenu's fingers at her neck. Different men, different touches, different transgressions—yet all connected by a thread of desire that seemed to be weaving itself through the fabric of her life, creating a pattern she couldn't yet decipher.

[prady12191]

Ganapathi's words lingered in the air long after he'd shuffled away, his admiration joining the chorus of male attention that had followed Devika these past days. She sat at her desk, the requisition forms before her blurring into meaningless shapes as her mind drifted back to Seenu's office—the feel of his fingers at her neck, brushing her skin as he fastened her mangalsutra. The memory sent a forbidden shiver down her spine, vivid and intrusive despite the high-necked blouse she'd chosen as armor against exactly these thoughts.



"He tied my mangalsutra," she whispered to herself, so softly the words barely disturbed the air. The sacred necklace felt heavier today, weighted with the knowledge that hands other than her husband's had secured it around her neck. In Kerala tradition, this intimacy was reserved solely for one's spouse, yet she had invited—no, orchestrated—Seenu's touch.



Her body remembered his lips against her neck more clearly than her mind wished to admit. The brief, hungry press of his mouth against her skin had awakened something in her, something that refused to be silenced by modest clothing or professional distance. She touched the spot now, fingers grazing where his lips had been, feeling an echo of that forbidden heat.



"What's wrong with me?" she wondered, her pen making aimless circles on the margin of her papers. This morning she had promised herself restraint, had chosen her most conservative attire, had resolved to remember who Dr. Devika was supposed to be. Yet here she sat, entertaining thoughts that would scandalize her family, her colleagues, herself.



A wild notion formed in her mind, dangerous and thrilling. What if she went to Seenu's office? What if she gave him another opportunity to cross the line they'd already blurred? The thought should have horrified her, but instead it sent a flutter of anticipation through her body, a quickening of breath she couldn't control.



"I could ask him about the biotechnology curriculum," she reasoned, the excuse paper-thin even to her own ears. "The program review is coming up. It would be perfectly reasonable to consult with him."



She gathered her notepad and a few articles she'd printed for the review, constructing the façade of a legitimate academic inquiry. Her hands trembled slightly as she arranged the papers, betraying the true nature of her intentions. Around her, the staff room continued its routine afternoon bustle, oblivious to the turmoil within her.



As she rose from her desk, Devika caught sight of herself in the reflection of the window—her cream saree dbangd modestly over her shoulders, her face composed despite the chaos of her thoughts. The image reassured her. On the outside, she was still Dr. Devika, respected professor, consummate professional. No one could see the hunger that grew inside her, the dangerous curiosity about where another boundary might be crossed.



The walk to Seenu's office stretched longer than usual, each step carrying her further from safety, closer to temptation. Her heart pounded against her ribs, a primitive drum signaling both warning and excitement. Twice she nearly turned back, her better judgment struggling against this new, reckless impulse. But the memory of power—the look in Seenu's eyes when she'd asked him to tie her mangalsutra, the quickening of his breath when she'd allowed his touch—pulled her forward like a current.



She paused outside his door, gathering herself. What exactly did she hope would happen? She wasn't entirely sure herself, only that she needed to feel that rush again, that intoxicating sense of being desired so intensely that propriety crumbled like ash.



Devika knocked softly, then opened the door without waiting for a response. Seenu sat behind his desk, reading through a stack of papers, his glasses perched on the end of his nose. He looked up, his expression shifting from irritation at the interruption to something else entirely when he recognized her—surprise, uncertainty, and beneath it all, a flicker of the same hunger she'd witnessed before.



"Dr. Devika," he said, removing his glasses and setting them aside. "I wasn't expecting you."



"I hope I'm not interrupting," she replied, closing the door behind her without fully analyzing the implication of that action. "I had some questions about the biotechnology curriculum for the program review."



"Of course," he said, gesturing toward the chair across from his desk. "Please, sit."



She remained standing. "Actually, I brought some articles I thought you might find interesting. May I show you?"



Moving around to his side of the desk felt deliberate, transgressive. She positioned herself beside his chair, close enough that the fabric of her saree brushed against his arm as she spread the articles before him. The contact, brief and seemingly innocent, sent a jolt of electricity through her body.



"These discuss some innovative approaches to integrating computational models with laboratory experiments," she explained, her voice steady despite the riot of sensations coursing through her. "I thought they might be relevant to the points you raised in our last meeting."



Seenu nodded, his eyes moving over the text without appearing to register any of it. His awareness, like hers, seemed focused entirely on the narrow space between their bodies, the points where they almost touched.



Devika leaned closer, placing her hand on his shoulder as if to steady herself while pointing to a particular passage. The contact was brief but deliberate, her fingers pressing into the fabric of his shirt, feeling the warmth of his body beneath. She felt him stiffen at her touch, heard the slight catch in his breath.



"What do you think of this methodology?" she asked, her voice dropping to a softer register.



"It's... interesting," he managed, his eyes finally meeting hers. The look they exchanged was charged with mutual recognition—they both understood this wasn't about academic methodologies at all.



As she straightened, her arm brushed against an open ink bottle on his desk. The small glass container wobbled precariously, then tipped, spilling its contents across her hands before either of them could react.



"Oh!" Devika exclaimed, pulling back as the deep blue liquid spread across her fingers and palm. "I'm so sorry—I didn't see the ink."



Seenu jumped to his feet, grabbing a box of tissues from his desk drawer. "Here, quickly," he said, pulling several tissues free and pressing them into her stained hands.



Their fingers tangled together as he attempted to blot the worst of the ink. The moment extended, his hands enveloping hers under the pretense of helping, both of them aware of the intimacy of the contact.



"I think that's the best we can do for now," he said finally, his voice rougher than before. The tissues had removed some of the ink, but her hands remained stained with blue-black smudges. "You should wash them properly when you can."



"It's fine," she replied, examining her hands with a calmness that belied her racing heart. "As long as I don't touch anything important."



Her eyes swept the office, landing on a shelf behind his desk. "Actually, I just remembered—didn't you mention having some reference materials on integrative biology? The ones on that top shelf? Those might be helpful for the review."



Seenu followed her gaze to the high shelf. "Yes, I believe they're up there. Let me get them for you."



"No, no," Devika insisted, already moving toward a small step stool tucked beside his bookcase. "I can reach them. Which ones were they again?"



She positioned the stool beneath the shelf, aware of how her actions would force Seenu to watch her ascend, how his eyes would follow the movements of her body as she stretched upward. It was a calculated risk, another boundary crossed in this strange new territory she found herself exploring.



"The green binders, third from the left," Seenu directed, his voice tight with tension as she climbed onto the stool, her saree pulling snug against her form with each movement.




From his seat, Seenu had a perfect side view of Devika as she stretched upward on the stool. The cream-colored saree pulled taut against her hips, outlining curves that her modest dbanging usually concealed. Her arm extended toward the green binders, the high-necked blouse straining slightly at her shoulder, revealing nothing yet somehow suggesting everything. He found himself unable to look away, mesmerized by the graceful arch of her body, by what the conservative fabric both hid and hinted at.



"Can you see them?" he asked, his voice emerging rougher than intended.



"Yes," Devika replied, her fingers grazing the spine of a binder. "Just a bit farther..."



As she reached, she deliberately maneuvered the edge of her saree pleats between the shelf door and its frame, a calculated move disguised as innocent shifting. The pleats slipped into the narrow gap, caught like a secret between them. She felt the slight resistance as the fabric wedged deeper with her movement, ensuring it would not come free easily.



"I've got it," she announced, grasping the binder and beginning to turn.



The motion pulled her saree taut, the trapped pleats creating unexpected tension in the fabric. Devika made a show of not noticing as she carefully descended the stool, one hand holding the binder, the other steadying herself. Each step increased the strain on her carefully arranged saree.



"Oh!" she exclaimed as her feet touched the ground. The sound was part surprise, part performance. The caught pleats resisted, pulling the careful dbanging of her saree askew. She tugged gently, as if trying to free the fabric, but the motion only served to worsen the situation.



"It's caught on something," she said, turning slightly toward the shelf, exposing her profile to Seenu's widening eyes.



With a small, strategic tug, she ensured that the safety pin securing her pallu at her shoulder strained against the fabric. The old pin, weakened from years of use, gave way exactly as she'd anticipated when she'd selected it this morning after seeing its condition. It broke with a tiny metallic snap, pieces falling to the carpet as her pallu slipped from her shoulder in a whisper of silk.



"Oh no," Devika gasped, genuine alarm mingling with her planned dismay as the pallu fell more completely than she'd expected, pooling around her feet in a puddle of cream and gold.



Seenu rose from his chair with such speed that it rolled backward and hit the wall. "Are you all right?" he asked, crossing the short distance between them in two strides.



"I'm fine," she replied, one hand still clutching the binder while the other tried ineffectually to gather the fallen pallu. "Just my saree—it's caught in the shelf door."



Seenu reached past her to open the small door, releasing the trapped pleats. The damage was done, however. Without the support of proper dbanging and with the pallu completely dislodged, Devika stood before him in her maroon blouse and a saree that hung awkwardly from her waist, partially unraveled from its careful arrangement.



"Thank you," she said softly, looking up to find Seenu frozen, his eyes traveling over her transformed appearance.



What Seenu saw made his breath catch in his throat. The high-necked blouse, meant to be modest, now seemed to emphasize what it failed to hide. Without the pallu's dbang across her chest, the cut of the blouse revealed the profound curve of her breasts, the deep shadow between them visible at the blouse's neckline. The disrupted saree hung precariously low on her hips, exposing a slice of golden midriff and the intricate depression of her navel. The contrast between her earlier modest appearance and this accidental dishabille was more arousing than if she'd walked in wearing revealing clothes.



"I—" he began, but words failed him. His eyes couldn't settle, moving from her face to her chest, to the exposed waist, to the fallen pallu at her feet.



Devika crossed one arm over her chest, a gesture of modesty that only served to push her breasts higher against the fabric of her blouse. "Please," she whispered, her eyes downcast. "Don't look at me like this."



The request, so contrary to the actions that had led to this moment, created a delicious tension between them. Seenu struggled with conflicting impulses—to turn away respectfully or to continue drinking in the sight of her, to help her or to prolong this unexpected intimacy.



"I'm sorry," he managed, forcing his eyes to the floor where her pallu lay. He bent to retrieve it, the gold-bordered fabric soft between his fingers. "Here," he said, offering it to her with a hand that wasn't entirely steady.



"Thank you," she replied, taking the pallu but making no immediate move to replace it. "My saree is completely messed up now. I'll need to re-dbang it properly."



She looked around the office, as if seeking a solution. "Is there somewhere I could fix this? I can't possibly walk through the college like this."



"My office has a small restroom," Seenu offered, gesturing toward a door in the corner. "You're welcome to use it."



Devika glanced down at her hands, still stained with blue-black ink, then back at the delicate cream fabric of her saree. "That's very kind, but look at my hands. If I try to re-dbang my saree with this ink, it will be ruined. I'd need to wash my hands thoroughly first, and even then..."



She let the sentence hang between them, the implication clear. The situation demanded a solution beyond what simple courtesy could provide.



"Perhaps I could call Saradha to help you?" Seenu suggested, though his tone lacked conviction.



"Saradha is absent today," Devika reminded him. She hesitated, then asked with careful casualness, "Do you... do you know how to dbang a saree?"



The question hung in the air, loaded with possibility. Seenu's mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. "I—well, I've seen it done, of course. My wife..." He trailed off, flustered by the unexpected query.



"You've never helped your wife with her saree?" Devika pressed, her voice softening to a more intimate tone.



"Occasionally," he admitted, his eyes darting to the exposed curve of her waist. "When she's in a hurry. Just the finishing touches, really."



"That's all I need," Devika said. "Just help with the arrangement. I can talk you through it." She paused, watching his internal struggle play across his face. "Unless you'd rather I call someone else? Perhaps Ganapathi could find a female staff member to help me."



The mention of the new peon—the man Seenu had watched complimenting Devika earlier through his office window—settled the matter. "No," he said quickly. "That won't be necessary. I can help you."



Devika's eyes met his, a slow smile spreading across her lips. "Are you sure? It might be... awkward for you."



"I'm sure," he replied, though he was anything but.



"Good." She set the binder down on his desk, then reached for the edge of her saree, where it still clung precariously to her waist. "Then lock the door, please. I wouldn't want anyone walking in while I'm... indisposed."



Seenu moved to the door as if in a trance, turning the lock with a decisive click that seemed to seal their private pact. When he turned back, Devika stood in the center of his office, one hand still at her waist, the other extended toward him in invitation.



"Come here," she said softly. "I'll teach you how to dbang a saree properly. You can practice on me."



Her words, innocent on the surface, carried an undercurrent of seduction that sent heat rushing through Seenu's body. He approached her slowly, his heart pounding against his ribs, knowing they were about to cross yet another boundary, one from which there might be no return.





"Untie it completely," Devika instructed, her voice steady despite the wild beating of her heart. She stood in the center of Seenu's office, the fallen pallu still gathered in his hands, her saree hanging awkwardly from her waist. "It's too tangled to fix. We need to start over."



Seenu swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly. "Untie it?" he repeated, the words emerging thick and uncertain.



"Yes," she confirmed, turning slightly to show him where the fabric was tucked at her waist. "Pull it free here, where it's secured."



He set the pallu on his desk and approached her with the reverence of a man entering a temple. His hands, which had signed departmental budgets and academic papers with decisive authority just that morning, now trembled as they hovered near the slight indentation of her waist.



"Here?" he asked, fingers brushing the fabric where it disappeared into her petticoat.



"Yes," she breathed. "Just pull gently."



Seenu pinched the edge of the saree between his thumb and forefinger, tugging carefully. The fabric resisted for a moment, then slid free with a soft whisper that seemed obscenely loud in the quiet office. The sensation of untying a woman's saree—the fantasy that had occupied so many of his private thoughts—was now unfolding beneath his hands, more intoxicating than he had imagined.



"Now what?" he asked, holding the loose end of cream silk, his eyes fixed on the sliver of exposed skin between her blouse and petticoat.



"Unwind it," Devika instructed, her voice steady as she began to rotate slowly before him. "As I turn, gather the fabric as it comes free."



Devika rotated slowly, a graceful dance that drew Seenu's gaze like a moth to flame. With each deliberate turn, the fabric slipped through his fingers, cascading down her form and revealing glimpses of the maroon petticoat beneath. The soft contours of her golden skin at her midriff glimmered in the muted light of the office, an intoxicating invitation. This intimate act felt steeped in ancient ritual—she was unwrapping herself for him, layer by layer, as if unveiling not just her saree but a deeper essence hidden beneath it. Each revolution brought them closer together, intensifying the charged atmosphere between them.



When the saree was completely undone, Seenu stood holding yards of cream silk, face flushed, breathing uneven. Devika stood before him in her high-necked maroon blouse and matching petticoat, more covered than many women at a beach, yet somehow more exposed than if she'd worn nothing at all. The juxtaposition of her modest blouse with the exposed midriff and the close-fitting petticoat created a tableau of contradictions that set his pulse racing.



"Now we redress," she said, her voice lower than before. "Take that end and wrap it around me once, from right to left."



She turned, presenting her back to him, arms slightly raised to allow him access. Seenu stepped closer, the scent of jasmine from her hair making him dizzy. He extended his arms around her, bringing the fabric across her back, his chest nearly touching her shoulder blades.



"Tuck it in firmly at my waist," she instructed, gesturing to her right side.



His fingers fumbled at her waist, brushing against the warm skin above her petticoat as he secured the fabric. The contact, brief and seemingly accidental, sent electricity coursing through him. He allowed his fingertips to linger a fraction longer than necessary, feeling the slight give of her flesh, the incredible softness that contrasted with the rough cotton of her petticoat.



"Good," Devika murmured, though what precisely she was approving—his tucking technique or his lingering touch—remained ambiguous. "Now bring it around once more, tighter this time."



Seenu circled her again, drawing the fabric snug against her body. This pass brought him even closer, his arms encircling her like an embrace. When he reached her right side again, she placed her hand over his, guiding it to the proper spot for tucking.



"Press firmly," she said, applying pressure to his fingers through the fabric, pushing them below the waistband of her petticoat. "It needs to be secure."



The feel of her hand on his, guiding him into the intimate space between fabric and flesh, sent a surge of heat through his body. When she released him, he kept his fingers there longer than necessary, savoring the warmth of her waist, the slight dampness of her skin in the humid office air.



"Now for the pleats," she said, taking a small step away and turning to face him again. "This is the most important part. Hold the fabric here—" she indicated a spot about arm's length from where he'd tucked it "—and fold it back and forth, like this."



She demonstrated with her hands in the air, making pinching motions. Seenu grasped the saree where she'd indicated and attempted to mimic her instructions, creating uneven folds in the silk.



"No, smaller," she corrected. "Each pleat should be the same width. Here, let me show you."



She stepped closer, taking his hands in hers, guiding his fingers through the motions. The ink stains on her skin transferred slightly to the cream fabric, leaving faint blue-black whispers on the silk. Neither of them seemed to notice or care.



"Like this," she said, her face close to his, her breath warm against his cheek.



Seenu could barely focus on the pleating. The proximity of her body, the intimacy of her instruction, the domestic ritual transformed into something forbidden—it overwhelmed his senses. His hands, still ostensibly creating pleats, strayed toward her waist, fingers pressing suddenly, deliberately against her exposed navel.



"Professor," Devika admonished, though she didn't pull away. "That's not where the pleats go." Her tone was playful, a gentle correction rather than a rejection.



"Sorry," he muttered, not sounding sorry at all. "Your skin is... distracting."



A small smile played at the corners of her lips. "Focus on the task," she said. "There will be time for... appreciation later."



The implied promise in her words sent his mind racing with possibilities. He returned his attention to the pleats, creating seven even folds under her guidance.



"Perfect," she approved. "Now hold them together tightly in your left hand, and use your right to smooth them flat."



He did as instructed, pressing the pleats between his palm and her abdomen, feeling the heat of her body through the thin fabric. The pressure pushed the saree against her, outlining the subtle curve of her stomach, the slight protrusion of her navel.



"Now comes the tricky part," Devika said, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "You need to tuck these pleats into my petticoat, right at the center."



Seenu's heart hammered against his ribs. "Into your...?"



"Petticoat," she finished for him. "You'll need to kneel down to do it properly. The pleats must be tucked deep enough to hold securely."



The instruction—clinical in its practicality yet loaded with erotic implication—left him momentarily speechless. After a beat of silence, he sank to his knees before her, the pleated fabric clutched in his hand, his face level with her navel.



From this position, the world narrowed to the few inches of exposed skin between her blouse and petticoat. The gentle swell of her lower abdomen, the delicate depression of her navel, the nearly invisible dusting of fine hairs trailing downward beneath the waistband of her petticoat—these details consumed his attention with a focus that bordered on reverence.



"Go ahead," she urged, looking down at him. "Tuck them in."



Seenu leaned forward, bringing his face closer to her midriff. He inhaled deeply, drawing in the scent of her—warm skin, faint jasmine, and something else, something uniquely feminine that made his mouth water. Holding the pleats tightly with one hand, he used the other to guide them toward the waistband of her petticoat.



His fingers brushed against her bare skin as he worked, each contact sending sparks of sensation through both of them. He heard her breath catch as his knuckles grazed her navel, felt the slight tremor that ran through her body at his touch.



"You need to push them deeper," Devika instructed, her voice huskier than before. "They won't hold otherwise."



Seenu slipped his fingers beneath the waistband of her petticoat, pushing the pleated fabric down along with them. The tight elastic pressed against his hand as he worked the saree deeper, his fingers unavoidably brushing against the warm, smooth skin of her lower abdomen. The intimacy of the act—his hand partially inside her undergarment, separated from her most private places by mere inches—made his breath shallow and quick.



Instead of withdrawing once the pleats were secured, he allowed his hand to linger, fingers splayed against her skin beneath the petticoat. He could feel the heat radiating from her core, the slight dampness where her body responded to his touch despite her composed exterior. The moment stretched, taut with possibility, as his hand remained where no man's but her husband's should ever be.



"Professor Seenu," Devika said softly, a note of warning in her voice. "You can remove your hand now."



The gentle reprimand broke the spell. Seenu reluctantly withdrew his fingers from her petticoat, allowing them to trail slowly across her skin as they emerged. He remained kneeling before her, looking up past the newly tucked pleats to meet her eyes.



"Is that secure enough?" he asked, his question carrying layers of meaning beyond the simple words.



"We'll see," she replied, her gaze holding his. "Stand up now. We still have the pallu to arrange."




Seenu didn't stand as instructed. His knees remained pressed against the office carpet, his eyes fixed on the small hollow of Devika's navel just inches from his face. The newly tucked pleats framed it perfectly, drawing his attention to that intimate depression like a target. Something primal had awakened in him—a hunger that rational thought couldn't contain. The careful ritual of dbanging her saree had pushed him beyond the bounds of control, beyond the pretense of propriety that had governed their interactions until now.



"Professor?" Devika's voice came from above, a mixture of confusion and anticipation. "We need to arrange the pallu now. Please stand up."



He heard her words as if through water, distant and distorted. The slight quiver in her abdomen as she breathed, the golden-brown skin with its subtle sheen of perspiration—these commanded his attention more fully than any verbal instruction could.



"What are you doing?" she asked when he remained motionless, her tone sharper now, tinged with nervous energy.



Seenu offered no answer. Instead, he leaned forward, closing the small distance between them, and pressed his lips directly against her navel. The contact was electric—her skin warm and slightly salt-sweet against his mouth. He felt her stomach muscles contract in surprise, heard the sharp intake of breath above him.



"Professor Seenu!" Devika gasped, her hands flying to his shoulders as if to push him away. Yet they rested there, neither pulling him closer nor forcing distance between them. "You shouldn't—we can't—"



He kissed her navel again, more firmly this time, his lips parting slightly to taste her skin. His hands rose to grasp her waist, fingers pressing into the soft flesh just above her hips, holding her steady as he explored this forbidden territory.



"Stop," she whispered, but the command lacked conviction. Her body betrayed her words, a slight tremor running through her at each touch of his lips. "Someone might come in."



"The door is locked," he murmured against her skin, his breath hot against the slight dampness left by his kisses. "No one will interrupt us."



Before she could protest further, he tightened his grip on her waist and pushed his face against her midriff, inhaling deeply as if trying to consume her scent. His nose, his lips, his cheeks—all pressed into the soft plane of her stomach with desperate hunger.



"My God," he groaned, the words muffled against her flesh. "I've dreamed of this. Your navel, your waist... so perfect."



He began to rain kisses across her midriff—light, almost reverent touches at first that quickly grew more insistent. His lips traveled from the bottom edge of her blouse downward, mapping the terrain of her stomach with his mouth, each kiss wetter and more open than the last. When he reached her navel again, he circled it with his tongue, tracing the small depression with meticulous attention.



Devika's hands remained on his shoulders, her fingers now digging into the fabric of his shirt. Her breath came in short, shallow gasps, her body caught between the instinct to flee and the desire to surrender to these new, overwhelming sensations.



"We shouldn't," she protested weakly, even as her body arched slightly, pressing herself more firmly against his exploring mouth.



A liquid heat was building between her thighs, an insistent throbbing that pulsed in time with the movements of his tongue. Each swirl around her navel sent waves of pleasure radiating outward, connecting that seemingly innocent part of her anatomy to her most intimate places. A soft moan escaped her lips before she could suppress it, the sound hanging in the air like a confession.



The noise inflamed Seenu further. His controlled exploration gave way to something more primal, more desperate. He flattened his tongue against her navel, then pushed it inside the small hollow, penetrating that slight depression with firm, rhythmic motions that mimicked a more intimate act.



"Your navel," he groaned between licks, "so deep, so perfect. I need to taste all of it."



His tongue thrust in and out of her navel, each movement deliberate and forceful. Devika's knees weakened at the unexpected intensity of pleasure this created. The sensation was foreign yet undeniably erotic—this part of her body that had never before been the focus of such attention now becoming the center of an almost unbearable pleasure.



"Oh!" she gasped as he suddenly sealed his lips around her navel and sucked hard, drawing the sensitive skin into his mouth. The suction created a pull that she felt deep in her core, as if he were somehow connected to her most intimate places through this indirect contact.



Driven by some dark impulse, Seenu's teeth scbangd against the delicate skin surrounding her navel, then closed gently on the flesh, applying just enough pressure to walk the line between pleasure and pain.



"Ouch!" Devika cried out, her body jerking in response. "That hurts!"



The mild rebuke did nothing to deter him. If anything, it spurred him to greater intensity. His mouth worked against her stomach with increasing fervor, sucking, licking, occasionally nipping at the sensitive skin. Saliva glistened on her midriff, catching the fluorescent light of the office as it spread from her navel outward.



The sight of her waist wet with his ministrations drove him to a frenzy. Years of watching women from afar, of constructing elaborate fantasies behind his locked office door, collapsed into this moment of actual contact. His mouth, stained slightly red from the paan he habitually chewed, left faint ruddy traces on her golden skin, marking her with visible evidence of his desire.



"So beautiful," he muttered, pulling back slightly to admire the gleaming wetness on her stomach. Then, in a move that shocked even himself, he gathered saliva in his mouth and deliberately spat into her navel.



The reddish liquid pooled in the small depression, a viscous mixture of his saliva and paan residue. Before Devika could react to this unexpected development, he bent again and lapped at the liquid, his tongue swirling it around her navel before pushing it deeper, ensuring that his essence penetrated this intimate hollow.



"What are you—" Devika began, but her words dissolved into a gasp as he repeated the action, spitting again and then licking with increased vigor.



The warm liquid overflowed her navel, trickling down toward the waistband of her petticoat. She felt it seeping beneath the fabric, creating a strange, slick path downward that seemed to connect his mouth to her most private places. The sensation was alien, slightly repulsive, yet undeniably arousing in its sheer transgression.



"Your navel deserves worship," Seenu said between frenzied licks. "I want to fill it with my essence, mark it as mine."



The possessive declaration, coupled with the increasingly aggressive attention, finally broke through Devika's haze of confused desire. This had gone too far—beyond exploration, beyond the controlled crossing of boundaries she had orchestrated. This was something else entirely, something that threatened to consume rather than liberate her.



With sudden determination, she pushed against his shoulders, forcefully this time. "Enough!" she commanded, stepping backward so quickly that she nearly stumbled.



Seenu remained on his knees, his lips wet and slightly red from the paan, his eyes glazed with a hunger that hadn't been satisfied. "Devika," he began, reaching toward her.



"No." She cut him off with a sharp gesture, already gathering the loose end of her saree, pulling it across her body to cover the wet, reddened skin of her midriff. "This is—this went too far."



She arranged the pallu over her shoulder with trembling hands, not taking the time to pin it properly. The fabric hung awkwardly, the pleats at her waist slightly askew from his manhandling, but it provided the coverage she suddenly craved desperately.



"I'm sorry," Seenu said, finally rising to his feet. He passed a hand over his face, as if emerging from a trance. "I got carried away. I've never seen such a beautiful navel, such perfect skin. When I touched you, I couldn't—"



"Stop," Devika interrupted. "Don't say anything more." She moved toward the door, keeping distance between them. "This was a mistake. A terrible mistake."



"Will you come back?" he asked, the question revealing that even now, he hadn't fully grasped the boundary he'd crossed.



Devika didn't answer. She unlocked the door with unsteady fingers and stepped into the hallway without looking back, pulling her saree tighter around her body despite the crushing humidity of the afternoon.



Her mind raced as she hurried down the corridor. What had she done? What had she allowed to happen? This wasn't the controlled exploration of power she'd experienced with Ramlal or with her students. This had spiraled into something darker, something that left her feeling more used than empowered.



So absorbed was she in these troubled thoughts that she nearly collided with Ganapathi, who was methodically mopping the floor near the department office.



"Careful, madam," he cautioned, stepping back to give her space. His eyes, magnified behind thick glasses, moved from her face downward, widening slightly as they took in her disheveled appearance.



Devika followed his gaze and realized with horror what he was seeing. In her haste to escape Seenu's office, she had arranged her saree improperly. The pleats sat too low, exposing a sliver of skin below her navel. Worse, she hadn't noticed the wet stains on her cream-colored saree where Seenu's saliva had transferred from her skin to the fabric—reddish marks that could only come from one source.



Ganapathi's eyes lingered on these telltale signs, recognition dawning in his weathered face. His gaze moved to her neck, where the mangalsutra hung, then back to the paan-stained dampness at her waist. A knowing smile spread slowly across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes behind his glasses.



"Is everything all right, madam?" he asked, his tone carrying an undercurrent of meaning that made her skin crawl.



"Fine," she managed, adjusting her pallu to cover the stains. "Just fine."



As she hurried past him, Devika felt the weight of his gaze on her back—one more witness to her transformation, one more complication in the increasingly tangled web she was weaving. The power she had sought to reclaim was slipping through her fingers like water, leaving behind only the residue of choices she wasn't sure she could justify, even to herself.

[prady12191]

Devika's heart hammered against her ribs as she pushed through the staff room door, her fingers clutching the edge of her saree pallu like a shield. Only when she was safely inside, back pressed against the cool wood, did she allow herself to look down at her waist. There, seeping through the cream-colored fabric, were unmistakable reddish stains—Seenu's paan-laced saliva marking her like a scarlet confession. She had to get to the washroom before anyone else noticed.



She slipped back into the corridor, walking quickly with her pallu pressed tight against her body. The female faculty washroom was mercifully empty. Inside a stall, she unwrapped her saree with trembling hands and examined the damage. The stains had spread, rust-colored blotches against cream silk, impossible to explain away as anything innocent. But worse was what she discovered when she pulled aside the fabric—her navel itself bore the evidence of Seenu's frenzy, the small depression stained with the rusty residue of paan, the surrounding skin reddened from the suction of his hungry mouth.



"Oh God," she whispered, reaching for tissues to wet under the faucet. The cool water against her skin made her flinch, not from discomfort but from the way it reawakened the ghost-sensation of his tongue circling her navel, penetrating that intimate hollow with obscene persistence.



She scrubbed at her skin, watching the water turn pink as it spiraled down the drain. Yet even as she cleansed away the physical evidence, the sensation remained—the heat of his breath, the wetness of his mouth, the scbang of his teeth against the tender flesh of her stomach. No amount of water could wash away the memory of his words: "Your navel deserves worship. I want to fill it with my essence, mark it as mine."



Her hands stilled, tissue paper disintegrating against her damp skin. How had she allowed this to happen? She had intended to play with fire, to feel its warmth, not to be consumed by its flames. Yet something in her had responded to his frenzy, had thrilled at the desperation with which he'd devoured her. She'd stopped him, yes, but not before her body had betrayed her with its response—that liquid heat between her thighs, that shameful arching toward his mouth.



When her skin was clean again and the stains on her saree rinsed as well as possible, Devika returned to the staff room. Water droplets clung to her midriff beneath the damp fabric, making her shiver despite the room's humidity. She sat at her desk and pulled a stack of papers toward her—lab reports waiting to be graded—but the words swam before her eyes, refusing to coalesce into meaning.



Instead, her mind replayed the scene in Seenu's office like a film she couldn't switch off. The pretense of helping with her saree. The deliberate vulnerability she'd created. The moment his control had shattered and he'd fallen to his knees before her, his office transformed into a temple where her body was the idol he worshipped. She remembered standing there, partially undressed, her high-necked blouse suddenly seeming obscene in its contrast with her exposed midriff. The way his hands had pushed beneath her petticoat while tucking the pleats, lingering longer than necessary against the warmth of her lower abdomen.



His tongue, hot and insistent, circling her navel, then pushing inside with rhythmic motions that mimicked a more intimate act. The sudden, shocking sensation when he'd spat into that small depression, his saliva pooling there before he lapped it up again, ensuring his essence penetrated that intimate hollow.



"Madam? Are you all right?"



Devika startled from her reverie to find Ganapathi standing beside her desk, his thick glasses magnifying the concern in his eyes. Or was it something else entirely? Knowledge, perhaps. Or curiosity.



"I'm fine," she said quickly, straightening the papers before her. "Just a bit tired."



"I saw you coming from HOD sir's office earlier," he said, his voice lowered conspiratorially. "Your saree had some stains. Paan stains, I think. Is everything okay?"



Heat flooded her face, embarrassment warring with indignation at his presumption. "It was nothing," she managed, not meeting his eyes. "Just... spilled something. On my clothes."



"Ah," Ganapathi nodded, his expression suggesting he understood far more than she'd said. "These things happen sometimes. No need to worry." He paused, then added, "If you need any help cleaning it properly, my wife knows a special method for removing paan stains from silk. Very effective."



"No, thank you. I've taken care of it." Her voice came out sharper than intended.



He lingered a moment longer, his gaze traveling over her face with uncomfortable intensity before he finally nodded and stepped back. "As you wish, madam. Please let me know if you need anything else."



As he walked away, confusion evident in the stiffness of his shoulders, Devika realized she couldn't face the practical class that afternoon. The thought of standing before Pathan and Vishnu, maintaining professional composure while feeling so utterly disheveled inside, was beyond her capabilities today.



She pulled out her phone and sent a brief message to the department secretary, asking her to post a notice canceling the practical session due to "unforeseen circumstances." The decision brought immediate relief, though she could imagine the disappointment on Pathan's and Vishnu's faces. Perhaps disappointment wasn't the right word—frustration, more likely. They would miss another opportunity to watch her, to let their eyes wander over her body, to find excuses for proximity in the guise of academic instruction.



The afternoon passed in a haze of half-completed tasks and fragmented thoughts. When the final bell rang, Devika gathered her things and left quickly, avoiding eye contact with colleagues who might inquire about her canceled class.



The evening air was thick with impending rain as she approached her apartment building. Ramlal sat at his security desk, looking up from his newspaper as she passed. His smile revealed teeth stained with paan, a rusty echo of the marks Seenu had left on her body.



"Good evening, madam," he called, his voice carrying a hint of uncertainty.



Devika fixed him with a mock-stern look, her eyes communicating both remembrance of their encounter and a warning not to mention it aloud. He responded with an apologetic dip of his head, his eyes asking forgiveness for overstepping his bounds in her kitchen.



Despite herself, she offered a small smile in return before continuing to her flat. Some boundaries had been crossed, yes, but at least Ramlal had respected her final "no." The same couldn't be said for Seenu.



In the privacy of her bathroom, Devika undressed completely, examining her body as if it belonged to someone else. The waistband of her petticoat revealed a faint reddish stain where Seenu's saliva had seeped beneath the fabric. Her hips bore the ghost-impressions of Ramlal's fingers, subtle shadows that might have been imaginary but felt painfully real to her touch. And her navel—though clean now—still seemed to pulse with the memory of Seenu's aggressive attentions.



"What's wrong with these men?" she murmured, tracing the invisible marks with her fingertips. "They act like they've never touched a woman before." Wild, desperate, rough—so different from Anand's careful, infrequent lovemaking.



Yet even as she framed the thought as criticism, Devika recognized the truth she was dancing around: part of her had responded to their raw hunger, their unfiltered desire. Anand had never looked at her the way Seenu had today, had never touched her with the desperate need that had guided Ramlal's hands as they kneaded her flesh.



That night, she left her phone silent on the bedside table, making no call to Ramlal despite the emptiness of her apartment. Her body needed rest, needed to process these new sensations before she invited more. As she drifted toward sleep, her fingers found their way to her navel, circling the small depression in unconscious echo of another's tongue, her dreams already preparing to replay the day's transgressions in vivid, uncensored detail.


#Shopping

Saturday evening found Devika among the crowded stalls of Tulsi Baug market, her fingers skimming over displays of colorful bangles as if their cool touch might erase the memory of Seenu's mouth against her skin. Two days had passed since that moment in his office, yet the sensation lingered—his tongue probing her navel, the red-tinged saliva marking her like a brand. She had scrubbed at her skin until it turned pink, had soaked her cream saree in detergent overnight to remove the stains, but nothing could wash away the knowledge that Ganapathi had seen, had understood with a single glance what had transpired between her and the department head.



Shopping had always been her refuge, a simple pleasure that required nothing but decision-making within clear parameters. Today she had chosen a midnight-blue saree with silver threadwork—and, despite her lingering shame from Thursday's events, another sleeveless blouse. This one was cobalt, cut to expose her arms to the evening air. She couldn't explain, even to herself, why she continued to dress this way after what had happened. Perhaps it was defiance, a refusal to be cowed by Seenu's actions. Perhaps it was something darker, a current of desire she was still learning to navigate.



"Just these, please," she told the vendor, selecting a pair of silver earrings shaped like jasmine buds. She'd tried calling Saradha earlier, hoping her friend might join her, but there had been no answer. The absence left her feeling oddly untethered, as if without Saradha's grounding influence, she might drift into dangerous waters once more.



The market hummed with pre-monsoon energy—vendors calling out last-minute discounts, shoppers haggling with increased urgency. Devika moved through the narrow lanes, adding items to her canvas bag: sandalwood soap from the Mysore shop, fresh turmeric root for medicinal tea, a new steel water bottle to replace one she'd left behind in the laboratory. Each purchase felt like a small affirmation of normalcy, a step back toward the careful, deliberate woman she had been before.



She was examining a display of notebooks when the first drop fell—fat and warm against her exposed shoulder, leaving a perfect dark circle on her saree. She glanced up at the sky, visible in jagged patches between market canopies. The blue of afternoon had vanished, replaced by roiling clouds the color of bruised fruit.



"Storm coming, madam," the notebook seller warned, already pulling plastic sheets over his wares. "Big one. Better finish quickly."



Devika nodded, selecting a leather-bound journal before moving toward the main road. The second drop fell as she paid, then the third, and suddenly the air was filled with the percussion of water hitting canvas and tin. Within minutes, the gentle warning had transformed into a deluge.



"I'll take these," she said hurriedly to the cashier at the general store, adding her final purchases—incense sticks and a packet of coffee—to her already full bag. The man nodded, counting out her change with damp fingers as water began to leak through the tarpaulin overhead.



By the time she stepped outside, clutching her shopping bag to her chest, the market had become a different world. Rain pounded the streets, flooding the gutters and transforming the packed dirt between stalls into treacherous mud. Wind whipped through the alleyways, tearing at banners and sending light items tumbling along the ground. In the distance, a sharp crack announced a tree limb giving way.



People streamed past her, heads covered with newspapers, plastic bags, whatever they could find. A woman ran by holding her sandals in one hand, a crying child in the other. A man shouted something about the bridge being flooded. Devika stood frozen for a moment, water plastering her saree against her skin, uncertainty paralyzing her as she watched the exodus.



"Auto! Auto!" she called, waving at a passing vehicle, but the driver shook his head without slowing. Three more passed the same way, windows fogged, passengers crammed inside like sardines. The rain intensified, running in rivulets down her arms, weighing down her saree until it clung to every curve. Her hair escaped its careful bun, plastering itself against her neck in dark, wet ropes.



Devika fumbled in her purse for her phone, ducking under a shop awning that offered minimal shelter. The screen lit up beneath a film of water droplets. One bar of signal flickered uncertainly as she opened the ride-sharing app. "Searching for drivers," it announced, the loading circle spinning endlessly as she watched. After two minutes, a message appeared: "No drivers available in your area. Please try again later."



"Come on," she muttered, dialing Saradha's number instead. The call failed immediately, the network overwhelmed by the storm. Around her, the street was transforming into a shallow river, water rising to cover her ankles. A flash of lightning illuminated the scene in stark white, followed seconds later by thunder that she felt in her chest.



Panic rose in her throat. Her apartment was at least four kilometers away, an impossible distance to walk in this weather. Another tree branch crashed somewhere nearby, followed by shouts. The few remaining pedestrians moved with increasing desperation, no longer concerned with staying dry but simply with reaching safety.



Through sheets of rain, Devika spotted approaching headlights—a yellow auto-rickshaw lurching through the flooded street, its small engine whining in protest. She stepped into the road, waving both arms frantically.



"Please stop!" she called over the roar of rain. To her surprise, the vehicle swerved toward her, slowing as it approached.



"Where to?" the driver shouted, his face barely visible beneath a plastic sheet he'd dbangd over his head.



"Koregaon Park," she replied, relief flooding through her. "Near the Vaswani junction."



The driver shook his head. "Can't do direct route. Roads flooded. Have to go around." He jerked his thumb toward the already packed passenger compartment. "Last auto going that direction tonight. Get in."



Devika peered inside. The small space designed for three passengers now held at least six—men pressed shoulder to shoulder, some practically sitting on others' laps. They stared back at her, water dripping from their clothes, expressions ranging from exhaustion to curiosity at the sight of a woman alone in the storm.



"There's no room," she said, stepping back.



"Adjust, madam," the driver insisted. "No more autos coming. Roads getting worse. You want to go or not?"



A flash of lightning illuminated the desperate scene—the flooding street, the whipping trees, the abandoned market stalls. She couldn't stay here, and she couldn't walk home. Devika hesitated, weighing impossible options.



"Madam! Madam Devika!" A voice called from within the auto. She squinted through the rain, recognizing with a start the gray-bearded face of Ganapathi, the college peon who had witnessed her shame just days before. He was wedged into the far corner of the auto, raising a hand in greeting.



"Come, madam! This is last auto!" he called, his voice carrying an odd note of excitement beneath the concern.



The driver grew impatient. "Decide fast. Need to go before roads completely flood."



"But there's no place to sit," Devika protested, though she was already moving closer to the auto, driven by the growing fear of being stranded.



"Sit on someone's lap," the driver said matter-of-factly. "No choice. Everyone adjusting tonight."



The men inside shifted, creating a marginal space, but it was clear there was no room for her to stand or sit conventionally. Devika's heart pounded against her ribs. The thought of pressing herself against these strangers, of allowing such intimate contact, sent waves of anxiety through her body. Yet the alternatives seemed increasingly dire as the water rose around her ankles.



Her eyes met Ganapathi's. Despite their brief acquaintance, he represented something familiar in this chaos—a connection, however tenuous, to her normal life. He smiled at her, his thick glasses speckled with raindrops, his uniform darkened by water.



"You can sit here, madam," he said, patting his lap with an eagerness that might have given her pause under different circumstances. "I don't mind. Better than staying in this flood, yes?"



The other men watched this exchange with poorly concealed interest, their eyes moving between Devika's drenched form and the older peon. A distant crash of thunder seemed to make the decision for her.



"If you don't mind," she said, stepping toward the auto, her voice nearly lost in the downpour. "I have no other way to get home."



Ganapathi's eyes widened behind his glasses, as if he couldn't quite believe she had agreed. He shifted in his seat, pressing himself further into the corner to make space for her, his weathered hands already reaching to help her board the crowded vehicle.



"Come, madam," he said, his voice thick with an emotion she chose not to identify. "I will make sure you reach home safely."




The first shock came from his bony knees pressing into the backs of her thighs as she lowered herself onto Ganapathi's lap. Devika bit her lip, steadying herself against the roof of the auto as the driver accelerated through the flooded street. Water streamed from her saree, pooling where their bodies met, creating a cold, clammy connection between them. Behind her, she felt Ganapathi's shallow breathing, the slight tremor in his hands as they hovered uncertainly near her hips. His damp uniform soaked through her saree where her back pressed against his chest, while her wet hair dripped onto his face—an unwanted intimacy forced by circumstance.



"Sorry," she murmured, trying to shift her weight to find a less awkward position. The auto lurched through a pothole, sending her sliding backward against him. Ganapathi released a soft sound—half grunt, half something else entirely—that raised goosebumps on her rain-chilled skin.



The other passengers stared ahead with forced indifference, though she caught their sidelong glances in the flashes of lightning that illuminated the cramped interior. Her wet petticoat clung to her thighs, the fabric rendered nearly transparent by the rain. She tugged at her saree, trying to create a barrier between herself and the old man, but the sodden silk refused to cooperate, instead molding itself to the contours of her body like a second skin.



"You're sitting awkwardly, madam," Ganapathi said suddenly, his voice close to her ear. "You might fall."



Before she could respond, his arms encircled her waist, fingers splaying across her bare midriff where her saree had slipped. The contact drew an involuntary gasp from her lips—his hands were surprisingly hot against her rain-cooled skin.



"What are you doing?" she whispered, tense beneath his touch.



"Helping you sit properly," he replied, his voice deceptively innocent. With startling strength, he lifted her slightly, pulling her deeper into his lap. Her body slid backward until her buttocks pressed firmly against his stomach, her shoulder blades meeting his chest.



"Ah!" The sound escaped her before she could stop it, drawing curious glances from the other passengers. Ganapathi's hands remained on her stomach, fingers pressing into the soft folds where her waist creased as she sat.



"Better now?" he asked, his breath warm against her neck. "More stable."



Devika wrapped her fingers around his wrists, intending to remove his hands, but his grip remained firm. "Ganapathi, please," she began, tugging ineffectually at his thick forearms.



"Madam, let me support you," he murmured, lips closer to her ear than necessary. "Or you may fall when the auto moves. Very dangerous in this weather."



She couldn't argue with the logic, though she suspected his motives had little to do with her safety. Still, she had no leverage in this position, no way to extricate herself without causing a scene. Reluctantly, she loosened her grip on his wrists, allowing his hands to remain against her stomach.



"Such soft waist," he whispered, the words nearly lost in the drumming of rain against the auto's canvas roof. His thumbs moved in small circles against her skin, each rotation venturing slightly higher toward the underside of her breasts.



The auto swerved suddenly, navigating around a fallen branch. The violent motion threw Devika sideways, her thighs and buttocks sliding across Ganapathi's lap in an inadvertent caress. Beneath her, she felt something firm beginning to press against her—an unmistakable hardness that made her stomach clench with revulsion and something more complicated.



"Ah," Ganapathi groaned, the sound muffled as if he were trying to contain it. His hands left her stomach abruptly, moving instead to grasp her bare arms. "What happened?" she asked, though she knew perfectly well.



"Nothing, nothing," he mumbled, his calloused fingers encircling her upper arms. "Feeling cold. Need some heat."



The claim was absurd—despite the rain, the air was humid and warm, made more so by the press of bodies in the confined space. His palms slid up and down her arms, rough skin catching against her smoothness.



"Madam, your arms are so soft," he marveled, squeezing gently as if testing their firmness.



Devika said nothing, focusing instead on the view through the plastic window—buildings blurring in the rain, street lights creating watery halos in the darkness. She tried to ignore the gradual swelling she felt beneath her, the way Ganapathi's body responded to her proximity despite the uncomfortable circumstances, perhaps even because of them.



The hardness pressed more insistently against her as the minutes passed. Ganapathi shifted beneath her, his breathing growing heavier. He leaned forward slightly, his beard tickling her shoulder as he moved his face closer to her skin. She felt his hot breath first, then the shocking press of his lips against her bare shoulder where the sleeveless blouse left her exposed.



Devika jerked at the contact. "Ah! Please, Ganapathi," she protested, twisting to look at him.



"Please, madam," he echoed, his voice thick with desire. "I can't control." His hands abandoned her arms, returning to her midriff with new urgency. This time, his fingers sought the gap between saree and blouse, slipping beneath the fabric to touch her bare stomach directly.



She grabbed his wrists again, trying to stop his exploration, but his fingers were already pressing into her flesh, kneading like he was working dough. "Stop," she whispered, but the word lacked conviction. Despite her mind's resistance, her body responded to his touch with treacherous warmth. The weeks of awakening desire, of boundaries crossed with Seenu, with Ramlal, with her students, had left her confused about her own reactions.



Ganapathi's right hand covered hers where she gripped his wrist, his left continuing its exploration of her midriff. His fingers found her navel, circling the small depression before pressing into it. The touch sent an unexpected jolt of pleasure through her body, a lightning strike of sensation that connected her navel to the growing wetness between her thighs.



"Ganapathi, stop," she moaned, the protest undermined by the way her body arched slightly into his touch. She could feel her control slipping away, here in this crowded auto with strangers watching from the corners of their eyes, with rain hammering down and thunder cracking overhead.



"Such a sexy Kerala woman," he murmured against her shoulder, his lips forming the words directly against her skin. His teeth grazed her, not quite a bite but a promise of one. His hand slid higher, fingers brushing the underside of her breast through her wet blouse, finding the edge of her black bra where it had slipped into visibility.



The touch ignited something in Devika—panic mingled with a dark, unwanted desire. Without conscious thought, she found herself shifting on his lap, her hips making small, circular movements against the hardness beneath her. Ganapathi responded with a guttural sound, his hands growing bolder, one squeezing her waist with bruising force while the other sought the gap between her saree and petticoat, fingers probing downward.



"No," she gasped, grabbing his hand as it attempted to slide beneath her waistband. His strength surprised her—despite her resistance, his fingers continued their determined exploration, seeking the source of heat they both could feel.



Just as his fingertips breached the edge of her petticoat, the auto gave a violent lurch, then a grinding metallic shriek. The vehicle tilted dramatically to one side before coming to a complete stop, engine sputtering into silence. The sudden cessation of movement threw everyone forward, breaking the trance of the moment.



"What happened?" someone called from the front of the auto.



The driver cursed, slapping the dashboard. "Axle broken. Can't go further." He twisted in his seat to face the passengers, his expression grim in the dim light. "Too much water on road. Auto can't move now."



A chorus of protests erupted from the other passengers. Devika sat frozen on Ganapathi's lap, his hand still half-tucked into her waistband, both of them breathing heavily. As the reality of their situation penetrated the fog of unwanted arousal, a cold dread settled in her stomach. They were stranded in the middle of the storm, kilometers from her home.



Ganapathi's hands withdrew slowly from her body as the other passengers began to exit the auto, cursing the weather and discussing alternate routes home. The spell broken, Devika felt a rush of shame flood through her. What had she been doing? What had she allowed?



"Madam," Ganapathi's voice came from behind her, softer now, almost apologetic. "We should get out too. Find shelter somewhere."



She couldn't bring herself to look at him as she gathered her shopping bag, now soaked through from the rain that had leaked into the auto. Outside, the storm continued unabated, water rushing ankle-deep through the street. Night had fallen completely, the darkness broken only by distant streetlights and occasional flashes of lightning.



Devika stepped out into the rain, immediately drenched again, her saree clinging to her curves. Ganapathi followed, standing close beside her in the downpour. They faced each other in silence, the intimacy of moments before hanging between them like a physical presence, both knowing that whatever happened next would not be erased by the storm's cleansing waters.

[exbiixossip2]

next update bro...

aap hemesha KLPD (khade land par dhokha) kar dete ho...

very hot update and add pics please..

[prady12191]

[prady12191]

[prady12191]

[prady12191]

The rain hammered against them like angry fists, each droplet another reminder of Devika's predicament. She stood beside Ganapathi in the flooded street, her shopping bag clutched to her chest, the weight of what had just transpired between them in the auto heavier than the water-logged fabric clinging to her skin. Around them, the other passengers dispersed into the darkness, leaving them alone in the storm's fury, the broken-down auto-rickshaw tilting pathetically behind them.



Ganapathi's body still thrummed with the memory of her weight on his lap—the soft pressure of her thighs, the heat where their bodies had connected despite the damp clothes between them. His hands tingled with the ghost-sensation of her waist beneath his fingers. He stole glances at her in the darkness, her saree now a second skin revealing every curve he'd just been exploring.



"What do we do now?" Devika finally asked, her voice barely audible above the storm. Water streamed down her face, collecting at the tip of her nose, the edge of her chin. "I'm kilometers from my apartment."



Lightning flashed, illuminating the worry etched across her features. In that brief, electric moment, Ganapathi's eyes traveled from her face down to where her saree clung to her breasts, her stomach, her hips. The wet fabric rendered her nearly transparent, the outline of her undergarments visible beneath.



"Madam, don't worry," he said, stepping closer to her. "Actually, we are very lucky."



"Lucky?" she repeated, disbelief coloring her voice. "We're stranded in a flood, Ganapathi."



"No, no. We are near my house," he said, pointing down a narrow lane to their right. "Just five minutes walking. You can come, dry yourself, wait until storm passes."



Devika's stomach clenched at the suggestion. The thought of entering Ganapathi's home—being alone with him in a private space after what had just happened in the auto—sent waves of anxiety through her body. Yet the alternatives seemed nonexistent. The rain showed no signs of stopping, her clothes were soaked through, and no transportation was available.



"I don't know if that's appropriate," she began, even as another crack of thunder emphasized the futility of her hesitation.



"What choice do we have, madam?" Ganapathi's voice softened, taking on the reasonable tone he used when assisting faculty at the college. "You will get sick standing in this rain. My home is not fancy like yours, but it is dry."



"How far did you say?" she asked, already knowing she would accept.



"Five minutes only," he repeated, producing a small folding umbrella from his bag. "I have umbrella also. See? God is looking after us."



He opened the umbrella, holding it over her with a gesture that might have seemed chivalrous under different circumstances. "Come, madam. This way."



Devika hesitated one final moment, then stepped under the umbrella's inadequate shelter. The space forced them to walk close together, his arm occasionally brushing against hers as they navigated the flooded lane. The umbrella provided little actual protection—the wind whipped rain against them from all angles, and water continued to splash up from the street with each step.



"Hold my arm," Ganapathi suggested as Devika stumbled on a submerged pothole. "Road is very bad here."



Reluctantly, she placed her hand on his forearm, feeling the surprising firmness of muscle beneath his wet shirt. Sixty years old or not, the man had strength built from years of physical labor.



"Almost there," he said, his voice carrying a note of excitement that made her nervous. "Just around this corner."



Her saree whipped around her legs in the wind, the wet fabric catching between her thighs with each step. Twice the pallu flew completely off her shoulder, slapping against Ganapathi's face before she could grab it. The second time, his hand closed over hers as they both reached for the fabric, his fingers pressing firmly against her knuckles.



"Sorry," she murmured, tugging the pallu back across her chest where it promptly clung to her curves, outlining her breasts more prominently than if she'd worn nothing at all.



"Here we are," Ganapathi announced finally, stopping before a small concrete building tucked between a tailor shop and what appeared to be a warehouse. He fumbled with keys, his hands shaking either from cold or anticipation, before pushing open a weathered wooden door. "Please, madam. Come inside."



Devika stepped across the threshold into darkness so complete she couldn't see her hand before her face. The smell hit her immediately—a mixture of stale cigarettes, paan, sweat, and something else, something distinctly male. She stood motionless, dripping onto the floor, as Ganapathi moved around behind her.



"Power is gone," he explained unnecessarily. "Wait one minute. I have candles."



She heard him shuffling in the darkness, followed by the scratch of a match. A small flame erupted, illuminating his face from below like a storyteller preparing to share ghost tales. He lit a thick candle, then another, placing them on different surfaces around what she could now see was a small, cluttered room.



As the space gradually revealed itself in the wavering candlelight, Devika took in her surroundings with growing discomfort. Ganapathi's home was essentially two rooms with what appeared to be a small kitchen alcove and a door that presumably led to a bathroom. The main room where they stood was dominated by a narrow bed pushed against one wall, its sheets rumpled and stained. Clothes lay scattered across every surface—shirts hanging from nails in the wall, pants dbangd over a chair, and—she averted her eyes quickly—what appeared to be underwear tossed carelessly on the floor.



The walls bore the evidence of years of paan-chewing—reddish-brown stains splattered near the corners where he had apparently spat without concern. A calendar featuring a barely-dressed actress hung above the bed, its corners curling with age and humidity.



"Sorry for mess," Ganapathi said, following her gaze around the room. "I was not expecting beautiful professor to visit my humble home."



"It's... fine," Devika replied, trying to keep the dismay from her voice. "Thank you for the shelter."



"Please, sit," he offered, hastily clearing clothes from the room's only chair. "I will make tea."



"Your home is quite... cozy," she commented, carefully lowering herself onto the chair. Her wet saree made a squelching sound as she sat.



Ganapathi paused in his movements, turning to look at her with an expression that mingled pride and embarrassment. "It is small, yes. But enough for one man." A shadow passed over his face. "It was not always just me here."



"Oh?" Devika said, recognizing the opening to a personal story but unsure if she wanted to hear it.



"My wife," he said, striking a match to light a small gas stove. "She left me when I was forty. Twenty years ago now."



The unexpected revelation caught Devika off guard. "I'm sorry to hear that."



"She went with cloth merchant," he continued, his voice flat. "Younger man. More money. Left me alone." He filled a kettle with water, his back to her. "Sometimes life gives surprises we don't want, yes?"



The simple statement struck a chord deep within Devika. Wasn't that precisely her situation with Anand? A husband who had chosen others, leaving her essentially alone?



"Yes," she agreed softly. "Sometimes it does."



Ganapathi turned, his eyes meeting hers across the small room. In the candlelight, something passed between them—a recognition, a shared understanding of abandonment that transcended their different stations in life.



"We are same, madam," he said quietly. "Different, but same."



Devika said nothing, but felt a strange heat rising within her that had nothing to do with the close, humid air of the small room. This unexpected connection with Ganapathi—this man whose hands had been exploring her body just minutes before—unsettled her more than his touch had.



Outside, the rain continued its assault, trapping them together in this intimate space, with nowhere to go and nothing to do but wait out the storm.



The rain outside intensified, beating against the tin roof like impatient fingers. Devika sipped the sweet, over-steeped tea Ganapathi had prepared, the warmth traveling through her chilled body even as her wet clothes clung uncomfortably to her skin. Each shift in her seat sent cold droplets sliding down her back, her spine, between her breasts. She sneezed suddenly, the sound sharp in the small room.



"You see?" Ganapathi said, concern lacing his voice. "Already catching cold. You cannot go out in this weather, madam. Storm is getting worse."



As if to emphasize his point, lightning flashed, illuminating the room more brightly than the candles, followed by thunder so close it made the windows rattle. Devika glanced toward the door, her last hope of escape fading with each passing minute.



"Perhaps it will let up soon," she suggested weakly, wrapping her arms around herself as a shiver passed through her body.



Ganapathi shook his head, moving to the window to peer through a gap in the threadbare curtains. "Radio said storm all night. Very dangerous to walk now. Water level rising." He turned back to her, his expression serious beneath his wet beard. "You must stay here, madam. No choice."



The finality of his statement settled over Devika like a weight. She was trapped here, in this small, intimate space with a man who had touched her so inappropriately just an hour ago. A man whose eyes still carried that hungry look whenever they moved over her body.



"You cannot sit in wet clothes all night," Ganapathi continued, moving toward a metal trunk in the corner. "You will become very sick."



He knelt before the trunk, opening it with reverent slowness. From within, he pulled out a carefully folded bundle of fabric—a saree in deep red with gold border, followed by a matching petticoat and blouse.



"My wife's clothes," he explained, his voice softening as he held them out to her. "She left many things behind. These will fit you, I think. Similar size."



Devika stared at the offered garments, unsure how to respond. The intimacy of wearing another woman's clothes—especially the wife of this man—felt strangely invasive. Yet the chill of her wet saree against her skin made the decision for her.



"Thank you," she said finally, accepting the bundle. "That's very kind."



"Not kind, madam. Necessary." He handed her a faded but clean towel. "You can change in there." He pointed to the second room. "There is lock on door. No one will disturb you."



The implication that there could be others to disturb her in this small home where they were clearly alone struck her as odd, but she simply nodded and moved toward the indicated door. Inside, she found a smaller room that appeared to serve as both storage space and occasional bedroom, with a narrow cot pushed against one wall and stacks of books and papers occupying most of the remaining floor space.



Devika closed the door, sliding the simple bolt lock into place with a soft click that offered more psychological than actual security. By the weak light of a single candle Ganapathi had placed on a shelf, she began the uncomfortable process of unwrapping her soaked saree.



The wet silk clung to her body, resisting her efforts to unwind it. She tugged at the fabric where it adhered to her skin, peeling it away inch by inch until it finally came free, falling to the floor with a heavy, sodden sound. Her blouse followed, the sleeveless cotton plastered to her arms and back, requiring her to peel it off like a second skin.



Standing in just her petticoat and undergarments, Devika assessed her situation with growing dismay. Everything was drenched—her petticoat so wet it dripped onto the floor, her bra soaked through, the cotton panties beneath clinging uncomfortably to her most intimate places. She couldn't possibly put dry clothes over such wet undergarments.



"What choice do I have?" she whispered to herself, unhooking her bra with fingers stiff from cold. The wet fabric released her breasts, which felt heavier somehow without their usual support, the nipples tightening in the relatively cooler air of the room.



She slipped her thumbs into the waistband of her panties, hesitating briefly before pushing them down her legs. The fabric made a soft, sucking sound as it released her skin, joining the pile of wet clothes at her feet. Standing completely naked in a stranger's home, Devika felt a vulnerability that went beyond physical exposure. She quickly used the towel to dry herself, the rough fabric awakening her skin as she rubbed it over her arms, her breasts, her stomach, between her legs.



She folded her wet undergarments and tucked them into her shopping bag, where they immediately began to dampen the paper. Looking around, she spotted a length of rope strung across one corner of the room, apparently for this very purpose. She hung her wet saree, blouse, and petticoat over it, hoping they might dry at least partially by morning.



Turning to the clothes Ganapathi had provided, Devika first examined the petticoat. It was made of thin cotton, clearly well-worn, with an elastic waistband that had lost much of its stretch. When she stepped into it, she discovered it was several inches shorter than what she was accustomed to, reaching only to mid-calf rather than ankle-length. Worse, the loosened elastic meant she had to secure it lower on her hips to keep it from sliding down altogether, leaving her navel and several inches of her midriff exposed.



"This can't be right," she muttered, trying to tug the petticoat higher, but it simply wouldn't stay.



Next came the blouse—and here Devika's dismay deepened. It was a North Indian-style latkan blouse, sleeveless with a deep U-shaped back that was meant to be secured by just two ties—one at the neck and one at the waist. The front was modestly high-necked, but the design provided almost no coverage for the back.



Devika held it against her chest, already anticipating the problem. Without a bra, her breasts would be unconfined beneath the thin fabric. Yet there was no alternative.



She slipped her arms through the sleeveless openings, pulling the blouse across her chest. The fabric was tighter than she expected, pressing her breasts together and upward, creating a fullness that would be visible even through the saree. Reaching behind her, she struggled to tie the strings that would hold the blouse closed. The top tie near her neck was manageable, but the lower one at her waist proved almost impossible to secure from that angle.



After several frustrated attempts, she managed a loose knot that she knew would not hold for long. The blouse gaped open between the two ties, exposing most of her back all the way down to where the petticoat sat low on her hips.



"This is impossible," she whispered, but her options had run out.



Finally, she wrapped the saree around herself, its unfamiliar stiffness suggesting it had rarely been worn. The fabric was silk, but heavier than her own preference, with elaborate gold zari work along the border. When she tried to tuck it into the petticoat, she discovered another problem—the lower position of the petticoat meant the saree would reveal more of her midriff than she had ever displayed publicly, the edge sitting a full two inches below her navel.



With no mirror to check her appearance, Devika could only hope the overall effect wasn't as revealing as it felt. She arranged the pallu over her shoulder, acutely aware of how the blouse fabric pulled tight across her unbound breasts with every movement. Taking a deep breath, she unlocked the door and stepped back into the main room.



Ganapathi had changed as well, his wet uniform replaced by a faded lungi and loose cotton shirt. He stood near the stove, his back to her as he prepared something in a small pot. At the sound of the door, he turned—and froze, the spoon in his hand suspended in mid-air, his mouth falling open in an expression of undisguised shock.



"I—" he began, but words seemed to fail him as his eyes traveled from her face downward, lingering on the exposed curve of her midriff, the way the blouse clung to her breasts, the shadow of her nipples visible beneath the thin fabric.



"The petticoat is a bit short," Devika explained awkwardly, tugging at the saree to try to cover more of her exposed waist. The movement only caused the barely-secured blouse to shift, the lower tie loosening further.



"You look..." Ganapathi swallowed visibly, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "Like goddess."



The naked admiration in his voice made her cheeks warm. She stood in the center of the room, hyperaware of every inch of exposed skin, of the way the candlelight played across her body, casting shadows that seemed to emphasize rather than conceal.



"The saree is beautiful," she said, attempting to direct his attention to the garment rather than what it revealed. "Your wife had good taste."



"Never looked like this on her," he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "You wear it like north Indian film star. So beautiful."



In the dim light, Devika saw something in his eyes that went beyond simple appreciation—a hunger, yes, but also something like reverence. As if the sight of her in his wife's clothes fulfilled some long-held fantasy.



"Thank you for lending them to me," she said, crossing her arms over her chest, only to realize the movement pulled the blouse tighter across her breasts. She quickly dropped her arms to her sides again.



"The dress was waiting for you," Ganapathi said, his words carrying a weight she couldn't quite interpret. "All these years, it was waiting for someone worthy to wear it."



"You remind me of her," Ganapathi said softly, his eyes still moving over Devika's form in the borrowed clothes. He settled back onto his bed, leaving the room's only chair for her. "My wife. When she was young." The words hung in the air between them, loaded with memories Devika had no desire to hear, yet couldn't escape.



"I'm sure we're very different," she replied, perching on the edge of the chair, acutely aware of how the saree gaped at her midriff when she sat. Her fingers tugged uselessly at the fabric, trying to cover the exposed skin.



"No, no. Similar." Ganapathi's head tilted, studying her with unsettling intensity. "Same curves. Same grace when walking. Same fire in eyes." He tapped his temple. "I remember everything about her, even after twenty years."



Devika shifted uncomfortably, disliking being compared to a woman she'd never met, especially by a man who had touched her so intimately just hours before. "It's strange to hear you say that."



"Why strange?" he asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.



"Because—" she hesitated, searching for words that wouldn't offend. "We don't know each other well. These comparisons feel very personal."



Ganapathi laughed, a surprisingly warm sound in the small room. "Madam, after what happened in auto, we are not strangers anymore." His directness startled her. "Besides, when storm traps two people together, they should talk, yes? Pass the time."



Outside, rain continued to batter the tin roof, punctuated by occasional thunder. The candles guttered in a draft from the window, sending shadows dancing across Ganapathi's weathered face.



"Tell me about your life, madam," he said, leaning forward slightly. "You know I am just poor peon, alone since wife left. But you—beautiful professor from Kerala—your story must be more interesting."



Devika considered deflecting, keeping the conversation impersonal, but something in the simplicity of his request disarmed her. Perhaps it was the storm, creating a bubble of intimacy around them. Perhaps it was the vulnerability of wearing this stranger's wife's clothes. Whatever the reason, she found herself responding.



"My life is not so interesting," she began. "I was born in Kerala, educated there. Moved to Pune for this position at the college."



"And your husband?" Ganapathi asked. "He is in Pune also?"



The question sent a familiar pain through her chest. "No," she said softly. "He works in Dubai."



"Ah, foreign country!" Ganapathi nodded appreciatively. "Big job there? Engineer? Doctor?"



"Finance," she replied shortly. "He's been there three years now."



Ganapathi's brow furrowed. "Three years? He visits often?"



"Not really." The words came out clipped.



"You must miss him very much," he said, his tone surprisingly gentle.



Something in his kindness broke through her reserve. Or perhaps it was simply the absurdity of the situation—sitting half-dressed in a strange man's home during a storm, discussing her marriage with a college peon who had groped her hours earlier.



"We're not really in touch anymore," she admitted, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "He has... other interests there."



"Other interests?" Ganapathi repeated, confusion evident in his voice.



"Other women," Devika clarified, her voice hardening. "Many of them, apparently."



Ganapathi's eyes widened behind his thick glasses. "Your husband is with other women? But how is this possible?" His hands gestured expansively toward her. "Look at you! So beautiful, so educated. What kind of man leaves this for other women?"



The raw indignation in his voice startled her. It was the same reaction Saradha had shown, but somehow coming from this man—this stranger—it felt more genuine, less practiced.



"These things happen," she said, echoing what her mother had told her when she'd finally confessed Anand's infidelities. "We can't control others' choices."



"But it is madness!" Ganapathi insisted, genuine disbelief written across his face. "Your husband must be blind or—what is word?—psycho! Not knowing value of what he has."



Despite herself, Devika felt a small smile tug at her lips. "Psycho. Yes, that's the word."



"Such men deserve nothing," Ganapathi continued, warming to his topic. "God gives them pearl, they throw it away for glass pieces." He shook his head in disgust. "My wife left me for richer man. At least I understand this reason. Money is strong pull. But your husband—what reason he can have?"



"I don't know," Devika admitted, the question she'd asked herself countless times now hanging between them. "Perhaps he grew bored. Perhaps I wasn't enough."



"Not enough?" Ganapathi's voice rose in disbelief. "Madam, you are too much woman for simple man to handle! This is real problem."



His unexpected compliment, delivered with such conviction, drew a genuine laugh from her. "That's a very kind way to look at it."



"Not kind. Truth." His eyes held hers steadily. "Some men afraid of strong women. They run to weak ones who don't challenge them." He tapped his chest. "Weak men, madam. Not worth your tears."



A shiver ran through Devika's body—from the cold or from his words, she wasn't sure. Her arms prickled with goosebumps, the thin blouse offering little warmth in the damp night air.



"You are cold," Ganapathi observed, rising from the bed. "Wait." He moved to a small cabinet, pulling out a faded flannel shirt. "Here. Not fancy, but warm."



Devika accepted the shirt, dbanging it around her shoulders like a shawl. The fabric carried his scent—a mixture of paan, cheap soap, and male sweat. She should have found it repulsive, but there was something oddly comforting in its earthy reality.



"Thank you," she said, pulling the shirt tighter around her shoulders.



Ganapathi returned to his seat on the bed, his expression growing more serious. "Madam, I must say something." He looked down at his hands, suddenly appearing older, more vulnerable. "About what happened in auto. My behavior was... not good."



The sudden change of topic caught her off guard. "It's fine," she said automatically. "The circumstances were unusual."



"No, not fine." He shook his head firmly. "I touched you without permission. Very wrong." His eyes met hers again, genuine regret visible in their depths. "But I want you to know—it was not disrespect. It was..." he searched for words, "overwhelming."



"Overwhelming?" she repeated, unsure what he meant.



"Yes." He nodded emphatically. "You are very beautiful woman, madam. Very sexy, very curvy. When such woman sits on lap, especially in wet clothes..." He spread his hands helplessly. "No man can resist. Not possible."



Heat crept up Devika's neck at his blunt assessment. No one had ever described her so directly to her face before—not even Anand in their most intimate moments. "Ganapathi, I don't think we should discuss—"



"I know, I know," he interrupted. "Not appropriate. But I must explain. You are so soft, madam. Your waist, your hips." His hands moved in the air, tracing her shape from memory. "When I touched, I couldn't stop. Like magnet pulling my hands. I am sorry if I pressed too hard, left marks maybe."



"Please," she said, her voice strained. "Let's not talk about that."



Ganapathi nodded, though his eyes still carried that same hunger as they moved over her form. "As you wish. I just wanted to say sorry. Not for feeling desire—this is natural. But for acting without permission."



The room fell silent except for the patter of rain and occasional rumble of distant thunder. Devika tugged Ganapathi's shirt tighter around her shoulders, inhaling its scent unconsciously. The strange intimacy of wearing his wife's clothes beneath his shirt, of sitting in his private space discussing their failed marriages, created a connection she hadn't anticipated when she'd first stepped into the auto that evening.


Outside, the storm showed no signs of abating, rain drumming steadily against the roof. Inside, a different kind of tempest brewed—one of confused emotions, unexpected connections, and a heat that had nothing to do with the humid night air.

[Bowlg78]

Waiting for security guard and devika combo....

Hot romance between them....

[Muthiah Sivaraman]

super update

[prady12191]

[richierich4u]

Wow nice

[prady12191]

[Bowlg78]

Waiting for security guard exploration of Kerala in devika

[Thilka]

Update?

[exbiixossip2]

good collection of pics

very nice update and

next update full hot sex

[StoryReader1]

Pls continue

[exbiixossip2]

very nice update

and next update come fast with hot and full sex..

Devika ki pics and Ganpati kiss